Trial By Fire

Part 4

By Kathleen T. Berney

“ ‘S ok, Grandpa . . . . ‘s gonna be ok . . . Pa’s coming,” Stacy murmured softly, in a voice barely audible. She was lying once more on Doctor Martin’s examination table, sometimes dozing, occasionally wide awake, but most of the time drifting languidly in the place between sleeping and wakefulness . . . the place where dreams are born.

“What was that, Stacy?” Ben asked, as he gently blotted her hot forehead and cheeks with the ice cold water, mixed with herbs and spices.

“ ‘S ok, Grandpa . . . ‘s gonna be ok . . . Pa’s coming . . . gotta hang on.”

Doctor Tao An Li, master acupuncturist, stood on the opposite side of the examination table, with Stacy’s hand and wrist sandwiched between her own small hands, well muscled, with thin, wiry fingers. She was an elderly woman, standing just under five feet tall, with a reed slender, yet wiry, very muscular build. She had long, thick snow white hair, worn in a braid that stretched down to the small of her back, and dark eyes, sparkling with life and light, that missed seeing nothing.

“Mister Cartwright?”

“Yes, Doctor Tao?”

“Your daughter speak to venerable grandfather?”

“No, Ma’am,” Ben shook his head. “She . . . she calls her brother that.”

“Name of respect?”

Ben smiled, despite his weariness, despite his deepening anxiety and concern. “Though it’s recently come to be a name of affection, it didn’t start out as a name of respect,” he replied. “Quite the opposite, in fact.”

Doctor Tao shook her head. “You ‘Merican people funny people. Take name of respect, make it NOT respect. Funny, funny people. Where this brother she call Grand-pah now?”

“Missing.”

“Very sorry to hear.” She moved down toward Stacy’s feet and gently touched, her fingers probing, seeking a pulse. “Hope he found very soon.”

“Thank you, Doctor Tao,” Ben said as he dipped the towel in hand back into the bowl containing Hop Sing’s mixture for high fevers. “I have every hope that he will be.”

“Miss Stacy pulses good . . . very good,” the acupuncture master said. “But not in hurt leg. Chi block. Unblock chi, in-fek-shun go, go like river go.”

“What are y-you going to do with those needles?” Ben asked, eyeing the tools of Doctor Tao’s profession through eyes round with alarm.

“Needle go in point. Release chi. Help chi move.”

“Not hurt Miss Stacy, Mister Cartwright,” Hop Sing added. “Not hurt no more than Doctor Martin shots. Release Miss Stacy chi . . . Miss Stacy life energy . . . make infection move.”

Though Ben didn’t know Doctor Tao from Adam’s house cat, he could see the respect that Paul Martin and Hop Sing both had for the wizened acupuncture master. He trusted both men implicitly. “Alright . . . . ” he said slowly, and not without trepidation, in spite of the trust, and respect he had for Paul and Hop Sing. “Go ahead, Doctor Tao.” He pointedly turned his face away from the good doctor, with her plethora of needles, opting to focus his attention on his daughter’s face.

“Pa?”

“I’m right here, Stacy,” Ben said, as he wrung the excess moisture from the towel in hand, then turned to gently blot the side of her face. He favored her with a weary smile. “Glad to have you back. How are you feeling?”

“My leg hurts something awful, and I feel like I’m burning up.”

“You ARE running a bit of a fever,” Ben hedged, trying to downplay the seriousness of her situation.

“Cold water feels good, Pa . . . real good,” she murmured as her eyelids slipped down over her eyes. “That . . . Hop Sing’s fever remedy I smell?”

“Yes, it is.”

Her breathing fell into a deep even cadence. Ben thought she had fallen asleep again, until she murmured a few moments later, without opening her eyes, “Where’s Joe?”

Ben dipped his towel into the cold water, herb, and spice mix, then wring out the excess moisture. “You brother’s . . . still missing, Stacy.”

She opened her eyes and stared up at him with a bewildered frown.

“You remember the fire?”

“Yeah . . . some.”

“You were unconscious when the four of us left the house the last time, but the ceiling collapsed, and . . . Joe was separated from the three of US,” Ben explained.

“He . . . he did get out ok . . . didn’t he, Pa?” she asked, bewilderment giving way to alarm.

Ben nodded. “He got out. We know that much. We think he may have been kidnapped.”

“Oh, yeah . . . NOW I remember . . . that lady . . . . ”

“Lady Chadwick,” Ben said in a cold monotone.

“Then, I . . . I must’ve dozed off,” she said slowly, thoughtfully, “and dreamed the whole thing.”

“If your dream was about the Angel of Death again, so help me . . . this time I’M gonna give him a good swift kick . . . in a place a little bit ABOVE the shins,” Ben adamantly vowed.

“Above the shins and around back?” Stacy asked, as an amused smile played at the corner of her mouth.

“That’s the place!” Ben replied, as he gently bathed her face and neck. “I’m NOT going to let him take you. Not now!”

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

“I’m gonna hold you to that, Pa.”

“You’d better, Young Woman . . . you’d better.” Ben dipped the towel back into the bowl, and again wrung out the excess moisture.

“I . . . I didn’t dream about the Angel of Death,” Stacy said slowly, her smile fading. “Not this time.”

“What . . . or who DID you dream about?” Ben asked as he gently blotted her forehead, then moved to the other side of her face and neck.

“Joe,” Stacy replied. She frowned. “It was . . . it was like we were back in that ravine . . . you remember, don’t you, Pa? The time his horse threw him coming back from Placerville?”

“Christmas . . . three years ago?”

Stacy nodded.

“I remember.”

“In the dream it was . . . kinda like we were reliving when I found him . . . but, it was different.”

“How was it different?”

“It was dark and cold like it was that night, but . . . I couldn’t see the snow or the trees of the forest,” Stacy replied. “It was kinda like we were someplace else, but I couldn’t see where. It was too dark.”

“Anything ELSE different?”

“Yeah.” Stacy frowned. “It was Joe. His chest and shoulder were bandaged and . . . he looked more like he does NOW.”



“Pat Kelly and Abe Myers have things well in hand down in the lumber camp and over at the saw mill,” Candy reported. He and Hoss were in the International Hotel restaurant, seated together at a table in the back. Hoss was finishing up an enormous breakfast of pancakes, sausage, and fried potatoes, while he nursed a cup of black coffee. “Those railroad trestles will go out right on time, according to the contract between Mister Cartwright and the railroad.”

“THAT’S a load off my mind,” Hoss declared, after exhaling a sigh of relief. He made a mental note to add Pat Kelly and Abe Myers to the growing list of men who would be more than deserving of a generous bonus at the completion of their jobs. “How’s the cattle round up comin’?”

“Counting the new calves in the north and southwest pastures, we stand at a grand total of one hundred and eight-six,” Candy reported with a grin, “AND we still have that pasture land on that new tract Mister Cartwright bought last spring.”

“I know THAT’S got lot’s o’ good grazin’ land, an’ its pretty well sheltered, surrounded on three sides by them tall hills the way it is.”

“Hank’s figuring on finding at least a hundred new calves there.”

Hoss whistled. “You ain’t joshin’?”

“Nope.”

“That’s real good news, Candy,” Hoss said, returning Candy’s grin.

“Jacob Cromwell’s gone out to that new pasture land with about a half dozen men, to start counting and branding the calves out there,” Candy continued. “Hank and most of the others are branding the one hundred eighty six I just told you about. If all goes well, we’re hoping to get all the cattle moved out to the summer pastures by the beginning of next week.”

“Pa’ll be happy t’ hear that,” Hoss said. “How about that string o’ horses for the Army?”

“The good news is, the new man we asked your pa to hire a couple o’ weeks ago is working out great,” Candy said. “He’s got all the makings of a real fine horse breaker. Give him a few years, and he’ll be giving Joe a good run for his money.”

“What’s the BAD news?”

“The bad news is . . . given the size of that string of horses . . . we’ll be lucky if we can get ‘em saddle broke by the time Colonel Jeffers comes out from Fort Churchill to pick ‘em up,” Candy said gravely. “With Joe missing, Stacy badly hurt, and you having to shuffle back and forth between the ranch and your pa, Stacy, and Hop Sing . . . . Somebody needs to let Colonel Jeffers know.”

“I’ll get a wire off t’ Fort Churchill this afternoon or tomorrow mornin’,” Hoss said. “How’re things comin’ with . . . with what’s left o’ the house?”

“We managed to get nearly a third of the area cleared of debris before we had to stop and tend to the cattle round up and branding,” Candy replied. “Anything we found that was salvageable, has been placed in the barn.”

“Y’ mean t’ tell me some o’ the stuff in the house actually made it through that fire?!” Hoss looked over at Candy, open mouthed with shock for a moment, then shook his head. “I thought we’d lost everything.”

“It wasn’t much,” Candy admitted. “The good news is a fair portion of Hop Sing’s room and nearly the entire kitchen remained standing when the roof over the rest of the house fell. The roofs over both were pretty badly damaged when the main part of the house collapsed, but most of Hop Sing’s belongings and the kitchen stuff survived intact. Kevin O’Hennessy and Bobby Washington moved Hop Sing’s things and the stuff from the kitchen out to the barn.

“We also salvaged a few odds and ends in the main part of the house,” Candy continued, “like Mister Cartwright’s big, red easy chair, a few books, that set of horns he had hanging on the mantle, and, umm . . . . ” Candy’s eyes darted from one side to the other, taking in the scant number of patrons scattered across the largely deserted dining room. Satisfied that no one was close enough to eavesdrop, unintentionally or otherwise, he added, “It’s something that requires either YOUR attention or your father’s.”

Hoss knew very well that Candy had cryptically referred to the safe, small and fireproof, that Pa had kept behind his desk. “I know whatcha mean, but don’t worry. There’s nothin’ about that really pressin’ right now.”

Candy immediately nodded, understanding. Hoss had just let him know that there was no money inside that safe. “Hoss, I also found a couple of other things.”

“What?”

“This.” Candy placed an odd lumpy object on the table between them, wrapped up in his pine green bandanna. He untied the knot, then spread apart the edges, revealing a white marble statue that had broken in three places.

Hoss stared down at the statue for a moment, then smiled. It was of a woman, a young woman, with ample bosom that tapered down to a trim waist and generous curving hips. She stood, with both feet firmly planted on a crescent moon, cradling an infant in her strong arms, close to her heart. “Well, I’ll be doggoned! I ain’t seen that since . . . well, I guess since Mama died.”

“This belonged to your mother, Hoss?”

“Nope.” Hoss shook his head. “It belonged t’ Li’l Joe’s Ma . . . Marie. Y’ see she was t’ only ma I ever knew, so I took t’ callin’ her Mama right from t’ git-go.”

“It’s a shame it got broken.”

Hoss picked up two of the pieces for a closer examination. “They seem t’ be clean breaks, Candy. I reckon a couple o’ dabs o’ glue oughtta fix this lady up just as good as new.”

“I, uh . . . also found THIS, alive and well.” Candy handed Hoss a small wooden box, with an intricate floral pattern of inlaid wood on its lid. “The contents seem to be all in one piece, too.”

Hoss opened the lid and peered inside. “Li’l Sister’s gonna be real happy t’ see this,” he said, as his eyes fell on the medicine bag given her by her Paiute foster mother, Silver Moon. Underneath the buffalo skin bag lay a single strand pearl necklace and a pair of pearl earrings, gifts from Pa and Joe respectively on the occasion of her recently celebrated eighteenth birthday.

“Hoss?”

“Yeah, Candy?”

“How’s Stacy doing?”

“Her leg’s infected . . . real bad,” Hoss said soberly, as he wolfed down the last of his pancakes, “ an’ she’s runnin’ a high fever because o’ that.”

“Is she . . . is she going to . . . to lose her leg?” Candy could barely bring himself to voice the question.

“Doctor Johns wanted t’ operate early this mornin’ . . . when Pa ‘n me got back from Carson City, but Stacy wanted t’ try some new fangled thing called acu-puncture.”

“Acu . . . WHAT?”

“Acupuncture,” Hoss replied. “Hop Sing says they’ve been doin’ it in China f’r thousands o’ years, but it’s new fangled t’ me. Doc Martin’s got this woman, Doctor Tao working with ‘em. She’s been doing this acupuncture here in Virginia City for . . . ” he shrugged. “I dunno. Doc Martin’s said it’s been a few years now.”

“What is it?”

“T’ tell ya the truth . . . I dunno,” Hoss replied with another shrug. “Doc Martin says HE don’t even understand how it works. He only knows that he’s seen it work.”

“I hope it works for Stacy,” Candy said quietly. “As gifted as that kid is with horses . . . well, it would be a cryin’ shame if she couldn’t ride or work with them anymore.”

An amused smile tugged hard at the end of Hoss’ mouth at Candy’s reference to Stacy as a kid. “I hope it works, too,” he said quietly.

“Do me a favor?”

“Sure, Candy. What is it?”

“When you give Stacy her jewelry box, please let her know . . . and let your pa know, too . . . that I’m pulling for both of ‘em?”

“I sure will.”

“You . . . still thinking of sending for Adam?”

Hoss nodded. “Between lookin’ f’r Joe . . . lookin’ AFTER Stacy . . . an’ everything else that needs doin’ on the Ponderosa . . . I think that’s the only way we’re gonna be able to git our house rebuilt,” he said, then grinned. “Seein’ as how Adam pretty much designed ‘n built a lotta that house . . . leastwise the way it was ‘fore the fire, it’s only fittin’ we ask him t’ design ‘n build the new one.”

“Hoss . . . . ”

Hoss and Candy both turned upon hearing and recognizing the voice of Clem Foster. “Howdy, Clem,” the former returned the greeting, taking due note of the deputy’s somber, almost grim, tone of voice.

“Howdy.” Clem nodded to Hoss and Candy. “Sheriff Coffee’s sent me to find you.”

“Oh?” Hoss queried. “What’s up?”

“He’s got a couple of things to discuss with you, Hoss,” Clem replied in a somber tone. “First off, he’s finished reading over those letters you and your pa brought back from Carson City. The other has to do with . . . something that . . . well, you might say unexpectedly turned up at that address you and your pa checked out?!”

A perplexed frown creased Hoss’ normally smooth brow. He and his father had gone over that house with the proverbial fine toothed comb. Though they had found ample evidence that the house belonged to Lady Chadwick, and the she and the tenant known as Mrs. de Salle were in fact one and the same, they had not found Joe, nor even the slightest shred of evidence that he had ever been there. “Clem?”

