Poltergeist II: Benjy’s Story
Part 3
By Kathleen T. Berney

“Benjy, does this hurt?” Paul Martin asked, as he pushed against the boy’s abdomen on the right side.

“N-No, Sir.”

“How about now?” Paul pushed again, same spot, but a little harder.

“No.”

With help from his father and Hop Sing, Benjy had changed into a fresh nightshirt, and moved to the bed in the guest room on the first floor. Doctor Paul Martin sat on one side of the bed, while the boy’s mother, Teresa, anxiously looked on from her place, seated on the other side of the bed. Adam stood behind his wife, with both hands resting lightly, reassuringly on her shoulders, and Ben hovering at his elbow. Hoss and Joe stood together just inside the bedroom door.

“Does THIS hurt?” Doctor Martin pushed in the middle of the abdomen.

“No,” Benjy replied.

“How about here?” The doctor’s hands moved to the right.

“N-No, Sir. That doesn’t hurt either.”

“Does this hurt?” Paul’s hands moved further to the right and pushed in hard.

“It . . . it doesn’t feel very good, but it doesn’t really hurt,” Benjy murmured in a weak voice, barely audible.

Paul checked Benjy’s pulse then removed his stethoscope from his black bag and listened to the boy’s heart. “His heart sounds very good, though his pulse rate’s up,” the doctor said quietly, as returned his stethoscope to his bag, sitting open on the night table beside the bed. “Normal consequence, I expect, of him running all the way out into the middle of the yard from his room upstairs, and being sick on top of that. Benjy?”

“Y-Yes, Sir?”

“Do you hurt anywhere else besides your stomach?”

“My hands feel kind of f-funny and . . . I can’t feel my feet.”

Paul immediately threw the covers aside.

“Doctor, m-may I h-h-have the blankets b-back? Please?” Benjy begged. “I’m . . . I’m freezing!”

“You may in just a moment, Benjy,” Paul replied. “I want to see whether or not you can move your feet.”

Benjy frowned. “I’m not sure . . . if I . . . if I can . . . exactly . . . . ”

“Try.”

Benjy squeezed his eyes shut and concentrated.

Paul nodded, satisfied, as his patient moved both feet up and down, circled them, then moved them from side to side with the ease and dexterity normal for a child his age. “Benjy . . . . ”

“Yes, Sir?”

“I’d like you to finish the rest of that peppermint tea Hop Sing brewed for you, then close your eyes and go back to sleep,” the doctor said as he covered Benjy with the sheets, blanket, and quilt. “I’m going to step out side and speak with your ma and pa for a few minutes. Will you be alright?”

“I guess so. Doctor Martin, may I ask you a question first?”

“Certainly.”

“I-I’m not going to . . . I . . . I’m not going to DIE . . . am I?”

Paul favored the boy with a weary smile and shook his head. “No, Son, not from an upset stomach. If you get yourself plenty of rest, stick to a soft, bland diet, and drink plenty of liquids for the next couple of days, you ought to be good as new.”

“Adam . . . Teresa . . . I’ll stay with Benjy while you two speak with the doctor,” Ben offered.

“You don’t HAVE to stay, if you don’t want to, Grandpa,” Benjy said quietly. “I AM a big boy now . . . . ”

“I know you’re a big boy, Benjy,” his grandfather said, as he pulled up a chair along the side of the bed Doctor Martin had just vacated. “But . . . I think you know how much mothers and fathers tend to worry when their children aren’t feeling well . . . . ”

Benjy nodded his head, then sighed. “Mothers and papas DO tend to worry a lot, don’t they.” It was a statement of fact not an inquiry.

“You betcha!” Hoss chortled before Ben could reply. He entered the room and walked over to the foot of the bed. “ ‘Round here, WE call it ‘Pa’s Prerogative.’ ”

Benjy looked up at his uncle with a puzzled frown. “Pa’s prerogative?” he asked, with left eyebrow slightly upraised.

“Pa’s Prerogative’s a pa’s right ‘n privilege to worry himself silly over a child who’s hurt, or not feelin’ well,” Hoss explained with a smile. “Now in the case o’ you ‘n your sister, it’s ‘Ma’s ‘n Pa’s Prerogative.’ ”

“ . . . and among us Cartwrights, that prerogative gets exercised twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week,” Joe added with a naughty grin and a wry roll of the eyes heavenward.

“Is what you call ‘Pa’s Prerogative’ because Grandpa had to do all the worrying for Grandma, Grandma Inger, Grandma Marie, and . . . and Aunt Stacy’s mother . . . in addition to his own?” Benjy asked. “That’s what Papa said . . . .”

His inquiry elicited a bark of laughter from Uncle Hoss and a peal of rapid-fire high-pitched giggles from Uncle Joe.

“Oh he DID, hunh?” Ben queried, again with mock severity. “Well you just wait ‘til I get hold of your papa.”

A soft knock against the frame of the open door, drew Joe and Hoss’ attention from their mirth. It was Stacy. “Ok if I come in?” she asked.

“Sure,” Ben readily granted his daughter permission to enter.

“I heard you guys laughing your heads off just now,” she said as she stepped inside, glancing over at Hoss first, then at Joe. “What’s so funny?”

“I think Benjy here just landed his father . . . our OLDEST brother . . . right smack dab into a whole world of trouble,” Joe teased, his eyes sparkling with impish delight.

“Oh?”

“Um hmm!” Ben affirmed. “It seems the father of this young man . . . . ” he inclined his head slightly in Benjy’s direction, “ . . . said that I’M a worrywart.”

“You ARE, Pa,” Stacy said with a smile, as she walked across the room toward her father. She slipped her arms loosely about his shoulders and gave him a gentle, affectionate squeeze. “That’s ONE of the reasons why we love ya so much.”

“Grandpa?”

“Yes, Benjy?” Ben responded as he reached up and gave Stacy’s hand, now resting on his shoulder, a gentle, affectionate squeeze.

“You mean you . . . that you STILL worry about Uncle Joe and Uncle Hoss?!” Benjy asked, casting a furtive look of near comical disbelief over at his two uncles. “I mean, Aunt Stacy . . . she’s still just a girl, sorta . . . almost . . . . ”

“Hmpf! I like that!” Stacy snorted with mock derision.

Between the solemn way in which Benjy had just uttered those words and the farcical look on his sister’s face, Joe had to turn his back on all present and stick his balled fist in his mouth to keep from laughing out loud.

“ . . . but Uncle Hoss and Uncle Joe are grown-ups, Grandpa,” Benjy continued, “just like you, Papa, Mother, Grandmother, and Hop Sing.”

Ben smiled. “Benjy, I’m gonna tell ya something you probably won’t understand fully right now, but you will someday . . . after you take a wife and have children of your own,” he said quietly.

“What’s that, Grandpa?”

“Even if these uncles of yours . . . your aunt . . . and your papa, too, for that matter, all live to be well over a hundred, and I that much older . . . I’ll STILL worry about them,” Ben said. “Not all the time, mind . . . and certainly not twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, like SOME people around here might suggest . . . . ” He turned and glared over at his youngest son for emphasis.

“I haven’t the SLIGHTEST idea what you’re talking about, Pa,” Joe declared in a tone of voice too innocent.

“At any rate, Benjy . . . as their father, I love the four of ‘em very much,” Ben continued, “and part of loving them means being concerned about them, about how they’re doing . . . how they’re feeling . . . if things aren’t going well for them, whether they’re sick, or injured . . . I worry about them even though your father and uncles ARE grown men, and your aunt’s almost a grown woman . . . sorta. Same, I expect, as YOUR father . . . and mother, too, worry about you and your sister.”

“I s’pose,” Benjy murmured very quietly, in a voice barely audible, his mind all of a sudden assailed with doubt.

“Well . . . you’d best finish up that peppermint tea like Doctor Martin asked,” Ben quietly urged, breaking the silence that had momentarily fallen upon them all.

“Grandpa?”

“Yes, Benjy?”

“I . . . I don’t see my book,” the boy said, his eyes moving across the bed, and coming to rest on the night table, where Paul Martin’s black bag still remained.

“It’s probably upstairs in your room,” Ben said. “I’m sure you’ll find it on your night table there, when we take you back up.”

Benjy’s face suddenly lost what little color it had regained since his parents and Uncle Hoss found him outside.

“Benjy?! Are you all right?” Ben queried, half afraid the boy was going to pass out.

“Grandpa . . . I . . . please, I . . . I d-don’t wanna go back to that room upstairs,” the boy barely managed getting the words out. “May I stay HERE? Please?”

“I don’t think so, Benjy,” Ben replied. His grandson’s desperate pleas had taken him completely by surprise. “This IS you grandmother’s room.”

“Pa?”

“Yes, Stacy?”

“Mrs. di Cordova asked me to tell you that she’s moved herself to one of the spare rooms upstairs,” Stacy said very quietly.

“Since Grandmother’s moved to another room upstairs, may I please stay here, Grandfather?” Benjy begged.

“Suppose we ask your father and mother . . . and see what THEY have to say,” Ben suggested.

“Adam . . . Teresa, has the boy been running a high fever?” Paul Martin, meanwhile, asked the boy’s parents, after the three of them had moved from the downstairs guest room to the great room.

“I . . . don’t know, Doctor,” Adam replied with a helpless shrug. “When Teresa, Hoss, and I found him, his entire body was cold as ice . . . yet Hop Sing and Teresa both said his forehead was hot just after I placed him down on the settee in the living room. I haven’t the slightest idea what to make of that . . . . ”

“How about BEFORE tonight?” Paul asked.

“No, Doctor,” Teresa adamantly shook her head, “apart from an occasional complaint about an upset stomach, he’s been just fine since he, his grandmother, and sister arrived.”

“ . . . and Mrs. di Cordova made no mention of either child being ill during the time they were with her and Teresa’s father,” Adam added.

“How long the boy was outside before you found him?”

“It couldn’t have been all that long, Doctor Martin,” Adam replied. “The sound of the front door banging against the credenza woke all three of us . . . Teresa, Hoss, and me. Though we initially thought it was someone breaking into the house, I’m pretty sure it was Benjy. It had to be.”

“So . . . an hour maybe?”

Adam shook his head. “Less,” he replied. “I’d say closer to half an hour, maybe forty-five minutes at the very outside. But even so, when we found him, he was so cold . . . he felt as if he’d been outside all night long.”

“It IS pretty chilly out,” Paul agreed.

“Not that chilly, Doctor Martin,” Adam insisted. “The only time I’ve EVER felt a human being that cold was the time Joe ended up spending an entire night huddled in a lean-to against a blizzard when he was sixteen.”

“Have Dio or Mrs. di Cordova complained of similar symptoms?”

“What . . . symptoms are you talking about, Doctor?” Teresa asked. “Sorry, I . . . with everything that’s gone on here tonight, I’m afraid I’m not thinking very clearly . . . . ”

“Perfectly understandable,” Paul said kindly. “In addition to his stomach hurting, Benjy also said that his hands felt funny, and that he couldn’t feel his feet. Have either Mrs. di Cordova or Dio complained of having those symptoms?”

“No,” Teresa answered immediately.

Adam simply shook his head.

“How about the rest of the family?”

Adam and Teresa exchanged puzzled glances for a moment.

“No,” Adam finally replied. “Teresa and I’ve been here . . . it’s been a little over a month now, and everyone seems to be perfectly healthy.”

“Doctor, what . . . exactly . . . IS wrong with our son?” Teresa asked.

“I WAS afraid he might be suffering from appendicitis,” Paul replied, “but thank the Good Lord, he’s not.”

“Amen to that,” Adam heartily agreed.

“Since he’s not running a high fever, my recommendation for the next couple of days is rest,” Paul Martin quietly imparted his instructions. “I . . . know how you Cartwrights tend to be about keeping still when you’re not well, so you’ll be relieved to hear you DON’T have to confine young Benjy to bed, as long as he takes things easy.”

His words brought an amused smile to Teresa’s lips, in the midst of her anxiety and concern.

“Keep him on a soft, bland diet, and see that he gets plenty of liquids . . . water, weak tea, broth . . . as much as you can get in him,” Paul continued. “I’d go easy on the milk, though . . . sometimes it can be a little difficult to digest. When the pharmacy in town opens, I’ll ask Amos to send out some medication to ease his nausea and settle his stomach. That and Hop Sing’s peppermint tea should help the boy keep things down so he can regain his strength.”

“How often should we give Benjy the medicine, Doctor?” Teresa asked.

“A spoonful before and after each meal, and at bed time,” Paul replied. “Don’t worry. I’ll write out the instructions. Now if Benjy DOES start running a high fever, or if his symptoms worsen, please send for me immediately.”

“We will, Doctor,” Adam promised.

“Thank you so much for coming out, Doctor Martin,” Teresa said gratefully. “Now if you’ll both excuse me, I’d better see to Benjy and let Ben go back to bed, and try to salvage what he can of a good night’s sleep.”

“Yes, of course,” Paul readily assented. “I’ll be back around in a couple of days to look in on him.”

“I’ll see you out, Doctor Martin,” Adam offered.

“There’s no need, Adam,” Paul said. “After all these years, I can find my way out blindfolded.”

“I want to ask you about a couple of those symptoms Benjy mentioned,” Adam said, as he fell in step beside the physician, “specifically the funny feelings in his hands and not being able to feel his feet.”

“What about them?”

