The Wedding
Part 4
By Kathleen T. Berney

Outside, in the public room, Stacy walked boldly up to the bar and took her place beside one of the saloon girls, a woman by the name of Sally Tyler. Aged in her late twenties, Sally barely stood five feet two inches wearing high heels. Though given to plumpness in general, the plumpness in specific kept her very popular with the male patrons of the Silver Dollar Saloon. She had hazel eyes that tonight appeared to match the emerald green of her dress, and a cloud of platinum blonde hair worn in an elaborate coif.

“Stacy Cartwright,” Sam, owner and bartender of the Silver Dollar, greeted her with a smile, “I don’t usually see YOU in here without your pa or one of your brothers.”

“Oh, my brother’s around . . . somewhere,” Stacy said, casting her eyes around the crowded room. That was the pure, one hundred percent, honest truth, even though she neglected to add that two were in the back room attending the bachelor party for Matthew Wilson, and the third was just outside the door. “In the meantime, how about a mug of nice cold beer?”

“As long as it’s ROOT beer,” Sam said pointedly, “or sarsaparilla, if you prefer.”

“Ok, please make it root beer, Sam,” Stacy sighed. She, then, turned and gawked at Sally, her blue eyes focused on the latter’s yellow tresses.

“Hey!” Sally flinched under Stacy’s intense scrutiny. “What’s the matter with you? What are you starin’ at?”

“I’m looking for the black roots,” Stacy said a tad too innocently.

“Black roots?!” Sally favored Stacy with a murderous glare. “I’ll have you know, Miss Stacy Louise Cartwright--- ”

“That’s Stacy ROSE Cartwright, Sally,” Stacy corrected, wincing against that bothersome conscience of hers again. “The name change was official a couple o’ days ago.”

“Whatever you say, Miss Stacy ROSE Cartwright,” Sally continued not bothering to conceal her growing annoyance and vexation. “I’ll have you and anyone else know for that matter that this platinum blonde hair is pure one hundred percent natural.”

“Sorry I offended you, Sally, honest,” Stacy took a step backward and raised her hands defensively. “I could have sworn . . . .” She turned and gave a long, meaningful look in the general direction of Laurie Lee Bonner, standing on the other side of the room watching a high stakes poker game in progress.

Laurie Lee was twenty years old, with a body flat and round in all the right places. Tonight, she wore a stunning bright red gown, that complimented her ruddy complexion, shining black hair, and dark brown eyes. It was a well-known fact among the residents of Virginia City and surrounding ranches, that she and Sally were bitter rivals. Laurie Lee stood directly behind the one player who seemed to be having a non-stop winning streak, deftly massaging his shoulders.

Sally’s eyes followed the line of Stacy’s gaze. “You mean to tell me she’s the one who--- ”

“You didn’t hear it from me,” Stacy said solemnly. That, too, was the honest to goodness, one hundred percent, pure truth.

“Hmpf! She’s got HER nerve, telling everyone I have black roots,” Sally muttered, glaring daggers at the unsuspecting Laurie Lee, “ ‘specially since I know for fact that she gets that fancy shade of black hair from an India ink bottle.”

“Does peroxide come in a bottle, too?” Stacy asked.

“Peroxide?!”

“As in Peroxide Queen of Virginia City?”

“Did she say that?” Sally shrieked in outrage.

“Like I said before, you didn’t hear it from me,” Stacy replied.



“I absolutely refuse to call Matt Wilson my son-in-law,” Francis O’Hanlan belligerently informed the other men at the bachelor party. “Not now, not never.” He paused, and broke into a wide grin. “That’s ‘cause I’ll always think of ‘im as a SON.”

The other men applauded. Apollo and Matt turned toward each other, their eyes meeting, holding. Roy Coffee shot both of them a stern warning glare.

“ . . . an’ now to Matt an’ m’ daughter, Colleen, though SHE’S not here,” Francis continued. “May your years together be long, an’ full of happiness. May your children . . . my GRAND-children . . . be many an’ full t’ brimmin’ with good health. Good health to the groom an’ may the bride live forever.”

The men toasted and most downed their whiskey in a single gulp.

“My turn to toast,” Blake Wilson yelled out. “I’m the father of the groom, so it’s my turn to toast.”

Adam and Matt deftly seized the latter’s father by the elbows and lifted him onto one of the chairs. “Attention, Everyone,” Adam called for order. “Blake Wilson would like to propose a toast.”

“Pa, that’s his THIRD TIME,” Hoss complained, grimacing. “When are we gonna have them can-can gals?”

“Patience, Son,” Ben said, amused by his middle son’s eagerness. “All good things come to he who waits.”

“Hey, Adam,” Apollo said tapping the eldest Cartwright son on the shoulder, “I think the whiskey’s gettin’ low.”

“Not to worry, Apollo, there’s more under the table,” Adam said.

Apollo shook his head. “Look again,” he said lifting the tablecloth. There remained not a single case of whiskey.

Adam turned to his younger, bigger brother, standing next to their father. “Hoss, we’re running very low on the whiskey,” he said, taking great care to keep his voice down. “Wouldja mind going out and asking Sam for more? He told Pa he’d keep some extra aside.”

“Alright, Adam,” Hoss agreed, “but I’d better dadburn sight NOT miss them can-can gals.”

“You won’t, Big Brother, you have my solemn word,” Adam promised, punctuating his words with a resounding hiccup.

Hoss nodded and walked, none too steadily, toward the closed door leading out into the public bar room.



“I’ll teach that no good bitch to go around tellin’ folks I get my hair color out of a bottle,” Sally Tyler vowed. With an enraged growl, she downed the remained of her beer in a single gulp, then stomped across the room, making a beeline toward Laurie Lee.

Stacy discreetly followed, weaving her way among the crowd at the bar with root beer mug in hand. She was so intent on following Sally, she neglected to watch where she was going. Suddenly she bumped hard against one of the patrons.

“Excuse me, Young Fella.” It was Hoss.

For one brief heart-stopping moment, Stacy was afraid she was going to faint. “My . . . . ” her voice squeaked. She swallowed, pushed her hat low over her eyes, and averted her face. “My fault, Mister, sorry,” she mumbled, lowering her normal speaking voice an octave. She quickly melted into the crowd.

Hoss took a step toward the bar, then froze. “I could o’ sworn--- ” he murmured, his brow knotting in a puzzled frown. He moved on, shaking his head. “No, can’t be.”

Sally, meanwhile, marched right up to Laurie Lee and tapped her hard on the shoulder. “Alright, Big Mouth,” she spat, “where do you get off telling folks I have black roots?”

Laurie Lee looked up, meeting Sally’s eyes with an indignant glare. “What’re you talking about?”

“I’m talking about you telling every Tom, Dick, and Harry comin’ in here that I get my blonde hair out of a peroxide bottle.”

“You’re drunk.”

“And you’re a no good stinkin’ liar!”

“I don’t take that from NOBODY,” Laurie Lee yelled. “NOBODY, D’YA HEAR? ‘SPECIALLY NOT OUTTA MISS PEROXIDE QUEEN O’ VIRGINIA CITY.”

“THAT DOES IT!” Sally balled her first and struck Laurie Lee square in the jaw with a good strong right cross. Laurie Lee reeled backward, falling into the arms of Clay Hansen, one of the Cartwrights’ neighbors.

“Well, well, well!” Clay declared with an appreciative smile. “Ain’t YOU a nice surprise!”

Laurie Lee freed herself from his embrace with a vicious elbow jab to the rancher’s ample girth. Clay doubled over, instinctively wrapping his arms protectively about his abdomen. The movement, combined with several mugs of beer previously consumed, threw him off balance. He stumbled and fell against a young man wearing a green leather jacket and a white hat pulled down low over his face.

“Uuhhh! ‘Scuse me, Young Fella,” Clay murmured an apology.

The young man placed a strong, steadying arm around Clay Hansen’s shoulders. “ ‘S ok, Sir,” he said in an almost bland monotone. “You alright? Y’ almost took a real nasty fall there . . . . ”

“I’m fine, Young Fella, thanks t’ you. How’s about I buy ya a drink as a way o’ sayin’ thanks?”

“I firmly believe in lettin’ the doin’ o’ good deeds be its own reward,” the young man said.

“Can’t argue with yer beliefs, Son,” he said smiling. “Thanks again.”

“You’re welcome.” With that the green-jacketed young man disappeared into the crowd.

Laurie Lee, meanwhile, once having freed herself from Clay Hansen’s embrace, charged Sally with a banshee like scream. Sally tried to side step the charge. In so doing she tripped over a spittoon and landed in an ungainly heap on the floor. Laurie Lee, screaming triumphantly, leapt on her fallen antagonist. In a flurry of obscenities and hair pulling, the pair began to roll across the floor. A crowd began to gather. Stacy made her way over toward the poker game, still in progress.

“That’s it,” Joe Cartwright turned and whispered to his companions waiting outside the Silver Dollar Saloon. “Let’s go.”



“I wanna make a toast,” Blake Wilson said.

“That’ll be his FIFTH time,” Roy groaned.

“Sorry, Blake,” Ben decided to take matters into his own hands. “But, seein’ as how I’M father o’ the best man, it’s MY turn.” He raised his glass and roared, “TO THE DANCING GIRLS! TWELVE, COUNT ‘EM, TWELVE!”

A six-piece band marched into the room, single file, playing a boisterous French can-can. They lined themselves up along the back wall. A dozen female dancers entered, right behind the musicians, kicking up their heels. Blake Wilson, Francis O’Hanlan, Roy Coffee, and a few of the other men joined the line, interspersing themselves between the dancers. The rest clapped, stamped, cheered, and whistled appreciatively.

“HEY, BEN, C’MON!” Roy, his cheeks flushed and eyes bright, waved his old friend over.

“MAYBE LATER, ROY!” Ben waved back, grinning appreciatively from ear to ear.

“Awww . . . come on, Ben! This is the last night o’ Matt Wilson’s life as a free man!” It was Hiram Peabody, the attendant at the stagecoach office. He had a glass of whiskey in hand and a big smile in his face.

“Why don’t YOU join the chorus line over there?” Ben asked, feeling exceedingly mellow.

“Sissy’d kill me,” Hiram said blandly. “What’s YOUR excuse?”

“My two older boys are here, and . . . well, someone’s got to be the grown-up and, you know . . . set the good example?!”

A sly smile spread across Hiram Peabody’s lips. “Ben, doesn’t settin’ a good example also include showin’ ‘em how it’s done once in awhile?”

“Well, by golly, you’re right!” Ben agreed enthusiastically. “YOU are absolutely right! Hold this!” He handed his beer mug, half empty of it’s contents over the short, plump man standing next to him, then set off across the room, beating a straight path toward the dancers.

“Hey, Adam,” Hoss said frowning, “sounds like someone screamin’ out in the public room.”

“F’r t’ life o’ me, Hoss, I can’t unnerschtan’ how you can hear screamin’ out there with all the screamin’ goin’ on in here,” Adam observed, well on his way to ‘Bombed Bay,’ a turn of a phrase, coined by his college roommate during his sophomore and junior years at Harvard University, referring to the inebriated state.



Out in the public room, Frankie O’Hanlan spotted Clarissa Starling standing at the edge of the crowd, gathering to watch Sally and Laurie Lee. She stood next to Dick Faraday, the new ranch hand out at the Miller ranch. Dick was tall, very well muscled, with broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist and washboard flat abdomen. Almost everyone of the female persuasion within Virginia City and the surrounding environs drooled over the man. Dick had one arm draped possessively around Clarissa’s shoulders. Clarissa, from time to time, smiled up at Dick, though her smile never came close to reaching her eyes. Frankie walked over, planted himself right next to her, then turned to gawk. Molly discreetly made her way to the rear exit and took her post, while Teresa and Joe, walking single file, headed resolutely in the direction of the stairs.

The poker game continued, completely oblivious to the saloon girls’ bar room brawl. Stacy took a new position behind the man winning big at the poker game, and man seated on his right. The latter was young, aged in his late teens, impeccably attired in a fashionable three-piece suit. He was tall and thin with curly, light brown hair. Stacy watched as the next hand was dealt.

Clarissa, in the meantime, shuddered and flinched under Frankie’s relentless and intense scrutiny. “Frankie, go AWAY!” she hissed.

Joe and Teresa quickly bounded up the stairs while Sam the bartender frantically ran to break up the escalating fight. In addition to Sally and Laurie Lee, it had grown to include a half a dozen ranch hands from the Ponderosa, the Miller ranch, and the Five Card Draw, Clay Hansen’s ranch.

