Trial By Fire

Part 1

By Kathleen T. Berney

His body was as a millstone . . . sinking . . . .

. . . down . . .

. . . down . . .

. . . slowly . . .

. . . inexorably . . .

. . . into the unfathomable grayish black murky depths.

The eddying, swirling water closed in all around him, like a shroud wound tight ‘round and ‘round and ‘round the body. Too tight to move. Too tight to breathe. His mouth dropped open as lungs and chest struggled to expand . . . that he might draw in enough breath to push away the grayness pressing so close against him, drawing him down . . . .

. . . deeper . . .

. . . ever deeper.

His tongue, parched and dry, moved slowly upward, along the side of his mouth, frantically seeking moisture to sooth his parched, burning throat.

He coughed.

Strange water.

No wetness to cool and soothe. This water was dry. Drier even, than the dust accumulated in all the corners, of all the hidden nooks and crannies inside the abandoned, lonely buildings, remains of the many ghost towns dotting the desert.

It’s very touch burned.

In the distance, he heard the endless roar of thunder, steadily building, growing louder and louder, until it became a deafening roar. The murky gray cotton water grew darker, and darker, almost black. Its eddies and whirls became tendrils, swirling tentacles flowing into his nose and mouth. He coughed again, and again, and again, as his body struggled desperately to expel the burning, black water from his lungs and draw in fresh air.

Still, the black misty waters came.

Easier . . . so much easier to just give himself over to the rising, swirling black eddies . . .

. . . to simply let go . . .

. . . and let the eddies and currents carry him where they will . . . .

NO!

Ben Cartwright’s eyes snapped wide open. By the dim light of the waning quarter moon shining in through his bedroom window, he saw a murky, fog-gray cloud spinning in lazy whirlpools all around him. It had covered his bedroom ceiling, obscuring it from view as completely as the heavy, lead gray rain clouds veil the blue sky and sunshine when the spring rains fall. His bedroom furnishings, the massive mahogany and marble dresser against the wall facing his bed, the matching wardrobe alongside it, the pictures on the walls, the chair and reading table over in the far corner, had all been reduced to vague, nebulous, shapes . . . as if someone had come in and covered every thing with a gray sheet, made of cotton candy.

He inhaled deeply, setting off a spasm of violent coughing and gagging, then rolled over onto his side. As he pushed himself up, the sudden upward thrust, set the room in motion, spinning crazily about him. Ben collapsed back down on the bed, with an agonized groan.

“Smoke!” Somewhere from the deepest depths within, that word seared itself on his brain. “Fire!”

Ben extended his hand toward the night table right next to his bed, his fingers groping across its smoothed, well polished surface. Upon finding the sought-for object, his fingers and hand closed around it with the deadly swiftness and power as a bear trap. Clutching the small object tight in his fist, Ben rolled off his bed, his other hand yanking his bathrobe off its place on the bedpost, and dropped to the floor gracelessly on all fours, still coughing.

After struggling into his robe, he dropped the object in hand down into his the left pocket, then half-crawled, half-dragged his way toward the closed door of his bedroom, keeping his face as close to the floor as possible. He paused to touch the door of his room, and found it still cool to the touch. Rising slowly to a bent-over crouched position, Ben threw open the door and bolted into the hall.

“PA?”

Ben’s sharp ears picked up the sound of Hoss’ voice, made hoarse by the increasing volume of smoke, over and above the roar of the fire echoing through out the house.

“HOSS, HERE!” Ben shouted back, astonished at how rough his own voice sounded. A split second later, he felt the touch of two massive, well muscled hands on both shoulders. “What about Joe . . . Stacy . . . and Hop Sing?”

“Ain’t seen hide nor hair o’ anyone ‘cept YOU, Pa,” Hoss said. “Must still be in their rooms. Lemme git you out first, then I’ll come back for them.”

“No time!” Ben said tersely.

“MISTER CARTWRIGHT?” It was Hop Sing, yelling from the bottom of the stairs.

“HOP SING, GET OUT! NOW!” Ben yelled back, wincing against the terrible burning in his throat. Another violent spasm of coughing and gagging overtook him.

“WHERE SONS AND DAUGHTER?”

“WE’RE ALL UP HERE!” Hoss shouted back, grabbing Ben, as he doubled over, caught now in the throes of dry heaving. “GET OUTTA HERE, HOP SING! WE’LL BE RIGHT BEHIND YOU!”

“Hoss . . . you fetch Joe,” Ben wheezed, as his heaving began to lessen. “I’ll . . . I’ll get Stacy.”

“Pa, you’re in no shape to— ”

“Don’t argue with me, Hoss!” Ben snapped. “I have enough strength to do what I need to do. Find Joe, get him outta here! I’ll do the same with Stacy! We’ll meet up outside!”

Hoss’ hands withdrew from his shoulders, and out of the corner of his eye, Ben caught sight of his second son’s hulking silhouette vanishing in the increasing murky gloom. He rose unsteadily to his feet, and bending again to crouched position, he made his way to Stacy’s room. The door stood wide open. In the gray, smoky darkness within, he could hear her softly struggling for breath. Ben dropped back down onto all fours and crawled to the side of the bed.

“STACY!” Ben shouted, his voice completely hoarse. He shook her vigorously at the same time. “STACY, WAKE UP!”

Her coughing intensified.

Ben seized her by the waist and dragged her down to the floor.

“P-Pa . . . . ?!” Further words, if any, were lost in a violent spasm of coughing and gagging. Stacy, still groggy from sleep, tried to rise.

“No,” Ben said tersely, restraining her. “Keep low. Air fresher.”

Ben alternately pushed and dragged Stacy toward the open door of the bedroom, out into the hallway beyond.

“PA?”

“HERE, HOSS! I HAVE STACY!”

Ben could hear Joe gagging behind the growing roar of the fire consuming their home.

The four Cartwrights stumbled blindly down the steps to the first story. At the bottom of the staircase, they collapsed, coughing and gagging. Though the air remained relatively fresh, thick billows of angry gray smoke had already obliterated the great room ceiling over head, and begun spiraling downward.

“Gotta . . . gotta git outta here,” Hoss wheezed.

Joe, meanwhile, stumbled over to the end table, beside the stairs, upon which were displayed all of the family pictures and other small treasures. He snatched up the photographs of Elizabeth and Inger, along with the miniature oil painting of his own mother, Marie, and unceremoniously stuffed them into the left pocket of his robe. Cousin Will and HIS father, Uncle John, facing each other in a hinged double frame immediately followed.

“JOSEPH! COME ON!”

“COMING, PA!” Joe shouted back. He stuffed the old, well worn prayer book that had belonged to his mother, and maternal grandmother into the other pocket of his robe, along with Adam’s and Teresa’s wedding picture, and a photograph taken of their two children, Benjy and Dio three years ago. Last, he snatched up the photo, taken two years ago, of the entire family.

“JOSEPH! NOW !!!”

“I’M COMING!”

Joe crammed the family portrait into the right pocket of his robe, then bolted through the thickening smoke after his father, brother, and sister.



“COME ON, COME ON! EVERYBODY, GET BUCKETS . . . LINE UP!” Hop Sing shouted over the growing roar of the fire. He dutifully escorted Ellen Cromwell, yawning, still half asleep to the middle of the line that would pass the empty buckets back to the water trough and pump to be refilled. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught movement. Hop Sing turned, and saw two young teenaged boys running around the water trough, laughing and splashing each other with water. Scowling, his mouth set in a thin, angry, straight line he strode briskly on an intercept course toward the high spirited young lads. “YOU!”

Both boys froze.

“NO TIME FOR PLAY!” Hop Sing vented the full force of the anger, fear, and worry that had festered and grown within, since he had made his own escape from the burning house, leaving behind his beloved family. “LINE UP!”

“Y-yes, Sir,” the boys mumbled, moving toward the line that would return the empty buckets.

“NO!” Hop Sing shouted, seizing their forearms in a painful, vice-like grip. “YOU BOTH BIG BOYS! NOT BIG LIKE MISTER HOSS, BUT STILL BIG BOYS! YOU OVER THERE!” He angrily shoved both toward the line that would pass the buckets filled with water down toward the fire.

Hop Sing continued darting about, grabbing every able bodied man, woman, and child, and placing them in line. All the while, he frequently cast hopeful, if furtive glances back toward the front door of the house, standing wide open.

Jacob Cromwell, a large, well muscled man, aged in his early to mid-thirties, stepped over to the pump and began filling the numerous empty buckets lying in a pile surrounding the pump and water trough. The first man on the line, a young man by the name of Kevin O’Hennessey, thrust Jacob’s first bucket toward the man beside him, then quickly seized one of the empty buckets from the pile, lying directly at his own feet. He filled it from the water collected in the trough and passed it on in the same quick, fluid movement.

“THEY’RE OUT!”

Hop Sing handed a frightened three year old girl, found walking about lost, clutching her rag doll in both hands, over to the care of Jenny Everett, the elderly great aunt of Hank Carlson, the Ponderosa’s senior foreman. That done, he glanced up just in time to see Mister Hoss exit the house, herding Little Joe and Miss Stacy out before him. Mister Cartwright stumbled out last. Hop Sing placed a yawning woman and her daughter in the empty bucket line, then set off back towards the house and his family at a dead run.



“They’re out, Ma’am!”

“How many?”

“ALL of ‘em.”

“Let ME see!” The woman snatched the binoculars out of the hands of her young companion before he could even think to reply let alone act. Taking the edge of her black, nearly opaque veil in hand, she lifted it, then carelessly tossed it up over her head.

Though nearly a dozen years younger than Ben Cartwright, the furrows deeply etched into the thin flesh covering her brow, the slightly protruding jaw and lower lip, the deep, pronounced lines framing a mouth and thinned lips, cast into a perpetual, taut, near straight, angry line, lent her the appearance of someone far older. The golden brown hair that had been her pride and joy as a young woman came from a bottle now. Its uniform

Although she had been quite generous in her use of cosmetics, they had, nonetheless, been very carefully, very painstakingly applied. Her hair, dyed a uniform golden brown, had been meticulously styled in an immaculate French twist.

The woman raised the binoculars to her eyes and scanned the growing sea of anxious, weary, even sleepy faces, all converging on the burning ranch house.

“Where are you?” she muttered impatiently under her breath, as she moved from face to face, to yet another face. “Where are you, where are you, where ARE you?”

After a dreadful eternity of fruitless searching, her sites, at long last came to rest on Joe Cartwright, stepping down off the porch, nearly doubled over with his coughing. A halo of unruly chestnut brown curls framed a pale face, with cheeks blackened by soot, streaked by rivulets of sweat, and eyes barely open. The woman next moved her binoculars to Stacy, her shoulders hunched, coughing into her hands cupped together over her mouth; then to Hoss, his mouth set with a stubborn determination almost etched in granite. With one arm wrapped firmly and securely around Joe’s waist, Hoss half carried, half dragged his brother to safety, while urging his sister to keep moving with an occasional gentle shove from the other hand.

Finally, her eyes came to rest on the silver haired patriarch of the Cartwright clan, as he stumbled out of the house, following closely behind Hoss. An appreciative smile slowly spread across her carefully painted rose bud pink lips. Though his waist had thickened a bit and that firm chin line sagged a little lower now than when they last met, he, nonetheless, still cut a very fine figure of a man with those big broad shoulders and that rugged, manly profile . . . .


“YOU!”

At the sound of his booming baritone voice, her buggy, her young companion, the chaos reigning all around her ceased to be. She stood once more in his great room, as she had . . . when? Ten years ago? Fifteen? Twenty!? Maybe a hundred? It was so hard to remember. She reluctantly turned and glanced up, knowing with dreadful certainty what was to come.

She saw him standing on the middle landing, where they kept that Indian blanket draped over the railing, looming high over her head, his posture every bit as straight and stiff as that of an army general, his rigid body trembling with a terrible fury, barely contained. His smoldering dark brown almost black eyes blazed with the fires of the wrath, consuming him from within.

“B-Ben?”

“You . . . with your malicious lies . . . spread by your man . . . at YOUR bidding . . . you’ve brought me to the brink of ruin.”

“Ben, I . . . I have no idea what you’re talking about. No idea whatsoever!”

“Don’t you?”

“No, I don’t.” She actually smiled, and held out her hand to him . . . to this angry, vengeful Adonis towering so high above her. “Darling, please! Come, let’s sit down . . . talk this out— ”

“I’m THROUGH talking !”

She saw the wrought iron fireplace poker in his hand for the first time.

“ . . . do you hear me? I’m . . . through . . . talking.”

He descended the staircase, moving with the same slow relentlessness of a cougar stalking its cornered, helpless prey. His fingers were wrapped tight around the handle of the poker, so tight, his knuckles had turned an alarming bloodless white. Alarmed, she backed away from the stairs, her eyes glued to his face. The insane rage burning within him had twisted, contorted that handsome face, with its finely chiseled features into something bestial, having no semblance of human form whatsoever.

Upon reaching the very bottom of the steps, he abruptly turned heel and moved away from her, heading instead on a direct intercept course toward the beautiful oil portrait of the two of them together, as they were nearly twenty years before. That painting had been her gift to him. She had spent nearly a year working on it, painting every line, every plane of his face from cherished memory. A year of painstaking labor, undertaken with love and devotion.

“Darling, wh-what are you going t-to do with that painting?”

Those dark eyes met and held her own. The malevolence she saw reflected in his eyes . . . in his very soul . . . frightened her, more than she could recall having ever been frightened in her entire life. She watched with rapt, morbid fascination as he slowly raised the poker high up over his head. A cruel smile oozed across his lips.

Then, suddenly, his arm came down, with all the deadly swiftness of a cobra she and her late husband saw in India striking an unwary charmer, thrusting the poker right through her masterpiece, leaving torn canvas and a gaping hole where her face had been. The move was so quick, so sudden, she screamed and jumped back.

His smile vanished. “ . . . scheming, conniving witch . . . . ” he growled in a low, menacing tone.

She watched . . . frightened, dismayed, hurt . . . shaken utterly to the very core of her being, as his arm thrust upward, then down in rapid succession, smashing the painting to ribbons.

“ . . . scheming . . . conniving . . . witch . . . . ”

“ . . . scheming . . . .

. . . conniving . . . .

. . . witch!”


“Ma’am?”

She gasped and started so violently, the binoculars fell out of her hands, striking against the floor of her buggy with a dull thud. She closed her eyes as wave, upon wave, upon wave of dizziness rolled over her.

“A-are you—?! Ma’am, are you alright?”

The woman slowly opened her eyes, and found herself gazing into the anxious face of her companion, a young man with chestnut curls, and hazel eyes, now round with alarm. For one brief, frightening moment, she had no idea who he was or where she was. Then slowly, every thing came back to her in tiny bits and pieces. “I’m fine!” she snapped. All trace of her distress had suddenly, completely vanished as a drop of water on the hot desert sands at midday. “Jack . . . . ”

“Yes, Ma’am?”

“You know what to do?”

Jack, her companion, solemnly nodded.

“Good!” she snapped. “You’d better get back, before you’re missed.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

After her young companion had left, she reached down toward the floor of the buggy and began groping about in the darkness, frantically searching for her dropped binoculars. When, at long last, her fingers touched them, she snatched them up and once again raised them to her eyes . . . searching.

After another eternity of searching, of once more scanning that mob of faces, far more in number now than when she had searched just a short while ago, the woman once again found the face for which she had so desperately and so frantically sought. “Ben, Darling,” she murmured softly, training her sites once more on the face of the Cartwright family patriarch, “how wonderful it is to see you again.”



Hoss, grim faced and weary, blissfully unaware of the intense scrutiny being brought to bear on himself and the rest of his family, herded his younger brother and sister past the bucket brigade lines toward the pump and trough out in the middle of the yard. Ben followed close at his heels.

“Joe . . . Stacy . . . and you, too, Pa! Just start breathin’ in all this nice fresh air,” Hoss tersely instructed his father and younger siblings.

Ben took a deep, ragged breath, setting off another spasm of coughing that shook his entire frame. “Where’s . . . where’s Hop Sing?” he demanded, as he wearily sank down on the edge of the trough.

“Hop Sing here, Mister Cartwright.”

Hoss and Ben glanced up just in time to see Hop Sing emerge from the shadows.

“Hop Sing safe, not hurt.”

“Hop Sing . . . the wind! Which way?”