“Yeah, Hoss?”

“Did Sheriff Coffee tell ya what exactly turned up at that address in Carson City?”

“No, leastwise not yet.”

“Thanks, Clem.” Hoss swallowed the last of his coffee, then placed a silver dollar on the table next to his clean plate. “Tell Sheriff Coffee I’ll be there directly.”

“Will do, Hoss,” Clem promised with a curt nod, then left.

“I’d best head on back to the ranch, Hoss,” Candy said, placing a quarter down beside his own empty coffee mug, “unless you want me to accompany you to the sheriff’s office?!”

“No,” Hoss shook his head. “Whatever it is, I can take care of it, but there IS somethin’ else y’ can do f’r me.”

“Sure, Hoss, what is it?”

“Would y’ mind stopping by the telegraph office, ‘n askin’ George t’ send this?” Hoss handed Candy an unsealed envelope. “That’s the wire t’ Adam, askin’ him t’ come.” He dug into his pants pocket and extracted his wallet. “That should cover t’ cost o’ sendin’ it,” he said, as he pressed a couple of paper bills into Candy’s hand. “Tell George I’ll check with him this evenin’ about a reply.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Candy promised, as he slipped the envelope and money into his shirt pocket. “In the meantime, you’ll keep me posted . . . about Joe AND Stacy?”

“Sure will, Candy,” Hoss promised.



“Good morning, Dearest, Darling, Little Joe,” Linda Lawrence, Countess of Chadwick breezed into the room and greeted her reluctant guest with a dazzling, bright smile. She wore a pale blue morning dress, with scooped neckline and puffed sleeves. Her hair was worn loosely about her shoulders, with pearlescent clips to keep it back, out of her face. The blue material of her dress brought out the blue in her eyes, and made her hair appear a burnt orange hue. A single strand pearl necklace completed her outfit. “Such a lovely, lovely, lovely morning it is, too.”

“What do you want NOW?” Joe demanded in a sullen tone.

“I want you to tell me what happened . . . what REALLY happened the day I brought you here,” Linda said, as she stepped into her pattern of pacing in front of the foot of the bed to which Joe still lay bound.

“You’re wasting your time.”

“It’s MY time to waste. Humor me.”

“My story hasn’t changed. I thought I made that clear to you last night.”

She frowned. “Last night?”

“Last night! When you came in here pretending to . . . to be my mother.”

“Joe, Joe, Joe, Dear LITTLE Joe, I haven’t the SLIGHTEST idea what you’re talking about.”

“I don’t know what kind of game you’re trying to play—,” he broke off abruptly upon noting that the bewilderment in her face seemed genuine.

“I’m not playing any kind of game at all, Darling,” she said in a dismissive tone. “I merely want to get to the truth of what happened the day you arrived.”

“I’ve already told you,” Joe said, mentally and physically bracing himself.

Linda laughed. Its sound grated harshly on his ears. “You ARE a stubborn one, I’ll grant you that, Little Joe. So like your father. That was also part of HIS charm. Did you know that?”

“I could care less,” Joe snapped.

“Oh my, so cranky this morning,” she mused aloud as she nestled seductively in the chair. “I must admit, I’d be rather cranky myself, if I hadn’t eaten in the last . . . oohhh, how long has it been? Oh yes. As of TODAY, it’s been three days.”

Joe glared murderously at her, but said nothing.

“You must be frightfully hungry.”

“Why don’t you just do whatever it is you came to do . . . and get it over with?” Joe snarled.

“I have a wonderful idea . . . . ”

“I’ll just bet you do,” Joe said bitterly.

“I’m going to tell you what I had for breakfast this morning,” Linda said, her eyes shining with the inner glow and excitement of a child, seeing the decorated tree and the mountain of presents all just for her on Christmas morning. “It was really quite lovely. Would you like to hear?”

“Do I have a CHOICE?!”

Linda smiled. It was a tight, brittle smile. “To start, I had a piece of toast, lightly buttered with some wonderful, homemade blackberry jam made by that gossipy old biddy at the post office over in— ”

“Where?” Joe verbally pounced with both feet.

“THAT, My Dear LITTLE Joe, would be telling,” Linda said with a coy smile. “Not that it matters, really, because we’re not there anymore. Furthermore, you wouldn’t even know the woman over at the post office anyway, but take it from me, her blackberry jam is simply out of this world, so sweet and fruity. Why I’ll bet HER jam is every bit as good as Hop Sing’s. You like blackberry jam don’t you, Little Joe?”

“Yes,” he growled, wishing desperately for a taste. Just a small, sweet taste.

“Then Crippensworth fixed up a whole mess of fluffy, yellow scrambled eggs . . . he IS a surprisingly good cook, something poor, dear Montague, for all HIS many talents, just plain and simply . . . was not,” she rambled on blithely. “He fried up those delightful eggs in the left over fat from all that delicious, hickory cured bacon . . . . ”

Joe remembered. He could smell the eggs and bacon cooking earlier, combined with the heady aroma of a good strong pot of coffee. Their combined fragrances were more wonderful than even the finest, most expensive perfumes. Smelling, knowing full well he could not partake sharpened, made more acute the agonizing emptiness within his belly. Now, her words tortured again, as those aromas did earlier.

“Crippensworth knows how to get bacon to just that right amount of crispness, too, Little Joe,” she continued, taking delight in his torment. She closed her eyes and moaned softly, sensuously. Her tongue slowly licked her rosy, pink lips. “Ambrosia. Nothing less than sweet ambrosia.”

It took every ounce of will Joe possessed to keep from blurting out his deep disappointment that she hadn’t choked on every last bite of that lovely breakfast.

“You know, Darling, there may be some left over.”

Joe glanced up sharply, with eager anticipation, despite his best intentions.

“Of course you must tell me what really happened the day I brought you here,” she continued.

Joe opened his mouth, fully intending to tell Lady Chadwick the story she wanted so much to hear. Then he remembered . . . .


. . . . a day, many years ago, out in the hot, dry, dusty Arizona desert, where a long, agonizing journey had come to a tragic end. Emeliano, a vaquero and a man who had shown himself a good, trusted friend lay dead, along with the magnificent white stallion he had loved so much. The horse was to have been a birthday gift for Pa from Adam, Hoss, and himself. He was lying in the desert sands not far from the stallion’s corpse, cruelly and helplessly bound by Sam Wolf, the sadistic leader of a ruthless, brutal band of comancheros. There was a pool of water less than three feet in front of him, as far out of his reach as if it had been three hundred miles away. If Sam Wolf’s will had prevailed that day, he would have almost certainly died a slow, agonizing death in the desert, due to heat and lack of water.

But, Sam Wolf’s will did NOT prevail that day. Joe could still see Pa’s shadow rising, covering the comanchero leader’s face as a dark, deadly thunder cloud obscures the brilliant blue sky in the summer.

“Well, howdy, Friend,” Sam Wolf greeted the rising dark thundercloud, wholly ignorant of the raging fury boiling inside. “I just finished me off a horse thief. Caught him stealing my horses last night.”

“You’re a liar.”

“Now look, Friend. That kind of talk’s gonna get you into a lot of trouble.”

“He’s NOT a horse thief . . . he’s my son.”

Next, came the sound of gunfire.

Suddenly, Joe found himself lying in his father’s arms, being held close to his chest, near the place of his heart. Pa removed the rope binding him and gave him water. He haltingly told Pa about Emeliano and the white stallion, the intended birthday gift from himself and his brothers.

“I HAVE my gift, Son,” Pa said, his voice breaking . . . .


“I have my gift,” Joe whispered, blinking his eyes against the tears forming there. “I have my gift.”

“What did you say?” Lady Chadwick’s voice, harsh and strident, rudely intruded into a precious memory, filled as much with love as with tragedy and grief.

“I said I’m NOT changing my story,” Joe spat, furious with himself, as much as with her, for having entertained the temptation of giving her what she wanted for a lousy plate of grub.

Lady Chadwick sighed, then rose. “Oh, well. Suit yourself.” She turned and smiled. “I can always have Crippensworth set the leftovers out for the birds.” With that, she flounced out of the bedroom room.

Joe waited until the sounds of her footfalls finally faded away to silence, before surrendering to the swift rising tide of grief and guilt, boiling up within him.

“Joe . . . . ”

He barely heard his own name, softy and gently spoken, over and above the sound of his own anguished weeping.

“Joe. Son, PLEASE! Please, listen to me.”

He slowly, reluctantly, turned his head and opened his eyes. He was surprised to find his father sitting in a chair beside his bed, gazing down at him. He swallowed, then forced himself to meet those gentle, yet probing dark brown eyes.

“First and foremost, Joe, you HAVE to live. Your HAVE to survive this.”

“By telling her the lies she wants to hear?!” Joe responded, giving vent to the fury and guilt now consuming him.

“You HAVE to survive this, Joe . . . . ”

“Then what, Pa?” he demanded with tears still streaming down his face. “How do I live with MYSELF after . . . after betraying you, Adam, Hoss, Stacy, and . . . and Hop Sing with lies?!”

“ ‘For to him that is joined to all the living there is hope: for a living dog is better than a dead lion.’ ”

Joe recognized the Bible passage he had quoted to Emeliano, all those years ago, after he and the vaquero had been taken prisoner by Sam Wolf’s band of comancheros. He had half joking, half in dead earnest, offered his then new found friend the first shot at himself . . . .


“I did not say I would take it,” Emeliano had said.

“They offered you your LIFE.”

“What is that?” Emeliano rounded on him furiously. “A life without honor?!”

“It’s better to be a living dog than a dead lion . . . . ”


That brief snippet of memory faded away, leaving his father’s earnest, imploring face.

“I want you back, Son. Do you HEAR me? I want you back. So do Hoss, Stacy, and Hop Sing. We want you back, whatever it takes, whatever you have to do. Remember this, Joe. A man’s . . . or woman’s . . . true self lies within the heart. You may have to keep it well hidden for a time, in order to survive. The trick is for YOU not to loose touch with your heart . . . . ”

Ben’s entire body shuddered, before he woke up with a start. For a long, terrifying moment, he sat in his chair, unmoving, staring at his surroundings in complete and utter bewilderment, unable to quite remember where he was.

“Ben?”

The instant he turned, and found himself gazing up into Lily Martin’s anxious, concerned face, he remembered that he was in Paul Martin’s examination room, sitting in a chair next to the doctor’s examination table where his daughter lay, burning up with fever. He could hear Doctor Johns and Doctor Tao arguing vehemently back and forth, with Hop Sing laboring diligently to run interference.

He felt Lily’s hand gently coming to rest on his shoulder. “Ben, are you alright?”

Ben smiled, hoping to reassure. The deepening concern he saw in her face and eyes told him he had failed miserably. “I’m . . . I’m all right, Lily, honest, I am,” he said wearily. “I . . . I just dozed off, that’s all.”

“You sure? For a minute there, you looked for all the world like a poor lost soul who hadn’t even the slightest idea where he was.”

“I was dreaming. I was with Joe. We were in this room . . . somewhere. I was talking to him, trying to give him some kind of encouragement, I think. Then, suddenly, I woke up and . . . and found myself . . . here. It was a very vivid dream . . . SO vivid, I can’t even remember falling asleep.”

“Is it any wonder?” Lily murmured, not without a measure of sympathy. “You and Hoss spent all day yesterday riding back from Carson City, then you’re up all the rest of last night and all day today . . . Ben, you’re exhausted! If you’d like to go up to our guest room and nap for awhile— ”

Ben immediately shook his head. “If you don’t mind, I’d rather stay here with Stacy.”

Lily nodded, understanding. “Then how about I go on down to the kitchen and fetch you up a mug of coffee?”

“Thank you, Lily, I’d appreciate that very much,” Ben said gratefully. “Strong, black, and in the biggest mug you’ve got.”

“Comin’ right up.”

“YOU CALL STICKING PINS IN YOUR PATIENT LIKE A . . . A . . . LIKE A GODDAMMED VOO-DOO DOLL PRACTICING MEDICINE?!!”

Doctor Michael Johns’ terse, angry words, immediately followed by a long string of vehement Chinese invectives the like of which made Hop Sing blanch, drew Ben’s mind and thoughts from his own weariness and the remnants of that unsettling dream.

“Doctor Johns, Doctor Tao want you be quiet,” Hop Sing translated the bare essentials only.

“OH YEAH? WELL YOU CAN TELL DOCTOR TAO IF SHE THINKS FOR ONE MINUTE I’M GONNA STAND QUIETLY BY, WHILE SHE ENDANGERS THE LIFE OF MY PATIENT, SHE’D BETTER THINK AGAIN!” Michael angrily turned on Hop Sing. “I SHOULD HAVE OPERATED ON MISS CARTWRIGHT HOURS AGO!”

“YOU SURGEON DOCTOR, ALL YOU THINK IS CUT-CUT!” Doctor Tao replied angrily, without bothering to wait for a translation. “CUT OPEN PATIENT, CUT OUT GUTS, CUT OFF ARMS AND LEGS! SAVAGE! YOU CALL YOURSELF DOCTOR?! YOU DUCK DOCTOR!”

“THAT’S FUNNY, MADAM! I WAS ABOUT TO SAY THE SAME THING ABOUT YOU!”

“HOP SING!”

“Yes, Doctor Tao, Ma’am?”

The elderly acupuncture master fired off a long string of terse marching orders in Chinese.

“Yes, Ma’am,” Hop Sing murmured with an almost uncharacteristic reverential deference. “Yes, Ma’am, Hop Sing get right away.” With that, he scampered out of the room like a young school boy sent on an errand by an exacting task master of a teacher.

“Mister Cartwright.”

It took every bit of the strong, ironclad will Ben possessed not to flinch away from the master acupuncturist’s dark, penetrating gaze. “Yes?”

“Need more herb bath,” Doctor Tao addressed Ben in a kindlier tone. “Help keep down fever.”

“I’m sorry, Doctor Tao, for dozing off like that,” Ben apologized contritely. He dipped the cloth in hand into what remained of the herb bath and gently bathed Stacy’s face and neck with it. “How are things going?”

“Most blocks gone,” Doctor Tao replied. “Most, not all. One big black. It go, all rest also go.”

Paul Martin, who had been overseeing the odious, but necessary task of draining pus and infected serum from Stacy’s leg, handed the large bowl in hand to Heidi Braun, daughter of Gretchen Braun, manager of the restaurant in the International Hotel. Heidi grimaced, as she took the bowl from the doctor and left the room to empty it of its grisly contents.