Sally, in her battle against Laurie Lee, managed to squeeze her left leg, bent as far as she possibly could, between herself and her opponent. With a powerful shove, she sent her hapless antagonist flying through the air. Laurie Lee crashed into Polly McPherson, the local madam at the Virginia City Social Club, the largest bordello on D Street. Aged in her mid to late fifties, Polly was a shrewd, hard businesswoman. Tonight, she was attired fashionably, by her own definition, in a silk green and gold striped dress that molded to her ample form as if it had been painted on. She and Laurie Lee crashed to the floor in an ungainly heap.

“GET OFF ME, YOU STUPID TWIT!” Polly bellowed.

Laurie Lee scrambled to her feet and ran, with Sally and Polly in hot pursuit. The crowd parted allowing the three enraged women to run through their midst.

“Hey, Dick,” it was Mick O’Flynn. “Care to place a bet?”

“Ten bucks on Polly,” Dick Faraday declared, grinning.

“Gotcha,” Mick made the notation in his little black book. “How ‘bout YOU, Young Fella?” he said addressing Frankie.

Frankie said nothing. He simply stood, as if glued to the spot, his eyes six inches from Clarissa’s face.

“Frankie, I told you to GO . . . AWAY!” Clarissa hissed.

“Hey, Sweetheart, that guy botherin’ ya?” Dick queried.

“He certainly is,” Clarissa replied.

Dick Faraday drew himself up to full height, turned and glared ferociously down at Frankie. “Get lost, Pipsqueak,” he ordered, “or else.”

“O-o-or else . . . w-what?” Frankie stammered.

Dick raised a massive, tightly balled fist and held it up three inches from Frankie’s face. “Or else I send ya flyin’ butt over head from here all the way to Carson City,” he threatened.

Frankie swallowed. He desperately wanted to run, but Joe had told him to keep an eye on Clarissa. “Itsa free country, Dick,” he murmured, his heart pounding.

“MISTER Faraday to you, Pipsqueak.”

“Ok, Mister Faraday, itsa free country.”

Dick seized Frankie by the lapels and lifted him off the floor with ridiculous ease. “Carson City here you come,” he said menacingly.

Frankie squeezed his eyes shut. “Nuh-nuh-now I lay me down to sleep . . . . ”

The crowd divided, half following after Sally Tyler and Polly McPherson in hot pursuit of the hapless Laurie Lee. The other half formed a half circle around Dick Faraday and Frankie O’Hanlan. Very few noticed the young men wearing the green leather jacket and white hat, weaving his way through the growing crowd, smiling with great satisfaction.

Laurie Lee, meanwhile, in her mad dash to escape her nemeses, came to an abrupt halt when she plowed into a waiter, carrying a tray full assorted pies, sliced onto generous pieces, to one of the tables. The tray smashed into the young man, covering him with its contents.

“Sorry,” Laurie Lee gulped.

“Not half as much as yer gonna be,” the young man replied, seizing a handful of the pie filling dripping from his head, shoulders, and chest. He packed it as one would a snowball and hurled it at Laurie Lee’s head. She ducked. The sticky wad smacked Nick Lee, one of the new men working at the Ponderosa, upside the head.

“Danny Boy,” Nick turned toward the waiter with an angry scowl. “You’re gonna get it now.”

The waiter turned and fled, with Nick in hot pursuit. Nick had barely gone a dozen steps, when he slipped on some of the pie goo that had dripped from the waiter onto the floor. With an astonished scream he slammed hard into a table occupied by “Slim” Teach, a known troublemaker in town, and Mary Lu, his girl friend. Their mugs toppled over, splashing beer on them and on the floor.

“My dress!” Mary Lu wailed in dismay. “It’s ruined!”

“Slim” was out of his chair and seizing Nick by the lapels like a shot. “OK, Pretty Boy, you’re gonna pay for ruinin’ Mary Lu’s dress.”

“Hey, ‘Slim,’ it ain’t MY fault,” Nick protested. “Danny Boy over there . . . . ”

“I don’t see no Danny Boy here in the middle o’ my table knockin’ our beers all over us, ruinin’ Mary Lu’s pretty dress,” “Slim” said in a low, quiet voice, carrying in it all the power and fury of a storm about to break. “I see you . . . HEY!” He turned and stared at the young man, with curly brown hair sticking out from under a white hat, wearing a green leather jacket standing behind him.

“Sorry, didn’t mean t’ bump ya,” the young man murmured a hasty apology.

“Yer just lucky I just happen to have another score here t’ settle,” “Slim” said with a venomous glare.

“Sorry . . . . ” The young man turned and just seemed to melt into the crowd.



At the bachelor party, Ben and his oldest son, Adam, stood together at the back of the group, watching the can-can dancers. They and most of the guests, including Hoss and Apollo, had formed a line that threaded and wove itself around and through the back room.

“Pa?”

“Yes, Adam?” Ben responded breathlessly, while frantically mopping his drenched brow, face, and neck with a handkerchief.

“Miss Paris, Sshhh . . . Sss-tacy’s ma . . . she wuz . . . quite a woman, wazzan’ she? Beautiful woman . . . fulla fire . . . like . . . like . . . uuhhh, what’s ‘er name?!”

“You referin’ t’ Don Miguel’s oldest gal ?”

“Yeah! That’s the one!”

Ben grabbed the fresh, cold, nearly full mug of beer from the table next to him and downed two-thirds of it in a single gulp. “Yeah . . . Miz Paris sure WAS a woman o’ fire in her own right.” Her memory brought a fond smile to his lips. “Fair warnin’, Adam! Stacy’s got that same quick, fiery temper.”

“That doesn’t sur-prise me,” Adam replied. “I also remem’er Marie bein’ a firebrand ‘ershelf . . . I mean her . . . self.” He took a swig from the bottle in his hand.

“Yep!” Ben nodded, his smile broadening. “Yep! Marie sure was . . . part o’ her charm o’ course . . . same with Paris.”

“Gee, Pa, I never knew you . . . you were susshhh a . . . a glutton for punishment,” Adam said, shaking his head.

“This from a man who’s been married to his own spitfire for the past ten years?” Ben observed with a sly grin.

“Touche, Pa,” Adam said, laughing out loud.

“Gimme that,” Ben snatched the whiskey bottle from Adam’s hand. “Didn’t I teach y’ boys how t’ share?”

“Pa . . . Adam . . . . ” Hoss said anxiously, “sounds like a real knock down drag out fight’s goin’ on out in the bar room.”

“Big Brudder, yer drunk,” Adam declared with a broad, if lopsided grin.

“Hey, Ben! Adam!” Roy Coffee stumbled from the line of dancers into the outstretched arms of Hoss.

“You alright, Roy?” Hoss inquired as he helped the sheriff to steady himself.

“Fine ‘n dandy,” Roy replied with a lopsided smile. “When we gonna have the cake with them gals in it?”

“I almos’ plumb fergot about that, Pa!” Hoss cried out in dismay. “Them poor li’l gals must be suffocatin’ inside that cake.”

“Better do it now,” Ben said. “Come on, Adam . . . . ” His eldest stared back at him with glassy eyes, and a crooked smile. “Never mind, Son,” he sighed. “Hoss, I need your help.”

Ben staggered through a back door that led to one of the storerooms. By previous arrangement, the cake had been left there. Hoss gently took his father by the elbow to add a steadying influence to an otherwise topsy-turvy situation. Upon reaching the storage pantry, they found the cake sitting in the middle of the room on a cart. It was a tall, eight layer cake, ornately decorated with white icing roses, rose buds, ribbons, and pearls. The top was graced with a bride and groom figurine.

“Pa, that cake don’t look big enough to hold three gals,” Hoss said with a bewildered frown.

“T’ cake’s prob’ly hollow,” Ben explained. “The gals are actually hiding in the cart.”

Hoss had serious doubts, but opted not to press the argument. “We’d better git it on in there, Pa,” he said. He wheeled the cart ahead of him, with Ben following unsteadily behind.



Meanwhile, the brawl in the public room had escalated to include most of the Silver Dollar patrons, except for the men involved in the high stakes poker game. They played on, oblivious to the noise and chaos around them.

“Ok, I call,” the dealer said in a dead monotone.

“Three ladies.” The man seated on the dealer’s right placed his hand on the table. He leaned back in his chair, smiling, as a spittoon sailed through the air in front of him, passing less than six inches from his nose. His smile never wavered.

The man, seated to the right of the player with three queens, threw his cards down on the table in disgust, without showing them.

“Full house,” the next man declared, placing his spread on the table en masse.

“I have four of a kind,” the young fashion plate announced with a broad grin. “Four nines! I believe four of a kind beats a full house?”

“It sure does, Kid,” the player seated to his right replied in a smooth oily tone.

The young fashion plate, grinning broadly from ear-to-ear, shot right out of his chair, and reached out to claim the prize piled in the middle of the table.

The man seated on his right, who had just confirmed his winning hand, reached out and put a restraining hand on the younger man’s forearm. “Not so fast, Kid.”

“B-but you just said--- ”

“Four of a kind DOES beat a full house,” the man reiterated. “But YOU still lose! I have four ACES.”

“You’re cheating!” Stacy cried in outrage. “I saw you slip that ace of spades out from under your shirt sleeve.”

The winner shot out of his seat. He literally towered over Stacy. “You smart mouth kid,” he growled, “I got a good mind to turn you over my knee and--- ”

“Hold this,” Stacy said, throwing her mug, still half full of root beer into the winner’s outstretched hands.



Hoss, meanwhile, rolled the cake in front of the closed door separating the back room from the public room. He loudly called for order. “Folks, we got a nice li’l desert here with just a pinch more o’ sugar ‘n spice ‘n everything nice.”

“ ‘Bout time!” Clem yelled.

“Do I have any volunteers t’ help cut this here cake?” Hoss asked. He immediately regretted his call for volunteers when ninety percent of the guests surged forward en masse, a few running, the vast majority staggering. Hoss stood rooted to the spot for a brief instant, his blue eyes round with sheer terror. Seconds before the surging mass of humanity would have converged on him, Hoss scrambled as fast as his legs could carry him, bellowing with all the power and force of a rutting bull moose.



Just on the other side of the door, Stacy balled her fist and punched the cheating card shark in the stomach as hard as she could. The man reeled backward, both hands still clutching Stacy’s half empty mug of root beer, crashing through the door between the public room and the private room where Matt Wilson’s bachelor party was taking place. The men, who seconds before were bolting toward the cake and the dancing girls presumably inside, turned and ran helter-skelter in all directions, bumping and colliding into one another.

The card shark and door fell on top of the cake. The cart held for a moment, then with a sickening groan buckled and collapsed. The door, with the card shark on top slammed into the floor with a hard thud, sending pieces of cart flying in all directions and crushing the cake to a pulp.

“Them poor li’l gals!” Hoss murmured with a grimace.

“There ain’t no gals in that cake,” Francis O’Hanlan declared, thoroughly outraged.

“There ain’t?” Wave upon wave of relief washed over Hoss like the ever-rolling ocean surf. He slowly raised his eyes heavenward, and breathed a quick, heartfelt prayer of thanks.

“Francis is right!” one of the other guests bellowed. “There AIN’T ‘ny gals in that cake! There CAN’T be!!!”

“This is an outrage!” Phineas Burke , tailor and once time candidate the office of Virginia City’s mayor, declared. “Where’s t’ best man?”

“That’s quite a ruckus going on down there,” Teresa remarked as she and Joe stealthily made their way down the dark empty hallway toward Clarissa Starling’s room.

“I told Stacy to create a diversion not raise holy . . . uuhh, heck,” Joe said soberly.

“Sounds more like UNHOLY heck,” Teresa replied. “Come on, something tells me we’d better grab that music box and get ourselves out of here pronto, if not sooner.”

They found Clarissa’s room at the far end of the hall, as Lotus had said. Teresa placed her hand on the doorknob and turned. The door was locked.

“Oh no!” Joe paled. “I didn’t figure on this! NOW what’ll we do?”

Teresa deftly removed a hairpin from her coiled chignon. “Watch my back,” she whispered. “I’ll handle this.” Using the pin, she picked the lock in short order, and opened the door.

Joe stared at his sister-in-law and her handiwork trembling with awe and new respect. “Wow!” he whispered. “You’re good!”



