The Wedding, part 6 (Conclusion)

The Wedding
Part 6
By Kathleen T. Berney

After everyone drank a toast to Colleen and Apollo Nikolas, Adam stepped forward, cued by a nod from Francis O’Hanlan.

“My big brother here’s going to be a hard act to follow, but I’ll do my best,” Adam said in all sincerity. He raised his glass. “Matt and Clarissa, I, and I’m pretty sure everyone gathered around the cake right now, wish you both a long life together full of good health, luck, and prosperity. I also add a paraphrase from Mister Charles Dickens . . . ‘may you both be happy in the life you have chosen.’ ” Smiling, he touched his glass to Matt’s and Clarissa’s, then to Sally Tyler’s.

“ . . . and now, Folks, ‘tis time t’ cut the cake!” Francis announced.

The two couples moved up to the cake, and taking the knife in hand, made the first slice.

“SURPRISE!” Three scantily clad young women gleefully shouted as they leapt out from within, sending large chunks of cake and icing flying in all directions.

“ . . . uuuuhhh Lordy!” Hoss groaned, as a large glob of cake, generously heaped with icing flew past his face and smacked Myrna O’Hanlan upside the head. He searched for his father amid the sea of faces, all displaying the entire spectrum of human emotion, as they watched the three women emerge from the cake. Hoss found him, standing at the back edge of the crowd, almost directly facing him. Ben’s pale face, eyes round with a kind of fatalistic resignation, almost certainly had to be a mirror image of his own.

Meanwhile, the tallest of the three women stepped forward. She had red hair the color of a sunset at its most brilliant, luminous green eyes, and a dazzling, brilliant smile. She wore a strapless green sequined corset and matching panties that enhanced the color of her eyes. Both corset and panties were made of silk and trimmed with black lace. Her shoes, high heel laced in the front with a bow, had been dyed to match the color of the silk used to make her corset and panties. For contrast, she wore dark green stockings. “Now who’s the lucky bachelor--- ”

Her brilliant, dazzling smile quickly evaporated upon catching sight of the wedding guests present. The vast majority stood unmoving, as if suddenly deep-frozen stiff. She slowly turned her head, and glancing over her shoulder, caught sight of Colleen Nikolas in her wedding gown, staring back with a bemused expression on her face.

“Hey! What IS this?! I thought this was s’posed to be a BACHELOR party!?” one of the other girls exclaimed. She had chestnut brown curls, and a scarlet face that clashed with her pink sequined corset, trimmed in black, and matching pink silk panties.

“Looks like we’ve, ummm . . . arrived a little late for the, uhh . . . b-bachelor party?” the tall red head observed with a tremulous smile that never came close to reaching her eyes.

“Hot diggity---! Now THAT’S what I call a wedding cake!” Joe declared, grinning from ear to ear, completely oblivious to his father’s ever increasing discomfort. “I’m gonna mosey on over there and get a closer look. Pa . . . Stacy . . . you wanna come along?”

“No thanks, Grandpa,” Stacy declined. “The sight of three woman in their underwear doesn’t do a whole lot for me, I’m afraid . . . . ”

Ben merely sighed and gazed longingly up toward the heavens, praying fervently that the earth to open up and provide a nice, deep hole into which he could crawl.

A low guttural growl rose from the depths of Myrna O’Hanlan’s throat as she attempted to scrape the enormous, sticky wad of cake and icing from the left side of her face and head. Two large globs oozed through her fingers and plopped down onto her bodice, drawing forth a strange hybrid cross between a woebegone moan and an angry high-pitched scream.

The strangled, bestial cries issuing from his mother’s throat and mouth turned Frankie’s blood to ice. “M-Ma?” he stammered, looking on helplessly.

After long moments of grunting, growling, snarling, and the utterance of a string of obscenities, whose exact pronunciations were thankfully lost under the influence of Florence Hansen’s pink punch, Myrna O’Hanlan finally managed to scrape most of the gooey mass onto the floor. Several enormous roughly circular shaped grease stains, caused by the liberal amounts of lard folded into the icing, appeared on her bodice and skirt. Cake and icing remained in her dark hair, and her left cheek and fingers were sticky. “Uuuggh! Whosh reshponsible for dish . . . for dish ow’rage?” she sputtered angrily.

“I think it came from over there.” Frankie pointed in the direction of the three girls who had come out of the cake. The trio stood huddled together, talking, casting the occasional furtive glance at the assembled guests, and shrugging.

Myrna stood for a long moment, her body wavering as she struggled to maintain balance, staring with rude intensity at the three girls standing next to the cake. “Who’re they?” she demanded in a loud voice. “ ‘N what’re they doin’ runnin’ ‘roun’ in dere unnerwear?!”

“I-I dunno, Ma,” Frankie said. He gingerly took his mother by the arm, and tried to pull her in the direction of the nearest empty chair. “Why don’t you come on over here ‘n sit down . . . . ”

“NO!” Myrna whipped her arm from her son’s grasp. The sudden move sent her reeling backward. She waggled her arms vigorously in a desperate attempt to remain on her feet, shrieking like a banshee all the while. Her valiant efforts, however, were all in vain. She stepped backwards into a mound of icing. Before she could even begin to realize what was happening, both feet slipped out from under her. She toppled to the floor and landed with a loud, sickening thud on her rump. “Fraaaang-gie, help yer poor ol’ mama up!” she groaned, extending her hand.

There was a sprinkling of soft titters from among the crowd gathered, and a loud, horrified gasp from Clara Mudgely.

Frankie, his cheeks flushed crimson, obediently knelt down beside his mother, carefully avoiding eye contact with the people standing next to them. With his help, Myrna rose ungracefully to her feet. Her body wavered again, then stabilized.

“Oohhh, laugh at ME will dey? We’ll sshhh . . . we’ll. SSSS-SEE. who getsh da las’ laugh!” Myrna muttered under her breath. She leaned over, her entire body weaving precariously, and scraped a sticky handful of confection from the floor.

An apprehensive, bewildered frown creased Frankie’s brow. “Ma? W-what’re ya doing?”

Myrna circled her arm around, half a dozen times very fast, then released the sticky glop in her hand. It missed its intended target, the tall redhead who had come out of the cake, by the proverbial wide mile, and hit Francis O’Hanlan full in the face.

“Wow! Adam . . . Hoss . . . didja see THAT?!” Joe guffawed. “POW!” He smacked his right palm with his left fist. “Right in the ol’ kisser! . . . and here I thought Mrs. O’Hanlan couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn from three feet away.”

“Mrs. O’Hanlan wasn’t aiming for her husband, Little Brother,” Adam observed with a wry smile. “I’m fairly certain she was aiming for THAT young lady . . . over there.” He inclined his head in the general direction of the red haired woman, clad in the green corset and panties.

“Oh yeah? How do you figure, Adam?” Joe asked.