“Ben . . . . ” Paul said as he rose from his knees to his feet and stretched.

“Yes, Paul?”

“Doctor Tao’s acupuncture seems to have initiated massive amounts of drainage from Stacy’s leg. I find myself feeling very hopeful.” His last words drew a dark, ominous glare from Doctor Johns.

Doctor Tao meanwhile gently took Stacy’s hand in her own and lightly touched her wrist with the finger tips of her other hand. She, then moved to her patient’s injured leg, and carefully touched the ankle. A few moments later, she muttered a few terse, clipped Chinese syllables softly, under her breath. “HOP SING?!”

“Here, Doctor Tao, Ma’am,” Hop Sing announced himself as he ran into the room with a small bowl of pungent mixture of dried herbs.

“Make moxa,” Doctor Tao snapped. Another long string of terse Chinese syllables followed.

Hop Sing nodded mutely and set right to work doing Doctor Tao’s bidding.

“Pa?” It was Stacy.

“Good afternoon,” Ben favored her with a weary smile, as he gently bathed her forehead and cheeks with the cool water, laced with Hop Sing’s herbal concoction.

Stacy frowned. “Afternoon?”

“Almost.”

“I . . . did I doze off again?!”

Ben nodded.

“Sorry, Pa . . . . ”

“You have nothing to apologize for, Young Woman,” Ben chided her gently. “Right now, sleep’s probably one of the best things for you. How are you feeling?”

“The same. My leg STILL hurts and I STILL feel like I’m burning up. Anything more about Joe?”

Ben ruefully shook his head. “No . . . not yet.”

“I sure wish I could help you guys look for him . . . . ”

“Now, don’t you worry about your brother, Young Woman. Hoss and I WILL find him and bring him back home, safe and sound . . . alive, whole, and in one piece,” Ben’s tone was gentle, yet very firm. “YOU need to concentrate on getting YOURSELF back up on your feet.”

“Miss Stacy?” It was Doctor Tao.

“Yes, Doctor?”

“I make moxa.”

“Wh-what’s moxa?”

“Moxa powder, make from mugwort,” Doctor Tao explained with an almost uncharacteristic patience. “Make moxa like cone . . . . like this.” She held out her hand for Stacy and Ben to see. Sitting in the center of her palm was a tiny amount of the moxa powder, twisted into the rough shape of a pyramid. “Moxa go on point. I burn moxa, open point.”

“Now just a cotton pickin’ minute,” Michael Johns protested.

“It work, Mister Cartwright, Miss Stacy,” Hop Sing cast a dark, angry glare over at Doctor Johns as he added his own two cents worth.

“I . . . I don’t know about this,” Ben murmured, shaking his head dubiously.

“Warm moxa help open point, Mister Cartwright, not burn Miss Stacy.”

“Doctor Tao?”

The elderly woman turned toward Stacy expectantly.

“What do I need to do?”

“I put moxa on point, burn moxa. Miss Stacy say when too hot to stand.”

Stacy swallowed nervously, then nodded.

Doctor Tao plucked the tiny cone from the center of her palm, and placed it on Stacy’s leg. She, then, struck a match and lit the very top.

Slowly, very gradually, Stacy became aware of a tiny pin-prick of warmth coming from the very spot where Doctor Li had placed her moxa cone. As the moxa powder was consumed by the fire, warmth began to wax hotter, to the point of uncomfortably hot. “OK, Doctor Tao . . . . ”

Doctor Tao deftly removed what remained, and replaced it with a second moxa cone, followed immediately by a third, then a fourth, and a fifth. Next, came the needle.

“Whoa!” Stacy exclaimed in surprise. “I . . . it felt like something just snapped.” She frowned. “Like a dam breaking.”

“That last block, now all others go.” Doctor Tao checked Stacy’s pulse once again, then placed needles in her injured leg along strategic acupuncture points. “That keep chi moving.”

“The drainage has increased again . . . significantly,” Paul said, as he handed yet another full bowl to Heidi Braun to empty.

“Leave needles in for half of one hour. Keep chi moving. Make chi move fast. Make infection move fast, too.”

“This I’VE got to see,” Michael growled.

“Pa?”

“Yes, Stacy?”

“I . . . I can actually feel something moving,” she declared in complete amazement.

“That chi, Miss Stacy,” Doctor Tao said wearily, trying very hard not to yawn in her patient’s face. “Chi move very fast now. Clear infection.”

“You still feel like you’re burning up?” Ben asked, as he continued to sponge her forehead.

“Yeah,” Stacy replied with a big yawn.

“Miss Stacy feel like burning up for little longer,” Doctor Tao explained. “Burning up fever burn up infection. Herb wash not let fever rise up and up too high.”

“I . . . I won’t loose my leg, Doctor Tao?”

Doctor Tao emphatically shook her head. “Chi move, keeping moving. Fever up, burn infection.” She favored Stacy with the first smile to appear on her face since initially crossing over the threshold of Paul Martin’s examination room. “Miss Stacy live good long life, keep leg.”

“The infection’s still draining, and from what I can see the tissue appears to be very much alive inside . . . the skin on leg, foot, and toes is still nice and pink,” Paul Martin declared wearily. “We aren’t out of the woods yet, but as I said before, I feel very hopeful.”

“Doctor Tao?”

“Yes, Hop Sing?”

“You here all night, all day. If want rest, Doctor Tao please use Hop Sing’s cot, right here.”

She nodded, then spoke a few words in Chinese.

“Yes, Ma’am,” Hop Sing said immediately. “Hop Sing wake up Doctor Tao when time to take needles from Miss Stacy leg.”

“Hop Sing?”

“Yes, Mister Cartwright?” Hop Sing responded wearily.

“I’m running very low on this herbal potpourri we’ve been using to help keep Stacy’s fever down.”

“I get,” Hop Sing replied, as he took the near empty bowl from Ben.

“Pa?”

“Yes, Stacy?”

“I was just thinking . . . . ”

“About?”

“Maybe I CAN help you and Hoss look for Joe,” she said, punctuating her words with a big yawn, “after . . . after the infection clears and my fever breaks. I don’t have to put any weight on my leg . . . . ” she yawned again, “ . . . to ride Blaze Face.”

“Now you listen to me and you listen GOOD, Young Woman,” Ben admonished his daughter sternly. “HOSS and I will search for your brother. YOU are going to rest, and give yourself a chance to heal properly . . . and if I catch you so much as LOOKING in the direction of the corral and the barn before you do heal up properly, so help me, I’m going to tie you up in the nearest chair until you come to your senses. Do I make myself clear?”

Stacy exhaled a long, melancholy sigh. “Clear, Pa,” she said ruefully, before drifting off once more into a light slumber.

“It may come down to that, Ben,” Paul Martin warned, half in jest, half in deadly earnest. “You KNOW that, don’t you?”

“I know,” Ben sighed, then smiled. “Paul?”

“Yes, Ben?”

“Don’t you dare ever tell Stacy this, but . . . I can’t begin to tell you how much good it does my heart just to hear her talk like that.”

“I know what you mean, Ben,” Paul said, favoring his old friend with a weary smile of his own. “I know exactly what you mean.

“Still no word from or ‘bout Jack Murphy, Hoss?”

“Nothin’,” Hoss shook his head. After parting company with Candy, he had gone immediately to Sheriff Coffee’s office. He helped himself to a mug of the coffee sitting on the small, pot bellied stove, then sat down in one of the hard backed chairs, in front of the sheriff’s desk. The coffee had gone virtually untouched, and had long since turned ice cold.

“I’ve gone through most o’ letters b’tween Jack Murphy ‘n a Mrs. L. de Salle, some to an address in New Orleans, the rest at the Carson City address I gave you ‘n your pa yesterday,” Roy began. “Most o’ the letters from Jack Murphy spell out pert near everything you, Ben, Joe, Stacy, ‘n even Hop Sing’ve done over the past two, almost THREE months.”

“That just about covers the whole time he worked for us,” Hoss said grimly.

“Some o’ this gets mighty personal, ‘specially some o’ the things concernin’ Joe,” Roy continued. Hoss noted with dismay the sudden appearance of two crimson spots, one each on the sheriff’s cheeks. “T’ put this kinda blunt, Joe ain’t even so much as kissed a gal without this Jack Murphy knowin’ all about it . . . an’ I DO mean ALL about it. If these letters hafta be admitted as evidence later on, things could get a mite embarrassin’.”

“We’ll cross THAT bridge when we come to it,” Hoss said quietly.

“F’r now, I’m keepin’ ‘em all here locked up tight in MY safe,” Roy said.

“That’s fine with me,” Hoss said with an involuntary shudder.

“Looks like you ‘n Candy might be right about someone planning this whole thing out, even though some o’ what’s happened is . . . . well, out-‘n-out loony.”

“Pa ‘n I think we know who’s behind all this.”

Roy favored Hoss with a sharp glance. “Oh yeah? This is news t’ me. Who do ya think the culprit is?”

“You might remember her,” Hoss said quietly. “She visited us out at the Ponderosa ‘bout ten years ago. Her name’s Linda Lawrence. She was an old friend o’ Pa’s.”

“Linda Lawrence . . . Linda Lawrence . . . . ” Roy murmured the name over several times, trying to remember.

“She might o’ been introduced to ya as Lady Chadwick.”

“Lady Chadwick! Hoss, you mean the woman who dang near ruined your pa?!”

Hoss nodded.

Roy let out a long, low whistle. “You sure ‘bout this, Hoss?”

Hoss told Roy Coffee all that he and his father had learned in Carson City. “I know . . . a lotta what I just told ya’s stuff Pa ‘n me . . . well, mostly PA just kinda figured out,” he concluded. “I know it won’t stand up as evidence in a trial.”

“I DO have a piece o’ evidence t’ back up what ya just told me,” Roy said somberly. “Y’ remember that ring we found in with Jack Murphy’s things?”

“Yeah . . . . ”

“I took it over t’ Mrs. Wilkens, this mornin’,” Roy said. “She’s got a book full o’ coats-o’-arms, ‘n who all they belong to. Well, accordin’ t’ her book, the coat-o’-arms on that ring’s the coat-o’-arms f’r Chadwick.”

“Then this Jack Murphy is . . . maybe WAS Lady Chadwick’s son,” Hoss said, with a shudder. “Sorry Pa ‘n I ain’t told ya before this . . . . ”

“I understand. Y’ no sooner rode into town when ya found out Stacy’d taken a turn f’r the worse. How’s she doin’ by the way?”

“She ain’t exactly outta the woods yet, but we’re pretty sure she WILL be real soon.”

“I’m glad t’ hear Stacy’s farin’ better,” Roy said with heartfelt sincerity. “Gettin’ back t’ this Lady Chadwick, when she stayed with ya out at the Ponderosa, didn’t she have a secretary, butler, or some kinda valet with her?”

“You talkin’ about Montague?”

“Yeah,” Roy nodded his head. “Mister Charles Montague. What do you ‘n your pa know about him?”

“When he ‘n Lady Chadwick stopped in t’ visit, he was workin’ as her secretary ‘n financial advisor,” Hoss replied. “That was the first ‘n ONLY time the lot o’ us . . . Pa, me, Joe, Adam, ‘n Hop Sing ever set eyes on him.”

“You folks ain’t seen him SINCE then?”

“No, Sir.” Hoss immediately shook his head. “Though Pa ‘n I found out recently that he’d been workin’ for the past couple o’ years in Carson City . . . for this Mrs. de Salle Jack Murphy’s been writin’ to.”

“The Mrs. de Salle who’s been rentin’ that big house in Carson City . . . the one you ‘n your pa went t’ check out?”

Hoss nodded. “Sheriff Coffee, what’s this all about? Did somethin’ happen to Mister Montague?”

“Yeah, I guess you might say that,” Roy said sardonically. “It seems the OWNER o’ that house . . . this Lady Chadwick’s decided t’ sell it.”

“Oh yeah?” A troubled frown knotted Hoss’ forehead.

“A man by the name o’ Crippensworth . . . Mister Gerald Crippensworth’s supposed to be overseein’ the details. THAT name mean anythin’ to ya, Hoss?”

“Yes, Sir, it sure does,” Hoss replied. “Miss Barnes, the woman at the post office over in Carson City, said she ain’t seen Mister Montague f’r quite a spell, but the woman rentin’ the house . . . this Mrs. de Salle or Lady Chadwick has a man named Crippensworth working for her now.”

“I see,” Roy murmured grimly. “Well it seems this Mister Crippensworth hired some men t’ begin sprucin’ things up on the outside t’ begin gettin’ the house ready t’ sell. There’s a big garden out back, with a lily pond, all of it completely overgrown by weeds. T’ make a long story short, Hoss, the men workin’ out back t’ clear the garden found bones. HUMAN bones.”

Hoss felt the blood drain from his face, leaving his normally robust complexion an ashen gray. He grabbed the edge of the sheriff’s desk in a valiant effort to steady himself. Thankfully he had been sitting down when Roy Coffee imparted that last piece of information. Otherwise, he would have almost certainly fallen down. “Sh-Sheriff Coffee . . . . ” Hoss began, the minute he found his voice, “are you tellin’ me those human bones belong t’ Mister Montague?”

“Amos Dudley seems t’ think so,” Roy replied. “Some jewelry was found with the body that your friend, Miss Barnes positively identified as belongin’ to Mister Montague. One o’ those pieces was a gold pinky ring engraved with the initials ‘CLM.’ There was also a leather wallet in the pocket o’ what was left of the jacket he was wearin’ when he died. When Amos’ deputy opened it, he found a couple o’ letters still in their envelopes, both addressed t’ Charles Montague. One was an old one from Lord Chadwick. The other was from Mrs. de Salle.”

“Any idea HOW he died?” Hoss asked.

Roy nodded. “Inside the house, in the dinin’ room, on t’ buffet, one o’ Amos’ deputies found a brandy decanter half full up with brandy . . . laced with a pretty fair amount o’ cyanide.”

“Cyanide?!” Hoss echoed with a perplexed frown.

“Yep.”

“How do ya know?”

“Amos said whatever’s in that brandy decanter had a real strong almond smell.”

Hoss shuddered, even as he silently gave thanks for the strong odor of almonds that kept him from actually sampling a glass of that brandy.



“STUPID! STUPID! STUPID! STUPID!” Crippensworth ranted furiously. “WHAT YOU DID, MILADY, WAS INCREDIBLY, INEXCUSABLY STUPID!”

“CRIPPENSWORTH, YOU WILL NOT ADDRESS ME IN THAT MANNER!”