Adam sighed very softly and shook his head, as he opened the front door for the doctor. “I hope you don’t think me an overwrought father, but . . . those symptoms and some of the questions you asked Teresa and me . . . there’s something nagging at the back of my mind about all that, but for the life of me, I can’t recall . . . . ”

“Frankly, I’m surprised you remember anything about that,” Paul said, “you couldn’t have been much older than your son at the time . . . IF that . . . and, as I recall you were pretty sick yourself. So was Hoss.”

“Sick with . . . the same symptoms Benjy complained about earlier?”

Paul nodded.

“What kind if illness did Hoss and I have . . . exactly?”

“You and Hoss were stricken with ergot poisoning,” Paul explained.

“Ergot . . . isn’t that some kind of rye mold?” Adam asked.

Paul nodded his head. “You two were very lucky,” he said. “By the time you and Hoss were stricken, old Doctor Pritchard and I had figured out that the epidemic going around Virginia City was a wide spread case of ergot poisoning. You boys recovered very quickly after your pa removed all the rye bread and flour from his larder.”

“The moldy rye was found in the general store, wasn’t it,” Adam said, stating fact rather than making an inquiry.

“Yes, it was,” Paul replied. “Caleb Marsh, the proprietor . . . Adam, in the normal course of things, I don’t make it a general practice to speak ill of the dead, but the kindest things I can think of to say about that man are . . . he was a meaner than a snake, and as miserly, and as greedy as they come.” The doctor was surprised at high his feelings still ran after all these years at the mere mention of the man’s name.

“Just before the first children were stricken with ergot poisoning, Caleb had gotten hold of a very large quantity of rye, a whole barn full, in fact . . . in what was ‘just about the sweetest deal ever made.’ HIS words when he bragged about it to anyone in earshot . . . not mine,” the doctor continued. “By the time Doctor Pritchard, then Deputy Sheriff Coffee, your pa, and I traced the bad rye to the general store . . . nearly twenty children had already died.”

“It’s the less fortunate among us who most commonly buy rye flour to make their bread because it’s cheaper than flour ground from wheat,” Adam said.

“At the time that description would have fit nearly everyone.”

“ . . . Pa included,” Adam agreed. “We were what most would call land poor. All the money Pa worked for and saved went to purchase the first parcel of land that would someday become the Ponderosa, and when I was around Benjy’s age, most of the money we made then went back into the operation. Back then, it seemed a good portion of our meals were rye bread, milk, and eggs, especially during the winter months, when the apples and potatoes we’d harvested earlier began to run low. I also remember Pa doing without supper, and dinner, too, on many occasions so there would be enough for Hoss and me.”

“A lot of other parents did as your pa did so that their children could eat,” Paul said sadly, yet with a touch of anger. “That’s why so many children were down sick, but so few adults. It was a cruel irony . . . a very cruel irony indeed . . . that the parents’ sacrifice ultimately doomed their children.”

“It runs in my mind there was a family nearby who was particularly hard hit,” Adam said slowly.

“Yes. They were neighbors of yours, Adam . . . mother, father, the father’s parents, and six children,” the doctor affirmed. “Their farm was right here, in fact.”

“Do you remember their name?”

“The family’s name was Menken,” Paul replied, then shook his head. “I’m afraid their first names escape me, though I can still see their faces. All six children ended up dying of ergot poisoning. That was a tragedy that should NEVER have happed.”

“Why do you say that?” Adam asked. An ice-cold shiver ran down the entire length of his spine. He turned and cast a quick furtive glance over his shoulder.

“The Menken children were stricken not long AFTER you and Hoss,” Paul explained. “YOUR pa got rid of the bad rye flour when he found out what you boys were suffering from and why. Mister Menken . . . didn’t, though I didn’t find that out until after their eldest boy died.”

“He was the last of the Menken children to die?”

“Yes.”

“I wonder why Mister Menken didn’t get rid of the bad rye?” Adam quietly wondered aloud.

“I’m afraid I don’t know . . . not for absolute certain,” Paul replied. “MY guess is they were too poor to buy anymore.”

“How could THAT be?!” Adam demanded, incredulous. “You said their farm was where our house and barn are now . . . right?”

Paul nodded.

“The land here is very good land, very fertile with a stream running not far from where Pa and I built the house. I think YOU know that as well as I do.” Adam sighed and shook his head in complete bewilderment. “They could’ve easily supported themselves at the very least.”

“Key word there is work, Adam, as, I think, YOU know very well,” Paul replied. “Mrs. Menken and their oldest boy tried, bless their hearts. They tried very hard, but it was too much for them to handle alone . . . even WITH your pa giving them a hand from time to time.”

“What about Mister Menken . . . and his parents?”

“Neither Mister Menken nor his parents could be bothered,” Paul said, his voice filled with contempt. “He and his father were a couple of drunkards and his mother was a bitter, angry old woman, who by and large kept to herself . . . but I digress.

“The morning the oldest Menken boy was laid to rest, Mister Menken and his father both were drunk,” the doctor continued. “Looking back, I’m inclined to think the elder Mister Menken, the grandfather, may have been the instigator behind a lot of this. While your pa and Roy buried the boy, the boy’s father ranted on and on about how he didn’t believe for one minute the rye was bad . . . that Roy and I’d said so was because we wanted to starve him and his family into pulling up stakes and moving on . . . he even went so far as to accuse ME of murdering all six children. Between that and the fact that the Menken children were the first patients I’d ever lost . . . I almost took down my shingle then and there . . . for good.”

“Well, I for one, am very glad you DIDN’T take down your shingle for good,” Adam said earnestly. “I trusted you in years past to look after my pa and brothers, and I trust you now to look after my son. Now mind, I’m not expecting it, but if . . . if anything untoward DOES happen, I’ll know that you did everything you could.”

“Thank you, Adam . . . for that vote of confidence.”

Roses.

The air all around him smelled like roses.

The cloying scent lay heavy on the air, a palpable thing, like a heavy vapor rising from a warm body of water on a cold, icy morning. So heavy, he could actually taste the roses every time he drew breath. He slowly opened his eyes and found himself lying in the middle of the bed in Grandmother’s room. The bright morning sun shone through the windows, projecting a patchwork of light and shadow on the carpet below.

“What am I doing HERE?” He asked himself. Then, suddenly, he remembered. He took sick during the night, and couldn’t go back to his own room for some reason . . . .

Since Grandmother decided to move upstairs, they decided he could stay here . . . with Papa.

“Papa?”

He glanced around the room, his eyes darting frantically from pillar to post. Papa was nowhere in sight. He was alone. Completely and utterly alone.

“NO! OH NO, OH NO . . . NO!”

It was Mother. The grief, the hopeless despair he heard in her anguished cries broke his heart. Through eyes half closed, he saw her bending over him, her face pale, its lines deeply etched by a weariness that seemed to infuse her entire being. The fine tendrils of red hair framed her face like a ruddy cloud, and her blue eyes shone with newly formed tears that fed the rivulets already flowing down her red, swollen cheeks.

“Wake up, Baby!” she begged, in a voice barely audible. She gently tapped his cheeks with her rough, callused hand. “Please, Baby. Please, please wake up!”

“Stop that!” Papa’s face now loomed above him, unshaven, his eyes gray and lifeless. He had brown, curly hair, a wide mouth, and broad jaw line. His breath reeked of homemade hooch.

“Gotta wake up m’ boy. I need him.” Mother patted his cheeks again. “Come ON, Baby, please? Please? Wake up for Mama?”

He tried desperately to move, to blink his eyes, say something, but a strange, frightening paralysis seemed to have risen up out of nowhere and overtaken his body.

“Oh, Baby, please . . . please,” Mother groaned, patting his cheeks with a firmer, more insistent hand. “You GOTTA wake up!”

Her anguish stirred up sadness and regret, the like of which he had never known. He wanted to cry, would have given just about anything to cry, but the tears would not come. All he could do was lie there, helpless, unable to move or communicate . . . .

I’m sorry, Mother, he silently lamented. I want to wake up, I wish I COULD wake up . . . more than I’ve ever wished for anything, but I can’t.

“STOP IT!” Papa yelled, his face red as the roses he kept smelling. “YOU STOP IT RIGHT NOW, Y’ HEAR? I ALREADY DONE TOL’JA . . . HE AIN’T GONNA WAKE UP. NOT NOW, NOT NEVER! HE AIN’T NEVER, EVER, GONNA WAKE UP . . . NOT EVER AGAIN.”

A low guttural wail, primal in its anguish, rose from the depths of Mother’s throat, as Papa dragged her to her feet and pulled her away from the bed.

“I’m sorry.” A third face appeared. A man’s face, framed by a thick, wavy mane of hair the deep rich color of newly turned earth. His kind eyes were filled with deep sadness and bitter regret.

He had seen that face and those eyes before. He desperately wracked his brains, trying to remember.

The man with the sad eyes and kind face grabbed something in his hands and started pulling it toward him. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “I’m really . . . very . . . very . . . sorry.”

“Paul . . . . ”

Grandpa?! The face now peering down at him over the shoulder of the kind man with sad eyes was much younger than the face he was accustomed to seeing, but he knew without a shred of doubt it WAS Grandpa’s face.

“ . . . you did everything you possibly could.”

“Unfortunately, it wasn’t enough . . . it wasn’t anywhere NEAR enough,” the man Grandpa called Paul said. The something he held in both hands was a sheet. For one brief moment he thought Paul was going to tuck him in, the way Papa had . . . was it last night? The night before perhaps? Last YEAR?! All of a sudden, he couldn’t quite remember.

But, Paul didn’t tuck him in . . . .

He pulled the sheet up over his head.

“No,” Mother wept, somewhere on the other side of the sheet. “Not my baby! Not . . . MY . . . baby!”

Grandpa?! he whimpered, frightened and feeling very much alone. Help me, Grandpa! Please . . . you’ve gotta help me . . . .

Grandpa never came.

He called, and called, and called, yelling so loud, he gave himself a headache.

But no one came.

Eventually, the men’s voices and Mother’s piteous weeping diminished, taking with them the music of the occasional summer breezes wafting through the trees, the buzzing of locusts, the near constant chattering of birds, and the mournful lowing of their hungry milk cow and her half starved calf. The stillness left in the wake of their passing frightened him.

“ ‘Fraidy cat, fraidy cat . . . . ” His sister’s whisper soft chanting shattered the silence with a near deafening roar. “ ‘Fraidy cat, ‘fraidy cat . . . Benjy is a ‘fraidy cat . . . . ”

Shut-up, Dio.

“It’s TRUE, Benjy!” she taunted. “You ARE a ‘fraidy cat.”

I TOLD you to shut-up.

“You’re nothin’ but a great big . . . . ”

STOP IT!

“ . . . ‘fraidy cat, cry baby!”

STOP IT, DIO! DO YOU HEAR ME? STOP IT!

Benjy?

Benjy, it’s Papa!

Wake up, Benjy . . . .

His eyes snapped open. Taking a deep, ragged breath, he screamed at the top of his lungs.

Adam was immediately at his son’s side, gathering the terrified boy in his arms, holding him close. At length, Benjy’s terrified screaming gave way to near hysterical sobbing. “It’s all right, Buddy, it’s all right,” Adam murmured softly, his voice catching. “I’m here . . . I’m right here, Son, and I’m going to stay right here!”

Benjy, clinging to his father for dear life, buried his face tight against Adam’s shoulder. “Oh, Papa . . . Papa,” he wept, “it w-was . . . it was horrible!”

Adam’s sharp ears picked up the faint sounds of someone lightly rapping on the closed door to the downstairs bedroom. “Who is it?”

“Hop Sing, Mister Adam.”

“Come on in, Hop Sing, please.”

Hop Sing opened the door and ambled into the room, carrying the brandy snifter in one hand and a glass in the other. “Help boy calm down, maybe sleep better.”

“Thank you, Hop Sing,” Adam said gratefully. “Would you mind pouring some into that glass?”

Hop Sing nodded and filled the glass half way, then handed it to Adam.

“Benjy . . . . ”

Adam tried to turn him around, but the boy hung on, his arms firmly clasped around Adam’s neck.

“It’s all right, Buddy,” Adam said in a quiet, reassuring tone. He handed the glass back to Hop Sing, then gently turned the still sobbing Benjy around and placed him on his lap. “I’d like you to drink a little of this . . . . ” He reached out his hand to take back the brandy glass.

“D-don’t go, Papa, please? Please, don’t go!” Benjy sobbed.

“Don’t you worry one bit about that, Son. I am not going ANYWHERE,” Adam hastened to assure the boy. He brought the brandy glass close to his son’s lips. “Benjy, I’d like you to take a sip of this . . . . ”

Sobbing, Benjy swallowed from the glass touching his bottom lip, and coughed.

Adam held his son and gently stroked his back, until the boy’s coughing subsided. “This brandy’s strong stuff, Buddy. I’d like you to take one more sip, if you can manage?”

Benjy nodded. When his father brought the glass to his lips again, he sipped gingerly.

The boy’s weeping lessened, and Adam felt his body sagging more heavily against him. He handed the brandy glass back to Hop Sing.

“Mister Adam need Hop Sing for anything more?”

Adam wearily shook his head. “We’ll be alright now, Hop Sing. Thank you for bringing that brandy.”

“Hop Sing go to bed now. Leave brandy for Mister Adam on table beside bed.”

“Thank you.”