“Well, taking into account Mrs. O’Hanlan’s position--- ”

“Ugh!” Francis O’Hanlan snorted, as he scraped cake and icing from his face with his bare hands. “WHAT F**KING EEJIT’S RESPONSIBLE FOR THIS OUTRAGE?!” he angrily demanded, shaking the sticky excess onto the floor.

“ . . . uuhhh, LORDY!” Hoss moaned softly. He slowly turned his back on the O’Hanlans, the cake, and the three lovely young women who had jumped out of the cake . . . and buried his face hands. His acute distress immediately drew the attention of his brothers.

“Hoss?” Adam queried, as he and Joe flanked their biggest brother on either side. “Hoss . . . are you alright?”

Hoss responded with an agonized groan.

“Heatstroke!” Joe said. “Adam, it’s gotta be heatstroke.”

“I think you’re right,” Adam agreed, as his golden brown eyes took in the beads of sweat dotting Hoss’ brow, and the bright red complexion visible beyond the space of his hands. “It IS awfully warm down here . . . . ”

“ . . . and I thought I overheard someone say that’s what’s wrong with Mrs. O’Hanlan,” Joe added.

Colleen, meanwhile, gazed from one parent to the other through eyes round with astonishment. “Pa?” she ventured hesitantly, as her father tried to wipe the cake and icing from his hair. “Pa . . . y-you’re not going to believe this . . . . ”

“Try me, Pumpkin.”

“It was MA!”

“ . . . uhhh . . . what, exactly was your ma?” Francis asked, as he turned and favored his eldest daughter with a bewildered frown.

“Ma was the one who threw . . . that,” Colleen replied, pointing to the sticky goop lying on the floor at her father’s feet.

“WHAT?!”

“God’s honest truth!” Colleen said earnestly. “I wouldn’t have believed it either, if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.”

A slow, devilish smile spread across Francis O’Hanlan’s lips.

“ . . . uhhhh . . . Pa?!” Colleen queried, faintly alarmed.

“So your ma wants t’ get frisky, eh? Ohhh-kaaa-aaayyy . . . I’LL give her frisky . . . . ” With that, Francis turned and grabbed a generous hunk of cake that had landed on the punch and cookie table when the three girls jumped out.

Myrna O’Hanlan suddenly found herself staring straight into her husband’s face, with that determined smile and impish bedevilment gleaming in his eyes with the same intensity of a roaring fire. “Franssshhh . . . uuhh, Fran-Sis . . . what’re ya doin’?”

“Givin’ a whole new meanin’ to the idea o’ sweet revenge, M’ Dear!”

“Hey, Molly . . . . ” Joe sidled up to the youngest of the O’Hanlan offspring, with full punch cup in hand. She stood at near the front of the crowd gathered, behind her mother and brother, Frankie. “What’s going on with your ma and pa?”

“I haven’t the foggiest idea!” Molly said with a shrug.

Frankie turned at the sound of his sister’s and Joe Cartwright’s voices. “I think Ma’s drunk!” he said, taking great pains to keep his voice low.

“I am not DRUNK!” Myrna declared with an indignant stamp of her foot. She turned her full attention back to her husband just in time to see him pull back to throw the glob of cake, and mostly icing. She let out an ear-piercing scream, and dove for the floor in the exact same instant the wad of cake left Francis’ hand. The gooey missile ended up striking Joe Cartwright square in the face.

Molly gasped, and involuntarily took a step backward.

Three long strides brought Adam to his youngest brother’s side in seconds. “Joe?” he queried anxiously.

Joe, in response, blew away the portion of cake covering his mouth.

“Joe, are you alright?”

“Fine, Adam . . . hey! Not bad,” Joe declared with a grin, after sampling a clump of icing that had oozed from his face down onto his shirt. “You know what this MEANS, don’t you?”

“As a matter of fact, no! I don’t!” Adam replied, warily noting the impish twinkle that had suddenly appeared in his youngest brother’s eyes. “I may hate myself for asking, but . . . what DOES this mean?”

“CAKE FIGHT!” Joe shouted with gleeful abandon. He bent down and scooped up a handful of cake and icing from the floor, and, as he straightened, began to pack it as he might a snowball.

Adam clamped a restraining hand on Joe’s left arm. “ . . . and just what do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m defending my honor!”

“Put it down, Little Brother,” Adam ordered sternly.

“WHAT?!”

“I SAID . . . put it down.” Adam seized Joe’s wrist and shook the gooey mass from his hand.

“Hey! What did you do THAT for?”

“Your own protection.”

“My PROTECTION?!” Joe echoed, looking over at his eldest brother with a look of complete and utter disbelief.

“You get involved in ANOTHER fracas so soon after what happened last night, Pa’s gonna nail your hide to the barn wall for sure,” Adam said.

Joe looked over at his oldest brother in surprise. “How’d YOU know about THAT?”

“I’ve overheard snatches of gossip here and there,” Adam said glaring at his brother suspiciously. “I’ve not been able to get the WHOLE story because people clam up the minute they see me, but I’ve sure heard enough to at least figure out there was some kind of uproar last night, and that YOU and our young sister were in it clear up to your armpits.”

“If you’re about to threaten me with making mention of what you’ve overheard to Pa, Oldest Brother, you might as well save your breath,” Joe said with a smug grin. “Pa knows all about last night.”

“Everything?” Adam demanded, his eyes narrowing with suspicion.

“Everything,” Joe affirmed.

Another errant piece of cake flew across the room from a battle that had escalated to include both grooms, and two of the girls who had jumped out of the cake, in addition to Francis and Myrna O’Hanlan. This one struck Adam upside his head, with force sufficient to knock him right off his feet. He hit the floor with a dull, sickening thud, and remained, lying flat on his back with arms and legs splayed in all directions.

“A-Adam?!” Joe queried anxiously. He knelt down alongside his oldest brother, then learned over and peered into his face. “Adam . . . y-you alright?”

“I’m. Fine.” Adam replied through clenched teeth.

With a look of withering disdain, he deftly, and with a flourish, removed his handkerchief from his coat pocket and shook it out. He, then, mopped the mess of cake and icing from his face and hair, as best he could.

“This can only mean one thing,” Adam said.

“Oh yeah?” Joe queried, not quite knowing what to expect. “What?”

“CAKE FIGHT!” Adam shouted as he barreled headlong toward the melee.

“RIGHT BEHIND YA, OLDEST BROTHER OF MINE!” Joe cried with glee, as he followed close to Adam’s heels.

“Mick, whaddya doin’?!”

Mick O’Flynn glanced up sharply from his place on the short stool next to Matilda, and found Macon Fitzhugh standing beside him, glaring balefully down from lofty heights. “I can’t talk t’ ya NOW, Macon,” he said crossly. “I’ve got Matilda hard at work cookin’ up a great big emergency order, ‘n I’ve got t’--- ”

“Dang it! That blamed fool contraption o’ yours is makin’ one helluva racket! Y’ gotta make her work quiet!” Macon rudely cut Mick off. “Folks is already starin’, Mick . . . ‘n if’n any one of ‘em takes a notion t’ start askin’ t’ good reverend questions what may end up bein’ embarrassin’ as all get out for you ‘n me . . . . ” His voice trailed away to an ominous silence.

