Kathleen T. Berney
pkmoonshine03@yahoo.com

RATING: PG-13

SUMMARY: The Cartwrights have come to San Francisco to negotiate a contract and enjoy a relaxing family vacation together. All thoughts of relaxation fly right out the window when two family members and a friend go missing, and the police are infuriatingly indifferent. A WHN for “San Francisco” and “The Mountain Girl.”

This story is part of the Bloodlines Series, and includes the addition of several non-cannon characters. “San Francisco Revisited” takes place after the events in “Young Cartwrights In Love.”

All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are property of the author. The author is not in any way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise, and makes no money from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

San Francisco . . . Revisited

By Kathleen T. Berney

“Hey, Joe . . . race ya.”

“What?! On THAT ol’ nag? You’ve gotta be kidding!”

“I’ll have you know this ‘ol’ nag’ can run circles around that GOAT CHEESE of yours . . . . ”

“The name’s COCHISE, thank you very much,” Joe Cartwright retorted good naturedly, “and for YOUR information, Roscoe, there ain’t no horse in the whole territory faster ‘n this guy right here.”

“Hmpf! So YOU say . . . . ”

“You wanna put your money where your mouth is?”

“Depends on whatcha got in mind.”

“Ten bucks and the looser buys the winner all the beer he can drink for a month.”

“You’re ON, Joe!”

“See that tree? That big gnarled oak?”

“Yeah . . . . ”

“Ok. We go up to that tree, circle around it, then we run back down the road to that rock.” Joe pointed. “First man and horse who passes that rock is the winner.”

“Agreed.”

“On your mark . . . . ”

“ . . . get set . . . . ”

“GO!” Both of them shouted in unison.

Within less than a heartbeat, he was tearing down the road alongside Joe Cartwright, one of the rare few he considered friend. He heard again the thunder of hooves pounding the earth as their horses raced toward the tree up ahead, and felt the wind in his face. They rounded the tree with Joe and Cochise taking the lead. He nudged his horse to top speed, and smiled as the distance between them slowly, relentlessly closed . . . .

Roscoe Swanson awoke with a start to a world dark, cold, and clammy. His head pounded and throbbed with what had to be the royal mother of all headaches, and his stomach felt very heavy, as if he had swallowed a twenty pound lead weight whole. That, together with the cloying, musty odor of mildew in the air stirred within him an intense, almost overwhelming urge to vomit . . . something he desperately wanted to avoid.

“Strange that I should dream of the Ponderosa . . . . ” he mused silently, grasping at the fading remnants of dream in a desperate bid to focus his attention on something that would take his mind off his nausea and pounding headache, if only for a little while . . . .

His pa, James Robert Swanson, Jim Bob to his friends, met Ben Cartwright when he was about as far down on his luck as a man could get, with a wife, a young son, and a second child well on the way. The family had left their home in Kentucky and gone out to California in search of gold, staking nearly every cent they had on a couple of claims that had proven worthless. Upon realizing this, his parents sold what few possessions they had left in the hope of raising enough money to take them back to Kentucky. Their meager proceeds got them to Virginia City.

Barely.

Pa went right to work for Ben Cartwright, with every intention of earning enough money to take them the rest of the way to Kentucky. “There’s good honest work here ‘n plenty of it,” Jim Bob declared, a year later, after he’d saved up enough money to take the family back home. “Ben Cartwright’s not only a good man t’ work for, he’s also a good friend. I’m f’r stayin’ put right here.”

Stay put right there, they did. He was three years old, Joe Cartwright nearly four. They became fast friends. Their friendship deepened when his mother died bringing his sister into the world. For the next year, until her own untimely death when she was thrown from her horse, Joe’s mother, Marie, became as a second mother to him and his infant sister.

He grew up on the Ponderosa, and as a big strapping young man, went to work for Ben Cartwright himself at the age of seventeen. Five years later, he left the Ponderosa for San Francisco, after burying his father and sister on either side of his mother. Both had fallen ill during a particularly bad influenza epidemic the winter before, and died.

“Roscoe, I hope you’ll always remember that the Ponderosa is your home, too,” Ben had said in parting. “Anytime you want to come back, that house of your pa’s and a job will be right here waiting.” After three years of barely subsisting on the meager wages of odd jobs, whenever he could find one, he had begun to seriously consider returning to Nevada and taking Ben Cartwright up on his promise . . . .

The sound of footsteps and voices drew Roscoe Swanson from his reverie. He listened intently, straining to catch the words, but heard only string after string of syllables, vowels and consonants strung together, making no sense. The speakers might just as well have been talking in a foreign language.

Roscoe rolled over onto his back. The dizzying, circling motion triggered his gag reflexes, and before he knew it, he was on his hands and knees, vomiting up the enormous supper he had so greedily consumed the night before. After his stomach was emptied, he remained caught in the throes of a violent, painful spasm of dry heaving that he thought would never end.

He was still retching, when a door opened, and two people entered. A man and a woman. The latter carried a lantern.

“Here y’ are, Sir.” Roscoe immediately recognized the voice as belonging to one Miss Kathleen Murphy , the woman who had promised him a job . . . a STEADY job, that paid very well. “You’ll find he’s everything I said he was, an’ then some.”

Her companion, a tall man, thin, yet muscular, knelt down beside him. Though his face remained obscured by deep shadow, there was something oddly familiar about him in the way he moved, and in the outlines of his body against the light of Miss Murphy’s lantern. Roscoe could feel the man’s eyes on him, watching intently, as his paroxysm of dry heaving finally began to subside.

“Miss Murphy, you told me this man was HEALTHY,” he addressed his companion with cool disdain.

“He IS healthy,” she declared, thoroughly outraged.

“The hell he is. This man’s sick as a dog.”

“He most certainly is NOT! He’s just sufferin’ the after effects of too much drink.”

The man touched Roscoe’s forehead with the back of his hand. “Hmmm! No fever,” he murmured softly. “Bring that lantern over here.”

Kathleen Murphy complied.

By the light of that dimly lit, flickering lantern, the man checked Roscoe’s eyes one at a time, then yanked open his mouth to check his teeth. “The eyes are a little blood shot, but the inside of his mouth looks all right.” The man cupped Roscoe’s head in both hands, and stared long and hard into his face for what seemed an eternity. Roscoe heard a sharp, though very soft, intake of breath. “Well, I’ll be damned,” the man whispered, as his fingers began to inch along the side of his face toward the back of his head.

“So tell me,” Kathleen queried in a wry tone. “Are you going to BUY m’ merchandise . . . or massage it?”

Roscoe frowned. Merchandise? Was Miss Murphy referring to him?! He had heard stories of men, women, even children disappearing from the streets of big cities without a trace, and turning up weeks, months, sometimes years later working as slave labor on a sugar cane plantation in the Caribbean or some other remote, exotic place. Roscoe had always laughed those stories off as scary tall tales of the big, bad city, told for the purpose of keeping the wayward, wandering boy down on the farm.

Could any of those stories possibly be true?

He shuddered at the prospect of such a thing actually happening to him.

A sardonic chuckle escaped from the man’s lips. Roscoe had heard that laugh before . . . .

But where?

He racked his brains, trying desperately to remember. Meanwhile, the man’s fingers worked their way around to the back of his head, touching a place very sore and tender. Roscoe cried out, unable to stop himself.

“That’s quite a lump back there,” the man noted coolly.

“We had to subdue him,” Kathleen said defensively.

“I can’t use him if he has a concussion.” The man spoke to her in the same condescending tone an adult might use in trying to explain something to a child, extraordinarily stupid. “What ELSE did you have to do to subdue him?”

“Ok, we had to resort to a few fisticuffs,” she admitted reluctantly. “But, nothing out of the ordinary.”

The man squeezed the muscles of Roscoe’s upper arms. “Hmmm . . . good, hard muscles . . . .” he muttered very softly. “Alright, Miss Murphy . . . how much?”

“He’s worth two hundred if he’s worth a penny,” Kathleen replied.

“Two hundred?! For sick, damaged goods??!”

Kathleen Murphy angrily stamped her foot. “I told ya before, he’s NOT sick. He’s perfectly healthy,” she returned, hotly, on the defensive, “and he ain’t damaged goods!”

“Right! He’s so healthy, he STILL hasn’t stopped retching.”

“H-He . . . he’s not vomiting UP anything . . . . ”

“He would be if he had anything left in his stomach,” the man argued, his words terse, his syllables clipped. “As for damaged goods, this goose egg on the back of his head was hardly the result of a love tap. What would I find if I examined him more closely? Fractured ribs? A sprained ankle, or worse . . . a broken leg? Exactly how much in the way of fisticuffs did your minions have to use to subdue this man?”

Her answer was stony silence.

“As things stand now, I’m going to have to feed and shelter this man for a day, maybe even two, so that he might recover from the results of your incompetents having to subdue him,” the man continued. “That’s expensive. If this man should need a doctor, that gets even MORE expensive, especially if I end up having to buy the sawbones’ silence. I’ll give you seventy-five dollars, for this man, not one cent more!”

“Fine. I’ll take me business elsewhere,” Kathleen said contemptuously. “Hell, I could get a better deal with the likes of Cut-Rate Joe . . . Bargain Basement Bertie, or . . . or Down ‘n Dirty Davy Jones!”

This elicited a peal of mirthless laughter from the man. “NOT after I let it be known that you deliver inferior merchandise. Cut-Rate Joe . . . Bargain Basement Bertie . . . and Down ‘n Dirty Davy Jones may peddle the very bottom of the barrel, but even THEY have their standards.”

“Oh all right, I . . . I s’pose y’ ARE entitled to a discount, seein’ as how I had t’ get him drunk, then hit him over the head to subdue him,” Kathleen reluctantly allowed. “I’ll letcha have him for a hundred ‘n fifty.”

“Ninety dollars.”

“Is that your offer? . . . or is that a joke?”

“That’s my offer.”

“That’s a joke. It’s cost me MORE ‘n ninety bucks just t’ feed him.”

“I seriously doubt THAT, since I can feel just about every rib in the man’s body, but DO I appreciate the fact that you’ve got overhead. One hundred dollars.”

. . . that man’s voice, the way he moved . . . the general outlines of his form, what little he could see by the light of the lantern . . . Roscoe knew him, or at the very least, had met him somewhere. He was absolutely sure of it!

But where?

Not here in San Francisco, he was sure of that much. Nevada, maybe? Virginia City? Had he perhaps played poker with this man at the Silver Dollar or the Bucket of Blood on a Saturday night long past? Roscoe closed his eyes and focused all his attention on the man’s voice, trying to summon a face to go with it, or a picture of the place and circumstance where they had met before.

“You can have him for a hundred and thirty dollars,” Kathleen Murphy said stiffly. “I’ll barely break even, but— ”

“You’ll barely break even my ass! You’d have made a very generous profit if you had accepted my original offer of seventy-five dollars.”

“I’ll have you know that I’m running a BUSINESS, Sir, NOT a charity outfit.”

“I’m a man of business myself, Miss Murphy, who can well understand a REASONABLE mark-up for a REASONABLE profit,” the man said in a lofty, imperious tone. “But, I have no use for businessmen . . . or business WOMEN, who are greedy.”

“An anonymous tip to your buddies on the police force could put YOU right out of business for good, Mister Cartwright.”

Cartwright?! Roscoe Swanson felt the blood drain right out of his face. Cartwright? Was it possible that he . . . . ?

“If my friends and colleagues on the police force DO find out about my second job, as it were, whether the tip be anonymous or otherwise, rest assured Miss Murphy, that I WILL name names . . . starting with YOURS,” the man countered her threat in a smooth, bland, even bored tone of voice. “My final offer stands at one hundred dollars. That amount is overly generous and you damn’ well know it.”

“Alright, you cheap skate, I’ll take your stinkin’ one hundred dollars. But this is the very last time Kathleen Murphy deals with the likes o’ YOU.”

“I seriously doubt THAT, Miss Murphy,” the man chuckled, as he reached into his back packet. He drew out a wad of paper bills and pressed them into her open hand. “Especially since I’m one of the few that pays in cash right up front.”

“Where do ya want him delivered?” she demanded in a stone cold voice.

“Oh NO! If I left delivery up to YOU . . . you’d sell him AGAIN to the likes of Cut-Rate Joe, or worse . . . Down ‘n Dirty Davy Jones, then turn right around and slap me with a hefty handling fee, you back stabbing bitch.”

Kathleen gasped, shocked and outraged. “How DARE you address me in such a manner . . . and usin’ such language! You, Sir, are NO gentleman.”

At this, the man laughed out loud. “Don’t you go getting up on your high horse about language with me, Miss Murphy. I’ve heard YOU use words colorful enough to blister the hide off a walrus,” he said, as his laughter subsided. “I’m taking this man with me and delivering him personally.”

The next thing Roscoe knew, he was being dragged unceremoniously to his feet.

“I won’t say it’s a pleasure doin’ business with ya— ”

“ . . . probably because I insist on doing business as opposed to letting you rob me blind,” the man said. “Now that our business transaction is complete, you’ll pick up that lantern and lead the way out of this rabbit warren of a warehouse. You’ll walk at a slow even pace, with eyes right in front of you, your mouth shut. If you make one false move, or utter a sound, remember . . . I’m armed and can kill YOU with a well placed shot in the back long before your associates would be able to reach me.”

Kathleen bent down at the waist to retrieve the still burning oil lamp. As she straightened, its light fell in the man’s face, dispelling the mask of deep shadow.

Roscoe Swanson gasped, upon seeing his suspicions confirmed. Though the lines of his face were deeper, and more abundant, and he was grayer around the edges, he would still recognize that man. It was Ben Cartwright’s no good nephew, Will. The last time Roscoe saw him, he was headed out of town in a buggy, sandwiched between the Dayton woman and her little girl. Mrs. Dayton was all set to marry ADAM . . . until WILL started trifling with her affections.

“Mister Cartwright, don’t you trust me?” Kathleen demanded, as her lips curled upward to form a tight, brittle smile.

“Of COURSE I trust you, Miss Murphy . . . about as far as I can throw you. Now let’s go,” Will Cartwright said. “As for YOU, Mister Swanson, it looks like you’ve finally found a good, steady job after all.”

Part 1

“Joseph Francis Cartwright . . . THAT was one tough round of negotiating,” Ben Cartwright declared with a proud smile, as he, Joe, and his eldest, Adam, entered the posh lobby of the Grand Victoria Hotel, located in the midst of that section of the city, where San Francisco’s moneyed elite made their homes.

“Negotiating?!” Adam hooted. “Pa, you call that negotiating?”

“Fine. Call it down in the mud haggling if you want,” Ben said with a chuckle.

“Actually the term I had in mind was highway robbery,” Adam quipped without missing a beat.

“Joe . . . you did good, Son! Real good!” Ben declared with a broad grin, his dark brown eyes shining with unabashed fatherly pride. “You’ve secured a sweet three year shipping contract with Jarboe and Baylor Associates, no less . . . for so far under what we’d figured, it’s almost embarrassing. I’m proud of ya, Boy! REAL proud!”

“Thanks, Pa,” Joe said with an almost uncharacteristic modest smile, his forehead and cheeks several shades pinker than the norm. “But, to give credit where it’s due, I had a real good teacher.” He punctuated his words with a pointed glance over in the general direction of his oldest brother.

“Me?!” Adam queried, taken slightly aback.

“Yeah, Oldest Brother of Mine . . . YOU.”

A puzzled frown deepened the shallow, yet very present lines stretching across Adam’s brow. “When did I ever teach you about . . . haggling?!”

“The highway robbery was more accurate, actually,” Joe said with a bold grin. “You remember the time when you and Hoss entered that thoroughbred in the Virginia City Day Race?”

“Most of the time, I try my best to FORGET that little episode,” Adam said, with a wry roll of his eyes. He, then, smiled. “But, Pa’s right! You WERE terrific in there. I’M very proud of you, too.”

“Uh oh, better start doling out that praise sparingly, Adam,” Ben said with an impish grin. “We heap too much more on your young brother’s head, he’s going to have to start buying hats three sizes larger.”

“ONLY three sizes larger?” Adam quipped without missing a beat.

“Y’ know, Pa . . . seeing as how I’m gonna have to buy some new hats . . . AND in light of that brilliantly negotiated contract, if I do say so myself . . . you think you could see your way clear to giving me a raise?” Joe queried. “A nice BIG raise?!”

“We’ll discuss THAT when we get home, Young Man,” Ben said. Though his tone was very stern, his dark brown eyes sparkled with delight.

“Excuse me, Gentlemen . . . . ”

A tall, wire thin man, aged in his mid to late thirties, stepped in front of them, effectively barring their path. He had light brown hair, cropped short and thinning on top, light brown eyes, and a neatly trimmed goatee. His clothing, a brown suit, white shirt, and black tie, was sturdy and clean, though not what most would deem fashionable. He held a bowler hat, brown with a black ribbon circling above the rim, in his left hand.

“ . . . I’m looking for a Mister Benjamin Cartwright?”

“I’M Benjamin Cartwright,” the big, silver haired man said quietly. “What can I do for ya, Mister . . . . ?!”

“Sergeant, Sir,” the man said. “Sergeant Harold Stiller, San Francisco Police Department. We have a young man in custody . . . a Mister Roscoe Swanson. You know him?”

“Yes,” Ben answered quietly, while his oldest and youngest sons exchanged surprised glances.

“He was found last night by one of our patrolmen not far from here actually, wandering around drunk, talking clear out of his head,” Harold explained. “We booked him on a drunk and disorderly, and took him in to sleep it off. When he was searched, a note was found in his pocket instructing us to contact you here . . . at the Grand Victoria.”

“Sergeant Stiller . . . . ”

“Yes, Mister Cartwright?”

Ben’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Would you mind showing me some identification?”

“Certainly,” the police sergeant immediately agreed. He removed his badge from the inside pocket of his jacket, and presented it to Ben. “I also have additional identification in my wallet.”

Ben made mental note of the badge number, then glanced at the identification card that came from the wallet. All seemed in order. “Where is Mister Swanson being detained?” he asked as he handed back the badge and the identification card.

“He’s at the precinct twelve headquarters,” Harold said. “It’s not far. You may accompany me back right now, or make arrangements with the concierge at the hotel.”

“Thank you,” Ben said. “I’ll make our arrangements with the concierge. I would appreciate it if you would tell your superiors that I will be there to pick up Mister Swanson within the hour.”

“I will see that they’re informed, Mister Cartwright.” Harold Stiller placed his bowler on top of his head, then nodded politely, and touched the rim. “Good day.”

“Pa . . . why didn’t we just go with him?” Joe asked, with a puzzled frown.

“Because I don’t know this Sergeant Stiller,” Ben replied. “He MAY be a bonafide police man, on the other hand . . . . ” He let his voice trail ominously. “There’s no such thing as being too careful.”

Joe smiled. “ . . . uuuhh, Pa?” he queried, as his hand came to rest lightly on Ben’s shoulder.

“Yes?” Ben responded warily, noting the impish gleam in his youngest son’s eyes.

“WHO was the one who ended up shanghaied the last time we took our vacation here?” Joe’s mischievous grin settled into a smug, cat-that-ate-the canary kind, and his right eyebrow arched slightly.

“As I said, Young Man, you can’t be too careful,” Ben growled, the thunderous scowl on his face warning of very dire consequences should Joe choose to continue along that line of conversation.

“Pa, do you want US to come with you?” Adam asked, looking over at his youngest brother, then back to his father with a bewildered frown.

“I think I’d better take Joe along,” Ben said thoughtfully. “He and Roscoe were very good friends . . . once.”

“Sure, Pa,” Joe said with a curt nod.

“In the meantime, Adam . . . . ”

“Yes, Pa?”

“Would you arrange for Joe and me to rent a buggy from the hotel livery?” Ben asked, then smiled. “Do that, and I’ll letcha spend the rest of the day with Teresa,” he added with a wink and a playful jab to his eldest son’s rib cage.

“Thanks, Pa,” Adam said with a broad grin. With the kids, Benjy and Dio, spending the entire day with their maternal grandparents . . . .

Incredibly, his grin grew even wider. There was a definite sparkle in his eyes, and a spring in his step, as he marched over to the concierge’s desk.

Joe chuckled softly, as he watched Adam’s retreating back. “Well, well, well,” he murmured softly. “Who’d’ve EVER thought ol’ granite head . . . and before noon even!” A sudden squawk of protest and outrage punctuated his words, courtesy of a sharp elbow jab from his father. “Hey! What was THAT for?!”

“That was a reminder that even though Adam IS your oldest brother, he’s entitled to his privacy, Young Man,” Ben said severely.

“Yes, Sir,” Joe said, trying his level best to wipe the smile off his face. His success in that endeavor was, at best, questionable.

Ben glared at his youngest son for a moment, then sighed. “We’d best get to our rooms and change out of our Sunday best . . . and no dawdling! Knowing Adam, he’s going to have that horse and buggy waiting for us out by the front door within the next five minutes.”

Joe was about to add that the prospect of spending some real good quality time with Teresa for the remainder of the afternoon might be powerful motivation for Adam to have their transportation outside the front door, ready to go in TWO minutes, but found the dark, thunderous scowl on his father’s face an even more powerful inducement to leave those words unuttered.

“Roscoe?!”

He heard someone speaking his name, from a place far distant, far removed and away from the darkness that seemed to have swallowed him up whole.

“Roscoe. Hey, Buddy, you alright?”

As the darkness slowly cleared, Joe Cartwright’s face, pale, his eyes round with alarm, swam into view. He was lying on his back, in the grass a few feet from the edge of the dirt road between Virginia City and the Ponderosa.

“That was quite a tumble you took, Roscoe . . . . ”

Tumble? Then he remembered. He and Joe were racing down the road neck ‘n neck toward their agreed upon finish line, laughing . . . taunting one another . . . .

Then, suddenly, he was flying over the head of his horse. He remembered the road, the grass, the sky, mountains, and sunshine all spinning crazily about him, and the blow to his stomach, hard enough to drive every last bit of breath from his lungs. After that, nothing. Crazy horse must have stepped into a chuck hole.

“Roscoe . . . . ”

He tried to respond, tried very hard to say his good buddy’s name. All that seemed to issue forth from his lips was a soft, feeble groan.

“Glad to have you back with me, Roscoe,” Joe said, deeply relieved. “You lie still and take it easy. Help’s on its way.”

“Help?!”

“Yeah. Your pa went to fetch his buckboard . . . . ”

“Pa? M-MY pa?! That can’t be, that CAN’T be!” His pa was dead . . . . three years ago now, going on four. He and Molly both died in that terrible influenza epidemic. With that grim realization, the mountains, the sky, the sunshine were all gone.

Lost.

Swallowed up in the darkness.

“Roscoe?!”

“Joe?”

“I’m right here, Buddy.”

How could THAT be? Joe couldn’t possibly be here . . . wherever here was. He was home, on the Ponderosa . . . wasn’t he?

Roscoe Swanson opened his eyes to a world of searing, brilliant yellow-white light. He screamed in agony, then squeezed his eyes tight shut. His breath came in ragged uneven gasps, and his stomach lurched violently.

“Joe?”

The youngest of the Cartwright sons turned, and found his father standing outside the jail cell, in which Roscoe Swanson had been incarcerated, in the company of a uniformed policeman.

“How is he?”

“Poor guy,” Joe murmured, not without sympathy. “Right now he looks like I felt when I was about sixteen years old, suffering the worst hangover I ever had.”

“Will he be able to walk out to the buggy?”

“Not without help, Pa. He’s in a pretty bad way right now.”

“Mister Cartwright?” the uniformed policeman, who had escorted them back to Roscoe Swanson’s cell, spoke up for the first time. “If you’d like to bring your buggy up to the front door, I can help your son take Mister Swanson out.”

“Thank you.” Ben took the policeman up on his unexpected, generous offer. “Joe, I’ll be waiting for you and Roscoe out front.”

“We’ll be there soon as we can,” Joe replied, then turned his attention back to the young man, lying stretched out on the cot within the jail cell, barely conscious. “Roscoe . . . . ” He lightly slapped Roscoe’s cheeks several times. “Roscoe, we’re leaving— ”

“No. W-Will . . . ge’ seasick,” Roscoe murmured in a voice barely audible, without opening his eyes this time.

“Come on, let’s get him out of here,” the police officer said very quickly, as he leaned down to take Roscoe’s right arm.

Together Joe and the policeman carefully pulled Roscoe to his feet.

“No . . . don’ wanna be uh sailor,” Roscoe moaned, as Joe slipped his limp left arm over his shoulders and around his neck. “Rollin’ decks . . . sea sick . . . . ”

“What’s all this talk about sailors and seasickness?” Joe asked, as the policeman draped Roscoe’s right arm over his own shoulder.

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” the policeman replied with a touch of disdain, as they half carried, half dragged Roscoe from his jail cell. Though he stared the youngest Cartwright son straight in the face, his eyes fell very short of meeting Joe’s.

“Is it possible that . . . maybe . . . someone tried to shanghai him?” Joe asked, remembering how his father and two of their ranch hands almost ended up sailors the last time the family had vacationed in San Francisco.

“We don’t have problems with that anymore,” the policeman said complacent disdain, “and even if we DID . . . well, it’d be mighty odd for a fella who’d been shanghaied to turn up in a ritzy neighborhood miles from the wharfs and the sea . . . don’t YOU think?!”

“I suppose.” Inwardly, Joe bristled against the smug contempt he heard in the policeman’s tone of voice.

“Mister Cartwright?”

“Yes, Hop Sing?”

“Finally! Roscoe eyes move, start to wake up.”

“Thank goodness.”

“Pa? Hop Sing?!”

“Yes, Joe?”

“One of the maids just brought up a pot of hot, boiling water. What do you want me to do with it?”

“Hop Sing take, Little Joe . . . . ”

Roscoe slowly, warily opened his eyes, one at a time. He found himself lying in a dimly lit room on a soft, comfortable bed, with two down pillows gently cradling his head.

“Hey, Buddy . . . welcome back to the land of the living.”

He turned his head slightly to his right, and found Joe Cartwright seated on the edge of the bed, smiling down at him. He frowned. What was Joe Cartwright doing HERE?! . . . wherever HERE was. Could it be that he yet remained asleep . . . and STILL dreamed?

That seemed the only plausible explanation . . . except for one thing.

The Joe Cartwright seated on the edge of his bed smiling down at him was no longer the sixteen-year-old boy, who had, of late, come to take up residence in his dreams. Though he had the same boyish smile as his teenaged counterpart, THIS Joe Cartwright was a grown man.

“Roscoe . . . . ”

He turned, this time to his left, and found Mister Cartwright, seated on the other side of the bed.

“You’re going to be all right,” Mister Cartwright continued, with a warm, encouraging smile. “The doc here at the hotel gave you a real good going over and said with plenty of rest and three good, solid, square meals everyday, you’re going to be just fine.”

Doc?

Hotel?!

“M-Mister C-Cartwright?”

“Yes, Roscoe?”

“Are y’ really here?” he asked in a voice, barely audible, that seemed far distant. “I ain’t still dreamin’?!”

“No, Buddy, you’re NOT dreaming,” Joe said. “You’re in MY room at the Grand Victoria Hotel.”

“ . . . in San Francisco?”

“Yep.” Joe nodded. “In San Francisco.”

Roscoe’s last real clear memory was going to The Sea Queen Saloon to meet with a woman by the name of Kathleen Murphy about a job. A lucrative job, that supposedly promised steady work and a great big paycheck. It was real music to the ears of a man who had spent the last three years, barely subsisting. He took a small, round table in the back, as he had been instructed . . . .

“Good day, Sir. Can I get you anything? Whiskey? Bourbon? . . . ah! I know! Gin! I can spot a gin man a mile away.”

“Kinda early in the day for the hard stuff, Miss . . . . ?!”

She gave her name as Starbryte, with a ‘y.’ That beautiful, long, wavy hair, shining like spun gold in the waning light of late afternoon, those bright blue green eyes, the small up turned pixie nose, and that impish smile reminded him of his sister. Starbryte also appeared to be around the same age Molly would have been . . . had she lived.

“Pleased to meet ya, Starbryte. My name is Roscoe.” He politely held out his hand.

“Roscoe,” Starbryte said softly. She took his hand and shook it. “Alright, Roscoe, seeing as how it’s still early yet . . . can I get you a beer?”

“Yes.”

She sauntered off, with a smile and teasing swing of the hip, returning barely a moment later with a generous sized mug brim full to overflowing. Roscoe saluted her with mug upraised, then took a pretty fair sized swig. That was his very last coherent memory, until he saw the stone cold face of Will Cartwright by the sputtering light of an oil lantern in what amounted to a dark and musty pirates’ lair . . . a veritable den of thieves.

“ . . . wha’ happent?!” he heard himself ask, again sounding far off.

“We’ll . . . talk about that later, Roscoe,” Mister Cartwright said, his smile fading.

“ . . . was thinkin’ o’ comin’ back,” Roscoe murmured softly. “When I left, y’ said m’ pa’s cabin’d still be there . . . ‘n a job, too . . . iff’n I wan’ it.”

“Yes, I DID say that,” Mister Cartwright affirmed, “and I meant it . . . every last word. We’ll talk about that later, too. Right now you need to get some rest. Hop Sing’s brewing up an herbal tea for ya. It’ll settle your stomach and help you sleep.”

“Hop Sing have Roscoe tea ready,” the Cartwright family’s chief cook and bottle washer announced as he stepped into view with a steaming mug firmly in hand.

Ben and Joe slipped their arms under Roscoe’s shoulders and eased him up just enough so that he might drink his tea. Roscoe took the mug from Hop Sing, held it up to his nose, and gingerly sniffed.

“Drink up, drink up,” Hop Sing tersely admonished the young man. “Work best when Roscoe drink up hot.”

Roscoe obediently lifted the mug to his lips and took a tentative sip. “Not half bad,” he murmured softly.

“No talk,” Hop Sing sternly admonished him again. “Drink.”

Roscoe drank down the contents of the mug, then braced himself, fully expecting it to come right back up. Instead, much to his pleasant surprise, it remained in his stomach, warming him as a cup of steaming hot chocolate warms on a cold winter’s day. He felt his eyelids growing heavier and heavier . . . along with his heart.

How in the ever lovin’ world was he going to tell a man he genuinely loved and respected, not only as employer and friend, but as a second father . . . that his nephew made his living these days shanghaiing unsuspecting young men, and selling them into forced servitude as sailors to the highest bidder?

“Roscoe sleep all night,” Hop Sing said with confidence as he, Ben, and Joe quietly moved out of Joe’s room into the corridor beyond. “All night to tomorrow morning.”

“Very good, Hop Sing,” Ben said. “A good night’s sleep is what he needs the most right now.”

“He . . . doesn’t look like he’s fared very well in the three years since he left us,” Joe said quietly.

“No, he doesn’t,” Ben agreed.

“What do you think happened to him, Pa? From the looks of him, I’d say someone gave him a real thorough going over.”

“I agree with ya, Son, one hundred percent,” Ben said grimly. “As for the whys and wherefores, only Roscoe can tell us . . . IF he’s of a mind.” He punctuated those last words with a pointed glare.

“Yes, Pa . . . I hear ya loud and clear,” Joe replied. “Have the police here charged him with anything?”

Ben shook his head. “I was told that he was brought in drunk and disorderly. The usual procedure is to jail the individual . . . let him sleep it off, then release him twenty-four hours later.”

“Roscoe?! Drunk and disorderly?” Joe queried with a puzzled frown. “I . . . no!” He shook his head. “I can’t see it, Pa. Roscoe used to have a beer occasionally at the Silver Dollar, but he was never what you’d call a drinking man. I can’t even remember seeing him mildly tipsy, let alone falling down drunk.”

“A lot can happen to change a man’s drinking habits in three years, Son,” Ben said, with a touch of sadness, and with all the concern he would have felt for his own four children. “ . . . and, as you said yourself, it doesn’t look as though the last three years have been particularly kind.”

“Mister Cartwright . . . Little Joe . . . . ?”

“Yes, Hop Sing?” Ben asked.

“Roscoe come here from jail, wear black clothes, like sailor wear,” Hop Sing said with an angry scowl. “Have big lump on back of head. Black eye, cuts, bruises . . . Roscoe look like Little Joe, when Little Joe get in fight. Hop Sing think maybe Roscoe almost shanghai.”

“The police officer who helped me bring Roscoe out to the buggy said he was found wandering around some well to do neighborhood . . . several miles inland from the sea and the wharves,” Joe said with a puzzled frown. “He also told me that shanghaiing sailors doesn’t happen very much anymore.”

“Not what Hop Sing cousins say,” Hop Sing countered, with an emphatic nod of his head.

“Well, I, for one, am more inclined to believe Hop Sing’s cousins over the police,” Ben said, remembering how indifferent the police department had been years ago, when he tried to report two of his hands missing. “As for the question of what happened to Roscoe, we’ll have to wait until HE’S able to tell us.”

Joe nodded. “In the meantime, I’ll stay with him.”

“What about that supper invitation with Mister Harker and the Magruders?” Ben asked.

“Would you mind taking them my regrets?” Joe asked. “I . . . know he’s going to sleep through until morning, thanks to Hop Sing’s tea, but . . . well, I just don’t feel right about leaving him alone.”

“You go, Little Joe,” Hop Sing said. “Hop Sing stay here. Look after Roscoe.”

“Trudy will be very disappointed if you DON’T come, Son,” Ben said. “After all, she credits YOU a great deal for her for having established a good, loving relationship with her paternal grandfather in the first place.”

“You go, Little Joe,” Hop Sing urged. “Hop Sing keep real sharp eye on Roscoe.”

“Alright, Hop Sing, I’ll go,” Joe relented, knowing that his old friend, Roscoe Swanson, would be in the very best hands possible . . . .

“Mother?”

Trudy Harker Magruder gazed lovingly into the earnest face of her eldest, Paul Magruder, Junior . . . nicknamed PJ. With his thick, jet-black hair, those dark eyes, and swarthy complexion, he, of all the children bore the closest resemblance to their father. He was a very intelligent young man . . . another trait gleaned from his father, a pleasant surprise that had made itself known and keenly felt since Grandpa Harker had begun teaching Paul Senior the ropes involved in running his business empire.