Hop Sing wet his finger and held it up in the air, turning until he felt the stirring breezes. “Bad!” he murmured. “VERY bad! Wind grow, get bigger! Blow from house to barn!”

“The horses!” Ben rose unsteadily to his feet.

“I’LL see to the horses, Pa,” Hoss said grimly. “You stay here with Joe ‘n Stacy. Try t’ get your breath.”

“Hoss, too much— ” Ben protested.

“I’ll round up a couple o’ the men t’ help me,” Hoss said. “You stay here ‘n rest a minute. Hop Sing?”

“Yes, Mister Hoss?”

“I’d be much obliged if YOU make sure Pa does what he needs to.”

“Hop Sing promise, make Papa rest, get back breath.”

Hoss nodded, then set off toward the barn, satisfied that he had left his father and younger siblings in good hands. He, Candy, and one of the newer hands, Jack Murphy, a young drifter, aged in his mid-twenties, with hazel eyes and chestnut brown hair, all converged at the barn door.

“Hoss! Thank God!” Candy heaved a heartfelt sigh of relief upon lying eyes on the biggest of the Cartwright offspring. “Did everyone else get out?”

Hoss nodded curtly as he threw open the barn door. “Pa, Joe, ‘n Stacy are over by the pump with Hop Sing.”

“Glad everyone made it out safe, Mister Cartwright,” Jack said in a quiet, bland tone.

“Thanks, Jack, that’s the important thing!” Hoss said with heartfelt candor. “Now, with the wind blowin’ this way straight from the house, we’ve gotta git the horses out.”

“I can also start gathering equipment from the tack room if you wish,” Jack offered.

“The main thing right now is git the horses outta there ‘n put out that fire,” Hoss said firmly. “We’ve had some rain off ‘n on, but, things’re still pretty dry. One spark fallin’ in the wrong place could set this whole country side ablaze.”

“You oughtta get that buckboard outta here, however,” Candy said, nodding his head toward the conveyance. “That’s sure to come in handy later.”

“I’ll hitch up the horses and haul it outside, Mister Cartwright,” Jack offered.

“Go ahead,” Hoss replied. “Candy, you ‘n I can see t’ the rest.”

“I’ll go start at the back end of the barn, Hoss,” Candy said. “You can start at the front.”



“Jacob, how’re you holding up?”

Jacob Cromwell turned and found his boss, clad in night shirt and robe, his face and hair blackened with soot, looking down at him anxiously. He quickly filled another bucket and handed it off to Kevin O’Hennessey. “I can hold out as long as the water does, Mister Cartwright,” he replied, as he leaned over to pick up another bucket.

“If you need a rest, let either me or Hop Sing know. We’ll get a replacement on that pump,” Ben said, clapping a paternal hand down on the younger man’s shoulder. “I don’t want YOU to keel over.”

Jacob managed a wan smile. Barely. “Thank you for your concern, Sir, but I’ll be alright.”

“Mister Cartwright?” It was Derek Welles. He was a short, thin, wiry man roughly the same age as Hoss. He had been working for Ben Cartwright since the untimely deaths of his parents and subsequent loss of his home, sold to pay off debtors, at the age of sixteen.

“Yes, Derek?”

“You see all that smoke up there, leakin’ out from between the cracks in the attic window?” Derek pointed.

“Yes . . . . ”

“If I could go up on the roof, right over the end where that attic window is . . . maybe take two or three men with me, ‘n some axes? I think . . . if we could chop a hole into that roof and start pouring in water from above, we’d stand a real good chance of containing things quicker.”

“I don’t know, Derek,” Ben murmured doubtfully.

“I’ve seen that sort of thing done before, Sir, and I’ve seen it work.”

“Sounds awfully dangerous.”

“We’d stand a better chance of saving a good portion of your house.”

“Derek, you listen to me, and you listen good!” Ben said sternly. “Virtually everyTHING in that house can be replaced. People . . . can’t.”

“Don’t worry, Mister Cartwright. I know what I’m doing.”

“If HE doesn’t, I sure do.”

Ben whirled in his tracks and found Candy standing behind him.

“I’ve done that sort of thing a few times myself,” Candy continued.

Ben saw in their jaw lines, rigidly set, and in the fierce scowls on their faces, that both were bound and determined. “Alright,” he gave in reluctantly. “But, I want you both to promise me you’ll be very careful, and at the very least sign of trouble, you’ll get out of there.”

“We will, Sir,” Derek promised with a curt nod of his head.



Meanwhile, Joe and Stacy, both having recovered somewhat from the effects of smoke inhalation, had gone to the horse trough and seized two empty buckets apiece, as they were passed back down the line to be filled again with water.

“Fill ‘em up, Jake,” Joe said as he handed one, then the other to the big man at the pump.

“Ditto that for me, too . . . please,” Stacy said.

“Stacy Rose Cartwright, you are NOT going back in there,” Joe said firmly as he took one full bucket from Jacob and handed over the second.

“The hell I’m not!”

“The hell you ARE!” Joe growled back. “Come ON, Kid, be reasonable! It’s ‘way too dangerous!”

“It’s no more dangerous for me than it is for you, Grandpa” she countered with a murderous scowl. “This is MY home, too.”

“Stacy, please . . . . ”

“No! I’m going with you and that’s that!” She reached out and grabbed Joe’s second pail from Jacob before he could make a move, and handed over the empty bucket she held in hand. “I told you . . . . this is MY home, too. I am NOT going to stand around, twiddling my thumbs while other people fight to save it.”

“Alright!” Joe reluctantly gave in. “But you’d better daggoned sight be careful! Pa’ll skin me alive if anything happens to you . . . especially if he finds out I was the one who let you go in.”

“I wasn’t planning on telling Pa that you let me go in,” Stacy said, as she took back her second bucket from Jacob, now filled to the brim with water. “Were you?”

“ . . . uuhh, no,” Joe replied, as he handed Jacob his second bucket.

“Even if you did tell him that you let me go in, it would be a big bald faced lie anyway, because I AM going back in with you . . . whether you LET me or not.”

Candy, meanwhile, had gotten the tallest ladder from the barn and propped it against the roof covering the porch. With two axes in hand, he quickly climbed up the ladder, with Derek following close behind, carrying two buckets of water, attached to a make shift yoke, placed across his shoulders.

“Derek? Candy?”

Candy crawled onto the porch roof, then turned and glanced down. Kevin O’Hennessey, an Irish immigrant, aged in his early twenties, stood near the bottom of the ladder, with bucket in one hand and the other lightly resting on the ladder rung nearest shoulder level. Robert Washington, a black man roughly the same age stood a little behind Kevin, also looking up.

“You guys need any help?”

“Either of you know how to rig up a pulley?” Candy asked.

“I do,” Robert, better known as Bobby to his friends, answered immediately.

“I saw a couple of pulleys lying in the barn, just inside the door,” Candy said tersely. “You’ll find rope in the tack room and tools in the tool box. Get what you need and get up here.”

“Yes, Sir,” Bobby said, then sped off, toward the barn.

“Kevin . . . . ”

“Yes, Mister Canaday?”

“Start hauling buckets of water up here,” Candy ordered. “As many as can be spared! I want ‘em handy so we can start pouring water on the fire once Derek and I hack through the roof.”

“You want me to get an axe and help ya?”

“No! Just get the water.”



“What’re you two doin’ in here?” Hoss demanded with a scowl, as he bounded from the top landing into the upstairs hallway. Halfway down, he saw Joe and Stacy battling the flames directly, along side Mitch Cranston, and Arch Campbell.

“What does it LOOK like?” Joe responded with blatant sarcasm, as he turned and grabbed the bucket of water from the man standing behind him and threw it into the flames consuming the wall and door to one of the empty guest rooms.

“I thought I told the two o’ you to sit still ‘n take in some fresh air,” Hoss growled, as he snatched a bucket of water coming along the line directly behind his sister and Arch.

“We did!” Stacy replied. She turned and grabbed the next bucket of water. In the same instant, Arch suddenly doubled over, his entire body wracked by a violent spasm of coughing.

Hoss seized the stricken man by the forearm and placed him into the care of the man behind Stacy. “Herb, git him outta here . . . quick!”

“Yes, Sir.” The man addressed as Herb firmly took Arch in hand and started dragging him over toward the steps.

“Where’s Pa?” Hoss demanded as he slipped off his robe and began using it to beat out the flames.

“Out front . . . coordinating things,” Joe replied tersely, as he dumped yet another bucket of water into the flames.

“Hop Sing’s with him,” Stacy added.



Candy, clad only in a pair of loose fitting striped pajama bottoms, and an old pair of boots, gritted his teeth and swung the axe, again and again. Though he felt the blade penetrating deeper into the roof with each powerful swing, the process seemed maddeningly slow. His hair was damp and plastered to his face and the exposed portions of his body were bathed in a thin film of sweat. As he swung back yet again, his eyes fell on Derek, positioned up near the place where the roof came to a point.

Candy scowled. “Derek . . . . ”

Derek paused, and glanced up sharply. “What?”

“Your position’s kinda precarious there.”

“I’ll be alright,” Derek said tersely, swinging his own axe up and bringing it down again, hard. “If you get Kevin up here with an axe, place him over there, we could open up a nice big hole— ”

“Too dangerous!” Candy snapped.

“KEVIN!” Derek shouted, in blatant disregard of Candy’s words.

Over next the ladder, still leaning against the porch roof, Kevin O’Hennessey paused, then glanced over toward Derek.

“WE GOT ENOUGH WATER! GET ANOTHER AXE AND GET UP HERE!”

“Damn it, Derek, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” Candy angrily demanded, bringing down the axe hard, keeping time with the rhythm of his spoken words.

“I’m trying to save as much of the Cartwrights’ house as I can,” Derek replied tersely, his mouth thinned to a near lipless stubborn line.

“Didn’t you hear what Mister Cartwright said down there?”

“Of course I heard, but damn it! This is the man’s HOME! It took him years and years of hard work to build all this! Every thing inside . . . Candy, it’s not just stuff . . . or things! The furniture, that blanket over the banister, the pictures, even the dishes, all have a story to tell . . . a connection, maybe, to a loved one no longer with us— ”

“HOGWASH!” Candy shouted, bringing down his axe for emphasis with sufficient force to finally penetrate all the way through the roof. “SENTIMENTAL HOGWASH!”

“YOU WOULDN’T SAY THAT IF YOU’D LOST YOUR HOME AND EVERYTHING THING ELSE . . . JUST BECAUSE YOU WERE A KID WHEN YOUR MA ‘N PA DIED . . . AND PEOPLE JUST HAD TO HAVE THEIR MONEY, RIGHT NOW THIS VERY INSTANT!” Derek angrily brought his own axe down on the roof with each syllable uttered with every ounce of strength he could muster.

“FOR YOUR INFORMATION, FRIEND, I DID LOOSE MY HOME AND EVERYTHING ELSE WHEN MY PA DIED,” Candy shouted back, as his growing anger finally got the better of him. “I WAS SEVEN! MY MA DIED A FEW YEARS EARLIER WHEN I WAS FOUR. KNOW WHAT?”

“WHAT?”

“I DON’T NEED A BUNCH OF . . . OF STICKS AND PIECES OF MATERIAL AND PAPERS TO REMIND ME OF ‘EM, ‘CAUSE I GOT ‘EM RIGHT HERE!” Candy pounded on his chest for emphasis.

“DEREK!”

Both Candy and Derek turned and saw Kevin O’Hennessey making his way across the roof toward them, with axe in hand.

“WHERE DO YOU WANT ME?”

“THERE!” Derek shouted back, pointing to a place a few yards away from Candy’s position.

“Kevin . . . .”

The young Irishman paused. “Yes, Mister Canaday?”

“You be real careful, you hear? And if I tell you to move, you move! No questions asked! That clear?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“DEREK? CANDY?” It was Bobby Washington, grinning from ear-to-ear. “PULLEY’S IN PLACE . . . READY TO GO!”

Candy and Derek immediately redoubled their efforts. With the able assistance of Kevin O’Hennessey, they finally opened up a sizable hole in the roof.

“KEVIN! START BRINGING THOSE BUCKETS YOU STACKED!” Candy yelled, so to be heard above the roar of the growing inferno. “BOBBY!”

“YEAH, CANDY?”

“SEE IF YOU CAN GET A BUCKET LINE GOIN’ FROM THAT PUMP TO THE LADDER!”

“YES, SIR!”



On the ground below, Hop Sing grabbed a half dozen men, along with two strong women, to form a bucket line from the pump over toward the ladder. “You tie bucket to rope. He . . . . ” Hop Sing pointed to Bobby Washington up on the porch roof, “ . . . pull up water to roof. Take to others, pour into hole in roof.”

“Thank you, Hop Sing,” Bobby said gratefully, while hauling up the first buckets, using the pulley system he had just rigged up on the porch roof.

“You be careful!” Hop Sing admonished the young man sternly.

“Hop Sing!”

He whirled in his tracks and found himself looking up into the weary, soot blackened face of his employer and trusted friend, Mister Cartwright.

“The wind, Hop Sing?”

“Good news . . . very good news maybe,” Hop Sing replied. “Also very BAD news.”

“Gimme the BAD news first and get it over with,” Ben growled.

“Wind pick up. KEEP pick up, more and more, wind grow!” Hop Sing said grimly. “Wind blow, get bigger . . . spread fire!”

“What’s the GOOD news?”

“Wind maybe bring rain. Hop Sing smell!”

Ben’s heart sank. “We’ve been smelling rain every night now for the past two weeks, and we’ve yet to see a single drop.”

“Smell different tonight! Maybe rain finally come.”

“I sure hope so.”



“Derek!”

“What is it NOW, Candy?” Derek demanded sullenly, as he grabbed a full bucket of water from Kevin and emptied the entire contents into the gaping hole before him.

“I don’t like the way the roof under ya’s sagging,” Candy said tersely. He poured the contents of the bucket in hand into the hole, then passed it, empty, back to Kevin.

“I’m OK!” Derek snapped.

An exasperated sigh exploded out from between Candy’s pursed lips. “Oh . . . all right! I’m sorry!”

“About WHAT?”

“The things I said earlier. I’m sorry.” Candy’s anger and frustration slowly melted into genuine remorse. “I mean it, Derek. I’m sorry.”

“ ‘S ok, Candy.”

“I also meant it when I said I didn’t like the way that roof’s sagging under you,” Candy continued.

“I’m ok, honest.” Derek glared into the hole at the flames rapidly consuming the attic. He poured the bucket of water, sitting at his feet into the hole, then tossed the empty across the gaping hole to Kevin. “Why isn’t this working?”

“Excuse me?”

Derek glanced up sharply, his eyes meeting and holding Candy’s. “It ain’t working! If anything, that fire inside’s growing . . . spreading.”

“Damn it!” Candy swore softly. “I should’ve realized . . . . ”

“What?!”

“It’s the wind,” Candy said soberly. “That hole’s acting like a wind tunnel. The fire’s drawing in the wind and feeding on it. The more it feeds, the more it grows.” The ominous sounds of wood creaking and groaning brought all conversation to a sudden, swift halt, as the roof beneath Candy began to sag. “BOBBY! KEVIN! GET OFF THE ROOF! NOW!” He shouted, his eyes round with alarm. “DEREK! COME ON! YOU, TOO!”

Derek started to rise. Suddenly, with a loud groan, the roof beneath his feet gave way. He reached out blindly, his fingers frantically clawing, desperately seeking something, anything . . . . Derek barely managed to grab hold of a thick piece of planking, arced downward toward the raging inferno below.

“Hang on, Derek! I’m coming!”

“Candy, NO!” Derek protested, his eyes round with horror. “NO! This roof can go any minute!”

“Shut-up, Derek! I’m coming to your rescue, whether you like it or not!” Candy gave the gaping hole in the roof wide birth as he circled around toward the place where his friend clung for dear life. He felt the roof beneath his feet sag again, accompanied by the creaking and groaning of wood. With heart in mouth, he immediately dropped to his knees and started to crawl up toward the peak of the roof, his eyes, his jaw set with a fierce stubborn determination.

“C-Candy, no! Go back!” Derek begged, his voice shaking and eyes glued to the sky and stars, now fading into the gray light of dawn. “I’m DONE for!”