“Half ‘n hour, Macon. At t’ very most . . . I’ll have that emergency batch whipped out in half ‘n hour,” Mick pleaded. “But, Matilda, here’s, gotta keep right on puttin’ out.”

“I ain’t so sure that’s a real good idea . . . . ” Macon murmured softly, “ ‘cause last time she started makin’ all them funny kinds o’ sounds? She blew sky high!”

“THAT was Sweet Betsy,” Mick declared, “ ‘n she COULD be a real temperamental ol’ battle axe, bless her heart, may she rest in peace! But Matilda here . . . . ” He leaned over and patted the top of his still affectionately. “When I built Matilda, I fixed t’ things that ended up leadin’ t’ Sweet Betsy’s tragic demise.”

“Then why’s she makin’ all them funny noises?”

“Macon, Macon, Macon . . . y’ worry too much,” Mick chided his friend with a doleful shake of his head. “Matilda WON’T blow, ‘n t’ make sure? I’m gonna stay put right here so’s I can keep a real close eye on ‘er.”

“Well . . . ok, I s’pose,” Macon reluctantly gave in. “Y’ DID say half an hour?”

“That’s right, Macon . . . half ‘n hour! No more . . . no less!” Mick affirmed with a mirthless grin. “Now b’fore ya run off, would ya mind telling me what time it is?”

Macon reached into his pocket for his own watch. “Hey! M’ watch’s gone . . . an’ so’s m’ wallet.”

“My goodness! Folks sure are thirsty!” Florence Hansen murmured softly, just under her breath, as she finished refilling the punch bowls for the fifth time.

“Well! It would appear that my timing is most impeccable, if I do say so myself.”

Florence looked up and saw Reverend Hildebrandt leaning against the door jam. “Yes,” she said smiling and duly noting his gaze fixed longingly on the punch bowl, filled nearly to the brim, “I’ve just finished making it up, Reverend. May I get you a glass?”

“Thank you,” he said gratefully. “That would be wonderful.”

Florence removed a tall, clean glass from one of the overhead cabinets, and filled it. “Here you are,” she murmured, as she carefully placed the glass into his outstretched hands.

“Mrs. Hansen . . . . ”

She heard the apprehension in his voice loud and clear. “Oh dear . . . is there something wrong with the punch?”

“No, Ma’am, quite the contrary! The punch is delicious,” Daniel Hildebrandt said very quickly. “I just happened to notice that your lovely pearl necklace seems to be missing.”

Florence smiled, relieved. “The clasp came loose, so rather than risk losing it altogether, I took it off and put it in my pocket.”

“That’s a relief.” Daniel Hildebrandt raised the glass to his lips and took a generous swallow. “I overhead a some of the men out there complaining of missing watches and wallets, and I wanted to be sure your necklace was safe.”

“Thank you for your concern, Reverend, but rest assured it’s safe and sound right here.” Florence patted the deep pocket on the right side of her long, full skirt. Suddenly, the color drained from her face.

“Mrs. Hansen? Are you alright?”

“I . . . I thought sure, I . . . . ” Florence murmured as her fingers desperately roamed the inside of her pocket in search of the double strand pearl necklace. “I’m almost positive . . . . ”

“Mrs. Hansen?”

Florence looked up at the clergyman, her eyes round with shock, and lower lip trembling. “Reverend Hildebrandt . . . my necklace is g-gone!”

“Shall I get Sheriff Coffee?”

“I-I suppose you should . . . I guess, if . . . if h-he’s up for it,” Florence murmured, her voice breaking. “He w-was stricken with . . . with heat stroke, too . . . along with poor Mrs. O’Hanlan, bless her heart! Oh dear! I-I’m so sorry . . . here I am on the verge of . . . of bawling my eyes out like some silly school girl.”

“You’re certainly entitled, Mrs. Hansen. That necklace is not only valuable in terms of money, but, as I recall, you told me it belonged to your mother?” Daniel reached into the inside pocket of his coat for a handkerchief.

Florence nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She did look up, however, upon hearing a sudden, sharp intake of breath. “R-Reverend Hildebrandt?”

“My prayer book!” he whispered, his eyes wide with shocked indignation. “It’s GONE!”

“My wallet! I thought sure, I . . . . ”

“I know sure as anything I put two dollars in my handbag this morning. Now they’re GONE!”

“I had that bag o’ gold dust right here in my coat pocket . . . right here! I know I did!”

“Harlan Hurley, WHAT are you doing?”

“Don’t pop your corset, Sis,” Harlan Hurley said in as bland a tone as he could manage.

“That’s DAVID’S jacket!”

“ ‘Fraid not, Cass! Classic case o’ mistaken identity.”

“The name is CassSANDRA!” the girl stated indignantly.

“Well pardon me, CassSANDRA!” Harlan retorted. “In any case, THIS jacket is DAVID’S . . . . ” he pointed to the one he held in his hand by the collar. “That one there on the chair next to Pa’s is MINE.”

“You going’ somewhere?”

Harlan carefully placed the jacket in hand down on the chair, taking the other in exchange. “Yeah,” he said evasively.

“Where?”

“None of your business.”

Cassandra Hurley eyed her older brother suspiciously. “You’re goin’ off with that Pruella Danvers creature, aren’t you?”

“That’s none o’ your business, either, Cassandra,” Harlan said stiffly, “and I’ll thank you NOT to refer to her in that way.”

“Pa’s NOT gonna be happy . . . . ”

“I don’t give a da--- ” Harlan broke off quickly. He had learned much to his dismay earlier on in the week that he was definitely NOT too old, at the venerable age of nineteen going on twenty, for his mother to wash his mouth out with soap. “I don’t care whether Pa’s gonna be happy or not! Pruella’s bored with watching people getting drunk and throwing cake at each other, and frankly, so am I. You can tell Pa ‘n Ma I’ll see ‘em at home later.”

“How MUCH later?”

“Just later!” Harlan snapped, as he tossed the other jacket over his shoulder. He turned heel and stormed off, before she could question him further.

“Dadburn it! My wallet’s missin’!” Hoss declared with a scowl.

“Blake Wilson and a few others are missing THEIR wallets, too,” Ben said grimly. “It would appear The Robber Baron of Virginia City’s been hard at work while the rest us have been having a good time, letting our guards down.”

“Pa, what about my envelope?” Stacy asked anxiously. “The one I gave you for safe keeping?”

Ben quickly checked the inside pocket of his jacket. The envelope was still there, nestled deep. “It’s still safe, Stacy,” he quickly reassured her, “and I still seem to have my wallet.”