That her husband possessed a high degree of intelligence came as a pleasant surprise to everyone, except Trudy. She had caught glimpses of it over the years in the way he approached things, how quickly he learned new things, and once learned, how easily he retained newly acquired knowledge. All he had needed was a worthy challenge, which her grandfather’s business more than generously had supplied.

“Muuu-ther . . . . ”

Trudy shook her head to clear it of all her gentle musings. “Yes, PJ?”

“Would it be alright if Benjy and I went upstairs to my room to look at Jupiter through my telescope?”

“Go ahead,” Trudy readily assented. “I’ll send Phoebe up to tell you when supper’s ready.”

“Thank you, Mother.” On impulse, PJ threw his arms around his mother’s waist and squeezed affectionately, before he and Adam’s son, Benjy, fled to the upper environs, racing each other up the stairs, laughing uproariously.

“It’s easy to see why THEY’VE become fast friends.”

Trudy turned and found Joe Cartwright stepping up behind her, dragging along a young woman with long, dark, wavy hair and just about the brightest blue eyes she had ever seen.

“Trudy, this is my sister, Stacy,” Joe continued with a broad grin. “Stacy, this is Trudy Magruder, an old friend of the family.”

“Not so old as all that, Joe Cartwright,” Trudy quipped, before turning and holding her hand out to Stacy. “I’m real pleased to meet YOU, Stacy. In fact, I kinda feel like I half way know you already, after reading all about ya in your pa’s and in Joe’s letters.”

“ . . . uh oh . . . . ” Stacy murmured, as she turned to her brother, her eyes narrowing with suspicion.

Joe smiled. It was a complacent, secretive, Mona Lisa variety, with eyes half closed.

“From your pa, it’s all good,” Trudy hastened to assure, “and from Joe . . . it’s been very interesting, to say the least. You’re gonna have to tell me all about this business of . . . . ” She frowned. “What did you call it, Joe? I’m afraid it’s slipped my mind. I know it’s something Chinese . . . . ”

“The Lo Mein Affair, perhaps?”

Stacy sighed and rolled her eyes. “He keeps trying to pin blame for that on ME, Trudy, but I was no where NEAR the place when the whole thing blew up in our faces.”

“I can produce a dozen witnesses who say otherwise,” Joe said.

“All bought ‘n paid for?”

Joe exhaled an overly melodramatic sigh, accompanied by a wry roll of the eyes heavenward. “Anyone ever tell ya that you’ve got a very suspicious mind?” he demanded with mock severity. His eyes sparkled with mischief, a fact not lost on Stacy or Trudy.

“Only YOU,” Stacy returned, “and speaking of suspicion and usual suspects, I’ll have YOU know, Grandpa, that Hop Sing has intimated on any number of occasions that YOU may’ve been the one responsible for setting things off.”

“He can intimate until the cows come home if he’s of a mind,” Joe retorted loftily. “He STILL doesn’t have a single solitary shred of proof to back up any those allegations.”

“This keeps sounding more ‘n more interesting all the time,” Trudy said, looking from one to the other. “I want to hear all about it.”

“It’s a long story,” Stacy warned.

“A VERY long story,” Joe added. “Very long and convoluted.”

“That’s quite alright,” Trudy replied. “Supper won’t be ready for another half an hour or so . . . the kids seem to be entertaining themselves . . . your pa ‘n my grandpa are out on the patio talkin’ . . . and Paul’s in with your older brothers, and your sister-in-law . . . so, I’D say we got plenty of time.”

“Hmmm! Where to start,” Joe wondered aloud.

“The beginning might be a good place,” Trudy offered with a touch of wryness.

“You want to start at the beginning . . . we’ll start right at the very beginning,” Joe said. “It all started, I s’pose with a visit from Hop Sing’s relatives.”

“Yeah. His sister, Mei Ling, and HER family,” Stacy added . . . .

“You have a wonderful family, Ben,” Frank Harker said as he and his guest stepped out onto the verandah for a breath of fresh air. “It’s grown quite a bit since our last meeting.”

“So has YOURS, Frank.”

Frank smiled. “Trudy and Paul married not long after our first meeting, in a lovely little church, a few miles from their farm. I was actually given the honor of escorting her down the aisle and giving her away.”

Ben smiled back. “Somehow THAT doesn’t surprise me.”

Frank’s smile wavered. “I must confess . . . I was absolutely astounded when she asked me, especially after the way I . . . well, the way I treated her parents . . . especially her mother . . . something I’ll always regret to my dying day.”

“During her brief stay with us, I found Trudy to be a very loving, very forgiving young woman.”

Frank nodded. “Yes . . . she IS all that,” he agreed. “The other thing that astounds me is . . . Stephanie’s assertions to the contrary be damned . . . . ” Mention of his other granddaughter brought a scowl to his face, “ . . . Trudy genuinely cares about me. Me, Ben . . . ME! Not my money! It’s . . . I can’t begin to tell you how wonderful that feels.”

“I’m glad things have worked out so well between you and Trudy,” Ben said with a smile. “It’s not every man who gets the privilege of doting on his GREAT grandchildren.”

“Believe me, in that . . . I know I’ve been undeservedly blessed.”

“How many children do Trudy and Paul have now?”

“Four,” Frank replied, his smile broadening. “Paul Henry Magruder, Junior is the oldest. They call him PJ. He’s eleven years old.”

“Same age as MY grandson, Benjy.”

“The two of ‘em seem to have really hit it off, haven’t they?”

Ben nodded. “I’m very happy to see it,” he said quietly. “Benjy’s always been a quiet, shy boy, who doesn’t easily make friends.”

“PJ’s just the opposite,” Frank said. “Thinks nothing of going up to perfect strangers and striking up conversations.”

“You know what they say about opposites attracting,” Ben said.

“I do, indeed,” Frank agreed.

“ . . . and given that they’re both bright as a pair of shiny new pennies . . . . ”

“If memory serves young Benjy takes after his father in that regard, does he not?”

“He does indeed,” Ben replied with a proud smile, “and his mother as well. She was a teacher when she and Adam first met.”

“Oh? English . . . or the arts, perhaps?”

“Mathematics, Frank. Algebra and geometry.” Ben smiled. “I do well enough with simple, everyday arithmetic . . . adding, subtracting, multiplying, and dividing . . . but, I’m the first to admit that the theoretical stuff Teresa taught . . . and still teaches actually . . . is ‘way over my head.”

“She’s still teaching?” Frank asked. “With two children and a husband . . . . ”

“She’s doing private tutoring these days,” Ben said, “but, she has every intention of going back to teaching full time when the kids are a little older.”

“Your son doesn’t mind this?” Frank queried in surprise.

“Not at all. Adam’s wholly supportive of the idea.”

“In MY day, when a woman married, the few who actually had jobs beforehand, left them in order to devote themselves to caring for their husbands, their children, and to keeping house,” Frank said, shaking his slowing head slowly in amazement.

“In my neck of the woods, given the number of ranches and farms, husbands and wives work together to keep things going,” Ben said. “The children pitch in and help, too, when they’re old enough . . . as they’re able.”

“Trudy’s very much like her grandmother . . . wholly devoted to looking after her husband, her children . . . and me, too,” Frank said, chuckling. “She can be a real tarter if I forget to take my medicine, or if I’m not getting the rest SHE thinks I should.”

“That’s because she loves ya . . . very much,” Ben said, with a knowing smile.

“Since I’ve been teaching Paul about running the family business, Trudy’s proven an excellent sounding board whenever he gets new ideas . . . as he thinks up new plans, new ways of doing things . . . something I’m afraid my wife, for all HER wonderful qualities, simply . . . was not,” Frank said, waxing thoughtful. “She also pitches in and helps out when things get busy.”

“I don’t think she’s ever been afraid of hard work,” Ben said. “I saw that right away, when Joe first brought her home when . . . when her maternal grandfather died.”

“ . . . unlike SOME I could mention,” Frank muttered with a scowl, as his thoughts again drifted to Stephanie.

“What of Trudy’s and Paul’s OTHER children?” Ben asked, in a gentle effort to steer their conversation back to a topic more pleasant to his host.

“Sorry, Ben . . . I . . . well, I try not to think of her too often,” Frank said ruefully, then smiled. “As for my other great-grandchildren . . . Margo and Eleanor came after PJ.”

“Twins, if I remember correctly?”

Frank nodded. “Fortunately, they’re not identical twins. In fact, Margo and your granddaughter, Dio, look more like sisters, with their dark hair, and those warm brown eyes. She’s the spitting image of my wife, God rest her soul, while Eleanor favors Trudy, in looks, if NOT in temperament.”

“Margo and Dio have become fast friends,” Ben observed quietly.

“No surprise there, either, given their rough and tumble tomboyish ways,” Frank replied. “Eleanor, however, is more gracious and ladylike. She reminds me so much of my wife in THAT regard . . . it almost hurts, sometimes.”

“I just hope Eleanor doesn’t feel left out of things, with Dio and Margo being so wrapped up in each other,” Ben said with an anxious frown.

“Not at all,” Frank hastened to assure. “She’s quiet, and prefers activities more sedate. There’s three girls, all neighbors, that SHE’S become very friendly with . . . and all four of THEM share common interests. They will be joining us for supper as well.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

Frank smiled. “The youngest is Jasmine. Now that SHE’S all of five years old, Trudy says she longs to hold one more baby in her arms.”

“Joe’s mother, Marie, said that on quite a few occasions after HE turned five,” Ben said wistfully.

“Did she want a girl?”

“I think maybe I’M the one who leaned more towards wanting a girl,” Ben confessed. “Marie always said SHE’D be happy if the child was born healthy. In any case, she . . . died . . . before she could become pregnant again.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It WAS a long time ago,” Ben said, trying to speak around the lump forming in his throat.

“ . . . and, of course, you have Stacy.”

Ben smiled. “Yes.”

“She’s a very lovely young woman. From all that you’ve told me in letters over the years, I have a feeling m-my Trudy . . . must have been a lot like your Stacy . . . g-growing . . . up.” Frank’s voice was filled with regret and sadness.

Ben reached out and placed a gentle, comforting hand on the older man’s shoulder. “I . . . sometimes . . . find myself feeling regret for having missed out on a lot of Stacy’s growing up years,” he said quietly. “Somehow, she always seems to know because . . . she’ll come, put her arms around me and tell me, ‘I’m here NOW, Pa. I’m here now.’ ”

“Just like . . . TRUDY’S here now . . . with her h-husband, and . . . and that wonderful brood of theirs,” Frank Harker said, his voice catching. “I . . . I shudder to think of what I almost missed.”

“But, you DIDN’T miss,” Ben said firmly. “I try my best to remember everything I HAVEN’T missed with Stacy, and . . . and to be thankful for the time that I’ve had with her . . . and WILL have with her.”

“Pa . . . Mister Harker?!”

Ben and Frank turned and found Stacy stepping out onto the wide verandah.

“I didn’t mean to break up your conversation, but Trudy asked me to let you know supper’s ready,” Stacy said, as she walked over toward Ben, “ . . . and Mister Harker?”

Frank smiled. “Yes, Stacy?”

“Trudy said for me to tell you . . . if SHE winds up having to come out here to fetch you . . . you’re going to be clear up to your neck in trouble.”

“Uh oh . . . Trudy sounds an awful lot like Hop Sing,” Ben observed, as he and Mister Harker turned and offered their arms to Stacy, “and, Frank . . . you can tell her from ME that’s not necessarily a good thing.”

Frank Harker threw back his head and laughed out loud. “I’ll tell her, Ben, but somehow, I don’t think it’ll do one wit of good. In the meantime, the three of us had best get to the table, before we DO end up . . . . ” He frowned. “Now how did Trudy put that?”

“She said that you’d be clear up to your neck in trouble,” Stacy replied, with a smile.

“Mama, would it be alright if Dio and me went outside and played croquet in the garden out back?” Margo Magruder begged, as the sumptuous supper came to its end. “Please, Mama? PRETTY please?!”

“Dio and I,” PJ corrected his sister in a disparaging tone of voice, punctuated with a long-suffering roll of his eyes.

“I thought you ‘n Benjy were gonna go up to your room and look at Jupiter some more,” Margo said with an indignant scowl on her face.

“We ARE.”

“Then . . . how can you play croquet with Dio ‘n me at the same time?”

PJ sighed and rolled his eyes again. “I have no intention of playing croquet with you and Dio, Margo. I was trying to correct you. You should’ve said Dio and I.”

“I DID say that,” Margo argued, favoring her brother with a bleak, withering glare.

“No, you didn’t,” PJ insisted. “You said Dio and ME.”

“Same thing!”

“PJ . . . Margo . . . that’s enough,” Paul Magruder sternly admonished both of his children.

“But, Papa . . . . ” PJ protested.

“I SAID that’s enough,” Paul quietly, yet very succinctly reiterated his position. “As for YOU, Margo . . . it’s too late in the day to be dragging out all that croquet stuff.”

“Aww, Papa . . . please?”

Those great big sad brown eyes reminded Ben of Joe, when HE was Margo’s age, on all the many occasions he had to tell him no.

“You’d no sooner be setting things up, when you’d have to be taking them all down again,” Paul said in a tone that brooked no further argument. “You have a nice big playroom upstairs . . . maybe you girls can all play together.”

Margo immediately made a face. “All THEY wanna do is play baby dolls and princess,” she said, casting a disdainful glare in the general direction of Eleanor and her friends.

“ . . . and they play hide ‘n seek so loud, it’s hard for us to hear ourselves think,” Eleanor declared, glaring over at her sister with equal disdain.

“Tell you what,” Trudy immediately stepped in. “Eleanor, you and your friends may join us in the parlor, if you promise to play quietly.”

“We will, Mother,” Eleanor eagerly promised, delighted at the prospect of spending time in the company of women they considered to be grown-ups. She and her three friends flashed Margo and Dio smug, triumphant smiles. Margo and Dio pointedly ignored the foursome.

“Good!” Trudy declared, rising. “Now that we have things properly settled, if you gentlemen would be kind enough to excuse us, the women and children will leave you to your brandy ‘n cigars.”

“We’ll join you in a little while, Trudy,” Paul promised her with a warm smile.

“Frank . . . Paul . . . we’re going to be celebrating tomorrow night. Joseph here spent the better part of the morning negotiating a lumber contract that’s going to prove very lucrative for the Ponderosa over the next three years,” Ben said, after the women and children had left the table. “We’d be very happy if you and Trudy could join us.”

“Speaking for myself, I’m afraid I hafta bow out,” Paul said with genuine regret. “Grandpa Harker, I’m afraid I haven’t had a chance to tell ya this . . . leastwise, not ‘til now, but it seems someone’s broken into the warehouse down by the docks.”

“Oh?” Frank frowned.

“I just got word from the police right before I left t’ come home this evening,” Paul said apologetically. “I asked ‘em t’ put a watch on the place for tonight. I plan on goin’ down first thing in the mornin’ t’ find out what’s what.”

“You said the warehouse by the docks?” Frank queried, the lines of his frown deepening.

“Yes, Sir.”

“That’s odd . . . I thought that warehouse was empty.”

“It is,” Paul affirmed. “I’m thinkin’ maybe some derelicts broke in an’ took shelter there.”

“Paul?”

“Yes, Mister Cartwright?”

“Please . . . be very careful when you go down to the docks tomorrow morning,” Ben said quietly. “I found out this afternoon that shanghaiing young, healthy men, such as yourself continues to be very lucrative trade. A friend of ours— ”

Joe looked over at Adam, then burst into a peal of rapid fire giggling. Adam very pointedly turned away from his younger brother, all the while striving with all his might to maintain a straight face. Within a matter of seconds, he shook his head, and gleefully surrendered to Joe’s highly infectious laughter. Even Hoss had to smile.

Ben glared over at Joe first, then at Adam, and finally over at Hoss. “I don’t find the business of shanghaiing young men and selling them to the highest paying ship’s captain a laughing matter,” he growled.

“S-Sorry, Pa,” Hoss chuckled.

“Pa . . . y-you’re . . . you’re absolutely right,” Adam said, trying his best to stifle his own laughter. Though his eyes rested on his father’s face, they fell far short of Ben’s dark, intense gaze. “It’s . . . it’s N-NOT f-f-funny in the least.”

“What IS f-funny is . . . is . . . . ” Joe’s words dissolved into an second peal of laughter.

“What my youngest son is trying to tell you is that, when the three of us vacationed here years ago, I ended up being shanghaied myself . . . almost . . . . through some UNFORTUNATE, IRONIC happen stances BEYOND my control,” Ben said stiffly. “Hoss and Joe came to the rescue.”

“Though once we set Pa free, he came out swingin’ with the best of ‘em,” Hoss said with a touch of pride.

“I was sorry I missed the whole thing, but . . . . ” Adam shrugged. “Someone had to keep things going at home, and on that occasion, I ended up pulling the short straw.”

“Paul, one of our former hands, a man by the name of Roscoe Swanson was nearly shanghaied a couple of days ago,” Ben said, as everyone sobered. “He was obviously rescued, though he’s not exactly clear on who that someone was. Roscoe was lucky . . . VERY lucky.”

“I’ll take your advice about bein’ careful, Mister Cartwright,” Paul promised. “Where’s Mister Swanson now?”

“He’s with us, at our hotel, recovering from minor injuries and the after effects of having been drugged,” Ben replied.

“I hope he’s going to be all right,” Frank said.

“We have every reason in the world to believe that he will be,” Ben said quietly.

“I’m certainly glad to hear that,” Frank declared.

“Me, too,” Paul voiced his wholehearted agreement. “Mister Cartwright . . . and you, too, Joe, Hoss, and Adam, I . . . well, to put it straightforward . . . I’d sure appreciate it if none of you talked about this business o’ shanghaiing in front of the ladies? Trudy worries about me too much as it is, and I don’t want to talk about such things around my children.”

“To be completely up front and honest, I’d rather nothing of was said in front of Stacy, either,” Ben said. “This is her first trip to San Francisco, and I’d like her to enjoy it without having to worry about the seamier side of things.”

“ . . . uhhh, Pa?”

“Yes, Adam?”

“Are you sure that’s wise?” Adam asked. “The more Stacy . . . or anyone else for that matter, is AWARE of what can happen, the easier it is to take the steps necessary to keep safe.”

“I haven’t said this very often, Pa . . . but I think Adam’s right,” Joe immediately chimed in, “and besides . . . I’ll bet you anything . . . lay you any kind of odds that The Kid already knows more about the seamier side of things here in San Francisco on pure ‘n simple general principles than you wanna give her credit for.”

“I would prefer to think that she DOESN’T,” Ben said firmly. “In any case, I don’t intend to let her go about on her own . . . and I’m inclined to think she’s not going to push to do so. I’ve already made it clear that a big city like San Francisco is a far cry from riding out on the Ponderosa, or riding out alone to school or to visit friends.”

Joe sighed. “It’s your call, Pa . . . but I still think you’re making a real big mistake keeping Stacy in the dark about things.”

“I’d be less than honest if I didn’t say that I agree with Joe one hundred percent, but having a daughter myself, I can understand why you want to protect Stacy,” Adam said. “I won’t say a word.”

“Hoss?” Ben turned and prompted his middle son.

“Right, Pa. I won’t say nuthin’ either . . . not t’ Stacy or Trudy either one.”

“Good. Now that we have all that straight, I think it’s time we joined the ladies,” Frank said rising.

“ . . . uhhh, Joe?” Stacy immediately corralled the youngest of her three older brothers the minute he walked into the parlor. “I need to talk with you . . . . ” she cast a quick, furtive glance over in the direction of their father, who seemed involved in animated conversation with Trudy, “privately?!”

“Yeah . . . sure, Kid,” Joe immediately agreed. Though not unduly upset, she did seem a little anxious. “Why don’t we step over here?” He gently took her by the forearm, and steered her over into the corner farthest from the maddening crowd. “What’s up, Stace?”

“Roscoe almost got shanghaied, didn’t he.” It was a statement of fact, not a question.

Joe stared at her open mouthed with astonishment for a long moment. “ . . . uhhh, who t-told you . . . that?”

“I figured it out for myself,” Stacy replied, with a small touch of pride.

Joe’s lips curved upward, as astonishment quickly gave way to amusement. “Hoo boy,” he murmured softly. “Wait’ll I tell Pa.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing, Stace,” Joe said very quickly. “How did you happen to figure out that Roscoe was almost shanghaied?”

“I overheard Eleanor and her friends talking about men being shanghaied right and left down near the docks in the . . . the . . . ,” Stacy frowned. “It sounded like . . . uhhh, Barbarian Coast?!”

“That’s, ummm . . . BARBARY Coast, Kiddo,” Joe sighed. “So much for the innocence of children.”

“Children?!” Stacy echoed, incredulous and a little annoyed. The scowl on her face deepened. “Grandpa, if you’re referring to ME— ”

“Not hardly,” Joe immediately replied, shaking his head. “I was thinking more about Eleanor and HER little friends.”

“What about ‘em . . . exactly?” Stacy demanded.

“How’d THEY find out about men being shanghaied right and left in the Barbary Coast area?”

“Eleanor told me that she and her friends overhead the servants talking,” Stacy replied. “Just promise me one thing?”

“Sure, Kid . . . what is it?”

“That you guys’ll be careful when you go out to sign that contract tomorrow,” Stacy said. “I don’t want you, Pa, and Adam to end up in some exotic port, heaven only knows where.”

Joe grinned. “Don’t you worry about a thing, Kid. I’ll keep a real sharp eye on Pa and Adam, too.”

“Thanks, Grandpa. I’d go along with ya and keep an eye on you myself, but I promised Trudy and Teresa I’d spend the day with THEM tomorrow,” Stacy said with a touch of regret, “that is . . . if PA says it’s ok . . . . ”

Ben smiled. “Teresa . . . Trudy . . . I think that’s a wonderful idea,” he declared, smiling first at his daughter-in-law, then over at Trudy. Truth be known, he had been at something of a loss as to what he should do with Stacy the following day . . . .

He, Adam, Joe, and Hoss as well, would be tied up until well into the early afternoon hours with formally signing that contract his youngest son had so brilliantly negotiated, followed by the obligatory cigars, the best of course, from Havana, and several rounds toasting one another with fine brandy, to seal the bargain. Hardly suitable entertainment for a young woman . . . and their business associates wouldn’t be amused either.

“I appreciate the two of ya taking an interest in her,” Ben continued.

“Our pleasure,” Teresa declared. “We . . . . ” Her eyes strayed over to Trudy for a moment, and lingered. “ . . . thought Stacy might enjoy seeing the sights a heckuva lot more than spending the better part of the day sitting in a smoke filled board room, going out of her ever lovin’ mind with boredom.” She punctuated her words with a melodramatic, long suffering sigh and a wry roll of her eyes heavenward.

Ben laughed out loud. “When you put it THAT way . . . I’m almost tempted to send Jarboe and Baylor my regrets and spend the day with the three of YOU tomorrow,” he returned, as his mirth began to fade.

“I think I can safely assume I speak for all three of us when I say that any other time, your company’d be more than welcome, Mister Cartwright,” Trudy said, “but not tomorrow.”

“Women only, Ben,” Teresa said.

“Oh?” Ben queried, his eyes moving from his daughter-in-law to Trudy, then back again.

“That’s right!” Trudy declared with a conspiratorial smile. “After we spend the morning sight seeing and have a bite of lunch, we’re going shopping.”

“You bet!” Teresa declared with an emphatic nod of her head. “We . . . understand that Stacy’s going to be stepping out on the town with a very handsome older man tomorrow night, and we’ve decided a new dress is definitely in order.”

“You’re half right,” Ben said with a smile. “The man who’s taking her out on the town tomorrow night’s old enough to be her father because he happens to BE her father. I firmly believe that when a young woman goes out in the company of a man for the first time . . . that man ought to be her pa.”

“Adam and I agree completely,” Teresa said.

“ . . . I can see the wisdom in that,” Trudy said thoughtfully. “Mister Cartwright, would ten o’clock be too early to pick up Teresa and Stacy at the hotel tomorrow morning?”

“Ten o’clock’s perfect,” Ben readily agreed. “That will give us plenty of time to have breakfast beforehand.”

A feeble groan issuing from the bed, drew Joe’s attention from his morning oblations, the following day. He stepped from the large dressing room, clad in a pair of pajama pants, barefoot, with no shirt. His hair was mussed, and his face half shaved, half yet lathered with a thick rich cream. “Good morning, Sleepyhead,” he greeted his old friend, Roscoe Swanson with a smile.

Roscoe propped himself up on his elbows, and stared over at Joe long and hard for a moment, through eyes round with astonishment. “Then . . . I WASN’T dreamin’,” he murmured softly in complete, and utter disbelief.

“Pa told you that yesterday afternoon, when we brought you here,” Joe said.

“Where . . . exactly . . . is here . . . again!?”

“Grand Victoria Hotel, San Francisco.”

“Last clear memory I have is being with a barmaid at a saloon called Queen of the Sea,” Roscoe said. “After that . . . . ” He shrugged.

“Never knew you to be a drinking man, Roscoe.”

“I ain’t,” Roscoe insisted, all of a sudden feeling very much on the defensive. “Never picked up the taste for it . . . honest.”

“I believe you, Roscoe,” Joe said with all sincerity. “You’ve never given me a good reason NOT to.”

“Thanks, Joe,” Roscoe murmured gratefully, as he closed his eyes and sank back down into the downy softness of the pillows piled up behind him. “I went to the Queen o’ the Sea to see a lady about a job. She promised me steady work at a good wage. Not as good as I earned workin’ for your pa, but better ‘n I’VE seen in a long time. Anyway, one minute I was drinkin’ the barmaid’s health with a mug of beer, the next . . . I, umm don’t remember much o’ nothin’ after that real well, leastwise ‘not ‘til I woke up here just now.”

Joe walked over and sat down on the edge of the bed. “Do you remember ANYTHING between toasting that barmaid and waking up this morning?” he asked. “Anything at all?”

Roscoe frowned. “I remember bein’ sicker ‘n I’ve ever been in my whole life,” he said slowly, “an’ . . . I kept seein’ that woman who promised me work. Murphy was her name. Kathleen Murphy.”

“Can you remember what this Kathleen Murphy looked like?” Joe asked with an angry scowl.

“Sure, since I met with her a couple o’ times, before she agreed t’ meet me at the Queen of the Sea t’ talk about that job,” Roscoe said. “She was an Irish lady, spoke with a real heavy accent. Had long hair. Most of it’s gray, but I caught sight of a few reddish gold strands when the sunshine hit her just right. She also had green eyes. Like emeralds. She’s an old woman now, but when she was young, I’ll bet she was a real beauty.”

“Kathleen Murphy . . . . ” Joe muttered through clenched teeth.

“You know her, Joe?”

“We’ve met. It was a long time ago . . . and yeah! She WAS a real good lookin’ woman, though she couldn’t have been a young spring chicken then, if she’s old now . . . . ”

A knock on the door brought all further conversation to a halt.

“Come in,” Joe invited.

The door opened, and Ben Cartwright entered, attired in a light gray three-piece summer suit, with white shirt, black string tie, and black boots polished to a high glossy shine. “Good morning Joe . . . good morning, Roscoe.”

“Good morning, Mister Cartwright.”

“ ‘Morning, Pa. I think I’ll let the two of you talk, while I finish getting dressed.”

“All right, Joe, but you’d best get a move on,” Ben exhorted his youngest son. “You, your brothers, and I have an appointment with Carroll Jarboe and Anson Baylor to sign that contract you negotiated yesterday, at eleven sharp.”

“Be ready in two shakes,” Joe promised, as he leapt to his feet, then ran back into the dressing room.

After Joe had left them alone, Ben drew up a chair along side the bed and sat down. “ . . . and how are YOU feeling this morning, Young Man?”

“I feel weaker ‘n a newborn kitten, Mister Cartwright . . . and confused,” Roscoe answered. “VERY confused.”

“Confused?”

“Yeah. As I was just tellin’ Joe . . . seems like one minute I was sittin’ in the Queen of the Sea Saloon, toastin’ the health o’ one o’ the barmaids . . . ‘n the next? . . . I’m wakin’ up HERE.”

“May I ask what you were doing in the Queen of the Sea Saloon?”

“I went there to see a lady ‘bout a job,” Roscoe said. “I only had one beer, and I don’t think I even finished it.”

“I believe you, Roscoe,” Ben said quietly. “Who was the lady?”

“Joe said you know her.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Her name’s Kathleen Murphy.”

“So . . . the lady’s STILL in business . . . after all these years,” Ben muttered through clenched teeth. As far as he was concerned, that confirmed Hop Sing’s suspicions of Roscoe having been victim of a shanghaiing attempt. “You’re very lucky Miss Murphy decided not to hire you. If she had . . . you’d be aboard a merchant ship well on its way out to sea by this time.”

“I . . . was pretty sick for a little while,” Roscoe said with a puzzled frown. He had vague memories of her actually selling his services to someone . . . .

“You remember being in a fight?”

Roscoe frowned. “Now that you mention it . . . yeah . . . I think . . . but, it’s all real hazy.”

“They probably slipped a sleeping powder into your beer, then tried to subdue ya by force,” Ben said grimly. “Being sick was more than likely YOUR saving grace.”

Roscoe nodded. “Mister Cartwright?”

“Yes, Roscoe?”

“Before I met Miss Murphy, I WAS thinkin’ real serious about comin’ back to the Ponderosa t’ see if that job was still open.”

“You STILL thinking real serious about returning to the Ponderosa?”

“You bet I am, Sir, now more ‘n ever . . . if you’ll have me.”

“I’d be a fool NOT to have you,” Ben said. “We’ll talk more about that later. Right now, you need to rest and get some good food in ya. Hop Sing’s making up some more tea, and we’ve asked room service to send you up a couple slices of toast. If you keep THAT down, we’ll send for some chicken soup for lunch.”

Roscoe nodded.

“Joe and I are going to be gone for the rest of the morning, and probably well into the afternoon. Adam and Hoss will be with us, and the rest of my family all have their own plans,” Ben said rising. “Hop Sing will be looking after you, while we’re gone.”

“Thank you, Mister Cartwright,” Roscoe said gratefully, “thank you very much for everything.”

“You’re a friend, Roscoe . . . a GOOD friend,” Ben said firmly. “Good friends always look out for each other. We’ll talk some more later.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Joseph? You ready?”

“Ready, Pa.” Joe stepped out of the dressing room, clad in a green three-piece suit that enhanced and brought out the emerald green in his chameleon-like hazel eyes. He had finished shaving and had tamed his oft-unruly locks to the comb and a dab of hair cream. “We’ll see ya later, Roscoe. You take things easy today, y’ hear?”

“Loud and clear, Joe. Loud and clear.”

“So . . . wha’cha think?”

Officer Patrick Yates turned to his companion, Sergeant John Brady, better known among his peers as Johnny-Boy, with eyebrow slightly up raised. At two and a half months shy of twenty, he had the look about him of a boy who had gotten his growth spurt, but had not yet filled out into the body of a man, with big feet and hands that appeared to be woefully mismatched to his beanpole skinny body.

Patrick Yates had married in haste barely five months before the “premature” birth of identical twin boys. He was a rookie officer, having been on the police force since the day after exchanging marriage vows with the former Amy Matilda Kraus before a justice of the peace. Though the thought of answering to that tarter of a mother-in-law kept him well away from the saloons, casinos, and the brothels, he still found it very difficult making ends meet with a hungry wife and two hungrier sons to support.

“Well?” Johnny-Boy demanded, when his young partner didn’t immediately reply.

“ . . . uhhh, what do I think . . . about . . . what, exactly?” he ventured, hesitant and mildly surprised.

“Him,” Johnny-Boy replied, inclining his head slightly in the direction of Paul Magruder.

“What about him?” Patrick asked, watching intently as Paul slowly crouched down in the wide opening between the two storage rooms within the warehouse, to take a closer look at the footprints left behind in the accumulation of a decade’s worth of dust.

“Thirty-ish, if he’s a day . . . healthy, ‘n strong by the look of him,” Johnny-Boy solemnly recited the brief litany of Paul’s physical attributes. “He’ll do, don’cha think?”

“He would, I s’pose . . . if he wasn’t Mister Harker’s grandson-in-law,” Patrick replied.

“Mister Harker’s grandson . . . the butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker . . . even the bum, down on his luck! Dress ‘em up in sailor’s garb, they all look alike,” Johnny-Boy said with a touch of disdain.

“I dunno . . . . ” Patrick murmured doubtfully.

“What’s NOT t’ know?” Johnny-Boy demanded.

“When he goes missing, the first ones they’re gonna come after is US,” Patrick argued, “on account o’ us being the last to see him before he went missing.”

“Gol’ dang it, willya keep yer voice DOWN?!” Johnny-Boy hissed, directing a fearful, furtive glance over in Paul Magruder’s direction. He noted with relief and satisfaction that Paul remained in place, studying the footprints in the dust very intently. “Look, Junior, they AIN’T gonna come t’ us,” he continued, taking great care to lower his voice, “if, on that real small, outside chance, they do? We tell ‘em he came, searched the warehouse, we had a couple o’ beers maybe . . . then parted company.”

“I still dunno . . . . ” Patrick murmured doubtfully.

“He’s a strong, healthy, able bodied man,” Johnny-Boy pressed, “ ‘n we’re behind on our quota. Way I see it, we can’t afford to pass ‘im up, unless, maybe YOU wanna be the one t’ tell Miss Murphy WHY we didn’t grab a strong, healthy, able bodied man when we had the chance?!”

Patrick blanched. He wagged his head vigorously back and forth.

“I thought not,” Johnny-Boy wryly observed, as he slowly unhooked his billy club from his belt.

“ . . . I swear . . . on t’ grave of m’ own dear, sainted mother, I SWEAR . . . I am NOT holdin’ out on ya,” Kathleen Murphy passionately declared. Her face was white as a sheet, and her eyes round and staring. She sat very primly on the settee in the parlor of her townhouse, her hands clasped tightly together with fingers interlacing, to hide their trembling.

“Grave of your sainted mother indeed!” the woman known to Kathleen as Miss Stephens snorted with derision. “First off, Miss Murphy, your mother is still with us, feisty as ever, I might add, and doing a very brisk business.”

Kathleen’s mother, Ada Murphy, owned and operated a flourishing establishment known as the Duck ‘N Cock, the biggest, gaudiest saloon and bordello in the whole of Barbary Coast, catering to wharf rat and socialite alike.