“Good night, Mister Adam, and you, too, Benjy.”

“Good night, Hop Sing.”

“Oh, Papa, it was horrible!” Benjy murmured in a small, frightened voice, after Hop Sing had gone.

Adam hugged his son closer. “Do you want to talk about it?” he quietly invited.

“D-Do I have to?”

Adam was taken aback by the question. “No, Benjy, you don’t HAVE to tell me. I . . . just thought maybe you’d WANT to tell me.”

Benjy buried his face against his father’s shoulder, drawing from him comfort and reassurance. “No! I . . . I’d rather NOT, Papa. Please don’t make me! Please! It’s . . . it’s too scary!”

“I won’t make you tell me, Buddy,” Adam promised.

“Thank you, Papa.”

“May I tell you a story instead?”

Benjy found himself smiling despite the terror that yet remained with him. “Y-you haven’t told me any bedtime stories since . . . I guess since I was Dio’s age.”

“This one’s a little different because it’s true,” Adam said.

“Really?”

“Um hmm. Would you like to hear it?”

“Yes, Papa.”

“This story begins on Christmas Eve . . . oh, it’s been a few years now. It was the year you told your mother and me that you no longer believed in Santa Claus,” Adam began.

“I remember.”

“You also asked me about my mother,” Adam continued. “I think your exact words were, ‘How come Mother has a mother and papa, but you only have a papa?’ ”

“You told me that YOUR mother died a long time ago, when you were a baby.”

Adam nodded. “I know what she looked like. My pa, your grandpa, had those two miniatures of him and her for a long time. I think someone gave them those paintings as a wedding gift.”

“Are those the portraits you keep on the desk in your study, Papa?”

“Yes, they are, Benjy,” Adam replied. “Because we had that picture, I always knew what my mother looked like, but I never had the chance to know her because I was so young when she died.”

“But . . . you’ve told Dio and me all kinds of things about her.”

“A lot of what I’ve told the two of you, are memories your grandpa has shared with me over the years.”

“Didn’t he also give you her diary for a present that same Christmas?”

Adam smiled. “Yes, he did, along with a bound, printed copy of his own journal that covers the time he courted my mother, their marriage, and my coming into the world. He also gave me the letters both of them wrote back and forth to each other all the times he was at sea.”

“I remember. You’ve read some of them to Mother, Dio, and me.”

“Yes, I have,” Adam replied. “Over the years, I’ve come to know about my mother through what my father told me, and through words she, herself, wrote in her diary. But I have no memories of my own about her. The first mother I really knew was a wonderful, kind, beautiful lady from Sweden. Her name was Inger Borgstrom.”

“Grandma Inger?”

Adam smiled and nodded his head. “That’s right. Grandma Inger.”

“She was Uncle Hoss’ mother.”

“Yes, she was, but in a very real way, she was just as much MY mother, too,” Adam continued. “I know she loved me very much. I remember her singing me to sleep almost every night with lullabies in Swedish. She had a very lovely voice. That first night, after Uncle Hoss came into the world, she sang the both of us to sleep.” Adam felt his eyes misting as he remembered. “That night, Benjy, I think Inger sang her most beautiful lullaby ever.”

“She died, too, didn’t she?” Benjy asked. “When Uncle Hoss was a baby?”

“Yes, she did.”

“How, Papa?”

“She was killed in an Indian raid at the Ash Hallow Way Station,” Adam said, his voice catching. “One minute, she was at the window with rifle in hand, the next she lay dying in your grandpa’s arms with an arrow in her back. We, your grandpa and I, were devastated. After we buried Inger and moved on, I began to have some terrifying nightmares.”

“Like . . . the one’s I’ve had?”

“I think so, Benjy, because they left me every bit as upset and frightened as you’re feeling right now. Because Inger died so suddenly, I was terrified I’d lose Pa, too. I wanted to talk to him about it, but I just couldn’t bring myself.”

“Why not?”

“I didn’t want him to think I was some kind of sissy,” Adam replied. “I was the big boy after all, and with Inger gone, I had to help Pa look after your uncle, Hoss. So, night after night I kept on having these horrible nightmares of Hoss and Pa being killed, or of them going off and forgetting me. One night, I woke up screaming from what had to have been the scariest one of them all . . . . ”

Memory of that dream came back with all the sharp, crystal clarity of an event that had happened five minutes ago.

They were all back at the way station at Ash Hallow. He could hear the angry and terrifying cries of the war party, as they rode down over the hill toward the way station, sounding like a shrieking bird of prey as it swoops down on its hapless victim. As before, he was huddled in a safe corner, with baby Hoss in his arms, feeling horribly alone and more frightened than he could recall ever having felt in his entire life. Ma, he had called Inger that from the very beginning, and Pa were at the windows with the others, armed with rifles fighting for their very lives.

Then, suddenly, an arrow flew in through the open window and found its mark deep in Inger’s back. She cried out, then collapsed, with a strange, agonizing slowness. Before she reached the floor, a second arrow embedded itself in Pa’s chest. He stumbled back, his face a terrible mixture of astonishment and rage. His movements were also terribly slowed, like Ma’s. The impact of their bodies striking the floor, Ma first, then Pa, sounded for all the world like rolling thunder.

Adam bolted from the safety of the corner, clutching his infant brother in his arms, screaming. A third arrow flew into the window and found its mark in Hoss’ heart. The baby in his arms let out an ear piercing, high-pitched wail, before going completely limp.

Adam remembered frantically, desperately running back and forth from Pa, to Ma, and to Baby Hoss, calling to them and shaking them. No one moved. The three of them lay together in a pile, their eyes round and staring, seeing nothing. Adam screamed again, until he was hoarse. Afterward a heavy, deafening silence fell. He turned away for a moment. When he turned back, they were gone. Ma, Pa, Hoss. Gone, as if they had never been. The people who had accompanied them to the way station were gone, too. He was all alone in a big, empty world . . . .

“Papa?”

The sound of Benjy’s voice brought Adam back to present time and place, shocked and astonished by the how clear and vivid that dream remained in his memory. “Y-yes, Benjy?”

“What happened? When you woke from that dream?”

“Your grandpa took me in his arms and held me while I cried, like he always did. After I settled down, he asked me what the dream was about. I wouldn’t tell him. That night, however, he told me something I never forgot.”

“What was THAT, Papa?”

“He told me that most dreams are letters we write to ourselves,” Adam said. “Instead of writing those letters in words, we write them in pictures. The good dreams let us know that everything’s all right. The bad ones are trying to tell us that something needs to be fixed. He told me that the only way something can be fixed is to take a good, long, hard look at it, and see where it’s broken. That night, I told Pa about the dream, and I also told him about my fear of losing him. You know what?”

“What?”

“He DIDN’T laugh at me or get mad at me for being a sissy. He just sat there and held me in his arms for a very long time, the exact same way I’m holding you right now. He told me how much he loved me and that he and Hoss would never, ever leave without me.”

“Did you stop having the bad dreams?”

“Not right away. But when they came, they weren’t as scary as they had been,” Adam replied, “and as time passed they came less and less often, until they eventually stopped altogether.”

Benjy silently digested all that his father had told him. He desperately wanted to tell his father about the dreams, and of his feelings toward Dio. Yet, he held back, feeling oddly afraid. “Papa?”

“Yes, Son?”

“I . . . would it be ok if I read for a little while?” Benjy asked. “Just long enough to get sleepy . . . . ”

“Alright,” Adam quietly gave permission.

Benjy turned to the night table beside this bed, and, not finding his book there, began to search among his bedclothes. “ . . . uhhh, Papa?”

“Yes, Son?”

“I can’t find it.”

“You probably left it in the room upstairs,” Adam said quietly.

Benjy lifted his eyes and face slowly, very reluctantly toward the ceiling. “P-Papa? Would you . . . would you please g-get it for me?” he asked, his voice shaking.

“Perhaps you should just lie back and close your eyes,” Adam suggested.

“Please, Papa?” the boy begged, his fearful gaze still on the ceiling. “I . . . I’m afraid if I . . . if I close my eyes, that dream will c-come back . . . . ”

“It’ll take me a few minutes to go upstairs and get the book. Will you be all right . . . by yourself?” Adam asked, remembering his son’s terror at the prospect of being left alone just a short time before.

“I-I’ll be ok,” Benjy said.

“You’re sure?”

Benjy nodded.

“I’ll be back in a few minutes, then,” Adam promised, as he rose to his feet.

“Adam?”

Mid-way between the mid and top landings, he froze upon hearing his name. Teresa emerged from the deep shadow less than a moment later. “Is everything all right?” he asked, mentally bracing himself.

“Fine,” Teresa replied, as he husband walked up the remaining steps.

“Dio?”

“She and Mother are both sound asleep, thank goodness,” Teresa replied, weary and with a measure of relief. “What about Benjy?”

“He woke up out of a nightmare . . . a real bad one, given the way he was screaming,” Adam replied. “He asked if he might read for a little while to help him back to sleep.”

“Perhaps if you got him to talk about that nightmare--- ”

“I asked him, Teresa, but he won’t,” Adam said curtly. “I’ve done everything I can think of to let him know that the both of us are willing to listen, that we won’t in anyway think the less of him, but I can’t force him to speak against his will.”

“I’m sorry, Adam,” Teresa immediately apologized.

“I’m sorry, too,” Adam said ruefully. “Right now, I’m feeling frustrated, a little angry, and worried sick, but I had no right to take all that out on you.”

“Did Benjy leave his book in the spare room he just vacated?”

Adam nodded.

“Why don’t you go on back downstairs?” Teresa suggested. “I’ll get his book and bring it down . . . . ”

“You needn’t trouble yourself, Sweetheart. I’m already upstairs.”

“No trouble,” Teresa firmly assured him. “I was just getting ready to come downstairs and look in on you and Benjy anyway . . . . ”

Teresa made her way back up the hall toward the small room Benjy had vacated, shivering against the cold in the hallway. She placed her flattened hand against the door, standing ajar, and gently pushed open it all the way. “Goodness! It’s . . . it’s FREEZING in here!” she murmured softly, as she entered the room. It was a deep, bone chilling cold, against which her nightgown, robe, and slippers offered scant protection. She saw Benjy’s book lying on the nightstand, where the boy had apparently left it before going to sleep earlier. She crossed the room, teeth chattering, and picked up the book.

Teresa started to leave the room, then paused. “I’d better check that window,” she decided. Walking over to the window, she saw immediately that it was closed and locked tight. Teresa turned again to leave. Before she had gone a half dozen steps, she froze mid-stride and gasped. Out of the corner of his eye, she caught the blurring movement of something luminous white.

“Hey! Where— ”

She quickly turned, but saw no one.

“Hmpf! Now MY imagination’s starting to run away with me,” Teresa grumbled under her breath, as she tucked the book up under her arm and turned to leave for the third time. She stopped at the threshold between the bedroom and the hallway, thinking for one brief insane moment, she had heard the sound of a boy’s laughter, fading in the distance. “Nah!” she muttered aloud, as he left the room.

A few moments later, a young boy with a pale face and brown curls, clad in a luminous white nightshirt emerged from the deepest shadows in the room and smiled.

“Mama?” Dio stood at the threshold between hall and the room given to her parents, knocking against the doorframe, though the door was standing wide open. “Mama, can . . . . ” She frowned, and exhaled a soft, disparaging sigh. “MAY I come in?”

“Of course,” Teresa immediately gave her daughter permission.

“Mama, I wanna go home,” Dio announced, as she entered the room, clad still in nightgown, and a pair of slippers. Her voice caught on the last word.

“You want to go home?!” Teresa echoed, incredulous. She deftly tucked her blouse in behind the waist band of her long, full skirt, then motioned for her young daughter to follow her over to the bed she and Adam shared.

Dio silently fell in step behind her mother and, upon reaching the bed, climbed up and settled in beside her.

Teresa was surprised to see that the little girl’s eyes blinked to excess and that her cheeks were wet. “What’s the matter?” she asked, as she gently pushed back a stray lock of dark hair that had fallen down into the child’s face. “You’ve been looking forward to visiting your grandpa for . . . well . . . for the better part of the last year, at least . . . and now you want to go home?”

Dio nodded.

“Why?”

“ ‘Cause I’m not having any fun!” Dio half sobbed. “Aunt Stacy hates me--- ”

“Sweetheart, your aunt doesn’t hate you,” Teresa tried to reassure the distraught little girl.

“Yes, she does.”

“If Aunt Stacy hated you, she wouldn’t have let you ride home with her on Blaze Face when you, Benjy, and Grandmother arrived in Virginia City,” Teresa very reasonably pointed out, “and she certainly wouldn’t have tucked you into bed that night.”

“Well, I hate HER!” Dio declared, her face darkening with anger.

“Why do you hate Aunt Stacy?” Teresa asked, astonished and completely bewildered.

“ ‘Cause she won’t give me anymore riding lessons.”

“Dio, we talked about that. Remember?” Teresa responded in a very quiet, yet very firm tone of voice.

“It’s not fair!” Dio argued. “Benjy made me look stupid!”

“Dio, it wasn’t very nice of Benjy to correct you in front of your aunt,” Teresa freely admitted, “but the things you said to your brother weren’t very nice either.”

“Benjy was mean first.”

“ . . . and two wrongs don’t make a right,” Teresa immediately pointed out.