“Where’s Sheriff Coffee?” Hoss asked. “I hate like all mixin’ business with what oughtta be pleasure, but . . . . ”

“I know how you feel, Son,” Ben said quietly, “but you DO need to tell Roy about your wallet, and sooner rather than later.”

“He’s over there talking with Mister and Mrs. Hurley, Big Brother,” Stacy discreetly pointed in Sheriff Coffee’s general direction. “But from the looks of things, I think you’re gonna have to stand in line.”

Hoss and Ben made their way across the room toward Sheriff Coffee and the cluster of irate citizens circled around him. Stacy followed behind her father and brother at a slower pace.

“Alright, Everybody, jus’ simmer down a minute!”

“SIMMER DOWN?!” Blake Wilson shouted indignantly. “Roy Coffee, that gol’ durn pick pocket’s probably half way t’ Mexico by now with MY wallet--- ”

“Not t’ mention my WATCH, Sheriff,” Macon Fitzhugh growled.

“ . . . an’ MY watch!”

“ . . . . an’ YOU’RE tellin’ US t’ SIMMER DOWN?” That was Sam, the bartender.

“I can’t make heads nor tails outta nothin’ with the lot o’ ya all talkin’ at once,” Roy said sternly. “Now one at a time! Blake, we’ll start with YOU.”

“My wallet’s gone!” Blake said. “At first I thought maybe I’d just left it home . . . I been a mite forgetful with all the weddin’ doin’s . . . . ”

“He did NOT leave it at home, Roy!” Erma Wilson stated with an emphatic nod of her head. “I stood there and watched him put that wallet in his back pocket before we left to come to the church.”

“Blake, when didja notice that your wallet wasn’t in your back pocket?” Roy asked.

Blake frowned. “I ain’t rightly sure,” he said thoughtfully.

“Well I know for fact when MY watch ‘n wallet disappeared!” Macon Fitzhugh said. “It was right after I had that run in with Harley Hurlen, only it wasn’t HIM! He said he was ‘is brother.”

“David?” Blake asked.

“Yeah!”

“I didn’t realize my pearl necklace was missin’ until just now,” Florence Hansen said sadly, “but I remember havin’ a run in with David Hurley myself, early on.”

“So did I,” Blake said, “an’ now that Mrs. Hansen here mentions it, I saw him run right smack dab into three other people, before he up ‘n bumped into ME.”

David Hurley, standing at the edge of the crowd flanked on either side by his parents, vigorously shook his head. “No!” he stated emphatically. “No! It wasn’t ME! I swear . . . it wasn’t me!”

“He was wearin’ a blue jacket,” one of the other men said. “There it is! It’s on that chair over next to the wall!”

“That’s my jacket, but I didn’t steal anything!” David stoutly maintained his innocence.

“You mind if we have a look at your jacket, David?” Roy asked. “You don’t have to, now . . . . ”

“Go ahead!” David readily gave permission. “If it’ll prove me innocent, then please! Go ahead!”

David Hurley watched, his eyes round with shocked horror and dismay, as Sheriff Coffee removed wallets, watches, rings, small bottles and flasks filled to varying levels with bootleg whiskey, and a myriad of other objects stolen from people during the wedding reception. There was also a small, pocket sized, leather bound Bible-Prayer Book that belonged to Reverend Hildebrandt. Roy piled the stolen items on the table next to the near-empty punch bowl.

“No! No! This can’t be, it CAN’T!” David protested, shaking his head in utter disbelief. “I didn’t take ANY of that stuff, I swear I didn’t!”

“Wouldja care to explain how it came to be in the pockets o’ YOUR jacket?” Roy asked, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

“I-I don’t know . . . . ” David vigorously shook his head. “I honestly don’t know. All I DO know is that I didn’t take any of that stuff!”

Stacy spotted Harlan Hurley standing on the opposite side of the circle, with one arm languidly draped around Pruella Danvers’ shoulders, and a jacket over his free arm the same color blue as the one in Roy Coffee’s possession. Harlan watched the proceedings with a smug cat-that-ate-the-cream smile on his face, while his twin brother, David, looked on helplessly as the sheriff pulled a double strand pearl necklace, belonging to Florence Hansen from the inside pocket. Stacy noted that the latter twin’s face was a deathly pale and his eyes were unusually bright. Her eyes darted around the room, as the beginnings of an idea took shape in her mind.

She quickly scanned the faces in the gathering crowd, searching for Lotus and Timmy O’Toole. She spotted them standing at the edge of the gathered crowd, next to the stairs leading up out of the basement.

“I could be in a world of trouble for this,” Stacy mused grimly, as she elbowed her way through the crowd, toward Lotus and Timmy, “but better that than let an innocent man go to jail.”

“Looks like Sheriff Coffee’s caught Virginia’s City Robber Baron,” Lotus remarked to Stacy, as the latter approached.

“Yes, it would seem so,” Stacy replied.

“Between you and me, I don’t think he’s the one,” Lotus said in a low voice.

“I think you’re right,” Stacy agreed, “and I know how to prove it.” She knelt down, bringing herself eye to eye with Lotus’ young son. “Timmy,” she said, “I need to ask a big favor of you . . . . ”

“What is it, Stacy?” the boy asked.

“I need to borrow your cap gun.”

“Sure,” Timmy immediately handed Stacy his toy with a bemused grin on his face.

“Stacy Cartwright, what kind of mischief are you up to now?” Lotus queried, as memory of the Cartwright daughter’s activities at the Silver Dollar surfaced with a vengeance to the forefront of her thoughts.

“I think I might like to know the answer to that one myself,” a wry masculine voice, originating directly behind her, said.

Stacy slowly, almost reluctantly turned and glanced over her shoulder. There, she saw her older brother Adam, covered from head to toe with cake and icing, his arms folded across his chest, glowering. “I’m going to prevent an innocent man from going to jail,” she said. “I can use your help on this, Oldest Brother, seeing as how you and I are the only ones who can positively identify the thief.”

“Surely you’re not suggesting . . . . ”

Stacy nodded.

“Pa will have BOTH of our hides!”

“You have any OTHER ideas?”

“ ‘Fraid not,” Adam said with a fatalistic shrug. “Let’s go.”

“Sheriff Coffee, please!” David begged, his voice breaking. “I . . . I honestly don’t know WHERE that stuff came from.”

“I know where it came from,” a young heckler among the gathered crowd said derisively. “It all came outta YOUR coat pocket.” A smattering of mirthless chuckles and titters rose among the people surrounding him.

“Sheriff Coffee, this is all a very big mistake,” Jack Hurley insisted.

“Yeah, Mister Hurley . . . and your son made it!”

Jack leveled a withering glare at the young boy who had just spoken. “Roy, you said all these thefts’ve been goin’ on for the last couple o’ months,” he said. “Am I right?”

“Yeah . . . that’s true,” Roy agreed.

“Well, THIS is the first time David’s been to town since before last Christmas.”