“Miss Murphy . . . your area of operation is ONE of the, if not THE, most lucrative in the whole of San Francisco . . . is it NOT?!” Miss Stephens continued, as she slowly paced back and forth in front of the parlor fireplace. Her cultured voice and command of language bespoke of a fine education, the kind of which was typically the exclusive purview of one born to a well moneyed, genteel family.

“Y-Yes, Ma’am,” Kathleen replied.

“Yet . . . my commission for the last six months totaled . . . . ?!” Miss Stephens turned expectantly to Edward Lyon, seated next to Kathleen on the settee. He was a flamboyant man, infamous for his effusive, seemingly inexhaustible supply of flattery and oily words. Tonight, he was fashionably attired in a light blue three-piece suit of linen, with a white shirt and string tie of silk, dyed to match his suit. He wore a single gold loop earring through one ear, and rings on three fingers out of four on each hand.

Edward swallowed nervously as he reached, into the inside pocket of his jacket with trembling hand, and extracted a scrap sheet of paper, folded in half. He fumbled, nearly dropping it twice, flinching visibly under Miss Stevens’ baleful glare. “ . . . eight h-hundred s-six dollars . . . and . . . and s-seventy-three cents,” he read aloud the figure written down.

“Eight hundred six dollars . . . . ” Miss Stephens softly echoed, as her pacing slowed.

“ . . . and s-seventy . . . three . . . cents, Ma’am,” Edward ventured hesitantly.

“Eight hundred six dollars . . . AND seventy-three cents. I stand corrected,” Miss Stephens said wryly. “I’m sure the both of you are well acquainted with one David Ahab Melville?”

“Also known as Down ‘n Dirty Davy Jones?” Kathleen queried with a pained grimace.

“Yes,” Miss Stephens replied. “I believe he operates his business under the name of Down ‘n Dirty Davy Jones.”

“I know OF him, Miss Stephens, but I can’t say we’ve been formally introduced,” Kathleen replied. Her tone of voice made very clear that given her druthers, she would prefer to keep it that way.

“Mister Melville, who trades quite lucratively under the name of Down ‘n Dirty Davy Jones, hasn’t HALF the territory YOU have,” Miss Stephens continued, “yet HE managed to pay me a commission of nearly a twelve HUNDREND dollars for the same six months.” She stopped pacing, turned, and glared down at Kathleen, with arms folded tight across her ample, well-rounded bosom. “Tell me, Miss Murphy . . . how do YOU explain such a discrepancy?”

“Business has taken a turn for t’ worse,” Kathleen replied. “It’s the truth, Ma’am . . . whole, complete, and unvarnished. I swear. On— ”

“Please, Miss Murphy . . . NOT on the grave of your dear sainted mother AGAIN,” Miss Stevens cut Kathleen off with a disparaging, long-suffering sigh.

“No, Ma’am!” Kathleen hotly denied the allegation. “I . . . WAS going to swear on the grave of m’ sainted GRANDMOTHER . . . m’ mother’s mother . . . may God rest her soul.”

“Who I happen to know for fact lives with her sainted sister in New Orleans,” Miss Stephens stiffly pointed out.

Kathleen quickly bowed her head, upon feeling the sudden prickly rush of hot blood to her face.

“So. You CLAIM that business has taken a turn for the worst,” Miss Stevens continued.

“It’s TRUE!” Kathleen insisted. “I swear--- ”

“Yes?” Miss Stephens demanded, when Kathleen abruptly broke off.

“Never mind,” Kathleen said sheepishly.

“To be utterly frank, Miss Murphy . . . I find your allegations very hard to believe . . . the, um ‘graves’ of your ‘sainted’ mother and maternal grandmother not withstanding,” Miss Stevens said. “What say YOU, Mister Lyon?”

“M-Miss Murphy IS telling the truth, Ma’am, and frankly . . . I’m at a loss to explain it,” Edward replied with a helpless shrug. “We get a fair number of young ones coming into the Queen of the Sea Saloon, to be sure, but . . . somehow . . . they end up slipping . . . r-right . . . through . . . our fingers.”

Before Miss Stevens could reply, someone knocked at the closed parlor door twice, then three times, with a slight pause between. Miss Stevens glanced over at her man standing guard at the door, a big, burly, well-muscled individual known as Killer Callahan, and nodded.

“Yes’m,” Killer grunted, as he turned and opened the door.

Two more men entered the parlor, one tall and very thin, the other short and plump. Both were attired in the same manner as Killer. They were brothers, two of a set of triplets.

“Did you gentlemen find anything?” Miss Stevens demanded in a tone faintly imperious.

“No, Ma’am,” the shorter of the two replied. His name was Bob Fisk. He stood just under five and a half feet tall, and tipped the scales at almost a hundred and ninety pounds. He had light chestnut brown hair, cropped very short, and a pair of small, beady eyes set under a prominent brow, surrounded by soft folds of flab. There was a thick, scraggly growth of stubble covering the lower portion of his face.

“You searched thoroughly?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” the tall man replied, his lips curving upward to form a nasty, mirthless smile. His name was Ned. The dark brown hair encircling his head and face, was in the shape of an inverted bowl. Unlike his brother, he was clean-shaven. “Bob ‘n me . . . we searched thorough all right. VERY thorough! In fact, you can truthfully say we, ummm . . . tore the place apart?”

“If Miss Murphy does indeed have extra cash . . . well we can say for sure now that it AIN’T stuffed under her mattress,” Bob added.

“ . . . or IN it,” Ned added with a snicker.

“NOW are y’ satisfied?!” Kathleen demanded, her voice breaking. The thought of every room in her lovely home lying in shambles had pushed her to the edge of angry tears.

“Bank,” Killer grunted from his place at the parlor door.

“Good suggestion, Mister Calhoun, but I think we can safely rule out THAT possibility,” Miss Stevens said with a complacent smile. “Miss Murphy’s aversion to banks is legendary.”

“Out-side,” Killer grunted.

“Now THAT is a VERY good point, Mister Calhoun,” Miss Stevens agreed.

Bob Fisk blanched. “Miss Stevens . . . d-don’t tell us y-you . . . that y-you want us to . . . to dig up the entire yard?! There’s gotta be at least a couple o’ acres here.”

“One half acre is more accurate, Mister Fisk,” Miss Stevens said complacently. “This plot of land is about the same that surrounded the townhouse where my parents and I lived . . . before their untimely deaths forced me to move in with my grandparents.” An amused smile at the Fisk brothers’ discomfiture pulled hard on the corner of her mouth. “Gentlemen, it WON’T be necessary to dig up the entire yard,” she continued. “First of all, it’s too much fuss and bother to chop through the thick growth of lawn Miss Murphy has out there . . . and second, I think that Miss Murphy would be more inclined to bury the money close by the house.”

“You thinkin’ flowerbeds?” Bob Fisk queried.

“I am indeed,” Miss Stevens replied.

“Oh no,” Kathleen groaned, feeling terribly sick at heart. Her flower gardens were her absolute pride and joy. “No, please . . . n-not the flower beds . . . . ”

“At this juncture, Miss Murphy, it seems to me that you can save yourself a lot of trouble if you tell us right now where you’ve stashed your ill-gotten gain,” Miss Stevens said in a lofty. condescending tone.

“HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAFTA TELL YA . . . THERE’S NO EXTRA MONEY LYIN’ ‘ROUND . . . ILL-BEGOTTEN OR OTHERWISE?!” Kathleen wailed.

“That being the case . . . . ” Miss Stevens looked over and made eye contact with the Fisk brothers, “Gentlemen, please search the flowerbeds.”

“Miss Stevens please . . . if it’s . . . if it’s money y’ want, I have jewelry . . . real fine jewelry. You’re welcome to it if y— ” Kathleen’s words ended in a cry of pain, when Miss Stephens slapped her face, with enough force to set her teeth rattling.

“How DARE you!” she growled in a low, menacing tone. “How DARE you try to placate ME . . . as you might a . . . a . . . a common thief, or worse . . . an extortionist?!” Miss Stephens pulled herself up to the very full of her diminutive height and glared down at her hapless minion. “In case you’ve forgotten, Miss Murphy, my family is one of the richest, if not THE richest in San Francisco. To even suggest that I would have need of your cheap, tawdry costume jewelry— ”

A discreet knock at the closed parlor door brought an abrupt end to Miss Stevens’ angry tirade, mid-sentence.

“Miss Murphy, you will tell whoever that is to leave,” Miss Stevens ordered, taking great care to lower her voice, “right now this very instant.”

Kathleen swallowed nervously. “Who . . . who is it?” she asked in as calm a voice as she could possibly muster.

“Mrs. Flynn, Ma’am,” the woman standing without replied in a deferential tone.

“I told you we weren’t t’ be disturbed,” Kathleen said in as steady a voice as she could muster.

“Yes, Ma’am, you did, and I’m sorry,” Mrs. Flynn meekly stammered out an apology, “but, Officers Brady ‘n Yates are here. I told him you were indisposed, but they insist upon seeing you at once. I . . . I’m sorry, Miss Murphy, I just didn’t know what else to do.”

Miss Stevens turned to Kathleen, her entire body trembling with rage. “So help me, Miss Murphy . . . so HELP me . . . if you’ve somehow instructed your housekeeper to summon the police— ”

“I d-didn’t,” Kathleen immediately denied the allegation. “Brady and Yates work for me.”

“Really.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Kathleen said, nodding her head vigorously.

“This true?” Miss Stevens demanded, as she turned her attention to Edward.

“Yes, Ma’am,” Edward confirmed. “Officer Brady’s been on OUR payroll for the last five or six years, and his partner the last three months.”

“The money you’re paying to retain a couple of corrupt police officers on your payroll had better NOT be coming out of the commission due ME,” Miss Stevens warned in a voice, stone cold.

“It’s not,” Kathleen hastened to assure.

Miss Stevens was hard put to determine which aspect about all this disturbed her more: that Kathleen Murphy actually had a pair of San Francisco’s finest working for her; or that she hadn’t known a thing about it until now. The matter required a great deal of thought, something that would of necessity, have to wait.

“All right,” Miss Stevens said, “for now, tell your housekeeper to get rid of the gendarme.”

“N-Not a good idea,” Kathleen protested, feeling herself wedged tight between the proverbial rock and the hard place.

“ . . . and why not?”

“Because whatever it they’ve come t’ tell me . . . it must be urgent, else they wouldn’t be here,” Kathleen pressed.

“All right, Miss Murphy, ask your housekeeper to show the policemen in,” Miss Stevens said as she removed a large, white linen handkerchief from her reticule. “But, I warn you . . . one false move— ” She sharply drew her pointing first finger across her neck. “I trust we understand each other?”

Kathleen nodded, then rose slowly to her feet. “Mrs. Flynn?” she queried, amazed at how calm her voice sounded.

“Yes, Ma’am?”

“Please show Officers Brady and Yates in.”

A few moments later, Kathleen’s housekeeper ushered in two police officers, clad in a dark blue uniforms. “Good afternoon, Miss Murphy,” Johnny-Boy Brady greeted the lady of the house stiffly, his eyes moving uneasily from one person to the next. “I didn’t know you had company. Perhaps I should come back another time?”

“There’s no need to worry, Officer . . . the lady and gentlemen are business associates,” Kathleen said, favoring the policeman with what she desperately hoped was a reassuring smile.

“They in the same business as . . . . ?!”

“Yes, they are,” Kathleen said in response to the policeman’s unspoken question.

Johnny-Boy’s sharp eyes moved quickly over the sea of strange faces gathered. He recognized the Fisk brothers immediately. They were a couple of wharf rats, with sizeable rap sheets filled with many and varied misdemeanors, among them drunk and disorderly, assault and battery, disturbing the peace, occasional solicitation, and vandalism. Though he wasn’t acquainted with the big fellow standing beside the parlor door, he also appeared to be the typical, run of the mill wharf rat.

The fancy pants dandy, seated on the settee to Miss Murphy’s right piqued his interest. Since his arrival in San Francisco nearly fifteen years ago, Edward Lyon had been charged with or linked to just about every kind of crime one could imagine, ranging from petty theft to first degree murder, but nothing ever stuck, earning for himself the nickname Greased Pig among San Francisco’s finest. His presence within the organization, ostensibly serving as Miss Murphy’s bookkeeper was worrisome enough. But to find the oily little weasel sitting on the settee so close beside Miss Murphy troubled Johnny-Boy greatly. The man had a pretty smile, a clever way with words, and the refined good looks most women found irresistibly attractive going for him, but he could only be trusted about as far as a body could throw him . . . assuming, of course, that the body in question was so old and decrepit, he couldn’t left a feather let alone a grown man . . . .

“Miss Murphy’s been good t’ me . . . ‘n the missus, too, God rest her soul, the whole time she was ailin’,” Johnny-Boy silently mused. The thought of a man like Edward Lyon “doin’ her dirty,” was enough to make his blood boil.

His eyes finally came to rest on the woman, standing in front of the fireplace, glowering every bit as fierce as any war goddess, worthy of being called such. There was something oddly familiar about her. If she would only lower that damned handkerchief she had covering her nose, mouth, and chin, he knew beyond all shadow of doubt he’d recognize her in a minute.

“I have a bit of a cold, Officer,” she said softly, as if reading his very thoughts. “I’m sure you don’t want to see my red nose . . . . ”

“I’m sorry to hear you’re feeling poorly, Ma’am,” Johnny-Boy murmured softly.

Kathleen Murphy rose from her place on the settee, and turned to face her callers. “What have you come t’ see me about, Officer Brady?” she queried.

“Business, Miss Murphy. Can we speak in private?”

“You may speak freely HERE,” Kathleen said quickly. “We’re all in the same business, as I just said.”

“It seems the owner of that warehouse down by the wharf was informed of a break in,” Johnny-Boy dutifully reported.

“Oh?” Kathleen murmured with sinking heart, taking special care to focus her gaze on Johnny-Boy’s face. The thought of looking into The Boss Lady’s face right now . . . she shuddered delicately.

“He sent his grandson-in-law down to look into things,” Johnny-Boy continued, noting that the woman in front of the fireplace had tensed slightly upon his mention of the warehouse owner’s grandson-in-law, and that her posture had noticeably straightened. “Fortunately for us, my partner and I drew the assignment of guarding that warehouse.”

“Officer . . . um, Brady . . . the grandson-in-law of the man who owns that warehouse . . . do you know his name?” Miss Stephens asked, her devious mind racing a mile a minute.

“His last name’s Magruder, Ma’am,” Johnny-Boy replied. “Didn’t get his first.”

“Where is he now?”

“Sleeping it off, Ma’am . . . in the back room at the Qu--- . . . uhh, in our um, special holding area, Ma’am,” Johnny-Boy replied, hesitant and wary.

“Is he reasonably healthy?”

“Very healthy, Ma’am,” Johnny-Boy replied.

“Strong?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Miss Murphy, I’LL take this Mister Magruder off your hands . . . in lieu of the balance due on my commission,” Miss Stephens said, laboring desperately to keep her tone of voice cool and calm.

“Yes, Ma’am. Your orders?”

“For the time being, you are to keep him in a secure place,” Miss Stephens replied, unable to keep from smiling at the good fortune that had just dropped out of the proverbial clear blue into her lap. “Keep him well fed and watered . . . at MY expense of course . . . and keep him under strict watch at all times.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“ . . . and if your guards are forced to, ummm . . . shall we say maintain discipline? Tell them to make absolute certain that nothing shows.”

“Yes, Ma’am. I will,” Kathleen dutifully promised. “Officer Brady?”

“Yes, Miss Murphy?”

“I want you and Officer Yates to move Mister Harker’s grandson by marriage from his present holding area to my yacht, Aisling,” Kathleen said quietly, “. . . sooner done the better. I’ll see to it that you’re both properly compensated for your trouble.”

“Thank you, Miss Murphy.”

“I . . . trust you have a plausible story to cover your arse when he’s reported missing?”

“Absolutely, Ma’am,” Johnny-Boy said with a wry grin. “When they question Yates ‘n me, we’ll tell ‘em that we had a couple o’ beers with Mister Magruder, then went our separate ways.”

“Excellent. Is there anything else?”

“No, Ma’am.”

“You . . . must forgive me for not seein’ you and your partner out proper, Officer Brady, but we ARE in the midst of an important meeting,” Kathleen said.

“Quite alright, Miss Murphy. Yates and I can find our own way out,” Johnny-Boy quickly assured her.

“It appears you have the luck of the Irish working for you, Miss Murphy,” Miss Stephens said, after the police officers had left. “You’ve not only pulled your own ass out of hot water, but you’ve earned yourself a generous bonus as well.”

“You have special plans for this Mister Magruder, Ma’am?” Kathleen ventured, taking due note of the unholy gleam in the eyes of her benefactress.

“Oh yes! I have a special buyer in mind for that particular piece of merchandise . . . a very special buyer,” Miss Stephens said slowly. “He’ll be putting into port . . . should be any day now, given that the moon is almost full and the tides are running high and swift. In the meantime, Miss Murphy, I trust that you WILL do something about your, shall we say, flagging sales?”

“Yes, Ma’am. That I will, Ma’am,” Kathleen agreed, nodding her head vigorously.

“Good. I’ll be in touch, and . . . rest assured, I WILL be watching,” Miss Stephens promised, with a false, reptilian smile.

“It’s been a long time since my brothers and I last shared a table and a couple of beers together . . . . ” Adam silently mused, as he took a sip from the beer mug in hand. “TOO long . . . . ”

He had enjoyed a sumptuous meal with the family . . . .

“ . . . MOST of the family,” he silently amended, remembering that Hop Sing and Candy had opted to take the night off. Hop Sing was off visiting an aunt, uncle, and their eight children, while Candy was having dinner and spending the evening with a young woman he had met a couple days after their arrival.

Pa had reserved a private room at one of San Francisco’s finest restaurants to celebrate the contract Joe had negotiated with Jarboe and Baylor. The entire Cartwright family, including his wife and their two children, Benjy and Dio, were there, as were his in-laws, Eduardo and Dolores di Cordova. Adam smiled, remembering how he had been just as proud of his son and daughter for being on their absolute best behavior as he was of Joe.

After parting company with their father, their sister, and Adam’s wife and children, the brothers had taken in a burlesque show that had just opened . . . something Adam hadn’t done since the day he had asked one Miss Teresa di Cordova to be his wife. He was mildly surprised to discover that while he still greatly appreciated sight of a comely, scantily clad female figure, he didn’t quite share his younger brothers’ excitement. After the show, they had gone to a casino, where he ended up doing surprisingly well at the blackjack table.

The three of them finally ended up at a small dive of a saloon near the waterfront, called Neptune’s Bar.

“Adam?”

“Say, Adam . . . . ”

“Yooo-hooo . . . anybody home in there?!”

The sound of his brothers’ voices, and Hoss’ knuckles, gentle yet playful, rapping the top of his head brought Adam’s thoughts back to present time and place. Glancing up, he saw Joe standing behind the chair he had occupied for the better part of the last hour, with his arm wrapped possessively around the trim waist of a voluptuous woman with long, silky light brown hair.

“Belle Donna and I are off, OLDER Brothers,” Joe announced with a big, smug triumphant grin. He gently drew the woman’s arm through the crook of his and patted her hand for emphasis. “A piece of advice if I may?”

“ . . . and what might that be?” Adam inquired wryly, with left eyebrow slightly upraised.

“Don’t wait up,” Joe replied. “I’m not likely to be back until VERY late . . . long PAST the bedtime of you, ummm . . . OLDER folks?”

Adam gallantly refrained from stating that while he and his wife might be turning in early by his youngest brother’s reckoning, in all likelihood, they wouldn’t be going right to sleep.

“All I gotta say is . . . you got no room t’ talk ‘bout Li’l Sister not havin’ proper respect for her elders,” Hoss immediately retorted. “No room at all!”

“Well . . . you know what they say, Hoss . . . . ” Adam drawled, “what GOES around COMES around?”

“Y’ gotta point there, Adam,” Hoss agreed with a chuckle.

“You just be careful tonight, Joe,” Adam said, turning serious.

“Not to worry, Adam,” Joe said complacently, as he patted his chest just above the location of the inside pocket of his jacket.

“I wasn’t thinking about that,” Adam returned. “I was thinking more in terms with what almost happened to our old friend, Roscoe.”

“Aww fer---!!!” Joe groaned, while sarcastically rolling his eyes heavenward. “Adam, I’m NOT some green kid anymore,” he curtly reminded his oldest brother, “and I’m well able to take care of myself, thank you very much.”

“You g’won . . . have yourself a good time,” Hoss quickly interjected. “After that sweet deal you got us with Jarboe ‘n Baylor . . . you deserve it.”

“You sure you don’t wanna come along, Hoss?” Joe asked. “I’m sure Belle Donna here can scare up a friend for you, too . . . . ”

“I sure can, Honey,” Belle Donna assured Hoss with a big smile.

“Thanks for the offer, Miss, but I’d best not,” Hoss declined, flinching away from her open, frank appraisal of his physical being. “I got some business o’ my own t’ take care of in the mornin’, ‘n I need t’ be sharp.”

“Your loss, Big Brother,” Joe quipped. “See ya.”

“Well, Big Brother . . . how much do you want to bet we won’t see Joe ‘til the dawn’s early light?” Adam queried wryly, his eyes glued to Joe’s and Belle Donna’s retreating backs as the pair made their way through the crowded room toward the door.

“Forget it, Adam,” Hoss immediately returned. “I may not be the smartest fella that ever came down t’ pike, but I sure ain’t dumb enough t’ bet with ya on what time our baby brother’s gonna make it back in the mornin’.”

Adam finished what remained of his beer and set his mug down on the table before him. “Not much of a baby anymore, is he?” he observed wistfully.

Hoss slowly wagged his head back and forth, chuckling softly. “Nope.”

“You . . . find that amusing?!” Adam asked, favoring his older, bigger brother with a puzzled frown.

“No, I don’t find THAT funny,” Hoss replied. “YOU’RE the one who’s kinda put a smile on my face.”

The scowl on Adam’s face deepened. “Me?!”

“Yeah, Oldest Brother . . . YOU,” Hoss replied. “The way you said that about Joe not bein’ much of a baby anymore . . . y’ sounded the exact same way PA does when HE talks about Li’l Joe not bein’ so li’l anymore . . . or about our li’l sister finishin’ up her schoolin’ ‘bout this time next year.”

“I must confess to thinking about Benjy not being a little boy anymore either since we celebrated his eleventh birthday a few months ago,” Adam sighed. “He’s almost as tall as his mother now . . . . ”

“I saw,” Hoss murmured softly, “ ‘n he ain’t even had his growth spurt yet.” He brought the mug in had up to his lips and swallowed what little beer remained in a single gulp. “Benjy’s gonna be a tall man . . . like you ‘n me.”

“I don’t think he’ll end up as tall as you, Hoss, but at the rate he’s going, I won’t be surprised if he winds up a couple of inches taller than me,” Adam replied.

“He’s quite a boy, Adam,” Hoss murmured softly.

“Yes, he is,” Adam agreed with a proud smile, “and well on his way to being quite a young man.”

“Nothin’ like havin’ a couple o’ young’ns around t’ remind ya that you ain’t what folks call a young spring chicken anymore,” Hoss remarked.

“Not that I NEED Benjy and Dio to remind me I’m not so young as I used to be,” Adam said wryly. “I don’t know about YOU, Big Brother, but speaking for myself, THIS not-so-young-man’s ready to call it a night.”

Hoss grinned. “I’m ready t’ call it a night, too, Adam,” he replied. “Like I told Joe, I gotta business meetin’ o’ my own in the mornin’, ‘n I’ve really gotta be on my toes.”

“I thought your meeting was with that Quaker lady . . . I can’t recall her name . . . . ”

“Prudence Jessup . . . Lafe’s wife.”

“The man you’ve been buying the wild ones from?” Adam asked.

Hoss nodded. “Lafe died . . . I think it’s been almost TWO years now,” he said somberly. “Prudence said he was thrown off a horse he’d been tryin’ t’ break, ‘n was killed instantly.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Adam said quietly. “That first time we met him . . . when those wild mares of his galloped into the yard . . . he was a real rough, tough, no-nonsense sort of man, but from some of the things you told me, his wife and family helped mellow him out a little . . . . ”

Hoss grinned. “Yeah . . . I guess y’ might say that, if’n ya think changin’ from a real, ornery, stubborn, bad-tempered cuss to a stubborn ol’ mule ‘s an improvement.”

Adam shook his head in wonderment of it all. “She seemed such a quiet, mild mannered, even-tempered woman . . . like Regina Darien.” A nostalgic half smile played across his lips. “Remember HER, Hoss?”

“Yeah . . . I remember her,” Hoss replied, “but Prudence Jessup ‘n Regina Darien are different as night ‘n day, Adam. Don’t you ever doubt for one minute Prudence never gave ol’ Lafe back as good as she got. She can be every bit as ornery, stubborn, ‘n bad tempered as that late husband o’ hers, if’n she’s of a mind . . . ‘n that lady’s a real shrewd business woman t’ boot. THAT’S why I gotta be sharp in the mornin’.”

“Well, Big Brother . . . to be completely up front and honest? I’m anxious to get back to our hotel, too,” Adam admitted. “One more for the road? I’ll buy . . . . ”

Hoss grinned. “THAT bein’ the case . . . I’ll have a beer.”

Adam rose. “Be right back,” he promised, then set off toward the bar, which, much to his chagrin was surrounded by a crowd of men three deep. All except for a large, empty spot at the other end. A smug, Mona Lisa smile slowly spread its way across his lips, as he silently congratulated himself for his smarts.

“ ‘Evenin’, Mister,” the bartender drawled. “What can I getcha?”

“A couple of beers,” Adam replied.

The bartender stepped back and gave Adam a critical once over. Though not a young spring chicken anymore, he looked healthy enough. “Couple o’ beers, eh?” he said, before nodding his head and coughing three times.

“That’s what I said,” Adam affirmed, puzzled by the man’s intense scrutiny of his person. “A couple of bee— ”

The rest ended in a scream, of shock and surprise, as the eldest of Ben Cartwright’s offspring suddenly found himself in free fall. He splashed down into seawater below. Three large, burley men, attired in black slacks, black and white stripped shirts, and black jackets, immediately fished Adam out of the water.

“Thanks, I’m much obliged to you,” Adam said gratefully, relieved to be standing with both feet planted on terra firma, despite being soaking wet.

“Think nothin’ of it, M’ Good Man,” the biggest of his rescuers replied. His voice carried a faint trace of New England. “A man can’t be too careful now-a-days.”

“Nope!” a second man said. “Can’t be too careful at all, what with these shanghai-ers out on the loose.”

“Well, I for one think it’s DISGRACEFUL!” the biggest man said, shaking his head. “I mean what’s this world comin’ to when a man don’t feel safe no more when he goes out at night to a saloon f’r a few drinks?!”

“What indeed!” Adam agreed. “I AM grateful for your timely rescue. Tell you what! Why don’t we go back to the saloon up there, collect my brother, then take our patronage elsewhere? The least I can do is buy you fellas a couple of beers to say thank you.”

The biggest man nodded, then coughed three times.

Adam groaned as the third man, standing directly behind him, hit him over the head with a billy club. The biggest man caught Adam, as he pitched forward, and hefted him up over his shoulder like a sack of flour.

“Pickin’s is gettin’ a mite slim, from the looks o’ things,” the second man observed, upon taking due note of Adam’s graying hair, his receding hairline, and the beginnings of a middle aged spread around the waistline.

“He may not be as young as he usta be, but from the looks o’ things, he’s kept himself well,” the biggest man said.

“Young . . . NOT-so-young . . . who cares?” demanded the man with billy club still in hand. “The important things is . . . he’s a warm body. That’s all ol’ Cut-Throat Katie cares about . . . . ”



“More whiskey, Sugar?”

Joe immediately shook his head. “I’ve had more ‘n enough already, Donna Belle, I mean Bell Don . . . uhhh . . . Bella, no! Belle! Belle . . . Don . . . nuh.” He flashed her a lopsided grin. “There! I got id right.”

“You sure did, Cowboy,” Belle Donna chirped, as she refilled his glass. “You . . . said you was on vacation . . . didn’t you?”

“Yeah . . . . ”

“Well there’s no such thing as too much whiskey for a man who’s on vacation,” she said firmly.

“Y’ know somethin’, Honey, y’r absho . . . ab-so-lute-ly . . . right. To vacations.” Joe raised his glass.

“To vacations.” Belle Donna raised her own glass and lightly touched his.

After parting company with his older brothers, Joe had gone with Belle Donna to a small dive known as ‘Frisco Frannie’s . . . .


A near opaque smoky, gray haze hung heavy in the air just above their heads, reeking of the telltale aroma of cheap cigar and pipe tobacco. Most of the customers were sailors or women, politely referred to as “ladies of the night.” Belle Donna nodded to the bartender, a short, thin man, with a wiry muscular frame, then steered Joe toward the back of the establishment and seated him at a secluded table, half hidden by deep shadow . . . .

“The whiskey’s the best, Sugar, but stay real clear of the ladies,” she warned, sotto voce, as they sat down. “Otherwise, you could end up takin’ home a real nasty souvenir, if you get my meanin’?!” She shuddered delicately.

“I do indeed,” Joe replied.

“ ‘Evenin’, Belle.” It was the bartender. “Who’s your new friend?”

“This here’s Mister Joe Cartwright, from Virginia City, Neeee-va-duh,” Belle Donna cheerfully made introductions. “Joe, this is Pete.”

“Good meetin’ ya, Joe. What can I getcha?”

“A bottle o’ your best whiskey, Pete,” Joe ordered, his words slurring ever so slightly, “and two glasses.”

Belle Donna nodded her head, then discreetly coughed three times.

“Gotcha! A bottle o’ the best, comin’ right up . . . . ”


Joe’s initial opinion of the whiskey passing for the best ‘Frisco Frannie’s had to offer was, that it wasn’t anywhere near as good as the rotgut Sam served up at the Silver Dollar Saloon back home. Belle Donna had solemnly assured him that taste for this particular brand of very fine whiskey was an acquired. Now that they had polished off two bottles of the stuff, and nearly a third, Joe was just beginning to see the wisdom of her words.

“ . . . uhhh . . . Belle Donna?”

“Yeah, Joe?” she purred in response.

“I think I’m gonna hafta call id a night,” Joe drawled, his words slurring. “I . . . all uh sudden I’m so sleepy, I can’ keep m’ eyes open . . . . ” His words ended in a soft sigh, before his head dropped down onto the table.

Two men immediately materialized from the deep shadows. One of them took the insensate Joe Cartwright gently by the shoulders and leaned him back in his chair. Joe snorted, but did not waken.

“He’ll do,” the taller of the two men declared with a smile. “A bit on the short side, but strong. His muscles are like rocks. Good work, Belle.”

“Don’t f’rget my commission, Boys,” she said, holding out her hand.

The tall man reached into the his pants pocket and withdrew a large wad of bills. He peeled several from the top and placed them into Belle Donna’s outstretched hand. “Here ya go, Belle Donna, and there’s plenty more t’ be had.”

“Pleasure doin’ business with ya, Boys,” Belle Donna said as she stuffed the bills into the front of her low cut bodice. “Ya’d best haul Sleepin’ Beauty out the back, though. That man’s back . . . . ” she shuddered, “an’ he’s been nosin’ around with a vengeance.”

“Tall, thin older guy?” the other man asked.

“Yeah . . . . ”

“Y’ needn’t worry none about HIM, Miss Belle Donna,” the other man assured her with confidence. “His name’s Cartwright . . . ‘n HE’S in the business, same as us.”

“You sure? I had ‘im pegged for bein’ some kinda cop,” Belle Donna observed with a perplexed frown.

“Yer half right,” the tall man said. “He IS one o’ whut’s known as ‘Frisco’s finest . . . but he, ummm . . . does a bit o’ moonlightin’ on the side?”

“The city don’t pay its boys in blue all that well,” the other man solemnly added. “just ask ol’ Johnny-Boy Brady ‘n that young partner o’ his, Paddy Yates.”

The scowl already present on Belle Donna’s face deepened. “Who’re THEY?” she asked.

“A couple o’ Frisco’s finest who work for ol’ Cut-Throat Kate on the side,” the tall man replied.

“This Cartwright fella work f’r Cut-Throat Kate, too?”

“He’s had dealin’s with her here ‘n there, but I think he’s in business for himself,” the other man replied.

“Doin’ quite well, too, from what all I can see,” the tall man added, his voice filled with a grudging respect, “but, sooner or later, same’s gonna happen t’ HIM what happens t’ ALL free lancers these days . . . . ”

“ . . . uhhh, whut’s that?” Belle Donna asked warily.

“One mornin’, some unsuspectin’ wharf rat’s gonna find that poor sap lyin’ face down in t’ sea, with the waves bangin’ his head against the wharf pilin’s, if ya get m’ meanin’?” the tall man replied. “IF he’s lucky . . . . ”

“Yeah,” the other man added. “The BIG boss . . . the one Cut-Rate Joe . . . Down ‘n Dirty Davy Jones . . . ‘n even the likes o’ Cut-Throat Kate gotta answer t’ . . . don’t like Cartwright musclin’ into ‘is territory.”

Belle Donna shuddered.



“Well howdy there, Stranger. You here on business or for pleasure?”

Ben turned and glanced up. A big smile slowly spread across his lips upon finding himself staring up into the smiling face of his nephew. “Will? William John Cartwright, is that really you?”

“In the flesh, big as life and twice as ugly,” Will declared with a bold grin. He had actually aged very well, despite his assertions to the contrary. Though his hair had, for the most part, still remained the same rich dark brown color, the gray around the temples lent him a distinguished air. He had dropped a few pounds since Ben last saw him. His leaner frame and his naturally straight posture gave him a regal bearing, wholly absent in his younger days. He had also lost very little of his physical strength, judging from his firm handshake.

“Sit down, please,” Ben invited. “I was about to order myself another beer. Can I get YOU anything?”

“Not right now, Uncle, thank you. I just finished having supper a few moments ago . . . in the company of a very lovely, very charming young lady,” Will replied, with a smile.

This last came as no news to Ben. His nephew, like his father before him, had always had an appreciative eye for the attractive female. “Will, how have you been?”