“That’s NOT fair!” Dio hotly protested, the angry scowl on her face deepening. “It’s not! That makes it so Benjy can be as mean to me as he wants, but I can’t be mean back!”

“Dio, that’s not--- ”

“You ‘n Papa like HIM best!” she accused, her voice rising.

“Dolores Elizabeth Cartwright . . . you will NOT speak to me in that way,” Teresa sternly admonished her daughter.

“But, it’s TRUE, Mama . . . it’s TRUE!” the child plunged on recklessly. “You ‘n Papa DO like Benjy best, ‘cause you always let HIM do whatever he wants, but you won’t let ME.”

“That’s enough, Young Lady,” Teresa snapped, then closed her eyes and slowly, very slowly counted to ten in a valiant, desperate attempt to keep her rising temper in check. “Dio, it sounds to me like you need to calm down,” she said, laboring to keep her own rising temper in check. “After breakfast--- ”

“I hate him!”

“Dio!”

“I DO, Mama! I HATE Benjy . . . I hate that other mean boy . . . and I hate YOU!” With that she jumped down from the bed before Teresa could even think to stop her, and fled from the room weeping more from anger, frustration, and fear than from sadness.

For a time, Teresa remained where she was, unmoving, angry, yet stunned to the very core of being, her eyes glued to her daughter’s fast retreating back.

“Hold on there, Young ‘n!” Hoss exclaimed, startled, when Dio barreled into him less than a half dozen steps into the hall. He reached out and with gentle, yet firm grasp, took hold of her right forearm. “Where are YOU off t’ in such an all fired hurry?”

“LEMME GO!” Dio yelled, with tears streaming down her face like rivers. “LEMME GO!”

Hoss all of a sudden felt as if he had just taken hold of a cougar by its tail, as his niece struggled to free herself. “Easy there, Lil’ Gal . . . take---!” His exhortation ended in a loud bellow of pain, when Dio reared around and sunk her teeth deep into the tender flesh of his right hand. His fingers automatically uncurled, setting the child free.

With a strangled cry, Dio half ran, half stumbled the remaining way to her room. She ran inside and slammed the door shut behind her with all the strength and might she could summon.

“What in the world set that li’l gal off?” Hoss wondered aloud, perplexed and bewildered.

“I wish I knew,” Teresa replied, angry, yet miserable, uncertain, and feeling completely, and utterly helpless. Her eyes immediately dropped down to the telltale horseshoe shape, etched deep enough into his hand, to draw forth a thin trickle of blood. “Oh no,” she groaned. “Hoss, did Dio---?!”

“Yeah, I’m afraid so,” Hoss said ruefully. “My fault, Teresa. I was tryin’ t’ slow her down a li’l . . . . ”

“That’s no excuse for biting,” Teresa said. “As soon as she and I both calm down, I intend to have a long talk with her.”

“You ain’t gonna tan her . . . uhhh . . . are ya?”

“That is going depend on how well or badly she acts when we have that talk later on,” Teresa said firmly, then softened. “In the meantime, we’d better get you downstairs to Hop Sing so that bite can be properly treated.”

“Aww . . . no need t’ bother Hop Sing,” Hoss protested. “It’s just a li’l flesh wound . . . . ”

“Sometimes it’s the little flesh wounds that end up getting the most infected,” Teresa said as she took firm hold of his left hand. “Now let’s g’won downstairs and see Hop Sing.”

“ ‘Morning, Teresa . . . ‘morning, H--- ” Joe gasped upon seeing the red, angry looking horseshoe shaped wound on Hoss’ right hand. “Hol-leee---!? What in the world happened to YOU, Big Brother? You tangle with an angry bob cat or something this morning?”

“I’m afraid the angry bob cat in question was Dio,” Teresa said, wincing against the sudden rush of blood to her cheeks. “Is Hop Sing up yet?”

“Yeah . . . . ” Joe replied.

“I sure hope t’ heaven he’s in a better mood than he was yesterday mornin’,” Hoss groused.

“Don’t count on it, Big Brother,” Joe said somberly. “Judging from the way he’s been slamming his pots ‘n pans around in the kitchen . . . . ” He sighed and sarcastically rolled his eyes heavenward. “ . . . I’d say he’s in a WORSE mood this morning.”

“Ah! Good morning, good morning, good morning!” Hop Sing flew out of the kitchen with a big, bright sunny smile on his face. He carried a large tray with pot, matching sugar and creamer, and enough clean, white mugs to accommodate the adults in the family.

Joe’s face turned white as a sheet. With a soft groan, he turned and looked over at Hoss, his face and eyes mirroring the horror and dread he felt within. His big brother’s face was an exact copy of his own.

“I thought you said Hop Sing was in a bad mood,” Teresa said, with a bewildered frown.

“He is,” Joe replied, making sure he kept a respectful distance between himself and the family’s chief cook.

“But he . . . he’s smiling!” Teresa pointed out, her frown deepening.

“So do crocodiles, Ma’am,” Joe returned, making it a point to lower his voice.

“Joseph Francis Cartwright, if I find out you’re pulling my leg . . . . ” The bewilderment in Teresa’s face underwent a lightening quick transformation to something significantly more threatening.

“Leastwise we got some coffee,” Hoss said, as he poured himself a generous mug full. He raised the mug nearly half way to his lips them froze. “What th---?!” he exclaimed, as his gaze settled on the nearly transparent golden amber liquid. “Doggone it, Hop Sing . . . this coffee’s so dang weak I can see right through it!” he complained.

“That NOT coffee!” Hop Sing snapped, smile and overdone good humor evaporating in an instant. “That TEA! All we got! Bad boy spill coffee and tea all over counter and floor. No more coffee left . . . and THAT last of tea!”

“Dadburn it!”

“Teresa . . . . ”

She started violently and whirled in her tracks, upon hearing her name.

“H-Hoss . . . Joe . . . Hop Sing . . . . ”

It was Adam. He stood in the open doorway to the downstairs bedroom, leaning heavily against the frame. His face was alarmingly pale and his breathing ragged and shallow.

“Help . . . I . . . I need your h--- ” He groaned softly, then collapsed like a marionette whose strings had just been cut.

“ADAM!” Teresa cried, pushing her way past Joe first, then Hop Sing. She tore across the room with Hoss following close at her heels. Upon reaching her husband, she half fell, half collapsed on her knees beside him. “H-How . . . he’s freezing!” she exclaimed when she touched him.

“This is nuts!” Joe declared. “It’s the middle of summer for cryin’ out loud.”

“Benjy!” Teresa gasped, as she turned and peered into the room.

“I’ll get him,” Joe volunteered. “The both of ya g’won . . . get Adam over to the settee and get him warmed up.”

Joe entered the downstairs bedroom and found, much to his amazement, that the temperature was so cold, he could see his own breath. He saw his nephew lying in the middle of the bed, unmoving, bundled under at least three winter blankets and a quilt. Joe started toward the night table, rubbing his forearms vigorously for warmth. He found himself pausing occasionally, and glancing back over his shoulder.

Go away.

Joe immediately paused, mid-stride, his body tense, his eyes and ears alert for any sound, any kind of movement, no matter how slight.

I SAID go away.

Joe turned and looked over at his nephew. He knew immediately that the boy hadn’t even moved, let alone spoken aloud.

Get out!

Suddenly Joe felt a small, rock hard fist sucker punch him hard in the solar plexus. He doubled over, unable to get his breath. Before he realized what was happening, a pair of invisible hands grabbed two fists full of his hair and yanked him forward, bringing him down onto his knees with a dull thud. Tears stung Joe’s eyes. He would have cried out, had he sufficient breath to do so.

I HATE you. I HATE your stinkin’ guts! Get out.

Fists, hundreds of child sized fists, began to rain down heavily on his back, one after the other after the other in rapid succession. Joe tried to rise, only to be brought down to his knees again, by a hard blow to the head. He lowered his head pressing his chin tight his chest, then instinctively raised his left arm to shield his face. Using two legs and one arm, he managed to crawl another half dozen steps, while his invisible assailant continued to rain blows down on his back shoulders and neck. His last conscious memory was of stumbling and the floor rising up fast and furious to meet him.

“Pa? I think he’s coming around.”

“Joseph?”

His eyes lids flickered, then parted slightly. He winced against the bright sunlight pouring into his room, and squeezed his eyes shut once again.

“Stacy, would you please pull the curtains closed?”

“Sure, Pa.”

He heard the soft scraping sound of a chair being pushed back and the sound of his sister’s quiet footfalls moving across the room.

“Joe? You still with us, Boy?”

“H-Here, Pa . . . . ” He groaned weakly, his voice sounding many miles distant. He opened his eyes again, slowly. Very slowly. The anxious faces of his father and sister swam before his eyes.

“Glad to have you back, Grandpa,” Stacy greeted him with a weary, anxious smile.

“How do you feel, Son?” Ben asked anxiously.

“I got one rip roarin’ headache, n’ I feel like I just been trampled over by a hundred cattle stampedes . . . one right after the other,” Joe groaned. “Wha’ happened?”

“We’re hoping YOU could tell US,” Stacy said anxiously.

“Hoss told me you’d gone into the bedroom downstairs to get Benjy,” Ben explained. “He began to wonder what was taking you so long, and went back to investigate. He found you lying in the middle of the room, out cold.”

Suddenly, everything came back in a rushing flood. “Adam! Pa, is he--- . . . how is he---?!”

“He’s conscious, Joe,” Ben replied. “He came to within a few minutes after Hoss, Teresa, and Hop Sing got him settled on the settee. Doctor Martin’s looking after him right now.”

“What about Benjy?” Joe snapped out the question. “Pa, we’ve gotta get him outta that room!” He threw aside his bedclothes, and started to sit up.

“Joe?! Grandpa, what in the heck do ya think you’re doing?!” Stacy demanded, indignant yet very fearful. She reached out and caught hold of his forearm.

Joe easily shook her off. “Gotta get Benjy,” he muttered as he quickly rose from lying prone to sitting. He groaned softly and squeezed his eyes tight shut when the room, his father, and sister began to pulsate and spin with nauseating intensity.

“Let that be a good lesson for ya, Young Man,” Ben sternly admonished his youngest son, with voice filled with anxiety and exasperation. He slipped his arm around Joe’s shoulders, and holding tight, eased him back down onto the bed.

“Grandpa?” Stacy softly ventured as she helped their father pull the covers back up over Joe.

“Y-Yeah?”

“Benjy uhhh . . . didn’t . . . . ?!”

Joe started to shake his head, then thought better of it. “No, Kid. Not our Benjy.”

Stacy exhaled a long, soft sigh of relief.

“Where’s OUR Benjy now?” Joe demanded.

“Teresa and Hop Sing moved him upstairs to Adam’s old room,” Ben replied, as he deftly tucked his son back in. “It’s the warmest room in the house and with him there, she can keep an eye on him and Adam.”

“How’s Benjy doin’?” Joe asked.

“I don’t want you to worry yourself one bit about Benjy, Young Man,” Ben replied a little too quickly in that brisk tone of voice not particularly inviting to further questions regarding the subject under discussion. “He’s gonna be just fine.”

“Pa . . . . ”

“Yes, Son?”

“Tell Teresa . . . ‘n Adam, too! Tell ‘em to keep a real close eye on Benjy,” Joe said. “You’ve gotta tell ‘em, Pa . . . . ”

“Joe, you don’t need to worry yourself about that,” Ben gently admonished his youngest boy, while smoothing back that unruly lock of hair that was forever falling down in the middle of his face. “Teresa’s not let either one of ‘em out of her sight.”

“Pa . . . . ” Joe begged.

“Never . . . not even in my wildest of dreams, would I ever have imagined that YOU’D grow up to be such a worry wart,” Ben remarked, shaking his head slowly back and forth.

“I come by it honestly,” Joe quipped, unable to resist, despite his growing concern for his young nephew. The amused grin on his face quickly faded. “Pa . . . that room downstairs . . . it was cold in there . . . so cold, I . . . I could see my breath!”

“Just like it was in the barn day before yesterday,” Stacy said very slowly, her eyes round with a growing apprehension.

“Y-yeah . . . just like it was in the barn,” Joe affirmed. “When I went t’ get Benjy? I heard someone . . . sounded like a kid, Pa . . . a little older ‘n Benjy . . . OUR Benjy . . . but not much. Anyway--- ”

“Joe, you don’t have to talk about this right now,” Ben said, noting with apprehension that his son seemed to be growing more agitated. “It might be better if you just rest--- ”

“No, Pa . . . I gotta tell ya,” Joe insisted. “You . . . y-you gotta lemme tell ya.”

“Grandpa . . . was it that new friend of Benjy’s?” Stacy asked, frowning. “Is HE the one who . . . who . . . . ”

“I dunno, Kiddo . . . I honestly dunno,” Joe groaned, “but I . . . I just remembered somethin’ ELSE . . . . ”

“What’s that, Son?” Ben asked.

“Benjy’s room . . . the room he asked for upstairs? It was MY old room, Pa . . . back when I was Benjy’s age . . . that was MY room.”

Before Ben could question Joe further about this peculiar train of thought, the door opened and Paul Martin entered, with black bag firmly in hand. His normally straight, regal posture was slightly stooped, with shoulders sagging. “I’ve checked Adam and his son over,” the sawbones said wearily. “Now it’s YOUR turn, Joe.”