Candy turned a deaf ear to the younger man’s desperate entreaties to save himself. As he neared the gaping hole in the roof, he carefully lowered himself to his stomach and inched his way forward. He finally reached the edge after what seemed a maddening eternity of scraping along the roof on his belly. Smiling triumphantly, while wincing against the great heat rising from the opening in what remained of the ranch house roof, Candy thrust his hand into the hole toward Derek. He felt the roughness of the shirt Derek had thrown on before rushing from the bunkhouse to do his part in containing the fire consuming the Cartwrights’ home.

Then, suddenly, the roof under Candy gave way, sending Derek hurtling down into the raging inferno below. Derek’s screams, of fear, of anger, and of pure astonishment, mixed with the roar of the fire. Candy, unable to move, stared into the gaping hole through eyes round with shock and horror, his hand still extended toward the place where Derek Welles hung on for dear life just a few scant seconds before.

“CANDY!” It was Bobby Washington. He had just witnessed Derek Welles’ fall to an inevitable fiery death, and now saw the roof under Candy sagging. “CANDY, COME ON!”

“BOBBY, WHAT’S GOING ON?”

He turned at the sound of his name and saw Kevin O’Hennessey standing at the foot of the ladder gazing up at him.

“THE ROOF’S ABOUT TO COLLAPSE!” Bobby shouted. “GO WARN THE OTHERS!”

“WHAT ABOUT YOU, CANDY, AND DEREK?”

“WE’RE COMING! NOW GIT!” Bobby heaved a great sigh of relief as Kevin turned and ran toward the bucket lines still stretching between the outside water pump and the house. He immediately returned his attention to Candy. “HEY, BOSS, COME ON! WE GOTTA GET GOIN’!”

Candy didn’t move, nor did he in any way acknowledge that he had heard Bobby calling to him.

Bobby rose and started across the roof toward Candy, with heart thudding hard against his rib cage and legs trembling.



“HOSS! JOE! STACY! THE REST OF YA . . . GET OUT NOW! THE ROOF’S ABOUT TO GO!” Kevin O’Hennessy shouted as he pushed his past the men and women forming the bucket lines.

Some of the people standing closest to the open front door immediately dropped the buckets they held in their hands and fled to safely.

“HOSS! COME ON!” Kevin shouted, as he propelled Ellen Cromwell and the young girl, standing next to her in line, out the door. “JOE AND STACY, YOU, TOO! YOU GOTTA COME OUT RIGHT NOW!”

“Kevin’s right!” Hoss said grimly. He threw aside the remains of the quilt he had been using to battle the flames consuming the wall between the hallway and Adam’s old room, then started to herd his younger siblings toward the stairs.

Overhead the ceiling groaned. The ominous creaks and snaps started near the back of the house, and moved down the entire length of the ceiling over their heads. There was a pop, followed by a loud, crack. The ceiling above the hallway groaned again, and began to sag, raining hot plaster down on Hoss, Joe and Stacy as they fled down the burning upstairs corridor toward the stairs. A large piece of plaster fell striking Stacy on the head. She stumbled under the impact of the blow, collapsing heavily against the wall behind her, before crumpling to the floor in a limp, ungainly heap.

“STACY!” Joe shouted, as he stopped, pivoted, then ran back into the rising veil of smoke and plaster dust toward his sister. In less than a heartbeat, he was kneeling at her side. Blood poured freely from the right side of her head, congealing in her long dark hair, and gluing pieces of plaster and splintered wood to her head, nightshirt, and her right cheek.

Hoss realized almost immediately that his younger brother and sister were no longer following. He paused, and turned. “JOE! STACY! WHAT’S WRONG?” he yelled.

“STACY’S HURT!” Joe shouted back. He quickly, nimbly rocked back on his feet, then leaned over to pick up his insensate sister.

“I’M COMIN’ ON BACK TO— ”

“HOSS, NO! KEEP ON GOING!” Joe yelled as he settled Stacy’s inert form comfortably in his arms. “I’VE GOT THE KID NOW! WE’RE RIGHT BEHIND YOU!”

Hoss ran down the stairs, pausing at the landing in the middle. He turned, and looked up, fully expecting to see Joe and Stacy. He saw no one, only smoke and the rising dust of crushed plaster, left in the wake of the collapsing roof and ceiling. “JOE!” Hoss yelled, his brow knotting with anger and worry. “DADBURN IT, LI’L JOE, IF YOU ‘N STACY AIN’T AT THE TOP OF THE STEPS BY THE TIME I COUNT THREE, I’M— ” He was stricken by a near incapacitating fit of gagging, that literally doubled him over.

“YOU’LL WHAT?” Joe demanded indignantly, as he appeared at the top of the stairs, carrying Stacy.

“FORGET IT!” Hoss shouted back, between bouts of coughing. Clutching the railing for support, he started to make his way down the steps toward the first floor. “COME ON!!”

Joe tightened his grip on Stacy, and started down the steps after Hoss. He had gone no more than a half dozen steps down, when the entire ceiling gave way with a loud, agonizing groan. The stairway collapsed and fell under the weight of the heavy wood beams that had held up the roof, bringing Hoss, Stacy and Joe down with it.



“THE ROOF’S GOING!” someone frantically shouted.

“EVERYONE, AWAY FROM THE HOUSE! NOW!” Hank Carlson angrily barked out the order. Some of the people standing nearest the door had already cleared out, many leaving behind their buckets.

“What’s happening?” Ben demanded, upon noting the mass exodus fleeing away from the burning house.

“The roof’s going, Mister Cartwright!” It was Kevin O’Hennessy, his face, neck, hands, and clothing covered with black soot.

Ben seized the young man by the forearm, his grip painful enough to cause the young man to cry out. “Hoss, Joe, and Stacy! Where are THEY?”

“I . . . I didn’t see them, S-Sir,” Kevin stammered, flinching away from his employer’s intense gaze that seemed to bore right down into the very core of his being.

Ben released the young man with a shove forceful enough to knock him clear off his feet, and began moving briskly toward the house.

“MISTER CARTWRIGHT, WAIT!”

It was his senior foreman, Hark Carlson, moving toward him on a direct intercept course. Ben purposely turned a deaf ear, and quickened his pace toward what remained of the log ranch house he and his family had called home for so many years.

“MISTER CARTWRIGHT!” Hank broke into a dead run, and within seconds was trotting alongside his employer and good friend, breathlessly laboring to keep pace. “Where are you—?”

“Inside!” Ben snapped, never breaking stride, his eyes glued to the front door.

“NO! Mister Cartwright, you CAN’T!”

“I can and I will! My sons and my daughter are still in there.”

Gritting his teeth, Hank Carlson surged ahead, planting himself directly in Ben’s path, effectively barring the way between Ben and the front door, still standing open.

“I’m NOT going to let you go in there, Mister Cartwright. That roof’s gonna go any second— ”

“Hank Carlson, you get out of my way right NOW, ” Ben growled, his voice barely above a whisper,” or so help me, as God is my witness, I’ll kill you right where you stand.”

Hank blanched in the face of Ben’s barely contained murderous fury, and involuntarily side stepped. Ben moved past Hank, breaking now into a dead run, with heart pounding hard against his rib cage, catching in his throat. Hank stood unmoving, as if he had suddenly taken root, staring after Ben Cartwright’s steadily retreating back, through eyes round with shocked horror and dismay, gazing upon a man he had for many years known as employer and friend, the way he might look upon a menacing stranger.



Inside the house, Hoss, down on splinter-filled hands and bloodied knees, squeezed his eyes shut, while gingerly shaking his head to empty out the murky, scrambled images and feelings that threatened to inundate the clear-headedness he so desperately needed right now.

“H-Hoss . . . . ?!” Joe wheezed, then succumbed to a fit of coughing.

“Here, Li’l Brother,” Hoss murmured, trying with all his might to focus on the sound of Joe’s voice. “Where are ya?”

“Behind you . . . Stacy, too. Buried . . . . ”

Hoss rose unsteadily to his feet, squeezing his eyelids together even tighter, this time as buffer against the surroundings spiraling and pulsating with a fierce, nauseating intensity. “K-keep talking, Joe . . . I’m c-comin’.”

“Behind you . . . Hoss, Stacy’s hurt . . . I think real bad . . . . ”

It took every ounce of will Hoss possessed to turn his thoughts away from the heat searing his throat and lungs, the escalating pain of his own injuries, the dizziness and nausea threatening to overwhelm him, and hone in on his brother’s words, the sound of his voice. He found his younger brother and sister half buried under heavy wood beams, plaster, shingle, and the splintered lumber of what remained of the staircase, pride and joy of the oldest brother who had designed and built it. Gritting his teeth against the searing agony in his upper torso, Hoss moved with surprising speed and agility given a man of his height and mass, bringing his near superhuman strength to bear on freeing his brother and sister.

“Joe, c’n y’ walk?” Hoss asked as he carefully helped his brother to his feet. He knew at once that Joe’s right arm had been dislocated at the shoulder, and the shallow breaths coupled with the pained look on his face as he breathed in hinted at the possibility of fractured ribs.

“I . . . yeah, I think so . . . . ”

Hoss carefully leaned over and lifted their unconscious sister in his arms. “G’won, Joe . . . I got Stacy!”

“You g-go first, Hoss . . . I’ll follow.”

Hoss started toward the door, tightening his hold on Stacy, as he began picking his way across the debris from collapsed ceiling, roof, and staircase. The ominous, loud creaking and groaning from what remained of the ceiling directly overhead, froze the blood in Hoss’ veins. He hunched over the injured, still unconscious sister cradled in his arms, to shield her against falling debris, and bolted for the door. He stumbled out of the house, into his surprised father’s open arms.

“Where’s Joe?” Ben demanded tersely.

“He’s right behind— ” Hoss’ words were lost in the thundering roar of wood, plaster, and shingle striking wood floor as the last remaining portion of the main roof lost it’s tenuous hold and collapsed.

“JOE!” Ben shouted, frantic. “JOE, ANSWER ME!”

“Pa . . . .” Though faint, barely audible against the rain of falling wood and roar of fire, Ben’s sharp ears immediately honed in on the sound of his youngest son’s voice. “ . . . way out . . . Hop Sing’s room.”

“GO!” Ben shouted. Satisfied for the moment that Joe was well on his way to safety, he turned his attention to Hoss and Stacy, as they moved to a safe distance away from the house.

“I’LL be alright,” Hoss replied to his father’s unspoken question, and the concern his face and dark brown eyes. “But . . . I think we need t’ git Stacy t’ Doc Martin, Pa, sooner rather ‘n later.”

Hoss strode briskly, beating a straight path toward the outside pump and water trough, with Ben following close at his heels. There, with the trough between them and what remained of the house, he placed his insensate sister down on the ground very carefully, then knelt down beside her. Hop Sing appeared at Hoss’ elbow with a lantern in hand.

“Hop Sing! Get that light over here!” Ben ordered tersely, as he knelt down beside Stacy, on the other side, facing Hoss.

“Here, Mister Cartwright.” Hop Sing bent slightly from the waist, and extended the hand gripping the lantern.



By the flickering light of Hop Sing’s lantern, Ben noted his daughter’s head wound and the odd angle at which her slippered foot and ankle hung from her leg in utter dismay. It was if a knee joint had suddenly appeared in a place where there was no knee joint. With heart in mouth, he carefully lifted the edge of Stacy’s nightshirt to closely examine her injured leg, wishing in the very next instant that he hadn’t. Red, swollen, covered with ash, plaster, wood splinters, and blood, he could see the jagged edges of larger of the two lower leg bones protruding through an open, gaping wound, still bleeding. “T-Tourniquet . . . . ” he murmured.

“Use the sash of your robe, Pa!” Hoss said tersely. “H-How bad . . . .?!”

“VERY bad, Hoss,” Ben said, as his trembling hands worked to loosen the knot binding the edges of the sash together. “HOP SING!”

“Yes, Mister Cartwright?”

“Stacy’s leg . . . it’s broken,” Ben gasped as wave upon wave of nausea began to roll over him. “I-I . . . need something . . . a couple pieces of board preferably, t-to . . . to keep her leg from moving.”

“Hop Sing fetch right away!” He immediately turned heel and ran toward the barn.

Hoss looked over at Jacob Cromwell, as he scrambled to his feet. “Jake?”

“Yes, Sir?”

“Jack Murphy hitched up the buckboard when we released the horses,” Hoss said tersely, as he lifted the hem of his green and white gingham nightshirt and began tearing off ling strips. “Go git it ‘n bring it over here. We need t’ git Stacy t’ Doc Martin soon as we can.”

“Yes, Sir,” Jacob said with a curt nod.

Hop Sing returned a few moments later with several pieces of wood, varying in length and thickness, cradled in his arms. His eyes strayed to Stacy’s leg wound, as he knelt down beside Ben. Though his complexion paled significantly, he yet remained calm. “Hop Sing have wood for splint Miss Stacy’s leg. Plenty!”

Ben pulled the tourniquet around Stacy’s thigh as tight as he possibly could, wincing as he did so, then tied the knot. His hands moved instinctively, impelled almost of their own volition by knowledge gleaned during his seafaring days, to secure a tight knot. “Th-thank you, Hop Sing,” he murmured wearily, as he reached for the longest piece of wood in the pile Hop Sing still held clasped in his arms.

Barred from egress through the front door, Joe stumbled and groped his way across the obstacle course the great room had become, heading in the general direction of the dining room and kitchen, his visibility reduced to muted shades of dark grays fading to deep, impenetrable black from the dust and the relentless, steady accumulation of smoke. His slippered foot bumped hard against a piece of rough hewn lumber, protruding dangerously into the narrow pathway meandering through the broken, splintered remains of the roof. He cried out in surprise and agony, setting off another wearying paroxysm of intense gagging.

Joe forced himself to push on, despite the near incapacitating round of coughing and retching. When he finally stepped through into the dining room, he was astonished to find how much remained in tact—the dining room table, chairs, that disgusting painting of fruit with bugs crawling all over it, the china cabinets with his mother’s good china . . . .

He paused in his flight, and peered in through the glass doors, made gray by the accumulating smoke, sorely tempted.


“ . . . you listen to me, and you listen good!”

His father’s words, stern almost to the point of harsh, rang in his ears; words spoken to Derek Welles, when the young man had expressed his hope of saving the house, of all the things within it.


“Virtually everyTHING in that house can be replaced. People . . . CAN’T!”

Pa’s face, stern, even angry at the thought of losing even one man to save a houseful of things, gave way to a face much younger, a face covered with the grime of sweat and the prickly stubble of a five o’clock shadow several days old . . . a face deeply etched with worry and grief, whose warm brown eyes shone with tears not yet shed.

“ . . . I HAVE my gift,” Pa whispered as he gathered Joe close. “I have my gift.”


Joe wrenched his eyes away from the china cabinet, noting with dismay that the accumulating smoke had all but obliterated the kitchen door from sight. He began to stumble forward, holding his right arm pressed close against his torso, coughing, and groping blindly. A moment later, Joe plowed headlong into the dining room table hard, eliciting a primal bellow of pain and rage.

“J-Just looking at . . . at the c-cabinet with my ma’s china,” he gasped, squeezing his eyes shut tight against the acrid smoke. “Dining r-room table . . . here.” He forced himself to take shallow breaths, evenly paced, as he tried to mentally visualize the layout of the dining room. The china cabinet stood in the corner, next to the picture window, looking out on that breath taking mountain view. That being the case, he almost certainly had to be standing at the foot of the table. He slowly eased his injured, dislocated arm away from his chest, wincing as he did so, and gingerly extending it in the direction he knew the edge of the table to be. A moment later, his knuckles lightly brushed the edge of the table.

Keeping his eyes closed, the back of his hand against the edge of the table, Joe began to inch his way forward, hesitantly at first, then with confidence, that grew with each step. Upon reaching the head of the table, he turned slightly, and walked straight ahead, silently counting his steps, as he drew from the lessons he had learned from Miss Dobbs, when an accident left him temporarily blinded. If memory served it should be an even dozen steps, more or less, from the edge of the table to kitchen door.

“ . . . eight . . . nine . . . ten . . . eleven . . . twelve.” A thrill of triumph, mingled with relief shot through every fiber of his being as his fingertips came into contact with the kitchen door, setting off an adrenalin rush that numbed his pain, and cleared his head. With his left both hands resting against the closed kitchen door, the left at shoulder level and the right near the level of his waist, Joe slid the latter over in the direction the door knob should be. Less than a second later, his fingers grasped the brass doorknob, still cool to the touch, and turned.