Stacy, meanwhile, ducked behind the crowd that had gathered at the poker table and made a point of putting as much distance as she possibly could between herself and the gaping hole where the door, separating back and public rooms, once stood. The young man in the green jacket and white hat, followed, weaving his own way discreetly through the crowd.

“You done sayin’ yer prayers, Pipsqueak?”

Something in Dick Faraday’s tone of voice made Stacy glance up. That bully from Miller’s ranch had poor Frankie by the lapels with one hand. The latter’s feet dangled helplessly in mid-air. Stacy, with heart in mouth, looked over at Molly. No signal was given. She swallowed, then made her way over toward Dick Faraday, Clarissa, and the hapless Frankie.



Meanwhile, three more uninvited guests ended up in the midst of Matt Wilson’s bachelor party: the Silver Dollar’s piano player, the card dealer at the high stakes poker game, and a saloon girl. The two men ended up in an ungainly heap on top of the unconscious high stakes gambler, still lying sprawled on top of the door.

“Hey, good cake,” the piano player declared, sampling from the remains scattered all over the floor.

“Yeah?” Hoss studied some of the scattered remains of cake and icing spread across the floor in an irregular shaped circular pattern, emanating from under the door.

The saloon girl tripped over the still unconscious gambler’s outstretched arm and tumbled into the line of can-can dancers, knocking three of them to the floor.

“Hey! What’s the big idea?” one of the dancers demanded petulantly, a tall, lanky woman with a mop of honey brown curls.

“You wanna make somethin’ of it?” the saloon girl challenged.

“What if I do?”

The saloon girl balled her fist and struck with a good hard left jab, sending the can-can dancer reeling into the outstretched arms of the groom-to-be.

“Ooohh, merci,” the dancer beamed, as she eyed the handsome Matt, up and down from head to toe, very appreciatively.

“Sorry,” Matt said with genuine regret. “I’m getting married at two o’clock t’morrow.”

“You’re not married yet,” the dancer hastened to point out.

“Sorry, Miss, bu’ his fiancee’d kill ‘im,” Adam said, freeing the dancer from Matt’s embrace.

“How about YOU, Handsome?”

“His WIFE’d kill him,” Matt said, his words beginning to slur.

The dancer balled her hand into a tight fist and with one good hard punch sent Matt and Adam both down for the count.

Ben and Hoss, meanwhile quickly helped the piano player and card dealer to their feet. The latter caught rapid movement in his peripheral vision, and glanced up.

“ . . . s-say, uhhh . . . Pa?”

“What is it, Hoss?”

Hoss stood rooted to the spot like a deer caught in a strong light by night, staring in shocked horror at the utter chaos in the saloon beyond. “I-I knew somethin’ was goin’ on out there . . . . ”

Ben slowly looked up. “HELL AND DAMNATION!” he roared. The mellowness instantly evaporated, leaving him rudely sober.

“Ben?” it was Roy Coffee at his elbow. He turned his head in the direction Hoss and Ben were looking. His eyes grew round with horrified astonishment. “What the Sam Hill is goin’ on out there?”

“Off the top of my head, Roy, I’d say that’s all hell breaking loose,” Ben said grimly.

“Roy,” it was Sam, looking haggard. “Ya gotta help me! I’ve been trying for the last hour to break things up, but somehow, it keeps getting worse.”



“Come on, Teresa,” Joe urged. “What’s taking you so long?”

“I can’t find it,” Teresa cried, panic-stricken. The tiny room was littered with the entire contents of the chest of drawers, pulled from neatly folded piles and tossed about maniacally. Now, with heart in mouth, she did the same with the clothing hanging in the wardrobe.

“What---?!” Joe squeaked. He took a moment to try and calm himself. “Teresa, what do you mean you can’t find it?” he demanded, his own panic rising. “It’s gotta be in there somewhere.”



Stacy, her lower jaw set with grim, stubborn determination, walked up to Dick Faraday, bold as brass, and tapped him on the shoulder. “You big bully!” she challenged in tones of righteous outrage. “Why don’t you pick on someone your OWN size?”

“Well, if it ain’t one o’ the high ‘n mighty Cartwrights,” Dick sneered, as he opened his hand. Frankie fell, hitting the floor with a sickening thud. Yet all the while, he kept his eyes riveted to Clarissa.

Stacy delivered a hard swift kick to the big ranch hand’s left shin, wishing that her brother, Hoss, had been part of THIS caper instead of an invited guest at the bachelor party. Dick Faraday hopped up and down on his uninjured leg, bellowing like a sick cow. Clarissa exhaled a short, exasperated sigh, turned heel and walked toward the stairs. Frankie picked himself off the floor and bounded after her.

“Come on, Grandpa and Teresa,” Stacy urged silently. “What’s taking so long?”

“Roy, isn’t that the new man at the Miller ranch?” Ben queried, watching Dick Faraday’s antics.

“Where?”

“There, hopping up and down like a rabid jack rabbit,” Ben pointed him out.

“I don’t know, and I don’t care,” Roy said irritably, as he pulled his gun from its holster. “I’m going to put a stop to these shenanigans once and for all.”

Roy pulled his gun from its holster, pointed to the floor and fired. The sound of gunfire ricocheted throughout the building, freezing everyone in his or her tracks.

“Oooohhh??” Stacy looked up just in time to see Sheriff Coffee and her father emerge from the back room, both looking angrier than a nest of disturbed hornets. “UUH oh!”

“YOU FOLKS, STAY RIGHT WHERE YOU ARE,” Roy Coffee bellowed. “I’M GONNA GET TO THE BOTTOM OF THIS, IF IT TAKES ALL NIGHT!”

“Frankie, come on,” Stacy whispered as she noiselessly dropped to her hands and knees.

“But Joe said to watch--- ” Frankie began, speaking in his normal voice.

“Don’t worry about Clarissa. Sheriff Coffee has her over there.” Stacy paused, then added meaningfully, “He’ll have US, too, if you don’t shut up and follow me.”

Frankie dropped to his hands and knees beside Stacy, landing with a dull thud. Praying that the sound of Frankie hitting the floor had not alerted her pa or the sheriff, she half pushed, half dragged Frankie under the nearest table. Fortunately, it provided a good view of the stairs.



Joe started violently when he heard the gunfire downstairs. “Teresa, come on!” he urged, with heart in mouth. “I have a real strong feeling that things are about to get real ugly down there.”

“I STILL can’t fi---! Wait! Here it is!” Teresa found the music box still in its original container hidden under the bed. She quickly retrieved it and ran for the door.



Roy Coffee swore Sam and Hoss in as deputies, then ordered them and Clem to confiscate everyone’s weapons. The three men moved through the crowd collecting the guns. Ben stood behind the sheriff watching the proceedings, with a murderous scowl on his face.

“Ben, you and Adam can g’won home if you want,” Roy said.

“Sure I can’t help, Roy?” Ben asked.

“I can handle it, with Clem, Hoss and Sam helpin’ out,” Roy said. “I already let the other party guests go, since I know for fact none o’ THEM was involved in this fracas.” He paused long enough to manage a weary smile. “G’won, Ben, take Adam home and get him to bed. He’s got a big day ahead of him tomorrow . . . opps! Make that t’day!”

Ben turned to glance in the back room where Adam, lying stretched out on one of the tables, slumbered in happy oblivion to what was going on around him.



From her vantage point, Stacy saw Joe and Teresa heading for the top of the stairs, at a dead run. She frantically glanced around, trying to locate her father and Hoss. The former had turned his eyes away from the bar room to speak with Roy Coffee, and the latter was involved in an argument with a patron who refused to surrender his weapon. Stacy immediately seized the moment and crawled out from under the table, frantically signaling to her brother and sister-in-law. Joe saw her, looked in the direction she pointed and saw their father. His eyes grew round with horror, but he still had enough presence of mind to shove Teresa away from the steps and back down the hall.

Stacy ducked back under the table, a split second before Ben finished his conversation with the sheriff and returned his attention to the bar room. “Ok, Frankie, we’re getting out of here,” she whispered.

“How?”

“Out the front door,” she replied. “Follow me.”

“But, Joe said to go out where my sister is,” Frankie protested.

“Frankie, there’s been a change of plans,” Stacy whispered back tersely. “If you don’t shut-up and follow me, so help me, I’m gonna throttle you.”

“Y-you would, wouldn’t you?”

“Within an inch of your life,” Stacy hissed. “Now come on.”

Stacy and Frankie crawled to the wall, keeping as much as possible to the shelter of the tables. When they reached the swinging doors, Stacy, then Frankie, dropped from hands and knees to their bellies. Stacy wiggled quickly under the doors, then unceremoniously pulled Frankie after her. In the public room behind them someone yelled that his wallet was gone.

Once outside, Stacy and Frankie crawled along the sidewalk past the broken window until they reached the safety of the alley.



“Joe, I thought we were supposed to go out the back door downstairs,” Teresa said, as they fled back down the hall.

“Can’t! Sheriff Coffee’s got everyone down there under house arrest,” Joe said. “Hoss has been sworn in as a deputy, so HE’S out there making rounds to confiscate weapons, and Pa’s just standing around watching, looking madder ‘n a wet hen.”

“Where’s Adam?”

“Don’t know, I didn’t see him,” Joe said. “You and I however have a big problem.”

“I know. We’re trapped!”

“Not yet . . . exactly,” Joe replied.

“But the only way out is downstairs,” she hastened to point out.

“I know another way,” Joe said as they both entered Clarissa’s room. He closed the door and placed a chair under the doorknob.

“What other way?” Teresa demanded.

“Over the roof,” he said, opening a window.

“You’re kidding me.”

“Nope,” Joe said, gesturing toward the open window. “Ladies first.”

Joe took the music box from Teresa and set it on the ledge outside, before helping his sister-in-law climb through the open window. He climbed out after, pausing to close the window. “This way,” he said, picking up the music box. He took Teresa’s hand and led her along the narrow ledge. After a seeming eternity of inching their way down the length of narrow ledge, they finally reached balcony that ran parallel to C Street. Joe signaled for a halt. “Oh geeze loo-weeze!” he groaned.

“What’s the matter?”

“There’s a crowd gathering on the street below. We’ll never make it across that balcony without someone seeing us.”

“NOW what’ll we do?”

“Back track the way we came,” Joe said. “We’ll sneak out of Clarissa’s room to the room across the hall. The window there opens out onto the alley where we’re meeting the others.”

“Why didn’t we go that way in the first place?” Teresa demanded.

“The room’s occupied.”

“Oh great!” Teresa groaned, rolling her eyes heavenward in a silent prayer for fortitude and patience to whatever God or Gods may be listening.

They reached Clarissa Starling’s room, and re-entered by the same way they had initially left. After handing Teresa the music box, Joe tiptoed across the room and noiselessly removed the chair holding the door. He pressed his ear against the closed door, and listened. All was silent. Gritting his teeth, he put his hand to the doorknob and turned it very slowly.

“Well?” Teresa demanded sotto voce. “Is the coast clear?”

Joe, with heart in mouth peered out into the hall. “Yes, come on,” he hissed.

Joe and Teresa silently crossed the hallway and ducked through the closed door facing that of Clarissa Starling’s room.

“What is the meaning of this?” an imperious voice demanded. A large portly man, dressed in flannel gray slacks and navy blue smoking jacket entered the room.

“We were in the neighbor hood, so we thought we’d pass through?” Teresa quipped.

“Joseph Cartwright!” the man declared with a triumphant smile. “Well! Well! Well! Having you drop in like this just might give me some bargaining leverage with your pa on behalf of the lumbering company.”

“You know this man, Joe?” Teresa asked.

“Josiah Tucker,” Joe groaned. “He’s acting as legal representative for a lumber company that wants to cut trees on the Ponderosa’s north west tract.”

“I think they may want to fell trees along the lake as well,” Josiah said smugly.

“H-how many?”

“All of ‘em, all the way along the lake!”

“I’m dead!” Joe whimpered.

“Hey, Josiah Honey!” a stunning brunette, clad only in a towel that barely wrapped around her body, emerged from the bedroom area. “What’s taking so long?”

“Sweetie Pie Honey Bunch, YOU are my salvation,” Joe crowed, as he planted a big sloppy kiss on the woman’s cheek.

The woman grimaced and wiped her cheek vigorously with the palm of her hand.

“You know this woman, Joe?” Teresa asked.

“It’s not a question of knowing who the woman IS,” Joe said, greedily savoring the unexpected fruits of victory. “It’s a matter of knowing who the woman ISN’T?”

“Ok, who ISN’T the woman?”