“Doing quite well for myself,” Will replied, as he seated himself in the chair on Ben’s right.

“So I see,” Ben replied, noting the quality material in a suit that had almost certainly been custom made, judging from its exact fit.

“I started working for the police department a short time after Laura and Peggy Dayton joined me here,” Will said. “Laura let it be known that she wasn’t going to put up with my being away on sea voyages that can last anywhere between one and three years. Between you and me, though, I think Aunt Lil put her up to it, but I couldn’t fault her reasoning. So I left the sea and took a job with the San Francisco Police Department.”

“I’m . . . sorry things didn’t work out between you and Laura.”

“I had and still have very mixed feelings about Laura, and the two of us calling off our engagement,” Will said quietly. “I absolutely adored that childlike quality about her, but she was clingy, Uncle Ben . . . VERY clingy . . . almost to the point of suffocation.”

“Adam made the same observation on a number of occasions, especially after he’d asked her to marry him,” Ben replied. “Laura’s always been a troubled woman, and marriage to a man like Frank Dayton . . . . ” He sighed and rolled his eyes.

“Adam told me everything she had apparently told HIM about her marriage to Frank . . . to give me an idea what I was letting myself in for, I think.” Will leaned closer and lowered his voice. “To be up front and honest, I WAS dismayed at the prospect of the physical aspects of marriage being pretty much non-existent . . . at least in the beginning, but I LOVED her and was prepared to see that she had the help and support she needed to work through those problems.”

“What finally happened between you and Laura?” Ben asked.

“For the better part of a year, we’d set a wedding date, then postpone it a week or two later for one thing or another. Then . . . out of the clear blue, Laura told me she wanted to END our engagement,” Will replied. “I was flabbergasted! We hadn’t quarreled. She CLAIMED she still loved me, but she wanted to end our engagement.”

“Did she give you a reason, Will?” Ben probed gently.

“None that made any sense,” Will said. “I asked her if we might remain friends. Laura told me she didn’t want to see me anymore. I was hurt, Uncle Ben, but I also felt a sense of . . . of profound RELIEF, as if a heavy weight had suddenly been removed from my shoulders. When I said my final good-byes, I think I actually regretted leaving PEGGY more than I regretted leaving Laura.”

“Adam did, too.”

“You ever hear from them?”

“We’ve been corresponding with PEGGY pretty regularly for the past year,” Ben replied. “She’s living in Sacramento now, with her daughter.”

Will smiled. “She’s married.”

“No,” Ben shook his head. “Not now.”

A look of sad dismay crossed Will’s face. “Widowed?”

“Divorced.”

“Oh?”

Ben told Will all that had happened concerning Laura, Peggy, and Aunt Lil the year before, beginning with the morning, Peggy was found sleeping on a mound of straw in an empty stall in the Cartwrights’ barn.

“Dear God, Ben!” Will’s complexion had turned noticeably pale. “Peggy’s husband was Brett van Slyke?!”

“Yes.”

“Bad business!” Will declared, shaking his head. “Very bad business! The younger van Slyke come down with a terrible bout of influenza a number of years ago, when an epidemic hit the city. He was sick for a long time, comatose, running very high fevers. He almost died, according to all the accounts in the society gossip columns. Between you and me, Uncle . . . I think it might’ve been kinder all the way around if he HAD. When he came out of that coma, well . . . to say he was never the same understates the case.

“I’d heard that his mental condition deteriorated some over the years, but I had no idea as to the extent of things until a barmaid named Rosemary O’Malley turned up brutally murdered. I . . . I was one of the police inspectors assigned to investigate that case, Uncle. I’ve . . . well, let’s just say I’ve seen plenty of examples of what man’s capable of inflicting on his fellows the years I spent wandering and the years I’ve worked with the police department here. But Miss O’Malley . . . NOTHING could have prepared me for the sight of Miss O’Malley’s body after the younger van Slyke got through with her.”

“I was pretty horrified myself when I read the newspaper accounts of her murder,” Ben said soberly. “A friend of mine sent them. He works as a reporter for the Tribune.”

“Then you can appreciate how infuriated I was . . . all of us were, especially those of us who worked on the case and saw things first hand,” Will continued with a touch of bitterness. “We had enough good, solid evidence against Brett van Slyke to send him to the gallows, or at the very least, put him away for life. Unfortunately, his family had enough money in their petty cash fund to bribe a couple of judges, call in on a few of the many favors our police chief at the time felt he owed ‘em, to not only get that murderin’ son-of-a-bitch off, but to have Miss O’Malley’s death ruled a suicide.”

“I read about THAT, too, Will, in the articles a friend of mine sent me.”

“Damn!” Will muttered angrily under his breath. “What in the hell was Lil thinking of when she brokered Peggy’s marriage to that monster? She HAD to have known what the score was.”

“She did. There’s no doubt at all in my mind.”

“Then WHY—?!”

“Money. Lil was in desperate need of it.”

“What?!” Will sputtered, angry and incredulous. “H-How could THAT be?! Lil’s a wealthy woman, Uncle Ben.”

“Lil . . . WAS . . . a wealthy woman, Will,” Ben said with rancor. “Peggy told us her great aunt went through all the money she inherited from her second husband in less than a year. She was flat broke by the time Laura broke her engagement with you, and moved into Lil’s tiny apartment with Peggy.”

“That poor kid!” Will murmured ruefully. “I was afraid something like this might happen.”

“Will, what happened to Peggy WASN’T your fault,” Ben said immediately. “I hope you know that.”

“I do, it’s just . . . . ” Will looked up and peered earnestly into his uncle’s face. “Let me ask you something. Have you ever sized up a person, along with his or her circumstances . . . and KNOWN something terrible could happen, but there was nothing YOU could do to prevent it?”

Ben nodded. “It’s happened to me many times in the course of raising three sons and a daughter.”

“Lil was in the picture almost from the minute Laura and Peggy arrived to join me here,” Will said. “I had no idea she was broke, but I found out real quick how greedy and voracious she was. I’m sure you’ve run into the type. No matter what they have, they always want more.”

“Yes, I’ve certainly encountered plenty of men . . . and women, too, who were like that.” Charles Augustus Hackett immediately came to mind. Unlike Lil Manfred, he, at least, had come to see that his greed was destroying him, and perhaps the only person left in his life who truly cared about him.

“When I told Laura and Peggy good-bye, I’d hoped that should Lil try any of her shenanigans with Peggy that Laura would step in and protect her,” Will said sadly. “Seems I was terribly wrong.”

“Try not to blame Laura too much, Will. Peggy doesn’t. She told me herself that no matter what her mother had done, or maybe more to the point, what her mother HADN’T done, she could never bring herself to hate her.”

“How very generous of Peggy,” Will observed sardonically.

“Will . . . I’m sure you’ve seen flowers grown in a hot house,” Ben said.

“Of course,” Will replied. “They’re beautiful . . . many are quite exotic, and I’ve seen some of them grow to be quite large.”

“But, they’re not hardy,” Ben said. “Take ‘em OUT of the hothouse, they more often than not die very quickly.”

“What’s this got to do with Laura?” Will asked.

“I’ve always seen Laura as a hot house flower,” Ben replied, “not exotic perhaps, but certainly every bit as beautiful. Will . . . . ”

“Yes, Uncle?”

“I firmly believe that every one of us . . . at one time or another . . . must struggle, whether it be physically to survive, agonizing over a hard set of choices, or overcoming things within us that keep us from leading full lives,” Ben said quietly. “Laura . . . never had that chance.”

“What do you mean?”

Ben nodded. “Her father, Abe Ryan, was a widower with four children when he married her mother, Mary Anne. Abe’s first wife, Alicia, had very few problems in having children, but poor Mary Anne suffered through at least a half dozen or so miscarriages and two babies still born, before Laura finally came.

“Mary Anne was so terrified of losing Laura . . . well to say that she was overly protective almost makes light of the matter. She saw to it her daughter was kept sheltered and well protected against what she saw to be the evils in this world. Mary Anne pampered her . . . spoiled her terribly more often than not . . . and saw to it that Laura never lacked or wanted for anything. Mary Anne also made all of Laura’s decisions for her for fear that she would make the wrong one and end up suffering terribly because of it. Unfortunately, Abe and the older children got themselves caught up Mary Anne’s obsession to keep Laura safe.

“The end result? An adult woman completely unable to fend for herself, make her own choices, stand up for what she feels is right . . . or protect those she loves . . . even to this day.”

“All because she was never given the chance to struggle,” Will said thoughtfully.

“I believe so.”

“Uncle Ben?”

“Yes, Will?

“What finally happened to Laura?”

“She’s living out in Colorado with her older sister, Marian.”

“Pa?” Stacy’s return from the black jack table drew brought all conversation about Laura Dayton and Peggy van Slyke to a close. “Who’s your friend?”

Will and Ben both rose to their feet. “Stacy,” the latter said, “this is your first cousin, Will Cartwright.”

“So, YOU’RE the picture in that double frame with Pa’s brother.” Stacy smiled and held out her hand.

“Guilty as charged, if much older now AND a lot grayer,” Will said, favoring his young cousin with his most charming smile. He gently took her hand in his and gallantly raised it to his lips. “I’m very pleased to finally meet you, Cousin. Uncle Ben’s told me a lot about you in his letters.”

“Uh oh! I hope SOME of it was good.”

“ALL good,” Will assured her as the three of them sat down, “and a lot of it very interesting.”

“So how did you do at the black jack table?” Ben asked.

“I, uuhhh hope you’re not going to be TOO upset with me, Pa . . . . ”

“You didn’t do anything foolish like gamble away your share of the Ponderosa, did you?”

“No . . . . ”

“How much did you loose?”

“Actually, I won.”

A smile, not without a generous dose of parental pride, slowly spread across Ben’s lips. “That’s wonderful! How much did you win?” he asked, figuring she had just made a few extra dollars spending money.

Stacy cast a quick, furtive glance over her shoulder, then leaned in very close. “I won two thousand dollars, Pa,” she said, taking great care to keep her voice low.

“What?!”

“I SAID I won— ”

“I know what you SAID, Young Woman.”

“The dealer told me I broke the bank.” She cast a dark angry glare in the general direction of the black jack table. “He LIED to me, Pa . . . as you can see.”

“Yes, I CAN see that.”

“A big win like that’s quite an accomplishment, Cousin,” Will observed, his ingratiating smile never wavering. “Mind giving ME a few tips?”

“Not much to it, actually,” Stacy replied. “Here, unlike back home, the dealer deals his own cards up. Its just a matter of keeping track of what’s been played.”

“I see. Well, Uncle Ben, I think the GOOD news is . . . Cousin Stacy’s going to find out the bank’s broken at . . . oohh, I’d say just about every last black jack table in San Francisco for the remainder of the time you’re here.”

Stacy frowned. “How can THAT be?” she demanded.

“It’s like this, Cousin. You’ve earned just yourself a very bad reputation among the gambling establishments in this town,” Will blithely explained.

“How? I didn’t cheat . . . honest, Pa! I didn’t!”

“I’ve afraid what YOU’VE done is WORSE than cheating . . . a LOT worse, in the eyes of black jack dealers everywhere.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve been branded a card counter,” Will replied, “though I’m frankly surprised they’d catch on so quickly given your youth and that you’re, shall we say, of the FEMALE persuasion?”

“That’s NOT fair!” Stacy growled.

“Speaking for myself, Young Woman, I’m very happy with the way things turned out, because I’m NOT raising you, or your brothers either, to be professional gamblers,” Ben said sternly. “As for your winnings— ”

“I know, Pa. They go into the bank in the same account as my OTHER winnings.”

“Her OTHER winnings, Uncle Ben?” Will queried, thoroughly amused.

“Last summer, she correctly predicted the outcome of what’s become known back home in Virginia City as the Wedding of the Century,” Ben explained, “and ended up winning five thousand dollars on a single dollar bet. It’s a long story, Will. Long and very complicated.”

“Oh yes. I remember Adam writing to me about that. You SURE you’re not raising at least one professional gambler?”

“I’d better NOT be,” Ben said, directing a meaningful glare in his daughter’s general direction. “Will, I hate cutting our visit short, but I think Stacy and I had best head back to the hotel. The sooner I get her winnings safely locked away in the hotel safe, the better I’m going to feel.”

“How about I tag along?” Will offered. “I’ll have a chance to visit with you and my delightful and very interesting young cousin . . . . ” He turned to Stacy, winked, then smiled, “ . . . and with the money you two are carrying around, two guns beat one anytime.”



“Sure I can’t pour ya another drink, Honey?” Starbryte held the whiskey bottle in hand, poised above Candy’s glass, ready to pour.

“No thank you, Miss Starbryte with a ‘y’!” Candy declined, placing his hand over his empty glass for emphasis.

“But, Caaaandeeee . . . we can’t let this go to waste,” Starbryte whined, as she stared in utter dismay at the whiskey bottle, nearly two-thirds full.

“Please . . . help yourself,” Candy said, then, as an afterthought, pointedly added, “I’ve already had two glasses to your ONE.”

Starbryte quickly averted her gaze from his face, with that cocky grin and that sharp, knowing look in his eyes. “Then . . . maybe we oughtta just . . . . ” she shrugged, “ . . . call it a night?”

“Yeah, maybe we should at that,” Candy agreed. “I DO have to get up early tomorrow morning.”

“ . . . uhhh, Candy?”

“Hmmm?”

“Would you mind seeing me home?” she asked. “It ain’t far, but y’ know how it is . . . a gal can’t be too careful.”

“How about I pay your cab fare?” Candy suggested without missing a beat.

“That’d be fine . . . ‘cept they don’t run cabs in this part o’ town,” Starbryte immediately responded.

“How convenient. Where do you live?”

“Not far. Just a couple o’ blocks from here.”

Candy shrugged with an air of supreme indifference. “Alright, Miss Starbryte. I’ll see you home.”

“ ‘ey, Mister,” a grizzled old salt, seated at the next table, reached out and grabbed Candy’s arm as he passed by. “Y’ didn’t finish yur drink.” His eyes moved pointedly to the bottle in Candy’s hand.

“Shame to let it go to waste. Here!” Candy set the bottle down on the table in front of the old man. “Drink it in good health!”

“Bless ya, Sonny. Bless ya!”

“The pleasure’s all mine, Sir.” Candy favored the old man with a grin and a wink before following Starbryte out of the saloon.

Outside, Starbryte gasped with an exaggerated melodrama that prompted a soft long suffering sigh and a sardonic roll of the eyes heavenward from her companion. “It’s such a delightful night!” she observed, as she slipped her arm through the crook of his. “Clear sky with millions ‘n millions o’ stars . . . the moon almost full . . . say, uuuuhh . . . Candy?”

“Hmmm?”

“Can we go down and walk along the water?”

“You told me your home is back THAT way,” Candy reminded her in a wry tone, pointing with his thumb in the opposite direction.

“It is,” she reluctantly admitted, “but with the moon so big and round . . . I’ll betcha anything it looks real pretty down by the water.”

“I’m sure it does.”

“Don’t you wanna SEE it?!”

“Not tonight, Miss Starbryte,” Candy declined. “I WAS telling the truth when I said I had to get up early tomorrow morning.”

“But . . . you told me you was on vacation,” she pouted. “I KNOW you did!”

“My employer’s combining business with pleasure,” Candy explained. “He has a few early appointments tomorrow morning and he expects ME to get him there.”

“Please, Candy?” Starbryte wheedled. “Pretty please? We won’t walk far . . . I promise!”

“No.”

“Caaann-deeee . . . . ” she groaned, “where’s your spirit of adventure?”

“Fast asleep,” Candy replied, “which is were I need to be since I— ”

“Yeah, yeah . . . I know,” Starbryte murmured, punctuating her words with a disparaging sigh. “You have to get up early tomorrow.”

“That’s riiii-iiiight,” Candy affirmed, with an impish grin.

“Oooohhh! You have the romantic soul of a . . . a . . . of a slug!” Starbryte declared, stamping her foot in a sudden burst of temper.

“A slug, eh?” He shrugged. “I’ve been called worse . . . . ”

“Ohhh . . . I’m sorry, Candy,” she apologized, all sweetness and light once again. “ . . . ummm, think, maybe, we could just go down to the docks and just LOOK at the moon? We don’t hafta walk anywhere . . . and we’d only stay for a couple of minutes . . . .”

“Alright!” Candy reluctantly acquiesced. “But only for a couple of minutes.”

The pair walked the short distance down to the wharf in silence. Candy took due note of the only ship docked, a small yacht named Aisling. A man, roughly the same size and shape as Hoss, paced back and forth in front of Aisling’s gangplank, with billy club in hand. Apart from him and themselves, the dock appeared to be deserted.

“Look, Candy! There’s the moon!” Starbryte eagerly pointed toward the near round orb, now hanging low in the western sky. “Isn’t that beautiful the way its reflection dances on the water?”

“Yes, it IS lovely,” Candy agreed.

“Can we walk? Please? Not far . . . just a little?”

“No.”

“Caaan-deeeee . . . . ”

“Starbryte . . . Sweetheart . . . . ” Candy began, his voice carrying a bare trace of the impatience steadily rising within him, “ . . . you can walk any where your li’l ol’ heart desires . . . all night long, if you’re of a mind . . . . ”

“Thank you, Candy!” she gushed, taking firm hold of his arm. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

“ . . . but you go all by your lonesome,” Candy said, as he pointedly peeled her hand off his arm one long, elegant finger at a time.

“Oh, Candy . . . please? Pretty pl— ”

No.” He rudely cut her off. “I promised you I’d see ya home, Little Miss Starbryte with a y . . . and I will. But we go now.”

“Candy . . . . ”

“I mean it, Starbryte.”

“Oooohhhh . . . alright!” she reluctantly agreed, sparing no pains to conceal her annoyance. She nodded her head, then raised her hand to her mouth.

Candy’s arm shot out with all the deadly swiftness of a striking rattlesnake. He seized Starbryte’s dainty wrist in his big, well-muscled hand and pulled it well away from her mouth.

“HEY! LEGGO, YOU BIG BULLY!” she screamed, outraged and highly indignant. “YOU’RE HURTING ME!”

“What?! Let you go so you can signal your cohorts, Miss Starbryte?” Candy said sardonically. “Unh UNH!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she retorted in a tone of voice lofty and condescending.

“I think you DO,” Candy countered, once again with that smug, all-knowing grin.

“You callin’ me a liar?”

“Hey! Honey, if the shoe fits— ” Candy’s words ended in an indignant bellow, as two big, beefy arms wrapped themselves tight around his neck and shoulders, and his waist, like a pair of hungry boa constrictors.

“You cooperate with us, Cowboy, no one gets hurt,” a second man, tall and lean, said in a smooth, oily tone as he stepped out of the dark shadows. He wore a maroon, three-piece evening suit, a pink silk shirt with ruffled collar, and a thin layer of ruffle poking out beyond the sleeve of his jacket. He had a single gold loop earring through one ear, and he wore rings on three fingers out of four on each hand. Candy noted that the rings appeared to be of fine quality, well constructed, with large brilliant stones, set in gold.

“Sorry, Mister Fancy Pants . . . . ”

The thin man, whom Candy had just addressed as Mister Fancy Pants, bristled against the insult. His thick blonde eyebrows came together to form a dark, murderous scowl. “The name is Lyon. Edward Lyon. MISTER Lyon to the likes of YOU, Cowboy . . . soon to be a sailor.”

“You look more like a DANDY Lyon to ME, Friend,” Candy said sardonically, with a big wide insolent grin, “and as much as I really appreciate your, ummm very generous offer, I’ll have to turn it down. I’m afraid I get sea sick just THINKING about those rolling decks.” With that, he gritted his teeth and drove his elbow deep into the plush abdomen of the man holding on to him with all his might.

The big man roared in pain, outrage, and utter astonishment, as his arms automatically relaxed. Candy easily wriggled out of the man’s less than fond embrace, pivoted, and followed through with a good, hard right cross to the jaw. Before the big man even had a chance to collapse onto the hard, wooden dock, two more men, both young, swift, and muscular emerged from the shadows, converging from both sides. Candy feinted to his right, and grabbed one of the men by the shirt, all in the same, swift fluid motion. Then, seizing advantage of the young man’s forward momentum, he propelled him forward into a head on collision with his compatriot running from the other side. Both collapsed to the dock, completely winded.

“AGGGHHH! STOP HIM!” Starbryte yelled. “STOP HIM! DON’T LET HIM GET AWAY!”

Candy saw Edward Lyon reach for the inside pocket of his jacket. “Oh, no you DON’T,” he muttered, as he quickly ducked his head and charged. He caught Edward square in the chest and sent him sprawling ignobly onto the wooden pier. Before he could recover, Candy seized him by the lapels and hauled him to his feet. He reached into the inside pocket before Edward could even think of stopping him and extracted a small derringer, its handle inlaid with white mother of pearl.

“Hey! Gimme that!” Edward growled, as he lunged.

“Go fetch!” Candy returned, as he lobbed the weapon overhead. It arced high into the black night sky and fell into the sea water beyond. Edward Lyon followed a moment later, hitting the water with a loud, resounding splash. Candy suddenly turned just in time to catch a blur of movement in his peripheral vision. He instinctively sidestepped in the same instant Starbryte swung her handbag, filled to the brim with rocks, missing a blow to the back of his head by a mere fraction of an inch. She swung again, with a loud grunt, as she put all her strength behind it. Candy easily blocked the intended blow, and grabbed hold of the hand clutching the strings of the handbag.

“LEGGO O’ ME, YOU BIG BULLY!” Starbryte screamed, as she struggled to free her hand from Candy’s iron hard grip. “YOU HEAR ME?! YOU LEGGO O’ ME RIGHT NOW THIS VERY INSTANT!”

“So you can slug me over the head with that sack of rocks and sell me to the highest bidding ship’s captain?!” Candy chortled sardonically. “Sorry, Miss Starbryte with a ‘ y’ . . . but I’m perfectly happy making my living as a cowboy, thank you very much.”

Starbryte quickly drew the fingers of her free hand into a small, very tight, rock hard fist and drove it with all her might into Candy’s abdomen. Candy gasped, and instinctively wrapped his arms about his abdomen, releasing his hold on Starbryte. He slowly dropped to his knees, while still clutching his stomach, then rolled over onto his side, instinctively drawing his legs up to protect his aching torso.

With a triumphant scream, Starbryte leapt over Candy’s prostrate form and kicked him hard in the small of his back, eliciting a cry of pain. “HELP ME!” she screamed for her cohorts. “HELP ME! DON’T LET HIM GET AWAY!”

With a soft moan, Candy rolled over onto his back, just in time to see Starbryte pull her leg back, preparing to kick him once again. He pushed himself out of harm’s way with a powerful thrust of his foot, gritting his teeth against his own increasing agony. The sudden movement sideways sent Candy on a collision course with one of the two men, who had a little while ago rushed him from opposite directions, as he was rising very stiffly to his feet. The force of the blow . . . of Candy’s body slamming hard into the man’s shins . . . knocked the man off his feet once again.

“GET UP!” Starbryte screamed. “GET UP! GRAB HIM! HE’S GONNA GET AWAY!”

“Let him,” the man, Candy had just knocked down again, moaned very softly.

“WHAT?!” Starbryte shrieked at the top of her lungs.

“I said, ‘Let him!’ ” her cohort snapped. “Scrapper like that?! By the time we get through sluggin’ it out . . . he’s gonna be seriously damaged goods . . . no use to anybody.”

“What kind of a man ARE you?” Starbryte demanded imperiously.

“A practical one who’s smart enough to know when potential merchandise is more trouble ‘n it’s worth.”

As the argument grew louder, more heated, Candy slowly edged his way into the deep shadows.



Unbeknownst to the combatants, their actions had come under the close scrutiny of three people, two women and a man, standing on the deck of the Aisling. One of the women was Kathleen Murphy, Aisling’s owner. The man, standing next to the rail, dripping wet, was Edward Lyon. He had stripped off his soggy outer garments, and exchanged them for the light cotton blanket, under which he huddled for warmth and shelter from what folks politely refer to as indecent exposure. The woman standing sandwiched between Kathleen Murphy and Edward Lyon was Miss Stephens. She had been watching all that had transpired between Candy, Starbryte, and the man standing beside her on Aisling’s deck very closely from the outset through a pair of opera glasses, trimmed with glittering diamonds.

“ . . . and so, a prime specimen slips right through our fingers like quicksilver,” Miss Stephens angrily groused, as she watched Candy make his escape into the dark shadows. “I have never . . . EVER . . . in my entire LIFE seen such gross incompetence. Who is that woman anyway?”

“I . . . assume you mean the one . . . who . . . was screaming like a banshee . . . at the top o’ her voice?” Kathleen Murphy ventured hesitantly.

“You assume correctly, Miss Murphy.”

“She goes by the name of Starbryte,” Edward Lyon answered in a wry tone, “Starbryte with a ‘y,’ ”

Miss Stephens turned and favored him with a withering glare. “You don’t know her REAL name?”

“Ma’am, I’m sure you’ve been in THIS business long enough to know that no one . . . absolutely NO one goes by his or her given name,” Edward said. “The less we know about each other, the less likely we are to let slip anything to the police . . . if any of us happen to get caught. Those of us who make a living providing ships’ captains with personnel EARN respect by delivering quality goods on a regular basis, by proving him or herself loyal— ”

“Speakin’ of LOYAL . . . Starbryte s’posed t’ be workin’ for ME at the Queen of the Sea Saloon,” Kathleen said, her voice tight with anger. “NOW, it appears the li’l twit’s up ‘n decided t’ go into business for herself . . . on MY turf.” She turned and glared over at Edward. “Mister Lyon . . . so HELP me . . . if I find out you KNOW something about this and haven’t told me— ”

“M-Miss Murphy, I . . . I swear! I c-came to you the minute I f-found out, and . . . and I’ve told you everything I know. EVERYTHING! M-My word ‘n honor!” Edward stammered, flinching away from her intense gaze.

“Right now your word ‘n honor’s not even worth a plugged nickel,” Kathleen growled. “Not twenty minutes ago, you ‘n your associates were workin’ your backsides off, tryin’ t’ help Starbryte, corral that cowboy.”

“I was gathering evidence,” Edward claimed a little too quickly.

“Gathering evidence!” Kathleen snorted derisively. “If THAT was gatherin’ evidence, then I’M Cleopatra, Queen of the Nile.”

“Your Majesty,” Edward mockingly returned, as he bowed before Kathleen with a flourish. “I WAS gathering evidence . . . and once I gathered it, I came here straight away to tell YOU.”

“You’re HERE because Miss Stephens and I happened t’ fish ya out of the drink,” Kathleen returned in a wry, knowing tone of voice. “I’ll keep it in mind that y’ DID tell me about Starbryte decidin’ t’ freelance, but YOU’D do well t’ keep in mind that I’ll be watchin’ ya from here on out . . . like a bloody hawk.”

Edward blanched.

“Miss Murphy, it seem s to me that YOU have two very big problems on your hands,” Miss Stephens said in a tone faintly condescending. “A young JOANIE come lately trying to poach in YOUR forest, as it were . . . as well as the loyalty of a once valued employee coming into question. How do you plan to SOLVE these problems?”

“How would YOU advise, Ma’am?” Kathleen asked in a bland tone of voice, while inwardly bristling against the way ‘Her Royal Highness’ spoke to her as one might speak to a very slow, very dull, very stupid child.

“I would suggest you kill two birds with one stone, Miss Murphy . . . by asking Mister Lyon here to prove his loyalty by ridding you of that bothersome little Miss Starbryte with a ‘y’ . . . PERMANENTLY,” Miss Stephens suggested.

Edward blanched. “Puh-puh-puh . . puh . . . puh . . . permanently?!” he gulped. “As in . . . in . . . . ” He drew his pointing first finger across his throat.

“That’s the only way I know of for getting rid of someone permanently,” Miss Stephens said primly. “The girl’s shown herself to be disloyal, and she’s dreadfully incompetent besides. It’s a wonder all that yelling, screaming, and carrying on didn’t bring the entire police department down on our heads. Then allowing a prime specimen like that cowboy slip to right through her fingers . . . . ” She sighed, then shook her head. “We can’t afford such incompetence.”

“I . . . WILL see that Miss Starbryte is removed from the picture, Ma’am,” Edward promised.

“Permanently,” the Miss Stephens reiterated, enunciating every syllable.



“Dadburn it, what’s takin’ Adam so long?!” Hoss groused, with uncharacteristic impatience. Sure, the place was packed out, worse even than the Silver Dollar back home in Virginia City on a real busy Saturday night . . . and THIS was only Wednesday. He turned to study the teaming mass of humanity, men mostly, with a scant dozen or so barmaids, thronging the bar on all sides, five and six deep. There was no sign whatsoever of Adam.

“Kinda odd the way no one’s standin’ in that spot over there in the far corner,” Hoss mused with a scowl. He remembered charging into another small establishment, very much like this one, the time Pa and two of their hands ended up being shanghaied, and dropping down through a concealed trapdoor in the exact same place as that empty spot on the other side of the bar. “I wonder . . . . ”

“Hey, Honey . . . can I getcha a drink?”

Hoss turned and found the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes on . . . his mother, sister, and good friend, Brunhilda Odinsdottir, excepted . . . standing next to his elbow. Her skin was flawless, on the order of the finest porcelain. She had a trim, narrow waist, with washboard flat stomach, nicely rounded hip, and a pair or generous, well rounded breasts, that reminded Hoss of ripe cantaloupe, set to wondrous advantage by the emerald green dress she wore. “Now where in the world did YOU come from?” he asked, giving her an appreciative once over.

“Oohh, I circulate around,” she said evasively.

“Too bad y’ didn’t circulate over here sooner,” Hoss said, rising. He dug into his pocket and extracted as silver dollar. “Here’s a li’l something for your trouble.” He placed the silver dollar in her palm and gently closed her long, slender fingers around it.

The barmaid stared down at the silver coin lying in the palm of her hand for a long moment. “Mister, I didn’t— ” she glanced up, intending to tell Hoss she hadn’t properly earned the tip, only to find him gone.

Hoss, meanwhile, made his way over toward the bar, toward that big empty place, noting with satisfaction, that most of the folks here were either too drunk or too wrapped up in themselves to pay much attention to his movements. He paused roughly four feet from the bar, to study the flooring beneath his feet. His sharp eyes picked up the nearly invisible line of the trap door almost immediately. Hoss stepped up to the bar, planting both feet on either side of the opening. “Hey, Bartender . . . . ”

The harried little man behind the bar turned at the sound of Hoss’ voice. Aged in his mid-forties, he had gray hair, thinning on top with a fast receding hairline, and a protruding beer belly that rested lightly overtop his belt. He filled two mugs with beer, without spilling nary a drop and set them down on the counter, his eyes never leaving Hoss. After picking up the money for the two beers, he nodded and coughed once. A second bartender stepped out from the back and began to serve the customers

“Good evening, Sir, what can I getcha?” the bartender asked as he reached under the bar.

“Mister, you get both hands right up on this bar where I can see ‘em, or so help me . . . I’m gonna come back there ‘n break every last one o’ your fingers,” Hoss growled in a low voice.

The bartender swallowed nervously. “I . . . I don’t want no trouble, Mister.”

“There WON’T be . . . just as long as ya answer m’ questions ‘n do what I tell ya.”

The bartender nodded, then quickly placed both hands up on the bar.

“I’m looking for my brother, Adam,” Hoss said. “He came up here ‘bout half an hour ago to fetch a couple o’ beers for himself ‘n me.”

“Ain’t seen him,” the bartender quickly snapped out his answer. Too quickly. Hoss’ eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Alright. What’s he look like?”

“He’s ‘bout yea tall . . . . ” Hoss raised his massive hand up to his chin. “He’s got brown eyes, dark brown ‘n gray hair, kinda thin up top ‘n out front. He was also wearin’ a gray suit. He was sittin’ over there . . . at THAT table, with me ‘n another fella. The other fella left, my brother came up here t’ the bar for a couple o’ beers, while I stayed at the table . . . ‘til now. My brother didn’t come back.”

“Sorry, Mister, I . . . I can’t say as I remember him,” the bartender said, again too quickly. Though he gazed upward into Hoss’, face, he never quite met Hoss’ eyes.

Hoss dug into his pants and extracted his wallet. He removed a ten-dollar bill and slapped hit down onto the bar. “Think harder,” he snapped.

“ . . . uuhhh, wearin’ a gray suit y’ said?” the bartender murmured, his eyes dropping to the ten dollar bill.

“Yeah.”

“Well, Mister, I . . . think I do recollect someone lookin’ like him steppin’ up, orderin’ a couple o’ beers. I served him, took his money ‘n . . . he was gone.” The bartender coughed twice.

Hoss glared at the bartender for a long moment. The man knew lots more than he was telling, he was sure of it. “Mister, I’m gonna give ya to the count o’— ”

“Trouble, Sullivan?” A big, burly man, attired in the blue uniform of a foot patrol police officer, stepped up to the bar, and cast a pointed glare in Hoss’ direction.

“Good evenin’, OFFICER Brady,” Sullivan greeted the policeman. “This man’s lookin’ for h-his brother. I tried to tell him, I ain’t seen him— ”

“Come with me, Mister,” Johnny-Boy Brady growled, taking Hoss by the arm.

Hoss very quickly, and very easily snapped his arm out of the Officer Brady’s grip. “I ain’t leavin’ here ‘til I find out what happened t’ my brother.”

“You will either leave with me right now, or I’ll put you under arrest,” Johnny-Boy immediately countered, slapping the billy club in his right hand lightly against the palm of his left for emphasis.

An exasperated sigh exploded from between Hoss’ lips as he surrendered ungraciously to the inevitable, and fell in step alongside the police officer.

“What’s your brother’s name?” the policeman asked, the minute the pair of them had stepped outside.

“Adam Cartwright,” Hoss answered the question tersely. He, then provided the same description he had given the bartender.

“I’ll keep an eye out of him, but I make no promises,” the policeman said. “Alright if I ask you a personal question?”

“You can ask.”

“Did it ever occur to you that maybe this brother of yours WANTED to disappear for a little while?”

“No, Sir, it didn’t.”

“Well maybe you SHOULD think about it,” Johnny-Boy suggested. “San Francisco’s a big city . . . lot’s bigger ‘n most o’ you yokels are used to.”