“SURE it is, Mister Hurley!” Millicent Adams, daughter of the Seth Adams, president of the Municipal Bank in Virginia City, said, not bothering to conceal her insolence and disdain.

“Now you see here, Gal,” Jack sternly admonished Millicent. “I can overlook a few things seein’ as how you ain’t been taught proper manners, but I don’t cotton to anybody . . . man, woman, or child . . . callin’ me a liar.”

“ . . . and I don’t take very kindly to any man, woman, or child saying that MY daughter is lacking in proper etiquette,” Hannah Adams returned in a deep booming voice that carried across the entire room.

“Well, Lady . . . if the shoe FITS--- ” Athena growled. The effects of all the pink punch she had imbibed had begun to wear off, leaving her with an upset stomach and the worst head it had ever been her misfortune to suffer in her entire life.

“I hardly think the mother of a . . . a known criminal, or the father either, for that matter has any right to criticize MY daughter for a mere breech in etiquette!” Hannah sputtered, angry and indignant.

“My son is NOT a criminal!” Athena stubbornly maintained.

“Mrs. Adams . . . ‘n you, too, Mrs. Hurley . . . I’ll thank y’ both to stay out of this,” Roy reprimanded the two women sternly.

Stacy, meanwhile, caught sight of Harlan Hurley and Pruella Danvers edging their way over toward the basement stairs. “Come on, Adam, we’ve got to stop him,” she said.

“Hey! He looks just like . . . . ”

“Yep,” Stacy replied.

“Identical twins?”

Stacy nodded.

“Let’s get ‘im, Little Sister,” Adam said, his eyes glittering with pure malice. “It’s despicable the way he’s running off and leaving his brother to take his punishment.”

“You’ve got THAT right, Oldest Brother,” Stacy agreed.

“I also owe that guy big time for these shiners.”

Stacy and Adam beat a straight path through the crowd of wedding guests still gathering around Sheriff Coffee and the Hurleys, on an intercept course with the departing Harlan Hurley and Pruella Danvers. Stacy went to great lengths to keep Timmy’s cap gun concealed within the folds of her skirt.

“Going somewhere?” Stacy asked, as she and Adam planted themselves right smack in the middle of Harlan and Pruella’s path.

“ . . . and what business is it of YOURS?” Pruella demanded imperiously.

“To be perfectly honest, it’s none of MY business at all,” Stacy readily admitted, “but, it’s very much SHERIFF COFFEE’S business.”

“Look, Stacy . . . and whoever YOU are, Pruella and I are in bit of a hurry,” Harlan said, making an attempt to be halfway reasonable.

“Somehow that doesn’t surprise me,” Adam retorted in a wry tone of voice.

“Stacy Cartwright, if you don’t move aside right now, so help me I’ll move you aside,” Pruella angrily threatened.

“Oh yeah? What a coincidence! Adam and I are in a bit of a hurry, too,” Stacy countered, as she whipped Timmy’s cap gun out from under the folds of her skirt and leveled it at the pair standing before her.

“Are y-you crazy?” Harlan gasped, taking an involuntary step backward. He looked up at Adam, who stood behind Stacy, to her right. “Hey, Mister, whoever YOU are . . . . ”

“I’m her oldest brother, Adam,” Ben Cartwright’s firstborn politely introduced himself, “pleased to make your acquaintance.” He favored Harlan with a ferocious, predatory smile and offered his hand.

Harlan paled and took another involuntary step backward.

“Alright . . . the both of ya . . . start walking . . . over there . . . .” Stacy inclined her head to the spot where the sheriff stood arguing with Jack and Athena Hurley, with the hapless David looking on.

“ . . . with your hands up were we can see them,” Adam added.

Harlan wavered.

“Harlan, surely you’re not--- ” Pruella protested.

“Pruella . . . she’s got a GUN,” Harlan gulped, as he fearfully raised his hands high over his head.

“She does, indeed,” Adam said, “now move.”

An exasperated sigh exploded from between Pruella’s thinned lips as she raised her hands up over her head, and fell in step beside Harlan. They began making their way across the room toward the sheriff, with Stacy and Adam following close at their heels.

“Sheriff Coffee, Adam and I can positively identify the thief,” Stacy announced, as she, Adam, Harlan, and Pruella stepped into the midst of the gathered crowd. She still had Timmy O’Toole’s cap gun trained on Harlan.

Roy Coffee glanced from the Hurley twins, to their parent, then back again to Adam and Stacy. “Mrs. Hurley . . . . ?”

Jack subjected Harlan to such intense scrutiny, the young man visibly flinched and averted his eyes to the floor. “Adam . . . Stacy . . . you two SURE you can identify the real thief?”

“We’re certain, Jack,” Adam said quietly.

“Alright, then . . . do whatcha gotta,” Jack grimly assented.

“Adam . . . Stacy . . . surely y-you ain’t--- ” Roy protested, upon seeing the feral gleam in both their eyes.

“Sheriff Coffee, we can’t let an innocent man go to jail,” Stacy said.

“However, if you have a better idea as to how we can unmask the thief, I’m all ears,” Adam added.

Roy sighed. “Can’t say as I do,” he admitted, shaking his head in complete and utter disbelief. “Ok . . . go ahead ‘n do what y’ gotta do. It’s YOUR funeral.”

“Alright, Gentlemen,” Adam began, as he turned and faced the Hurley twins with a withering glare, “and with regard to ONE of you, I use that term very loosely. Now I want you both to turn and face the table behind you. My sister here’s a crack shot with an itchy trigger finger, so I’d advise you not to try anything stupid.”

Harlan and David exchanged puzzled glances, then warily looked back at Adam and Stacy.

“You heard my brother,” Stacy said with a wild predatory grin on her face.

The Hurley Brothers paled in the face of Stacy’s ferociousness. Keeping their hands high, they immediately turned toward the table.

“OK, Gentlemen, drop your guns,” Adam ordered.

Harlan and David very slowly unbuckled their gun belts and allowed them to drop to the floor. Their uncle, Apollo, quickly moved in and retrieved the gun belts and weapons from the floor, and turned the weapons over to Sheriff Coffee.

“OK, Gentlemen . . . now drop your PANTS,” Adam ordered with relish.

“Excuse me?” Harlan questioned the order insolently.

“You heard the man,” Roy growled. “Do as he says!”

The twins complied.

Camilla Taylor, the wife one of Virginia City’s most prominent citizens and pillar of the church, let out an audible moan and fainted right into the arms of Reverend Hildebrandt. Ben rolled his eyes heavenward, beseeching the Lord above for something, he wasn’t quite sure what. Joe and Molly collapsed into the nearest chairs, and dissolved into a fit of the giggles.

“There!” Stacy pointed to the man with the heart shaped tattoo in his backside. “That’s your man, Sheriff Coffee,” she said.

“Yep,” Adam agreed. “That’s definitely him! I’d know that tattoo anywhere.”