“This woman ISN’T Mister Tucker’s wife,” Joe crowed. He turned and patted Josiah Tucker’s cheek. “Do give my regards to the REAL lovely Mrs. Tucker?”

Josiah lashed out in anger and frustration. His balled fist connected hard with Joe’s left cheek.

The force of the blow sent Joe Cartwright stumbling backwards. Less than a half dozen steps later, Joe’s leg slammed against the edge of a low coffee table scattering every last sense of balance to the proverbial winds. Joe frantically waggled his arms in a desperate bid to regain some small measure of equilibrium, all to no avail. He toppled over backwards, screaming loudly. He crashed into the coffee table, shattering it into pieces of kindling.

Teresa immediately snatched up an oversized vase, filled with fresh flowers, and crept up behind the lawyer.

“Josiah, look out!” the brunette tried to shout a warning.

Teresa brought the vase crashing down on his head, before his companion could complete her warning. Josiah Tucker groaned, then collapsed to the floor like a sack of potatoes. She and her young brother-in-law ran for the window and made their escape while the brunette ran to her fallen companion. Joe and Teresa dropped from the window of Josiah Tucker’s room into the alley, where they found Stacy and the O’Hanlans waiting anxiously.

“I was beginning to fear the worst,” Stacy said, feeling almost giddy with relief. She frowned, noting suddenly that her brother sported a nasty looking black eye. “What happened to YOU, Grandpa?” she asked.

“We took a short cut through Josiah Tucker’s hotel room,” Teresa explained.

“Oh no!” It took every ounce of will Stacy possessed to keep her voice from rising. “Is he the one who . . . you know, the lumbering contracts?”

Joe nodded, grinning like a the Cheshire Cat.

“We’re dead.”

“Oh no we’re not,” Joe declared with an impish grin. “The woman upstairs in the room with Mister Tucker wasn’t MRS. Tucker.”

Stacy looked at him in surprise for a moment, then started to giggle. Molly and Joe found themselves giggling right along with Stacy. Teresa succumbed next, followed at long last by Frankie. Their giggles quickly escalated to uproarious laughter.

“Come on, we’d better get out of here while the getting’s good,” Joe said, wiping the mirthful tears from his eyes.

“Frankie and I don’t know how to thank you guys,” Molly said gratefully.

“One way you can thank us is to make sure this gets home safe,” Joe said, as he handed the music box to Molly.

“You bet I will,” Molly promised.

“Y’ know? Now that it’s all over . . . I had FUN tonight,” Joe declared with a grin.

“So did I,” Stacy agreed. “There WERE a few heart stopping moments, though . . . . ”

“Wow! You Cartwrights sure have some strange ideas of fun!” Frankie said, shaking his head.

“Whatever you do, Frankie, please don’t make mention of that to Pa,” Joe cautioned. “That may start him asking all kinds of embarrassing questions.”

“I haven’t enjoyed myself so much in years,” Teresa confessed with a smile. “But, now that the fun’s over, I think we’d all better go home.”

“Now that’s where you’re wrong, Mrs. Cartwright.” It was Sheriff Coffee, waiting on the sidewalk at the end of the alley. “The fun ain’t over . . . NOT by a long shot! In fact, the fun’s just about to start.”

“Sheriff Coffee, what’s this all about?” Joe demanded.

“Francis O’Hanlan, Junior, Stacy Rose, Teresa di Cordova, ‘n Joseph Francis Cartwright, you’re all under arrest,” he informed them with stiff formality. “THAT’S what this is all about.”

“Under arrest?!” Joe echoed incredulously. “What for?”

“Stacy Rose Cartwright, YOU’RE charged with inciting a riot and vandalism,” Roy said sternly.

“Vandalism?!” Stacy echoed looking at the sheriff askance. “I didn’t break one thing, Sheriff Coffee, I swear.”

“You’re guilty by association,” Roy snapped. “That fight you started tore the inside of the Silver Dollar apart. Place looks like a tornado hit it. Y’ oughtta be ashamed o’ yourself!”

“Hoo boy! Pa’s gonna have a fit!” Stacy gulped.

“Y’ shouldda thought o’ THAT ‘fore y’ started that fight at the Silver Dollar,” Roy said sternly. He, then, turned his attention to the others and continued to recite the litany of charges. “Francis Sean O’Hanlan, Junior, YOU’RE charged with harassing Miss Clarissa Starling. Joseph Francis Cartwright and Teresa di Cordova Cartwright, the two of YOU are charged with breaking and entering, and stealing.” He paused a moment to catch his breath. “Oh, yeah . . . Joe, you’re also being charged for all the petty thefts that’ve been goin’ on around town over the past couple o’ months.”

“WHAT?!” Joe shrieked. “No way!”

“Just about everyone back there in the saloon . . . what’s LEFT of it . . . . ” Roy added that last with a hard angry glare at Stacy, “ . . . is missin’ something, whether it be a wallet, purse, jewelry, or a watch. Several folks remembered seein’ a green leather jacket and a white hat.”

“Sheriff Coffee, Joe Cartwright was with me the entire evening,” Teresa declared. “I’m willing to swear on a stack of Bibles, if I have to.”

“There ain’t too many judges around who’ll take seriously the word of a woman charged with breakin’ into a saloon gal’s room an’ stealin’ her music box, Mrs. Cartwright,” the sheriff pointed out.

Teresa lapsed into a sullen silence.

“Last, every one of ya’s been charged with assault and battery. I’ll take that.” Roy deftly confiscated the music box.

“Sheriff Coffee, please,” Molly begged. “That music box is MINE. Frankie and I got it to be a wedding gift for our sister.”

“Some o’ the gals over at the Silver Dollar says it belongs t’ Clarissa Starling,” Roy said. “You have a bill of sale for it?”

“I have one . . . I think it’s in my purse,” Molly stammered.

“Why don’t you accompany the rest of us to my office, as long as you don’t mind keeping company with this lot o’ hooligans?” Roy suggested in a kindlier tone. “Y’ can search through your purse there.”

“I’m not under arrest, too?”

“No, Molly, you’re not,” Roy said. “People saw you standin’ next to the back door, but to a man said you weren’t involved in the fracas this evenin’.” He glared over at her brother and the Cartwrights. “You know, Molly, a nice gal like you oughtta be more careful about the company she keeps.”

Molly felt a tremendous sense of relief, mixed with overwhelming guilt.

Ben, meanwhile, arrived home in a buckboard borrowed from the livery in town. Buck and Sport II, securely hitched to the back end, followed. Adam lay sprawled in the back of the wagon, blissfully snoring away, without a care in the world. Ben turned and wearily shook his oldest son’s shoulder, after bringing the horses to a stop. The lateness of the hour and alcohol consumed at the bachelor party had begun to take its toll. He was ready for bed. “Adam, wake up,” Ben said, trying hard to keep his eyes open just a few moments longer. “We’re home.”

“Home, Pa?” Adam murmured without opening his eyes. His jaw went limp again, and his snoring resumed.

“Mister Cartwright! Mister Cartwright!” Hop Sing ran from the house, looking distraught.

“What is it, Hop Sing?”

“Little Joe, Miss Stacy, and Mrs. Teresa not home yet,” Hop Sing said frantically.

“What?!” A sudden rush of adrenalin roused Ben from his lethargy.

“I said Little Joe, Miss Stacy, and Mrs. Teresa not home yet,” Hop Sing repeated.

“That’s not possible,” Ben shook his head. “Hop Sing, they have to be home.”

“Not home. I home all night,” Hop Sing continued.

The sound of horse hooves abruptly silenced all conversation. It was Hoss, looking grim. “Pa, I’m glad I caught you ‘fore you turned in,” he said. “Sheriff Coffee’s got Joe, Stacy, ‘n Teresa locked up in jail.”

“Joe’s in jail?!” Ben asked. Granted, Joe’s quick temper occasionally landed him in minor scrapes ending up in the Virginia City jail. Though rare in recent years, this was nothing new. “Wait a minute--- Hoss, did I hear you say Stacy and Teresa, too?”

Hoss nodded.

“On what charge?”

“Char-GES, Pa,” Hoss said. “Joe and Teresa are charged with breaking into the room of one o’ the gals at the Silver Dollar, an’ stealing a fancy music box.”

“Now why would Teresa . . . or Joe for that matter want to steal a music box belonging to a saloon girl?” Ben demanded. “None of this makes any sense.”

“Pa, Joe’s also been charged with that rash of thefts that’s been goin’ on around town,” Hoss continued.

For one brief horrifying moment, Ben was almost sure he was going to faint. “How is that possible? Except for the curly brown hair, your brother doesn’t begin to fit the description Stacy gave the day before yesterday.”

“Seems the thief had a field day this evenin’,” Hoss said. “A fair number o’ folks said they remember bumpin’ into a fella wearin’ a green jacket and a white hat.”

“I’m almost afraid to ask this next question, but how did STACY end up in jail?” Ben asked. “Is SHE charged with stealing a saloon girl’s music box or picking pockets, too?”

“No, Sir,” Hoss replied.

“That’s a relief . . . . ”

“Li’l Sister’s charged with starting that fight at the Silver Dollar.”

Ben’s dark brown eyes grew round with shocked astonishment. “Hoss, did you just say that . . . that Stacy’s charged with starting that ruckus at the Silver Dollar this evening??!”

“Yes, Sir.”

Ben rolled his eyes and sighed.

“ ‘Ey, Pa,” Adam roused slightly. “I guesshh nex’ time ya turn Schstacy loosh in Virginny City, you’ll tell ‘er t’ behave hershelf, an’ y’ll really mean it.”

“Adam, not another word,” Ben said stiffly, before turning to his second son. “Hoss, can you get your brother upstairs to bed?”

“Sure thing, Pa.” Hoss lifted the somnolent Adam from the back of the buckboard with almost ridiculous ease and slung him over his shoulder. He started for the house. Adam’s body went limp, and he started to snore.

“Come right back, Hoss,” Ben called him. “You and I are going back to Virginia City.”

“Ok, Pa.”

“Hop Sing, I’d appreciate it very much if you’d rouse Candy or Hank to take care of the horses.”

“Right away, Mister Cartwright.”

“Now,” Ben said, addressing no one in particular, “would someone please wake me up and tell me I’m dreaming?”



“ROY, WHAT THE HELL’S THE MEANING OF THIS?! WHAT ARE MY SON, MY DAUGHTER, AND MY DAUGHTER-IN-LAW DOING IN JAIL?!”

The incarcerated Cartwrights heard Ben’s voice loud and clear in Roy Coffee’s office on the other side of a fast closed door. Stacy and Teresa occupied one cell, while Joe shared the other with Frankie O’Hanlan. Molly O’Hanlan sat glumly on a stool outside the jail cells.

“We’re dead now,” Joe said morosely.

“It could be worse, Grandpa,” Stacy said.

“I’d sure like to know how,” Joe said, looking over at his sister as if she had just sprouted a matched pair of purple horns.

“If Pa doesn’t keep his voice down, Sheriff Coffee might arrest him for disturbing the peace and toss him in there with you guys,” she said.

Frankie groaned. “I don’t wanna even think about that.”

“Yeah? Well that makes TWO of us, Frankie,” Joe agreed wholeheartedly.

“Surely things aren’t as bad as you’re making out,” Teresa said.

“No, they’re worse actually . . . . ” Stacy said.

“ . . . and it’s all MY fault,” Molly sighed.

“It is NOT, Molly O’Hanlan,” Stacy said emphatically. “You get that idea right out of your head. It’s all Clarissa’s fault, if it’s anyone’s! She had no right to keep a music box she knew darn well didn’t belong to her.”

“Thank goodness Molly found the bill of sale in her purse,” Frankie said.



“Molly O’Hanlan showed me a bill of sale, so the charges of stealing have been dropped,” Roy said wearily. “Sam said if you’re willing to pay for the damage done to the saloon, he’s willing to drop the rest of the charges.”

“How much?” Ben asked through clenched teeth.

Roy reached into the top drawer of his desk and pulled out five sheets of paper, all clipped together. “This is the list of damages, Ben.”

“FIVE PAGES?!” Ben bellowed.

“TEN pages, Ben,” Roy corrected him in a wry tone. “Whoever wrote that up . . . wrote on BOTH sides.”

Ben snatched the list of damages from the sheriff with a short, curt sigh of pure exasperation. He silently read over the list, and double-checked the figures. “Ok, I’ll pay for all the damages,” he finally agreed through clenched teeth.