The door opened inward, throwing off Joe’s sense of balance. He stumbled headlong into the kitchen, his foot catching on the slightly raised threshold, and fell. He slammed hard into the kitchen floor, knocking the wind from his lungs. For a long, moment, he lay where he fell, stunned, unable to move.

“JOSEPH! GET A MOVE ON!”

His father’s sonorous baritone, shouting at a decibel guaranteed to stampede cattle and curdle milk, echoed through his head.

“NOW!”

“Y-Yes, Pa,” Joe groaned, as he rolled over onto his side and eased himself to a sitting position. He rose to his feet, his legs trembling, unsteady, his head spinning. Panic suddenly rose within, threatening to wholly inundate him. “N-no!” He focused all of his thoughts on straightening up, then reaching out with his left arm. The fingertips of his left hand lightly brushed against the edge of the counter. Exhaling a sigh of relief, he moved closer, his left arm extended, his injured right arm once again held protectively flush up against his body. The nimble and dexterous fingers of his left hand quickly, almost frantically moved across the objects sitting on the counter . . . .

“Cookie jar!” he exclaimed aloud, grinning broadly. Follow the counter to its end, turn right, three steps to the door to Hop Sing’s room.

Joe burst into Hop Sing’s room seconds later. Bed on the left, six steps from the kitchen door. He turned and walked, counting each step. “Follow bed to the edge,” he murmured softly, the minute his leg made contact with the soft downy mattress and comforter on Hop Sing’s bed. “Fourteen steps straight out from the end of the bed, and I’m out of here, home free!” Elated, he felt his way to the end of the bed, then counted out the fourteen steps. He found the door, and stumbled through it, less than a second later, collapsing down on his hands and knees into the soft, freshly turned dirt of Hop Sing’s garden, gulping in lung full, after lung full of fresh, clean, cold air.

At length, Joe rose, blissfully unaware of his bathrobe slipping away from his shoulders. It came to rest, a bright red cloud in the midst of dark brown earth, dotted by yellowed, vegetation. He crossed the garden, heading on a direct path toward the latched gate, leaving behind a slipper.

“That’s as far as you go, Cartwright,” a familiar voice sneered through clenched teeth, the instant he stepped through the garden gate.

Joe turned, and found himself staring into the barrel of a rifle, lightly held in the hands of Jack Murphy, a young man, a drifter, recently hired on by Candy and his father. He slowly raised his hands, keeping his eyes glued to Jack’s face, framed by an unruly mop of chestnut curls, not unlike his own.

“That’s right, get those hands up where I can see ‘em and KEEP ‘em up there,” Jack ordered, a malevolent smile spreading slowly across his lips.

“Jack, what’s the meaning of this?” Joe demanded, his brow darkening with anger.

“You’ll find out soon enough. Now walk! Straight ahead, eyes front.”

Joe suddenly realized that Jack Murphy was fully dressed, wearing a pair of light brown pants with matching shirt, brown boots, and a green jacket. All of the other hands had been running around, fighting the fire wearing whatever they had worn, or NOT worn, to bed. He abruptly turned to face Jack Murphy, his entire body trembling with rage. “Y-You KNEW!” Joe spat out the accusation.

Jack flinched away from the intensity of the raw fury now burning in Joe Cartwright’s hazel eyes, and unconsciously took a step backward.

“YOU KNEW!” Joe shouted. “YOU NO GOOD ROTTEN SON-OF-A-BITCH, YOU KNEW!”

“That’s enough, C-Cartwright!” Jack raised the rifle in his hands, his own body now trembling with fear in the face of Joe’s dreadful rage.

Joe froze. The sight those pair of eyes, the very same color as his own, now fixed on him, round with terror and the rifle, clutched in a pair of trembling hands, gave him pause, despite his escalating fury. “How much experience has Jack really had in using a gun, or a rifle?” he wondered silently, not without trepidation. He knew all too well that a firearm in the hands of someone wholly inexperienced and frightened to boot was far more dangerous than facing the wrong end of a gun barrel in the hands of a veteran gunslinger with an itchy finger resting on the trigger. He swallowed nervously and silently began to count to ten in a fierce effort to reign in enough of his anger to present at the very least an outward facade of calm.

“Start w-walking, Cartwright . . . up there,” Jack ordered, his voice still shaking.

At the crest of the hill rising up directly in front of him, Joe spotted dim outlines and blackened silhouette of a carriage up ahead, hitched to a single horse in silvery gray light of approaching dawn.

“What’s going on here, Jack?” Joe asked. It took every ounce of his formidable will to keep his tone measured and even.

“I said y-you’ll find out, Cartwright . . . soon enough.”

As Joe walked up the hill, with his left hand raised in surrender and his right pressed close to his torso, he peered into the opaque jet-black depths of the carriage, straining to see who sat within.

“That’s far enough, Joe Cartwright,” a woman’s voice issued from within the black depths of the carriage the minute he and Jack reach the top of the hill.

“It seems you have me at a disadvantage, Ma’am,” Joe said, flashing that devastating smile guaranteed to melt the hearts of all women, young and old alike. His sister, Stacy, often referred to it as his lethal lady killer smile. “You obviously know who I am, while I haven’t even the slightest idea who YOU are.”

“You don’t remember?”

Joe frowned. Something in her voice, with its faint lingering trace of New Orleans, immediately put him on edge. Outwardly, his smile never wavered. “I don’t remember your voice, Ma’am,” he lied. “Maybe if I was to see your face?”

“Don’t you worry one bit, Joe, you’re going to see a lot of my face in the days to come, that I promise you. Jack?”

“Yes, Ma’am?”

“Tie him up.”

“Turn around, Cartwright,” Jack ordered. “Hands behind your back.”

Joe turned, closing his eyes, forcing himself to take deep, even breaths. Using the grating pain of his dislocated shoulder as an aid to focus, he trained his sharp ears to the soft sound of Jack’s footfalls, as he moved toward him through the tall, grasses. Step, step, step, step, one foot following the other, very smooth, very even, each step, each footfall bringing Jack Murphy closer.

Then Jack’s cadence altered, as he paused briefly, then took another step forward. In the next instant, Joe heard the faint click of metal rifle barrel tapping against the side of a small rock, as Jack placed his weapon on the ground. He took another deep breath and forced his body to relax, go limp.

The minute he felt the feathery touch of Jack’s finger tips brush his wrists, he pivoted and thrust his left arm forward, aiming toward where Jack’s face should be. Joe’s tightly balled fist resoundingly connected with flesh and bone of Jack’s cheek and nose. Jack reeled backwards, bellowing in pain, surprise, and outrage. Gritting his teeth, Joe bolted toward the rifle, lying unattended on the tall grass. A shot rang out from the general direction of the carriage. The bullet branded his already injured right shoulder, and knocked him to the ground in an ungainly heap.

He rolled onto his left side, his body instinctively curling into a protective circle. He clutched his injured shoulder, just below the bullet brand, as tears, borne of pain, streamed down his face like the ferocious floods of the yearly spring melt. He bit his lower lip, to keep from crying out.

“Crippensworth!” the woman inside the carriage ordered, her imperious tone edged with apprehension.

That voice, it’s pitch, rising, then falling . . . something in the way she said that name . . . his initial wariness began to coalesce into vague feelings of dread. Joe raised his head and through eyes blurred with tears, made out the silhouetted outlines of a tall, hulking man every bit as muscular and massive as his big brother, Hoss. The man moved away from the carriage, his bulk growing, dominating more and more of Joe’s vision.

“Get your rife on him, now, Crippensworth!” the mystery woman in the carriage barked out the order. “Quickly, for heaven’s sake! Don’t let him escape!”

“My Lady, the Cartwright boy’s not going anywhere,” the man addressed as Crippensworth replied with a sardonic chuckle. “But all the same, BOY, you so much as bat an eyelash without my permission, my next shot goes right through your head.”

The man addressed as Crippensworth spoke with an impeccable English accent, not unlike someone else . . . . Joe desperately wracked his brains, trying to remember.

“I’d listen to him if I were you, Joe,” the woman in the carriage said, her tone calm now, almost complacent. “Crippensworth NEVER misses.”

“Mister ummm, Murphy, I’d suggest you retrieve your rifle and train it on this chap, whilst I tie him up,” Crippensworth turned and addressed Jack Murphy in an insulting, condescending tone . “You’ll find it over there, in the grass where you so carelessly left it. As for YOU, Cartwright, sit up.” A nasty smile spread slowly across his thick lips and wide mouth. “Nice and easy!”

Joe flopped over from his side onto his back, then slowly eased from prone to sitting, leaning heavily on his left arm for support.

“Now if you would be so kind as to put your hands behind your back?”

Joe very reluctantly complied, wincing from the sharp, intense pain caused by having to move his injured right arm.

Crippensworth moved Joe’s left hand toward the middle of his waist, then, grasping his right wrist in a painfully tight grip, sharply yanked Joe’s injured arm behind his back, placing his right wrist overtop of his left. Joe cried out, unable to stop himself. Chuckling softly, Crippensworth set himself to the task of securing Joe’s wrists behind his back, tying the cords so tight, they cut deeply into his flesh. “Hey, Kid! Make yourself useful and tie his ankles,” he chuckled, tossing a length of rope at Jack.

Jack bristled inwardly, as he leaned over and picked up the coiled length of rope lying at his feet. A sigh of utter exasperation escaped between his slightly parted lips as he walked over toward Joe, now lying face down on the ground.

Crippensworth, meanwhile, rose and straddled Joe’s supine form and knelt down, bringing the full weight of his right knee down on his injured right arm. Joe squeezed his eyes shut and bit down on his lip so hard, he drew blood, in his efforts not to cry out.

“Come on, Kid, get a move on!” Crippensworth snapped at Jack.

“I’m moving as fast as I can,” Jack angrily shot right back.

“Well, it’s not fast enough!”

“Fine! Then YOU do it, Crippensworth!” Jack rocked back from his knees to his feet, then rose with liquid youthful grace. “That’s what my mo— her ladyship! pays YOU for anyway.”

“Damn lazy snot nosed kid!” Crippensworth muttered angrily under his breath, as he moved his weight off of Joe’s arm, then crawled back down toward the Cartwright boy’s feet, one bare the other slippered.

“Excellent,” the woman inside the buggy said in a bored tone, after Crippensworth had finished securing the last knot holding Joe’s legs together. She, then turned to Jack Murphy. “Joseph, Darling . . . . ”

Jack frowned “I’m JACK, Ma’am, remember?”

“Yes, of course, how very silly of me,” she said. “Jack. Hand me your rifle, then go stand over there.” Her arm thrust out from the darkened buggy with black-gloved finger pointing to a spot slightly to the left of the carriage, well away from where Joe lay on the ground, tightly bound hand and foot.

Jack shrugged, then did as the woman asked.

“Crippensworth . . . . ”

“Yes, Ma’am?”

“Kill him!”

“You really intend for me to go through with it?” Crippensworth echoed, surprised and amused.

“Crippensworth, I TOLD you to KILL him.”

“But, Ma’am, he’s your— ”

“I SAID KILL HIM. NOW!”

The blood suddenly drained from Jack Murphy’s face, as grim truth of his situation began to dawn on him. “No!” he protested, shaking his head vigorously. “NO! Oh m-my God, y-you . . . you CAN’T!”

“DAMN IT, CRIPPENSWORTH, WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?” she screamed. “I TOLD YOU TO KILL HIM!”

“I’ll be damned! You really DO mean for me to shoot the little bugger,” Crippensworth said with a nasty smile.

“OF COURSE, I MEAN IT!” she shouted, on the edge of hysteria.

“Ma’am, you DO realize that he’s— ”

“CRIPPENSWORTH, I GAVE YOU AN ORDER. DO AS YOU WERE TOLD!”

Jack, overwhelmed by mind numbing terror, turned and bolted headlong back down the hill.

“DAMN YOU, CRIPPENSWORTH, NOW! KILL HIM NOW!”

Joe watched in horror as Crippensworth raised his rifle, took aim, and squeezed the trigger, dropping fleeing young man as he might a game animal. The bullet struck Jack’s head, bursting it apart like an overripe pumpkin lying in a field under a hot, Indian Summer sun. His head jerked forward sharply under the impact of the bullet, then back, before his lifeless body dropped to the ground with a dull, sickening thud.

“Put Joe Cartwright up here in the buggy with me,” the woman calmly ordered. All trace of hysteria completely gone. “You know what you need to do with Jack.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Crippensworth replied with an indifferent shrug. “I’ll take care of every thing.”

“Make sure THEY don’t see you.”

“I will, Ma’am.”

The next thing Joe knew, he was being unceremoniously dragged over the short distance between the spot where he was lying and the waiting carriage. Crippensworth lifted him and dropped him, like a sack of potatoes, down in the carriage next to the woman, whose face remained veiled behind the deep shadows still blanketing the interior.

“Well now, isn’t THIS a pleasant surprise! So nice of you to drop in, Joe.”

“M-Ma’am, who ARE you?” Joe demanded, thoroughly rattled by the Jack Murphy’s murder in cold blood.

“You don’t remember? You honestly DON’T remember?!”

“I . . . . ” For a brief instant, hovering at the very edge of conscious memory, he saw her face and knew with horrifying clarity exactly who she was. Then, just as suddenly, it was gone, fading even as he desperately struggled to catch, and to hold on to that knowledge. Joe sighed, and dolefully shook his head. “No, Ma’am, I don’t remember.”

“You really know how to wound a lady, don’t you?” she said with a cold, mirthless chuckle. “A lady wounded is a lady scorned, and YOU know what they say about a lady scorned.”

“Look! You have me at a complete disadvantage here, since you obviously know who I am, and on top of THAT, you’ve got me trussed up like a calf for branding,” Joe snapped, his apprehension giving way to anger. “So come on, stop this . . . this insane cat and mouse game of yours and tell me . . . who ARE you? Why are you kidnapping me?!”

She smiled, upon hearing the note of fear creeping back into his voice. “I am an old friend of your father’s actually,” she said slowly. “A very old, very dear, very close and intimate friend! Oh, Joseph, dear, dear, Joseph . . . you should, by all right’s have been MINE.”

Revelation suddenly burst upon him like a hard blow to his solar plexus. Joe stared over into the darkness of the carriage’s interior, too stunned even to speak.

“Do you remember NOW?”

Joe nodded. “Ch-Chadwick. L-Linda Lawrence . . . Lady of Chadwick,” he stammered.

“So pleased you FINALLY remembered,” Linda Lawrence, Lady of Chadwick said as she flicked the reins in hand.

“What’s this all about?” Joe demanded. “Why are you kidnapping me? Why did you kill Jack Murphy?”

“I killed him because he is roughly the height and build YOU are, with the same color hair and lovely curls,” Linda replied as she nudged the horse to a full gallop, directing him away from what remained of the Cartwright ranch house. “Did you happen to notice that he was also dressed as YOU usually dress?”

All of his vague, nebulous feelings of dread came together, forming a cold hard knot of fear deep in the pit of Joe’s stomach.

“Crippensworth will burn Jack’s body, then, as soon as he can discreetly do so, he will place it somewhere in the smoking ruin of that once grand and glorious ranch house of your father’s,” Linda continued.

“Why?” Joe demanded, breathless as his fractured ribs began to make their existence known. His voice shook from fear as much from pain.

“Jack’s dead body, dressed as YOU dress, will convince your father that you perished in the fire that consumed your lovely little home.”

“No!” Joe vehemently protested. “Dear God . . . Pa! Lady Chadwick, please! For the love of God, please don’t do this! If Pa thinks I . . . if he thinks I died in that fire . . . it’ll KILL him. Please! Don’t do this!”

“Spare me the hysterical melodrama!” Linda snorted with derision. “Granted, your ‘death’ will DEVASTATE your beloved father, but, I assure you, he will NOT die . . . not completely . . . and not yet!”

“Wh-what do you mean . . . not yet?!”

“Oh, I have every intention of killing your father, Joe, but I will do so at the time of my own choosing.”

Joe recoiled away from the bitter venom he heard in her voice.

“There will be no quick, merciful death for the likes of Mister Ben Cartwright,” Linda continued, through clenched teeth. “I intend to kill him slowly. Very, very slowly . . . cutting his heart into tiny, tiny pieces, one at a time.” Her malicious laughter filled the interior of the carriage. “Tell me, Joe . . . my dear, darling Little Joe, how long did it take to build that lovely little log house?”