Pruella’s face first turned bright shade of red, then darkened to an odd shade of purple. She opened her mouth and screamed. “HARLAN HURLEY, HOW . . . HOW COULD YOU!?”

“Harlan Hurley . . . Pruella Danvers, you’re both under arrest.”

“ME?!” Pruella shrieked. “I DIDN’T DO ANYTHING--- ”

Ben moved in quickly. Taking his youngest and eldest by the forearms, he adroitly ushered them as far from the maddening crowd, as was possible given the confines of the church basement. “Adam . . . Stacy, was that really necessary?” he growled sotto voce.

“Pa, it was the only way we could positively identify the thief,” Stacy said. “We couldn’t very well let David Hurley do time for a crime he didn’t commit, now, could we?”

“No, I suppose not,” Ben reluctantly agreed.

“ . . . and besides that, I owed the guy big time for giving me these shiners,” Adam added with bloodthirsty relish.

I see,” Ben said stiffly. “Stacy . . . . ”

“Yes, Pa?”

“I thought you and Joe told me there were no more surprises.”

“I’m afraid this was as much as a surprise for ME as it was for everyone else,” Stacy replied. “I had no idea in the world The Robber Baron of Virginia City was gonna strike here at the reception.”

Ben turned and glared at his oldest son, who was still grinning broadly. “With half the decent people thoroughly outraged by your method of positively identifying the real thief, and the other half passed out cold from the shock, what are YOU so happy about?”

Adam immediately sobered under the raw intensity of his father’s dark, angry glare. “Pa, I’ve just taught Harlan Hurley a very valuable lesson. I sincerely hope he takes it to heart.”

“Oh? What lesson is THAT?”

“Pay backs are pure hell!”

Ben sighed. “You’d better let me have that gun,” he turned to Stacy, and held out his hand. “I’m almost afraid to ask this, but who did you borrow it from?”

“Timmy O’Toole,” Stacy replied. “It’s a cap gun.”

Ben looked at the gun closely, as saw at once that it was indeed a toy cap gun. “You mean . . . you actually buffaloed those two . . . . ” He shook his head, and finally laughed. “Stacy Rose Cartwright, you never fail to amaze me . . . . ”

“Attitude, Mister Cartwright.” It was Molly, with Joe coming up right behind her. “It’s not how big and how powerful you are, or even what kind of gun you carry. It’s attitude!”

“ . . . and I can certainly vouch for the fact that Stacy here has enough attitude for ten people,” Joe quipped.

“Pruella Estelle Danvers, I have NEVER . . . not in the whole of my entire life . . . EVER . . . been so . . . so . . . HUMILIATED!” Myra Danvers followed behind her daughter, castigating the girl severely, as Clem Foster led her and Harlan Hurley toward the basement steps in handcuffs. “Honestly! I don’t know WHICH is the MOST embarrassing . . . whether it be YOU carrying on a . . . a . . . LOVE AFFAIR . . . with a notorious thief, and BRAGGING about it--- ”

“Mother, in the first place, Harlan and I were NOT . . . I repeat, WERE NOT, carrying on a love affair!” Pruella grimaced, as if she had just tasted something incredibly sour. “ . . . and in the SECOND place, I didn’t KNOW he was stealing the money he used to buy me gifts. I honest and truly DIDN’T! So how could I possibly BRAG about such a thing?!”

“Oohh . . . don’t you DARE play Little Miss Innocent with ME, Young Lady! I saw you shamelessly flaunting all that expensive jewelry . . . and all those OTHER fine gifts that thieving scoundrel gave you . . . every chance you got!” Myra immediately shot right back.

“I TOLD you . . . I didn’t know he was stealing money to buy all those things!” Pruella argued.

“What about him having YOUR name tattooed inside a big red heart along with his . . . on . . . on . . . on h-his--- ” Myra abruptly broke off with an exasperated sigh. “I can’t even bring myself to say it!”

“Pruella . . . I did it for YOU,” Harlan passionately declared. “I did everything for you . . . everything! . . . because I love you! I love you more than I’ve EVER loved anyONE or anyTHING on this earth.”

“You forgot to mention one thing, Young Man!” Myra said, her voice filled with scathing contempt. “Thanks to you, MY DAUGHTER has been ARRESTED . . . and . . . and she’s going to be put into jail. Oh the ignominy of it all! What did I EVER do to deserve THIS?!”

“YOU??!” Pruella shrieked, as she turned for a moment and stared back at her mother in complete and utter disbelief.

“Pruella . . . Darling, please . . . I only wanted you to notice me, ‘s all . . . . ” Harlan blithely rambled on, “and I know how much you like fine things, like . . . like flowers from florist shop . . . fine jewelry . . . sweet perfume, and . . . and . . . other things like that. I thought, if I could buy them and give them to you as gifts . . . . ” He sighed dolefully, and shook his head. “Only problem was . . . I couldn’t even BEGIN to afford ANY of those things, so . . . so THAT’S why I . . . I--- ”

“Harlan . . . would you puh-leeeze . . . shut-UP?!” Pruella groaned.

“Mrs. Danvers.”

Half way up the basement stairs, Myra froze.

“I’d like a word with you . . . . ”

She turned and found the Reverend Daniel Hildebrandt standing at the bottom of the stems, with his back poker straight and his arms folded tightly across his chest. His dark eyebrows were drawn together into a single line, and three irregular shaped splotches of bright red stood out in livid contrast against the unusual paleness of his cheeks and forehead. “Reverend Hildebrandt, my daughter--- ”

“NOW, Mrs. Danvers.”

“Reverend Hildebrandt, my daughter has been arrested!” Myra wailed, shocked and outraged. “I’ve got to go to her.”

“This can’t wait,” Daniel Hildebrandt snapped, glaring metaphorical daggers.

“Ooohhh . . . alright! But make it brief!” Myra ordered in a tone of voice insultingly condescending. “I HAVE to go to my daughter.” She seized hold of the railing, then started back down the stairs.

“We’ll talk outside,” Daniel said curtly, as he started up.

Stacy sighed and shook her head, as she watched Clem take Harlan and Pruella away, with Myra Danvers dogging their footsteps. “I never thought I’d hear myself actually say this, but . . . I sure feel sorry for poor Pruella,” she said.

“That makes TWO of us, Kiddo,” Joe observed. “I mean, here she is . . . FINALLY getting a taste of just desserts for the mean, cruel ways she’s always treated you . . . and a lot of other people . . . and YOU feel sorry for her?!”

“I can’t help being curious about that myself, Young Woman,” Ben had to admit.

“Don’t get me wrong . . . there IS a part of me that’s feeling, well . . . pretty victorious right now,” Stacy confessed. “On the OTHER hand, I can’t help BUT feel sorry for someone facing a hard choice between pleading guilty and going to prison or going home with a mother like Mrs. Danvers.” She grimaced.