“YOU STUPID BITCH! HAVEN’T YOU HEARD ONE WORD THAT I’VE SAID?! THEY FOUND CHARLES MONTAGUE!”

“WELL YOU’RE THE ONE WHO BROUGHT IN ALL THOSE MEN TO MUCK ABOUT IN THE FLOWER BEDS. YOU SHOULD’VE TOLD ME YOU WERE GOING TO— ”

“I DIDN’T TELL YOU BECAUSE I HAD NO IDEA YOU WOULD ACTUALLY BE SO STUPID AS TO HIDE MONTAGUE’S BODY IN THE DAMNED FLOWER BEDS IN THE YARD OF YOUR OWN HOUSE.”

“I HAD NO CHOICE! YOU, MY DEAR BENJAMIN, WERE OFF GALLIVANTING HEAVEN ONLY KNOWS WHERE . . . WHAT WAS I SUPPOSED TO DO?”

“I TOLD YOU BEFORE I LEFT TO WAIT UNTIL I GOT BACK . . . THAT I WOULD SEE TO MISTER MONTAGUE! DID YOU DO AS I’D ASKED? NO!”

“DAMMIT, BEN, I HAD NO CHOICE! CAN’T YOU SEE THAT? HE WAS GOING TO GO TO THE SHERIFF!”

Ben?

Though the room in which Joe was imprisoned was located at the back end of the house, where Lady Chadwick and her man, Crippensworth, had taken up residence, he could hear the argument raging between them in one of the front rooms, word for word. A bewildered frown creased his brow.

Why was she addressing Crippensworth by Pa’s name?

“SO WHAT IF HE DID GO TO THE BLOODY SHERIFF? HE HAD NO PROOF! IT WOULD’VE BEEN HIS WORD AGAINST OURS! ANYONE WITH A MODICUM OF INTELLIGENCE WOULD’VE KNOWN THAT.”

“BEN, PLEASE! ALL THIS YELLING ISN’T GOING TO SOLVE ANYTHING— ”

“I SUPPOSE IT’S GOING TO BE UP TO ME NOW TO FIX THIS DAMN’ MESS YOU’VE MADE.”

“BEN, PLEASE, STOP YELLING AT ME! YOU’RE DISTRESSING ME TERRIBLY!”

“WILL YOU PLEASE STOP CALLING ME THAT?!”

“WHAT ARE WE GOING TO DO?”

“I’LL TAKE CARE OF THIS SORDID BUSINESS CONCERNING MONTAGUE, WHILST YOU MILADY ARE GOING TO DO EVERYTHING EXACTLY AS I SAY. IS THAT UNDERSTOOD?”

“I’M GOING TO DO WHAT YOU SAY?!”

“YOU WILL IF YOU KNOW WHAT’S GOOD FOR YOU!”

“ . . . AND IF YOU KNOW WHAT’S GOOD FOR YOU, YOU’LL START REMEMBERING YOUR PLACE!”

Joe felt very badly about Mister Montague. Though he had been the culprit responsible for setting into motion the chain of events over a decade ago, that had almost ruined Pa financially, he HAD told the truth, admitting to everything, when finally confronted. He had also been steadfast in his loyalty first to Lord Chadwick, then to LADY Chadwick after her husband’s death. The man deserved better than murder, and having his body buried unceremoniously in a flower bed.

As the argument between Lady Chadwick and Crippensworth escalated, Joe’s thoughts drifted back to another time . . . .


“Let the boy go!”

Joe heard Adam’s voice loud and clear, speaking again from that time and place.

“Let the boy go, and I’LL lead you through these mountains.”

The man snorted derisively. “You’re gonna lead us though those mountains anyway, ‘cause if ya don’t? We’re gonna kill your kid brother, here.”

Joe, then age sixteen, and Adam had been ambushed and taken hostage by three desperate men, who had attempted to rob one of the banks in Virginia City. Unfortunately, the entire heist had gone very badly, almost from the beginning. One of the clerks, a young man with a strong, ingrained sense of self-esteem that pushed hard against the boundaries of cock sure arrogance, went for a gun he had always kept hidden beneath his window at the bank. Though he was fast, one of the robbers proved even faster. The clerk was lying on his back, dead, before he had known what hit him.

The robbers did manage to collect all the cash at the tellers’ windows, but could not get hold of what lay in the safe because the bank manager, the only one with the combination, was out to lunch. In addition to the bank clerk, a bank patron, two innocent bystanders outside the bank, and Frank Collins, the deputy sheriff, were also dead, shot down by the robbers as they made their escape. Sheriff Coffee had quickly organized three posses to hunt down the bank robbers. He led one group himself. Clem Foster, then a newly appointed deputy, led the second and Lem Partridge led the third.

Unfortunately, the three bank robbers found Adam and Joe Cartwright before any of the posses could find them.

“You’re going to add shooting down an unarmed BOY in cold blood to the list of people you’ve murdered?” Adam asked with a touch of disdain.

“They was all shot in self defense!” the man returned heatedly.

“A JURY won’t see it that way.”

“Who the hell cares how a jury’ll see it . . . or WON’T see it?”

“YOU should.”

“Why?”

“Because you and your other two friends are looking at hangman’s noose for killing those people back in Virginia City.”

“I TOL’JA it was SELF DEFENSE!” the man shot back. “SELF DEFENSE! You hear me?”

“I hear you, but I’m telling you a jury isn’t going to see you and your friends shooting down five people in cold blood in the act of committing a bank robbery as self defense.”

“That bank clerk started t’ draw on me. If Sam over there hadn’t shot ‘im first, I’D be back in Virginia City lyin’ in the undertaker’s place.”

“Alright, for the sake of argument, let’s say your buddy, Sam, over there DID shoot that bank clerk in self defense,” Adam pressed.

“ . . . an’ that deputy-sheriff fella! ‘Cause HE fired at US first.”

“Alright, the deputy sheriff, too,” Adam agreed. “Even so, there’s no possible way to convince a jury that the bank customer and the two women standing outside the bank were killed in self defense. All three were unarmed, and NONE made any kind of move to stop you.”

“I didn’t kill ‘em. Sam ‘n Jesse did.”

“You were with them, helping them rob that bank. That means YOU hang with the two of them.”

The man’s hand involuntarily rose to his neck. “Ain’t nobody gonna hang us,” he growled. “They gotta CATCH us first.”

“ . . . and they WILL catch you,” Adam said coolly. “Make no mistake about that! With three posses out looking for you, they WILL eventually catch you.”

“No, they ain’t, ‘cause YOU’RE leadin’ us through those mountains.”

“Whether I lead you though those mountains or not won’t make a bit of difference because every man riding in those posses knows those mountains at least as well as I do . . . if not better.”

The bank robber had actually blanched.

“Those posses may not catch up with you today, or even tomorrow, but sooner or later, at least one WILL find you,” Adam pressed. “Now if I were you, I’d be thinking real long and hard as to how I was going to save my own neck, since Sam and Jesse were the ones who fired the shots killing those people back in Virginia City.”

“Y-You suggestin’ I . . . that I turn my buddies in?”

“If you did turn them in, along with yourself, the law would go easier on you,” Adam replied. “You’d do time in prison for bank robbery, but you wouldn’t hang. In fact, you may even get out of prison a year or two early, if you behave yourself.”

“Fergit it! I ain’t turnin’ in my buddies.”

“You think they’d show YOU the same consideration, if YOU had been the one to kill those people back in Virginia City?”

“Whatcha mean?”

“I meant would Sam and Jesse be so anxious to stick up for YOU, if you’d killed those people in Virginia City, if they could save their necks by turning you in?”

“I . . . well, I . . . . ” He scowled. “ ‘Course they would!” Despite his vehement assertion, he looked troubled and uncertain.

“I’d even put in a good word for you,” Adam pressed. “I’d tell ‘em that you saw to it we were properly looked after and taken care of, even if you and your friends DID kidnap us.”

“NO!” the man suddenly snarled. “NO! You fergit it, you hear me? You just better fergit all that stuff we talked abut right now, ‘cause I AIN’T turnin’ in my buddies.”

Adam shrugged with effectively feigned indifference. “Ok, fine! If you want to stick your neck out . . . literally . . . into a noose for a couple ‘good buddies’ who could care less about YOU, go ahead.”

The man glared at both Adam and Joe before rising abruptly and stomping off in a huff.

“Adam, what the heck were ya tryin’ to do? Get us KILLED?!” Joe hissed, taking great care to keep his voice low.

“No, Little Buddy, I was sewing seeds,” Adam replied cryptically.

Joe frowned. “Sewing seeds?!”

“Seeds of doubt,” Adam explained. A sly smile slowly spread across his lips. “Judging from the furtive way he’s looking at his two friends now, I’d say those seeds have already germinated and are beginning to take root . . . . ”


“Adam planted those seeds of doubt in all of ‘em,” Joe silently remembered. After three days of tender care and nurture those seeds became as full grown weeds, choking out the cooperation, sense of teamwork, and even the camaraderie the three bank robbers may have shared between them. When the posse, which included their father and Hoss, finally caught up with them, the bank robbers were arguing among themselves about when they should break camp and whether they should continue west toward California or change plans and head south for the Mexican border.

Joe could hear Lady Chadwick and her man, Crippensworth, still arguing with each other at the top of their voices about Mister Montague. Though he felt terrible about the man’s demise at the hands of the woman he had served with loyalty and devotion for so many years, he couldn’t help but feel a large measure of gratitude for the wedge it had apparently driven between his abductors. Could he widen that gap, and set one against the other, as Adam did those bank robbers more years ago now than he cared to count? Perhaps more to the point, did he dare try?

He heard Lady Chadwick shrieking at Crippensworth, telling him bluntly to go and do something with himself that was anatomically impossible, followed by the sound of a door slamming. A few moments later, Crippensworth stormed into Joe’s room, with a dark, murderous scowl on his face, and a canteen in hand. He stomped across the room and sat down heavily on the edge of the bed.

“Fair warning, Chum. What ever Milady wants . . . . ” he spat, literally, as his fingers, trembling with the rage still burning within, still consuming him, worked to unscrew the cap on the canteen, “ . . . I’d strongly advise you to see that Milady gets it. Or else watch your back.”

“I was about to say the same to you,” Joe said in as steady a voice as he could muster.

Crippensworth favored Joe with a suspicious glare. “What do you mean by that?”

“I, uhhh couldn’t help but over hear your argument with her just now.”

“Well you listen to me and you listen good, Boy,” Crippensworth growled as he slipped his arm under Joe’s shoulders and lifted him. “I had absolutely nothing to do with my predecessor’s demise. Do you hear me? Absolutely NOTHING! Now DRINK!”

Joe drank greedily from the canteen, the minute Crippensworth brought it to his lips. “I . . . know you had nothing to do with Montague,” he said, when the canteen was removed from his parched lips. “That’s why I was going to suggest that you take care and watch your back when you’re around her.”

This drew a sharp glance from Crippensworth.

“I owe you,” Joe offered by way of explanation, “for the water.”

“Well, you’re no good to us dead,” Crippensworth muttered, mollified by Joe’s explanation.

“You told me yourself after Lady Chadwick killed her own son, that she’s capable of anything. If THAT didn’t convince me, Mister Montague’s, uhhh . . . demise . . . DID.”

“Oh?”

“I met Mister Montague when Lady Chadwick came to visit us at the Ponderosa. He impressed me . . . impressed ALL of us actually . . . with his loyalty and devotion. I haven’t seen Mister Montague since, but I kinda have a feeling that his loyalty, devotion, and service to Lady Chadwick never wavered.”

“Charles . . . Mister Montague WAS a decent enough sort of chap,” Crippensworth admitted grudgingly.

“Any employer capable of killing an employee with those qualities, well . . . . You said it yourself. She’s capable of anything . . . including doing away with YOU.”

“The thought HAS certainly crossed my mind,” Crippensworth said. “However, if she thinks she can so easily catch ME unawares . . . as she did Charles, then bury MY dead body in a flower garden, Milady is in for one very rude surprise.”



“Pa, the good news is . . . Adam’s comin’,” Hoss said, as he passed the sheet of paper with his older brother’s reply to his own wire over to his father.

Ben unfolded the sheet of paper in hand and quickly read over the words. Short and to the point, it read:



“Hoss [stop]

Leaving Sacramento noon stage tomorrow [stop] Should arrive Virginia City in afternoon a week from Tuesday or Wednesday [stop]

Adam [stop; end of message]”



“You sent for him?” Ben asked, glancing up.

“Yes, Sir,” Hoss nodded his head. “With most o’ the men workin’ on the round up ‘n the two o’ US searchin’ for Joe, there ain’t much gettin’ done with the house . . . or what’s left of it. Since Adam designed a lot o’ that house in the first place . . . . ”

Ben favored his middle son with a weary smile. “I’m glad you sent for him, Hoss. I’ve . . . since Adam left the Ponderosa, I’ve had this . . . this sense? Gut feeling, perhaps? of Adam feeling himself apart from us somehow, like the odd man out. Especially since it had been a good number of years between their visit two summers ago and the first time he came with Theresa. Asking him to come when we need him lets him know he’s still part of this family.”

Hoss had spent the better part of the last hour with his father in the Martins’ formal parlor on the first floor bringing him up to date on matters pertaining to the ranch operations and the investigation into Joe’s disappearance. This had been at Lily Martin’s insistence.

“Between Doctor Tao and Michael going back and forth at each other like a pair of tom cats in the middle of the night, you almost can’t hear yourself think,” she said. “I’ll sit with Stacy while the two of you talk.”

“ . . . I dunno, maybe there IS somethin’ in what you say about Adam feelin’ the odd man out,” Hoss said thoughtfully. “You’ve dreamed o’ havin’ a place like the Ponderosa f’r a long time, ‘n worked real hard t’ make that dream come true. Joe, me . . . and even Stacy share that dream, Pa. We wouldn’t trade the Ponderosa for any other place in the whole wide world, not f’r all the tea in China.

“But, Adam’s always had different dreams, even BEFORE he went off t’ college. For a lotta years, I think maybe it was . . . well, kinda hard for the rest of us, you me ‘n Joe, t’ understand. I know it was hard for ME. But, seein’ Adam ‘n Theresa together, finally meetin’ Benjy ‘n Dio, two summers ago . . . an’ our bein’ together last summer in San Francisco . . . I think it’s helped me understand, Pa. A little.”

“I’m glad you thought to send for him, Hoss,” Ben said again. “Now what’s the bad news?”