Hoss bristled inwardly against the insult, but said nothing.

“It happens all the time,” the police officer continued. “Man on holiday, wants a night or two AWAY from the wife ‘n kids, if you, ummmm . . . get my meanin’? So he goes into a bar, and sneaks out the back way. Like I said, it happens all the time. He’ll probably turn up in a couple o’ days, with some feeble, but plausible excuse.”

“Maybe things like that DO happen ‘round here all the time, but my brother, Adam AIN’T that kinda man,” Hoss immediately shot right back, angered by the policeman’s insinuations.

“Ok, whatever . . . suit yourself,” Johnny-Boy said with an indifferent shrug, “as long as you DON’T go back in that saloon. Y’ hear me?”

“I hear ya,” Hoss growled.

“Can I see that ya get somewhere?”

“No thanks, Officer. I can find m’ own way back.”

“Fine. See that you do,” Johnny-Boy said curtly, “and just in case you get any ideas ‘bout goin’ back in there . . . I’M gonna be in there myself. All the way up until closing. Y’ got that?”

“Yeah. I got it,” Hoss returned. He waited until the policeman had gone back into the saloon. “Dadburn it! Nothin’ t’ do now, ‘cept g’won back to the hotel . . . tell PA what happened.” He turned and started to leave.

“Pssst.”

Hoss froze.

“Hoss . . . over here, Friend.”

Frowning, Hoss turned toward the direction from whence the voice issued. “Who’s there?” he growled softly.

“It’s me . . . Candy.” The Ponderosa’s junior foreman staggered out from under the cloaking of the opaque shadows, cast by the buildings, into the silvery light of the full moon above. He stumbled.

Hoss immediately stepped over, and caught Candy, preventing him from taking a nasty tumble onto the ground. “Candy . . . what’re ya doin’ HERE? I thought you was spendin’ the evenin’ with that li’l gal ya met a couple o’ days ago . . . . ” He frowned. “What was her name?”

“Starbryte. With a damned y,” Candy said curtly.

“What happened?” Hoss pressed, upon getting a good hard look at Candy’s bruised face, and split lip. “You . . . get into a fight with her pa or brother maybe?”

“No, her business associates,” Candy replied. “I was almost shanghaied, Hoss. That cute li’l Miss Starbryte’s one of ‘em.”

“That tears it!” Hoss grumbled angrily, just under his breath. “That really tears it!” He silently vowed to return and do the same to that saloon where Adam had disappeared, board by board if necessary. That, however, would have to wait. “C’mon, Candy . . . I’d best take ya back to the hotel ‘n let the doc there fix ya up.”



“Well, Cousin Stacy . . . Uncle Ben, there were six of us on this expedition,” Will Cartwright began his tale, taking great delight in his eager audience of two, especially the younger one of female persuasion.

The three of them had made themselves very comfortable in the hotel lobby, over next to a large, picture window that provided a beautiful view of the city and harbor. Ben and Stacy had taken seats on a plush love seat sized settee, upholstered in a richly hued red velvet, its wood frame painted gold. Will occupied one of the two matching wing back chairs. An ornate silver coffee service sat on the coffee table between them, with three sets of matching, fine porcelain cups and saucers.

“We set sail from New York with the tide bound for the dark and mysterious continent of Africa on a THREE masted schooner under the command of a captain, who happened to be a TWO fisted drinker,” Will continued. “We, ummm could have taken a clipper ship, named the Angeline Slater, but to a man, we all agreed we’d rather go schooner than Slater.”

“Eewww!” Stacy groaned.

“William John Cartwright, that WAS pretty awful,” Ben agreed wholeheartedly, before he and his daughter succumbed to a fit of the giggles.

“We crossed the mighty Atlantic in record time, spending four days aboard ship and five at sea before we finally reached the mouth of the mighty Congo River,” Will picked up the threads of the story as the laughter began to subside. “There where river flows into the sea, our intrepid craft docked and we disembarked in Taw-nee.”

“Taw-nee?!” Stacy echoed, bemused. “Never heard of it.”

“I’VE never heard of Taw-nee either,” Ben said. “Though it pains me to admit it, after all the years I’VE spent sailing the seven seas myself. Is it a big city?”

“No, just a small PORT town,” Will quipped with a wicked grin.

“Cousin Will, that was bad!” Stacy declared, before she and her father dissolved again into gales of laughter.

“We stocked up on supplies there in Taw-nee,” Will continued. “Food, blankets, and a hundred kegs of beer. That last was for medicinal purposes, of course.”

“Of course,” Ben agreed without missing a beat. “Good for what ‘ale’s’ ya.”

“Eewww! Pa, you’re just as bad as HE is,” Stacy grimaced.

“He’s even worse than that,” Will declared with mock severity. “He’s no better than a common thief.”

“He is NOT!” Stacy immediately came to her father’s defense, with an indignant scowl. “Pa never stole a thing in his life.”

“He just stole my punch line!”

“Sorry, Will, I couldn’t resist,” Ben chuckled.

“Oh well . . . nothing to do but grin and ‘beer’ it, Cousin Will,” Stacy added, with an impish grin, “or maybe I should say GIN and beer it.”

“That was pretty bad, too, Young Woman,” Ben laughed. “BOTH of ‘em.”

“To, uummm CONTINUE with my story . . . . ” Will interjected, casting a withering glare at his uncle, then at his young cousin, who responded by sticking out her tongue. “Uncle Ben . . . . ”

“Yes, Will?”

“It appears you’ve been very remiss in teaching this CHILD of yours proper respect for her elders,” Will declared with mock severity.

“So my youngest son says,” Ben said with an amused grin, as he slipped his arm around Stacy’s shoulders.

“Ol’ Grandpa . . . Cousin Joe to YOU, Cousin Will . . . says I’m incorrigible,” Stacy said.

“ . . . and I’m sure your pa ‘incorriges’ you at every turn,” Will quipped. “Now, if I might go on with my story?”

“Sorry, Will,” Ben apologized as his own laughter faded into the silence of an amused smile. “Please continue. Stacy and I are all ears.”

“We rented ourselves a fine, stout raft and laid in a generous supply of fixin’s for homemade hootch,” Will eagerly went on with his story.

“Fixin’s for homemade hootch?!” Ben echoed, incredulous. “Where in the world did you expect to brew it?”

“By the banks of the still, still waters,” Will answered solemnly.

“I didn’t know you could do that in AFRICA,” Stacy said, with the same too-innocent look on her face that Joe affected, whenever he hoped to conceal the fact that he was up to something, generally no good.

“Of course you can do that in Africa,” Will hastened to assure his young cousin. “Where did you get the idea you couldn’t?”

“I thought you could only do that sort of thing ‘where the moonshines bright on my old Kentucky home,’ ” Stacy said.

“Smart aleck!” Will retorted good-naturedly. “Now where was I?”

“You had rented a good stout raft in the, ummm PORT town of Taw-nee,” Ben said. “But, Will . . . . ”

“Yes, Uncle Ben?” Will queried warily, noting the impish gleam in the dark eyes of the Cartwright clan patriarch.

“I don’t really think you can reach the banks of the still, still waters or even Kentucky where the moonshine’s bright on a stout raft,” Ben said with too solemn a straight face. “I would think a stout DRAFT might better fit the bill.”

“Yes . . . well, movingrightalong, we finally LEFT Taw-nee and poled out way up the mighty Congo through the jungle and out into the savannah where we hoped to find the great Mubengo, the biggest, the meanest, the most ferocious man eating lion in the whole wide world,” Will continued.

“Somehow I have the feeling that this yarn you’re spinning could give Mubengo some real healthy competition, Will,” Ben observed with an amused grin.

“You WOUND me, Uncle Ben!” Will declared in mock tones out outrage. “Stacy?”

“Yes, Cousin Will?” she responded, trying her hardest not to smile.

“I hope YOU’LL listen to the rest of my story with an open mind,” Will said, casting a withering glare over towards his uncle.

“My mother was Irish,” she said solemnly, “which makes me at least HALF Irish. Mister O’Hanlan, my best friend’s pa, told me that one of the few things an Irish man or woman likes better than TELLING a good story is HEARING a good story.”

Will grinned. “With a name like O’Hanlan, he ought to know. Now where was I?”

“You’d sailed up the Congo through the jungle to the savannah,” Stacy replied.

“At that juncture, the water became too shallow to accommodate our raft,” Will blithely continued. “Our explorations from that point on would have to be conducted on foot. We quickly hauled our raft up out of the water, assembled our gear, and, after taking the last look at anything even remotely resembling civilization the lot of US would ever see for a very long while, my brave companions and I set off across the savannah toward the very heart of deepest, darkest Africa.”

“In search of Mubengo.”

“Yes, Cousin. In search of Mubengo. We made camp at dusk and set ourselves to a rigorously rigid schedule. The first morning, we were up at five o’clock. We ate breakfast at SIX, and crawled back into the sack by seven. After three solid weeks of hiking across grassy savannah, we became more efficient. We were up at five, had our breakfast, and managed to get back into the sack again by SIX.”

“What did you eat for breakfast, Cousin Will?” Stacy asked. An amused smile tugged very hard at the corner of her mouth.

“Whatever meat we could hunt,” Will replied, “and there was plenty. That first morning out, we shot big bucks. It was the biggest game we had the entire trip. A week later, we hid in the trees and watched a herd of prong horned elk drink at the local watering hole.”

“Oh come now, Will. There’s no elk in Africa,” Ben chided his nephew with a smile.

“What do you mean there’s no elk in Africa, Uncle?! Of COURSE there’s elk in Africa. You’ll find elk anywhere there’s a generous watering hole. However, it IS a known fact that most species of elk prefer to drink at the local lodge. There, they don’t go to the old watering hole to slack their thirst, they go to the ol' elk-ahol.”

“Eewww!” Stacy’s comically grotesque grimace elicited a bark of genuine appreciative laughter from her delighted cousin.

“Will Cartwright, THAT was beyond awful,” Ben admonished his nephew with mock sternness, before dissolving into laughter.

“Ben? Stacy? What’s so funny?” It was Adam’s wife, Teresa. She and her mother, Dolores di Cordova stood together, with arms folded across their chests, gazing down on Cartwright father and daughter, their faces twin masks of bemusement.

“Oh my! These lovely ladies friends of yours, Uncle?” Will asked, rising.

“No,” Ben replied, “they’re relatives. Will . . . this is Teresa Cartwright, your cousin, Adam’s wife . . . and HER mother, Mrs. di Cordova.” He paused. “Teresa . . . Dolores, Will Cartwright. My nephew and Adam’s first cousin.”

“So YOU’RE Cousin Will!” Teresa exclaimed with a smile. “Adam’s told me so much about you, I feel as though I’ve known you for a very long time.”

“Uh oh,” Will said warily. “I, uhh, hope some of it was GOOD.”

“It depends on how you define good.”

“Uh oh . . . . ”

Teresa smiled a secretive Mona Lisa kind of smile. “Let’s just say it’s all been very interesting, Cousin Will, and ummm . . . leave it at that?!”

Will threw back his head and laughed. “Interesting. Stacy, it looks like you and I have something in common.”

“Oh dear . . . that poor child,” Teresa murmured shaking her head. Though she maintained an expression properly somber, her dark eyes sparkled with impish delight. “Don’t let her pa find out . . . about you and she having traits in common. If he does, I’m sure he’ll lock her in her room until she turns thirty.”

“Actually, Teresa, if I were going to be THAT hard nosed about things, I would have locked the lot of ya up until ya turned FIFTY last summer,” Ben said with a smile.

“Oh?” Will queried. “What happened last summer . . . besides Stacy winning the bet on the outcome of a wedding?”

“Not very much,” Ben replied. “Adam drunk himself near unconscious at the bachelor party night before that same wedding, and woke up next day with what had to be the worst hangover HE ever had . . . then at the wedding reception he and Joe got themselves in a cake fight. Hoss got himself involved in a plot to turn the original wedding into a DOUBLE wedding, with the prospective bride and groom marrying other people. Joe, Stacy, and Teresa end up being arrested and tossed in jail— ”

“Jail?” Dolores queried, favoring her only daughter with a jaundiced eye.

“Ben, I, uuhhh . . . think you’ve made your point,” Teresa said, her cheeks flaming scarlet, even through the rouge she had applied earlier. She was afraid to look over at her mother.

“Uncle, please . . . don’t stop NOW! This story of yours was just starting to get interesting,” Will begged. He looked over at Stacy, and winked. “Jail, eh?”

Stacy nodded.

“What, exactly . . . were the charges?”

“I was charged with starting the barroom brawl that created a diversion, so Joe and Teresa could sneak upstairs and grab a music box out of one of one of the barmaids’ room— ”

“You and Joe were stealing a music box from a barmaid?!” Will asked, incredulous, as he looked over at Teresa with a look bordering on astonishment and awe.

“You never told me about all this, Young Lady,” Dolores said with mock severity.

“Mother . . . . ” Teresa groaned, “and you, TOO, Cousin Will. Joe and I did not, I repeat did NOT steal anyone’s music box or anything ELSE for that matter. We were taking BACK a music box that belonged to a very good friend of Stacy’s. Molly O’Hanlan . . . the REAL owner of the music box . . . had a bill of sale, so the charges against US were dropped. Of course, poor Joe was STILL charged with THEFT . . . picking pockets, to be exact.”

“Cousin Joe? Picking pockets?! This is getting more interesting all the time,” Will declared, his eyes shining with absolute delight.

“Joe was able to prove his innocence,” Ben stoutly took up for his youngest son, “very quickly and very easily, I might add.”

“All HE had to do was drop his pants,” Teresa said.

“Teresa!” Dolores gasped, thoroughly scandalized.

“Mother, Stacy, Molly, and I left the room first.”

“Of course,” Will agreed, beaming. “ . . . and here I thought my cousins, the ones of the MALE persuasion, were naught but dull boys. Teresa, I’m very pleased to have met you. I’ve a real strong gut feeling that you’ve been very, VERY good for my cousin, Adam. Very good indeed.”

“Thank you. I like to think so.”

“On THAT note, I’m going upstairs,” Dolores declared imperiously, her complexion a touch ruddier than usual. “It was good meeting you, Mister Cartwright.”

“Please . . . call me Will,” Ben’s nephew begged with a friendly smile. “With all of the Mister Cartwrights around here, things are confusing enough . . . and besides! I tend to think of Mister Cartwright as being my father’s . . . or my UNCLE’S name.”

“Ben . . . Stacy . . . good night,” Dolores continued in a stiff tone of voice.

“Good night, Mrs. di Cordova,” Stacy responded. “I hope you sleep well.”

“Thank you, Child,” Dolores said, her manner softening. She, then, turned to her daughter. “As for YOU, Young Lady . . . it would appear we have a lot of talking to do . . . . ”

“About?” Teresa asked warily.

“This business of stealing music boxes, starting barroom brawls, being thrown in jail, and heaven only knows what all else,” Dolores said sternly.

“Tomorrow, Mother,” Teresa sighed, with a wry roll of her eyes heavenward. “In the meantime, I’d better go up and look in on my children. Ben . . . Stacy?”

“Yes, Theresa?” Ben replied.

“Do you know whether or not Adam’s back?” Teresa asked. “It kinda runs in my mind he and Hoss were going to make it an early night . . . . ”

“I’m sorry, Teresa,” Ben said. “We haven’t seen Adam, or Hoss either for that matter. But if they said they were going to make it an early night, I’m sure they’ll be along soon.”

“You’re right,” Teresa said. “Goodnight Ben . . . Stacy. I’ll see you both in the morning. Cousin Will, it was a pleasure meeting you.”

“For me as well, Teresa. I hope to see you again while you’re here . . . and Adam, too.”

“ . . . uhhh, Teresa?”

“Yes, Stacy?”

“Sorry about getting you in trouble with your ma,” Stacy ventured contritely.

“Don’t worry about that, Stacy,” Teresa assured her young sister-in-law with a smile. “Come morning she’ll have forgotten all about it. If she hasn’t . . . well, I may not be too old for her to turn over her knee, but she’ll have to catch me first.”

“Uncle Ben, one of these days, you’ve GOT to give me the full low down on this big double wedding,” Will declared, after Teresa had left. He turned and gave Stacy a playful wink.

“We’re going to be here for another week, possibly two,” Ben said. “If you find you have an evening free . . . we’ll be right here.”

“I’ll let you know,” Will promised. “In the meantime, Uncle, a word to the wise if I may?”

Ben took due note of the rapid change in his nephew’s demeanor from playful and flirtatious to dead serious.

“Since it appears as though my male cousins have decided to make a late night of it, I hope to heaven they’re staying alert,” Will said soberly. “Shanghaiing sailors continues to be a very lucrative business down along the waterfront, I’m afraid.”

Will’s words triggered a nebulous sense of foreboding within Ben. “Yes, it would seem so. An old friend of ours . . . you probably remember him, Will. Roscoe Swanson?”

“Yes,” Will said. “I remember.”

“His pa and sister died three years ago,” Ben said. “Influenza epidemic.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Will said, not without a measure of sympathy. “His pa was a good man. Strict, but a man of principle. I . . . didn’t see eye to eye with him a lot of the time, but Jim Bob Swanson was one of those rare men who actually LIVED by his principles. I had to respect him for that . . . as for his sister . . . wasn’t her name Molly?”

“Yes,” Ben said quietly.

“SHE couldn’t have been much more than a kid.”

“She was nineteen years old when she died . . . ten days shy of her twentieth birthday,” Ben said. “Roscoe left right after the funeral. I thought he was being very hasty on the one hand, but on the other . . . I couldn’t much blame him. Both their deaths coming so close together like that, was a pretty hard blow. I knew he had planned to come here . . . to San Francisco . . . and he wrote pretty regularly the first year, then stopped.”

Ben, then, shared with Will the circumstances by which Roscoe Swanson had come back into their lives, along with his own suspicions that the former Ponderosa hand was almost a victim of being shanghaied.

“Roscoe’s a very lucky young men, Uncle Ben. I hope he does the sensible thing.”

“What do you consider to be the sensible thing?”

“Returning to Virginia City . . . to his old job on the Ponderosa,” Will replied. “Assuming you’ll have him, of course.”

“In a heartbeat, Will,” Ben said, noting, out of the corner of his eye, that Stacy’s eyelids seemed to be growing heavier and heavier now, with each passing second. He hugged her closer, allowing her head to gently come to rest on his shoulder. “Roscoe Swanson was a good man when he worked for me, one of the best, just like his pa, Jim. As for him doing the sensible thing, he can’t shake the dust of San Francisco from his boots fast enough.”

“Good. I’m very relieved to hear that.”

“Will, I hate to break this up, but my lovely daughter is fast wilting on the vine,” Ben said, favoring the somnolent Stacy with an indulgent smile.

“So I see. Well, I’d better let you get her upstairs to bed,” Will said, rising. “But, please . . . tell the rest of your family, especially my other cousins . . . those of the MALE persuasion, to stay away from the wharfs, especially after dark.”

Will’s words, and that pleading note in his voice, something Ben had never heard there before, deepened his feelings of foreboding. “It . . . was a very lucrative business when Hoss, Joe, and I were here, right before the war.”

“Hoss and Joe told me about that trip, and how, after all your warnings for THEM to be careful, YOU were the one who ended up being shanghaied,” Will said with a smile.

“ . . . . which Adam and Joe have not stopped reminding me since we arrived here,” Ben growled. “In fact, when we all parted company this evening, they had the audacity to tell ME to be careful.”

“I sure hope they’re taking their own advice,” Will said grimly. “As I said before, the market for shanghaied sailors is extremely lucrative. More so, I think, than it was when you visited with Hoss and Joe.”

“I’ll remember that, and I’ll see that everyone ELSE remembers that, too,” Ben earnestly promised.

“Thank you, Uncle Ben,” Will said gratefully. “I’ll be in touch.”

After Will had left, Ben turned to wake up his slumbering daughter. “Rise and shine, Young Woman,” he exhorted her gently, as she slowly opened one eye, then the other.

“ . . . is it mornin’ already?” she mumbled in a voice barely audible.

“Yes, in that it’s well AFTER midnight,” Ben replied, “and no, because it’s still dark. Past time YOU . . . and me, too, for that matter . . . were in bed.”

“Soun’s good t’ me, Pa.”

They rose. Ben placed a steadying arm around Stacy, then turned, with the intention of heading for the ornate elevator, with its wrought iron bars, gilded with twenty-four karat gold.

“Pa.” It was Hoss.

Ben and Stacy both turned. The sight of Hoss, grim faced, half carrying, half dragging Candy across the lobby immediately drove away all vestiges of weariness from both father and daughter.

“Stacy, wait here,” Ben said, before setting off across the lobby toward his son and junior foreman. He fell in step with the two younger men, on Candy’s other side. “Hoss . . . let’s get him over there,” he said, inclining his head toward the group of chairs, where Stacy remained standing. Ben slipped Candy’s free arm over his shoulders, shifting some of the injured man’s weight from Hoss to himself.

Hoss and Ben quickly escorted Candy across the remainder of the lobby, and carefully stretched him out on the longest divan.

“Stacy?”

“Yeah, Pa?”

“I want you to go to the concierge, and ask him to call the hotel doctor,” Ben said. “Tell him I’d like a bottle of brandy sent upstairs to Candy’s room, and that I’d like a bowl of hot water, soap, and a clean cloth brought to me here.”

“Ok, Pa . . . .” She turned to leave.

“Stacy?”

She paused. “Yes, Pa?”

“After you see the concierge, you g’won, get yourself in bed.”

“But, Pa . . . I’m NOT sleepy. Not anymore.”

“You g’won . . . do what Pa says, Li’l Sister,” Hoss said. “Candy’s a li’l banged up, but he’s gonna be just fine.”

Stacy frowned, sensing very strongly there was something they had intentionally left unsaid.

“Stacy . . . MOVE,” Ben ordered sternly.

“Y-Yes, Pa.”

“Sleep tight,” Ben said in a more conciliatory tone of voice, yet very pointedly. “We’ll see ya in the morning.”

“Yeah. Good night,” Stacy murmured softly, her mind churning a mile a minute. She moved briskly, just short of breaking into a dead run over to the massive concierge’s desk.

Ben drew up a chair alongside the divan Candy occupied, and set himself to examining his junior foreman’s injuries. “Any idea what happened?”

“He told me he was dang near shanghaied,” Hoss replied. “Seems that li’l gal he met up with this evenin’ ‘s one of ‘em.”

“Where’d you find him?”

“He found me, Pa. Came right outta the shadows outside the saloon where Adam, Joe, ‘n me finally ended up,” Hoss said in a low voice, after his young sister was well away.

“Where are your brothers NOW?” Ben demanded.

“Joe took off with a real pretty li’l gal named Belle Donna,” Hoss replied. “As for Adam . . . I dunno.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?” Ben pressed.

Hoss told his father about Adam disappearing soon after going to the bar to order a couple of beers, his attempts to question the bartender on duty, and the run in with the foot patrolman. “I dang near put my fist through his face, Pa . . . even if he WAS a policeman, after the terrible things he said ‘bout Adam WANTIN’ t’ disappear.”

“I’m . . . grateful for your restraint, Son,” Ben said earnestly, now fearing the worst.

“Mister Cartwright?”

Ben looked up and found himself staring into the smiling face of a young woman, with mounds of fluffy, cloud-like hair, the color of flax. He immediately recognized her as one of the waitresses, who worked in the hotel restaurant. She held a bowl of steaming water in both hands, and had three clean white towels draped across her arm.

“I was told to bring you a bowl of hot water, towels, and soap.”

“Yes, thank you,” Ben said gratefully. “Please . . . set the bowl down here on the coffee table, and hand me one of the towels.”

“Yes, Sir.” She placed the bowl down within easy reach, then drew out a cake of soap, wrapped loosely in wax paper, from the pocket of her apron. She handed the soap and one of the towels to Ben. “I’m going to set the other towels down here,” she said. “They’ll be close at hand, but not near enough to the bowl to get wet.”

“Thank you, Miss,” Ben said gratefully.

“ . . . please take this, too, Miss . . . a li’l something for your trouble,” Hoss said as he placed a silver dollar in the palm of her hand.

She favored Hoss with a grateful, albeit weary smile. “Thank you, Sir. Thank you very much.”

Ben dipped the washcloth in hand into the bowl, and wrung out the excess moisture. He noted the right eye, bruised, now almost swollen shut, as he carefully washed the dirt, sweat, and grim from Candy’s forehead and cheeks. Other than that, Candy’s face remained undamaged, except for a few minor scratches and abrasions. The knuckles of both hands were scraped and bleeding, evidence that Candy had given back full measure of what he had been dealt.

“Muh-Mister Car’wright?” Candy murmured softly, his voice barely audible.

“You just lie still a moment and rest, Young Fella,” Ben gently admonished his junior foreman. “I sent Stacy to the concierge to ask for the hotel doctor.”

“No . . . . ” Candy protested weakly. “P-Please . . . no doc. I’m ok.”

“All the same, I’d like the doctor here to look you over and make absolute certain you ARE ok,” Ben said, noting the way Candy had wrapped his arms protectively around his stomach. He picked up another washcloth, dipped it in the bowl of water, then rubbed it with the soap.

“Mister Cartwright?”

Ben immediately recognized the voice belonging to Doctor Todd Harrison, the hotel’s physician. He stood, clad in striped pajamas, a blue robe and matching slippers, with black bag firmly in hand. “Doctor Harrison, please . . . sit down,” Ben said as he rose to his feet.

“Thank you.” The physician took the chair, that Ben had just vacated. A cursory examination revealed no broken bones or any other serious injuries. “Mister Cartwright, if you would be so kind as to ask the concierge for another bowl of hot water and some more wash cloths?”

“I’ll go,” Hoss immediately volunteered, then set off.

“Well, Mister Cartwright . . . two patients in less than the space of twenty-four hours,” Todd Harrison remarked wryly. “That’s quite a record. More often than not, entire weeks go by between one patient and the next.”

“How is he, Doctor?” Ben queried, opting to ignore the sarcastic comment.

“He has no broken bones, and . . . so far, his face and hands appear to have sustained the worst of his injuries,” Todd said in a brisk, business-like manner. “I would like to examine the patient more thoroughly. Is he able to walk?”

“Hey, Doc . . . the patient IS conscious,” Candy said, sparing no pains to conceal his annoyance. “He can speak, and . . . surprise! There’s absolutely nothing wrong with his hearing.”

“My apologies, uhhh . . . Mister?”

Candy’s scowl deepened at the doctor’s imperious, faintly condescending tone of voice. “Canaday,” he snapped.

“Alright, Mister Canaday . . . ARE you able to walk?”

“Yes.”

“I’d like us to retire to your room, if we may,” the doctor said, “so that I might give you a COMPLETE examination.”

“Hoss, would you please accompany Candy upstairs?” Ben asked.

“Sure thing, Pa. We’ll be right behind ya.”

Candy winced as he slowly, and very gingerly rolled over onto his side. “Hoss,” he grunted as he carefully pushed off the divan, and raised himself from lying down to sitting up, taking great care to keep his movements very slow and very easy. “Doc Harrison may know his stuff . . . b-but, Doc MARTIN he AIN’T. Not by a long shot.”

“Doc Martin’s one of a kind, Candy,” Hoss agreed wholeheartedly, “ . . . and b’tween you, me ‘n the fence? It’s docs like that Harrison fella that remind me over ‘n over again just how lucky we are t’ have Paul Martin in Virginia City.”

“Amen to that,” Candy said softly, as he rested his head in his hands briefly. “Amen to that.”



Stacy, meanwhile, had carried out her father’s instructions to the letter, then retired to her room within the suite she shared with him and Hop Sing. There, she undressed, and slipped on the nightshirt that the hotel maid had dutifully left out, clean, neatly pressed, and folded atop her bed, also neatly made. She carefully hung her dress in the massive black mahogany wardrobe, that nearly took up the entire wall at the end of the room, facing the French doors, opening out onto a balcony overlooking the city and bay beyond.

“There’s something they’re not telling me,” Stacy groused again, silently, for the umpteenth time, as she stepped over to the washstand. She lifted the enormous pitcher, half filled with clean, fresh water, and poured half of that into the basin. “I HATE it when they won’t tell me stuff . . . . ”

As she set herself to the task of washing her face and hands, her eyes wandered over to the long wall, facing the door that opened out into the plushy appointed sitting room, she, Pa, and Hop Sing shared. If memory served, Joe’s room lay on the other side of that wall, and Candy’s beyond that.

“If they’re not going to tell me, then I’m going to have to find out what’s going on for myself,” she muttered under her breath, as she dried her hands, and reached for her bathrobe. There was a soft knock on the door to her bedroom, just as she was slipping on her bathrobe. “Pa?! That YOU?” she called back in response.

“Yes, Stacy . . . it’s me,” Ben immediately identified himself.

“Just a minute.” Stacy knew by his tone of voice that something was wrong. Very wrong. She belted her robe, then opened the door, figuring that maybe Pa had come . . . finally . . . to fill HER in on what was going on.

“I’m surprised you’re still up,” Ben said. “You were falling asleep standing up a little while ago.”

“I’m not sleepy now,” Stacy insisted.

“That being the case, why don’t we sit down here . . . . ” Ben gestured toward the settee in the sitting room.

Stacy nodded, then turned, and closed the door to her bedroom behind her. “Pa, what’s going on?” she asked, as the two of them sat down on the settee. “What happened to Candy?”

“He . . . hasn’t told us quite yet, but from the looks of things . . . I’d say someone tried to bushwhack him,” Ben said evasively.

“Is he going to be ok?”

Ben nodded. “I think so. The hotel doc looked him over downstairs, and found no sign of broken bones or any other serious injury. He’s going to give Candy a more thorough examination in his room, just to make sure, but I don’t think the doc’s going to find anything seriously wrong.”

“I’m glad Candy’s gonna be ok.”

“Stacy, you have any plans for tomorrow?”

“Trudy Magruder, Teresa, and I were going to do some more sight seeing tomorrow . . . why do you ask, Pa?”

Ben exhaled a soft sigh of relief, ardently thankful that she and her hot tempered, equally impulsive in a lot of ways sister-in-law would have something and more important, someONE to occupy their attention, while he, and his younger sons searched for Adam. Memories of what had become known as The Lo Mein Affair among the populace of Virginia City began to surface. The thought of Stacy playing detective here . . . in a big city like San Francisco NOW . . . as she, and her brother, Joe, had then . . . .

Ben shuddered.

“Pa?”

“Y-Yes, Stacy?”

“You all right?” she queried, regarding him with an apprehensive frown.

“Yeah.” Ben nodded his head, and offered her a sheepish smile. “Sorry, I . . . I was woolgathering a bit, that’s all.” He paused. “Will Trudy be meeting you and Teresa here at the hotel tomorrow?”

Stacy shook her head. “She was, but Teresa and I decided to take one of the hotel cabs to HER house instead,” she replied.

“Rather than taking a cab, how about my asking Hop Sing to drive the three of ya around?” Ben suggested. He was the one man he could trust to keep watch over his feisty daughter and daughter-in-law, and just to make sure, he’d make a point of telling Hop Sing to call on any or all of his many cousins for help in that endeavor, if necessary.

Stacy frowned. “Don’t you need Hop Sing here . . . to look after Roscoe and Candy?” she asked, her eyes narrowing with suspicion.

“I know Candy’ll be stiff ‘n sore come morning,” Ben admitted, “but I think he and Roscoe will be up to fending for themselves tomorrow.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive. Now I want YOU to get yourself a good night’s sleep, and enjoy yourself with Teresa and Trudy tomorrow,” Ben said rising.

Stacy also rose. It was clear now that her father had no intention of telling her what else was going on, which left her feeling very disappointed and a little angry. “Good night, Pa . . . . ”

“Good night, Stacy . . . oh! One more thing . . . . ”

“Yes, Pa?”

“Something’s come up,” Ben said, in a tone of voice a little too bland, “nothing serious mind, but it’s . . . something that needs to be taken care of right away, so I won’t be joining you for breakfast in the morning.”

“Ok, Pa,” Stacy murmured softly, now more sure than ever that something vital had STILL been left unsaid . . . and if Pa had his way about things, whatever it was would forever remain unsaid.

“I’ll make it up to ya, Stacy,” Ben earnestly promised. “Tell ya what! After, I’ve, ummm . . . taken care of business? I’ll arrange for a buggy and a big picnic basket, stuffed full and brimming with all of YOUR favorite things to eat . . . and we’ll g’won down to the harbor, and . . . spend the whole day together, just the two of us.”

“Pa, make that buggy a couple of horses, so we can RIDE down to the harbor with that picnic basket, and you’ve got yourself a deal,” Stacy said, relishing the prospect of spending an entire day with her father. That, however, was not going to deter her from finding out what he and Hoss seemed bound and determined to keep from her.

“Alright, two horses it is!” Ben agreed, greatly relieved that she had elected to accept the carrot he dangled before her, without peppering him with a lot of questions. “It . . . shouldn’t take any more than a couple of days to clear things up.”

“Ok, Pa,” Stacy murmured, uncharacteristically acquiescent. “I’ll be waiting.”

“In the meantime, Young Woman, you’d best be off to bed,” Ben admonished her gently.

“Pa?”

“Yes, Stacy?”

“I . . . don’t know about YOU, but I sure had a good time tonight.”

Ben smiled. “ . . . and how could I NOT have had a wonderful time stepping out with the most beautiful young woman in San Francisco?” he demanded.

“Oh, Pa . . . . ” Stacy slipped her arms around Ben’s waist and hugged tight. “I STILL think you’re a wee bit prejudiced . . . but, I’ll always love you for it, ‘til my dying day and longer than that.”

Ben placed his arms around her shoulders and hugged back. “I love you, too.” He kissed her forehead, then hugged her again. “Sleep tight, Young Woman.”

“I will, Pa. Good night.” She kissed his cheek.

“Pleasant dreams.”

“You, too, Pa.”

Satisfied in his own mind that Stacy was going to go right to bed, and would presumably fall asleep within a very short time thereafter, Ben quietly let himself out of the suite, he, his daughter, and Hop Sing shared, and made his way down the hall to Candy’s room. En route, he noticed the line of flickering light along the bottom of the door to Joe’s rooms. He paused to knock.