Stacy immediately leapt to her feet. “I guess I’d better leave so you can examine Grandpa properly,” she said, as she started for the door.

Ben made himself a mental note to pursue the line of conversation, interrupted by Doctor Martin’s entrance, as soon as he could possibly manage to do so, then rose from his place on the edge of Joe’s bed to allow the doctor access.

“Whoever it was . . . he worked you over real good, Joe, no question about that,” Paul said grimly, upon completion of his examination. “Lots of bruises, and a few minor cuts, which will all heal in time. That one place on your wrist . . . . ” he shook his head in complete bewilderment, “ . . . looks like your assailant actually BIT you. However . . . . ”

“However WHAT, Paul?” Ben queried anxiously.

“That lump on the back of Joe’s head is cause for concern. Joe?”

“Yeah, Doc?”

“Any headaches? Dizziness?”

“My head d-doesn’t hurt any more ‘n the rest of me,” Joe replied slowly. “I DO get a b-bit dizzy . . . if I move too fast.”

“Any nausea or vomiting?”

“I kinda felt like I was gonna throw up when I . . . I think when I came to a while ago, but it’s passed.”

“That being the case, Young Man, my orders are bed rest for the remainder of the day,” Paul Martin said very sternly. “If you aren’t experiencing any dizziness come tomorrow, you may get up and go downstairs for meals, or to sit and read, but you take things very easy for the rest of the week.”

“C-Can I . . . can I still work on b-bustin’ that bronc I’ve been workin’ on? That b-big black we n-named H-Holy Terror?”

Paul Martin opened his mouth intending to read Joe Cartwright the proverbial riot act, until he saw the amused smile tugging at the corner of his patient’s mouth. “You smart mouthed young pup!” he growled, the twinkle in his eyes giving lie to the ferocious glower on his face. “In any case, stiff ‘n sore as you’ll be tomorrow, I doubt seriously you’ll be wanting to move around very much, let alone bust any broncs.”

The doctor closed his black bag, then rose. Ben followed suit. “Rest, Young Man, plenty of rest!” Paul said, favoring the youngest Cartwright son with a stern, almost baleful eye. He then turned his attention back to Ben. “Would you mind seeing me out?”

“Sure thing, Paul. I’ll send Stacy back in to--- ”

“Pa?”

“Yes, Son?”

“Much as I enjoy The Kid’s company . . . most o’ the time anyway . . . I think I’d kinda like t’ take a nap for a while . . . . ” He glanced over at the doctor. “Izzat ok?”

“Heaven knows sleep’s probably the best thing for you,” Paul replied. “I think it’ll be alright for you to nap, Joe, as long as someone wakes you up every couple of hours, at least until supper time.”

“I’ll look in on you later, Son,” Ben promised, before following the doctor out into the hall.

“Keep him to a soft diet for the remainder of the day, and see that he gets plenty of liquids,” Paul instructed as they walked toward the stairs. “He can resume his normal diet tomorrow, as long as he’s not having problems with nausea or upset stomach.”

“He’ll be alright?” Ben asked anxiously.

“I expect him to make a full and complete recovery, Ben, as long as he rests and follows doctor’s orders. He’ll be plenty stiff and sore for the next few days, but that’s par for the course. You can send Stacy or Hoss for me if any problems develop. Otherwise, I’ll be by at the beginning of next week to check up on him.”

“Paul . . . . ” Ben stopped walking, and gazed earnestly into the face of his physician and very good friend. “What about Adam and Benjy?”

“Adam’s going to be fine, Ben. If he rests and takes things nice ‘n easy today, he should be back to normal physically by tomorrow morning,” Paul replied.

“Were you able to figure out what was wrong with him in the first place?” Ben anxiously pressed.

Paul reluctantly shook his head. “If this were the dead of winter, I’d have said that Adam was suffering from mild hypothermia, no question about it,” the doctor replied. “But, it’s the middle of SUMMER. Unless he’s gone up into the mountains where the snow remains all year ‘round . . . . ”

“He hasn’t,” Ben said grimly.

“I just plain don’t know WHAT to make of it,” Paul candidly admitted.

For a moment, Ben considered telling the sawbones about the cold spots out in the barn, and in the small spare room Benjy had originally chosen for himself the day he, his sister, and grandmother had arrived; the same small room that had once been Joe’s. “In addition to seeing that Adam gets plenty of rest and takes things easy, we’ll see that he’s kept warm,” Ben promised, deciding that the better part of wisdom might be in keeping those matters to himself. “What about Benjy?”

“Ben, it’s the damndest thing!” Paul exclaimed, shaking his head in utter bewilderment. “Benjy’s exhibiting nearly all of the symptoms of an advanced case of Saint Anthony’s Fire, except for the rash, the high fever, and gangrene in the extremities.”

“WHAT?!”

Paul nodded mutely.

“Should I ask Hop Sing to get rid of all our flour and buy new?”

“It certainly wouldn’t hurt, Ben,” Paul replied, “though in all likelihood, it’s probably unnecessary.”

“Oh?”

“That’s the other strange thing about all this,” the doctor sighed and shook his head. “As advanced as Benjy’s symptoms are, every last one of YOU should be down with it. Yet here the rest of you are, completely free of symptoms, by all appearances. He hasn’t been eating anything made from flour from anyplace other than Hop Sing’s kitchen, has he?”

“No, I’m reasonably sure of that.”

“When did he arrive in Virginia City?”

“A few days ago . . . in the afternoon.”

“That means even if the flour in Hop Sing’s kitchen WAS contaminated, your grandson hasn’t been here long enough for his symptoms to have become so far advanced,” Paul said soberly. “ and, as I just said, you, Hoss, Joe, Stacy, Hop Sing . . . even Adam and Teresa would be much sicker than young Benjy.”

“Do you have an explanation?” Ben demanded.

“I have a theory . . . . ”

“And that is?”

“Ben, I believe the boy’s symptoms may be hysterical in nature.”

“Hysterical?!” Ben echoed, incredulous.

Paul nodded.

“Is there anything you can do, Paul?” Ben anxiously pressed. “Anything at all?”

“The key to his cure is to discover what’s troubling him emotionally,” Paul replied. “I’ve left instructions with Teresa and Hop Sing with regard to treating his symptoms . . . and for keeping the boy comfortable. The rest . . . . ” He again shrugged helplessly.

“Isn’t there anything else you can do for the boy?”

Paul dolefully shook his head. “I do very well in treating PHYSICAL ailments and injuries, Ben,” he said soberly. “But matters of the mind, are beyond my meager skill, I’m afraid. For that you need to consult with a psychologist . . . or perhaps a clergyman.”

“Hey, Baby Brother.”

Joe glanced up upon hearing the sound of his oldest brother’s voice. Adam stood in the open door leaning heavily against the doorjamb with arms folded across his chest. Though a small measure of color had returned to his cheeks, his face, by and large, remained the color of chalk. Flesh and muscle hung from his bones the same way as just washed laundry hangs limp from a clothes line on a day without wind or even the slightest breeze.

“Hey yourself, Oldest Brother,” Joe returned the greeting with a wan smile. “Checkin’ up on me?”

“Yeah,” Adam replied as he unfolded his arms and ambled slowly into the room. “I told Pa I’d wake you up about an hour before dinner.”

“Dinner?!” Joe echoed, incredulous. “Already?”

“Um hmm!” Adam grunted. “Mind if I sit down?”

“Help yourself. I WAS getting a bit lonesome.”

Adam nodded his thanks, as he pulled the nearest chair over to the side of Joe’s bed and sat down. “How are you feeling?”

“I still hurt all over, though my head doesn’t hurt as much as it did after the doc got through with all his poking and prodding,” Joe replied with a grimace. “How about YOU? To be blunt, Adam, you look death warmed over.”

“I’ll survive.”

“How’re the kids faring?”

“Dio’s been very quiet and clingy . . . mostly to Teresa and me,” Adam sighed. “As for Benjy . . . no change since early this morning.”

“What did Doc Martin say?”

Adam gave his youngest brother the details of Doctor Martin’s prognosis concerning Benjy.

“Saint Anthony’s fire?!” Joe echoed, incredulous. “Doesn’t that come from eating bad rye?”

Adam nodded.

“Where do you suppose he got it?”

“Therein lies the rub, Little Brother,” Adam sighed and shrugged helplessly. “He couldn’t have eaten it HERE. Had that been the case, the lot of US . . . including Teresa and me since we arrived here six weeks before the kids . . . we’d all be down sick . . . if not DEAD.”

“How about at one of the way stations between here and Sacramento?” Joe asked.

“No.” Adam shook his head. “Not enough time for Benjy to have developed the advanced symptoms he’s manifesting. Furthermore, Dolores . . . Mrs. di Cordova . . . and Dio would also be sick. Doctor Martin’s of the opinion that Benjy’s illness is more hysterical than physical.”

“Hysterical?! Like . . . maybe he’s . . . he’s faking it, or something?” Joe asked with a puzzled frown.

“Not in the sense of malingering,” Adam replied. “More in the sense of something’s troubling the boy deeply, and it’s manifesting itself in the form of symptoms of advanced Saint Anthony’s fire, except for the rash and gangrene in the extremities.”

“I wonder why Saint Anthony’s fire?” Joe wondered aloud.

“I have no idea, Little Brother,” Adam said, his voice filled with pain and sadness. “I wish to God I did.” He fell silent for a long moment, then added, as an afterthought, “There was an outbreak once . . . here . . . in Virginia City.”

“There was?” Joe queried, mildly surprised.

Adam nodded.

“When was this?”

“Many years ago, Little Brother, before you were born,” Adam replied. “I was about Benjy’s age at the time . . . that would’ve put Hoss around two years younger than Dio. Most of those stricken were children, including Hoss and me.”

“Really!”

Again, Adam nodded.

“I never knew,” Joe said slowly.

“To be up front and honest, Joe, I’d all but forgotten until Doctor Martin made mention of it last night, after he got through examining Benjy,” Adam said. He, then, shared with Joe all that the family physician remembered of that time. “The hardest hit was our nearest neighbors. There were six kids in the family . . . all of them died.”

“All six?!” Joe echoed, incredulous. “My God . . . their poor parents,” he murmured softly, shaking his head back and forth very slowly. “You said they were our nearest neighbors?”

“Yes. Their farm was right here,” Adam replied.

“Here? Where our house is?!”

“Yes, though if memory serves, I think their house was where the barn is now,” Adam said.

“How well did YOU know them?” Joe asked.

“I remember Pa helping them out sometimes, but I don’t remember very much about them . . . apart from the fact that they lived here, and there were six children in the family,” Adam replied. “I can’t even recall their names.”

“Any idea what happened to the parents . . . AFTER the children died?” Joe asked.

“They sold their farm to Pa . . . obviously,” Adam replied. “I remember hearing that they pulled up stakes soon after and moved on, but I have no idea where they went, or what’s become of them since.”

Benjy’s illness . . . the cold in the barn, the downstairs bedroom, and the spare room, Benjy had chosen to be his home away from home . . . the story Adam had just told him . . . and a series of frightening incidents that had centered around him roughly thirteen years ago . . . .

“Puzzle pieces,” Joe murmured softly, upon coming to the sudden realization all of those incidents were pieces to a big jigsaw puzzle, its picture for the most part, completely hidden. Though he couldn’t begin to explain the how or why, he also knew beyond any doubt whatsoever that he had to somehow find all the missing pieces and put the entire puzzle together. Benjy Cartwright’s life depended on it.

But where to begin?

There was only one person he knew of, who just might be able to at the very least, point him in the right direction.

“Mrs. Wilkens,” Joe said very softly.

“Sorry, Joe . . . did you just say something?”

Joe started, having forgotten for the moment that his oldest brother was still in the room. “Yes! I, uhhh . . . just wanted to, umm, make sure that you’d just said that . . . uhhh . . . that dinner’s gonna be ready in another hour or so . . . . ”

Adam very slowly folded his arms across his chest and favored his youngest brother with a jaundiced glare, unable to quite shake the feeling that there was some sort of secret mischief afoot.

“Well?” Joe pressed. “Did you, or didn’t you?”

“Yes, Joe, I did,” Adam replied. “Why do you ask?” The scowl on his face intensified.

Joe yawned again, and gingerly stretched for extra and special measure. “Nothin’, Adam,” he replied, yawning again. “I’m feelin’ kinda sleepy again, is all, and . . . though I DO enjoy your company . . . especially now that you ‘n I aren’t kids anymore . . . I think I’d like to nap a little before I, ummm . . . come down for dinner?”

“If memory serves, Little Brother, the doctor ordered YOU to remain in bed for the rest of the day,” Adam sternly reminded the impish scallywag now inhabiting the body and soul of a grown man. “I’m sure Hop Sing will be bringing up a tray.”

“Yes, PA!” Joe responded with a disparaging sigh and a sarcastic roll of the eyes heavenward.

“Granted you aren’t a kid anymore, like you just said, but don’t think for one minute you’re to old to be taken out to the barn for a good lesson from the board of education applied to YOUR seat of learning, Buddy,” Adam countered, “by Pa or ME.”

Joe chortled, then winced against pain that seemed to shoot right through his head. “I’ll h-have YOU know, Adam Stoddard Cartwright, that Marie’s li’l boy here doesn’t pay too much mind to idle threats,” he retorted, smiling in the midst of his sudden misery.