“Sheriff Coffee told me this just a short while ago, Pa. ‘Seems the owner o’ the house we checked out in Carson City’s decided t’ sell it.”

“Oh?”

“She put Mister Crippensworth in charge o’ handlin’ the details,” Hoss continued. “Mister Crippensworth hired some men to spruce up the outside. While they was workin’ in the flowerbeds out back they . . . Pa, they found human bones.”

Ben paled. “Dear Lord, s-surely not . . . . ”

Hoss immediately shook his head. “No, Pa, not Joe. T’ sheriff over in Carson City seems t’ think t’ bones belong . . . BELONGED . . . t’ Mister Montague.”

“Linda murdered Mister Montague?!”

“I don’t think they know that, not f’r sure, but Sheriff Coffee told me Sheriff Dudley’s sure gotta lot o’ questions he wants t’ ask Lady Chadwick ‘n Mister Crippensworth.”

“I hope he proceeds very cautiously,” Ben said grimly. “Given her precarious state of sanity, there’s no telling what she might do to Joe, if she’s pushed.”

“Sheriff Coffee’s told the Carson City sheriff about Joe, ‘n about how we’re pretty sure she’s holdin’ him prisoner,” Hoss said. “He also told Sheriff Dudley that Lady Chadwick’s . . . . ” He frowned. “Now how did Sheriff Coffee put that? Oh yeah! Lady Chadwick’s a basket short of a picnic.”

“That’s a relief.”

“Sheriff Coffee also told me he’s read over most o’ the letters from Jack Murphy, that we found in Carson City,” Hoss continued. “The upshot o’ the whole thing is, he sent her letters spellin’ out every move you, me, Joe, Stacy, ‘n Hop Sing made the whole time he was workin’ for us. He . . . Roy Coffee that is, said some of it gets a mite personal.”

Ben lapsed into a prolonged, uneasy silence, his troubled mind churning a mile a minute.

“Pa?” Hoss finally prompted, at length. “Pa, what’re ya thinkin’ about?”

“I was just thinking about how much Linda seems to enjoy keeping us under some sort of surveillance,” Ben replied. The lines and creases of his brow deepened into a fierce, angry scowl.

“Yeah,” Hoss muttered, the scowl forming on his own face matched his father’s in feeling and intensity. “I wonder why she’s decided t’ up ‘n sell the house in Carson City.”

“I’ve been thinking about that, too,” Ben said. “I come up with only one answer.”

“What’s that, Pa?”

“She’s moved from Carson City to HERE.”

“Right here? In Virginia City?”

Ben nodded. “Or somewhere very close by.”

“I . . . I hope you ain’t just graspin’ at straws . . . . ”

“It could be I AM,” Ben admitted, “but, think about it, Son. Linda’s been watching all of us for many, many years now from that house in Carson City. I’m convinced of it! That being the case, it stands to reason she would want to be close, to see how I’m reacting to Joe’s disappearance and how I’m holding up in the aftermath of the fire.”

Hoss took a moment to digest what his father had just told him. “What ya say makes sense, Pa . . . in a twisted kinda way,” he said slowly, thoughtfully. “How ‘bout I mosey on down t’ the Records Office ‘n see who’s moved here . . . oh, say beginnin’ a month before the fire, maybe?”

“Let me know what you find out, Son. In the meantime, I’d best get back to your sister.”

“That reminds me! I got something here for her, Pa.”


“Oh?”

“Candy found it as they were clearin’ away what little’s left o’ our house.” Hoss handed his father the inlaid wood jewelry box. “Everything’s there, Pa, safe ‘n sound.”

Ben smiled. “Thank you, Son. And thank Candy for me when you see him next.”

“He also found THIS.” Hoss placed the tied green bandanna on the coffee table in front of the settee, on which they both sat. He untied the corners and pulled back the material to reveal the broken statue within. “I . . . call it a gut feelin’ if ya want . . . but, I have a feelin’ Joe’s gonna really appreciate seein’ this when . . . when he comes home, Pa.”

“Marie’s Virgin Mary statue,” Ben said reverently as he picked up the piece that had the statue’s head and cradled it gently in his arms. “There was an artist who used to live here, a sculptor . . . an older woman, very talented.”

“Did SHE carve this statue?”

Ben nodded. “She was also one of the few to really welcome Marie with open arms when she first came, which completely floored me since the two of US could barely stand the sight of each other. She gave the statue to Marie as . . . kind of a belated wedding gift.”

“I know Mama treasured it,” Hoss said, his eyes misting.

“She told me, right after she found out your brother was on the way, that if she ever needed a hug from Mary, Mother of God, she would want that hug to come from THIS rendition.”

“Truth t’ tell, so would I.”

“Too bad she got broken,” Ben said sadly, as he carefully placed the piece in hand back with the other two pieces in the bandanna.

“I’ll take her by Malcom Reilly on m’ way to the records office. I know he’s a carpenter, but he also does repair work, ‘n he has a special, extra strong glue he sometimes uses f’r that. I think it just may be the ticket t’ fixin’ this lady.”

“MADAM, ARE YOU OUTTA YOUR EVER LOVIN’ MIND?!”

“DOCTOR TAO NOT INSANE! YOU INSANE! DOCTOR TAO PRACTICE MEDICINE PRACTICE IN CHINA MANY THOUSANDS YEARS. YOU PRACTICE MEDICINE NO BETTER THAN BUTCHER!!!”

“I see what you mean about not being able to hear yourself think, Lily,” Ben said upon returning to Doctor Martin’s examination room. “What is it THIS time?”

“ALRIGHT! HER FEVER HAS BROKEN! I CAN’T DENY THAT! EVEN SO, HER LEG’S STILL DRAINING LIKE NIAGARA FALLS!”

“ALL MORE REASON GET MISS STACY UP! MAKE MISS STACY MOVE ABOUT! MORE MISS STACY MOVE, MORE BLOOD AND CHI MOVE. BETTER OFF INFECTION MOVE!”

“POPPYCOCK! PURE SUPERSTITIOUS POPPYCOCK! YOU’RE NO BETTER THAN A BACKWARD, PRIMITIVE WITCH DOCTOR!”

“ . . . . . AND YOU STILL DUCK-DOCTOR!”

“Hi, Pa. Is it still afternoon?” Stacy greeted Ben with a weary smile.

“No, it’s evening,” Ben replied. “EARLY evening, but still evening.”

“You mean to tell me I actually slept through all THAT?!” Stacy demanded, thoroughly incredulous, as she inclined her head over in the general direction of Doctors Johns and Tao.

“Infection, high fever, and suffering a bad injury all have a way of taking the stuffing out of body, Young Woman. That being the case, you’re going to find it very easy to fall asleep for awhile,” Ben said, then leaned over to touched his lips to her forehead. “Well! It seems Doctor Johns spoke true,” he murmured in surprise, as he straightened. “Your fever HAS broken.”

“The part Doctor Tao said about getting up’s music to my ears, too.”

“I don’t know about THAT, Young Woman,” Ben said warily.

“Please?” Stacy begged. “I’m getting tired of all this lying around.”

“Speaking as a doctor myself, Ben, I think the idea has merit,” Paul Martin spoke up for the first time since Ben’s return. “I’ve seen plenty of instances where healing actually happens faster if the patient gets up and moves around. Mostly from watching you Cartwrights getting up and about before your doctor tells you it’s alright!” He, then, looked over at Stacy, and added very pointedly, “But you’re going to have to wait until we get that pair of crutches made.”

“Hop Sing nephew, Jimmy Chong work make crutches for Miss Stacy,” Hop Sing added.

“In the meantime, Candy found something of yours,” Ben said.

“Something that came through the fire?”

Ben nodded.

“What?”

“This.” He placed the inlaid jewelry box into her outstretched hands.

For a long moment Stacy stared down at the finely crafted wooden box in her hands unable to quite believe it was real.

“Aren’t you going to open it?” Ben prodded her gently.

Stacy swallowed nervously, then lifted the lid. Her medicine bag, the one given her by her Paiute foster mother, Silver Moon, lay nestled inside, undamaged. She placed the jewelry box down on her lap, and carefully lifted out the medicine bag. “Pa, it looks like it’s all here,” she said as she peered inside the bag.

“That reminds me. I found something else in the pocket of my robe shortly after Hop Sing and I brought you here.”

“What’s that?”

“This,” Ben said, reaching into his pants pocket. He drew out the carved eagle that Stacy had given him a year and a half before. “I . . . must have taken if off my night table when I woke up that night . . . . ”

“I know you don’t believe much in omens, Pa,” she said slowly, while her fingers lightly caressed the eagle lying in the palm of Ben’s hand. “But, I think this is a lucky one anyway.”

“GOOD luck or BAD luck?” Ben queried, half teasing.

“GOOD luck of course. We’re gonna get through all this, and come out on the other side stronger than ever.”

“I’ve known that all along,” Ben said with a smile, “but, it’s nice having a lucky omen come along once in awhile to confirm things.”

Stacy’s eyes fell on the pearl necklace Ben had given her on her last birthday, and the pearl earrings from Joe. “Pa?” she queried, as her fingers lightly touched one of the earrings.

“Yes, Stacy?”

“Any news about Joe?”

“It seems Lady Chadwick IS behind his disappearance,” Ben replied, “and that she’s moved out of the house Hoss and I went to check out on Carson City. Other than that . . . we’re still looking.”



“Alright, Little Joe, I want you to tell me AGAIN . . . what . . . happened . . . the night of the fire,” Linda said, with a touch of asperity. She paced before the foot of Joe’s bed, with all the frantic energy of a caged cougar gripping her riding crop in her right hand so hard, her knuckles had turned bloodless white. She struck her left hand over and over, hard, in cadence with her pacing.

Each slap against her palm elicited an involuntary wince Joe. “I made it out of the burning house,” he began.

“I want you back, Son.”

Pa’s words, the words he had spoken in that strange waking-dream, echoed once more through his mind and his heart, just as clearly as they would have, had Pa actually been there.

“Do you HEAR me? I want you back. So do Hoss, Stacy, and Hop Sing. We want you back, whatever it takes, whatever you have to do. Remember this, Joe. A man’s . . . or woman’s . . . true self lies within the heart. You may have to keep it well hidden for a time, in order to survive. The trick is for YOU not to loose touch with your heart . . . . ”

Joe closed his eyes and took a deep ragged breath. “I was injured.” To say these next words went wholly against his grain.

“I want you back, Son. Do you HEAR me? I want you back, whatever it takes, whatever you have to do . . . . ” Pa’s words, Pa’s voice, earnest and desperate, urged him on.

“I . . . I got as far as the garden gate,” Joe continued. It took every ounce of will he possessed to utter those words, what he knew she wanted to hear. “I stumbled and fell. Mister Crippensworth found me. He stayed with me while you went to f-find Pa . . . . ”

Linda stopped her pacing abruptly, mid-stride, pivoted and lashed out, striking Joe across the face with her riding crop.

For a long moment, all Joe could do was stare up at her, through eyes round as saucers, his mouth hanging open, too shocked and astonished to even speak.

“Liar!” she snarled, low and menacing. “You . . . filthy . . . LIAR!”

“Hey, c’mon! I didn’t even FINISH!” Joe tersely defended himself, as shock and astonishment quickly gave way to anger.

“Doesn’t matter! You’re STILL LYING!”

“I’m trying to tell you what you’ve been telling me is true.”

“Stop it, Little Joe, just . . . stop it!”

“Would you mind telling me exactly what the hell you WANT?” he demanded, exasperated.

Linda struck him across the face again with her riding crop . . . . and again. “Liar!” she snarled each time she struck him. “You . . . . miserable . . . . filthy LIAR!”

Joe squeezed his eyes shut and tried as best he could to turn his face away from the blows she rained down upon him.

Finally, after a seeming eternity, she stopped and pulled herself stiffly erect. “Oh yes, I know what you’re doing, Little Joe. You’re trying to trick me into giving you food by telling me lies. Pretty little words I want to hear . . . but NOT in the form of LIES. When I ask you again, I want you to not only speak it with your lips, but I want you to believe it in your heart.”

“L-Lady Chadwick?”

“What?” she responded in a sullen tone.

Joe swallowed nervously. “I’d watch out f-for Crippensworth . . . if I were you.”

Linda whirled in her tracks and leveled a sharp, intense glare in his direction.

“I mean it, Lady Chadwick,” he continued in as steady a voice as he could muster. “I . . . well, I, umm couldn’t help overhearing that argument between you and Crippensworth.”

“Have a care, Little Joe. Eavesdropping can be very dangerous.” The malevolent glare knotting her brow seemed at precarious odds against the bland tone by which she spoke those words. “Very, very dangerous indeed.”

“I didn’t WANT to eavesdrop . . . but HE was shouting so loud, I . . . well, I just couldn’t help hearing.”

Linda stood, clutching her riding crop, with her fists planted squarely on her hips. Her eyes, blazing with a rage, barely contained, seemed to burn their way into the core of his very being. Joe involuntarily flinched. “I did NOT kill Montague. If you know what’s good for you, Little Joe, you’d best get that through your head right NOW. What happened to Montague was an accident. A horrible, tragic accident!”

“I believe you . . . but from what Crippensworth said . . . I’m not so sure HE does.”

“Crippensworth can believe what he bloody likes, I don’t care. He CAN’T prove anything.”

“What if he CAN?”

“He CAN’T!”

“Evidence CAN be faked, Lady Chadwick.”

“You’re a liar,” she growled in a low menacing tone. “A dirty, filthy liar, just like your father.” She spat, literally, right square in his face. “Crippensworth would NEVER betray me. NEVER!”

“Are you SURE about that Lady Chadwick? Are you absolutely sure? Your life may very well depend on it.”

Linda glared at him intensely for a moment that seemed to stretch into eternity, before abruptly turning heel and flouncing right out of the room.

Joe closed his eyes, and slowly exhaled the breath he had been holding. Blood, from wounds opened by the savage beating Lady Chadwick had just inflicted, flowed freely from his arms and face in crimson rivulets, that dripped and pooled on the mattress. Mottled splotches of light blue had already begun to appear on his arms and his cheek.

“D-Dear God . . . WHAT am I DOING?” he wondered in fearful silence. “I . . . I gotta be crazier ‘n loon doing this. If she and Crippensworth compare notes . . . . ”


“Little Joe, what matter?”

Hop Sing’s voice, filled with sympathy and concern, echoed through his mind and thoughts from the dim mists of memory drawn from another time and place. He was frightened, then, too. More frightened than he had ever felt in his entire life.