“I . . . see what you mean,” Joe murmured softly, as he watched Myra Danvers’ melodramatic histrionics. Under a set of wholly different circumstances, he would, more than likely, find himself rolling on the floor, laughing himself silly at the woman’s exaggerated, ‘way over-the-top prostrations.

“Joseph Francis Cartwright!” Ben exclaimed upon noticing gooey blobs of cake and icing all over his youngest son’s clothing and in his hair. “Just . . . well, just look at you!”

“ . . . uh, Pa? Have you taken a real close look at ADAM lately?” Joe asked, grinning form ear-to-ear with a smug, Cheshire cat kind of grin.

“Adam?!” Ben echoed incredulously.

“Yes . . . ADAM!”

Ben frowned. “Surely you’re not suggesting . . . . ”

“I’ll take that as a no,” Joe said with a smile.

“Come ON, Joseph! Adam?! Involve himself in a cake fight?? NEVER!” Ben stated emphatically. “Oh sure! YOU’D get yourself involved in a cake fight . . . that much is quite obvious! Stacy . . . . ” he looked over at his daughter, then at Timmy O’Toole’s cap gun, she still held in hand. “I wouldn’t dare put it past her!” he grumbled. “As for Hoss . . . the answer is no, because he’d rather EAT the cake! But Adam . . . NEVER!”

A string of terse, clipped syllables, carrying the distinct singsong character of Chinese assailed their ears. Ben glanced up, and saw his firstborn and Hop Sing making their way across the room.

“Mister Adam suit big mess!” Hop Sing rebuked the eldest of the Cartwright offspring severely. His broken English was liberally interspersed with colorful Chinese invectives. “Real big, big, big, big MESS! Hop Sing never get out cake and icing! Never! Not in ten million, billion, jillion . . . not in many, many years!”

“Hop Sing, I swear . . . it was SELF DEFENSE,” Adam protested. “Honest!”

Ben’s eyes went round with shock, astonishment, and complete, utter disbelief upon catching sight of his eldest son’s clothing and hair plastered even more generously with cake and icing, than the same of his youngest son. He sighed and shook his head. “I’m beginning to think I can’t take ANY of you children someplace nice,” he lamented.

Joe and Adam exchanged glances of pure, ornery bedevilment. “Why not?” the latter said with a shrug. “I don’t see how we can possibly get into any more trouble than we’re in now.”

Joe nodded. “I was just thinking the same thing, Oldest Brother.”

“What?” Ben demanded, not liking the wild gleam he saw in the eyes of his eldest and youngest sons, when they turned to face him.

“Nothing, Pa, we just want to show you how very much we love you, that’s all . . . . ” Joe said with an endearing smile that was at complete odds with the feral gleam in his eyes.

“Yeah,” Adam agreed, as he and his baby brother converged on their father.

Ben desperately tried to escape, but all too quickly found himself trapped between the punch table and his sons, Adam and Joe, advancing on him, with open arms. Both simultaneously caught Ben up in a great big bear hug, pressing close, and smearing the thick silver mane of hair generously with pound cake and icing.

“I have to say one thing for you guys,” Stacy laughed uproariously. “You sure look good in what you eat.”

“Baby Brother, I am shocked . . . nay! I am APPALLED!” Adam declared. “Absolutely appalled!”

“So tell me, Oldest Brother . . . WHY, pray tell, are you absolutely appalled?” Joe asked, as he and Adam released Ben from their “loving” embrace, and turned in unison to face their sister.

“Why do I kinda have this sick feeling I already know why?” Stacy murmured softly, as she took a step backward, then another.

“Well, I’LL bite, Adam,” Joe said, as they slowly, relentlessly advanced toward Stacy. “Why are you appalled?”

“Here we are . . . showering all this love and affection on Pa, and leaving our poor little sister completely out in the cold,” Adam cheerfully explained. “Now I ask you . . . is it right or fair for us to show Pa how much we love HIM, without showing our little sister how very much we love HER?”

“That’s alright, Guys,” Stacy said. “That’s perfectly alright! You won’t hurt my feelings in the least, believe me!”

“No, Little Sister, it’s NOT alright,” Joe said. “Is it, Adam?”

“Certainly not!”

“Uhh . . . Pa?” Stacy squeaked, as she turned, hoping against hope that she might appeal to her father.

“Don’t look at ME, Young Woman,” Ben quipped with an amused grin.

“Alright . . . you’re gonna have to CATCH me first,” Stacy grimly vowed. She pivoted, and barely ran a half dozen steps before her foot caught in the hem of her gown bringing her down face first into what remained of the wedding cake.

“Stacy?” Joe queried, alarmed.

Stacy slowly raised herself up on her elbows. Cake and icing covered her face, neck, and clung to the front of her in huge clumps.

“You alright, Little Sister?” Adam asked, as he and Joe knelt down on either side of her.

Stacy wiped the cake and icing from her face as best as she could with hands that were also smeared with cake. “I could use a clean handkerchief,” she said in a wry tone.

Adam, with a deft flick of the wrist, removed the relatively clean handkerchief from the front pocket of his suit jacket and handed it to his sister.

Stacy took the handkerchief from Adam and wiped her face. “You were right about one thing, Joe,” she said smiling. “This cake IS delicious!”

“Now ain’t the lot o’ you jus’ pitiful!”

Joe, Stacy, and Adam glanced up and saw Hoss towering over them, his arms folded across his chest, shaking his head.

“Dadburned pitiful! The whole lot o’ ya!” Hoss admonished his siblings as they rose to their feet. “Adam, you especially oughtta be ashamed o’ yourself.”

“Me?!” Adam growled. “Why me?”

“ ‘Cause YOU’RE the oldest,” Hoss replied with a scowl. “What kind o’ dadblamed example are ya settin’ for the two babies o’ the family by gittin’ yourself involved in a cake fight?”

“Hey, Big Brother, who do you think you’re calling babies?” Joe demanded with a scowl as he, Stacy, and Adam rose to their feet and started advancing on their biggest brother.

“I’m callin’ YOU an’ our BABY sister babies,” Hoss said firmly. “If ‘n the pair o’ you’re gonna act like babies, then I’m callin’ a spade a spade.”

“Hoss, there’s only one thing we can say to that,” Adam said contritely.

“What’s that?” Hoss demanded, eyeing his oldest brother with a puzzled frown.

“You’re absolutely right,” Adam said, as he and the two youngest Cartwright children edged closer. “I AM setting an atrociously poor example for my impressionable baby brother and baby sister.”

“Yeah, Hoss, like Adam said, you’re absolutely right in pointing out how childish Stacy and I are acting,” Joe continued. His eyes sparkled with mischievous merriment.

“Getting involved in that cake fight was very childish on our part,” Stacy agreed.

“Now just one dadburned minute!” Hoss said severely, all the while backing away from his irrepressible siblings. “How come the lot o’ you are agreein’ with me?”