“ . . . and I’ll have YOU know, Joseph Francis, that Elizabeth’s BIG boy doesn’t make threats,” Adam immediately returned. “HE makes PROMISES . . . and keeps every last one of ‘em.”

Joe very pointedly yawned yet again. “G’night, Adam,” he murmured, as he turned his back and pulled the covers up over his head.

Adam rose from the chair beside his brother’s bed. “Good night, Joe. You just remember what I said.”

The minute Joe heard his bedroom door latch, he threw aside the covers and sat up. Slowly. Very, very, VERY slowly. He sat on the edge of his bed, waiting. One minute passed, then two. He exhaled a long, slow sigh of relief, grateful that he experienced no lightheadedness or dizziness, then rose very slowly to his feet. Once again, Joe waited, resting his hand lightly against the headboard. He experienced some lightheadedness, along with a curious buzzing sound in his ears, but no dizziness. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, then cautiously crossed the room toward his dresser and wardrobe.

His sharp ears picked up the sounds of two voices, women’s voices, raised in anger, as he very gingerly pulled his nightshirt up and over his head. He recognized them almost immediately as his sister-in-law and her mother. A moment later, Adam’s voice entered the fray.

As he dressed himself, Joe offered a silent, deeply heartfelt prayer of thanksgiving and gratitude that row between Adam, Teresa, and Mrs. di Cordova showed no apparent sign of abating anytime soon. At the rate things seemed to be escalating, the shouting match should continue for at least another half an hour, allowing him ample time to finish dressing, saddle Cochise, and be off.

“ . . . assuming Pa and Hoss don’t come running up here to break it up,” Joe muttered very softly under his breath. “Please,” he silently beseeched any and all who might be listening, “please . . . let that not be so!”

Joe quickly slipped on a pair of heavy socks, and after grabbing his boots from their place next to his bed up against the wall, he silently made his way across the room to the door.

“This is nonsense! Complete and utter superstitious NONSENSE!” Teresa fumed, giving vent to all of her fears and anxious concerns about Benjy and Dio, and her own helpless, angry frustration at not being able to do anything to change the dire situation facing them all.

“There are things out there, Teresa,” Dolores countered, her own face dark with anger and grief. “Things not easily explained by so-called science, logic, and intellect.”

“Mother . . . if anything, Benjy needs to be in a HOSPITAL . . . not lying on a hard pew in a church.”

“He will be safer on hallowed ground.”

“Look! I’ve said it before . . . I’ll say it again. I have no objections to you remaining at his side lighting candles and saying prayers,” Teresa said through clenched teeth, as she labored valiantly to keep her ire firmly in check. “Although I personally have serious doubts as to the efficacy of such things, I’ve ALSO allowed you to hang your crucifix above Benjy’s head, place that rosary in his hands, and set up your Saint Anthony statue. But, I draw the line at removing Benjy from the comfort of his bed, taking him, sick as he is, over bumpy dirt roads all the way to Virginia City, just so he can sleep on a hard pew in a church not heated— ”

“This is the middle of the summer!”

“Mother, this is NOT Sacramento! This is NEVADA . . . high up in the Sierra Nevada mountains! The nights tend to be chilly . . . much chillier than Benjy has been used to, having lived in Sacramento all his life.”

“Dolores, I have to agree with Teresa on that point,” Adam said firmly. “Benjy WILL be a lot more comfortable here.”

“BUT, BENJY’S LIFE IS IN DANGER HERE!” Dolores raged at both her daughter and son-in-law. “CAN’T THE TWO OF YOU SEE THAT?!”

“Dolores, Teresa is absolutely right about the climate and the bumpy dirt roads between here and Virginia City,” Adam argued. “Moving him would endanger his life more than simply keeping him here.”

Joe, meanwhile, paused and placed his ear up flush against the still closed door to his bedroom.

“All right! Since the two of you are so dead set against moving the boy, can I AT LEAST summon a priest here to exorcize the evil spirit that’s come into this house?” Dolores pressed.

“Evil spirit?!” Teresa echoed, unable to quite believe the words that had just issued from her mother’s mouth. “Mother, this is . . . is . . . it’s beyond enough!”

“Dolores . . . Teresa . . . we COULD ask Father Rutherford to come and pray for Benjy,” Adam quietly suggested. “He and Pa have been very good friends for many years now, and— ”

“Adam, I have no objection to this Father Rutherford or any other man of the cloth coming out to say a few prayers, but I will NOT subject our son to . . . to the CRUELTY of some stupid, superstitious . . . . ”

“Don’t think he’ll ever quite be the peacemaker HOSS is, but I gotta give ol’ Adam credit for trying,” Joe mused silently, smiling despite his body’s acutely painful protest against being up and about so soon. He wrapped his fingers loosely around the doorknob and turned it very slowly, then cracked the door open, just enough for him to see without being seen.

Mrs. di Cordova, Adam, and Teresa stood clustered together at the very end of the hall. His brother and sister-in-law had their backs toward him, and, although Mrs. di Cordova stood directly facing her daughter and son-in-law, the ferocious look on her face told Joe she was likely too wrapped up in the escalating row to notice him sneaking by.

Grasping his boots tightly in his right hand, Joe opened his bedroom door wider with his left and stole noiselessly across the threshold into the hall. Once there, he quickly moved into the deepest shadows and flattened himself tight against the wall, and waited.

“We’ve tried with doctors and medicine!” Dolores di Cordova raged at the other end of the hall. “Your Doctor Martin himself said there was nothing he could do. HE even suggested calling in a clergyman. I heard him.”

“He ALSO said Benjy’s symptoms were emotional . . . psychological in nature, NOT the result of evil spirits,” Teresa shot right back.

“I keep telling you, Teresa . . . there are things out there . . . things about which so called medical science is completely IGNORANT!”

“Mother, I don’t understand this!” Teresa rounded furiously on her mother. “You’re a very smart, very intelligent woman. How can you possibly stand there and tell me that evil spirits are the cause of Benjy’s illness?!”

“Teresa, she’s desperate.”

“Are you taking HER side, Adam?”

More than satisfied that the trio down at the other end of the hall were far too engrossed in their argument to notice much else, Joe inched his way in the opposite direction, moving stealthily toward the stairs with his back flush against the wall, keeping himself well within the deep shadows. Tender, bruised muscles, stiffened by injury and inactivity made their protests painfully clear with every move he made. Several times, Joe had to bite his lip to keep from crying out.

“Ma?”

Joe froze. That was Dio. He held his breath and watched with mounting dread as the doorknob turned on the closed door of her room, positioned almost directly across the hall.

“Ma! Pa! Grandma!” she sobbed as she bolted from the room and ran down the hall toward her parents and grandmother. “Stop it! Please stop it!”

Thankfully Dio never spared so much as a passing glance in Joe’s direction. He slowly exhaled that breath he had been holding, keeping his eyes trained on the three adults at the end of the hall.

“Please . . . don’t yell anymore! You’re scaring me!”

“Sweetheart, I’m sorry,” Teresa immediately apologized.

“I am, too, Princess,” Adam murmured contritely.

“I’m sorry, too, Dio.” That was Mrs. di Cordova.

“All right,” Teresa sighed wearily. “Mother, why don’t you ask Ben to send someone into town and ask Father Rutherford to come. NOT to perform an exorcism, but to pray with Benjy . . . and . . . and maybe . . . with the rest of us, too.”

“Teresa . . . I could go--- ”

“Adam . . . I’m not so sure you SHOULD,” Teresa immediately protested. “You’re STILL looking a bit peaked, and--- ”

“I’ll be fine, Sweetheart, honest! I will,” Adam said earnestly. “I’m feeling a lot better now than I did earlier this morning, and I promise you that tomorrow, I’ll rest, and take things very easy to make up for today.”

“I’M going with you, Adam!” Dolores declared with an emphatic nod of her head.

“Muuhhh-ther . . . . ” Teresa groaned.

“Dolores,” Adam said very quickly the instant he saw his mother-in-law open her mouth to make response, “it’s bound to get chilly before we get back. Why don’t you get your shawl and wait for me downstairs?”

“All right, Adam,” Dolores agreed stiffly. She, then, abruptly turned heel, and strode briskly back up the hall toward the spare room she had moved into the night before last, with back stiffly erect and fingers drawn together to form a pair of tight, rock hard fists.

“Adam--- ” Teresa growled as she turned her full attention to her husband, her dark eyes filled with anger.

“It’ll be all right, Sweetheart,” Adam said in a gentle yet very firm tone of voice.

“No, it WON’T!” Teresa argued. “Not, if she goes flouncing into the priest’s office yammering on and on about evil spirits---!!”

“It won’t matter if she DOES,” Adam said in a very firm, yet calm tone of voice. “Father Brendan has been a very good friend of the family since Joe was a baby. Yes . . . he IS very much a man of faith, but he’s also very down to earth, with both feet planted firmly on the ground. He’s a learned man, who has a great deal of respect for and, I dare say, is fascinated by what we’ve learned and are learning in the fields of medicine and science.”

“I’m very relieved to hear this Father Brendan ISN’T a superstitious fanatic like the one who---!!” She angrily broke off, unable to continue.

“No, Sweetheart,” Adam hastened to reassure her. “Father Brendan is nothing like that one . . . nothing at all!”

“Even so, I’d still rather you didn’t take Mother with you,” Teresa insisted.

“We’re ALL on edge right now,” Adam kindly explained. “Losing our tempers . . . fighting amongst ourselves, as we’ve been doing over the last couple of days isn’t going to help or change our situation . . . in fact, I’M inclined to think doing so might tend to exacerbate things.”

“You’re right, Adam,” Teresa had to admit.

“I want YOU to know that I don’t believe for one minute Dolores saw an evil spirit last night,” Adam continued. “I believe the intruder was someone of flesh and blood, like Pa said. However, we can’t deny that Dolores was badly frightened.”

“I know she was,” Teresa said with a weary sigh. “I’ve never . . . not in my entire life EVER heard Mother scream like that . . . and I hope I never do again.”

“I’M thinking it might do her some good to get out and away from the house for a little while,” Adam continued.

“Perhaps you’re right, Adam,” Teresa reluctantly allowed, “and speaking for myself, I know I need to calm down, especially after that set-to between Mother and me just now. I probably stand a better chance of doing that if she’s not around for a little while.”

“ . . . and some time away from the house . . . away from the things going on here might enable her to see things in a different light, and maybe put things in proper perspective.” Adam added.

“I’m still concerned about YOU making that trip all the way into town, given the shape you were in earlier,” Teresa said with an anxious frown.

“I’ll be very careful, Teresa,” Adam promised.

“You’d better be,” Teresa said briskly, “and I think you’d better take your jacket. Like you told Mother, it’ll be getting chilly before you start back.”

“Yes, Mother,” Adam quipped with a naughty, mischievous grin. “It’s hanging downstairs by the front door. I’ll grab it on my way out.” He then turned his attention to his young daughter. “Dio?”

“Yes, Pa?”

“I thought I saw Aunt Stacy down by the corral,” Adam said. “If you and I go down together, I have a feeling, between the two of us, we just might be able to talk her into giving you another riding lesson.”

“Doggone it, Adam! So help me, the minute I start feeling better, I’m gonna pound you good!“ Joe vowed silently, knowing that he would, in all likelihood, be found the minute Adam and Dio passed by.

Dio, however, burst into tears, much to the surprise of her father and uncle. “P-Pa? I . . . I d-don’t wanna go anywhere n-near that horrible ol’ b-b-barn, n-not ever . . . ever AGAIN!” she sobbed, burying her face against her father’s abdomen. “Please . . . c-can I . . . can I just stay here . . . w-with Ma ‘n B-Benjy? Pretty please?!”

Adam looked over at his wife.

Teresa nodded.

“Yes, you may, Princess,” Adam said, placing a comforting arm around his daughter’s shoulders, “but, you’ll have to be very quiet and do what your mother tells you.”

“I will, Pa. I will, I promise.”

Wave upon wave of relief washed over Joe’s entire being as Adam and Dio followed Teresa into the room at the end of the hall, closing the door behind them, leaving him feeling giddy and lightheaded. He paused for a moment, bending over at the waist, hoping against hope that the act of bringing his head down to the same level as his heart would relieve him of the lightheadedness. A moment later, Joe very slowly erected himself, and continued toward the steps, grateful that his lightheadedness had passed so quickly.

After what seemed a dreadful eternity of moving along by stealth, keeping himself hidden within the deep shadows, Joe finally reached the top of the stairs. He flattened himself once more against the wall and scanned the great room below, all the while training his ears to the closed door at the far end of the hall. There, much to his dismay, he saw his father seated behind his desk, looking over a stack of unopened mail.

“Dang! Wouldn’t you know it!” Joe silently groaned. For one brief insane moment, he seriously contemplated a quick retreat back to his room and leaving the house by the same route he used as a teenager to sneak out. “Forget it, Joseph Francis,” he silently admonished himself. “You’d be hard pressed to go that route nowadays, even if you were in tip top shape.”

Ben suddenly glanced up. “Adam?”

Joe pressed so hard against the wall, he half feared he was going to push right through it.

“Adam? Teresa?” Ben rose, with that penetrating gaze of his still trained in the general direction of the stairs. “Is . . . is someone there?”

Joe held his breath and pressed himself harder against the wall. For an interminable, heart stopping moment, his father just stood there, peering into the darkness at the top of the steps with a quizzical look on his face. Then, finally, Ben shrugged and sat back down at his desk.