“The main part . . . the great r-room downstairs . . . was b-built when Hoss and Adam were little,” Joe replied, frightened, and feeling very sick at heart. “When Hop Sing and m-my ma came . . . Pa added on the kitchen, that bedroom downstairs f-for him and M-Ma . . . and a room in back for Hop Sing . . . later Adam, when he came home f-from Harvard . . . Adam redesigned the house, expanded the upstairs, m-made the kitchen bigger, added the dining room . . . . ”

“Years and years of work,” Linda murmured, “and so many, many wonderful treasures, mementos of by gone years, precious little photographs and trinkets left behind by loved ones no longer with you . . . . ” Her laughter sent a cold chill running down the entire length of Joe’s spine. “I’ve just destroyed all the years of work that went into building that lovely little house, along with all its treasures and wonderful memories in a single night.”

Joe turned, his eyes. round with horror, peered hard into the veil of black, opaque darkness that surrounded and obscured the woman seated beside him, driving the carriage. “You had Jack set fire to our house, didn’t you.” It was an accusation, not a question.

“No. Not Jack. Oh, he KNEW, of course . . . he knew. But, I hired someone ELSE to do the actual deed.”

“We might’ve all been killed,” Joe said sullenly. Had that been the case, Lady Chadwick would not now have the means of torturing Ben Cartwright within her grasp. For one brief, insane moment he wished with every fiber of his being that Pa and Hoss hadn’t woken up and smelled the smoke.

“Oh, I admit, it WAS a calculated risk, but I also know that your father is, above all else, a survivor,” Linda said dispassionately. “The premature death of one wife alone has brought down many, many fine men . . . AND torn their families completely asunder, but NOT your father. HE has lived through the tragic and premature deaths of THREE wives, held you boys together in the bonds of a strong, solid family through many insurmountable odds and setbacks, and gone on to build an empire like the Ponderosa to boot.”

Lady Chadwick made no mention of Paris McKenna, the fourth woman to whom Pa had given his heart, and would have married had fate been kinder. Nor did she make mention of his sister, Stacy, the daughter born from the love Pa and Paris shared. Joe found a great measure of relief in that.

“I knew that Ben would escape . . . AND that he’d see to it the lot of you escaped as well,” Linda rambled on. “In addition to inflicting on dear, lovely Ben the pain of losing his beloved home, that fire also served another purpose.”

“What?”

“It created a diversion,” Linda blithely explained. “While everyone was running about, helter-skelter, trying to bring the fire under control, Jack, Crippensworth, and I skirted around the periphery . . . watching and waiting.”

“Watching? Waiting?!” Joe snapped. “Watching and waiting for WHAT? To stand over Pa’s grieving, prostrate form and gloat?”

“That, Darling Boy, comes later,” Linda said complacently. “No . . . the three of us were simply waiting for our opportunity . . . to take YOU.”

“What do you want with me?”

“You will come to know everything in my good time, Joe, at MY leisure and MY convenience,” Linda replied.

“Look! If it’s MONEY you want . . . . ”

“I neither need nor WANT Ben Cartwright’s money,” Linda declared loftily, with a delicate grimace. “I AM after all a wealthy woman. A VERY wealthy woman.”

“What DO you want?”

“I told you. I want revenge. YOU will be the instrument by which I GET my revenge.”

“Why me?”

“Because YOU are the beloved son.”

“That’s not true!” Joe snarled. “Pa loves all of us equally . . . with all his heart. The ways he shows his love to each of us is different maybe, because each of US is different. But he doesn’t love one of us more than the others.”

“So YOU say,” Linda said dismissively. “I, however, have been watching your family for quite some time now, Joe, and I’ve come to see all of you as one body, with several parts. Your father, of course, is its head. Your oldest brother, Adam, is its mind, will, and intellect. Hoss is great strength, tempered by an even greater compassion. Your young sister— ”

Joe glanced over at her sharply, his hazel eyes peering into the shadows toward her head.

Linda laughed. “You thought I knew nothing about her, did you?”

“I had hoped you didn’t,” Joe said sullenly, his heart sinking.

“Perhaps you didn’t hear me just now when I said that I’ve been watching you and the rest of your family for a long time. A VERY long time. I’ve discovered that your sister’s brought a certain . . . playfulness, yes, but more . . . I believe the French call it joie de vivre . . . joy in living, of life,” Linda continued. “But YOU, Dear Joseph, YOU are the very heart of your family, it’s fire and passion. That’s what makes YOU the beloved son.”

“You must really hate my pa, don’t you.”

“I have just cause,” Linda replied, through clenched teeth.

“WHAT just cause?” Joe demanded angrily. “Pa’s never done ANYTHING to you.”

“Ben Cartwright SPURNED and HUMILIATED me . . . not ONCE, mind you, but TWICE! I’m sure you remember the second time.”

“When you came to visit us at the Ponderosa?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, yeah! I remember that second time alright,” Joe replied, his voice laden with angry sarcasm. “Pa didn’t humiliate YOU! You humiliated HIM by having that thug . . . what was his name? Oh yeah, Runyon! . . . spread all those lies among the men in our lumber camps and working our mining operation about Pa being broke. They believed Runyon and demanded we pay ‘em their wages daily . . . in CASH, instead of Ponderosa scrip. Cash we couldn’t pay ‘em because Pa couldn’t get a loan at the bank. The reason he couldn’t get a loan was that YOU had Montague buy up all the bank’s cash reserves.”

“Have a care, Joseph Francis Cartwright!” Linda warned in a voice suddenly stone cold.

“ . . . and just to make real sure of your plan to destroy the Ponderosa . . . all that Pa’s worked so hard for . . . you paid Runyon to stir up the men working the mining operations,” Joe continued with angry, reckless abandon. “They were all set to flood the mine shafts! If they HAD, it would’ve taken MONTHS to pump out all that water. MONTHS! Thank heaven, Kelly and I between us were able to talk the men out of it!

“Then there was that forest fire. If Pa hadn’t discovered THAT when he did, it could very easily have destroyed thousands of acres of valuable timber. Pa dang near lost everything, all on account of a nasty, petty, vindictive woman’s conniving!”

“Joseph Francis, I am warning you— ”

“You hatched that whole vicious little scheme to bankrupt Pa, so that he would have to come to YOU for help . . . and you were waiting right there weren’t you? Waiting on the sidelines, all pretty smiles and sympathy, ready and willing to loosen up those purse strings. All Pa would have had to do was marry you! Fortunately for US, Pa found out about your little game and exposed you.”

“ . . . and that’s the way you remember it?”

“ . . . because THAT’S the way it HAPPENED!”

“Well, you remember it WRONG!” Linda retorted in a lofty, angry tone.

“Hardly! I was there!”

Lady Chadwick jerked hard on the reins, bringing the carriage to a sudden stop. Gripping her whip firmly in hand, she gritted her teeth, then, with a loud, primal snarl, she turned and lashed Joe soundly across the face. “A word of warning, you insolent young puppy,” she spoke very quietly, her entire body trembling with fury. “I’d take great care to keep on my good side whilst you’re my guest, if I were you. That young man you knew so briefly as Jack Murphy?”

“Wh-what about him?”

“His name WASN’T Jack Murphy. I’ve always called him Jack, of course— ”

“Always?”

“Since he was born,” Linda said, with a complacent smile upon noting the puzzled look on her young captive’s face. “But, since the death of his father right before I visited the Ponderosa . . . Jack’s full REAL name is John Phillip Lawrence, Lord of Chadwick.”

Joe could feel the blood draining right out of his face. His stomach lurched, as the bile within rose to the back of his throat. “Dear God,” he moaned in horror, as the implications of her revelation began to hit him full force. “Dear God! Y-you mean—?!”

“Yes,” she said quietly, in the same dispassionate tone she might use to ask someone to take out her garbage. “John Phillip Lawrence, Lord of Chadwick . . . Jack Murphy, if you prefer, is . . . rather WAS . . . my son.”

Hop Sing’s nose had proven an uncannily accurate weather forecaster. The heavens opened up and poured forth the heaviest downpour Hoss could remember. The raging inferno that had all but consumed the house, and stood poised to potentially ravage and devour the entire countryside, was reduced to sodden ashes in the space of less than an hour.

After the immediate danger had passed, the women and children, who had worked so valiantly alongside the men to fight the fire, were bundled up in Hank Carlson’s buckboard, huddled together under the scant half dozen horse blankets he had stored under the seat, and returned to their homes. Hank had wrapped his own jacket around the shivering form of his great aunt, before helping her up into the seat beside him, over and above her vigorous protests.

The rest of the men remained behind and spent the next couple of hours working with Hoss and Candy to round up the Cartwright’s horses and return them to the barn, untouched by the inferno that had consumed most of the house.

“There y’ are, Boy!” Hoss murmured softly to his horse, Chubb, after all of the horses had been rounded up. “Warm ‘n dry with your coat all nice ‘n shiny!” He gave the large black gelding one last long stroke with the brush, then patted his rear flank affectionately. “I’ll be right back with some fresh hay ‘n water.”

Cochise snorted from his own stall to the right of Chubb’s.

“Don’t you worry none, Cochise! I’ll see to it YOU’RE fed ‘n watered, too,” Hoss promised as he let himself out of Chubb’s stall. He set the brush in hand down on the small table he kept just outside of the stall occupied by his horse, then bent down to pick up the bucket.

Hoss threw an old horse blanket over his head and across his shoulders, as a measure of protection and shelter against the rain still coming down, and walked over toward the pump, near what remained of the house. He noted with satisfaction that the dark, lead gray clouds overhead had lightened considerably, and that the rain, although still heavy, was no longer the torrential downpour it had been a scant couple of hours earlier.

“I sure hope Pa ‘n Hop Sing made it t’ town with Li’l Sister ‘fore them clouds opened up,” Hoss mused aloud, under his breath. He filled the bucket at the trough, then slogged back toward the barn, unmindful of his sodden nightshirt.

“Hoss?”

He glanced up as he entered the barn just in time to see Mitch Cranston stepping out of Big Buck’s stall. The young man, twenty, soon to turn twenty-one, had taken a few moments to change from his night shirt into the clothing he had worn the day previous, and splash some cold water on his face. His blonde hair remained almost black with soot, however, and he had not stopped to exchange the soaking wet slippers he still wore for a pair of boots. The half-drooping eyelids, sunken cheeks, and dark circles under his eyes lent him the appearance of a sleepy young boy half his age.

“Got Buck ‘n Blaze Face dried off, ‘n cleaned up,” Mitch reported, leaning heavily against the closed lower door, leading into Buck’s stall. “Kevin’s shovelin’ some hay into Guinevere’s trough, and I think Bobby’s about finished with Sport II.” He yawned. “Y’ want me to help ya with fetchin’ water?”

“I’ll git the water,” Hoss said. “I want you three young’ns to g’won back to the bunk house, dry off if ya need to, get yourselves a bite o’ breakfast, then get some sleep.”

“If it’s all the same to YOU, Mister Hoss, I’d rather just git on with my chores,” Mitch said.

“Mitch speaks for me, too, Mister Cartwright.” Hoss looked up and saw Bobby Washington, every muscle in his lean, powerful body sagging under the burden of his weariness like clothing on a body three sizes too small.

“ . . . and ME,” Kevin Hennessy stoutly added, punctuating his declaration with an emphatic nod of his head. “Speakin’ for m’self, Sir, I ain’t the least bit hungry, ‘n every time I close my eyes? I . . . I keep seein’ Derek’s face . . . when he . . . when he— ”

Hoss placed a gentle, yet steadying hand on Kevin’s shoulder. “I understand,” he said quietly, then looked up, his eyes also taking in Mitch and Bobby. “You fellas were really close to Derek, weren’t ya.”

Mitch nodded.

“Yes, Sir,” Kevin murmured.

“Yes, Mister Cartwright, we were,” Bobby said.

“It ain’t easy losin’ a good friend,” Hoss said. “Derek’s been workin’ f’r us for . . . oh I guess it’s been at least fifteen, maybe SIXTEEN years now . . . ever since his Ma ‘n Pa died. I know I’d be real hard put t’ find anyone more honest, reliable, ‘n loyal than Derek was. He must’ve been all that, and more, as a friend.”

“My ma ‘n pa died when I was pretty young, too,” Bobby said sadly. “I never had nobody else . . . no brothers or sisters. Derek was the big brother I never had.”

“He . . . he was one o’ the best friends I ever had,” Mitch said, his voice unsteady. Hoss noted that the young man’s eyes blinked excessively. “I . . . I think the worst part of all this is . . . n-next Saturday, he ‘n Carolyn we’re s’posed t’ git themselves hitched. The three of us was gonna be ushers.”

“I know,” Hoss said gently, his own voice catching. “Derek’s been talkin’ t’ me a lot lately ‘bout how much he loved Carolyn, how he was lookin’ forward to settlin’ down with her, ‘n raisin’ a whole passel o’ young’ns.”

“They wouldda gotten hitched LAST year, ‘cept Carolyn’s Pa died suddenly . . . Hoss, it ain’t fair! It just plain out ‘n out ain’t FAIR!” Mitch declared, as he angrily wiped the tears from his eyes with the heel of his hand.

“No, it ain’t,” Hoss readily agreed. “But the three of ya gotta be strong now. Strong f’r YOU, ‘n strong f’r Carolyn, too. Mitch, I knew you was sweet on her once. I kinda have a feelin’ y’ still ARE.”

“I never forced my attentions on Carolyn, Hoss, NEVER, ‘specially after I knew she ‘n Derek were . . . well, YOU know.”

“I know that,” Hoss said gently, “but you’re still good friends with Carolyn, ‘n she’s gonna need that. Now, I can understand why none o’ you are hungry, ‘n why you ain’t real keen on puttin’ your head t’ the pillow right now. But, you’re gonna need t’ keep up your strength. You can’t do that by skippin’ meals ‘n not getting proper sleep.”

“B-But— ” Bobby opened his mouth to protest.

“Tell ya what,” Hoss continued on without pause. “You fellas get some good, hot grub in ya. If you can’t get t’ sleep after y’ eat, then just lie down for a li’l while. At least THAT way y’ get some rest.”

“Alright,” Mitch sighed, as Hoss took the bucket he still held in his hands.

“Mister Cartwright?”

“Yeah, Bobby?”

“You’ll call us if you need us?”

“I sure will,” Hoss promised. “All three o’ you done real good. Now g’won ‘n get some rest.”

He watched in silence as the three stunned, grief-stricken young men trudged, exhausted and with much reluctance, out the barn headed for the bunkhouse. After they had gone, Hoss watered all of the horses and saw to it that their troughs were generously filled with fresh hay. He, then, walked back into the tack room, for a brush and blanket, intending to finish the job of stabling Sport II. He felt the tell tale acrid stinging of tears in his own eyes, as he stepped from the tack room into the barn. By the time he came even with Chubb’s stall, a scant few yards later, he was completely blinded.

“S-Sorry, Sport . . . y-you, t-too, Cochise . . . s-sorry . . . y-you’ll just have to . . . t’ wait a while . . . . ” Hoss collapsed down heavily onto the stout, three-legged stool he kept just outside Chubb’s stall, dropping the horse blanket and brush in hand. He quickly buried his face in his hands and wept, for a very long time.



Hop Sing walked briskly down the upstairs hallway of the Martins’ home, carrying two boxes, wrapped in brown parcel paper, and six bags of assorted sizes. He came to a stop before the fast closed door of the guest room, and knocked.

“Who is it?” Ben Cartwright tersely demanded from within.

“Hop Sing, Mister Cartwright. Just now back from store. Buy what you ask.”

“Come in.”

Hop Sing carefully balanced his purchases on his left arm, while deftly opening the door with his freed up right hand. He found his old friend and employer inside pacing the floor with the same restless intensity as the caged big cats he saw once in a zoo many years ago, before he left China.

Ben, clad only in a blue terry cloth robe hastily borrowed from Doctor Martin, abruptly stopped his relentless pacing mid-stride, and made one more valiant, if vain, effort to pull the edges of the robe closed. He sighed, and settled for simply holding the edges as close together as the natural stretch of the garment would allow. Turning his attention to Hop Sing, he asked, “Any word about Stacy?”

Hop Sing saw the concern and apprehension, mingling with an almost eager hopefulness in the set of Ben’s face, and in his dark brown eyes. He exhaled a soft melancholy sigh, then reluctantly shook his head. “Hop Sing ask Doc Martin wife. She tell Hop Sing doctor still with Miss Stacy.” He set the packages down on the bed and began to unwrap them.