“Because you’re right, Big Brother,” Stacy said with a feral grin.

“Absolutely,” Joe agreed. “We appreciate you showing us the error of our ways.”

“That tells us that you love and care about us very much,” Adam said, “and WE want to show you how very much we love you, too, Big Brother.”

The three continued their advance with open arms.

“I love the lot o’ you, too,” Hoss said, throwing up his arms defensively in front of him, “but, I’m beginnin’ t’ think all this doggoned touchy-feely stuff ain’t necessarily a good thing.”

“Now, Hoss, I disagree completely,” Ben said, maneuvering himself behind his second son, effectively blocking off any further retreat. “I happen to be of the opinion that there’s no such thing as too much showing of affection.”

Hoss turned, and grimaced upon seeing his father’s white hair liberally laced with chocolate cake and his gray suit covered with cake and white icing.

“Group hug,” Joe cried, as he, Adam, and Stacy simultaneously converged on Hoss with open arms.

Hoss felt his father’s arms reaching from behind to circle his chest, while his brothers and sister enthusiastically embraced him head on.

“Isn’t it nice to know just how much you’re loved, Big Brother?” Stacy queried, favoring Hoss with a warm smile.

“I don’t know about the rest of YOU, but it sure gives ME a nice warm feeling inside,” Joe said, giving his biggest brother an extra bear hug for good measure.

“THAT’S IT! I QUIT!” An outraged Hop sing bellowed at the top of his voice. He glared murderously at each of the Cartwrights, beginning with Ben and ending up with Stacy. “ALL THIS LOVE MAKE TOO MUCH LAUNDRY! I QUIT!”

Meanwhile, Myra Danvers, wordlessly fell in behind Reverend Hildebrandt upon reaching the top of the basement stairs. She dutifully followed him through the church narthex and on out through the front door.

“Mrs. Danvers . . . . ” Daniel said through clenched teeth, as he turned to face her, “ . . . WHAT in the world were you and your so-called Ladies Guild thinking of?”

“I . . . I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Myra replied with a bewildered frown and a helpless shrug. “Thinking . . . thinking of WHAT?”

“First of all, two-thirds . . . TWO-THIRDS, mind you . . . of the wedding guests are . . . are . . . are . . . well, to put it very bluntly . . . they’re falling down drunk,” Daniel began, as the angry red splotches on his cheeks and forehead deepened from a brilliant red to a port wine hue, and began to spread over his entire face.

“Reverend Hildebrandt, THAT is IMPOSSIBLE!” Myra declared, righteously indignant. “When Mister and Mrs. O’Hanlan met with me to arrange for their daughter’s wedding and the reception, I made it perfectly clear that the consumption of alcoholic beverages is NOT allowed either within the church or on church property. They assured me that they would abide by that ruling!”

“Oh they DID, did they?” Daniel queried. “Well for YOUR information, Mrs. Danvers . . . Mrs. O’Hanlan’s the worst of the lot!”

“Mrs. O’Hanlan is NOT drunk!” Myra hotly denied the allegation. “I was told that the poor woman is suffering from a terrible bout of heatstroke!”

“She is DRUNK!” Daniel stubbornly maintained. “Then there’s the matter of that wedding cake and . . . and the three indecently exposed la---WOMEN! who seem to have come WITH the cake.”

“I did NOT order that cake!”

“If YOU didn’t order the wedding cake, Mrs. Danvers . . . I want to know who DID!”

“I placed the order for the wedding cake, Reverend Hildebrandt! But I did NOT order that monstrosity downstairs . . . NOR did I order the . . . the . . . thosenakedwomen . . . . ” Bright patches of red immediately blossomed on her cheeks, her neck, and her forehead, “that were baked inside.”

“ . . . and THAT brings me to the matter of The Robber Baron of Virginia City!”

“Pardon me, Folks, please . . . pardon me.” Mick O’Flynn’s partner and protégé squeezed in between the combatants, lifting his hat and making eye contact with the clergy man first, then the President of the Ladies’ Guild. A man, big and tall enough to dwarf the like of Hoss Cartwright, followed. He had a full head of thick dark brown wavy hair, a full beard, and a single thick, bushy line over top both eyes and his nose.

“Just one minute, Young Man!” Daniel yelled as he turned with every intention of pursuing the pair. He sprinted ahead of the pair, then turned and planted himself square in the middle of their path. “Just where do the two of you think you’re going?!”

Barney immediately seized the clergyman’s hand and began to pump it up and down, up and down. “Reverend Hildebrandt! So good t’ see ya . . . good to see ya! Long time no see!” The words gushed forth from his mouth and lips like water through a sluice gate, when the dam is opened. “So good t’ see ya again, Reverend, REAL good seein’ ya . . . real good . . . . ”

The exuberant handshake literally rattled Daniel Hildebrandt’s teeth and nearly knocked him right off his feet.

“Good t’ see ya, ‘tis real, real good t’ see ya . . . . ”

“You’ve already said so . . . ad nauseaum!” Daniel said, as he snatched his hand from Barney’s firm grip. The momentum sent him careening into Myra Danvers, knocking both of them to the ground.

“Sorry, Mister Good Reverend Sir,” Barney apologized contritely. “Here, lemme help ya up!”

“Keep your hands OFF me!” Daniel growled. “I am perfectly capable of helping myself up, thank you so very much.” He rose to his feet slowly, his entire body trembling with rage.

“ . . . uuhh, R-Reverend Hildebrandt . . . I could use a h-hand up,” Myra murmured extending her hand.

“Boris help lady,” the big man grunted, his words heavily accented. He leaned over and seized her by the waist. The fingertips and thumbs of his massive, well-muscled hands were almost touching. He lifted her with the ease of a little girl lifting a rag doll and set her carefully on her feet.

For a moment, Myra remained glued to the spot where Boris had placed her, staring up at the big man’s face through eyes round with shock and astonishment. Her mouth and jaw worked and moved, but no sound came forth.

Boris immediately turned his attention back to Barney. “Boris see O’Flynn, want vod---”

“Yessir, right away, Sir!” Barney stammered, effectively cutting Boris off mid-syllable. He took the big man’s arm and started moving once more toward the front door of the church basement.

“Now you hold on right there!” Daniel ordered, as he set off after the pair, moving at a brisk place. “There happens to be a private party going on in--- ”

The clergyman’s words were swallowed up in a startled scream as Boris picked him up by the waist and set him aside. “Little man too noisy!” he grunted, as he and Barney continued on toward the door.

“Reverend Hildebrandt!” Myra Danvers suddenly, indignantly found her voice once again. “Surely you’re NOT going to allow that MAN to . . . to take that unkempt CREATURE!!!! . . . into the church?!”

“I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do to stop him!” Daniel replied acerbically. “In fact, I don’t think there’s much anything that can stop him . . . barring a dynamite blast, a runaway locomotive, or various and sundry other acts of God!”