“All right, Ben,” Roy said, taking the ring, holding the keys to the jail cells, off its customary hook. “I’ll go back and release them now.”

Ben placed a hand on Roy’s shoulder. “Not just yet, Roy,” he said. “I’d like to visit them first.”

Ben stood in the center of the room, where the jail cells were located, back straight, arms folded across his chest. In his righteous anger he presented an imposing, almost menacing figure. “Stacy Rose Cartwright, what have you got to say for yourself?” he demanded.

Stacy swallowed. “If you’re asking me whether or not I started that fight at the Silver Dollar, yes, I did,” she replied, laboring to keep her voice even, “ . . . kinda . . . sort of.”

“Kinda, sort of?” Ben echoed, favoring his daughter with a dark angry glare. “KINDA, SORT OF?!!”

“I didn’t start it directly, Pa,” Stacy explained. “I let Sally Tyler and Laurie Lee Bonner start it.”

“What kind of lies did you tell them to accomplish that?” Ben demanded.

“I didn’t tell any lies at all,” Stacy replied, equally outraged. “I just let them draw their own conclusions.”

“Do you have any idea how much damage was done by letting those two saloon gals draw their own conclusions?” Ben growled.

“ . . . uh, no . . . . ”

Ben whipped out the report and started to read. “Broken mirrors, THREE. . . fifty dollars apiece! Broken windows, total one hundred dollars! Smashed inventory . . . three hundred dollars! And the list goes on and on for ten pages,” he yelled. “TEN PAGES!” He paused to take a deep breath. “I trust you have a good explanation for this?”

“Yes, Sir, I do,” Stacy replied.

“I’d be very interested in hearing it,” Ben said.

“I can’t tell you, Pa,” Stacy said.

“WHY IN THUNDERATION CAN’T YOU?” Ben exploded.

“Because I’m not a tattle tale,” Stacy declared. “I freely admit my own part in this, and I’ll face whatever music I have to. But, I won’t tell on someone else.”

Both father and daughter glared at each other for a long moment, until at length, Ben sighed. “Alright, Stacy, I can’t fault your principles,” he said. “I’m going to deduct the cost of damages from your allowance, however, which by MY calculations you should start seeing again when you turn thirty.”

“ . . . uh, Pa?” Joe meekly ventured, “the ummm . . . reason Stacy, uhm, let Sally and Laurie Lee draw their own conclusions is because I, uhhh . . . I . . . told her to.”

Ben turned and glared at his youngest son. “You told Stacy to start that fight at the Silver Dollar?” he echoed incredulously.

“Not exactly, Sir,” Joe said contritely.

“What do you mean not exactly?” Ben demanded. “Either you told Stacy to start that fight, or you didn’t. Which is it?”

“M-My exact words were to . . . to create a diversion.”

“What in the world for?!”

“Sorry, Pa, I can’t tell you,” Joe said.

Ben exhaled an explosive sigh of pure and simple vexation.

“Ben, Joe asked Stacy to create a diversion so I could sneak into Clarissa Starling’s room and get the music box,” Teresa confessed.

Ben looked over at his daughter-in-law, and rolled his eyes. “This is getting better all the time,” he said with thinly veiled sarcasm. “I don’t suppose YOU can tell me why, either?”

“Sorry, Ben,” Teresa shook her head.

“Mister Cartwright, this is all MY fault,” Molly suddenly burst into tears. “They did it to help me get my music box back. Please don’t be too hard on Stacy, Joe, and Teresa . . . please?”

In the face of Molly’s anguished tears, Ben’s anger lessened. He walked over and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Molly,” he said quietly, “would you mind telling me the whole story, from the beginning?”



Molly O’Hanlan’s tale left Ben shaking his head. He wearily summoned the sheriff to release all the prisoners, including Frankie O’Hanlan.

“I’m afraid Joe’s gonna have to stay here, Ben,” Roy said.

“What for?” Ben demanded. “I thought we’d cleared everything up.”

“There’s still the matter of that rash o’ petty thefts, Ben,” Roy said.

“Sheriff Coffee?”

“Yes, Stacy?”

“You can, uh . . . clear THAT matter up very quickly,” Stacy ventured a trifle hesitantly.

“How?” Roy asked.

“Check for the tattoo.”

“Stacy’s right,” Ben said.

Roy shrugged. “Joe,” he turned toward the remaining prisoner. “Please turn toward the wall and drop your pants.”

“WHAT?!”

“You heard the sheriff, Son,” Ben said, taking a measure of perverse enjoyment Joe’s predicament.

“Pa . . . . ”

“NOW, Joseph,” Ben growled. “I’m tired and I want very much to go home and go to bed.”

“Would you mind asking Teresa, Stacy, and Molly to step into the next room?” Joe demanded.

“Come on, Stacy and Molly,” Teresa said, unable to keep from smiling.

Teresa quickly ushered the two younger females out of the holding area, into the sheriff’s office. Ben, Frankie, and a very mortified Joe followed a few moments later, with Sheriff Coffee bringing up the rear.

“I’m gonna getcha f’r this, Kid, so help me . . . . ” Joe, his face still beet red, hissed in his sister’s ear in passing.

“Ok . . . fine! You DO that!” Stacy snapped. “The next time something like this happens, Grandpa, I’ll go ahead and letcha ROT in jail.”

“Needless t’ say the charges against Joe for all the petty thefts can definitely be dropped,” Roy declared with a grin. “Oh! By the way, Stacy, I have something for you, too.”

“Uh oh,” Stacy gulped.

“You got some reward money coming.”

“Reward money?!” Stacy looked at him askance.

“What’s this all about, Roy?” Ben asked.

“Stacy’s responsible for the capture of one Mister Buck Capshaw,” Roy explained. “He was the fella you caught cheatin’ at cards, Stacy. Your sucker punch put him down for the count.”

“Sucker punch?” Ben echoed. “Wait a minute! Was that the guy who crashed the bachelor party by flying through the door . . . and landing in the cake?”

“No comment, Pa,” Stacy said very quickly.

“This Capshaw fella’s got a list a mile long, Ben, fraud, theft, robbery, murder . . . . ”

Stacy paled. “Muh, muh, muh m-murder?!” she gulped. For a moment, it looked as though she was going faint right there on the spot.

“It would serve her right,” Ben mused archly, in silence.

“You name it, he’s done it,” Roy blithely rambled on. “The reward for his capture’s a thousand dollars.”

Stacy’s constitution rallied instantly at the mention of the monetary amount of the reward.

“Here, you are, Stacy.”

“Not so fast,” Ben said, snatching the wad of cash from Roy’s hand before Stacy could so much as touch it. “First, I deduct for the damage to the Silver Dollar Saloon.”

Stacy’s face fell. “H-how much is there going to be left over, Pa?”

“Here,” Ben placed a shiny penny in her hand.

“That’s it!?”

“Don’t spend it all in one place,” Ben said wryly.

“Does this mean I can start getting my allowance?” she asked, looking hopeful.

“We’ll discuss that later,” Ben said wearily. “For now, I just want to go home.”

The following morning, Hoss rose at the crack of dawn. He washed and dressed, taking great care to do so quietly, so not to wake the others. He was grimly bound and determined to go for a ride, do his daily chores, muck out the barn, dig a new latrine . . . ANYTHING to avoid putting in an appearance at the breakfast table this morning. After he had finished dressing, Hoss tiptoed across his bedroom to the door. He turned the knob very slowly, with heart in mouth, and opened the door. “I’m sure glad I oiled those hinges when Pa asked me to a couple o’ weeks ago,” Hoss mused in silence.

He paused briefly at the threshold between his bedroom and the hallway, then taking a deep breath, he stepped into the hall and noiselessly shut the door behind him. Two steps later, he stepped on a loose, creaking floorboard, just outside his father’s bedroom. The noise was almost deafening. Hoss froze. The even rhythm of Adam snoring in his old room at the end of the hall fell out of cadence, as it rose in volume and grew more guttural. After what seemed a dreadfully tense eternity to Hoss, his older brother’s snoring gradually resumed its natural rhythm. There was no noise from his father’s room, or any of the other rooms. Hoss slowly exhaled the breath he had been holding, and continued on toward the stairs.

“Good morning, Hoss,” Ben greeted him as he passed the first landing.

Hoss started violently. He would have almost certainly taken a tumble down the rest of the stairs had it not been for quick reflexes, enabling him to grab hold of the banister. “ ‘M-mornin’, Pa,” he stammered.

“Sorry I startled you,” Ben said rising from the sofa. Though clad in pajamas, robe, and slippers, he looked as if he had not yet been to bed. “You’re up early this morning.”

“Yeah, well, I thought I’d get up an’ get my chores done, ‘n outta the way, this bein’ Matt ‘n Colleen’s weddin’ day, ‘n all,” the words tumbled from Hoss’ mouth, one right after the other.

“The wedding is at two o’clock in the afternoon, Hoss,” Ben said, favoring his second son with a puzzled frown. “You could have overslept this morning and STILL completed your chores in plenty of time.”

“I, uuhh, also thought it might be good t’ get Chubb out for a li’l bit o’ exercise this mornin’, too,” Hoss said a bit too quickly.

“BEFORE breakfast?”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing, Son,” Ben said with a bemused look on his face. “It’s just a little unusual . . . for YOU.”

Hoss sighed. There was never any getting around his father, especially at the times he wanted to do so the most. “Alright, Pa, the plain truth of it is, I kinda didn’t want t’ be around when the cattle crud hits the nitro, if y’ get my meanin’?”

“I see,” Ben said with an odd look on his face.

“Seein’ as how quiet everyone was comin’ home last night, an’ we all pretty much just went t’ bed, I kinda figured you’d be wantin’ to talk to Joe, Stacy . . . and Teresa, too, I expect . . . in private,” Hoss explained, as he descended the remaining stairs.

“Yes, that would probably be best,” Ben said slowly, “talking to them in private, that is . . . . ”

“Pa . . . . ”

“Yes, Son?”

“Please . . . don’t be too hard on ‘em? Maybe they didn’t exactly go about doin’ things quite the way they shudda, but they WERE tryin’ t’ help out a friend.”

“I’ll . . . try to remember that.”

“See ya later, Pa,” Hoss said, as he stepped out the front door.

The rest of the Cartwright Clan gathered for breakfast a couple of hours later. Ben, now washed and fully dressed, sat in his usual place at the head of the table, surveying the family members assembled, in silence. Adam, still clad in pajamas and robe, occupied the chair to his father’s left, nursing the royal mother of all headaches. He sat with eyes closed, gingerly massaging his temples, with both elbows flanking a generous plate full of eggs, bacon, fried potatoes, and biscuits, virtually untouched. The savory aroma of food and coffee sent his stomach into agonizing paroxysms. This morning, Joe occupied Hoss’ place at the table, with Stacy in the chair next to him. Teresa demurely sat next to her husband. All three of them stared down at their plates morosely.

“Eat!” Hop Sing sternly admonished, as entered the dining room with a pot of fresh, hot coffee. “Hop Sing NOT slave over hot stove to throw food out in garden, feed birds.”

Ben couldn’t help but note that he alone had a decent appetite. “Hop Sing?”

“Yes, Mister Cartwright?”

“I think Adam might be in need of a dose or two of your hangover medicine,” he said.

Adam groaned softly. “Oh no, Pa, please!”

“For own good, Mister Adam,” Hop Sing said curtly, as he studied the eldest of the Cartwright offspring with a frown. “Must be well to be best man at wedding. I go . . . fix medicine.” With that, he abruptly turned heel and beat a straight path back to the kitchen.

“Thanks a lot, Pa,” Adam said, wincing on every word. “What’d I ever do to you?”

“Now, now, Adam, Hop Sing is right,” Ben said in a gentle, but firm tone. “I know it’s a little rough going down . . . . ”

“A LITTLE rough?” Adam moaned.

“OK, it’s VERY rough going down,” Ben admitted with a reluctant sigh.

“Care to try for downright repulsive?” Adam countered irritably, as his stomach lurched.

“It works,” Ben hastened to point out.

“Maybe so, but it’s a lot worse than the hangover itself,” Adam groaned, as he rose unsteadily to his feet. “I . . . I’m g-going back to bed.”

“Good idea, Son,” Ben agreed. “You want an escort?”

“No thanks, Pa. I can manage.”

Ben waited until Adam was safely upstairs before turning his attention to the three remaining at the table. “I’ve been doing some thinking about last night,” he began. “I realize you three were trying to help out a couple of friends. Things just got . . . a little . . . out of hand, that’s all.”