“Oh great!” Joe groused in miserable silence. “How am I EVER gonna get past ol’ Eagle Eye Cartwright down there?”

Down below, Ben reached for the coffee mug at his elbow and finished what remained. “HOP SING?” he called out, rising. “IS THERE ANYMORE TEA?”

“NO MORE TEA, MISTER CARTWRIGHT,” Hop Sing yelled back from the dining room. “ALL GONE. REMEMBER? BAD BOY THROW ALL OVER HOP SING KITCHEN FLOOR. YOU JUST DRINK LITTLE BIT LEFT WHEN HE GET THROUGH.”

Ben sighed. Closing his eyes, he reached up and gently massaged the bridge of his nose for a moment. “HOP SING, WHAT DO WE HAVE?”

“LITTLE BIT OF MILK,” Hop Sing yelled back. “VERY, VERY LITTLE BIT. SAVE FOR CHILDREN. ALSO HAVE WATER. HOP SING FIX.”

“DON’T TROUBLE YOURSELF,” Ben said as he rose, and moved from around the desk. “I’LL FIX IT. I NEED TO GET UP AND STRETCH MY LEGS A BIT ANYWAY!”

Joe watched as Ben walked from the desk, back toward the dining room, hardly able to believe that sudden stroke of good luck. The minute his father disappeared into the dining room, he tore down the stairs, with heart thudding against his chest like a stampeding herd of frightened cattle. Every muscle, every joint in his body lodged excruciating complaints against this action literally every step of the way. The minute he reached the first floor, Joe bit his lip against the pain and bolted toward the front door, pausing to shift his boots over to his left hand, and snatch up hat, gun belt, and green jacket in his right.

“ . . . an’ just where do you think YOU’RE goin’, Li’l Brother?” Hoss demanded as Joe half stumbled, half fell through the front door onto the porch.

Joe screamed and jumped backward. His boots and gun belt dropped from his hands, and clattered noisily on the wood porch. Clutching one of the porch columns for support, he looked up and saw his big brother and sister standing on the porch steps, with arms folded across their chests, glaring darkly in his general direction.

“Geeze-loo-weeze! What’re the two of ya tryin’ to do?! Scare me outta ten years’ growth?” Joe demanded, matching their glares with a murderous one of his own.

“Come on, Li’l Brother, you belong back upstairs in bed,” Hoss said firmly. He reached out to gently take his younger brother by the elbow.

“Willya keep your voice DOWN?!” Joe hissed, moving well away from Hoss’ outstretched arm. “Pa might hear you.”

“Pa probably heard you scream already,” Stacy pointed out. “In fact, I think everyone within ten miles of here heard you scream.”

“Let’s get you back inside,” Hoss said in a kindlier tone. “Maybe, with a li’l luck, we can getcha back upstairs ‘n in bed ‘fore Pa’s any the wiser.”

“I can’t.” Joe gritted his teeth, then gingerly leaned over to retrieve his boots.

“Why can’t you?” Stacy asked.

Joe hobbled over to the nearest chair and sat down. “I’ve got to go into town, do some research,” he said, as he slipped on his right boot.

“Maybe Hoss and I can do the research for you, Grandpa,” Stacy suggested. “What do you want to know?”

“It would take too long for me to explain,” Joe replied, as he slipped on his other boot. “Benjy . . . OUR Benjy . . . can’t spare the time.”

“Joe, you ain’t talkin’ sense,” Hoss protested.

“Hoss, you remember that strange incident that happened to me . . . to all of us, just after I’d turned thirteen?”

“Yeah . . . what about it? ”

“WHAT strange incident?” Stacy demanded, as she picked up her brother’s hat, green jacket, and gun belt.

“Not now, Kid, there’s no time,” Joe said, hoping to forestall any further questions. “We’ll tell you everything later. I promise.” He rose to his feet, wavering as wave upon wave of dizziness suddenly assaulted him.

Hoss put out a hand to steady him.

“Thanks,” Joe murmured gratefully.

“Grandpa, you can’t even stand on your own two feet!” Stacy pointed out the obvious, her blue eyes round with alarm. “How in the world do you expect to sit a horse all the way to Virginia City?!”

“I can manage . . . if Hoss comes with me.”

Hoss rolled his eyes heavenward, earnestly beseeching, “Why me?” He, then, sighed and shook his head. “Li’l Brother, if you honest ‘n truly expect me t’ take part in this . . . whatever this crazy scheme o’ yours is, you got some real tall explainin’ to do.”

“That strange incident, Hoss, remember?”

“I told ya I did.”

“I don’t think we got rid of that spirit.”

A puzzled frown creased Hoss’ brow. “SURE we did, actually YOU did.”

“I don’t think so,” Joe insisted. “I stopped it from bothering us, maybe sent it back to sleep, but I didn’t send it AWAY.”

“What’s this got to do with what’s ailin’ Benjy?” Hoss demanded.

“Everything! I think that same spirit . . . the one that plagued me more years ago than I wanna think about some days . . . it’s come back. This time, for Benjy.”

“Joe, you sure that beatin’ you took didn’t damage your head?”

“I’ll explain it on the way to town.”

“All right,” Hoss sighed.

“Come on, we’ve got no time to waste,” Joe urged.

“I’m coming along, too,” Stacy said.

“Not this trip, Kid. Hoss and I need YOU here to run interference with Pa.”

“Thanks a lot!” Stacy groaned, casting a nervous glance toward the front door. “You know I can’t lie to him. Sooner or later he ALWAYS catches me up in it.”

“True,” Hoss said, then grinned. “But you can lead him on a longer merry chase than Joe ‘n I ever could.”

“Actually, Little Sister, you don’t have to lie to him at all,” Joe said with a complacent smile.

“Uh oh!” Stacy murmured darkly. “Looks like Hoss was right about that head damage.”

“Stacy, you can truthfully tell Pa that I snuck out of the house and rode off half cocked . . . and Hoss went after me.”

“Well howdy, Eric . . . Joseph! Long time no see!” Georgianna Wilkens, president of the Virginia City Literary Society and librarian emeritus of the Virginia City Lending Library, greeted the two younger Cartwright brothers effusively, her soft voice dripping with mint julep and magnolia.

She kept her actual age a closely guarded secret. Those who knew her best believed her to be anywhere from her late-fifties to her early eighties. She was a petite, diminutive woman, standing an inch shy of five feet and weighing in at ninety-five pounds, soaking wet. Her luxuriant hair, worn usually in a simple chignon or French twist, had been snow white as far back as most could remember, and she had a pair sharp, piercing blue eyes that missed absolutely nothing.

“Jenna Lee, please . . . be a nice darlin’ and fetch us all some of that lemonade punch I made up this morning?”

“Yes, Ma’am.” Jenna Lee Dennison curtly nodded her head, then turned heel and strode briskly from the Wilkens drawing room. She was a tall, stolidly built black woman, with iron gray hair, and penetrating brown-almost black eyes capable of peering into a person’s heart and seeing the true innermost self. She was an exceedingly good judge of character, a trait Georgianna Wilkens had quickly learned to trust over the long years of their association.

“In the meantime, why don’t the three o’ US move on into the parlor, where we’ll be more com--- ” Georgianna’s words abruptly terminated in a loud gasp of alarm, upon getting a good hard look at Joe’s bruised, battered face. “Flapjacks ‘n fol-de-rol, Boy!” she exclaimed. “Someone sure as shootin’ worked you over but GOOD!”

Joe barely managed a wan smile. “If y’ think I look bad, Mrs. Wilkens, ya oughtta see the OTHER guy.”

“You smart assed young pup! If you weren’t already black ‘n blue, I’d haul ya out to that woodshed I’ve got out back, ‘n give that ornery hide of yours a tannin’ it’ll NEVER forget,” Georgianna growled, favoring the youngest Cartwright son with a dark, withering glare. “Does your pa know you’re out ‘n about in your condition, Young Man?”

Joe’s smile immediately faded. “ . . . uhhh, no, Ma’am. If he did, this, ornery young hide of mine would be looking at TWO tannings it’ll never forget,” he replied in a tone of voice a little too solemn, with that cherubic, whipped puppy dog look on his face.

“A big, tall glass of my secret recipe lemonade punch’ll fix you right up, lickity-spit,” Georgianna said brusquely, as she slid open the pocket door to her formal parlor. “You SURE you’re all right, Boy? Now that I see you up close, you look awfully pale under all that black and blue . . . . ”

“I’m fine, Mrs. Wilkens,” Joe hastened to reassure. “Honest. It just LOOKS a lot worse ‘n it is.”

Georgianna invited them to sit down with a broad, sweeping gesture in the general direction of the divan. “So what brings you boys out to MY neck of the woods?”

“We want to pick your brains, Ma’am, seeing as how you’re the expert in local history,” Joe replied, as he collapsed heavily onto the divan. Hoss took a seat in the overstuffed wingback chair that the late Eli Wilkens had brought to the marriage nearly sixty-odd years ago.

“Expert?!” Georgianna threw back her head and laughed heartily. “Hardly that, Boy. Oh sure, I’ve done a bit of reading here and there, and put some information together, but I’m hardly what you’d call an expert. I’ll do my best to answer your questions, but I make no guarantees.”

“Fair enough,” Joe quipped with a saucy grin.

“What do you want to know?” Georgianna asked, as she eased herself into the ancient rocking chair that had once belonged to her mother and maternal grandmother.

“To begin with . . . who ELSE besides my family lived on what’s now the Ponderosa?” Joe asked.

“Lot’s o’ folks, Boy,” Georgianna replied. “Indians, mostly . . . some trappers, ‘n a few settlers passin’ through. That Ponderosa of yours is a mighty big piece of land. You tryin’ t’ find out about somebody specific?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Joe replied. “Earlier today, Adam told me about a family whose farm was where our house and barn are now.”

“That’d be the Menkens,” Georgianna said immediately. “What about ‘em?”

“All six of the children in the family died of some kinda food poisoning?” Joe asked.

“Saint Anthony’s fire!” Georgianna snapped, her face suddenly dark as a thundercloud just before the storm breaks. “Comes from eating bad rye!” She, then, sighed very softly, her anger gone just as quickly as it had arisen. “Sorry, Joseph,” she murmured contritely, “I didn’t mean t’ take your head off just now. Fact o’ the matter is . . . those poor children, God bless ‘em, had no damned business dying like that . . . ‘n just thinking about it STILL makes my blood boil!”

“What did ya mean when ya said they had no business dying like that, Ma’am?” Hoss asked, with a bewildered frown.

“We had in epidemic here in town,” Georgianna said, her eyes glazing over as memories of that time and place began to surface. “Adam was a young fella, ‘n YOU Eric,” a wistful smile spread slowly across her lips, “I always had a hard time trying t’ figure out your age when you were little . . . . ”

“Him?! Little?” Joe couldn’t resist, even in the midst of his misery and extreme discomfort. “Mrs. Wilkens . . . WHEN was this brother of mine EVER little??”

“Fuuhhhh-neee, Li’l Brother,” Hoss growled. “So dang funny, I plumb forgot t’ laugh.”

“Glad t’ see all that black ‘n blue’s not addled your wit, Boy,” Georgianna said with a touch of sarcasm. “Anyway . . . can’t recall exactly how old YOU were at the time, Eric,” she resumed her story, “but you couldn’t have been much more ‘n a baby yourself. The Coulter twins were struck down first, then Bonnie Luke ‘n her baby boy. After that . . . . ” she sighed, then very sadly shook her head, “children, the littlest ones at first . . . suckling babes ‘n their mamas . . . were struck down like flies.”

“Just the little children, babies, and . . . nursing mothers?” Joe asked.

“Back then, Joseph, ALL o’ us were what folks today refer t’ as ‘those less fortunate than ourselves,’ ” Georgianna explained. Her wry tone of voice brought an amused grin to the Cartwright brothers’ faces. “I think you boys know that rye’s the poor man’s bread . . . . ”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Hoss replied.

Joe simply nodded his head.

“Many a man, woman, ‘n child made their meals o’ rye bread ‘n milk, if they were lucky enough t’ own a cow or a goat,” Georgianna continued, “ ‘n many a mama ‘n papa went without so their children’d have enough t’ eat. That’s why so many more children were stricken with Saint Anthony’s fire . . . ‘n ended up dying.

“My Eli, God rest his soul, ‘n the doc knew that bad rye had to’ve come from Caleb Marsh’s general store. His was the only one in town, but that ol’ skinflint denied it, when he wasn’t strutting around town like a . . . a rutting bantam rooster, crowing about buying up a whole big barn full o’ ground rye for less ‘n fifty dollars. They . . . Eli ‘n the doc that is, tried their damndest t’ get Roy t’ do something, but HE told ‘em his hands were tied. It’d be their word against Caleb’s.

“About a month or so after the first ones stricken had died, Eric . . . you ‘n Adam were stricken . . . . ”

“With Saint Anthony’s fire?!” Hoss queried with a puzzled frown. “I don’t remember that . . . . ”

“Like I said before, you weren’t much more ‘n a baby at the time,” Georgianna said. “Your pa, of course, got rid o’ every last speck o’ rye in his pantry, like the doc told him, ‘n you boys began t’ get better. He was fit t’ be tied, too, when HE found out that Roy couldn’t do anything t’ stop Caleb from selling rye we knew was bad.”