“Thank you, Hop Sing,” Ben sighed, “for making those purchases for me and . . . for stopping to ask Lily.”

“Mister Cartwright need Hop Sing do anything else?”

Ben shook his head. “You g’won downstairs, and wait in the parlor, while I get dressed. I’ll be down directly.”

Hop Sing nodded, then left the room.

Since arriving on Paul Martin’s doorstep with Stacy and Hop Sing, looking for all the world like a trio of drowned rats, Ben had bathed, at the stern insistence of the good doctor himself, washing away the soot, the grime, and the stench of burning wood from his body and out of his hair. He had also shaved, and sent Hop Sing out to the general store to purchase new clothing. As he set himself to the task of unwrapping the parcels containing the new clothing, his thoughts drifted back to the fire, reliving again the final collapse of ceiling that separated himself, Hoss, and Stacy from . . . .


“JOE! JOE, ANSWER ME!”

“Pa . . . way out . . . . Hop Sing’s room.”

“GO!”

Satisfied in his own mind that Joe would exit out though Hop Sing’s room, he had turned and followed behind Hoss. Stacy, badly injured and still unconscious, lay in the arms of her big brother like a lifeless rag doll . . . .


“What happened to JOE?!” Ben wondered frantically. “Did he make it out?” He closed his eyes and tried desperately to remember everything that had happened after they . . . himself, Hoss, and Stacy . . . had left the house for the very last time.

Images rose from recent memory, fast and furious, one after the other . . . .

Hoss placing Stacy down on the grass out in front of the collapsed, burning house, with all the care and gentleness a little girl shows to a baby doll with a fragile porcelain head, then kneeling down alongside her . . . .

Stacy herself, a young woman who couldn’t sit still for more than a minute in the normal course of things, lying on the ground, unmoving, her face white as the night shirt she wore, eyes closed, the hair in the right side of her head matted with dried blood . . . .

He himself, kneeling on the other side of Stacy, facing Hoss . . . discovering her broken leg . . . his hands trembling so badly, he could barely tie the tourniquet . . . .

Ben felt the blood once more draining from his face, as the image of jagged bone protruding through torn, bleeding flesh and muscle slammed back into his mind and memory with harsh crystal clarity. He vigorously shook his head, as if to physically dislodge the horrific memory . . . .

“I’LL be all right.”

Hoss’ voice, gentle and reassuring yet firm, filtered into his mind, thoughts, and his heart. He, too, had been injured when the staircase inside collapsed. Ben had noted the telltale rivulet of blood flowing down the side of his head. Yet, he made light of his own pain.

“I think we need t’ git Stacy t’ Doc Martin, Pa, sooner rather ‘n later.”

After Hop Sing had returned with wood to splint Stacy’s leg, immobilize it for the long trip ahead to Virginia City, the three of them managed to get the job done. Hoss sent Jacob Cromwell to fetch the buckboard, then ran into the tack room for a horse blanket. He and Hoss carefully moved Stacy onto the blanket, then, together, they lifted the edges and carried her to the buckboard. They settled her and the blanket on top of the mattress of straw, packed in by Kevin O’Hennessy, then he climbed into the back of the buckboard with her. As Hop Sing climbed up into the driver’s seat, Ben had very gently, very carefully taken the edges of the blanket and wrapped them around his daughter, grateful beyond measure that she had remained unconscious throughout.

Hop Sing, in the meantime, had slipped his own his rain slicker on over his pajamas and robe. “Mister Cartwright, put on!” he said, dropping Ben’s rain slicker down in his lap. “Rain, pour down rain, before Hop Sing reach Virginia City.”

Hop Sing’s prediction came to pass not five minutes after they had pulled out of the yard. Thankfully, there was a waterproof canvas tarp lying neatly folded under the seat. Ben quickly unfolded the tarp, and placed it over Stacy, to shelter her against the pouring rain, then huddled under the shelter his rain slicker. On the one hand, he had been grateful for the rains coming as they did. They would douse the fire that had all but consumed the home he had shared with his sons and daughter. At the same time, Ben prayed fervently that neither he, Stacy, nor Hop Sing would end up catching their death of pneumonia . . . .


As the last memory of the fire and mad dash to Virginia City faded back into blessed oblivion, Ben suddenly, belatedly realized he never actually saw hide nor hair of Joe after that last ceiling collapse separated them from him.

An urgent knock on the Martins’ guest room door abruptly drew Ben from his anxious musings. “Yes? Who is it?”

“Hop Sing, Mister Cartwright. Doctor Martin speak now about Miss Stacy.”

“Tell the doctor I’ll be right there!” Ben ordered tersely.

“Yes, Mister Cartwright. Hop Sing tell doctor.”

Ben quickly finished buttoning his shirt, then without bothering to tuck his shirttails into his pants, or comb his hair, he flung open the guest room door, and bolted down the hall toward the steps leading down to the first floor at a dead run.



“WHAT THE HELL DO YOU MEAN YOU CAN’T SAVE STACY’S LEG?” Ben demanded, his voice rising. His face, now contorted with a murderous scowl, the lower jaw muscles rigidly tensed, and mouth thinned to a hard line, presented an unsettling contrast to the grief and hopeless despair mirrored in his eyes.

“Stacy needs surgery to properly align and set that bone,” Paul Martin reiterated, all the while striving to keep his voice firm and even. “I haven’t the skill to perform that surgery.”

“Where’s the nearest doctor who CAN perform the surgery?”

“At the International Hotel.”

The doctor’s reply took the angry wind right out of Ben Cartwright’s sails. He stood, as if rooted to the very spot, his eyes glued to Paul’s face, too stunned to speak.

“Lily and his wife were first cousins,” Paul explained. “His wife, Karen, died recently, of that lung disease she’d contracted many years ago, before they came out here. He stopped here to see Lily on his way back from Pennsylvania.”

“Don’t just stand there and tell me about him, Paul! Get him up here!”

“I sent Lily down to the hotel ten minutes ago to fetch him, Ben,” Paul said. “He’s a very fine surgeon, with the necessary skill to set a compound fracture, like Stacy has. However— ”

“However, WHAT?” Ben growled.

“First of all, the break wasn’t a clean one. You saw the jagged edges protruding out from the skin yourself.”

Ben shuddered.

“There’s a very real possibility that HE may not be able to realign the bone properly,” Paul continued. “Even if he can, there’s an even greater possibility of infection setting in.”

Ben exhaled a short, curt sigh of pure exasperation. “Paul, WITHOUT the surgery, Stacy will definitely lose the leg, right?”

“Yes.”

“I want to give her every chance.”

“Ben . . . . ”

“What, Paul?”

“There’s also a good chance Stacy may not survive the surgery,” the doctor continued. “I’ve stopped the bleeding on that compound fracture, but she’s still lost a good deal of blood. Furthermore, administering anesthesia’s going to be very dicey with her drifting out of consciousness the way she is right now.”

Ben felt like he had just taken a hard sucker punch to his solar plexus. He closed his eyes and forced himself to draw breath, deep, though ragged. “Paul?”

“Y-Yes, Ben?”

“Is Stacy awake right now?”

“She was when I came out to speak with you.”

“May I . . . m-may I please see her?”

“Certainly, Ben. You’ll find her in my examining room. The surgeon and I will join you there . . . when he and Lily get here.”



Hearing the door open, Stacy slowly turned her head. “Pa?”

Though her voice was weak, barely audible, Ben heard her as clearly as he would have had she yelled at the top of her lungs.

“Pa . . . . ” Stacy murmured again, very softly, as she held out her hand.

Ben was at her side in less than a heartbeat, taking her small hand in his own large one. “I’m here, Stacy . . . I’m right here.”

“I . . . heard what Doctor M-Martin said.”

Ben could feel his heart plummeting at break neck speed, all the way down to his feet. “H-How much?”

“Enough. I . . . I won’t let him take me, Pa,” Stacy said, her jaw set with stubborn determination. In her eyes, Ben saw defiance mix with pain.

“Y-you won’t let WHO take you?” Ben asked, his voice unsteady.

“The Angel of Death! I never told you this, but . . . the afternoon before Miss O’Toole died? He was there. I . . . I sensed his presence.”

“Do you . . . do you sense his presence now?” Ben asked, while unconsciously tightening his hold on Stacy’s hand.

Stacy nodded, and for the briefest of moments, her defiant mask slipped, revealing her fear and grief. “I mean it, Pa,” she said as the mask slipped back into place. “I WON’T let him take me. I promise.”

“I-I’m h-holding you to that promise, Young Woman.”

“You’d better.” Stacy closed her eyes and lapsed back into unconsciousness.

“I will,” Ben hastened to reassure her, blinking his eyes against his own sudden onslaught of tears. He remained with Stacy, with her hand still clasped in his own, occasionally stroking the uninjured side of her head, allowing the grief, the worry, and the anger he had kept back for so many long hours, to finally come forth.



Hoss Cartwright awoke with a start. A bewildered frown creased his brow upon realizing that he was sitting on a low, three-legged stool, wearing a damp nightshirt, with a jagged hemline that reached almost clear up to his knees. His back rested heavily against the closed door to Chubb’s stall, and there was a clean horse blanket draped across his lap, put there by some kind soul who had probably tried to wake him, but could not.

“What the—?” Hoss murmured softly as his eyes warily took in his surroundings. “What the heck am I doin’ out here in the BARN?”

Then, in a flash, he remembered . . .

the fire, the house . . . most of it gone, reduced to so much cinders, ash, and charred wood; Stacy badly hurt . . . he shuddered, as the image of jagged bone, stark white against the angry deep reddish hues of her blood, and torn flesh, rose again to remembrance . . .

. . . and Joe missing!

After the rains came, bringing the fire under control, Hoss had moved among the ranch hands and their families, frantically searching their weary faces for his younger brother. He had also asked everyone he passed, had they seen Joe? Each time, the answer was the same, whether it be a no, or a silent shake of the head, or shrugged shoulders.

He straightened his posture, with painful protest from his lower back and neck, made stiff from having remained so still for . . . he frowned. He had no idea how long he had been sitting there, sound asleep. In fact, he couldn’t even remember having fallen asleep.

“Our Father, which art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy Kingdom come, thy will be done, on Earth as it is in Heaven,” Hoss softly prayed aloud. Pa had taught him that prayer, called The Lord’s Prayer, many years ago when he was a small boy. Giving utterance to those words in troubled times always brought him great comfort and strength to face whatever lay ahead. “Give us this day our daily bread, ‘n forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors. An’ lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom, and the power, an’ the glory, forever. Amen.”

Hoss closed his eyes and leaned back against the door to Chubb’s stall, drawing upon the comfort and solace found in those words. A moment later, he quietly added, “You know I ain’t much of a prayin’ man. I’ve always listened ‘n gone along with Pa whenever HE prays, but right now, Pa ain’t here. So, I’M askin’ ya t’ please look after Li’l Joe, wherever he is, ‘n git him back t’ us safe ‘n sound. I’m also askin’ ya t’ keep an eye on Stacy, too. Whatever y’ can do to help that busted leg o’ hers mend . . . well, I’d sure appreciate it. Amen.”

“H-Hoss?”

He looked up and saw Hank Carlson, the senior foreman, standing in front of him with the rim of his hat clutched in both hands, held tight against his chest. His face was ashen gray and his eyes round with horror and dread.

“Hoss, I . . . I think we f-found Joe . . . . ”

“Where?” Hoss snapped out the question. “Is he hurt?”

Hank quickly averted his eyes to his feet. “He’s . . . he’s . . . . ”

“Well, c’mon, Man, spit it out! Where’d ya find Joe?” Hoss pressed, trying to ignore the fear and trepidation now rising up within him.

“Hoss, he’s . . . we found him inside the house!” It took every ounce of will Hark Carlson possessed to utter those dreadful words.

“No!” Hoss whispered, as the blood drained right out of his face. “N-No.”

“I’m s-sorry, Hoss, real s-sorry, I— ”

Hoss immediately leapt to his feet, his blue eyes blazing with anger. “No! My li’l brother AIN’T dead, Hank Carlson, you hear me?”

Hank blanched and took an involuntary step backward. “We found him . . . IN THE HOUSE . . . lying r-right next to . . . to Derek— ”

Hoss pushed past Hank and tore out of the barn, running at breakneck speed. There, over near the spot where the front door once stood, he saw a dozen men, Jacob, Mitch, Kevin and Bobby among them, gathered in a rough half-circle around two bodies lying on the ground, covered over with horse blankets. He bolted across the short distance of yard lying between the barn and the charred remains of the house, beating a straight path to the men.

Jacob Cromwell moved out from among the rest and strode briskly toward Hoss on a direct intercept course.

“Git outta my way,” Hoss growled, as Jacob planted himself right smack in the middle of his path.

“Hoss, it ain’t a pretty sight,” Jacob, his face the same ashen hue as Hank’s, stated very bluntly.

“I want to see m’ li’l brother, ‘n I want to see him right NOW,” Hoss said through clenched teeth. “Now you stand aside or so help me, I’ll MAKE ya stand aside.”

“Hoss— ”

“I mean it, Jacob.”

Jacob sighed and very reluctantly surrendered to the inevitable.

Hoss continued on, an unstoppable juggernaut, until he came to the two bodies lying on the ground. “Which one o’ these is Joe?” he demanded.

“THAT one, Mister Hoss,” Bobby said, his voice shaking, his eyes never quite reaching those of the largest Cartwright son. He pointed down to the body lying closest to his feet, the one on Hoss’ left.

Hoss knelt down slowly, with heart in mouth, and reached out to grab the nearest corner of the horse blanket, supposedly covering the dead body of his youngest brother. He lifted the blanket and stared down at the body underneath, open mouthed with shock.

“H-Hoss?” Jacob Cromwell ventured hesitantly.

“This man’s got his clothes on,” Hoss whispered, his voice barely audible.

Jacob frowned. “What was that? I didn’t quite catch— ”

“I SAID this man’s got his clothes on,” Hoss repeated his words louder. He covered the body again, and rose to his feet, grinning broadly from ear-to-ear. This drew shocked, astonished glances from the other men, forming the half circle. “This ain’t Joe! Do y’ hear me? This AIN’T Joe!”

“Wh-What makes you so sure . . . this ain’t Joe?” Jacob asked, trying to humor the big man.

“I just toldja . . . THIS man’s got his clothes on,” Hoss readily explained. “Joe was out runnin’ around in his night shirt ‘n robe like most o’ US were doin’.”

“Hoss?” It was Candy. He approached from around the side of the house, where the kitchen and Hop Sing’s room stood, carrying something red in both hands. “I found these just now while I was out in Hop Sing’s garden, nosing around.”

As Candy drew near, Hoss saw that he held a red bathrobe and a sodden red slipper. “They’re Joe’s!” he whispered. “I remember him wearin’ that robe when that ceilin’ pert near fell down on our heads, ‘n we got separated.”

A weary grin spread slowly across Candy’s lips. “I kinda thought these might be his.”

“You know what this means don’t ya?”

“Yeah, Big Guy, I reckon I do.”

Suddenly the air was rent by the sound of Hoss whooping with joyous abandon. “HE GOT OUT!! BY GOLLY M’ LI’L BROTHER GOT OUT!”

“Yep!” Candy smiled and nodded in complete agreement.

“If he got out then you tell me where he is, Mister Canaday,” Jacob growled. “ ‘Cause none of US has seen him.”

“I think I may have an answer to that,” Candy said, his smile fading. As he handed Joe’s slipper and robe over to Hoss, their eyes met and held. “Hoss, I need to show ya.”

“I’ll come in a minute,” Hoss said quietly. “Jacob?”

“Yes, Hoss?”

“I’d like you ‘n the others t’ keep workin’ on the house,” Hoss said. “You’d best send one o’ the younger fellas off t’ town t’ fetch Doc Martin. Have him tell the doc t’ bring along a buckboard. I imagine he’ll want t’ take both bodies back t’ town to examine.”

“Yes, Sir,” Jacob said curtly. “I’ll see that everything’s taken care of.”

“One more thing, Jacob . . . . ”

“Yes, Hoss?”

“I want ya t’ know that I ain’t raisin’ false hope ‘bout Joe,” Hoss said. “That other man y’ found may have been wearin’ clothes like Joe wears, but, like I just said, Joe was runnin’ ‘round in his nightshirt ‘n this robe. Hank also told me that other man was lyin’ in the house right next t’ Derek Welles. Derek fell off the roof into the attic. Joe was downstairs nowhere NEAR the attic.”