“Thanks for putting it diplomatically, Pa,” Joe said contritely. “But, the truth is, things got ‘WAY outta hand.”

“I have one question,” Ben said. “Why didn’t you ask Sheriff Coffee to help you get back the music box?”

“Because we had no concrete proof that Clarissa Starling actually had the music box,” Joe replied. “All we had was Lotus O’Toole’s word. Sure, I trust HER word more than I trust a lot of other peoples’, but it’s still Lotus’ word against Clarissa Starling’s.”

“I see,” Ben murmured softly.

“Pa?”

“Yes, Joe?”

“I’ve been doing some thinking myself since we got home last night . . . . ”

“And?”

“This whole fiasco was MY idea,” Joe said. “I was the ring leader. If ANYONE should in any way punished, it should be ME . . . not Stacy.”

“Thanks, Grandpa, however there’s a bit of a problem with that . . . . ”

“What?” Joe asked.

“Well . . . nobody held a gun to my head and forced me to go along with you last night,” Stacy said. “I agreed of my own free will.”

“Kid, your sense of honor’s gonna be the death of you someday,” Joe said quietly, with a smile.

“So’s YOURS, Grandpa.”

“The most important thing is Molly and Frankie O’Hanlan got their music box back,” Ben said. “I’m also pleased to report that all the charges against you have been dropped, AND the damage done to the Silver Dollar Saloon has been paid for.”

“Does this mean you’re not going to . . . to . . . punish Joe and me?” Stacy ventured hesitantly, fearful of asking that question, yet more fearful of NOT asking that question.

“I won’t take the pair of ya out to the barn,” Ben replied. “I’ve decided that much. However, I can’t let ya off the hook either. Yes . . . Miss Starling did wrong in keeping that music box to spite Matt and Colleen. But YOU did wrong, too, when you decided to take the law into your own hands.”

“Are you saying we should’ve gone to Sheriff Coffee anyway . . . even though there wasn’t anything he could’ve done?” Stacy asked.

“That’s exactly what I’m saying, Young Woman,” Ben replied. “In the first place, neither one of you know . . . not for absolute certain . . . that there WASN’T something that Roy could have done. Had you gone to him with everything that Miss O’Toole told YOU, Joe . . . the bill of sale for the music box that Molly had in HER possession . . . Frankie’s story about taking the music box to the Silver Dollar and showing it to Miss Starling, why I’ll betcha Roy would have had a strong enough case to have gotten permission to search the Silver Dollar from top to bottom.”

“I didn’t even think of that, Pa,” Joe said contritely.

“Pa, what if it turned out that Sheriff Coffee couldn’t search the Silver Dollar from top to bottom because it DID come down to things being Miss O’Toole’s word against Miss Starling’s?” Stacy asked.

“Stacy, one of the hardest lessons we ALL have to learn is that our legal system isn’t perfect,” Ben replied. “Although it works most of the time, occasionally the guilty DO end up going free and the innocent are punished.”

“That’s not fair!” Stacy declared with an angry scowl.

“You’re right. On THOSE occasions, it’s NOT fair,” Ben said, “but, most of the time, it IS fair, and as responsible citizens, we have an obligation to abide by its laws and the rulings handed down within its courts.”

“Even if it meant that Miss Starling ended up keeping the music box Molly and Frankie got for Colleen and Matt?” Stacy pressed.

“Yes, Stacy . . . even then, as difficult and as unfair that may have been,” Ben replied. “If everyone decided to abide only by the laws and court decisions favorable to them, and to disregard the rest . . . there would be no equality . . . no justice . . . no protection . . . no freedom for anyone, especially the poor and the weak among us. You and I are going to have plenty of time to discuss this further because, in addition to extra chores and no allowance for a month, you’re also confined to the house and the yard for the next two weeks.”

“Yes, Pa,” Stacy murmured softly, resigned to paying the piper for her actions the night before. At the same time, she was deeply relieved and exceedingly grateful payment didn’t include the trip out to the barn with her father. “Does this mean I . . . that I can’t go to the wedding?”

“I’m willing to make an exception for the wedding,” Ben said firmly, “but nothing else . . . and that includes training Sun Dancer for the Founders’ Day Race. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Pa,” Stacy replied. “That’s understood.”

Satisfied with his daughter’s response, Ben next turned his attention to his youngest son. “Joe, you’re not a child anymore . . . you’re a grown man,” he began, “and BECAUSE you’re a grown man, I can’t take away your allowance or put you on restriction--- ”

“Maybe not, Pa . . . but you COULD withhold my wages, Pa,” Joe said quietly, “for . . . oh, I think a month would be fair . . . and there’s more than enough extra chores to go around between The Kid AND me over the next couple of weeks.”

“You don’t have to do this, Grandpa,” Stacy said.

“I’m afraid I do, Stace,” Joe said. “Like Pa just got through saying, I’m a grown man. That means I’ve gotta ACT like one . . . and part of acting like one means owning up to it when I do something wrong, and taking MY punishment, too.”

“ . . . and you . . . y-you get to s-set a good example for me in the bargain . . . Honorable and . . . and Venerable . . . Older Brother S-Sir,” Stacy said, her voice unsteady and her eyes shining with unusual brightness. Acting purely on impulse, she turned and threw her arms around Joe’s neck and gave him a great big bear hug.

“NOW you’ve . . . you’ve . . . y-you’ve r-really gone and d-done it, Kid,” Joe said, in a voice equally tremulous, as he wrapped his arms tight around his sister’s shoulders.

“Son, I want you to know that I’m very proud of you,” Ben said, with all sincerity, his own voice catching. He, then, turned to his daughter-in-law. “Teresa, Adam WAS pretty far out of it when HE came home last night. I seriously doubt he knows what time YOU actually got home, and I give you my word he won’t hear it from me.”

“Thank you, Ben, I appreciate that,” Teresa said sincerely, “because it’s MY place to tell Adam, and I intend to do just that after he’s recovered a bit from his hangover.”

“Teresa, are you sure---?!” Ben asked, looking over at her with a mixture of puzzlement and admiration.

“I’m sure, Ben,” Teresa said quietly, with a wan smile. “First of all, sooner or later, someone’s going to let slip about last night. It would be a lot better and a lot more honest if Adam heard it first from ME.” She paused briefly, then added, “ . . . and . . . I must confess . . . that I laid Adam out like a Persian rug the night HE ended up in jail after the bachelor party for my brother, Miguel. I’d feel like the worst hypocrite in the world if I didn’t at the very least give HIM the chance even the score.”

“You know, I think your sense of honor’s going to someday be the death of all THREE of you,” Ben said admiringly, his own eyes suddenly blinking to excess.

“Thank you, Ben,” Teresa said quietly, as she rose. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to go upstairs and look in on Adam.” She turned and cast an anxious glance over in the general direction of the stairs. “I sure hope he’s going to be well enough to stand up with his friend, Matt, this afternoon.”

“You don’t have to worry about a thing about that, Teresa,” Joe said with a confident smile. “Hop Sing’s hangover cure goes to work so fast, you’d almost swear it was some kinda powerful hocus-pocus instead of a bunch of dried out weeds thrown into boiling water. Of course, it doesn’t go down real easy . . . . ”

“It might be a good idea to get Hoss in here, so he’ll be handy in case Hop Sing needs him to hold Adam down long enough to get the hangover cure in him,” Ben said slowly.

“Stacy and I’ll go out to the barn and get him, Pa,” Joe said, as he rose from his place at the table, and stretched.

“Yeah,” Stacy agreed, as she, also, rose and quickly pushed her chair under the table. “I guess now’s as good a time as any for us to get started on doing those extra chores.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Joe agreed.

“Grandpa?” Stacy queried as she and Joe made their way across the short distance of yard lying between the front porch and the barn door.

“Yeah, Kiddo?”

“I sure hope that Molly and Frankie are gonna be alright,” Stacy said with an anxious frown.

“They oughtta be,” Joe said. “After we left Sheriff Coffee’s office sometime in the wee hours of the morning, we saw them right to their front door, safe and sound.”

“YOU know how Mrs. O’Hanlan is. If she EVER finds out about what happened last night, especially the part about Frankie being arrested and thrown into jail . . . . ” Stacy exhaled a long melancholy sigh. “She’s gonna have a cow and a litter of kittens, too. Poor Frankie and Molly will be in it clear up to their to their necks.”

“I, ummm . . . hate like all get out having to tell ya this, Kid, but I don’t think it’s going to be so much a question of IF she finds out, as it’s going to be of WHEN she finds out.”

“Wh-WHEN she finds out?” Stacy queried with a sinking heart.

“What happened at the Silver Dollar last night’s gonna be big news this morning, Kiddo, if it isn’t already,” Joe explained, “ . . . and you know how quickly things spread by word of mouth.”

“Poor Molly,” Stacy shook her head, “and Frankie . . . . ”

“Colleen, you run up to your ma’s night table an’ fetch t’ smellin’ salts,” Francis O’Hanlan ordered his eldest child. “Frankie, you’ll find a half full bottle o’ whiskey in t’ bottom left drawer of m’ desk in the den.”

“Is that t’ one y’ keep around for medicinal purposes, Pa?” Frankie asked.

“Aye, that’s the very one,” Francis replied.

Colleen and Frankie ran off to do their father’s bidding.

“Pa, a-about last night . . . . ” Molly ventured.

“Why don’t you g’won up to your room and wrap up that fine music box, Lass?” Francis replied. “Frankie’s arse’ll be the soup for sure when your ma comes to, but y’ needn’t concern yourself with his misfortunes.”

“Yes, I do, Pa,” Molly said, “because . . . .” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “ . . . . I was there, too, last night, and . . . I’M the one who made Frankie go.”

Francis glanced up at his youngest daughter sharply.

Molly quickly lowered her eyes to her hands, folded tightly in her lap to avoid her father’s sharp, penetrating gaze. “It’s true, Pa,” she said quickly. “I told Frankie I’d mop up the streets of Virginia City with him, if he didn’t help us out last night.”

“Did you now?” Francis queried, gazing over at Molly, surprised and bemused.

“Pa.” It was Colleen, still clad in robe and nightgown, returning with her mother’s smelling salts. She unscrewed the lid and held the dark brown vial to her father.

“Give your ma a good whiff, wouldja, Pumpkin? Two, if she needs it,” Francis instructed, as he rose from his seat on the footstool next to the sofa. “When your brother returns with the whiskey, make sure your ma gets a good healthy slug o’ that, too . . . AFTER she comes ‘round.”

“I will, Pa,” Colleen promised. “Where are you and Molly going?”

“To m’ study,” Francis said. “It seems Molly an’ I have a wee bit o’ talkin’ to do.”

Molly wordlessly followed her father out of the living room into the study, wondering if that cold, lead weight she felt in the pit of her stomach was the way a condemned man felt on that last walk to the gallows. “It could’ve been worse,” she mused in silence. “I might’ve had to confess all to MA, instead of Pa.”

Francis opened the door to his study, then stood aside, gesturing for Molly to enter. Molly swallowed, took a deep breath, and resolutely walked in with posture erect, chin up, and shoulders back.

“All right, Lass, perhaps y’ should start at the beginning,” Francis said, taking the chair next to his desk.

Molly took another deep breath, and told her father everything, beginning with her brother accidentally leaving the music box at the Silver Dollar, and finally ending with everyone, except herself being arrested and thrown into the Virginia City jail.

“So . . . how did Frankie get himself OUT of jail?” Francis asked.

“Mister Cartwright came and got everyone out,” Molly replied.

“ . . . and how much do I owe Mister Cartwright for bailin’ your brother outta the hoosegow?”

“Nothing, Pa,” Molly replied. “Fortunately, I had a bill of sale for the music box, so all the charges against Frankie, and everyone else were dropped.”

“That’s a mercy, anyway,” Francis said.

“Pa, Stacy, Joe, and Teresa were only trying to help Frankie and me,” Molly said earnestly. “Please don’t tell me I can’t be friends with Stacy anymore . . . please?”

Francis smiled. “I wouldn’t think of it, Lass,” he said.

“What about Ma?” Molly queried anxiously.

“I’ll handle your ma,” Francis promised. “The main thing is you and Frankie have your music box back, all charges have been dropped, and I assume the damages at the Silver Dollar have been paid for?”

“Yes, Sir,” Molly declared, with an emphatic nod of her head. She told her father about the reward money Stacy had earned when she sent the man cheating at cards crashing the bachelor party through the door.