“Glad you back, Mister Cartwright,” Hop Sing said by way of greeting as he opened the door. “Roscoe do much better. Hotel Doc come, look Roscoe over, say Roscoe do very good.”

“Is Roscoe awake?”

Hop Sing nodded. “Roscoe very much wide awake. Want to talk, if ok, just little while.”

“Please tell Roscoe I’ll stop by, after I check on Candy,” Ben said with a frown. “It seems HE, too, was almost shanghaied.”

“Oh, this bad,” Hop Sing murmured softly, shaking his head. “This very, very bad. How Candy do?”

“Whoever tried to grab him worked him over pretty well, but I dare say he gave back as good as he got,” Ben replied. “He’s going to be sporting a real shiner for the next few days, but from the looks of things he should be back on his feet in the next day or so.”

“That good.”

“Hop Sing . . . is Joe back yet?”

“No, Mister Cartwright, Little Joe not back,” Hop Sing replied, shaking his head. “Maybe hook up with pretty girl?”

“I’d be very surprised if that young scallywag didn’t hook up with a pretty girl at least ONCE while we’re here,” Ben said, trying his level best to ignore his rising concern. There would be no sleep for him tonight . . . or any other night, until all three of his boys were back, safe and sound. “I’ll be . . . .



“ . . . right back.”

“So . . . someone tried to SHANGHAI Roscoe and Candy,” Stacy mused in grim silence. She stood on her bed, next to the head board, with her ear plastered to the bottom of one of the brandy glasses, borrowed from the decanter set out in the sitting room, on the coffee table. She had discovered that if she pressed the top of the glass up against the wall, and really focused all her attention on listening, her sharp ears pretty much picked up the conversation next door, word for word.

The minute she had overheard Pa’s promise to return, Stacy leapt down off the bed, landing noiselessly on the floor, as her Paiute foster mother, Silver Moon, had taught her. She crossed the distance between her bed and the door that opened out into the sitting room, and paused, pressing her ear close to the door. Stacy listened for a few moments, then, sure in her mind that Hop Sing was going to remain in the room next door, tending to Roscoe Swanson, she opened the door and silently ran across the sitting room toward the door that opened out into the corridor. She paused once again to listen, before cracking open the door, just enough so she could see out.

The coast was clear.

Stacy dropped the brandy glass into the pocket of her robe, moved cautiously into the darkened corridor.



“As I said before, Mister Canaday has no broken bones, nor has he suffered any serious internal injury, at least not as far as I can tell,” Doctor Todd Harrison, meanwhile, informed Ben and Hoss, as he slipped his stethoscope back into his leather black bag, and closed it. “However, if he has difficulty breathing, complains of persistent internal pain, or starts coughing up blood, send for me immediately.

“Yes, Sir,” Hoss murmured softly, in a voice barely audible.

Ben simply nodded his head.

“Mister Canaday is sleeping now, as much from exhaustion as from the pain of his injuries,” Todd Harrison continued in a somber tone of voice. “I expect him to sleep through what remains of the night and well into the morning. Make sure he takes things easy for the next couple of days, and he’ll be pretty much good as new. I’ll stop by tomorrow morning, after breakfast, to check on him.”

“Thank you, Doctor Harrison,” Ben murmured softly.

Stacy, who had been standing out in the corridor with her ear tightly pressed against the fast closed door, immediately stepped back into the deep, nearly opaque shadows between Candy’s and Hoss’ rooms, the instant she saw the door knob turn. She flattened herself, as much as humanly possible, against the wall, willing herself to breathe very softly and to remain still like the tall mountains that surrounded her home in Nevada.

“Good night, Mister Cartwright,” the doctor said, as he stepped into the hallway.

“Good night, Doctor . . . and thanks again,” Pa replied, before moving back into the room and closing the door behind him.

Stacy stood, as if rooted to the very spot, watching the doctor as he walked down the corridor.

“Pa, I’m gonna stay with Candy tonight,” Hoss said, as his father stepped back into the room. “I know the doc said he didn’t have any broken bones or busted insides, but I’D feel better if someone kept close.”

“I kinda figured you might,” Ben said quietly. “You gonna be alright?”

“Yeah . . . that big ol’ easy chair looks comfy enough,” Hoss replied. “If you could stay a minute or two, I’d like t’ g’won t’ MY room, grab my razor, cup, ‘n soap . . . ‘n a change o’ clothes. Pa?”

“Yes, Son?”

“What’re we gonna do?” Hoss asked. “About findin’ Adam, I mean.”

“The first thing I’m going to do is report him missing to the police,” Ben said grimly.

“What if they don’t believe ya?” Hoss asked, scowling at the memory of what that police officer had said to him about Adam at that saloon earlier.

“They’ll believe us,” Ben declared, his face set with grim, angry determination. “I’m gonna see to that. If worse comes to worse, I’ll get hold of your cousin, Will.”

“Cousin Will?!” Hoss echoed, with a puzzled frown. “He here in San Francisco?”

“Yeah. Remember? He came out here with Laura and Peggy Dayton . . . after Laura and Adam broke off their engagement.”

“Oh yeah,” Hoss said softly.

“Stacy and I ran into Will tonight, and wonder of wonders, he’s working for the police department here,” Ben continued. “He even made a point of telling me to warn you boys especially that shanghaiing young men is more lucrative than ever.”

“It looks like that warnin’s come a mite too late t’ help Adam,” Hoss said dolefully. He hoped and prayed such would not end up being the case for Joe. “Sorry, Pa, I— ”

“Hoss, it’s not your fault,” Ben said in a more kindly tone. He walked over and placed a reassuring hand on his biggest son’s shoulder, “and don’t you go worrying about Adam. We’re gonna find him one way or another . . . long before he puts out to sea.”

“You’re right, Pa. When us Cartwrights put our minds t’ somethin’ . . . it gets done.”

“You bet!” Ben agreed. “Now you’d best g’won to your room and get what you need. I’ll wait here until you get back.”

“I just hope Li’l Brother don’t stay out ‘til sun up with that gal HE took off with,” Hoss mused aloud, as he turned again, and started for the door. “We’re gonna need him when we go lookin’ for Adam.”

“Adam? Wha’ happened t’ Adam?” Candy murmured softly from the bed, his voice barely audible.

“Don’t you worry none about ol’ Adam, Candy, y’ hear?” Hoss exhorted the Ponderosa’s junior foreman, as he quickly circled around to the other side of his bed.

“Shuh . . . shang . . . hai?” Candy persisted.

“We think so,” Hoss admitted ruefully, “but Pa, Joe, ‘n me . . . we’re gonna find him before he put out t’ sea . . . same as Joe ‘n me found Pa b’fore HE put out t’ sea the last time.”

“On the meantime, Young Fella, YOU need your rest,” Ben admonished Candy gently.

“Kinda dozin’,” Candy murmured again, “off ‘n on. Starbryte . . . Miss Starbryte with a . . . ‘y’ . . . she’s one of ‘em.”

“We know, Candy,” Ben said, as he drew a straight backed, Queen Anne chair up to the side of the bed.

“ . . . took me t’ some joint down b-by d’ wharf,” Candy continued, “Queen o’ d’ Sea, I think . . . . ”

“Queen of the Sea . . . Queen o’ the--- ” Hoss’ words ended abruptly as the light of revelation dawned. “Pa . . . ain’t that the place Roscoe went t’ meet this gal Kathleen ‘bout a job?”

“Yes,” Ben murmured slowly, “yes . . . it IS.”

“ . . . tried t’ get me drunk,” Candy continued. “Whiskey . . . wors’ stuff uh ever had d’ bad luck o’ tastin’. Only had two glasses. She ast me t’ walk ‘er home . . . . ”

“Starbryte?” Ben prompted, when Candy fell silent.

“Yeah. Starbryte. Ast me t’ walk ‘er home . . . then tried t’ get me down by the water. Tried real hard. Went t’ look at the moon . . . ‘n this guy . . . Lion . . . Dandy Lion . . . he jumps me . . . then two more jumped me.” He haltingly shared the details of the fight, and his subsequent escape with Ben and Hoss, while fighting hard to stay awake. “Wondered, I think . . . stayed in shadows best I could, ‘til I s-saw Hoss . . . . ” He sighed softly, then drifted back into a light slumber.

“Pa?”

“Yes, Son?”

“Looks like we got someplace t’ start lookin’,” Hoss said, his face set with grim determination.

“Now hold on just a minute,” Ben said sternly. “Although it’s clear this Starbryte with a ‘y’ . . . had a hand in Roscoe and Candy almost being shanghaied, we DON’T know that she had anything to do with ADAM’S disappearance.”

“You’re right, Pa . . . we don’t,” Hoss had to admit. “But even if it DOES turn out that li’l gal AIN’T responsible for Adam disappearin’, I’M of the mind there’s a real good chance she knows who WAS.”

“Hoss, we’re going to do this legally,” Ben said sternly. “THAT means we start by reporting Adam’s disappearance to the POLICE.” . . . and Joe’s, too, if HE fails to return to the hotel by daybreak.

“ . . . ‘n if the police won’t listen to us?” Hoss asked, his blood boiling anew upon remembering that foot patrolman at the Neptune Bar having the gall to suggest Adam had gone missing on purpose.

“THEN we pay a visit to the Queen of the Sea Saloon,” Ben replied.

“Pa?”

“Yes, Son?”

“I’m sorry about all the smart alecky stuff I said last night . . . and t’night, too, at supper when Adam, Joe, ‘n me was all horsin’ around,” Hoss apologized with all sincerity. “If a smart fella like Adam can git himself shanghaied . . . well . . . I hafta reckon it could happen t’ anyone else.”

Ben smiled. “Thank you, Son. Apology accepted.”



After Hoss returned from his own room with a change of clothes, and his toiletries, Ben walked down the hall to Joe’s room and knocked softly on the closed door.

“Who there?” Hop Sing demanded wearily from within.

“It’s me, Hop Sing.”

Within less than the space of a heartbeat, the door opened.

“Ah, Mister Cartwright . . . come in . . . come in. Roscoe waiting.”

Unbeknownst to Ben, Stacy also waited and watched, cloaked by the near opaque deep shadows in the dark hallway, as he entered Joe’s room. She waited until Hop Sing had closed the door, then slowly counted five. Satisfied that no one was going to leave Joe’s room any time soon, she took a deep breath, slow and even, before moving stealthily back toward the door to the suite of rooms she shared with Pa and Hop Sing.

Meanwhile, Hop Sing led Ben over to the bed, where Roscoe Swanson lay, clad in a pair of pajamas, borrowed from his roommate, with his head propped up by a pair of big, fluffy down pillows.

“ . . . and what are YOU doing so wide awake, Young Man?” Ben demanded as he walked over and seated himself on the edge of the bed.

“Mister Cartwright, there’s . . . there’s something I hafta tell you . . . . ”

“I’m listening.”

Roscoe’s eyes dropped away from Ben’s face to his hands to his lap. “I . . . I don’t know how to, ummm . . . say this . . . exactly . . . . ” he haltingly ventured.

“Whenever I have something difficult to tell someone, I’ve found that the best thing to do is simply say it straight out,” Ben prompted gently. “Roscoe . . . . ”

“Y-Yes, Sir?”

“If this has anything to do with the time you’ve been living here in San Francisco . . . . ”

“I . . . guess you’ve already figured out I haven’t done as well as I should’ve,” Roscoe admitted. “To be right up front and honest, I haven’t been able to find myself a steady job since I stepped off the stage three years ago. Just a long string of odd jobs here ‘n there . . . and for the last few weeks or so, I haven’t been able to find THAT. I’m . . . I’m ashamed to admit this, Mister Cartwright, but . . . before I happened to run into Miss Murphy, I’d taken to sleeping in the alleyways and eating supper at the mission house.” He sighed very softly and shook his head. “Can’t tell ya which was worse . . . the sermons or the food. I dunno . . . maybe I just plain didn’t try hard enough.”

“It’s all to easy to become discouraged over time, when you apply for work and keep getting turned down,” Ben said, not without a measure of sympathy for the young man. “That happened to me, too . . . a lot . . . during the years Adam and I . . . and later Hoss . . . made our way west.”

“ . . . but I swear to you, I NEVER took to drinking,” Roscoe passionately declared. “I used to have a beer once in a while with Joe, but since I’ve been here, I’ve not seen the inside of a saloon once . . . except for that meeting with Miss Murphy, ‘n that’s the honest truth. I . . . well, I couldn’t afford it for one, ‘n for another . . . I just plain ‘n simple never developed a taste for it.”

“I believe you, Roscoe,” Ben said with a smile.

“Thank you, Sir. I appreciate that, more ‘n anything.”

“Now that you’ve gotten that off your chest, maybe you can lie back now and go to sleep,” Ben kindly suggested.

“Mister Cartwright . . . . ”

“Yes, Roscoe?”

“I’m glad I got that off my chest, too, but that’s . . . that’s NOT what I h-hafta tell ya.” Roscoe squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath. “Please . . . believe me, Sir, I wish . . . more than just about anything in this world, I wish with all that’s in me I DIDN’T hafta tell ya this, but . . . . ” He opened his eyes and forced himself to look up into Ben’s face, and eyes. “It’s hazy, but when I was still b-being . . . I guess, when I was still being h-held prisoner by Miss Murphy?”

“Yes?” Ben prompted.

“I saw HIM, Sir.”

“Him?!”

“WILL.



“ . . . He was there. I . . . I think he bought me from Miss Murphy.”

Stacy felt the blood drain right out of her face. “Cousin Will!” she whispered, her hands trembling, her blue eyes round as saucers. She was now safely back in her own room, standing on top of the bed, with the brandy glass clasped firmly in hand.

“Roscoe . . . are you SURE you saw Will?” Pa asked, after an eternity of stunned silence. “By your own admission things were very hazy after you were served a beer by a waitress named Starbryte at the Queen of the Sea Saloon.”

“Yes, Sir . . . they were. ”

“ . . . and with good reason. You were drugged . . . you’d been beaten up . . . kept in a damp warehouse down near the water,” Ben pointed out. “It’s also been a fair number of years, I think, since Will left the Ponderosa . . . . ”

“Y-Yes, Sir . . . . ”

“Perhaps this man who bought you from Miss Murphy simply reminded you of Will in some way,” Ben suggested.

Roscoe shook his head. “When . . . when Miss Murphy brought him in?” he forced himself to continue, feeling at that moment as if he were the most wretched man on the face of the earth. “I . . . everything inside me told me that I KNEW that man . . . or at the very least, I’d . . . that I’d met him before. I couldn’t place him at first . . . then . . . I heard Miss Murphy call him by name and . . . I dunno, sometime after that . . . I saw his face, Sir. That man WAS your nephew.”

Ben felt as if had just been sucker punched. He closed his eyes and took a deep, ragged breath.

“I . . . M-Mister Cartwright, I’m really very sorry I . . . I . . . . ” Roscoe stammered, noting the older man’s sudden pale complexion and the hands now clenched into a pair of tight fists.

It took every ounce of will Ben possessed to exhale, slow and even. He opened his eyes and favored the distraught young man what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “It’s all right, Roscoe,” he said very quietly. “You have nothing to apologize for. You did the right thing in telling me about Will.”

“For what it’s worth, I wish I didn’t remember him being there so well,” Roscoe said dejectedly.

“The most important thing for you to keep in mind, Young Man, is that you DO remember, and though it wasn’t an easy thing for ya to do . . . you did the right thing and told me. Now it’s time you got to sleep. Hop Sing?”

“Yes, Mister Cartwright?”

“Let me know when Joe comes in. I don’t care what time it is . . . I want to know.”

“Hop Sing tell you when Little Joe back. You go to room now. Go to bed.”

“I will . . . . ”

The minute Stacy heard the door to the room next door open, she quickly sat down and wiggled herself under the covers. She turned over on her side and closed her eyes, her thoughts churning a mile a minute.



Joe Cartwright awoke with a start to a world dark, cold, and clammy. His head pounded and throbbed with what had to be the worst headache it had ever been his misfortune to suffer, and his stomach felt very heavy with the contents of his last meal. That, together with the cloying, musty odor of mildew in the air stirred within him an intense, almost overwhelming urge to vomit.

“It’s about time you woke up, Little Brother,” a familiar voice spoke from the darkness.

Joe frowned. “A-Adam?!”

“Yes, Joe . . . it’s me,” Adam sighed disparagingly.

“Wha’ happened?”

“I have a real strong feeling the two of US have been shanghaied.”

“WHAT?!” Joe yelped. He automatically bolted upright, eliciting a resounding belch, with all the noxious qualities of a slaughterhouse gone rancid. His stomach lurched, and before he knew what was happening, he was vomiting up his last meal with the violent intensity of a man hit by the double whammy of the worst hangover it had ever been his misfortune to suffer and a real “healthy” dose of food poisoning.

Adam tried very hard to maintain a stoic facade, but found himself gagging a time or two despite his best intentions. After a seeming eternity of sitting by, helplessly bound hand and foot, listening to his younger brother retching his guts up, a deafening silence suddenly descended upon the two of them. One minute passed, then two.

“Joe?” Adam ventured, half fearing the worst. “Joe, please . . . answer me.”

A feeble groan, barely audible, issued from the darkness in response.

Adam closed his eyes and sent a silent, heartfelt prayer of thanks heavenward.

“Uhhgghhh! What did they do t’ me?” Joe moaned.

“My guess is . . . you were drugged,” Adam replied. “What happened after you left with that girl . . . what was her name?”

“B-Belle Donna.”

“Where did you go?”

“She . . . she took me to this place . . . ‘Frisco Frannie’s, I think it was,” Joe replied haltingly. “Said they had the best whiskey in town. ‘Tween you ‘n me, Adam? I’ve had better rotgut at t’ Silver Dollar. After awhile though . . . it started t’ taste kinda good.”

“Then what happened?”

“I dunno. Last thing I remember is sittin’ at the back o’ that saloon, drinkin’ one minute . . . next I’m HERE. I don’t even remember fallin’ asleep.”

“That Belle Donna must have gotten you drunk first, then slipped something in your whiskey to make you sleep.”

“I guess,” Joe groaned, as he squeezed his eyes shut against another bout of nausea. “Wha’ happened t’ YOU, Oldest Brother? How’d YOU get here?”

“Stupidity!” Adam sighed ruefully. “Just plain ol’ pure and simple stupidity. Hoss and I decided to have one more beer and call it a night right after you left with Belle Donna. I walked up to the bar, and saw that it was crowded, three deep at least . . . all except for a space at the very end, farthest from the door. I should’ve realized . . . should have thought there might be a very good reason WHY that space was empty.”

“So . . . what happened?” Joe prompted.

“Like a fool, I walked right over to that space and ordered a couple of beers. Next thing I knew, I was falling into water. Three men pulled me out, and . . . that’s the very last thing I remember until I woke up here . . . wherever here is. One of those men must’ve hit me over the head.”

“We gotta get outta here, Brother.”

“I agree with you one hundred percent, Joe,” Adam said with a touch of wryness. “I sailed the seven seas many years ago, and while I enjoyed it very much then, I have no desire to take up the life of a sailor now.”

“There’s that, too,” Joe agreed, “but, I meant we gotta get outta here and back to the hotel before Pa especially finds out we’re missing.”

Adam frowned. “Why Pa especially?”

Joe groaned. “After the way we razzed him about getting himself shanghaied that time I was here with him, Hoss, and Hop Sing . . . Adam, if he ever finds out WE got shanghaied, we’re never gonna hear the end of it.”

“What do you mean WE?!” Adam demanded. “As I recall, it was you and Hoss razzing Pa.”

“You got in a few good licks yourself, Oldest Brother.”

Adam sighed. “Yes, I suppose I did,” he admitted reluctantly. “However, between you and me? I think Pa’s the very least of our worries. Now Teresa, on the other hand . . . . ” He sighed and rolled his eyes.

“TERESA not letting you hear the end of it sounds a lot worse than PA not letting us hear the end of it.”

“It IS worse. MUCH worse. You have any ideas as to how we can make our escape?”

“YOU tied up, Adam?”

“Bound hand and foot, I’m afraid. How about YOU?”

“Yep . . . me, too, Oldest Brother.”

“Then it appears for the moment there’s only two things we can do.”

“What are the two things?”

“First thing is, we try and work loose the ropes binding our wrists together.”

“ . . . and the SECOND thing?”

“We bide our time and wait for an opportunity.”

“ . . . and we hope ‘n pray real hard that it opportunity knocks before Pa and Teresa find out we’re missing.”

“You’ve got it, Buddy.”

The door opened, very slowly, its hinges squeaking with tortuous intensity. Joe groaned very loudly in spite of himself and squeezed his eyes tight shut against the dim light without. Adam slumped against the wall and closed his eyes, feigning unconsciousness, his ears alert, sharply attuned to every sound.

Two men entered the room. Adam took them both to be the size of bother, Hoss, from the dull, ponderous thudding of their footsteps. He slitted his eyes open and saw the new arrivals carrying a third man, unmoving, bound hand and foot as he and Joe were. They dropped their burden in the middle of the room as they might have a very large sack of potatoes, then left.

On the other side of the still open door, Adam heard voices; one rough, deep, and very masculine, the other a woman’s voice with a faint trace of an Irish brogue. The first he accurately determined to be one of the men who had just carried in their new roommate. He strained to catch what they might be saying, but apart from an occasional word, their voices were naught but a long string of senseless consonants and vowels strung randomly together.

“P-Paul?” Joe croaked, his voice very hoarse. “Hey . . . Paul . . . . ”

The door opened wider. Adam knew by the creaking hinges and the growing intensity of light against his eyelids. Two people entered, these much smaller than the first.

“Well, well, well, Miss Murphy. It seems you have some special merchandise of your own.” A woman’s voice; low, soft-spoken, cultured, and one well accustomed to wielding authority. Though she spoke very calmly, her voice also carried a subtle hint of malice.

“Familiar,” Adam silently realized. He had heard that voice before, he was sure of it. He opened his eyes a little wider hoping to get a glimpse of the speaker’s face, but she stood at the edge of his peripheral vision. There was no possible way of getting a good look at her without moving.

“That one was taken fair ‘n square at the Neptune Bar.” It was the Irish woman, presumably the one just now addressed as Miss Murphy. “The other . . . he’s a member of that . . . that damned Cartwright family,” she continued scathingly, “the cause of all the terrible misfortune that’s befallen me since the misbegotten day I first met them.”

“Miss Murphy . . . did you say Cartwright?” the other woman asked.

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Bring that lantern over here, at ONCE. I want a better look at their faces,” the other woman ordered. Beneath her imperious tone, there was an underlying eagerness.

“Yes, Ma’am,” Miss Murphy murmured in a soft, deferential tone.

Footsteps, small and very rapid, then for the space of what seemed an eternity, Adam felt the burning heat from a lantern mere inches from his face.

“Well . . . well . . . well . . . . ” Miss Murphy’s companion finally, at length murmured very softly. Surprise mingled with immediate recognition.

As Adam tuned his ears to the voice of the other woman, the great room of the Ponderosa ranch house swam into view, with the vague memory of guests, a man and a woman, just arrived.

The man . . . .

“ . . . an older man,” Adam suddenly realized.

. . . acknowledged his introductions to the family in a manner pleasant enough, yet wary. His companion’s manners and words were impeccably correct, and graciously spoken. Yet her tone of voice carried a note of disdain. Faint and very subtle, but very much present.

Then, suddenly, Adam knew. But before his weary, frazzled mind could grasp hold of that knowledge, it was gone, slipping through his metaphorical fingers like smoke rising from a candle, whose flame had just been extinguished.



The warm sun shining through the drapes, slightly parted, warmed Teresa Cartwright’s face, gently rousing her from sleep. She yawned and stretched as the clock on the wall chimed the hour of eight o’clock.

“Adam,” she murmured in a sleepy voice, “since Benjy and Dio will be spending the entire day with my parents . . . and I WON’T be meeting Stacy until around ten . . . how about us ordering breakfast from room service and, ummmm . . . putting the ‘do not disturb’ sign on the door?”

There was no answer.

“Adam?”

Still no answer.

“Adam Cartwright, don’t you get coy with— ” Teresa rolled over, and was surprised to find her husband not there. “Adam?” She quickly sat up and threw off the bedcovers. “Adam!”

She glanced over at Adam’s side of the bed, and saw immediately that his pillow remained fluffed, with no sign at all of him having laid his head down; nor had the bedclothes on his side been turned down. Her eyes moved slowly, almost reluctantly from the bed to his night table, where he customarily put his billfold just before retiring. The anxious frown already present on her brow deepened when she saw no billfold on the night table, and worse, no sign of the clothing he had worn the night before on the hard backed chair, set up against the wall on the other side of his night table.

Teresa leapt out of bed, her mind, her thoughts reeling in a chaotic jumble. She snatched her robe from the bed post on her side, and, closing her eyes, took a deep, ragged breath, followed by another, and then a third. “Before we parted company . . . Adam DID say something about taking his suit down to the hotel laundry to be cleaned, after Benjy accidentally spilled champagne all over his pants at the restaurant last night,” she silently remembered, all the while doing her level best to ignore her churning stomach and growing anxiety. “If so . . . his wallet wouldn’t be on his night stand.”

That did not explain the absence of Adam’s shirt, tie, socks, and other undergarments, however . . . .

“I am NOT going to panic,” she firmly admonished herself, as she slipped on her robe. “I am NOT going to panic . . . . ” Leastwise, not until she had examined ALL of the facts. A quick perusal of Adam’s clothing, hanging in the massive wardrobe and placed neatly folded in the dresser drawers in the dressing room, revealed nothing missing . . . apart from the clothes he had worn last night.

“A note,” she murmured softly. Adam never so much as took a stroll in the garden behind their home in Sacramento without leaving her a note. He had always been considerate that way, with no prompting from her either . . . since the day they exchanged their marriage vows. Teresa searched the nightstands on both sides of the bed, and on top of the dresser. There was no note to be found.

She started violently, nearly jumping clear out of her skin, when someone knocked on the door. “Adam?”

“No, Teresa . . . it’s Ben.”

Her heart sank upon hearing the urgent note in his voice. “C-come in, Ben.”

He entered. His pale face, the drooping eyelids, the dark circles under his eyes, the weariness etched into the lines of his face, the very sinews of his body all confirmed her worst fears.

“Oh, Ben . . . what could have happened to him?” she asked, her voice breaking.

“I . . . I had hoped against hope that . . . that he had returned last night,” Ben murmured dolefully, as he entered the room.

“No,” Teresa shook her head. “I fell asleep the m-minute my head touched the pillow and . . . and d-didn’t wake up until . . . until now. As you can see . . . his side of the bed wasn’t slept in l-last night— ” She broke off abruptly, as tears began to stream down her face.

Ben immediately moved to her side and took her in his arms. “We’re going to find him, Teresa,” he murmured softly, with a confidence he was, at that moment, very far from feeling.

Teresa clung to him for a moment, swallowed, then lifted her head. “I want to go with you,” she said, as she wiped the tears from her eyes and cheeks with her fingers. The fierce, determined look on her face was not unlike the same Ben had seen in the faces of his eldest son and first wife, Elizabeth, when both had reached a decision . . . one from which there would be no backing down . . . no turning aside.

“Teresa, Hoss and I are going to the police— ”

“That’s a good place to start,” she agreed. “After that, we can check the hospitals . . . try and retrace his steps— ”

“Teresa . . . . ”

“What is it, Ben?”

“I . . . don’t think Adam’s going to turn up in a hospital . . . or even lying in a gutter someplace by the side of the road.”

She frowned. “Ben, surely YOU’RE not suggesting that Adam— ”

“No,” Ben said quickly. “I know that Adam takes his vows of fidelity very seriously . . . and very much to heart. I . . . Teresa, I have very good reason to believe that Adam might have been shanghaied.”

“Shanghaied?!” she echoed, incredulous. “Ben, h-how---?!”

Ben quietly told her about Roscoe Swanson and Candy.

Teresa felt the blood drain right out of her face. She put out a steadying hand on the post at the foot of the bed, while squeezing her eyes shut against an environment suddenly swirling and pulsating in a sickeningly chaotic fashion. “Oh, Ben,” she moaned, “what’ll we do?”

“He won’t be putting out to sea yet, Teresa,” Ben said, as he placed a steadying pair of hands on her shoulders. “Chances are, they had to subdue him either by drugging him . . . or . . . or by force. Since virtually all sea captains want healthy sailors manning their crews, whoever DOES have Adam will keep him for a day, maybe two, in order to allow him to recover from the side effects.”

“ . . . and then?” she pressed.

“After he’s sufficiently recovered, they’ll sell him to the highest paying ship’s captain,” Ben replied. “That will take at least another day, maybe even two or three.”

“So we have one day . . . maybe two as an absolute given.”

Ben nodded. “As I said before, Hoss and I are going to the police--- ”

“To . . . to report Adam missing?”

“Yes . . . and Joe, too.”

Teresa’s eyes widened with shock, astonishment, and horror.

“Joe didn’t come home last night either.”

“Oh no.”

“Hoss and I will let you know how— ”

“Ben, I SAID I’m coming with you,” Teresa said firmly, in a tone that brooked no argument on the matter.

“Teresa, you don’t have to— ”

“Ben, please,” she begged. “If I have to sit around here, twaddling my thumbs . . . I’m going to end up running mad. Absolutely stark, raving mad. I have to do SOMETHING . . . . ”

“Alright,” Ben reluctantly agreed. “Hoss and I will be waiting in the lobby.”



At the police station nearly two and a half hours later, Teresa di Cordova Cartwright drew herself up to the very full of her height of just over five and a half feet, and glared balefully down at the thin, balding police officer, impeccably clad in a dark blue uniform, seated behind the desk. “Mister—?!”

“Sonders, Ma’am,” he said with an infuriatingly complacent smile, and a slight note of condescension in his tone of voice. “Or Officer Sonders, if you prefer.”

“Mister Sonders,” Teresa snapped, using the tone of voice she herself would use to address the most dense of servants, “my husband is NOT that kind of man.”

Zephaniah Sonders exhaled a soft, long suffering sigh, and shook his head. “They ALL say that,” he said, pointedly addressing his remarks to Ben and Hoss.

“My daughter-in-law is absolutely right when she says her husband . . . my son . . . is not that kind of man,” Ben said in a voice, stone cold.

“It happens all the time, Mister Cartwright . . . even to the very best of ‘em, I’m afraid,” Zephaniah responded in a bland, dismissive tone of voice.

“You heard m’ pa ‘n my sister-in-law,” Hoss growled. He stood with his back rigidly straight, with his arms at his side, and hands balled into a pair of tight, rock hard fists. “Now I’M tellin’ ya . . . my brother, Adam, ain’t THAT kinda man . . . not that I’d consider a husband who’d do a thing like that much of a man anyhow . . . . ”

“So YOU say,” Zephaniah sighed, as he reached for a pen and a clean sheet of paper. “The name of the missing party?”

“Adam Cartwright,” Teresa snapped.

“Aahhh-dam . . . Caaarrrrt . . . wright,” the police officer murmured softly, as he wrote the name down at the top of the paper. “How many days has he been missing?”

“Since last night,” Ben replied.

Zephaniah slapped the pencil in hand down on the desk and looked up, his gray blue eyes meeting the intense gaze in Ben’s dark brown ones. “Mister Cartwright, it IS the policy of this department not to even begin looking until a man has been missing for at least five days.”

“WHAT?!” Teresa shrieked, outraged and indignant.

“Five days?!” Ben echoed incredulous.

“That’s right, Mister Cartwright, five days,” Zephaniah reiterated. “As I’ve been telling you and telling you . . . MOST men who disappear don’t want to be found. Especially tourists.”

“I don’t believe that,” Hoss growled. “Not for a dadburn minute.”

“Believe what you like,” Zephaniah replied. “Our official policy is we CAN not and DO not investigate, until a man has been missing for at least five days.”

“What about for an unmarried man?” Ben demanded. “My youngest son didn’t come home last night either.”

“ . . . and how old is your youngest son, Mister Cartwright?”

“Twenty-six,” Ben replied, “but, I hardly see what that has to do— ”

“Twenty-six? That means he’s of age.”

“I KNOW he’s of age,” Ben said disparagingly.

“ . . . then you OUGHT to know of age means he’s a grown man in the eyes of the law, Mister Cartwright,” Zephaniah pointed out the painfully obvious in a smug, condescending tone, “which means he’s no longer accountable to YOU for his comings and goings . . . whether you like it or not.” He paused, just long enough to lean back in his chair and fold his arms across his chest. “Have you considered the possibility that your youngest son accompanied your older one in pursuit of . . . shall we say the more carnal entertainments this city has to offer?”

Hoss scowled. “Mister, so help me . . . if you’re thinkin’ what I THINK you’re thinkin’— ” He stepped toward the desk and the smug, complacent little man seated behind it.

“Hoss . . . no!” Ben quickly placed a restraining hand on his son’s massive forearm.

“Yes, Sir,” Hoss reluctantly backed down.

“Mister Sonders, I have reason to believe BOTH of my sons were shanghaied,” Ben said, turning his attention back to the police officer. “If you wait five days . . . they could be on ships, well out to sea, bound for heaven only knows where.”

Zephaniah sighed. “Mister Cartwright, while it IS true that shanghaiing was an all too common practice in the days leading up to the war, it has become all BUT non-existent, especially within the last five years or so.”

“Come on, Pa . . . Teresa,” Hoss growled. “We sure ain’t gonna get any help HERE.”

“I’m very sorry, Gentlemen . . . and Lady, but I DON’T make the policy.”

“No,” Ben angrily muttered. “You just follow orders.”

“M-Mister Cartwright?!” It was a woman’s voice, on the verge of tears.

Ben turned and found himself staring into the drawn, weary face of Frank Harker. Though washed, shaved, and impeccably attired in a light gray linen suit, white shirt and black string tie, it was clear the man hadn’t slept well the night before . . . if, in fact, he had slept at all. His granddaughter, Trudy Magruder, was with him, her cheeks and eyelids red and swollen.

“Frank? Trudy?! What’s wrong?” Ben asked.

“Paul didn’t come home last night,” Trudy replied. Though clearly on the edge of tears, there was a hard, angry edge to her tone of voice also.

“We’ve come here . . . to the police . . . to report him missing,” Frank said grimly.