“I hope you ‘n Mister Canaday are right, Hoss, I honestly hope and pray you’re right,” Jacob said earnestly. “But, I know how cruel a thing false hope can be, too.”

“Jacob, lemme ask ya this,” Hoss said. “Is there anyone ELSE missin’?”

Jacob thought the matter over for a moment, then reluctantly shook his head. “No, Hoss, I can’t think of anyone— ”

“Mister Cartwright . . . Mister Cromwell?”

Both turned and found Kevin O’Hennessey standing behind them. “What is it, Kevin?” Hoss asked.

“There IS another man missing,” Kevin replied.

“Who?” Jacob demanded.

“Jack Murphy, the new man your pa ‘n Mister Canaday hired a couple o’ months ago, Mister Cartwright,” Kevin replied. “I ain’t seen HIM since the roof fell in, neither.”

“Now that ya mention it, I can’t say I remember seein’ him after the roof fell in m’self,” Arch Campbell, one of the older hands, piped up, “an’ I remember my’ wife, Mary, makin’ some kinda comment ‘bout him runnin’ around all dressed up, was the way she put it, whilst the rest of us were all runnin’ around in our night clothes or whatever we just happened t’ throw on.”

“Yeah . . . now that ya mention it, Arch, Jack Murphy WAS wearin’ clothes,” Hoss said slowly. “In fact, he was wearing the same kinda clothes JOE wears.”

“Hoss, you’re grasping at straws,” Jacob hotly protested, “ . . . FLIMSY straws. Ok, maybe he WAS wearing the same kinda clothes Joe wears. He still don’t look nothin’ like Joe.”

“That’s very true, Mister Cromwell,” Candy said. “However, Jack IS about the same height and weight as Joe. He’s also got the same kind of hair and eyes.”

“So WHAT?!” Jacob growled.

“If you burn Jack’s face beyond recognition, along with hands, any scars or tattoos, what’s LEFT could very easily be mistaken for Joe,” Candy said.

“Except I didn’t see Jack no where near the house!”

“ . . . and there seems to be a fair number of people who haven’t seen Jack either, since the roof fell in, Jacob,” Candy retorted. “You wanna tell US where he is?”

“You callin’ me a liar, Mister Canaday?”

“Nope! I’m just askin’ YOU where Jack Murphy is.”

“Jacob, you got your orders,” Hoss immediately stepped in to put an end to the growing altercation between Candy and Jacob, before they took it into their heads to settle things with their fists. “ . . . an’ Candy, you said you have somethin’ to show me?”

“I sure do, Big Fella. Follow me.”

Satisfied that Jacob Cromwell was more than able to oversee the task of clean up, Hoss had turned and headed for the barn, with Candy following silently behind. On the one hand, he felt grateful beyond measure that it had been HIS turn to muck out the stalls this past week. Had that not been the case, his rubber boots might have been upstairs in his room last night when the fire started, instead of out in the barn. Even so, he had come to the place where he would have given his eyeteeth to be able to shed his nightshirt and get dressed. Pa, Joe, and Stacy would have had no problem with one of the ranch hands or their family members loaning them proper clothes. Unfortunately, a big fella like himself was much harder to fit.

“Candy?”

No answer.

Hoss sat down on the stool next to Chubb’s stall, and removed his soggy slippers. “Hey, Candy . . . . ”

Still no answer.

Hoss glanced up as he tugged the first boot onto his right foot. Candy stood beside him, leaning with his back against Chubb’s stall, with his eyes fixed on the door. The foreman’s eye seemed unfocused, distant, not unlike the look in Joe’s eyes when he was much younger, seated at the dining room table, trying to do his school work on a beautiful spring afternoon. “CANDY!” Hoss tried again, raising his voice slightly.

Candy started, then looked down.

“Sorry I spooked ya,” Hoss immediately apologized, as he reached for his other rubber boot. “You all right?”

“I . . . I dunno, I guess . . . . ” Candy replied, shaking his head as if to clear out the mental cobwebs and fog. “I was just thinking about Derek. Did you know that he’d . . . that he’d asked me to be the best man at his wedding next Saturday?”

“He told me he was gonna ask ya.”

“NOW, it looks like I’m gonna end up being a pallbearer at his funeral,” Candy said with a touch of rancor. “It doesn’t set well with me, Hoss. It doesn’t set well with me at all.”

“I know, Candy,” Hoss murmured sympathetically. “Ever since his Ma ‘n Pa died, it seemed the only thing Derek ever wanted in life was t’ have a family again, an’ now . . . just when he had that dream in his grasp . . . . ” He sighed and shook his head. “I agree with Mitch. It just plain ‘n simply ain’t fair.”

“So, when . . . are you going to tell Carolyn?”

“If I get back t’ town at a decent enough hour, I’ll stop in ‘n tell her t’night,” Hoss said. “If not, I’ll tell her first thing in t’ mornin’.” He sighed and shook his head. “I ain’t lookin’ forward t’ that.”

“If you’d like . . . I could probably see my way into town later this evening . . . . ”

“Thanks, Candy, I’m much obliged f’r your offer, but . . . . ” Hoss dolefully shook his head. “I just feel real strongly that . . . well, seein’ as how Derek’s been here with us all those years since his ma ‘n pa died, Carolyn ought t’ be told by Pa, Joe, or me. With Joe missin’, ‘n Pa lookin’ after Stacy . . . well, I guess that falls t’ me.”

“I understand,” Candy said. “If you’d like me to go along to offer you some moral support, however, you let me know.”

“I sure will.” Hoss quickly slipped on his other boot, then leaned down to pick up Joe’s red bathrobe, lying at his feet. He frowned. “Say, Candy?”

“Yeah, Hoss?”

“You say you found Joe’s robe ‘n slipper out in Hop Sing’s garden?!” Hoss asked as he slowly rose to his feet.

“Yeah . . . . Why?”

“The slipper’s still pretty wet,” Hoss said. “ ‘Course it SHOULD be after all that rain! But the robe’s dry as a bone.”

“I found the slipper lying by the gate leading out of the garden, but the robe was lying buried under some pieces of wood that fell in the garden when the roof collapsed.”

Hoss frowned, upon realizing that the bathrobe felt unusually heavy. “What in the world’s he got stuffed in this thing?” he wondered aloud. “Feels like he’s got every thing except the doggoned kitchen sink!” He handed the slipper over to Candy, then started digging into the nearest pocket. “Well I’ll be dadburned . . . . ” Hoss held up the hinged silver frame that contained pictures of Adam’s mother, Elizabeth, and his own mother, Inger. “Joe must’ve grabbed these off the end table while we were restin’ at the bottom of the stairs.”

“Family pictures?”

“Yeah,” Hoss nodded, his own eyes misting. “That li’l brother o’ mine’s a real sentimental slob through ‘n through.”

“He sure is. Just like his BIG brother!”

“Pa’s gonna be real happy t’ see this,” Hoss said, as he turned and walked into the tack room.

Candy slowly followed behind.

Hoss found his saddlebags, hanging in their customary place on the wall. He removed them from their hook, and started to fill them with the photographs, and other family treasures that Joe had saved from the fire. “You said a li’l while ago that you know what’s happened t’ Joe?”

“Yeah,” Candy nodded.

“What? Can ya tell me?”

“Like I said before, Hoss . . . I think I’d better SHOW you . . . . ”



“I found Joe’s slipper right here,” Candy pointed to the ground centered between his and Hoss’ toes.

Candy had taken Hoss around to Hop Sing’s large kitchen garden, surrounded by a stonewall, rising nearly fifteen feet high. Now they stood facing each other within the enclosure, roughly ten feet away from the gate, set into the wall directly opposite the kitchen door. Though Candy had taken time to dress and splash a cupped handful of cold water on his face, he had not shaved, nor had he taken a comb to his brown wavy hair. Like Hoss, he, also wore a pair of waterproof rubber boots.

“That downpour filled ‘em in a lot,” Candy continued. “However, if you look close, you can still see the line of tracks moving away from here . . . where I found the slipper, toward the gate.”

Hoss scowled as he peered hard at the ground, his eyes still following the line of Candy’s extended arm and pointing finger. “Yeah . . . . ” he murmured moving along a path parallel to the footprints Candy had pointed out. “I can also see the left foot’s rounded, as if he still had that slipper on. The heel’s a bit narrower ‘n the other, ‘n these marks here were probably made by his toes.”

Candy followed Hoss toward the gate, moving across the soft wet ground along the other side of the footprints, walking a parallel course just as Hoss did. Upon reaching the garden gate first, he opened it, and gestured for Hoss to step through. Hoss nodded his thanks, then stepped through the open gate out into the grassy meadow beyond.

“Over here . . . see? Where the grass has been broken?”

“Yeah . . . . ”

“Joe met somebody,” Candy said. “His tracks come this far, and stop.” He pointed to the tall grass, where a line of trampled, broken stalks lead out away from the gate, then abruptly stopped. “Someone was waiting for him . . . right . . . about . . . HERE.”

Hoss followed the line of Candy’s extended arm and pointing finger to a patch of trampled, broken grass stalks and reeds placed at a convergent point with Joe’s trail. “Yeah. I see it,” he muttered, his mouth thinning to a grim, angry line. “Had Joe NOT been intercepted, he would’ve turned and headed THAT way.” Hoss pointed to his right, his extended arm roughly parallel to the back wall of the house. “Instead, both sets o’ tracks head up that way.” He turned pointing up and away from the back end of what remained of the ranch house.

Candy nodded. “I think this is Joe’s trail,” he ventured pointing toward another line of parted grass. “I say that because it picks up from there . . . where he stopped after meeting whoever was waiting. The other guy follows.” He pointed out the second trail.

Hoss and Candy silently followed both trails in silence. Suddenly, the former stopped at the edge of an irregular shaped circle of trampled, broken grass. “Looks like there was some kinda struggle.”

“Yeah,” Candy nodded his head.

Hoss moved off toward his right, following the boundary line of broken grass, until he picked up another trail. “Candy.”

“Yeah, Hoss?”

“Look!”

“I see it. Another trail, coming from the opposite direction.” Candy pointed to a rough, uneven line leading away from the jagged circle and the charred remains of the house.”

“Two trails,” Hoss mused thoughtfully. “See the way the grass bends here?”

“Yeah . . . . ”

“I think THIS path was made by someone walking this direction. There’s another right over here, with the grasses pointin’ down the hill.”

Candy stepped over to the trail that Hoss had pointed out, the one leading down to the large circle of flattened grass. “Yeah,” he said grimly. “Looks like there were TWO people here. The one who met Joe at the garden gate and this guy.”

“Let’s see where this goes,” Hoss said, pointing to the trail leading up, away from the circle, toward the small rise ahead. He started walking up the hill.

Candy silently followed behind. “Hoss?”

“Yeah, Candy?”

“Isn’t there a road up over that rise?”

“Yeah. A side road that eventually joins up t’ the main road between the Ponderosa ‘n Virginia City. Why do y’ ask?”

“I’m working on a theory, My Friend,” Candy said grimly as he quickened his pace. Within a few moments, he had passed Hoss and reached the top of the ridge.

Hoss paused, three quarters of the way up the rise, when he saw Candy stop and bow his head toward the ground. “FIND ANYTHING?” he shouted.

Candy glanced up sharply. “YEAH. WHEEL RUTS . . . MADE DEEPER BY THE RAIN AND FILLED WITH WATER, ALONG WITH HORSE TRACKS.”

Hoss immediately quickened his pace.

“I FOUND SOMETHING ELSE, TOO, HOSS!” Candy thrust his arm upward into the air.

Hoss paused, his eyes glued to Candy’s clenched fist. From the place where he stood, less than a dozen feet from the very top of the rise, he saw something bright red in Candy’s clenched fist. “WHAT IS IT?” he yelled back, fearing that he already knew the answer full well.

“JOE’S OTHER SLIPPER.”

Hoss bounded up over the rise with heart in mouth. Within seconds, he stood alongside Candy, staring down at the bright scarlet mate to the slipper he had stuffed into his saddle bags, along with the robe and the family pictures, Joe had thought to save.

“The wheel ruts and horse tracks lead to the road,” Candy said tersely.

Hoss nodded curtly. He and Candy, each moving along a parallel course on either side of the trail made by wheel and hoof, followed it to the road. “Whoever it was turned right.” Hoss pointed toward the mud, dirt, and grass dragged onto the dirt side road by the wheels.

“This side road’s pretty well packed,” Candy dolefully shook his head. “Once those wheels turn onto it, and shake off the mud and grass . . . the trail comes to a complete dead end.”

Hoss silently digested all that Candy had shown him thus far. “Candy . . . . ”

“Yeah?”

“Are you tryin’ t’ tell me that Joe . . . that he’s been kidnapped?!”

“It sure looks that way,” Candy said grimly.

“That second set o’ tracks you showed me, just out side the garden gate . . . the ones that met Joe when he stumbled through that gate . . . . ”

“What about ‘em?”

“You told me it looked as if whoever belongs t’ that second set o’ prints was waitin’ f’r Joe.”

“Yeah.” Candy nodded.

“Somethin’ ‘bout all this don’t add up!”

“What do you mean, Hoss?”

“If someone were out t’ kidnap Joe, or any o’ the rest o’ us for that matter, he’d have better luck waitin’ out on the road or along a trail someplace,” Hoss replied. “It don’t make one lick o’ sense for someone t’ be waitin’ around back t’ grab Joe at daybreak . . . unless . . . whoever took Joe knew the house was gonna burn down.”

“That is not as unlikely as you think,” Candy said soberly, as he dug into his pants pocket. “Hank Carlson found this near where we found Derek Welles’ body.” He pulled out a piece of charred material and placed it into Hoss’ hand. “Take a whiff!”

Hoss lifted the burned piece of cloth to his nose and inhaled. “Kerosene!” he muttered, his brow creasing into a dark, angry scowl. “Then . . . somebody DID set that fire!”

“Yeah,” Candy nodded.



Sheriff Roy Coffee and Doctor Paul Martin arrived during the early afternoon hours, the former riding on his horse, Tin Star, so named for the big white star in the middle of his forehead. The doctor rode alongside the sheriff in a buckboard, driving a team of two horses rented from the livery stable, in town. Roy slowed Tin Star to a walk upon entering the yard, and nudged the big brown gelding toward the hitching post. Paul followed in the buckboard.

“Whoa, Tin Star,” Roy murmured softly, as he brought his horse to a stop. He climbed down out of the saddle and led Tin Star over to the hitching post.

“Sheriff Coffee?”

Roy turned and found himself staring into the worn, weary face of Jacob Cromwell. Though he had washed the soot and ash from his face and hands, the pungent scent of burning wood remained. He wore a pair of faded olive green pants, held up with suspenders, and an undershirt that had seen much better days. “ ‘Afternoon, Mister Cromwell,” he greeted the big man politely. “Is Hoss around?”

“My wife dragged him off to our home,” Jacob replied. He dug into a back pocket and extracted a red and black bandana, which he used to mop the sweat from his face. “When she found out he ain’t et since the fire, she insisted on him comin’ down for a proper meal. You know the way?”

“I’LL show him the way, Mister Cromwell.”

It was Candy. Jacob turned to the junior foreman with an angry scowl. “Don’t you start up with all that foolishness again, Mister Canaday, or so help me . . . . ”

“Dammit, when are you going to get it through that thick skull of yours that— ”

“Mister Canaday . . . Mister Cromwell . . . that’s enough,” Roy admonished them both very sternly. “Ben ‘n Hoss’re gonna need you boys t’ pull t’gether, ‘specially right now, with Stacy bad hurt, ‘n Joe— ” He broke off abruptly, unable to finish.

“Mister Cromwell?” Paul Martin spoke for the first time.

“Yeah, Doc, what can I do for ya?”

“I’d like to see the bodies of the two men who died in the fire, and treat anyone else who was wounded.”

“I think y’ oughtta give Hoss a once over, too, Doc,” Jacob said. “He ain’t said nothin’ . . . he wouldn’t . . . but I notice him favorin’ his left leg more ‘n more as the day wears on. As f’r the rest of us, ain’t no one hurt, leastwise not serious. I think the Cartwright family bore the brunt o’ all that. The bodies’re out behind the barn, where it’s shady. One of ‘em’s Derek Welles, and the other . . . ” he turned and glared defiantly at Candy, “ . . . the other one’s Joe Cartwright.”