Francis laughed. “That lass has Irish blood in her, make no mistake,” he said. “ONLY an Irishwoman could be so lucky.”

“Then Frankie and I aren’t in trouble?”

“Not with me,” Francis replied. “Your ma’ll be out to blister t’ hides off the pair of ya, no stoppin’ THAT, I’m afraid. But I can an’ do promise there’ll be no other punishment AND any member of the Cartwright family will always be welcome in my house.”

“Thanks, Pa,” Molly said. She impulsively slipped her arms around his neck and shoulders and gave him an affectionate squeeze. “I just hope Mister Cartwright will see things as you do, and will go easy on Stacy, Joe, and Teresa.”

“I’m sure he will, Lass,” Francis said, patting her hand reassuringly.

“He WAS awfully mad last night . . . . ”

“As I would have been, ‘til I’d had a chance t’ think things through,” Francis replied. “I think I can safely say this about Mister Cartwright. His sons and daughter respect him, an’ that’s as it should be, but they’re not afraid of him.”

Molly remembered how Stacy and Joe both confessed their own roles in last night’s happenings, but steadfastly refused to in anyway cast blame on anyone else, without any fear whatsoever even in the face of Ben Cartwright’s baleful glare and intense questioning. “I think you’re right, Pa,” she said slowly, thoughtfully.

“Of course I am,” Francis said, smiling. “NOW, why don’t you g’won upstairs and wrap that fine music box you an’ Frankie got for Colleen?”

“I will, Pa,” Molly said. She hugged him again, before leaving the study to run upstairs.

“All’s well that end’s well,” Francis sighed, rising from his chair. There would, of course be a few tense moments with his wife, but the worst of things now lay behind them. All that remained was to see his eldest daughter finally married to the man, to whom she had been engaged off and on for the past nine years, and enjoy himself at the reception to follow, with no more mischief, surprises, silliness, or shenanigans.

Francis O’Hanlan couldn’t have been more wrong.

Ben Cartwright drew the family buggy, occupied by himself, Stacy, and Teresa alongside the church. His three sons, Candy, and Hop Sing had accompanied on horseback. Despite their having arrived a full half hour before the scheduled start of the wedding, the church was already surrounded by a horde of people, standing upwards of ten to fifteen deep in places, all jostling about for the best spot to watch the arrival of the bride and her family.

“Good heavens! What a mob!” Stacy said, her eyes round with astonishment.

“Well, whaddya expect, Li’l Sister?” Hoss said with a grin. “It IS The Weddin’ of the Century, after all.”

“We’re, uuhh . . . starting to hold up traffic,” Adam observed, noting the single buckboard and two buggies stopped behind them.

“Looks like we’re going to have to leave our buggy and horses over at the livery stable,” Ben observed, noting that nearly every square inch of space in front of the church was already occupied by horses, saddled and hitched to buggies. “Hoss, why don’t you take Adam’s horse. He needs to get in there, seeing as how he’s best man.”

“Sure thing, Pa,” Hoss replied.

“Stacy and Teresa, I’ll let you out here, too. That way the two of you can g’won in and reserve our seats.”

Adam quickly dismounted, then passed the reins of Sport II over to the waiting hands of his brother, Hoss.

“Mister Cartwright, why don’t you and Hop Sing g’won and get out here, too with the la--- ” Candy flinched away from the dark glare Stacy leveled in his direction, “I MEAN the, uhh WOMEN!”

Stacy triumphantly nodded her approval.

“ . . . if Joe can take Thor, I can hitch Hop Sing’s horse to the back of the buggy and take them to the livery, too.”

Ben nodded in agreement.

Candy immediately dismounted and after passing Thor’s lead over to Joe, he took hold of the bridle, worn by the horse hitched to the buggy. Adam, meanwhile, gallantly helped his wife out, then watched as his father and Hop Sing climbed down.

“Be careful,” Ben exhorted his daughter, as he reached up to give her a hand in climbing down.

Stacy reached out and took hold of Ben’s extended hand. “Thanks, Pa,” she murmured gratefully. “I had no idea long skirts were potentially lethal.”

“Only when you’re not used to them, Stacy,” Teresa said with a smile.

“Sshhh! I don’t want Pa getting any ideas!”

“You boys hurry on back,” Ben said, addressing his two younger sons and Candy. “We’ll save you seats.”

“We’ll be back as soon as we can, Pa,” Joe promised.

“I swear . . . the size of that crowd around the church has grown in the few minutes we spent getting ourselves sorted out,” Adam noted.

“Mister Cartwright you want path clear to door?” Hop Sing offered. Though his tone was casual, there was a wild gleam in his dark eyes.

“No, thank you, Hop Sing. I think we can manage,” Ben said soberly.

Ben, Stacy, Adam, Teresa, and Hop Sing instinctively closed ranks as they approached the edge of the crowd thronging the door. Though the uninvited masses jockeyed and jostled each other for position, they politely parted as the Cartwrights approached, clearing a path to the open church door. All five gratefully nodded their thanks in passing.

Just inside the front door of the church, Blake Wilson, father of the groom, stood greeting the guests as they arrived. “Ben, glad you and your family could make it,” he greeted his old friend with a tired smile.

“We almost didn’t,” Ben quipped, as he and Blake shook hands. “That’s quite a mob outside.”

“ . . . and it’s growing by leaps and bounds every minute,” Blake sighed. “Erma’s fit to be tied! She wanted a solemn, dignified ceremony . . . as befits the weighty significance of the occasion.” The last sentence was uttered in a biting comic parody of Erma Blake’s way of speaking, when caught in the throes of righteous indignation.

Ben, Adam, and Stacy, who knew Erma Wilson well, laughed uproariously.

“The wedding won’t be very dignified without the best man in place,” Adam said as the laughter died down. “Mister Wilson, where can I find Matt?”

“He’s back in the sacristy,” Blake replied with a smile.

“Thank you. Now if you would all be so kind as to excuse me . . . . ”

“Adam?”

“Yes, Mister Wilson?”

“I’d be grateful if you’d . . . well, if you could get Matt to relax a little? You’d think the boy was about to go to his own execution t’ look at him. I haven’t seen him THIS tense since the day Erma told him she had signed him up for dance lessons when he was eleven years old.”

“I’ll do what I can,” Adam promised, before parting company.

“Mister Wilson, seeing as how this is The Wedding of the Century, some UNdignified hoopla’s to be expected, ” Teresa said, after Adam had left.

“True, Mrs. Cartwright, very true,” Blake agreed readily. He paused, just long enough to cast a furtive glance over his shoulder. “Just don’t utter that particular turn of phrase within my wife’s hearing. She becomes more explosively unstable than a barrel of nitroglycerin on a bumpy road full of potholes.”

“I’ll be sure to watch myself,” Teresa promised with a smile.

“Well, we’d better get you seated, while there’s still enough places for all of you to sit together,” Blake said. “We’re dwindling down to standing room only fast ‘n furious.”

“We need to save seats for Hoss, Joe, and Candy,” Ben said. “They’ve taken our horses on down to the livery.”

Blake nodded, then turned toward the open doorway between the narthex and the sanctuary, and beckoned to one of the ushers.

“Yes, Sir?” It was Dillon Grainger, one of Erma Wilson’s nephews. He was a tall, gangly young man, with an unruly carrot colored mop, and cheeks generously dotted with a veritable galaxy of fine reddish orange freckles.

“Would you please seat the Cartwrights?” Blake asked.

“Sure thing, Uncle Blake,” Dillon nodded. The boy turned expectantly toward Ben. “Bride’s side or groom’s side, Mister Cartwright?”

“Either side is fine, just so long as we can all sit together,” Ben replied.

Dillon gallantly offered his arm to Teresa. Ben and Stacy fell in step behind them, with Hop Sing bringing up the rear. Teresa stepped into the space between pews, and edged her way toward the far end, already occupied by Gretta and Giselle Wren. Stacy followed next, then Ben, and finally, Hop Sing. Hoss, Joe and Candy arrived a few minutes later. Joe took the seat beside his father, with Hoss on his other side. Hop Sing sat down beside Hoss, leaving Candy the end seat.

Ben, sandwiched between Joe and Stacy, inwardly flinched against the intense gaze of Myra Danvers, seated three rows directly behind them, next to her daughter Pruella. Macon Fitzhugh, his eyes glazed and bloodshot, his walk unsteady, nonetheless assisted two of the young ushers in the task of setting up additional chairs in the aisle alongside the pews.

“Pa, things are startin’ t’ get a mite too cozy f’r me,” Hoss remarked sotto voce, as the line of ten people, filling a pew meant to comfortably seat nine, squeezed together to make room for two more.

Apollo Nikolas and the Hurley family were seated three rows up from the back, on the groom’s side of the church. Harlan spotted Pruella, the grand and glorious love of his life almost immediately, seated on the other side of the room next to her mother. She wore a brilliant, daffodil yellow dress, with matching short waist jacket. The neckline of the dress and sleeves of the jacket were trimmed with white lace and faux pearls. Her hat, the same yellow as dress and jacket, was trimmed with a white ribbon, and dried flowers, hued in complimentary shades of white, yellow, and pink. She wore a pair of white cotton gloves, also trimmed with lace. Harlan gazed over at her appreciatively, noting how closely the dress molded her delightfully curvaceous figure. He established eye contact and smiled. She favored him with a look of pure disdain, then looked away with a subtle toss of her head.

The ushers were still laboring valiantly to squeeze arriving guests into what little seating space remained, when Clara Mudgely, the church organist arrived, clad in a gown of flowing pink organdy, and primly seated herself before the organ fifteen minutes before the wedding ceremony was scheduled to begin.

Outside, someone shouted, followed by another, then half a dozen. A brief time of silence ensued before the crowd outside began to cheer and whistle raucously.

Adam turned and looked outside though the open window in the church sacristy, where he and the groom waited for the start of the wedding. There, he saw the O’Hanlan Family making their way toward the open door of the church. Colleen, dressed in her mother’s long, flowing wedding gown, with gauzy veil covering her face, led the way clutching a large bouquet of white roses in one hand, and holding tight to her father’s arm with the other. Molly, the maid-of-honor, dutifully walked along behind her father and sister. Myrna O’Hanlan, weeping copious tears, and hanging on to her son, Frankie, to dear life, followed.

“Matt, the bride and her family’s just arrived,” Adam said, as he labored to tie the groom’s bow tie.

Matt exhaled a long, melancholy sigh.

“Matt, would you PLEASE hold still? And smile, for heaven’s sake! I’ve seen happier faces at funerals.”

“Adam . . . . ” Matt glanced over his shoulder, double-checking to make sure he and his best man were alone. “Adam, I . . . I’m not sure I, uhhh . . . really wanna go through with this.”

“Don’t you think it’s a little late now for second thoughts?”

“Yeah, I s’pose . . . . ”Matt sighed, “but . . . oh, I don’t know, I . . . I guess I kind of thought . . . well, with all the off and on, on and off again? I dunno, Adam. Maybe what I’m trying to say is . . . I didn’t honestly think things’d really . . . come this far?!”

“Matt, I think you’re more than likely suffering from severe case of the last minute jitters,” Adam said. “Two minutes before Teresa walked down the aisle, I starting shaking in my boots, LITERALLY, and I broke out in a cold sweat. It was all I could do to keep myself from running . . . it didn’t matter much where . . . just so long as it lay in the opposite direction of where I was.”

“ . . . a-and you still went through with it?”

“Yes, I went through with it. And I’ll tell you something else, too, Matt! I’ve never, EVER had cause to regret it.”

Matt sighed. “I wish I could be as sure as you are.”

“Once you get yourself out there, and you see Colleen coming down the aisle in her wedding dress, all the nervousness, and the second thoughts will vanish in an instant,” Adam promised, speaking with the quiet confident authority of one who knew. “You’ll feel a little silly for having had them in the first place, but very glad you didn’t act on them and bail out.”

Matt sighed again, unable to help but wonder IF what Adam had just said was true, then why, oh why, did he keep wishing with all his heart that the woman who would walk down the aisle in her wedding dress in a few moments was going to be Clarissa Starling?

Reverend Daniel Hildebrandt, resplendent in his clerical garb, entered the tiny room where Adam and Matt waited for the wedding to begin. “The bride’s family have arrived,” he announced blithely, “and they’re ready to begin.”

Matt could feel the blood draining from his face. His knees buckled.