“This ain’t like Paul,” Trudy said, her voice breaking. “I . . . I just know something awful’s happened . . . . ”

“Not meanin’ t’ sound disrespectful, Mister Harker . . . but sure I wish you ‘n Trudy lotsa luck in reportin’ Paul missing,” Hoss said, directing a murderous glare over in Officer Sonders’ general direction.

“I can’t BELIEVE this!” Teresa exclaimed. “That toadying little **** . . . . ” The insult was Spanish. Given the thunderous scowl on her face and the intensity by which she had spoken that word, none of the family members or the new friends she had met two nights ago wanted to know its exact translation into English. “He told us that we can’t even report Adam or Joe missing until they’ve been gone for five days!”

“Well . . . we’ll just see about THAT!” Frank said grimly. He walked over to the desk, behind which Zephaniah Sonders sat. “Officer--- ”

Zephaniah’s head immediately snapped up. “Look! I just got through telling you people--- ”

“Officer, I don’t give a damn what you just got through telling my friends here . . . nor do I give a damn about this supposed policy about not looking for a man until he’s been gone for five days,” Frank Harker said in a calm, quiet tone of voice, that carried a subtle hint of menace. “You WILL take down the information Mister Cartwright and I give you concerning our missing relatives, and you WILL file a report.”

“I don’t know who the hell you think you are, Mister--- ”

“Harker. Frank Harker,” Frank said curtly, noting with grim, perverse satisfaction that the policeman swallowed nervously as he had introduced himself. “I also happen to be a long time friend of the man just appointed police chief, and I have every intention of letting HIM know that Mister Cartwright’s sons and my granddaughter’s husband are missing. Do I make myself clear?”

“Y-Yes, Sir,” Zephaniah responded meekly, as he reached for a pencil and a sheet of paper with trembling hands.



Hop Sing, meanwhile, sat on one of the white marble benches outside the precinct house, while Stacy impatiently paced back and forth, alternating between concern for her missing brothers and anger that no one had seen fit, even now, to tell her everything that was really going on.

“I sure wish I knew what the, uhhh . . . HECK! is taking them so blamed long,” she fumed.

“Not all big city policemen . . . police officers, Miss Stacy,” Hop Sing patiently tried to explain. “Some what you call . . . . ” He frowned, trying to remember the word. “They what Mister Adam say cut through red tape vertical . . . length-wise.”

His explanation brought an amused grin to Stacy’s face, in spite of all the worry, anger, and frustration churning inside. “Bureaucrat, Hop Sing?” she queried.

“Yes. Bu-row-crat!” Hop Sing replied. “Not like Sheriff Coffee back home. Here must fill out form, make three copies, maybe six, then maybe still not look until tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?!” Stacy wailed, her heart sinking. “By tomorrow, Adam and Joe could be on ships bound for . . . for . . . who KNOWS where!”

Hop Sing glanced up at Stacy, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. “Why you say that?” he demanded. “You . . . eaves . . . even . . . . you listen in?!”

“Yes, Hop Sing . . . I eavesdropped,” Stacy admitted, then added in a tone of voice angry, yet very much on the defensive, “I hate it when they won’t tell me everything . . . . ”

“Hop Sing understand,” he said with all sincerity. “You grow up, become big girl . . . but Papa still protect you . . . like LITTLE girl.”

“Yeah. That’s about the size of it,” Stacy said with a doleful sigh. “You, uhhh . . . won’t tell Pa about me . . . uhhh . . . . ?!”

“That all depend,” Hop Sing said firmly.

“I’LL tell Pa myself, I give you my word,” Stacy promised, knowing very well that the difference between her telling Pa and Hop Sing telling Pa meant she might be able to sit down comfortably after one month of Sundays instead of two following the proverbial trip out to the barn.

Hop Sing nodded, satisfied that she would honor her word. “Miss Stacy?”

“Yes, Hop Sing?”

“Try not to be too hard on Papa,” he exhorted. “For Papas . . . Mamas, too, . . . children always be children, even if they live to be very old and decrepit. You watch. Papa treat Little Joe . . . Mister Hoss . . . even Mister Adam like little boy.” He grinned. “Even Hop Sing venerable papa . . . HE treat Hop Sing like little boy.”

“Hop Sing . . . y-you’re not joshin’ me . . . are ya?” she queried dubiously.

“No josh,” Hop Sing hastened to assure her.

Before Stacy had opportunity to fully ponder Hop Sing’s words of wisdom, the explosive bang of the precinct house door slamming shut startled her, causing her to nearly jump right out of her skin. She whirled in her tracks, while Hop Sing merely looked up from his place on the bench.

“Uh oh. Not good,” Hop Sing murmured very softly, as he took due note of the cold anger he saw in Ben’s face, and the raw, murderous fury in the faces of Hoss and Teresa.

“Hop Sing . . . isn’t that Mister Harker and Trudy?” Stacy asked, her eyes on the old man walking alongside of her father, and the much younger woman walking between Hoss and Teresa. Both of their faces were set with grim, angry determination, and poor Trudy looked as if she had been crying.

“Mister Cartwright . . . Mister Hoss . . . what happen in there?” Hop Sing ventured, wary and hesitant.

“Aww, dadburn it! That li’l paper pushin’ nitwit at the desk inside told us Adam ‘n Joe’ve gotta be missin’ for five days before they can look into it,” Hoss growled.

“FIVE DAY?!” Hop Sing shrieked, incredulous, his eyes shifting from one face to the next.

“If Mister Harker hadn’t shown up when he did . . . . ” Ben’s voice trailed off to an ominous silence.

“Miss Stacy and me . . . we thought we recognize you, Mister Harker,” Hop Sing said by way of greeting.

“Paul’s missing, too, Hop Sing,” Trudy said, her voice catching.

“The thing I can’t believe is that low down, toadying, brown nosed son-of-a sea cook actually thought that ADAM, of all people, had disappeared on purpose!” Teresa said contemptuously.

“What do we do now, Pa?” Stacy asked.

“Hoss and I thought we’d retrace his and Adam’s steps . . . and Joe’s, too, before he parted company,” Ben replied. “Frank . . . . ”

“Yes, Ben?”

“Hoss and I can take a look at that warehouse Paul went to visit yesterday, if you wish,” Ben offered.

“Thank you, Ben, but please . . . be very careful,” Frank solemnly warned, as he handed Hoss the key. “The neighborhood in that area’s not the best, and I don’t want the two of YOU to go missing, too.”

“Don’t you worry none, Sir,” Hoss said quietly. “Pa ‘n me’ll very careful, ‘n we’ll make dang sure we keep a real sharp look out.”

“In the meantime, I’m going to pay the chief of police a visit, and appraise HIM of the situation,” Frank said.

“What about US, Pa?” Stacy asked.

“The three of YOU . . . . ” Ben’s eyes moved from Stacy to Teresa, over to Trudy, and back once again, “ . . . are going to do whatever it is you planned to do today. If I remember correctly, I think you said something about doing more sightseeing?”

“Ben, I TOLD you . . . I am NOT going to sit idly by, while my husband is . . . is . . . Lord only knows where--- ” Teresa sputtered angrily, giving vent to her rising anger and frustration. “I’ll go crazy!”

“Teresa speaks for me, too, Mister Cartwright,” Trudy declared, as she furiously wiped the last of her tears from her eyes and cheeks against the heel of her hand. “As long as PAUL’S out there--- ”

“Teresa . . . Trudy . . . please!” Ben pleaded, raising his hands as if to ward off physical blows. “I KNOW the both of ya are worried sick. So am I. Now I promise ya . . . we WILL find Adam . . . AND Joe . . . and Paul, too. But, Hoss and I can work a lot faster . . . a lot more efficiently . . . BY. . . OURSELVES.”

“Mister Harker was right when he said those neighborhoods ain’t the best,” Hoss quietly added.

“Hop Sing . . . . ?”

“No need for worry, Mister Cartwright,” Hop Sing declared, grinning from ear-to-ear. “Hop Sing take real good care of Mrs. Teresa, Mrs. Trudy, and Miss Stacy.”

“I’m countin’ on ya, Hop Sing,” Ben said, before turning to Frank Harker. “Can Hoss and I drop you somewhere, Frank?”

“Where I’M headed lies in the opposite direction from YOUR destination, Ben, but thank you all the same for the offer,” Frank politely declined.



“Pa . . . . ” Hoss queried, after he and Ben had settled themselves comfortably in the buggy they had rented from the hotel livery, “is there somethin’ you ain’t told me?”

His inquiry was met with a sharp glare from his father. “Why do you ask?” Ben snapped.

Hoss turned his eyes away from his father’s intense gaze. “Sorry, Pa . . . . ” he murmured softly, as he very pointedly focused his attention on the road before him. He picked up the reins, and commanded the horses to move forward. “I . . . didn’t mean t’ pry.”

“Hoss . . . I’M the one who needs to apologize to YOU,” Ben said ruefully. “I didn’t mean to take your head off just now . . . . ”

“ ‘S ok. I know ya didn’t,” Hoss replied. “Y’ don’t hafta tell me, if--- ”

“I . . . think maybe this is something I SHOULD tell ya, Son,” Ben said grimly, “I’ve been worrying over this every bit as much as I’ve been worrying about your two brothers, but for now? I’d appreciate it if you kept this between the two of US, leastwise ‘til I’ve had an opportunity to talk with Will.”

“Will?!” Hoss echoed, surprised. “You . . . seen Cousin Will?”

“Yes. Stacy and I ran into him at the Bayside Casino,” Ben replied. “We stopped there for a cup of coffee last night before returning to the hotel.”

An amused half smile tweaked at the corner of Hoss’ mouth. “That where Li’l Sister won all that money playin’ Blackjack?” he asked.

“Yes,” Ben said, “though all things considered, I’d prefer you keep THAT to yourself, too . . . until I can wire that money to our bank in Virginia City.”

“I will, Pa,” Hoss promised, “and I won’t say anything ‘bout Cousin Will t’ anyone else, either.”

Ben shared with Hoss everything that Roscoe had told him about seeing Will with Kathleen Murphy where she kept him prisoner until such time as she could sell him to the highest paying ship’s captain. “He ALSO told me that Will . . . that Will haggled with Kathleen Murphy over price,” he concluded, incredulous and deeply grief stricken, “ . . . for HIM.”

Hoss’ jaw dropped. His face was nearly white as a sheet when he turned briefly to face his father, and his sky blue eyes were nearly bulging right out of their sockets. “Pa, I . . . I . . . . ” He shook his head, as if to try and physically dislodge the chaotic jumble of words, thoughts, and feelings now churning furiously within him. “I can’t believe it. Pa . . . . ”

“Yes, Son?”

“Do YOU believe Roscoe?”

“I don’t WANT to believe it,” Ben replied, “and to be frank, Hoss, had anyone other than Roscoe Swanson . . . or my own family . . . told me that Will’s involved in shanghaiing young men and selling them to the highest bidding ship’s captain, I absolutely WOULDN’T believe it.” He sighed softly, and mournfully shook his head. “But . . . coming from Roscoe . . . . ”

“I know,” Hoss said, his tone somber. “Only time Roscoe can get away with lyin’ is when he turns in come night time. His pa was the same way.”

Ben nodded.

“Pa . . . . ”

“Yes, Hoss?”

“Now mind . . . I don’t believe for one minute Roscoe’s out ‘n out lyin’ to ya deliberate,” Hoss said firmly, “but . . . he WAS in a bad way when you ‘n Joe brought him t’ the hotel from the police station . . . . ”

“Yes, he was,” Ben agreed.

“ . . . ‘n didn’t he tell ya himself that he don’t remember much o’ anything between the time he went t’ that saloon t’ meet Kathleen Murphy . . . ‘n the time he woke up in Joe’s room?”

Ben nodded his head slowly.

“If THAT’S so . . . ain’t it possible that whoever it was Roscoe thought he saw was someone who maybe reminded him o’ Will in some way?” Hoss asked.

“Anything’s possible, of course,” Ben replied, “but . . . Roscoe was so adamant, Hoss, and . . . . ” His voice trailed away to troubled silence.

“What is it, Pa?” Hoss prompted gently, when his father didn’t resume speaking.

“It’s . . . probably nothing . . . . ”

“Not if it’s troublin’ ya this much.”

Ben sighed. “Son, I may be making a big mountain out of a tiny mole hill, but . . . seeing Will last night at a place like the Bayside . . . wearing expensive clothing . . . I KNOW his suit was custom made. It fit him too well to be otherwise,” he finally gave voice to his troubled thoughts, albeit with much reluctance. “He told me last night he went to work for the police department shortly after he, Laura Dayton, and Peggy moved here from Virginia City. Hoss . . . . ”

“Yeah, Pa?”

“I’m sure . . . as a police officer . . . Will makes a decent enough living,” Ben forced himself to continue, dreadfully aware that, in his own ears at least, he sounded like Eloise Kirk and Clara Mudgely, a pair of gossipy old hens back home, who were forever looking for scandal where, more often than not, none existed. “But I . . . I strongly doubt his salary pays him enough to cover the cost of eating in very expensive restaurants and having suits custom made.”

Hoss silently mulled over everything his father had just told him. “Pa?” he finally ventured.

“Yes, Hoss?”


“For what it’s worth?” Hoss continued. “Maybe there IS somethin’ t’ what ya say . . . ‘n maybe there AIN’T. Still ‘n all, I don’t think this is somethin’ you ‘n me can afford t’ lightly set aside.”

“But?”

“Now mind, Pa . . . I COULD be dead wrong ‘bout this . . . . ”

“Hoss . . . over the years, time after time, you’ve shown yourself to be a down right uncanny judge of character,” Ben said in all sincerity. “I know Roscoe Swanson’s an honest young man, and that he sincerely believes what he’s told me about your cousin, Will, to be true. However, as you just pointed out, there’s a lot of room for reasonable doubt. I’d like to hear what YOU have to say, Son . . . . ”

“I think we all know Cousin Will’s a restless man, the kind who can’t stay in one place f’r too long . . . real excited ‘bout somethin’ one minute, tired of it the next . . . always got his hands in too many pots at once, ‘n stickin’ his irons into every dadburned fire he comes across,” Hoss began.

“His father was like that, too,” Ben said. “John never traveled the world extensively the way Will has, but over the years, he and his family ended up moving all the way from Boston out to Ohio, while HE chased after the proverbial pot of gold at the end of every rainbow.” He sighed very softly and shook his head in dark wonderment of it all. “That man involved himself in more cockamamie get rich quick schemes . . . . ” This last, he added with a touch of disparity.

“Was Uncle John ever involved in anything that was . . . well . . . kinda shady?” Hoss asked.

“He fell victim to a fair number of schemes put forth by confidence men and scam artists, but by in large, I think most of the things John got himself involved in were ideas that looked real good on paper, but didn’t work out so well in reality,” Ben said.

“Kinda like ME, I s’pose,” Hoss murmured, shame faced, upon remembering Pettibone’s horseless carriage.

“Son, there’s one real important difference between you and my brother,” Ben said firmly. “For the most part, YOU’VE invested yourself in people . . . not to make money, but out of a real concern for THEIR best good.”

“It hasn’t always worked out, Pa,” Hoss said very quietly.

“No . . . but most of the time, your investment in people has paid off quite handsomely,” Ben gently pointed out. “In that you’ve become a rich man . . . a VERY rich man, countless times over. You’ve also learned from your mistakes, Hoss, hard lessons to be sure sometimes, but ya STILL learned. My brother, John, never did. I think that’s why he was such an easy mark for confidence men. But to my knowledge, I don’t think he ever got involved in anything illegal, like theft f’r instance, or murder.”

“Cousin Will, though, WAS involved in one shady kinda deal that we know of . . . ‘n t’ be up front ‘n honest? I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised t’ find out he’d been involved in a hundred more,” Hoss said. “But, I don’t think Will’s got it in him to keep right on doing somethin’, after findin’ out it ain’t on the up ‘n up.”

“I think you’re right about that, Son,” Ben said, remembering the incident that many years ago brought his nephew to the Ponderosa.

“I’D be more inclined t’ give Will the benefit o’ the doubt, leastwise ‘til I found out different,” Hoss concluded with a firm nod of his head for emphasis.

Ben silently vowed to do his best to try and keep an open mind as far as his nephew was concerned, until he had an opportunity to talk with him at the very least. “But so help me, William John Cartwright . . . sooo help me . . . if your cousins, Adam and Joe, turn up with so much as a scratch on ‘em, and I find out you even KNEW about it . . . I’m gonna turn you right over my knee and whale the ever lovin’ daylights out of ya.”



“Ok. Where you go?” Hop Sing, asked, after he and the three women left in his care had parted company with the Cartwright men and Frank Harker.

“Trudy and I are going to look for our husbands,” Teresa replied, speaking in a very quiet, very firm tone of voice.

“You WHAT?!” Hop Sing exclaimed.

“You heard me,” Teresa angrily shot right back. “Trudy and I are going search for our husbands. Hop Sing, if you think I’m going to cheerfully go sight seeing while Adam’s out there somewhere . . . injured, maybe . . . or sick, or--- ” She abruptly broke off, unable and unwilling to give voice to that terrible thought.

“How you look for husband!?” Hop Sing demanded indignantly, with fast sinking heart. “You got no place for start.”

“Oh YES we do,” Trudy angrily shot right back. “We can start at one end of that damned Barbary Coast and take it apart board by board . . . brick by brick, until we find Paul and Adam, or someone who can tell us where they are,” she replied. The glint in her blue eyes was harder than steel.

Looking from one face to the other, Hop Sing knew that Trudy and Teresa had every intention of doing what Trudy had just said. He also knew that the both of them would likely end up in jail, charged with vandalism and a several counts of assault and battery within the first hour of their angry rampage.

IF they were lucky.

“Ok. We go. Look for husbands,” Hop Sing stated, with fatalistic aplomb, knowing full well he had no other choice. “Hop Sing have cousin. Cousin number eight. He work some-times at wharf. Unload ship. Maybe HE can tell us where we look. We ask.”

“Good. Now we’re getting somewhere,” Teresa grimly observed.

“First, we take Miss Stacy back to hotel--- ”

“No!” Stacy rudely cut him off. “I’m going with YOU.”

“Stacy, Ben and Hoss were right about this being dangerous,” Teresa pointed out. “You’d be a lot better off--- ”

“I said NO!” Stacy rounded furiously upon her sister-in-law. “Dadburn it! First off, TWO of those missing men happen to be my brothers, and second . . . maybe I hafta put up with PA treating me like some dumb little kid, but I sure as shootin’ am NOT gonna put up with it outta the two of YOU!” She glared over at Teresa first, then at Trudy. “Hop Sing . . . . ” As she turned her attention to the Ponderosa’s Number One Cook and Chief Jack of All Trades, her tone softened, assuming a more deferential air. “You know me to be a woman of her word.”

Hop Sing nodded warily, wondering where Stacy was going with this train of thought.

“Then, I promise you this,” she continued. “The three of you can take me back to the hotel, but I WON’T stay there.”

“Miss Stacy make real good point,” Hop Sing had to admit. “Ok, all of you come. We go find number eight cousin.”

“Hop Sing?” Stacy ventured, as she, Teresa, and Trudy climbed into the buggy.

“Yes, Miss Stacy?”

“What about the Queen of the Sea Saloon I heard Pa ‘n Roscoe talking about?” Stacy asked. “And that saloon girl . . . . ” she frowned for a moment, trying to remember, “ . . . Star . . . something . . . . ”

“Missy Star-Bryte. With ‘Y’,” Hop Sing replied. “We go there, after talk with cousin number eight.”



He drifted aimlessly across the surface of a vast sea of darkness, shrouded by night darker than the bottom of the deepest mine shaft when the lantern goes out, with no more care than dandelion seeds riding through the air, borne aloft upon the gentle, warm summer breezes. He had no idea where he was . . . how he had come to be here . . . or where the currents of the sea would ultimately take him; nor did he care. He was at peace now, perfectly content to allow the currents of the black sea to carry him where they will.

“Adam?”

A voice, far distant, spoke from a place beyond the thick darkness surrounding him. With that voice a single star appeared, very bright, almost blindingly so. It lingered in the night sky above for but a second, then vanished. There and gone so quickly, his eyes barely had a chance to register it.

With a sigh, he gave himself once again to the sea, its strong currents, and the night, but a nebulous uneasiness now stirred deep within him, gnawing away at the deep peace and contentment that had all but possessed him, as a wild dog gnaws away at an old bone.

“Hey, Adam . . . . ”

“What is it, Joe?”

Two voices . . . the one he had just heard . . . and a second responding to the entreaty of the first. Two stars appeared in the sky directly overhead, both bigger than the first, and a hundred times more bright. In the far distance ahead, he caught sight of a faint, yet unmistakable glimmer of silvery gray light. The dark waters beneath him began to churn, and the uneasiness within him intensified. Somewhere beyond the thick darkness, now beginning to unravel, he heard another voice groan in agony.

“I think he’s starting to come around . . . . ”

Then, suddenly, the darkness around him shattered into a thousand million pieces, and he found himself thrust violently into an agonizing world of intense white light. In the far distance, he heard someone scream.

“Paul,” the second voice gently called out to him, “close your eyes and take a deep breath . . . nice and slow.” Though the voice spoke very calmly, he heard a note of urgency there, too.

As he squeezed his eyes shut, he felt himself growing heavier and heavier. His increasing mass and weight pulled him down under the surface of the water. The vague, nebulous uneasiness quickly gave way to fast rising panic. He couldn’t breathe---

“Easy, Paul . . . easy,” Adam exhorted, the anxious frown already present upon his brow, deepening. “Just concentrate on taking a deep breath . . . . ”

Squeezing his eyelids tight shut against the blinding world of light in which he now found himself, Paul Magruder drew in a deep, ragged breath, held it for a moment, then exhaled. “Wh-Where am I?” he groaned very softly.

Adam and Joe had to lean forward, as far as they were able, and strain to catch his words.

“Am I . . . am I . . . d-dead?”

“No, Paul,” Adam replied. “You’re NOT dead . . . you’re very much alive. As for where WE are . . . we’re in a small cabin on board a ship. That’s all I know for certain.”

Paul opened his eyes, then with an agonized groan, squeezed them shut once again. “ . . . uhhh, Adam? That you?”

“Yes,” Adam replied. “I’m here. So’s Joe.”

“Over here, Paul,” Joe quietly affirmed, “on the other side of the room from Adam.”

“Las’ thing I remember ‘s . . . goin’ t’ one o’ Gran’pa Harker’s warehouses . . . got word someone’d broken in . . . . ”

“I remember you mentioning that when we had dinner together,” Adam said. “Whenever THAT was . . . exactly . . . . ”

“ . . . n-no sign t’ lock on t’ door’d been forced,” Paul continued. “Whoever got in hadda key. I was on m’ knees lookin’ at . . . at somethin’ . . . can’ remmer whud dit wuz . . . then . . . . ” His voice trailed off to silence.

“Did anyone go with you to the warehouse?” Adam asked.

“Yeah. Couple o’ policemen.”

“Did you by chance get their names?”

“Can’ remember . . . . ”

At that moment, the door to their cabin burst wide open. Kathleen Murphy entered first, followed by a large, burly man carrying a bucket and three bowls.

“Good morning, Gentlemen,” Kathleen greeted them brightly, with a triumphant, malicious smile. “Glad to see finally see the three of you with us . . . . ” her eyes moved over to Paul and lingered for a moment, “in a manner o’ speakin’.” She added that last as an after thought.

“Well . . . well . . . well,” Joe mused very softly, favoring her with an angry scowl, “if it isn’t our old friend Kathleen Murphy.”

“I’m flattered you remember after all these years,” Kathleen responded with a brittle smile.

“Either you were much OLDER than you appeared, first time we met, or the years since haven’t been too kind,” Joe wryly observed.

Kathleen bristled, wavering between the thought of following through with the delicious plan she and Miss Stephens had hatched for the three men lying at her feet, helplessly bound, or simply killing that young smart mouthed lad right now with her bare hands. “I suffered a terrible reverse o’ fortune right after that first meeting with you, your father, and brother,” she said stiffly. “Damn near reduced to begging . . . and worse. Now, Mister Cartwright . . . it’s time for pay back.”

“What do you mean?” Adam asked, taking great care to keep his voice calm and even.

“My . . . partner and I . . . we have a special buyer for the three of you,” Kathleen crowed, her eyes glittering with a fearful, unholy light. “Oh yes . . . a very special buyer . . . . ”

“When do you and your partner expect this special buyer, Miss Murphy?” Adam asked.

“Any day now,” Kathleen replied. “In the meantime, you three need to eat, you know . . . keep up your strength?”

“How ‘n the hell’m I gonna eat with m’ hands tied b’hind m’ back?” Paul demanded cantankerously.

“You can, as this gentleman behind me might say, swill your grub like a dog . . . have HIM feed it to ya like a baby . . . or, if you refuse those options, he can force feed it to ya,” Kathleen replied with a seeming air of indifference. “Makes no never mind t’ me.” With that, she abruptly turned heel and sashayed out of the cabin.

“Eeee-YUCK!” Joe groaned, a few moments after the man who had accompanied Kathleen into the cabin had served up their meal and left. He pulled a face so grotesquely ugly, it would have been funny under different circumstances. “I don’t know which is WORSE! The thought of having to eat that . . . that . . . garbage . . . or the thought of them forcing it down our throats.”

“I find both of those thoughts equally repugnant,” Adam said with a grimace. “Joe?”

“Yeah?”

“If what Miss Murphy said about that special buyer is true . . . we don’t have much time,” Adam observed grimly. “How are you coming with the ropes around your wrists?”

“Not well, I’m afraid, Oldest Brother,” Joe said ruefully. “Who ever tied ME up, tied the knots real tight. How about you?”

“Same here, I’m afraid,” Adam sighed.

“Hey, Paul . . . how about YOU?” Joe asked.

“I . . . I dunno,” Paul groaned. “Righ’ now? I can’ even FEEL m’ hands.”

“Can you roll over on your stomach?” Adam asked, deeply concerned that circulation to Paul’s hands might be dangerously low, or worse, non-existent.

“I’d r-rather not,” Paul replied. “Just the thought m-makes me wanna---urgh!”

Upon hearing that sound issue from Paul’s throat, Joe found himself fighting valiantly against his own gag reflex. “We get the picture!” he growled.

“How about on your side?” Adam pressed, ignoring the dark scowl Joe leveled in his direction.

“I . . . dunno,” Paul replied. “I uhhh . . . think, maybe . . . if I take it kinda slow.”

“By all means,” Adam agreed.

“ . . . uhhh, Adam?” Joe queried, trying his hardest to turn deaf ear to Paul’s grunting and the occasional loud gurgle from his stomach, as he endeavored to roll over on his side.

“Yes, Joe?”

“YOU got any bright ideas as to how we’re gonna get outta here?”

“Not at the moment,” Adam sighed.



“Mister Harker was right when he said whoever it was broke in here had a key,” Hoss remarked as he studied the door latch very closely. “Door’s in one piece ‘n the lock still works real well . . . . ” He demonstrated by turning the key several times. “In fact I’D say this lock ‘n key are workin’ a mite TOO well, seein’ that this warehouse is s’posed to’ve been empty for a while . . . ‘n that brings me t’ somethin’ else.”

“What’s that, Hoss?”

“If a man’s gonna break in somewhere . . . ain’t he MORE likely t’ break in where there’s something worth stealin’?” Hoss queried.

“Well . . . yes. Of course,” Ben replied. “That goes without saying.”

“Alright . . . then s’pose YOU tell ME, Pa . . . what can a thief possibly find in an empty warehouse that’s worth stealin’?!” Hoss demanded.

“That’s a very good question,” Ben murmured softly, marveling at the way Hoss had picked up on something so obvious, a lot of men probably wouldn’t have bothered to give it so much as a passing thought. Himself included!

“Someone . . . I can’t remember now whether it was Mister Harker or Paul . . . said somethin’ about squatters makin’ themselves at home here, the night we had supper t’gether at the Harker mansion,” Hoss continued, while he and his father lit the oil lamps they had brought with them.

“Yes, I remember . . . . ” Ben replied.

“Problem with THAT is . . . a squatter ain’t likely t’ have a key.”

“That’s ALSO very true.”

“Somethin’ about all this . . . just plain don’t add up,” Hoss grumbled very softly under his breath as he cautiously opened the door. He stepped over the threshold very carefully, his eyes glued to the floor. By the light of the oil lamp he carried, his sharp eyes immediately saw three sets of prints, all recently made. Two sets of prints entered through the door and went immediately to the wall just inside. The third set veered from the door, to the left keeping close to the wall.

“I’d say THESE prints belong t’ the policemen who met Paul here,” Hoss said grimly.

“How can you be so sure?” Ben asked.

“I figure they’d have just come in ‘n waited,” Hoss replied, “just inside the door like as not, where they could see what was goin’ on, but be outta Paul’s way while he looked around.”

“That makes sense,” Ben had to agree.

“One of ‘em . . . the man who stood right here . . . . ” Hoss shone his light on a pair of prints, set side by side roughly a foot and a half apart, right beside the door. “I’d say he’s a big man, not quite as big as me, though . . . maybe . . . . ”

“How do you figure?” Ben asked.

“They’re just about as wide as mine . . . but . . . oohh, I’d say an inch, or maybe two shorter.” Hoss scowled. “Now that I think about it, that description fits policeman who made me leave the saloon last night when I started askin’ questions ‘bout Adam. The bartender called him Officer Brady.”

“A big man . . . as heavy as you perhaps, but not quite as tall . . . that’s a pretty vague description, Son, one that fits a lot of men besides this Officer Brady,” Ben very quickly pointed out. “What about the other set?”

“Tall man . . . . ” Hoss murmured softly, as he studied the second set of prints, “I dunno . . . maybe somewhere between you ‘n Joe, but skinnier. He’s gotta big foot . . . almost as big as the other guy, but lots narrower.”

“How about the third set of prints?” Ben asked.

“These belong to a fella . . . tall as Joe, but just a tad heavier,” Hoss voiced his observations aloud, “which pretty much fits Paul Magruder’s description.”

Ben stood in the center of the small room watching his middle son following the set of tracks he had identified as belonging to Paul Magruder. Hoss suddenly stopped after having going two thirds of the way around the room. “Hold on!” he murmured softly, as he knelt down for a closer look.

“What is it, Hoss?” Ben asked as made his way across the room. “You find something?”

“Yep,” Hoss replied. “I . . . think . . . whoever grabbed Paul . . . grabbed him right here.” He pointed.

Ben’s eyes followed the line formed by Hoss’ extended arm and pointing first finger. He bent down for a closer look and saw the rough, smeared outlines of a man’s body in the dust, dirt, and grime covering the wood flood . . . and something else. “Hoss,” he said tersely, “let me have that lantern a moment.”

Hoss silently handed the lantern over to his father, and watched as he straightened, and moved around to the rough outline of the head. “Pa?” he ventured with an anxious frown. “What---?!”

“Blood,” Ben said very softly, his eyes glued to a small, irregularly shaped deep reddish brown stain very near to the spot where Paul Magruder’s head rested.

“Oh no,” Hoss groaned softly, “whoever bushwhacked him didn’t . . . . ”

“No, Son,” Ben hastened to reassure. “Whoever bushwhacked Paul apparently came from behind and hit him hard enough to draw some blood, but not hard enough to kill him.” So he fervently hoped and prayed at any rate.

“Something here caught Paul’s attention . . . Pa, would ya please shine that light over there?” Hoss asked, pointing at a spot almost directly in front of him where floor and wall met.

Ben complied with his son’s request. His eyes picked up a dull metallic glint over next to the wall. Hoss shifted his weight forward from his feet to his knees, placing his left hand on the floor to steady himself. He, then, reached out with his right hand to take whatever it was lying up against the wall.

“ . . . uhhh . . . somethin’ I can do to HELP ya, Gents?”

Ben and Hoss turned. A man stood in the doorway, a big man, holding an oil lamp in his left hand, his face completely obscured by the deep shadows within the warehouse.

“Pa, that voice!” Hoss whispered. “I know it---!”

Ben rose to his feet very slowly and stepped between Hoss and the man standing just inside the door. “Is there something I can do for y---?!”

“Shut up!” the man snapped, “ . . . and if ya know what’s GOOD for ya . . . you’ll BOTH stay put until I say otherwise.”

Ben caught the dull metallic gleam of a revolver by the light of the man’s lantern.

“You!” he barked, his eyes shifting from Ben to Hoss still in his hands and knees. “On your feet . . . and NO sudden moves. I’m feelin’ a mite jumpy this morning.”

“I get the picture,” Hoss growled back as he snagged the tiny object near the wall. He slowly rocked back from his knees to his feet, dropping whatever it was into the left hand pocket of his jacket.

“Come on over here and stand next to your friend here,” the man continued issuing orders, “real slow ‘n real easy, like I said before--- ”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, Mister. You’re feelin’ real jumpy this mornin’,” Hoss returned as he moved into place alongside his father.

“That’s right!” the man growled back. “Now the both of ya . . . get those hands up where I can see ‘em.”

“I dunno who y’ think YOU are, Mister--- ” Hoss growled, as he and his father followed instructions to the letter.

“For YOUR information, Lard Bucket, it’s not Mister . . . it’s OFFICER,” the man said curtly, “as in POLICE Officer John Brady.”

Hoss scowled when the officer gave his name. “First off, from where I sit, you got no business callin’ me or anyone else a lard bucket,” he said, his eyes lingering very pointedly on the policeman’s ample girth. “Second--- ”

“Officer Brady, my name is Ben Cartwright . . . this is my son, Eric,” Ben very quickly interjected, in the hope of avoiding an argument between Hoss and the policeman that might end up with the both of them being arrested. “We’re friends of Mister Frank Harker . . . the man who OWNS this warehouse--- ”

“So what?” Johnny-Boy Brady demanded.

“Mister Harker heard there had been a break in a couple of nights ago, and he asked my son and me if we might look into it since our business brings us to this part of the city,” Ben explained.

“Well I happen t’ know Mister Harker sent his granddaughter’s husband down here yesterday morning to look into matters,” Johnny-Boy coolly informed Ben. “I don’t know about anyone ELSE. So whoever YOU are, Gentlemen . . . I’d strongly suggest y’ tend to whatever business brings ya t’ this part of the city, then clear out . . . unless you want me to arrest the both of ya for trespassing ‘n vagrancy.”