“We know,” Roy Coffee said sadly. “Bobby Washington told us when he rode into town to fetch me ‘n the doc out here.” He exhaled a melancholy sigh and shook his head. “I can’t b’lieve it! Just YESTERDAY, he ‘n I were at the Silver Dollar— ”

“NO!” Candy protested vehemently, drawing a sharp, angry glare from Jacob Cromwell and a couple of the other men, standing next to him. “The other dead man is NOT Joe Cartwright.”

Jacob exhaled a short, curt exasperated sigh, while sarcastically rolling his eyes. “Awww NO! You gonna start up with that nonsense AGAIN?!”

“I KNOW what I saw out back,” Candy stubbornly maintained his position.

“How d’ you know them tracks you’re so blamed sure are Joe’s . . . don’t really belong t’ Jack?!”

“Because Jack Murphy WASN’T wearing Joe’s robe and slippers.”

“Dammit, Mister Canaday, the sooner you face the facts— ”

“I AM facing the facts, Mister Cromwell, and the facts say Joe made it out of the house. It’s as plain as the nose on your face.”

“THEN WHERE THE HELL IS HE?” Jacob shouted, giving vent to the anger, frustration, and grief that had been building inside him since the discovery of the bodies. “HUNH? I AST YA ONCE BEFORE, AND YA AIN’T ANSWERED ME YET!”

“THEN WE’RE EVEN!” Candy yelled back. “BECAUSE YOU HAVE YET TO TELL ME WHERE JACK MURPHY IS.”

“Mister Cromwell, if you would be so kind as to show me the bodies,” Paul Martin said quickly, as he physically moved in between Candy and Jacob.

“Yeah, Doc, sure thing,” Jacob growled. “Maybe once YOU have a look at ‘em, you can straighten out certain hard headed people around here as to what’s what, once ‘n f’r all.” He directed a murderous scowl at Candy.

“Roy, since you’re going to Mister Cromwell’s home to see Hoss, would you mind taking him the packages in the back of my buckboard?” Paul asked. “Ben and Hop Sing asked me to make sure Hoss got ‘em.”

“Sure, Doc, I’ll see to it,” Roy promised.

“I’ll be right with ya, soon as I get a saddle on Thor,” Candy said through clenched teeth, as he watched Jacob Cromwell’s retreating back.



“So what’s with you ‘n Jacob Cromwell?” Roy asked, once he and Candy were on their way to the small three room foreman’s house that Jacob and Ellen Cromwell called home.

“He INSISTS the second body we pulled from the house . . . what’s LEFT of the house . . . is Joe!” Candy said, angry and exasperated. “It’s NOT! It can’t be!”

“What makes ya so sure?” Roy asked, drawing a sharp glare from Candy.

“When Joe initially escaped from the house, before he went back inside to fight the fire up close, he was wearing a nightshirt, a red robe and a pair of slippers,” Candy replied in a sullen tone. “The second body pulled from the house was wearing clothes.”

“Bobby Washington, when he came t’ fetch Doc Martin ‘n me, said the, uhhh second man was wearing the kind o’ clothes JOE usually wears . . . right down t’ the green jacket.”

“Sheriff Coffee, Joe’s not the only one who owns a green jacket,” Candy argued.

“True.”

“ . . . and how could Joe have POSSIBLY gotten dressed?! The last time Mister Cartwright and Hoss saw him, the roof was beginning to collapse. By then, the upstairs . . . including Joe’s bedroom AND Joe’s clothes . . . was completely GONE.”

“He couldda BORROWED clothes from someone.”

“He didn’t.”

“How d’ YOU know?”

“After he and Stacy caught their breath, both of ‘em went back into the house, carrying two buckets apiece,” Candy replied. “They were both STILL wearing nightshirts and bathrobes.”

“Did y’ see Joe go back inside with Stacy?”

“As a matter of fact, YES! I did!” Candy angrily snapped back. He squeezed his eyes shut and counted to ten. “After Joe was cut off from the rest of the family, he told Mister Cartwright that he could get out through Hop Sing’s room.”

“Who told ya all THIS?”

“Hoss.”

“Y’ told Mister Cromwell that ya could prove Joe made it outta the house,” Roy continued. “That true?”

“Of COURSE it’s true, dammit,” Candy snapped, then immediately regretted his angry outburst. “Sorry.”

“I understand.”

“After the fire was put out, and people started on back to their homes and the bunkhouse, I went around the side of the house, where the kitchen and Hop Sing’s room were, and did some checking.”

“Find anything?”

“You betcha! I found Joe’s red robe and one of his slippers out in Hop Sing’s garden,” Candy paused to allow the import of his words to sink in. “Hoss found the other slipper. He lost one in the garden, the other up near that small road that runs in back of the house. That tells ME Joe made it out of the house ALIVE.”

“Then where is he NOW?”

“Dammit, Sheriff Coffee, whose side are you ON?!” Candy angrily turned on the lawman. “You’re just as hell-bent on trying to convince me that Joe’s dead as . . . as Jacob Cromwell is.”

“I ain’t tryin t’ convince anybody o’ anyTHING, one-way or t’other,” Roy said. “I’m just tryin’ t’ find out what happened.”

“You haven’t told Mister Cartwright—?!”

“No, I ain’t told Ben anything ‘cause as far as I’M concerned, I ain’t got anything t’ tell him,” Roy said curtly, “leastwise not yet.” He sighed, then continued in a more kindly, more polite tone of voice. “Candy, I don’t wanna b’lieve Joe’s dead any more ‘n YOU do.

“I remember when he was first born, so impatient t’ git out ‘n about in the world, he came three weeks EARLY. I’ve watched him grow from a young’n who couldn’t sit still, who was always gittin’ into some kinda mischief or t’uther, into a real fine young man. I know all too well how much his Pa dotes on ‘im. Between you, me ‘n the fence, I hope t’ heaven Joe DOES turn up alive somewhere, whole ‘n in once piece. But, no matter what I want or how badly I want it . . . I ain’t gonna let it keep me from findin’ out the truth.”

“Joe IS alive, Sheriff Coffee, I don’t know where he is right now, but he IS alive,” Candy stubbornly insisted. “ . . . and I, for one, am NOT going to stop looking until I find him.”

“Lemme ask ya THIS, Candy,” Roy decided to try another track. “Is anyone ELSE missin’?”

“YES. Several of the men said they hadn’t seen Jack Murphy either since the roof collapsed.”

“Who’s this Jack Murphy?”

“He’s a new man. Mister Cartwright and I hired him a couple o’ months ago.”



Hoss Cartwright, meanwhile, finished the last bite of the enormous meal, fixed by Ellen Cromwell. He wiped his mouth on his napkin, red and white checked, like the tablecloth. “Ellen, that was one mighty fine breakfast,” he said, smiling. “Don’t ya DARE tell Hop Sing I said so, but, you cook every bit as good as he does.”

Ellen barely managed a wan smile. “Thank you, Hoss. That’s mighty high praise . . . mighty high praise indeed. Can I fix you anything more?”

“No, thank you, Ma’am,” Hoss replied. “I’m plum full up.”

“How about more coffee? I just put on a fresh pot.”

“In THAT case, I could do with another cup. Thank you.”

Ellen stepped over to the wood stove in the corner, and picked up the coffee pot. “I’m sorry I couldn’t find any proper clothes o’ Jacob’s that fit ya,” she apologized, her smile fading.

“Now don’t ya worry yourself none ‘bout THAT,” Hoss said very firmly. “This bathrobe o’ his’ll do me just fine, ‘til I can send one o’ the men into town t’ buy me some clothes. You SURE he won’t mind me borrowin’ it for a li’l while?”

“No, he won’t mind one li’l bit.” Ellen poured Hoss a fresh cup of coffee, then placed the pot back on the stove. “ . . . uh, Hoss?”

“Yes, Ma’am?”

“I wanted to tell ya . . . I . . . I’m real sorry ‘bout Joe. Millie Fultcher told me.”

“What did Millie Fultcher tell ya, Ellen?”

“That . . . that you found Joe . . . in the house,” Ellen replied, unable to bring herself to look Hoss full in the face, “right . . . n-next to D-Derek.”

“Ellen, Millie Fultcher’s WRONG.”

“Y-You mean . . . M-Millie lied t’ me?!”

“No, I ain’t sayin’ she lied . . . I’m just sayin’ she’s WRONG. We don’t know f’r sure the other man was m’ brother, an’ from some things Candy showed me earlier . . . I don’t b’lieve that other man is Joe.”

A sharp knock on the door mercifully brought an end to their conversation, much to Ellen Cromwell’s heartfelt relief. “Excuse me a minute, Hoss. Probably Miz Everett, wantin’ t’ borrow an egg or a cup o’ sugar.” She abruptly turned heel and crossed the small common room to the front door. Opening it, she was surprised to find Sheriff Coffee and Candy standing outside.

“ ‘Mornin’, Mrs. Cromwell,” Roy greeted her politely, and tipped his hat. “Your husband told me I could find Hoss Cartwright here.”

“Yes, indeed you can,” Ellen replied. “Please, come on in. You’ll find him over at the kitchen table.”

Roy nodded his thanks as he walked by.

“Good morning, Mrs. Cromwell,” Candy greeted her with a tired smile, as he removed his hat.

“You look like YOU could use a li’l somethin’ t’ eat, too, Candy,” Ellen remarked, as her eyes moved down the entire length of his thin, almost gaunt, frame.

“I had some bacon ‘n eggs with some of the other men a little while ago,” Candy said. “I could use a cup of coffee, however, if it’s not putting you out.”

“Not at all,” Ellen said, as she moved over toward the stove. “I just made up a fresh pot. Can I get YOU anything, Sheriff Coffee?”

“No, thank you, Mrs. Cromwell, I’m fine.”

Ellen Cromwell poured Candy a mug of coffee, and placed it on the table next to him. “I imagine you men would like t’ talk private, so I’m gonna run over to Jenna Stewart’s.”

Hoss immediately rose to his feet. “Ellen, I don’t wanna run ya outta your own home— ” he started to protest.

“No, Hoss, you sit back down, ‘n please . . . take your time,” Ellen insisted. “I’m in charge of the bake sale table for Founders’ Day, comin’ up in a couple o’ months. I’ve been meanin’ to go see Jenna, ‘n ask what she’s donating for weeks now, but just ain’t been able t’ git myself ‘round to it.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Cromwell, much obliged,” Roy said politely. He waited until Ellen had left the house, closing the door behind her. “Hoss, the doc asked me t’ give ya these,” he said placing the wrapped parcels on the small kitchen table in front of Hoss.

Hoss grinned. “Hot diggity! If these boxes are what I THINK they are . . . . ” He opened the parcel sitting on top of the pile. Inside was a brand new, long sleeved, white shirt. “Ooooh boy! If this ain’t the prettiest sight right now . . . . Would you fellas excuse me a minute?”

“Go ahead, Hoss, we’ll be waitin’ when ya git back.”

Hoss nodded, then stepped back into the Cromwells’ bedroom. There, with grateful relief, he slipped off Jacob’s bathrobe and placed it across the foot of the bed. He, then, stripped off the damp nightshirt, and quickly dressed in the new clothing given him just now by the sheriff. After he had dressed, he turned his attention to the last remaining parcel, a large hatbox. He leaned over, lifted the cardboard lid.

“Well, I’ll be dadburned,” Hoss whispered, grinning from ear-to-ear. He carefully reached into the box and lifted out a brand new white ten-gallon hat and set it atop his head. He now felt his wardrobe to be complete.



“This other man that’s missing . . . what was his name again?” Roy Coffee continued to question Candy while Hoss got dressed.

“Jack Murphy.”

Roy nodded. “You told me you ‘n Ben hired him a couple o’ months ago.”

“That’s right.”

“He a local boy?”

“Nope. He’s a drifter,” Candy replied. “Last place he was before coming here was somewhere in Texas.”

“Did he say WHERE in Texas?”

“No.”

“Any family t’ speak of?”

“Yeah. He mentioned his mother,” Candy said. “He told me she lived abroad most of the time she was married to his father. Jack said they were living in England when he was born.”

“Now I find THAT kinda odd.”

“What’s THAT, Sheriff Coffee?”

“Folks livin’ abroad like that, travelin’ ‘round all the time . . . well, I’d expect ‘em t’ have money,” Roy answered. “Most drifters . . . the one’s I know, anyway, don’t have two nickels t’ rub t’gether, unless they’re workin’ or they git lucky playin’ poker. Even then, they don’t keep their money all that long.”

“Mister Cartwright thought of that, too,” Candy said, “and he asked Jack about it. Jack said he and his mother fell on hard times soon after his father died. His mother went back to New Orleans, where she came from originally. I think he said she had family, a sister and a few assorted cousins there. Jack struck out on his own, moving from place to place, taking what work he could get, and sending his mother money when he could.”

“Did he say how long ago all this was?”

Candy nodded. “Jack said it’s been almost ten years since his pa died.”

New Orleans . . . the time frame . . . both stirred something deeply buried in Roy Coffee’s memory. Something ominous and very elusive. It rose, like the fine tendrils of smoke from the dying embers of a campfire, and began to coalesce into the solid forms of names, events, places, and pictures. Just short of the place of remembrance, the place where he could really grab hold of those memories, solidity and cohesiveness fell apart, reverting again to wisps of smoke. Roy tried to hold onto those elusive memories only to have them scatter and dissipate the instant he tried to grab them.

“Sheriff Coffee?!”

Roy immediately shook his head to clear it.

“You all right?” Candy pressed anxiously. “That was the third time I called you.”

“I was just thinkin’ ‘bout somethin’, now— ” Roy shrugged. “Oh well, guess it wasn’t all that important anyway. About Jack Murphy’s ma . . . she still livin’ in New Orleans?”

“I don’t know, actually,” Candy said slowly. “A couple o’ weeks ago, he talked of moving her out here, so she could be near him, but he’s never said anything more about it.”

“What’s he look like?”

“He’s about the same height and build as Joe Cartwright, with the same kind of dark brown, curly hair. I told Mister Cromwell earlier, you take away distinguishing characteristics like face, hands, and scars, Jack could easily be mistaken for Joe.”

“Alright, let’s say for the sake o’ argument, that other body pulled outta the house IS Jack Murphy,” Roy said. “You got any idea as t’ what happened t’ Joe?

“Yep.” Candy nodded his head. “I think Joe’s been kidnapped.”

“Kidnapped?!” Roy echoed, incredulous.

“Yes, kidnapped.”

“That’s a mite far fetched, don’t YOU think?”

“It’s occurred to me,” Candy reluctantly admitted.

“But, you STILL think Joe’s been kidnapped.”

Candy nodded.

“You told Hoss any o’ this?” the sheriff asked with a frown.

“I SHOWED Hoss,” Candy replied. “After he’s through getting dressed, we’ll take you back to the house . . . what’s LEFT of it . . . and we’ll show YOU.”

“Candy . . . Sheriff Coffee, I’m ready t’ push on, if the pair o’ YOU are.”

Roy and Candy both turned, and glanced up to find Hoss standing in their midst, fully dressed in brand new, store bought clothes. “We were talking about Jack Murphy,” the latter said.

“Candy tells me this Jack Murphy’s also missin’,” the sheriff said.

“Yes, Sir,” Hoss replied with a curt nod of his head.

“Alright. Let’s go see what Candy has to show us then,” Roy said, as he and Candy both rose.

At that moment, Jacob Cromwell entered, looking grim. “I was hopin’ to find ya still here, Hoss— ”

“What’s up, Jacob?”

“Doc Martin’s finished examinin’ the bodies, leastwise as much as he’s gonna do HERE,” Jacob said. “He wants t’ see you . . . an’ Sheriff Coffee, too, afore he heads on back to town.”

“Is he back at the house?” Hoss asked.

Jacob nodded.

“We’d best go see Doc Martin first,” Hoss decided. “Jacob, Ellen’s gone down t’ see Jenna . . . somethin’ ‘bout the bake sale table at the Founders’ Day celebration next month?!”

“Yeah,” Jacob nodded, “she’s been meanin’ t’ see Jenna f’r the past month o’ Sundays now. Those two ol’ hens probably have a lotta gossip t’ catch up on, so I’ll give her ‘til suppertime. If she ain’t home by THEN, I’ll go down ‘n fetch her myself. Right now, we’d best git on back ‘n hear what DOC has t’ say.” He said this last with a meaningful look over at Candy.

End of Part 1

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