Adam barely managed to grab him before he collapsed. “Steady, Matt,” he grunted, as he worked to steady the groom on his feet. “Another fifteen minutes or so, it’ll be all over.”

Out in the sanctuary, Dillon escorted the parents of the groom down the aisle, trying his best to project a solemn demeanor to please his aunt while desperately trying to maneuver around and past the people seated in the aisles.

“Dillon, for heaven’s sake STOP looking down at your feet,” Erma Wilson hissed, favoring her young nephew with a dark glare. “Straighten up. Look straight ahead in front of you.”

“But . . . . ”

“Do as I tell you,” she snapped.

Dillon pulled himself up to full height and stared resolutely up towards the altar at the front of the church. Three steps later, he tripped over a purse belonging to one Maybelle Higgs, seated primly in one of the chairs set up in the aisle. Dillon pitched forward, head first, with a strangled cry. He landed, sprawled across the aisle directly in front of his aunt. A smattering of muffled titters could be heard through out the congregation.

“Oh for heaven’s sake,” Erma muttered, her face red and ample bosom heaving against the rigid confines of her bodice. She stepped over her young nephew’s form, still lying in the aisle and made her way to her seat.

Blake Wilson, trying very hard not to smile himself, quickly pulled the boy to his feet and walked him to the pew, where Erma was already seated. She turned and glared daggers at her hapless young nephew as he sat down on the other side of her husband.

Frankie O’Hanlan followed next, escorting his mother to her place. Every eye in the room was on him, some fearing and others hoping that the O’Hanlan boy, well known for his clumsiness, was going to trip over something as Dillon had. Though Frankie visibly flinched against the intense scrutiny, and slouched more and more with each step, he successfully completed the walk down the aisle without taking a tumble. Erma Wilson, noting Frankie’s ever worsening posture sighed and buried her face in her hands. Myrna O’Hanlan, with tears streaming down her face, meekly followed as Frankie led. He made sure his mother sat down, before taking his place beside her, leaving the aisle seat for his father.

After the O’Hanlan mother and son were seated, Clara Mudgely began the strains of the wedding march. Reverend Hildebrandt stepped into the sanctuary, followed by Matt and Adam. Molly O’Hanlan walked down the aisle first, chin up, back straight, head held high, displaying all the attitude Stacy Cartwright had ever taught her over the years, and then some.

“Ok, Molly, way to go,” Stacy murmured sotto voce, as Molly walked by.

Colleen O’Hanlan, escorted by her father, followed her sister down the aisle. Francis O’Hanlan’s eyes shone with the glitter and sparkle of unshed tears. He nursed the fading remnants of a headache, due in small part to the liquid refreshments consumed at last night’s bachelor party and in very large part to his wife’s reaction upon learning that her younger children were partners in crime with the Cartwrights in the doings at the Silver Dollar.

“Dearly Beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation to join together this Man and this Woman in Holy Matrimony,” Reverend Daniel Hildebrandt, intoned the words of the marriage ceremony, “which is an honorable estate, instituted by God, signifying the mystical union between Christ and His Church, which holy estate Christ adorned and beatified with His presence and the first miracle He wrought in Cana of Galilee, and is commended of Saint Paul to be honorable among all men: and therefore is not by any to be entered into unadvisedly, lightly, or wantonly; but reverently, discreetly, advisedly, soberly, and in the fear of God.”

He paused dramatically.

“Therefore,” Daniel continued, his voice booming out over the congregation, “if any man can show just cause, why this man and this woman may not lawfully be joined together, let him speak now, or forever hold his peace.”

“No!” A strangled sob came from the back of the room. Clarissa Starling rose, with tears streaming down her face. “I tried to keep silent,” she sobbed melodramatically, “but my conscience just won’t allow it.”

A shocked murmur rose from the large assembly, as all eyes, all faces turned toward the back of the room. Clarissa let out a loud wail of distress and buried her face in the lace handkerchief in her hand. Sally and Sam were both at her side at once.

“Young Lady,” Daniel said in a scathing tone, “WHAT is the meaning of this?”

“Y-you asked if anyone c-c-could show just cause as . . . as to why this m-man and th-this woman sh-should not be m-m-married,” Clarissa sobbed. “Well . . . I CAN!”

The murmuring rose steadily in volume, as people looked at one another in complete and utter bewilderment.

Ben rolled his eyes heavenward. “Joseph . . . Stacy . . . and YOU, Teresa . . . please tell me you don’t know what this is all about,” he murmured under his breath gazing from one to the other.

“Sure thing, Pa, because I have no idea in the world what this is all about,” Joe said, shrugging his shoulders helplessly.

“I think I can safely say I know as much about this as YOU do, Pa,” Stacy affirmed.

“Me, too, Ben,” Teresa said.

Ben exhaled a sigh of relief. The looks of shock and astonishment on their faces mirrored what he, himself, felt inside, and confirmed for him that the three of them were telling the truth.

At the front of the room, Reverend Hildebrandt raised his hands, calling for quiet. The murmuring gradually faded to silence.

“Alright, Young Lady, suppose you explain yourself,” the reverend said, leveling a disdainful glare in Clarissa’s direction.

Clarissa pulled herself up to full height, with posture erect, shoulders back, and chin up. “The reason this wedding should not t-take place is . . . . ” she paused for the maximum melodramatic effect, “I’m in the family way, and . . . and HE took me there!” She thrust her arm forward, her first finger unmistakably pointing toward the groom.

The bride seized her veil and flung it away from her face with a theatrical flourish. “MATTHEW WILSON, YOU . . . YOU . . . YOU NO GOOD, WORTHLESS PIECE OF GOBSHITE!” she howled at the top of her voice, with all the dramatic flair of a well-trained Shakespearian actress. “HOW COULD YOU?!”

“C-Colleen, I-I . . . she . . . I have n-no idea . . . . ” Matt stammered, his eyes round with shock and horror. “I . . . she . . . we, uuhh . . . . ”

“Sure! That’s what they ALL say!” Colleen balled her fist and belted him with a hard, solid right cross, knocking the hapless groom off his feet. He fell into the steadying arms of his best man. The bride glared at the groom for what seemed a tense eternity, then with an emphatic, disdainful toss of her head, she turned heel and fled up the aisle, leaving her father, and Molly, her maid of honor, staring after her in shocked horror.

“Magnificent!” Joe Cartwright murmured, gazing at Colleen O’Hanlan’s retreating form with a look of awe and great respect. “I wouldn’t mind marrying her myself.” He nearly jumped out of his skin when a large, muscular hand clamped down on his shoulder. He turned and found himself staring into the stern face of his big brother.

“Don’t you even THINK about it, Li’l Brother,” Hoss warned.

“Excuse me, Jack . . . Athena,” Apollo murmured, as he carefully squeezed past his brother-in-law and sister. He was in the aisle, running after Colleen before either of the Hurleys could move, let alone think to question or stop him.

Hoss stood in his place, tightly sandwiched in between Joe and Hop Sing, watching his old friend making his way back up the aisle after the swiftly retreating bride. “I sure hope Apollo knows what he’s lettin’ himself in for,” he murmured very softly under his breath,

“What was that, Hoss?” Candy standing on the other side of Hop Sing looked over at his with a bewildered frown.

“Nothin’, Candy,” Hoss said too quickly. “Absolutely nothin’ at all!” He was greatly relieved when Candy simply shrugged his shoulders, and returned his attention to the front of the church.

“Adam, I . . . I . . . she and I . . . Cuh-Cuh-Cluh . . . C-Clarissa . . . we . . . . ” Matt desperately tried to appeal to his best man. “Adam, you’ve gotta BELIEVE me!”

“Matthew Wilson, so help me, as God is my witness, I’m gonna break every stinkin’ bone in your body,” Francis O’Hanlan, his face beet red with rage, moved toward the hapless groom.

“Buh-buh-buh-b-but I . . . . ”

“Easy, Matt, you’re starting to sound like a brooding hen,” Adam whispered, while laboring to support Matt, whose knees had suddenly turned to jelly.

Myrna O’Hanlan, standing before the front pew on the right side of the church sanctuary, moaned in anguish, then fainted, collapsing into the arms of her shocked son, Frankie, who stood next to her at the front pew. Matt Wilson fainted an instant later. Adam’s quick action prevented the groom from taking a bad fall to the floor.

“This is outrageous! Absolutely outrageous!” Erma Wilson, the mother of the groom, declared in a loud booming voice, her ample bosom heaving with righteous indignation. “That girl is lying! She has to be! MY Matt would NEVER . . . . ”

“Oh yes your Matt WOULD, y’ silly ol’ toad!” Sally Tyler yelled back in stolid defense of Clarissa. She moved toward the aisle, with every intention of marching right up to that snooty Erma Wilson and smacking that smug look off her face. Sam and Lotus O’Toole quickly moved to restrain her.

The murmuring escalated in volume directly proportional to the number of arguments breaking out among the congregation as people began to choose sides. Reverend Hildebrandt desperately tried to call for order. Sheriff Coffee, his face set with grim determination, pushed his way into the aisle, past a shoving match that had developed between Laurie Lee Bonner and Grace Hansen. He walked up the aisle, neatly side stepping Myra Danvers and Miss Brunhilda Odinsdottir, owner of Valhalla, a small but thriving and lucrative ranch south of Virginia City. The Widow Danvers and Miss Odinsdottir were involved in a heated verbal exchange well on its way toward degenerating into a brawl.

“Sheriff Coffee, DO something!” Daniel Hildebrandt ordered imperiously, as Roy mounted the three steps up to the church altar.

“Well, seein’ as how you’re askin’ so nicely . . . . ” Roy said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He pursed his lips together and let out a loud, agonizingly shrill whistle, clearly heard above the escalating verbal din. All name-calling, innuendo, and arguments abruptly ceased. Everyone turned and gazed up at the reverend and sheriff expectantly. “They’re all yours, Reverend,” Roy said with a smile.

“I want to see the bride, the groom, their parents, and . . . . ” Daniel Hildebrandt glanced over at the angry contingent from the Silver Dollar Saloon, grimacing with obvious distaste, “ . . . and other interested parties in my office right now!” He turned to Roy Coffee with a scowl. “You’d better come along, too, Sheriff. Just in case things get ugly.”

“Reverend, that’s past tense,” Adam remarked with a wry smile, “as in things GOT ugly the minute Miss Starling made her announcement.”

Daniel shot Adam a murderous glare. “Bring him,” he ordered curtly, then strode off down the aisle, his robe, cassack and stole flapping vigorously in his wake.

Adam made eye contact with Hoss, and waved him over to help him carry the still unconscious groom. The former lifted Matt’s feet, while the latter took him by the shoulders.

“I’m going to get to the bottom of this outrage, so help me!” Erma Wilson vehemently declared, her jaw taut with bullheaded determination. She strode down the aisle, following at the retreating reverend’s heels, her own face a mask of wrathful indignation and outrage. Adam and Hoss fell in step behind her, carrying Matt Wilson’s inert form between them.

Clarissa Starling, with handkerchief clutched in one hand and head held high, followed Adam and Hoss, with Sam, the bar tender, and Sally Tyler flanking her on either side. The angry scowls on their faces gave strong indication the pair of them were out for blood, specifically Matt Wilson’s.

Roy Coffee paused beside the pew occupied by Ben, Joe, Stacy, Teresa, Candy, and Hop Sing. “Ben, would you mind coming along?” he invited in a low voice. “I could sure use your help if things suddenly go to pot in a hand basket in the good reverend’s office.”

“Of course, Roy,” Ben immediately agreed. He fell in step beside the sheriff. Joe and Stacy quickly exchanged glances and nodded. Both of them slipped out of the pew and walked out behind their father before anyone could even think of stopping them.

“Frankie, you go find Colleen and tell her to meet us in the reverend’s office,” Francis O’Hanlan instructed his son curtly.

“Yes, Sir,” Frankie nodded and set off.

“Molly, you wait here.”

“Yes, Pa,” she nodded.

Francis O’Hanlan half-dragged, half-carried his semi-conscious wife up the aisle, bringing at the rear of the procession heading for a show down in the reverend’s office.

Ben paused for a moment at the door leading to Reverend Hildebrandt’s office. “Joseph . . . Stacy, I want the two of you to stay right here,” he abruptly turned and ordered his two younger children.

“But, Pa . . .. ” Stacy started to protest.

Ben favored them both with a glare that held all the promise of a trip to the woodshed, should either so much as sneeze.

“Yes, Sir,” Stacy and Joe immediately chorused in unison.

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