They had just buried Mama less than a week ago, at her favorite place down by the lake. Now PA was gone, too. On an errand of mercy to rescue some folks stranded in the mountains by a late in the season blizzard. If those people weren’t rescued and brought down from the mountains, many of them would die. Just like Mama!

What if PA got stranded in the mountains, too, by that same late blizzard?

What if . . . what if Pa died? Just like Mama!

“What matter with Little Joe?” Hop Sing asked again softly, as he stepped into the little boy’s room. “Little Joe wake up by bad dream?”

“I can’t sleep,” Joe murmured softly, on the verge of tears.

Hop Sing sat down on the edge of the bed. “Why can’t sleep?”

“ ‘Cause . . . ‘cause I’m afraid!”

“Why Little Joe scared?” Hop Sing probed gently. “Nothing here scare little boy. Little boy safe. Safe with Hop Sing. Safe with older brothers.”

“I ain’t afraid f-for me, Hop Sing,” the boy replied, his voice catching. A large tear slipped over his eye lid and rolled down his cheek. “I’m afraid for PA!”

“Why Little Joe afraid for Papa?”

“ ‘Cause . . . ‘cause he’s g-gone to . . . to r-rescue some p-people trapped up in th-the mountains,” Joe sobbed. “P-People . . . people trapped b-by . . . by snow. I . . . I heard some g-grown-ups say th-those people m-may . . . that they m-m-may be already dead. Hop Sing, what if . . . what if . . . oh, Hop Sing, what if P-Pa dies t-too?”

“Some grown-ups, they talk too much,” Hop Sing muttered angrily as he gathered the frightened, weeping little boy into his arms. “Not watch where they talk. Not see who listen. Bad. Very, very bad!” He held Little Joe close, rocking him back and forth, softly murmuring words of reassurance in English and in Chinese, until his sobbing finally faded away to silence. “Little Joe, Papa know mountains, know when snow come, when snow NOT come. Papa not die. Papa come home safe.”

Joe silently peered into Hop Sing’s face, through eyes filled with terror and disbelief.

“Little Joe remember prayer his mama say?”

Joe wiped the last of his tears away with the heels of his hands and nodded.

“Maybe Little Joe say for his papa.”

“Aww, Hop Sing, that prayer didn’t do Mama no good,” he said in a very small, very sad voice. “It didn’t keep HER safe.”

“That because Little Joe Mama not say prayer for her. She say prayer for Little Joe Papa, for Adam and Hoss. She even say prayer for Hop Sing. She ‘specially say prayer for Little Joe. Keep him safe. Keep whole family safe. But, she never say prayer for her, keep her safe.”

As Joe silently thought the whole matter over, he began to see the truth and wisdom in Hop Sing’s words. “H-Holy Mary, M-M-Mother of . . . of God,” he began to pray the words of his mother’s prayer, slowly, haltingly as freshly forming tears stung his eyes anew. “I . . . I turn to you f-for protection. Please listen to m-my prayers and . . . and h-help us in our needs, right now . . . right now Pa most ‘specially. PLEASE! PLEASE save HIM from every danger, O, glorious and blessed Virgin . . . . ”


“Holy M-Mary, Mother . . . M-Mother of God,” Joe began to pray softly and haltingly, on the edge of tears to which he desperately wished not to succumb. “Holy Mary, Mother of G-God, I . . . I turn to you for protection. Please listen to m-my prayers and help us in our n-needs. Please help me t-to be strong now . . . and help Pa and Hoss find me. Keep us . . . keep us from every danger, O glorious and blessed Virgin.”

He took a deep breath, slow and even, then exhaled, as a well spring of incredible peace began to slowly rise within him. In that moment, he no longer believed he was going to survive this ordeal, he somehow KNEW it. The tears that slipped over his eyelids and flowed down his cheeks actually seemed to strengthen and solidify that knowledge. Somewhere, in his mind’s eye, he caught a brief glimpse of PA earnestly and fervently uttering the words of that prayer. Stacy and Hop Sing were with him, silently but no less fervently praying those words along with him. The image brought a smile to Joe’s face, amid the tears.



“Holy Mary, Mother of God, I . . . I turn to you for protection,” Ben prayed softly and earnestly. He stood before the window in the Martins’ formal parlor on the first floor, looking out onto the flower garden in the back yard, nurtured over the course of many years by Lily Martin, with much love and great joy. “Please listen to my prayers and help my son, Joseph Francis, right now in his needs. Strengthen and keep him . . . save him from EVERY danger, and . . . PLEASE! Please help Hoss and me to find him, O, glorious and blessed Virgin . . . Amen.”

“Amen,” Stacy said softly.

“Me, too. Amen,” Hop Sing added reverently, with an emphatic nod of his head.

Ben turned and looked over at Stacy in mild surprise. “I thought YOU were asleep.” Hop Sing’s nephew, Jimmy Chong, had delivered the crutches he had made for Stacy an hour before, enabling her to finally rise up from the bed in Paul Martin’s examination room. A scant few moments ago, she had dropped off to sleep in the overstuffed wingback chair in the corner, facing the settee, completely and utterly exhausted by the effort expended in hobbling the short distance from the doctor’s examination room to the parlor, after having spent the better part of the three days since the fire bedridden.

“Speaking for myself, Pa, I’M wide awake.”

He, then, turned and glanced over at Hop Sing standing beside him. “ . . . and I thought YOU were downstairs with Lily making up more of your chicken soup.”

“Chicken soup on stove cooking. Be ready for supper.”

“Pa?”

“Yes, Stacy?”

“That was a beautiful prayer,” she said quietly.

“Hop Sing remember. That prayer Little Joe Mama always say. Every night, ‘specially when Mister Cartwright go away, take care business.”

Ben nodded, his eyes misting. “I . . . I hadn’t even thought of that prayer, not since . . . well, not since Marie died,” he said thoughtfully. “Now that Hoss brought home her statue of the Virgin Mary . . . well, it seems I can’t get that prayer out of my mind.”

“When did Hoss find the statue, Pa?”

“CANDY found it, actually . . . when he found your jewelry box.”

“Hop Sing remember statue. Little Joe Mama like very much. She say statue look way Mother of God should look. Strong woman. Very strong woman with very strong arms can hug and protect.”

“Pa, where’s the statue now?” Stacy asked, intrigued by Hop Sing’s description.

“She was broken into three pieces, but they were clean breaks,” Ben replied. “Hoss is pretty sure Malcom Rush can glue her back together.”

“I hope so,” Stacy said quietly.



“I say we send Mister Cartwright a ransom note, and just plain be done with this entire affair,” Crippensworth said irritably.

“WHAT?!”

“You heard me, Milady. It’s the only sensible option at this point.”

“No! We CAN’T do that!”

“Why NOT?”

“Dammit, Crippensworth, I’ve TOLD you and TOLD you and TOLD you, I want revenge for all the HURT . . . for all the HUMILIATION . . . and for all the ABUSE I’ve suffered at Ben Cartwright’s hands all these years,” Linda said impatiently. “The BEST revenge . . . the best, most absolute sublime REVENGE . . . is to turn Little Joe against Ben, then convince the boy to kill his father.”

“ . . . and I’ve told YOU, Milady, that what you propose would probably take YEARS to accomplish with someone stubborn and intractable as Young Cartwright has shown himself to be,” Crippensworth said in a tone he might use to explain something to an unusually dull witted child. “You and I do NOT have the luxury of DAYS, let alone weeks, months, or years. Not now.”

“But, I’m getting through to him, Crippensworth. I am!”

“You delude yourself.”

“ . . . and YOU seemed to have developed this annoying habit of forgetting your place of late.”

“Milady, you’ve ranted on and on about how this once and former lover boy of yours practically worships the ground his sons and daughter walk on,” Crippensworth continued in that oh-so-reasonable, yet insultingly condescending tone of voice. “Surely such a devoted papa wouldn’t balk at spending oh, say a couple a hundred thousand to get the boy back.”

“NO!”

“But, Milady— ”

“I said NO!”

“I’ve taken the liberty to do a little, ummm . . . shall we say research? on this once and former lover boy of yours . . . . ”

“Oh NO!” Linda groaned, burying her face in her hands. “Crippensworth, how COULD you?!”

“Don’t get your knickers in a knot, Milady, I’ve gone about it in a manner most discreet,” Crippensworth countered with a touch of condescending disdain. “The upshot of it’s THIS. Mister Cartwright has done quite well for himself over the years. Between his ranching and lumber mill operations, an assortment of interests in mining, not to mention that steamboat ride going back and forth across Lake Tahoe, he’s built himself an empire that’s made him a rich man. A VERY rich man.”

“I have NO need of money, Crippensworth, least of all Ben Cartwright’s money. I happen to be a VERY wealthy woman.”

Joe strained to overhear the conversation between Lady Chadwick and Mister Crippensworth somewhere just on the other side of the door to his room, closed fast. Fortunately, their discussion was a very animated one, growing more so with each passing second, and each syllable uttered.

“Think of it, Milady. Two hundred thousand dollars. One hundred thousand for you, a hundred thousand for ME. With THAT kind of money, we could be sitting very pretty anywhere. Anywhere at all.”

“I SAID I have no need for Ben Cartwright’s money.”

“I beg to differ. Most of the funds in the Chadwick accounts are tied to Castle Chadwick, which passes along with the title to your late husband’s next of kin.”

“Which happens to be ME.”

“Which happened to be your SON. Now with HIS sudden, tragic, not to mention very untimely demise, all of that passes on to your late husband’s nephew, Cedric Powerscourt. Excuse me. I should say Cedric Powerscourt, Viscount of Chadwick.”

“You’re lying.”

“You may send a wire to Sir Arthur Witherspoon, your late husband’s attorney to verify, if you don’t believe ME. That means, Milady . . . My DOWAGER Lady Chadwick, that the only money left to YOU are the funds in the trust accounts set up in your name. I also know for fact that you’ve run through the bulk of the capital in every last one of those accounts.”

“ . . . and who gave you leave to snoop through my private business?”

“I didn’t snoop, Milady. Hell, I didn’t have to. Your Mister Montague was quite forthcoming in giving answers to all my many questions. At least he was in the beginning.”

“I STILL don’t need Ben Cartwright’s money,” Linda declared in a lofty, imperious tone. “Even if I were absolutely FLAT broke! I still have my ways.”

“Not with the NEW Lord Chadwick! He’s ALWAYS despised you. Mister Montague told me that, too.”

“I wouldn’t take money from THAT pompous idiot, even if he offered it to me on a silver platter! I got on well enough BEFORE I was married. I expect to get on well enough NOW.”

This prompted a hog like snort of derisive laughter from Crippensworth. “For the life of me, I can’t see HOW! You’re a far cry from the seemingly sweet, young ingénue who could charm her way into a nobleman’s bed, then turn around and marry the poor besotted fool for his money.”

“I told you before and I’ll tell you once again. I neither need nor want Ben Cartwright’s money. All I want is REVENGE!”

“Fine! If it’s REVENGE you’re after, then kill the boy.”

“CRIPPENSWORTH, WHAT ARE YOU SAYING?” Linda demanded, outraged.

“I said kill the boy.”

“NO!”

“You said you wanted revenge.”

“I DO!”

“Then kill the boy! If all that nonsense you were blathering on about HIM being his father’s best beloved son is in fact true, your best revenge is to KILL him,” Crippensworth pressed. “The sooner the better! After dark, I would see to it that the body is PROPERLY disposed of in a place it won’t be found so quickly or easily . . . so that you and I have ample time to make our escape— ”

Linda screamed and stamped her foot. “YOU’RE NEVER GOING TO LET ME FORGET ABOUT MONTAGUE, ARE YOU?”

“Actually, Milady, Montague was the farthest thing from my mind . . . . ”

“I’LL BET!”

“ . . . but since you DO bring up the subject of my predecessor, your handling of HIS problem was, at the very least, utterly stupid. We could have used the proceeds sale of that house in Carson City would have fetched . . . . ”

Joe’s ears perked up upon hearing Crippensworth mention Carson City. “Is THAT where I am NOW? In Carson City?” he wondered silently. He closed his eyes and thought of the ride from the burning ranch house to here, where ever HERE was, exactly. She had pulled over, upon reaching the main road, and blindfolded him, using a black opaque cloth. Though he could not see where she had taken him, he knew that the trip from the ranch would have taken the better part of an entire day, if she had, in fact, taken him all the way to Carson City. They had not traveled anywhere near that long.

“Dammit, Crippensworth, I’ve told you and told you and TOLD you . . . I had NO choice concerning Montague.” Joe could hear Lady Chadwick whining very clearly.

“ . . . and I told YOU to wait until I came back . . . that I would deal with Mister Montague. If you had listened to me and done what I told you to do— ”

“HE WAS GOING TO GO TO THE SHERIFF!” Linda shouted, giving full vent to her growing anger and frustration. “HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO TELL YOU THAT? I HAD NO CHOICE EXCEPT TO SILENCE HIM PERMANENTLY RIGHT THEN AND THERE.”

“ALRIGHT! DONE IS DONE!” Crippensworth shouted back. “THE REAL POINT OF THE MATTER IS THAT MONTAGUE’S DEAD BODY, WHAT REMAINS OF IT, HAS NOW TURNED UP LIKE THE PROVERBIAL BAD PENNY.”

“ . . . . and that’s got you running scared to death of your own shadow,” Linda sneered.

“If you had even a modicum of sense, Milady, you’d be running scared to death of your own shadow, too. You see, eventually . . . sooner, I think, rather than later, they’re going to be looking for US. IF they aren’t already.”

“LET THEM LOOK! THEY WILL FIND THAT MRS. de SALLE AND MISTER CRIPPENSWORTH HAVE VANISHED AS IF FROM THE VERY FACE OF THE EARTH. THERE’S NOTHING TO CONNECT US AS WE’RE KNOWN HERE TO THE NAMES BY WHICH WE WERE KNOWN IN CARSON CITY.”

“IF YOU REALLY BELIEVE THAT, YOU’RE EVEN MORE STUPID THAN I COULD EVER HAVE IMAGINED POSSIBLE.”

Joe heard the sound of Crippensworth’s footfalls against bare wood, heavy at first as befitted the large man, growing fainter until finally lost in an uneasy silence. He closed his eyes, while mentally steeling himself for another visit from Her Ladyship. One minute she openly lusted after his still naked body, the next she was aloof, wholly indifferent, and the next after that, screaming with an intense fury, the like of which he had never known. Her abrupt and extreme mood changes coupled with the consequence of not knowing what to expect left him feeling shaken to the very core of his being.