“What did Pa do about it?” Joe asked.

“He ‘n Eli tracked down the man Caleb bought all that rye from,” Georgianna replied, cackling with genuine mirth. “Shady deal that, all the way around. The man confessed that he owed Caleb money, ‘n that he suspected a good bit o’ rye in that barn o’ his might be bad. He’d figured by making that deal with Caleb, he could knock off two birds with one stone. After your pa ‘n Eli made him repeat what he told them t’ the sheriff, they were able t’ go into the general store ‘n force Caleb t’ hand over every last bit o’ rye he had.

“T’ say that miserly ol’ coot was fit t’ be tied when the sheriff ‘n the doc told him, would be making light o’ the whole thing. The sheriff ended up having t’ tell Roy Coffee t’ lock Caleb up, so he ‘n the others could haul it all outta the general store ‘n burn it. By that time, everyone else had rid themselves of what rye they had on hand, ‘n those who weren’t too far gone started t’ recover.

“The Menken children were stricken . . . . ” Georgianna fell silent for a moment to do some mental figuring, “ . . . it had t’ be a good two weeks . . . maybe even three, AFTER your pa, Roy Coffee, the doc, n’ Eli took all the bad rye out o’ Caleb Marsh’s general store, ‘n burned it.”

“If Pa, Mister Wilkens, ‘n the others burned all the rye this Caleb Marsh had in his general store . . . how’d the Menken children end up getting’ sick?” Hoss asked.

“It didn’t occur t’ any of us that Caleb might have more o’ that bad rye stored somewhere else,” Georgianna replied, her ire rising once again. “The oldest Menken boy did a lot o’ work for Caleb . . . stocking the shelves ‘n sweeping up in his store . . . muckin’ out his barn . . . splitting his wood into kindling . . . ‘n a whole host of other chores ‘n odd jobs. Many’s the time I thought sure that ol’ skinflint was gonna end up working that poor child to his death. The very last time that boy did work for him, Caleb must’ve paid him with a sack or two o’ that bad rye.”

“You talkin’ ‘bout that poor farmer boy that used t’ come ‘round here all the time . . . lookin’ for work . . . back when The Mister, God bless ‘im, was still with us?” Jenna Lee asked as she sauntered into the parlor, bearing an enormous tray with a big pitcher filled to the brim with Georgianna Wilkens’ infamous lemonade punch, four tall glasses, and a platter full of ginger snaps, piping hot right out of the oven.

Joe immediately rose on a pair of unsteady legs. “Here, Ma’am . . . let ME take that tray,” he offered.

“You sit yourself right back down this instant, or so HELP me, I’LL take a switch to ya, black ‘n blue or NO black ‘n blue,” Jenna Lee reprimanded the youngest Cartwright son severely. “I’ll have the BOTH of ya know,” she continued, glaring over at Hoss as well, “I’m a big, strong, healthy gal, just like m’ mama ‘n my grandma, thank you very much---”

“Aww fer---!! Jenna Lee, would ya puh-leeze . . . quit your yammering ‘n park your ass before that lemonade punch gets warm, ‘n those cookies get cold?!” Georgianna growled. “There’s a spot for ya right there . . . . ” she pointed, “next t’ young Joseph.”

“I don’t eat much, Mrs. Dennison.” Joe favored the older woman with his most charming smile, while patting the empty place beside him.

“You mind your manners, Boy,” Jenna Lee admonished the youngest Cartwright son severely, then smiled. “ ‘Course if I was forty years younger, or somewhere thereabouts, I mightn’t be such a stickler ‘bout you mindin’ your manners.”

“ . . . and if I was, um that much older, Miz Jenna Lee, mindin’ my manners’d be the last thing on my mind,” Joe declared with a broad grin.

“Scamp!” Jenna Lee returned with a broad grin, as she set herself to the task of pouring the lemonade punch.

“Mrs. Dennison . . . that poor farmer boy that used t’ come ‘round, looking f’r work . . . was he the oldest Menken boy?” Hoss asked.

“Menken . . . . ” Jenna Lee murmured the name softly, as she handed Joe a glass of lemonade punch first, then poured one for Hoss. “Menken . . . yep! Sounds right! All o’ thirteen years old when he died, poor soul, but bein’ short ‘n slight, like his mama, he looked like he was no more ‘n ten, maybe eleven.”

“I . . . don’t understand something . . . . ” Joe said with a bewildered frown. “If the Menkens had a farm . . . why was their oldest boy always going around asking folks for work? Surely he must’ve had his hands full helping his ma ‘n pa out--- ”

Jenna Lee passed the glass of punch in hand over to Hoss, then poured two more, while vigorously shaking her head. “The Menken men . . . that’d be the mister ‘n his pa . . . were a couple o’ lazy, shiftless, mean ‘n nasty, no account, drunkards,” she said, with a murderous scowl on her face. “The only time either one of ‘em could be bothered t’ lift a finger was when they sat down t’ that home made hooch o’ theirs or that watered down rotgut a lotta cheap saloons pass off as whiskey whenever they got hold o’ some pocket money.”

“You hadn’t oughtta be speakin’ so ill o’ the dead, Miz Jenna Lee Dennison,” Georgianna admonished her companion as she reached for a gingersnap.

“First off, we don’t know for fact they’re dead,” Jenna Lee retorted primly, “ ‘n second, that’s about the kindest things I CAN say ‘bout that pair o ornery, nasty ol’ sidewinders.”

“Now, NOW, Miz Dennison,” Joe chided her with mock severity, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “You shouldn’t be insulting poor ol’ sidewinders that way, linking them in the same breath with the Menken men.”

Jenna Lee chuckled softly as she reached for a cookie. “You’re right as rain about that, Boy,” she said, wagging her head back and forth.

“T’ give some credit where it’s due, Mrs. Menken tried her damndest t’ make a go of that farm,” Georgianna said. “She was a proud woman . . . a VERY proud woman . . . with a stubborn streak about a hundred miles long ‘n ten miles wide. Had she also been a big, strong, healthy farm gal . . . it STILL wouldn’t have been easy, Lord above knows, but . . . I think she might’ve done all right.

“But, she was a small woman, small ‘n dainty like me,” Georgianna continued. “Never said word one ‘bout her family, or her beginnin’s, but she was a very soft-spoken woman, ‘n had the ways of gentility about her. Had a real strong sense o’ duty, but I don’t think she ever had t’ do a whole lotta physical work, leastwise not before she married Mister Menken.”

“How do ya figure THAT, Ma’am?” Hoss asked.

“Her hands,” Georgianna replied. “The skin was smooth ‘n soft . . . with nary a callus on ‘em.”

“How a woman like her ended up leg shackled to a good-for-nothin’ like her mister, I’ll NEVER know!” Jenna Lee declared.

“Adam told me that Pa sometimes helped ‘em out,” Joe said quietly.

“Your pa had a lot o’ respect for Mrs. Menken,” Georgianna said, “ ‘n knowing your pa as I do, I’d say he couldn’t help but feel sorry for her. He did what little he could t’ help her out, even though HE had no time t’ spare what with tryin’ to build up his own spread ‘n raise a couple o’ young, rambunctious motherless boys. A few o’ the other neighbors helped out, too, as best they could, but at the end o’ the day? It just plain ‘n simple wasn’t enough. Had those children o’ hers, ‘specially that oldest boy, NOT died o’ Saint Anthony’s fire? Young Benjy ‘n his mother would’ve worked themselves right into their own graves, the kindness o’ neighbors like your pa, not withstandin’.”

Upon hearing the Menken boy’s name, Joe’s jaw dropped. The blood drained right out of his face, taking away what little color, apart from the lurid bruising, he might have regained. His hands shook so badly, he almost certainly would have dropped the glass of punch he held, had it not been for the quick thinking and quicker action on the part of Jenna Lee Dennison.

“You ailin’, Boy?” she demanded with an anxious frown, after snatching the glass out of his hands.

“M-Mrs. Wilkens . . . d-did you just s-say that the Menkens’ oldest boy’s name was . . . that it w-was . . . Benjy?!” Joe barely managed to stammer out the question.

“That’s right,” Georgianna replied. She studied the youngest Cartwright son with an anxious frown. “You SURE you’re all right, Boy?”

“I . . . f-fine,” Joe gasped, as he fought desperately to regain some small measure of composure, leastwise enough so Mrs. Wilkens and Mrs. Dennison both wouldn’t be staring at him like he was tottering on his last legs at the edge of his own grave. He squeezed his eyes shut, and took a deep, ragged breath. “Mrs. Wilkens . . . Mrs. Dennison . . . I’m fine,” he said again in a tone of voice too carefully measured. “Honest. I’m just fine.”

“I dunno, Li’l Brother . . . . ” Hoss said very quietly. “I’m thinkin’ I oughtta get you home ‘n put ya t’ bed.”

“Glad to see ONE of ya finally showin’ some sense,” Georgianna acerbically remarked, as she and Jenna Lee set their glasses down on the coffee table and rose.

“All right if I ask one more question?” Joe asked.

“One more question, if you’ll promise me that once your big brother puts ya t’ bed, you’ll STAY there,” Georgianna said sternly,

“I promise, Mrs. Wilkens,” Joe replied in a solemn tone of voice, while Hoss very carefully helped him to his feet.

“See that ya do!” Georgianna snapped. “Now what didja wanna ask me?”

“What did Benjy Menken look like?”

“He was a little fella, small ‘n slight built, like Jenna Lee said,” Georgianna replied, then added, “He also had a mop o’ unruly, brown, curly hair . . . just like YOURS gets sometimes, Joe . . . ‘n he had eyes like you, too . . . y’ know . . . chameleon eyes that can change t’ whatever color they want t’ be.”

“Never had much in t’ way o’ clothes,” Jenna Lee said. “Always had on that same pair o’ worn, threadbare overalls, day after day . . . day in, ‘n day out, no shirt, went barefoot that last summer . . . . ”

An ice-cold chill shot down the entire length of Joe’s spine, and he felt the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. He and Hoss looked over at each other with the same uneasy wariness in their eyes.

“I sure hope that young man makes it back home in one piece,” Georgianna grumbled under her breath, as she and Jenna Lee watched the Cartwright brothers ride toward the main road that would ultimately take them home.

“Hmpf!” Jenna Lee snorted, as she turned and started back down the walk toward the front door. “If I didn’t know better . . . I’D say those boys just saw themselves a ghost.”

“Hoss, I’ll lay you odds ten to one that Benjy Menken’s body lies buried in that circle of tress out behind the barn,” Joe said, his excitement mingling with his increasing distress. He sat astride Cochise, leaning over with his arms clasped loosely around the pinto’s neck, and eyes squeezed shut. Hoss rode slightly ahead, with a firm hand on Cochise’s lead, casting a worried glace back at his younger brother every few minutes. “Maybe the bodies of his brothers and sisters, too.”

“What makes ya say that, Li’l Brother?” Hoss asked, anxious to keep Joe talking.

“That place has ALWAYS . . . long as I can remember . . . seemed dark and creepy,” Joe replied. “You never liked to play in there either.”

“No, I sure didn’t,” Hoss replied with a shudder.

“ . . . and Stacy goes outta HER way to avoid that circle of trees, too.”

“So do our horses,” Hoss said, “the ones we got now, ‘n just about every other we’ve ever had.”

“Every DOG we’ve ever had, too.”

“ ‘n the barn cats . . . . ”

“ ‘specially Mama Cat,” Joe added with a shudder. “Gets a little creepy, the way she stares into that circle sometimes, growling, hissing, and carrying on with her hackles up, ‘n tail puffed to about three times it’s normal size . . . . ”

“ . . . uhhh, Joe?” Hoss queried after they had lapsed into silence for a moment.

“What?”

“I really think you oughtta get on Chubb with me,” Hoss said, his growing concern deepening the furrows already present in his brow.

“Awww . . . come ON, Big Brother . . . how many times do I hafta tell ya . . . I’m ok?!” Joe demanded, thoroughly exasperated, yet desperately afraid he was going to pitch headlong right out of the saddle, into the dust at his horse’s feet.

Hoss sighed. That little brother of his could be so dadburned stubborn sometimes . . . at the very worst of times, more often than not. “All right, Joe, let’s say Benjy Menken’s grave DOES lie in that circle o’ pine trees out behind the barn,” he said, deciding that the better part of valor, for the time being at least, would be to continue along the line of conversation had started after they’d left Mrs. Wilkens’ home. “How does figurin’ that out gonna help us?”

“I dunno, Hoss,” Joe replied. “THAT’S why we’re gonna see Father Brendan.”

“We’re gonna . . . WHAT?!” Hoss demanded incredulously. A murderous scowl darkened his face.

“You heard me.”

“Ooohh no, Li’l Brother,” Hoss immediately dug in his proverbial heels. “Pa’s, like as not, already waitin’ for the two o’ us t’ get home, so he can skin us alive . . . ‘n YOU promised Mrs. Wilkens ‘n Mrs. Dennison both you’d go home ‘n keep yourself in bed once I’d put ya back there.”

“Yeah . . . but, I didn’t promise ‘em WHEN I’d go home ‘n letcha put me back to bed,” Joe gamely pointed out, “ ‘n, Brother? If it’s all the same to you, I’d just as soon put off facing Pa as long as I possibly can.”

“Y’ gotta point there, I reckon,” Hoss reluctantly had to concede . . . .

End of Part 3

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