For what seemed an eternity, Joe shifted, as best he could, bound as he was, in a bid to find a measure of comfort amid the tender bruises and still open wounds from the beating Lady Chadwick had inflicted on him the last time she visited. His ears strained, listening for the sounds of her footsteps approaching the door, the turn of a key in the lock, the door opening. When, at long last, he heard the sounds of her footsteps moving away, he slowly, very softly exhaled a sigh of vast profound relief.

“It looks like Lady Chadwick’s carefully laid plans . . . whatever they are . . . are starting to unravel,” Joe mused uneasily in silence. “If I can’t come up with an idea as to how I’m gonna appeal to Crippensworth’s greed, I may yet end up a dead duck.”

“Sorry, Hoss,” Samuel Porter, the recording clerk in the land office sighed dolefully and shook his head. He was a short, rotund man, aged in his late forties, with wavy, gray hair thinning on top, and hazel eyes magnified by a pair of glasses with thick lenses set in a black frame. “We’ve gone over the records of everyone who has filed a claim or purchased property during the last month. There’s no one listed here fitting the description of the folks you and your pa are looking for.”

“You’ve done all you could, Sam,” Hoss said, feeling more weary and discouraged than he could remember having felt in a long time. “How much do I owe ya?”

“Not a cent!” Sam said firmly. “With all the favors your pa’s done for ME over the years, I’m glad I could give something back. I only wish our search had proven more fruitful.”

“Thank you, Sam. I really appreciate everything you’ve done.”

“Any time, Hoss. Tell you what. I’m going to go back another month and check through my records from then up to the present,” Sam promised. “I’ll also keep an eye peeled. If anyone coming in to buy property or file a claim DOES fit the descriptions you’ve given me, I’ll let you or your pa know.”

“Thanks. I appreciate that.” Hoss turned to leave, halting suddenly in mid-stride. “Hey, Sam,” he said, turning and heading back over to the counter.

“Yeah, Hoss?”

“What about folks RENTIN’ a house or piece of property?”

“This office doesn’t handle rentals, Hoss. There’s a half dozen realtors who handle rentals,” Sam replied, “not to mention all the lawyers.”

Hoss could feel his heart plummeting to his feet. “That’s a lotta folks to talk to.”

“You might start with your pa’s lawyer, Mister Milburn,” Sam suggested.

“Thanks, Sam, I’ll do that.”



“Hoss, it’s been quite awhile since I handled any clients seeking to rent,” Lucas Milburn reluctantly shook his head. “The last client seeking to rent came in six months ago. He ended up asking a lot of questions, but never came back.”

“You remember his name?”

“I can find out.” Lucas Milburn rose and walked over to his filing cabinet. After locating the drawer he wanted, he pulled it open and started rifling through the contents. “Here it is, Hoss.”

Hoss was across the room, looking over the lawyer’s shoulder in seconds.

Lucas Milburn silently leafed through the contents of a file folder, until he came across the information he sought. “The client gave his name as Mister Charles.”

“You remember what he looked like?

Lucas shook his head. “That’s because I never saw him. According to the records here, this Mister Charles met with my secretary, John Casey.” The lawyer fell silent for a moment, studying the papers found in the file set up for Mister Charles. “This is interesting.”

“What’s that, Mister Milburn?”

“This Mister Charles actually made an appointment to come in a week after his initial visit,” Lucas said. “Apparently, he never showed up.”

“Did Mister Charles ask about any property in particular?” Hoss asked, remembering that the later Mister Montague’s first name was Charles. That missed appointment six months ago might also correspond with the time the man was murdered.

“Not according to the notes Mister Casey made here, Hoss.”

“Where is Mister Casey now?”

“His mother died a month ago,” Lucas replied. “He’s been over in Placerville seeing to funeral arrangements and helping his father and sister sort things out. Got a wire from him day before yesterday. He said he expects to be back by the end of the week.”

“Thanks, Mister Milburn. I’ll check back then, if it’s alright.”

“It’s alright with me, Hoss, especially if it may prove helpful in locating Joe.”



“Good morning, Darling,” Linda gushed, as she flounced into the room, with a skip in her step, and her eyes aglow with an odd, inner light. Crippensworth followed behind, carrying a rifle. “I spoke with your father last night . . . . ”

“About?” Joe asked warily.

“Your punishment, of course.”

“My . . . punishment?!”

“For lying,” Linda said. “Honestly, the two of you can be so obstinate . . . so hard headed, neither willing to give an inch . . . . ” Her voice caught on the last word. “Do either one of you know h-how much . . . how very much the way you tear at one another because of your stupid pride and stubbornness . . . distresses ME?!”

“No,” Joe replied in a voice, stone cold.

“Well it DOES,” Linda sobbed.

“What did he say about . . . about my punishment?” Joe asked, wincing against the sharp pang of guilt that came from even posing that question. Though Pa could be something of an exacting taskmaster when it came to meting out justice for rules broken or for bad behavior, he had never, ever crossed the line differentiating discipline and abuse. Never even come close. Pa would never have dreamed of punishing any of his children by forcing them to strip naked, then submit to being tied down to a bed, deprived of food, water, and warmth, no matter what the crime. The thought of just now intimating that he had . . . .

“I finally got him to see the light of reason, Darling.”

“Does that mean . . . you’re going to . . . to let me go?”

“You WERE caught lying, Little Joe,” she said sternly. “Though your father HAS agreed that your punishment far exceeded the crime, you are, nonetheless STILL being punished. He told me that you might be confined to your room until you decide to tell us the truth, rather than to this bed.”

An uncomfortable silence fell between Lady Chadwick and her captive.

“Well?” she prompted.

“Well what?” Joe sighed.

“Aren’t you going to say thank you? As in thank you, Mother, for pleading with my father on my behalf, even though I’m a stubborn, willful boy, thoroughly undeserving?!”

“Thanks,” Joe said listlessly.

“I had expected MORE in the way of gratitude, but . . . . ” She exhaled a long, soft sigh of exasperation, then turned to Crippensworth. “Is that thing loaded?”

“Of course it’s loaded, Milady,” he replied, with a touch of insolence. “Shall we get on with it?”

“Certainly. The sooner I can free my poor baby from those uncomfortable bonds . . . willful and obstinate though he may be . . . the better I’ll feel,” she said, as she leaned over and began to untie the knot binding his left foot to the bed.

“One false move out of you, Boy, and I shoot to kill,” Crippensworth warned, after Linda had freed Joe’s left foot, and turned to untie the rope binding his right to the footboard. “You understand me?”

“Yes, I understand,” Joe replied, his words terse, his syllables clipped.

Linda moved to the headboard and set to work freeing Joe’s hands. “There you are,” she proclaimed a few moments later, with a smile of smug satisfaction. “Do you need Mama to help you sit up?” she asked, speaking to him in the tone of voice most might use in speaking to a very young child.

Joe very gingerly lowered the arm that had been dislocated at the shoulder, when the steps in the burning ranch house had collapsed, biting his lip to keep from crying out in agony.

“Come on, Darling . . . . ” With a tremulous smile this time, she reached out her hand. “Let Mama help you.”

“No . . . thank you, LADY CHADWICK. I can sit up myself,” Joe said in a sullen tone of voice.

“So independent . . . just like your father,” she murmured. “Alright, Sweetie-Pie, but if you need help . . . Mama’s right here.”

Inwardly, Joe cringed at her references to herself as his mother.

“Come on, Boy, sit up,” Crippensworth snapped, fingering the trigger of the rifle in hand, “and let’s be quick about it!”

“Ben, stop it!” Linda turned and favored Crippensworth with a dark, angry glare.

“NO!” Joe yelled, his anger and guilt getting the better of him. “YOU stop it, Lady Chadwick. You’re NOT my mother and Crippensworth, here, is NOT my father. I don’t know what kind of . . . of sick, twisted game you’re playing, trying to pretend you are— ”

“HOW COULD YOU?!” Linda shrieked, as she burst into tears. “HOW COULD YOU BE SO . . . S-SO . . . SO HORRIBLY . . . SO MONSTROUSLY CRUEL?!”

Crippensworth exhaled the slow sigh of the long suffering, while sardonically rolling his eyes. “Now you’ve really gone and done it, Boy,” he muttered through clenched teeth, as he moved to Linda’s side.

“YOUR FATHER WAS RIGHT!” she screamed, as the tears continued to roll down her face. “YOUR FATHER WAS ABSOLUTELY RIGHT! I SHOULD HAVE LISTENED TO HIM! ALL THESE YEARS . . . ALL THESE YEARS . . . I THOUGHT I’D BEEN NURSING A LOVING BABE TO MY BREAST . . . ONLY TO FIND OUT IT’S A SERPENT. A DEADLY, UNGRATEFUL SERPENT!”

“Oh damn!” Crippensworth swore, as he turned his attention to Linda. “Milady— ”

“YOU WAIT!” she continued to rant, her entire attention focused on Joe. “YOU WAIT UNTIL I TELL YOUR FATHER, YOUNG MAN! HE’LL DEAL WITH YOU AS HE OUGHT, SO HELP ME . . . HE’LL DEAL WITH YOU GOOD AND PROPER YOU . . . YOU . . . YOU MISERABLE, SELFISH, UNGRATEFUL WHELP! I WISH YOU’D NEVER BEEN BORN, DO YOU HEAR ME? I WISH YOU’D— ” Her tirade ended in a sudden, ear piercing screech, when Crippensworth slapped her cheek. She involuntarily took a step backwards, while gazing back and forth between Joe and Crippensworth through eyes round with shocked horror, with the dazed look of someone just walking from a drugged induced sleep, or a vivid dream.

“You were becoming hysterical, Milady,” Crippensworth said in a cold, exasperated tone. “Perhaps you should go on upstairs, take a good strong dose of that laudanum the doctor prescribed, and have a nice long nap. You’ll feel much better if you do.”

“I . . . no, I . . . I can’t, not right now,” Linda babbled, staring at the room, at her surroundings as if she had never seen them before. “Have to do something, I can’t remember . . . . ”

“I’LL handle it, Milady . . . . ”

As he sat on the edge of his bed, massaging his wrists, Joe noted that Lady Chadwick and Crippensworth seemed wholly focused on each other. They had also moved toward the foot of the bed, leaving him a clear shot at the door. “Well, Joseph Francis, this looks like as good a chance as any . . . . ” he mused in silence, as he slowly, unsteadily to his feet. He stole another glance at Lady Chadwick and Crippensworth, as he reached out his left hand toward the headboard to steady himself. They seemed wholly focused on one another. Though they spoke too softly for him to hear their words, he knew by the sharp movements of their arms and hands, that their conversation was quite animated.

Joe took a deep, ragged breath, then took off, half running, half stumbling toward the door straight ahead, trying desperately to ignore the dizzying, lightheadedness that had suddenly come upon him, hitting him with all the power and force of a sledge hammer. As he reached out his hand toward the doorknob and anticipated freedom, he stumbled and crashed heavily into the wall.

“What the hell—?!” Crippensworth exclaimed, as he and Lady Chadwick turned.

Squeezing his eyes shut against his environment spinning and pulsating around him with a ferocious, nauseating intensity, Joe felt blind panic rising up within him as his fingers worked desperately to turn the door knob.

“HE’S ESCAPING!” Linda screamed. “CRIPPENSWORTH, STOP HIM! HE’S ESCAPING!”

Joe threw the door open with surprising strength and power, given his injuries, his severely weakened physical condition, then bolted from the room to the hallway. His dizziness, the pain of injuries inflicted by his escape from the burning ranch house and by Lady Chadwick, were all lost, drowned in a potent adrenal rush that strengthened, lent new power to the blind panic now consuming him. Turning a corner, he came to a curving staircase, leading downward. Joe ran down the first half dozen steps, with his heart thudding hard against his rib cage. On the seventh step, he tripped. He last semi-coherent memory was of pitching through mid-air in complete free fall. Joe tumbled down the remaining dozen steps, and landed in a heap, sprawled on the first landing.

For a time Joe lay as he fell, too stunned to move, or even think.

“THERE HE IS!” Lady Chadwick shouted.

“WHERE?”

“THERE! AT THE BOTTOM OF THE STEPS! GET HIM, CRIPPENSWORTH! QUICKLY!”

Their voices, their shouted words penetrated through the haze of shock and pain that had completely fogged over Joe’s mind and thoughts. He rose to his feet, only to fall again, as he knees suddenly turned to jelly. Before he could even think of making another move, he felt the touch of cold steel against his temple.

“One wrong move, Boy, and I’ll blow your bloody brains out,” Crippensworth said in a low, menacing tone.

Joe’s heart sank. He knew with dreadful certainty that if he so much as coughed the wrong way, Crippensworth would carry out his promise.

“Now roll over and sit up,” Crippensworth snapped out the order. “Slowly. Very, very slowly . . . if you know what’s good for you.”

As he rolled himself over from his stomach onto his back, Joe’s eyes fell on the front door, standing open, no more than fifteen feet away from him. So near and yet . . . . He squeezed his eyes shut, as he eased himself from prone to sitting, to dam back the tears, borne of rage and utter frustration, that threatened to spill forth.

“Put these on!” Crippensworth ordered tersely.

Joe cried out, unable to stop himself as two pair of iron manacles, each pair joined together by a chain, slammed hard against his shins.

“Be quick about it.”

Joe’s hands shook so badly, he could hardly keep hold of the manacles and chain, let alone snap them on his wrists and ankles.

“It WOULD be nice if Milady Chadwick made herself useful for a change and got those on him,” Crippensworth growled, nearing the limits of what little patience he possessed.

“Put them on him yourself,” Linda returned, her face contorted with anger.

“You’ll do as I tell you.” Crippensworth grabbed Linda’s arm in a painful, vice like grip and hurled her to the floor, where she landed alongside Joe, on her hands and knees.

Linda turned and glared up at Crippensworth with a look meant to kill, before snatching the manacles from Joe’s trembling hands and snapping them on his wrists and ankles.

“Now get out of the way, you stupid bitch.”

Linda rose, her entire body quaking with the fury within, that never, ever seemed very far from the surface, and stepped backward, moving away from Joe.

Crippensworth reached down and hauled Joe unceremoniously to his feet, then threw him toward the stairs. Unable to right himself or regain his balance, Joe slammed hard against the steps, knocking the wind out of his lungs. Crippensworth walked up a few steps, until he came even with Joe’s torso. “Get up,” he snarled.

Joe said nothing, nor did he move.

“I SAID get up.”

Joe remained as he was.

Crippensworth gritted his teeth together, then kicked Joe in the rib cage, eliciting a cry of both agony and outrage. “If you don’t get up right now, I’ll see to it you never get up again.”

Joe rose, holding fast to the banister for support, blinded by tears he could no longer hold back. The muscle, bone, and sinew on his legs seemed to have turned into formless, shapeless jelly, with no firmness to support his weight.

“Now get up those stairs,” Crippensworth ordered, giving Joe a hard shove with the barrel of his rifle.

The momentum behind the shove nearly sent Joe falling on his face. He pitched forward, but his arms, wrapped around the banister, clinging for dear life, prevented the fall. Unfortunately the shove forward pulled hard on his dislocated shoulder, increasing his agony.

“MOVE!” Crippensworth snapped, raising his voice. He shoved Joe again with the barrel of his rifle, harder this time.

“Alright!” Joe returned sullenly. “I’m moving as fast as I can.”

Scowling, Crippensworth raised his rifle, with every intention of slamming the butt of his weapon down against Joe’s head.

“NO!” Linda shouted, as she ran up the steps toward Joe and Crippensworth. “Don’t hurt him.”

“That, Milady, is entirely up to young Cartwright.”



“Well, I’ll be damned!” Doctor Michael Johns exclaimed, thoroughly dumbfounded, upon examining Stacy’s injured leg. “No fever . . . her skin’s STILL nice and pink, even down around the toes . . . no sign of infection at all . . . anywhere . . . maybe there IS something to this acu . . . acu . . . . ”

“Acupuncture,” Doctor Tao supplied. A bare hint of a smug, triumphant smile pulled at the corner of her mouth.

“Four days ago . . . no! Make that five! I hope you’ll pardon me for saying this, Miss Cartwright, but five days ago, I honestly had my doubts as to whether or not we’d be able to save your life for having waited too long,” Michael shook his head in amazement. “Now . . . . ” He turned and gazed earnestly into Doctor Tao’s weary, lined face. “Doctor Tao, what CAN I say, except . . . this humbled duck-doctor bows to your wisdom, and hopes you will forgive him for all the things he said in ignorance?”

“Doctor Tao accept apology,” she said quietly. The smile that spread across her face was completely void of smugness. “Now you NOT so ignorant, maybe you not so much duck-doctor either.”

“Does THAT mean I’m finally out of the woods?” Stacy asked.

“Yes, Miss Cartwright, you’re finally out of the woods,” Michael declared with a broad grin. “IF Doctor Tao and Paul both agree, I’d like to leave your leg braced and splinted, just to make absolute certain there’s no lingering infection. We can cast the leg tomorrow morning if things look as pretty as they do right now.”

“Doctor Tao agree,” the master acupuncturist stated quietly, emphasizing her words with a curt nod of her head.

“My vote makes it unanimous,” Paul Martin declared. “Stacy, once that plaster-of-paris cast is on, that should allow you even greater freedom of movement, since your leg will be well protected against bumping into walls, railings, things like that.”

“Can I finally get dressed?” Stacy asked. “I’m starting to get a little tired of sitting around all day in my nightshirt, robe, and slippers.”

“I guess that’s going to mean another trip to the store,” Ben said, speaking up for the first time.

“Tell you what, Ben,” Lily Martin said, smiling. “I have some errands to run today anyway . . . why don’t I take care of purchasing clothing for Stacy?”

“I don’t want to put you to any trouble, Lily,” Ben protested.

“Nonsense! Didn’t I just get through saying I had some errands to run?” She, then, turned to her husband. “Paul?”

“Yes, Lily?”

“That box I keep on the floor of the wardrobe in the spare room? Would you mind fetching it for me?”

“Not at all, Lily,” Paul Martin said. “If you folks will excuse me?”

“I need to be gettin’ on back to the hotel myself,” Michael said. “If Stacy’s leg looks as good tomorrow morning as it does right now, I intend to leave for home on the next stage.”

“Doctor Tao need go home, too,” the acupuncture master said.

“If you don’t mind keeping company with a man who’s maybe a little less of a duck-doctor, Ma’am, I would consider it an honor if you’d let me drop you off at your home on my way back to the hotel,” Michael Johns said, gallantly offering his arm.

“Doctor Tao also honored,” she said, taking Doctor John’s proffered arm.

“I’m glad those two have finally come to an understanding,” Ben said wearily, his eyes fixed for a moment on the retreating backs of Doctors Tao and Johns.

“Me, too,” Stacy said with heartfelt conviction. “For awhile then, I wasn’t sure which was worse . . . having a broken leg and all the complications that came with it or listening to the two of THEM going at it day and night.”

“I’m glad those two have come to an understanding, too,” Paul Martin said, returning to his examination room. “Based on what I’ve seen, and not JUST with Stacy, if more of my colleagues had an open mind about some of these ancient, time honored, and time proven disciplines, like acupuncture, modern medicine as we know it could move forward by leaps and bounds. Lily?”

“Yes, Paul?”

“This the box you wanted?”

“Yes, thank you,” Lily said, taking the box from her husband. “Stacy . . . . ”

“Yes, Mrs. Martin?”

“My nephew is a trapper out in the northwest Oregon Territory. He sent me these for my birthday two years ago, but . . . well, they’re not exactly to my taste,” Lily Martin said with a smile as she handed the box to Stacy. “I think YOU’LL appreciate the style a lot more and I think they’ll be far more practical now and when the cast first comes off than a regular pair of boots.”

Intrigued, Stacy lifted the lid of the box. Inside lay a pair of booted moccasins, made from softened leather with fringe and lacings. “They’re beautiful, Mrs. Martin.”

“ . . . and Mrs. Martin is right about them being more practical right now than a pair of regular boots,” Ben added.

“Wear them in good health, Stacy. They’re yours!”

“Thank you, Mrs. Martin . . . are you sure you want to give them away?”

“Absolutely,” Lily said firmly, with a smile and nod of her head for emphasis. “As I said before, they’re not exactly to my taste. Now then, Paul . . . . ”

“Yes, Lily?”

“If you’re through examining Stacy’s leg perhaps we could get her off that hard table . . . . ” her grimace brought a smile to the faces of her husband and the Cartwrights, “and move her back upstairs to the living room, where she’ll be more comfortable.”

“I’ve got you, Young Woman,” Ben said as he lifted her from the examination table into his arms.

“ . . . and I have the moccasin boots and the crutches,” Paul Martin said, as he fell in step behind his wife.

Ben paused for a moment, waiting until the doctor and his wife had left the room. “Stacy Rose Cartwright, I’m so proud of you I could burst.”

Stacy favored him with a quizzical look as she slipped her arms around his neck. “What for, Pa?”

“What for?!” Ben echoed, incredulous.

“Yeah! What for?”

“For your strength, and your courage first in helping your brothers fight that fire, and over the last few days facing up to the possibility of losing your leg, making the decision to bring in Doctor Tao,” Ben said hugging her closer, “not to mention, giving the Angel of Death a good, swift kick in the shins.”

“Pa, I have to tell you . . . I don’t think I could remember a time I was more scared to death,” Stacy confessed as Ben carried her from the doctor’s examination room toward the front stairs in the narrow entry way.

“You remember what I used to tell you back when you were having all those nightmares about your grandparents, your aunts, and your uncle?”

“Oh yeah . . . you told me that real courage is moving ahead when you ARE scared to death,” she said slowly, thoughtfully.

“Stacy, I’ve seen grown men, who have completely fallen apart when faced with far less than what YOU’VE had to face over the last few days.”

“Could be they don’t have what I have.”

“What’s that?”

“You, Hoss, Joe, Adam, and Hop Sing in their corner,” she said as her head dropped wearily down on her father’s shoulder. “Pa?”

“Yes, Stacy?”

“I hope Joe . . . where ever he is right now . . . I hope he knows we’re there for HIM, too.”

“He does, Stacy . . . I-I’m sure he d-does,” Ben said, his voice catching.



“Your daily rations, My Good Man!” Crippensworth announced sardonically as he threw the canteen, barely half full into Joe’s outstretched hands. “Milady is in something of a royal snit this afternoon . . . thanks to that ridiculous, botched escape attempt of yours this morning, so I’d advise you to be on your very best behavior.”

This morning, they had moved him from bedroom on the second floor to this tiny, cramped attic room. No longer tied down to a bed, he was able move about, a mercy for which he was profoundly grateful. His ankles and wrists, however were securely locked in iron manacles, each pair bound by a short length of chain. Lady Chadwick had not seen fit as yet to either return the clothing he wore when she and Crippensworth initially abducted him, or issue him new garments. His only covering remained the frayed bindings, loosely wrapped around his shoulder and rib cage.

Joe’s heart plummeted to his feet on hearing the unwelcome news concerning Lady Chadwick’s emotional state. “Mister Crippensworth . . . . ?”

“What?” Crippensworth demanded in a sullen tone.

“My pa’d pay anything to get me back, alive, whole, and in one piece,” Joe ventured in as steady voice as he could muster. “Anything at all. He is a . . . a very wealthy man.”

“Don’t think the thought hasn’t crossed my mind, Boy,” Crippensworth chucked mirthlessly, then sighed. “Milady, however, has her OWN plans.”

“What about YOUR plans, Mister Crippensworth?” Joe asked as he unscrewed the lid to the canteen in hand.

“My plans?”

“Yeah. YOUR plans.”

“If I’d had MY way I would have sent your father a ransom note the day her ladyship and I nabbed you and been done with it,” Crippensworth replied. “She and I could have lived very well, anywhere, on one hundred thousand dollars.”

Joe raised the canteen to his lips and took a few sips of the luke warm water contained within. “How well could YOU live on TWO hundred thousand dollars?”

Crippensworth turned and favored Joe with a sharp glare, then smiled. “Are you suggesting I collect a ransom and NOT share it with Milady Chadwick?”

“You and I’d get what WE want,” Joe said with a shrug. “You’d have plenty of money to go anywhere you want, I’d get to go back home. My family has to be pretty worried by this time.”

“What of Milady’s plans?”

“From where I sit, Lady Chadwick’s plans have so far included killing her own son, and killing Mister Montague before him. How do you know she doesn’t plan to dispose of YOU in some way?”

“I told you once before that if Milady Chadwick thinks for one minute she can do away with ME as easily as she did with her own son, and with Charles Montague, she’s in for a very rude surprise,” Crippensworth snapped. He, then, turned heel and strode briskly from Joe’s room.

Joe wearily sank down on his cot, then slowly, with trembling hands, raised the canteen once more to his lips for another sip. “Joseph Francis Cartwright, you’re playing a real dangerous game, and you know it!” he muttered very softly, under his breath. “If Lady Chadwick and Crippensworth ever stop and compare notes . . . . ” He shuddered.

Joe poured a little of the water into his cupped right hand and rubbed it on his forearms, trying to wash away some of the dried blood from the wounds inflicted recently by her ladyship, their scabs ripped open when he took that tumble down the steps during the course of his brief, unsuccessful bid for freedom. His attempt to clean himself up did little more than cover his forearms with a faint reddish tinge. He blotted his arms dry against the mattress on his cot, then held them up before his face in order to examine the wounds.

One large deep, jagged gash, located on the underside of his left forearm, concerned him. The scab had not been ripped away as had the same covering the other wounds. The surrounding skin had taken on a reddish tinge, and was slightly warm and tender to the touch. Joe gingerly picked off the scab, and watched with growing trepidation as blood, mixed with serum and white pus oozed from the wound. He poured a generous amount of water on the open, oozing wound, then drank up the last of remained.

Joe dropped the empty canteen down onto a cot, the only piece of furniture in the room, then walked over to the window. Positioned in the wall, slightly above his head, the frame was octagonal shaped, with two vertical and two horizontal slats. He could see the sky through the glass, and two thick jagged tree branches thrusting upward at a right to left angle. If only there were something . . . ANYTHING for him to stand on so that he might reach the window and see what lay outside . . . .

“Lovely view of the sky, I must say!”

Joe gasped and started violently. The sudden jerking of his body threw him off balance and sent him reeling into the wall.

This elicited a peal of harsh, grating laughter from Lady Chadwick standing framed in the open door. “Oh, Ben, darling, I must say . . . you’ve REALLY fallen for me this time . . . and hard.”

Joe turned and favored her with a bewildered frown. “B-Ben?!” he stammered.

“That’s YOUR name, isn’t it, Darling?” Linda chirped, as she flounced into the room, wearing a pale, mint green evening dress, a couple of sizes too small, in a style more appropriate for a woman much younger. It had a full ruffled skirt, tiny puffed sleeves, and a low scalloped neckline. “Ben . . . I’ve JUST seen the engravings . . . . ”

“Engravings?! Wh-What engravings?”

“Oh, silly, silly, Ben!” Linda laughed as she punched Joe playfully on his injured shoulder. “Silly, silly, silly Ben! The ENGRAVINGS, Darling . . . for our wedding invitations.”

Joe’s jaw dropped.

“I let you get away once, Darling,” she purred, sidling up next to him. “I shan’t let you get away AGAIN.”

Joe turned and gazed earnestly into her face, noting the glassy eyes and the vacuous stare with great trepidation.

“Oh, Darling, I promise you . . . you won’t regret this. You’ll never, EVER regret this . . . . ”

“N-Never . . . r-regret . . . WHAT?” Joe probed very gingerly.

“I’ll make you a good wife, Ben, I promise,” Linda declared, throwing her arms around his waist. “Oh my darling, my wonderful darling . . . I made the biggest mistake of my life when I let you get away from me twenty years ago . . . . ”

Linda hugged him close and rested her head against his chest for a moment. “Well,” she said finally. She lifted her head and gazed earnestly into his face. “I have a million things to do, Darling.” She kissed her index finger and gently placed it over top his lips. “I’ll see you later.”

Still smiling, Linda turned and flounced out of the room, skipping along as a woman much, much younger might. She paused at the door and turned, her smile still fixed in place, never wavering. “I’ll ask Hop Sing to fix you some supper before I leave, Darling,” she cooed. “In the meantime?”

“Y-Yes?”

“I think that portrait would look wonderful over your desk, don’t you?”

“Yeah . . . sure . . . I, uhhh . . . I guess . . . . ”

She blew him a kiss then stepped out the door, closing and locking it behind her.

End of Part 4

RETURN TO LIBRARY