Ben found himself bristling inwardly against the police officer’s rude, high handed manner. “We are NOT trespassing,” he responded, laboring mightily to keep his tone of voice calm and even. “We’re here at the request of the owner.”

“That’s YOUR story, Mister Cartwright.”

“Have YOU been assigned to keep an eye on this warehouse, Officer Brady?” Ben asked.

“Doesn’t matter none whether I have or haven’t,” Johnny-Boy replied. “What DOES matter is . . . this part of the city’s MY beat. If you gents wanna root around through this empty warehouse, you comeback WITH Mister Harker OR a court order. That clear?”

“Clear,” Ben growled back.

“Now since I’m in a real generous mood this mornin’, I’m gonna let you gents g’won about your business,” Johnny-Boy continued. “But, if I catch ya snoopin’ around without the owner or a court order, I’m haulin’ your flea bitten carcasses into the pokey ‘n lockin’ the pair of ya up. Could be thirty days, could be sixty, dependin’ on what kinda mood I’m in. If I’m real mad, that could getcha ninety. Now let’s go . . . you fellas first.”



“Dadburn it!” Hoss gave vent to the fury seething within him after he and Ben had finally parted company with Officer Brady. “Pa, THAT was the policeman who threw me outta the saloon last night when I started askin’ questions ‘bout Adam.”

“Never mind that now,” Ben returned, keeping his voice low and casting a quick glance over his shoulder. “What did you find in that warehouse?”

Hoss dug deep into the pocket of his jacket and extracted a cufflink. The stone was a highly polished black onyx with a gold “C” inlaid. Ben’s face went white as a sheet upon catching sight of it lying nestled in the big palm of his middle son’s hand.

“Pa?” Hoss prompted, hesitant and anxious, when his father didn’t immediately reply. “Pa . . . what IS it?”

“Proof!” Ben replied in a voice barely audible, his body trembling slightly with fear and rising anger.

“Proof?!” Hoss echoed, the scowl on his face deepening. “Proof o’ what?”

“That your brother, Adam was here,” Ben replied. “I gave him those cufflinks the year he returned home from Boston after graduating from Harvard.”

“DadBURN it!” Hoss growled. “Now, I’m real sorry I DIDN’T tear that danged Barbary Coast apart joint by joint.”

Ben took a deep, ragged breath. “Hoss, we’ve GOT to get hold of ourselves,” he hissed.

“But, Pa--- ”

“Look! I’d like nothing more than to go on a rampage through that . . . that damned Barbary Coast, tearing it apart board by board, shingle by shingle myself, but that’s the very LAST resort, you understand me?” Ben sternly admonished his son.

“Alright,” Hoss acquiesced. “What do we do NOW?”

“A trip to the Queen of the Sea Saloon’s in order, I think . . . for a nice long talk with a young lady who calls herself Starbryte with a ‘y’,” Ben replied, his words terse, his syllables clipped.



“Hop Sing . . . what’d he say?!” Stacy demanded the instant the young man, introduced as Cousin Number Eight, fell silent.

“Not good,” Hop Sing murmured softly. “Not good . . . . ”

They had gone to one of the dilapidated tenement houses, squeezed in among the bars, brothels, and gambling establishments in that area known as the Barbary Coast, where Cousin Number Eight and his recently widowed mother shared a small two room apartment.

Hop Sing, Teresa, and Trudy sat squeezed together on the small, love seat sized settee, directly facing Hop Sing’s Cousin Number Eight over a small coffee table. Stacy sat perched on the edge of a low footstool, while the woman, simply introduced as “Wife of Hop Sing Cousin Number Seven,” bustled about serving up tea and sugar cookies.

“Hop Sing . . . what do you mean not good?” Teresa queried, her heart sinking upon catching the Chinese man’s ashen gray complexion, and the look of shocked horror on his face. “H-Have Adam . . . Joe . . . and Paul . . . already . . . put out t-to sea?”

“Not sailor boys yet,” Hop Sing replied. “But soon. Cousin Number Eight say he hear a Missy Cut-Throat Kate have special cargo for special captain. All three special cargo fit description of Mister Adam, Little Joe, and Mrs. Trudy husband.”

“Who’s this Cut-Throat Kate?” Teresa demanded.

“Bad lady,” Hop Sing murmured softly. “Very, very, VERY bad lady. Many years ago, she shanghai Mister Cartwright.”

“She shanghaied PA?!” Stacy demanded, incredulous and highly indignant.

“Long time ago,” Hop Sing explained. “Mister Hoss and Little Joe come to rescue. Before they come, she sell to bad man. Now she have special cargo. Sell to same bad man.”

“Hop Sing . . . when I, uhhh . . . when I listened in? I heard Pa and Roscoe talking about someone named Kathleen Murphy. Could she and this Cut-Throat Kate your cousin mentioned be the same person?” Stacy asked.

Hop Sing looked over at his cousin and asked him Stacy’s question in Chinese.

The young man set the tea cup and saucer he held in hand down onto the coffee table before him, and gave a moment of thought to Hop Sing’s question. At length, he replied.

“Cousin Number Eight say he know of this Kathleen Murphy,” Hop Sing ably translated his cousin’s words for his three companions. “She have private boat, she keep tied up at wharf. Rich lady. Have very rich friend. But Cousin Number Eight not know if she same lady as Cut-Throat Kate.”

“What about the other lady I heard Pa . . . Roscoe . . . and Candy, too, mention?” Stacy asked. “This Star . . . something . . . . ”

“Starbryte . . . with ‘y’,” Hop Sing supplied the name.

“That’s it! Starbryte with a ‘y.’ ” She looked over at Hop Sing’s cousin, her blue eyes meeting his of dark brow almost black. “Do you know whether or not this Cut-Throat Kate you mentioned has someone working for her who goes by the name of Starbryte? I think Candy and Roscoe said they were with her at some saloon . . . Queen of . . . of . . . dadburn it! I can’t remember!”

Hop Sing again ably translated Stacy’s question into Chinese.

His cousin replied immediately.

“Cousin Number eight say he don’t know if Starbryte with ‘y’ work for Cut-Throat Kate,” Hop Sing again translated. “Think maybe, but not sure. He say she work at dive called Queen of Sea. He also say he know where Queen of Sea is. He take us there.”

“Thank you,” Trudy said gratefully, as she turned and made eye contact with Hop Sing’s young cousin. “This’ll save us a lot of time we would’ve wasted by lookin’.”

Hop Sing’s cousin rose to his feet, grinning from hear to ear. His eyes moving from Hop Sing’s face to the faces of his companions, he said . . . .

“ . . . let’s get show on road,” Hop Sing translated.



“ ‘Mornin’, Gents!” Horace Grimes greeted the Ben and Hoss affably as they stepped through the squeaky batwing door of the Queen of the Sea Saloon, where he worked as manager and bartender. “What can I getcha? Couple o’ beers, maybe?”

“No, thank you,” Ben politely, yet very pointedly declined. “We’re looking for a young lady who works here.”

“What for?” Horace demanded warily.

“We . . . my son and I . . . just want to ask her a couple of questions,” Ben replied, laboring mightily to keep his voice calm and even.

“Well, I gotta lot o’ young ladies workin’ here, Mister,” Horace said curtly. “Ya got a name?”

“She calls herself Starbryte.” It was Hoss who replied. “Starbryte with a ‘y.’ ”

Horace stamped his foot very loudly three times, then coughed once. “Uhhh . . . sorry ‘bout that,” he meekly apologized, flinching against the glares, filled with anger and suspicion Ben and Hoss leveled at him. “Bit of a . . . a circulation problem! Yes! That’s it! Problem with the ol’ circulation!” He laughed nervously. “Foot goes to sleep, ‘n I gotta stomp ‘n stomp ‘n stomp to get things moving again. Always kicks up a mite when it, uhhh . . . rains . . . kinda . . . . ”

“Well now, Mister, that’s REAL interestin’, seein’ that there ain’t a single, solitary cloud up in that sky,” Hoss growled back.

“Yes, well . . . uhhh . . . what was that name again?” Horace asked, changing the subject with all haste and speed.

“Starbryte!” Hoss replied, the scowl in his face deepening. “Starbryte . . . with a ‘y’!”

“Starbryte with a ‘y’,” he repeated Hoss’ words very slowly, just above the volume for carrying on a polite conversation. “Star . . . bryte . . . with a ‘y.’ ” He removed the cloth tucked in behind his apron with a flourish and set to work wiping down the already spotless, dry bar. “Starbright’s a pretty common name ‘round these parts, Gents, b’lieve it or not, but this STARBRYTE WITH A ‘Y’ . . . heh, heh . . . well, that’s a new one on me.”

Ben reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and withdrew his billfold. He opened it and pulled out a couple of single bills. “Mister, I’m only gonna ask this once more,” he said, waving the two dollar bills right in the bartender’s face, “do you . . . or do you NOT have a young lady by the name of Starbryte working for ya?”

“I, uhhh . . . I ain’t exactly, uhhh sure,” Horace stammered, his eyes glued to the cash in Ben’s hand. “Like I just got through tellin’ ya--- ”

“Yeah, yeah, WE know. Starbright’s a common name ‘round about this neck o’ the woods,” Hoss growled.

“See if you can think harder,” Ben pressed, as he drew out a third dollar bill from his wallet.

“Well now, I uhhh think I DO have a young lady, name o’ Starbryte, with a ‘y’ workin’ for me, but she AIN’T . . . HERE,” Horace said, raising his voice. “MISS STARBRYTE . . . AIN’T . . . HERE.”

“When do you expect her?” Ben demanded.

“STARBRYTE WORKS HERE NIGHTS, BUT SHE’S . . . OFF . . . TONIGHT,” Horace replied, as he took the three one dollar bills from Ben and pocketed them.

“Mister . . . there ain’t a dadburn thing wrong with our hearin’,” Hoss said, noting the quick, furtive glances the portly little man kept darting in the general direction of a door that obviously opened into a back room.

“Will Starbryte be working tomorrow night?” Ben asked, while Hoss slowly, silently edged his way back toward the batwing doors.

“STARBRYTE’S . . . OFF . . . TOMORROW NIGHT . . . TOO,” Horace yelled. “IN FACT SHE’S OFF FOR . . . THE . . . REST . . . OF THE WEEK.”

Hoss unobtrusively slipped out of the establishment, timing his exit through the squeaky doors with the bartender’s loud reply. He casually made his way past the Queen of the Sea Saloon, stepping into the narrow alley way just beyond. Roughly ten yards from the entrance to the alley, a side door opened and a young woman noiselessly stepped out. Her long, thick, wavy mane of gold stood out in stunning contrast against the non-descript, slate gray traveling cloak she wore. She noiselessly eased the door closed then turned and gasped, upon catching sight of Hoss standing between her and the exit from the alley to the waterfront beyond.

“Howdy, Ma’am.” Hoss’ greeting was polite, but cool. “You Miss Starbryte with a ‘y’?”

“ . . . uhhh, who wants ta know?” she demanded warily, taking a step backward.

“I do.”

“Why? You some kinda cop or somethin’?”

“No, Ma’am,” Hoss replied. “SHOULD I be?”

“No . . . I s’pose not. But if y’ AIN’T . . . why are ya lookin’ for me, then?” she demanded, highly indignant. “I mean a gal’s got her right to privacy, y’ know . . . . ”

“A couple o’ real good friends o’ mine almost ended bein’ shanghaied,” Hoss replied, opting to come right out and lay the proverbial cards on the table. Though a man of many gifts and talents, subterfuge didn’t number among them. “Last thing both of ‘em remember is bein’ with YOU.”

“Well, I don’t know nuthin’ ‘bout nobody bein’ shanghaied!” Starbryte declared, her voice rising a few notches, taking it to the level of shrill. At the same time, she drew herself up to her full height and folded her arms defiantly across her chest.

“You sure about that, Ma’am?”

“You callin’ me a LIAR, Mister?”

“No,” Hoss replied. “All I said was a couple o’ my friends almost ended up bein’ shanghaied, ‘n the last thing both of ‘em remember is bein’ with you.”

“ . . . ‘n I just got through tellin’ ya that I don’t know nothin’ ‘bout anybody being shanghaied,” Starbryte stoutly maintained her position. “Now get outta my way.”

“Why’re you in such an all fired hurry t’ leave, Miss Starbryte . . . ‘n why’d that bartender make a point o’ yellin’ . . . ooohh, say just loud enough for somebody in that back room t’ hear about YOU havin’ the whole rest o’ the week off?” Hoss asked.

“How should I know?!”

“Ma’am, I ain’t accusin’ ya of lyin’, but at the same time, I can’t help but think you ain’t bein’ completely honest with me,” Hoss said, as he took firm hold of her forearm. “Now why don’t we g’won back inside--- ”

“YOU BIG BULLY!” Starbryte screamed. “YOU UNHAND ME RIGHT NOW, YOU HEAR ME?!” She tried desperately to pull herself free of his grasp, to no avail. “HELP!” she screamed. “SOMEBODY, PLEASE! HELP ME!”

With the young barmaid firmly in hand Hoss turned her around and started toward the back door. He had gone no more than three steps, before suffering a blinding headache, then nothing. Releasing his hold on Starbryte he fell to the ground with a dull, sickening thud.

“You all right, Miss Starbryte?”

Starbryte turned. It was her new partner, Eddie Lyon. He stood on the other side of the insensate Hoss, clad in a custom made royal blue linen suit and a silk shirt of pale pink with ruffles at the collar and cuffs. He held a billy club clasped tight in his right hand.

“Oh, Eddie, thank heaven!” she gushed, almost giddy with relief. She leapt over Hoss’ still form and threw herself into Eddie’s outstretched arms. “I . . . I don’t know WHAT wouldda happened if . . . if . . . . ”

“You didn’t tell him anything---?!”

“About the, ummm, business? No,” Starbryte replied, vigorously wagging her head back and forth. “I told him I didn’t know nuthin’.”

Eddie exhaled a long, slow sigh of pure relief. “That’s good, Starbryte,” he said, “that’s VERY good. Keeps things simple and straightforward.”

“Wh-Whaddya mean?” Starbryte demanded, all of a sudden wary.

“If you HAD told him anything about our operation . . . I’d have to kill him, too,” Eddie replied.

“Too?!” Starbryte echoed, bewildered.

“That’s right, Little Miss Starbryte with a ‘y’ . . . TOO!” Eddie reached out and took firm hold of her forearm. “Let’s go.”

“Not ‘til ya tell me who ELSE you’re gonna kill first,” she declared, digging in her heels.

His long fingers around her arm tightened, eliciting from her an indignant outcry of pain. “I’m sorry, Starbryte . . . I really am,” Eddie continued as he moved out of the alley, taking her with him. “I . . . hope you don’t take this personally . . . . ”

“WHY YOU---!! EDDIE, SO HELP ME . . . IF THIS SOME KINDA SICK JOKE---!?”

“I’m afraid it’s NOT!” Eddie replied in a bland tone of voice, as he turned away and started down toward the waterfront.

Her jaw dropped. “You . . . you mean it, don’t ya?” she queried, staring over at him through eyes round as saucers.

“Yes,” Eddie replied. “I really AM sorry about this, Starbryte. Had this whole sorry affair been left up to ME, I’d have settled for giving you the tanning you so richly deserve and docking your wages to make up for lost revenue.” He grimaced. “Murder’s such a dirty business,” he continued with a doleful sigh and a mournful glance at his attire, “and in the long run, it usually creates more problems than it actually solves.”

“Then . . . why d-don’t ya just settle for . . . for d-docking my wages ‘n . . . ‘n beating he within an inch of my life?” Starbryte begged.

“I would . . . please believe me, I WOULD, but I’m afraid my choices in this instance are severely limited.”

“T-To . . . what?” Starbryte demanded.

“Life or death: MINE,” Edward patiently explained. “Miss Murphy found out about our, ummm . . . shall we say little operation on the side?”

“You told her, didn’t ya!” Starbryte scathingly accused. “You dirty son uva wharf rat . . . you TOLD her!”

“No.”

“Liar!” Starbryte contemptuously spat in his face.

“I swear . . . I didn’t tell Miss Murphy anything,” Edward insisted as he wiped her spittle from his cheek on the sleeve of his jacket.

“Then how’d she find out, you . . . you . . . lyin’, back stabbin’---?!”

“Last night . . . or was it early this morning?! . . . when you let that cowboy slip right through your fingers,” Eddie growled. “She was there you . . . you silly little trollop! She saw and heard everything, especially YOU running around, screaming like a damned banshee, to use HER words--- ”

“ME?!” Starbryte shrieked. “ME??? What about YOU ‘n that . . . that gang o’ circus clowns y’ brought in?! I don’t think those guys could catch a cold sittin’ in freezin’ water, on a cold, damp, ‘n rainy night!”

“No matter . . . the upshot is, I’ve been placed in the awkward position of having to prove my loyalty to Miss Murphy by putting YOU out of business. For GOOD. If I don’t, she and Miss Stephens’ll put ME out of business. For good.”

“HELP!” Starbryte screamed at the top of her voice. “SOMEBODY, PUH-LEEEZE . . . HELP ME!” She twisted around and kicked Eddie in the shins with all her might.

Eddie bellowed in pain, astonishment, and outrage, sounding like a bull moose caught in the throes of rutting season. His grip on Starbryte relaxed, enabling her to pull free.

“Trouble, Missy?”

Starbryte turned and found herself staring into the grim, angry faces of Hop Sing, his number eight cousin, Stacy and Teresa Cartwright, and Trudy Magruder.

“Oh dear, dear, dear! Folks, I . . . this IS most embarrassing, but my wife and I got into a bit of an argument and I . . . well, I had no idea things had gotten so out of hand,” Eddie said deferentially. “Please, accept my deepest, most heartfelt apologies.”

Starbryte stared at him through eyes round with horror.

“So YOU say!” Hop Sing sneered contemptuously, the scowl on his face deepening. He unobtrusively placed himself in front of the three women in his care, with arms hanging loosely at his side, and feet planted firmly on the ground, shoulder width apart.

Taking his cue from his older relative, Cousin Number Eight quietly took up position beside Hop Sing.

“What MISSY say?” Hop Sing demanded.

“HE’S LYIN’!” Starbryte screamed, nearly hysterical with relief. “I AIN’T HIS WIFE, AND I WOULDN’T BE NEITHER, NOT IF HE WAS THE LAST MAN ON THE FACE O’ THIS EARTH.” She balled her free hand into a tight fist and belted Eddie with a good solid, powerful left hook, knocking him down on his hands and knees.

As he struggled to his feet, Eddie gritted his teeth and reached into the inside pocket of his jacket. He cried out, astonished and alarmed, when a big, heavy lead weight slammed down hard upon his left shoulder.

“DON’T even think about it, Mister,” Hoss Cartwright said, wincing on every word. He wrapped his fingers tight around Eddie’s shoulder and squeezed for emphasis.

“He was gonna KILL me!” Starbryte babbled, with tears streaming down her face. “This lousy, no good, dirty, lyin’ back stabbin’ hunk o’ sea scum was . . . . He g-gonna KILL me!”

“He not kill Missy now,” Hop Sing said grimly.

“Y-You saved my life, Mister,” Starbryte continued to babble. She took a step backward, then another. “I . . . I dunno HOW to thank you . . . . ” Her third step back took her into a solid human wall, formed by Stacy, Teresa, and Trudy.

“ . . . and just where do you think YOU’RE going?” Teresa demanded in a low, menacing tone, while Stacy seized hold of Starbryte’s arm and twisted it behind her back.

“HEY!” Starbryte screamed. “YOU’RE HURTIN’ ME!”

“I’m gonna hurt you a whole heckuva lot WORSE if you don’t stand still, starting with a little impromptu dental work,” Stacy growled.

“You cheap li’l hussy! You wouldn’t DARE!”

“I wouldn’t count on that if’n I was you, Miss Starbryte with a ‘y’,” Hoss gamely advised. He took hold of Eddie’s jacket and shirt collar with his free hand, then shifted the other from shoulder to the man’s waistband. “Come on,” he groaned, as he effortlessly hefted a terrified Eddie up onto his shoulders like a sack of potatoes. “Let’s get these two back inside.”



“St-Stacy?!” Ben stammered, gazing at his daughter through eyes round with shock and astonishment, as she followed behind her brother, with an uncharacteristically subdued Starbryte firmly in hand. “Teresa and T-Trudy?!” A murderous scowl darkened his face. “Hop Sing--- ”

“Pa, please? Don’t yell at Hop Sing,” Stacy pleaded. “I . . . I’m afraid we . . . . ” she inclined her head toward her sister-in-law and Trudy Magruder, “ . . . didn’t give him much choice in the matter.”

“We’ll talk about this later, Young Woman, count on it!” Ben said sternly. “In the meantime,” he continued, glaring at Starbryte first, then over at Eddie, “I want the both of ya to sit down right there over, with Mister Grimes . . . and keep your hands on the table where we can see ‘em.”

“Look! I dunna know what you people want,” Starbryte said, her voice breaking, “but I’m just a poor workin’ gal . . . tryin’ to make herself an HONEST livin’. I swear . . . I’ll even swear it on a . . . a . . . whole stack o’ bibles, if ya want . . . I don’t know nuthin’ ‘bout men bein’ shanghaied . . . ‘n THAT’S the pure ‘n honest TRUTH.”

“YOU wouldn’t know the pure ‘n honest truth if it walked right up and slapped you across the face,” Eddie growled.

“Are YOU callin’ ME a LIAR?!” Starbryte demanded, rising slowly from her chair.

“My pa told you to sit down!” Stacy reminded as she shoved the barmaid back down in her chair.

“I . . . I d-don’t know WHAT you people are tryin’ to prove,” Horace stammered, his eyes darting from one angry face to the next, “but there’s LAWS against this sorta thing . . . . ”

“There’s ALSO laws against abducting men and selling them off to the highest bidding ship’s captain,” Ben countered, speaking very calmly, in a low voice that carried a hint of menace.

“Miss Starbryte ‘n me just got through tellin’ ya . . . we don’t know NUTHIN’ about any o’ THAT!” Horace stoutly maintained his innocence.

“If you don’t know anything . . . then YOU tell US first off, how it is that two friends of ours said the last thing they remember was being right here . . . with HER?!” Stacy angrily demanded.

“ . . . and how did YOU come to know about all that, Young Woman?” Ben demanded, the thunderous scowl on his face deepening. “I sure didn’t tell ya . . . . ”

Stacy swallowed nervously. “I, uhhh . . . kinda . . . overheard?!” she squeaked.

“We’ll talk about THAT later, too,” Ben promised. He had a very dismal sinking feeling that before this was all over he and that high spirited, willful young daughter of his were going to have a whole lot of things to talk about. “In the meantime, however,” he continued, “if YOU would be so kind as to answer my daughter’s question, Miss Starbryte?”

“How should I know?!” she demanded, visibly flinching away from the baleful glare on Ben’s face. “Could be another ummm Starbright . . . one that AIN’T gotta a ‘y’. It’s a common name in these parts, y’ know . . . . ”

“So we’ve heard,” Hoss growled, glaring balefully at the bartender.

“Our friends made a point of telling us the last person they remember being with was a woman calling herself Starbryte with a ‘Y,’ ” Ben said firmly.

“Well, maybe someone’s out t’ frame me. Didja ever think o’ THAT?!”

“One way or another, you folks’re gonna tell us what WE wanna know,” Hoss growled. “If ya don’t wanna do it HERE . . . we can haul your sorry carcasses in t’ the nearest police station.”

“On WHAT charge?!” Horace demanded. “This is a legitimate business establishment, Mister . . . ‘n YOU got NO proof sayin’ otherwise.”

“Ooohhh . . . I’m sure we can come up with SOMETHING that’ll stick, Mister Grimes,” a voice said from the door, one all too familiar to the members of the Cartwright family.

“Will!?” Ben exclaimed, as he turned to face his nephew, standing framed in the doorway, not knowing if his presence here bode well or ill in the face of Roscoe Swanson’s accusations.

Horace coughed frantically three times and stamped his feet.

“You might as well save your energy, Mister Grimes,” Will exhorted the bartender in a condescending tone of voice. “My men are rounding up yours even as we speak . . . and herding them into the wagon out back.”

“You WON’T get away with this, Mister Cartwright,” Horace said stiffly. “You’re as good as fish bait.”

“Mister, if’n YOU’RE threatenin’ my cousin here--- ” Hoss growled.

“Pay him no mind, Cousin. Mister Grimes here is a lot of bluster and blow,” Will said smoothly. “I’ve NEVER taken his idle threats seriously.” He, then turned to Ben. “Uncle . . . and you, too, Hop Sing. If you’d both do me a favor and search Mister Grimes and Mister Lyon for weapons?”

“Of course, Will,” Ben warily agreed.

“ . . . and don’t forget to check their boots,” Will instructed. “As for Mister Lyon, you’d probably save us all a lot of time if you simply remove his jacket and hand it over to me.”

“You heard t’ man,” Hoss said, turning his attention to Eddie while his father set to work searching Horace Grimes. “Off with the jacket.”

Eddie rose to his feet and began to slowly unbutton his jacket.

“I’d also appreciate it if you handed those big rocks you’ve got on your fingers to my cousin as well,” Will added, as an after thought.

“My rings?!” Eddie exclaimed, chagrinned and dismayed.

“Your rings,” Will reiterated in a firm tone of voice.

“Surely you don’t mistake my jewelry for deadly weapons . . . . ” Eddie tried to sound condescending and dismissive, but failed miserably.

“On YOUR fingers, Mister Lyon, I’d be making one helluva BIG mistake if I DIDN’T take them for deadly weapons,” Will sardonically returned, “especially since most of those stones are harder than brass knuckles. Now get ‘em off.”

“You’re gonna pay for this outrage, Mister Cartwright,” Eddie said through clenched teeth as he removed his rings one by one, and placed them into Hoss’ outstretched hand.

“Outrage?” Will countered without missing a beat. “According to what I’VE heard, you ought to consider yourself very lucky you’ve been arrested, Mister Lyon, and be grateful for small mercies.” He glared over at Horace Grimes for a moment, before turning and flashing Starbryte with a big, toothy grin. “That goes for you, too, Mister Grimes and Little Miss Starbryte with a ‘y’.”

“Lucky?!” Starbryte snorted. “UNlucky maybe . . . . ”

“Word out there on the street is Miss Murphy’s boss, the elusive and mysterious Miss Stephens ORDERED your death, Miss Starbryte,” Will was quick to point out. “Seems she’s not real appreciative of you trying to poach on what she regards to be HER territory.”

“If you’re thinkin’ I know who this Miss Stephens is . . . ya’d best think again ‘cause I DON’T,” Starbryte said in a sullen tone of voice.

“For once I believe YOU, Miss Starbryte . . . and I’m pretty sure Mister Grimes here doesn’t know who our mystery woman really is either,” Will said. “Mister Lyon, on the other hand . . . . ”

“I’m not THAT stupid, Mister Cartwright,” Eddie said.

“Ok, fine,” Will returned in a bored, dismissive tone of voice. “You want to rot in jail for . . . let’s say long enough that you won’t look so pretty in all those fancy duds you seem to favor . . . whilst SHE remains free, I guess that’s YOUR choice.”

“Lieutenant Cartwright?”

Everyone turned. There, entering through the batwing doors of the Queen of the Sea Saloon, was the man who had two days informed Ben, Joe, and Adam that Roscoe Swanson had been picked up for being drunk and disorderly.

“Yes, Sergeant Stiller?” Will queried.

“Everyone else in this saloon has been rounded up and placed in the police wagon,” the sergeant reported.

“Thank you,” Will said curtly. He, then turned to face Ben. “I’m afraid that goes for you, the rest of your family, Hop Sing, and this young man, too, Uncle.”

Ben’s jaw dropped. “William John Cartwright . . . are y-you . . . are you telling me that m-my family . . . my friends, and I are . . . under arrest?!” he demanded, shocked and astonished.

“I’m afraid so,” Will replied.

“On WHAT charge?” Stacy demanded, her rising ire and frustration getting the better of her.

“Obstructing justice and interfering in a police investigation,” Will replied, “and if you don’t keep your mouth shut, Cousin, I’ll be more than happy to add resisting arrest to YOUR list as well.”

“Easy there, Li’l Sister,” Hoss whispered, upon seeing her face darken with anger.

“I’d listen very closely to your brother if I were you, Cousin,” Will warned.

Stacy immediately snapped her mouth shut, but Will could see very clearly by the raw fury now burning not only in the eyes of his young cousin, but the same reflected in the eyes of Adam’s wife, Mrs. Magruder, his uncle and big cousin of male persuasion, and Hop Sing, that this conversation was far from over.

“Let’s go,” Will said sternly.



“WILLIAM JOHN CARTWRIGHT, SO HELP ME . . . SOOO . . . HELP . . . ME . . . BY RIGHTS, I OUGHTTA TURN YOU RIGHT OVER MY KNEE AND GIVE YOU A TANNING YOU’LL NEVER FORGET!” Ben roared, his voice rattling the glass panes set in the only window in Will’s cubby hole of an office at the station nearest the Barbary Coast area of San Francisco.

“ . . . AND BY RIGHTS, I OUGHTTA HAVE THE LOT OF YOU SHACKLED IN IRONS AND HUNG FROM THE NEAREST YARD ARM,” Will shouted back, his own face every bit as dark and thunderous as his uncle’s, “JUST BEFORE I HAVE YA KEELHAULED! DAMN IT, UNCLE . . . DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT YOU’VE DONE?!”

“ . . . APART FROM COMING THIS CLOSE . . . THIS CLOSE . . . . ” Ben held up his hand before his nephew’s face, with thumb and first finger spaced just under an inch apart. “ . . . TO FINDING MY SONS . . . YOUR COUSINS, IN CASE YOU’VE FORGOTTEN--- ”

“WHAT YOU AND YOURS HAVE DONE . . . IS AS GOOD AS THROW TWO YEARS OF POLICE WORK INTO THE DAMNED DRINK!”

“AT THIS POINT, I DON’T GIVE A DAMN ABOUT YOUR POLICE WORK! ALL I CARE ABOUT IS FINDING ADAM, JOE, AND PAUL MAGRUDER!”

A sigh borne of his rising anger and frustration exploded from between Will’s thinned lips. “I was right on the verge of discovering the identity of the elusive Miss Stephens who seems to have taken control of the entire shanghaiing operation around here, and putting her out of business . . . FOR GOOD,” he said through clenched teeth for what had to be the umpteenth time. “I was in the midst of working out a suitable time and place to meet one of her minions . . . a man who’s supposedly decided to give testimony against her. Unfortunately for ALL of us, your nosing around where you have no damned business nosing around--- ”

“ . . . and just how long were you going to take getting in touch with this man?” Teresa demanded. She sat in the chair behind Will’s desk, with arms folded tight across her chest, favoring her husband’s first cousin with the same ice cold glare she turned on her children whenever she caught them in a bald faced lie. “Three days? Four?! A week?? By then, my husband could be on a ship bound for . . . for . . . heaven only know where!”

“Same with MY husband, Paul,” Trudy added. She stood directly behind Teresa, her posture stiffly erect, her hands balled into a pair of tight fists.

“How do WE know you’re telling us the truth anyway, Cousin Will?” Stacy demanded. “A friend of ours said YOU’RE one of ‘em.”

“Something ELSE you just happened to overhear, Stacy Rose Cartwright?” Ben queried, favoring his daughter with a jaundiced glare.

“Yes, Pa,” she admitted.

“While I don’t approve of eavesdropping on private conversations on general principles, I think I’D like to know the answer to Stacy’s question myself,” Teresa added.

“So would I,” Hoss said very quietly.

“ . . . AND me,” Trudy added.

“Me, too,” Hop Sing also put in his two cents.

Though Cousin Number Eight had no idea what had been said, he nonetheless nodded his head in complete agreement.

“We deserve THAT much, Will,” Ben said stiffly.

“Alright!” Will sighed, weariness mixing with anger. “Alright! In return for explaining myself to you, I want your word that you’ll stay the hell away from the Barbary Coast for what remains of your stay here.”

“I’ll give you MY word on condition that you give me YOURS that you’ll do everything in your power to find and rescue Adam, Joe, AND Paul Magruder,” Ben returned.

“I’ll do what I CAN, Uncle, but MY priority is finding out who this Miss Stephens is so I can permanently put HER out of business and maybe . . . just maybe . . . put an end to this practice of abducting men, young men especially, and selling them to the highest paying ship’s captain,” Will said.

“That’s NOT good enough, Will.”

“Uncle Ben . . . I promise you this,” Will vowed. “If you and yours get in my way again, I’m going to lock the lot of you up and throw away the key.”

“What’s the REAL reason you want to put this Miss Stephens out of business, Cousin Will?” Stacy demanded, her voice catching as anger and frustration pushed her to the edge of tears. “Do you REALLY want to put a stop to this shanghaiing business . . . or are YOU out to take over the whole operation yourself?”

“I am under NO obligation to explain myself or my actions to you, Cousin Stacy . . . or anyone else,” Will said curtly.

“Now THAT’S where you’re WRONG, Cousin,” Hoss said very quietly. “Up until NOW, at any rate, I’ve been willin’ t’ give ya the benefit of the doubt ‘cause takin’ Roscoe’s circumstances into account . . . there was a whole lotta room for reasonable doubt. But ever since you’ve hauled the lotta us in here, you’ve done nothin’ but argue ‘n make threats. I for one am beginnin’ t’ think that Li’l Sister here just asked you a real good question that needs a real good answer.”

“Alright,” Will growled, “maybe I DO owe you an explanation.”

“We’re listening, Will,” Ben said very quietly. He drew himself up to his full height and folded his arms across his chest.

“I’m sure YOU know, Uncle Ben, that the practice of shanghaiing has been a very lucrative one, not only here in San Francisco, but in other ports up and down the coast as well, ever since gold was found in California,” Will began. “You, ummm . . . told me the other night YOU were almost shanghaied yourself.”

“Yes,” Ben admitted. “That was a few years before the war.”

“Up until about a year, maybe two, before the war ended, the crimps pretty much operated independently of each other,” Will continued. “First inking we had of something going on . . . of change in the wind as it were . . . was the morning a man by the name of Edward Teach Jamison was found lying face down in the water, knocking up against the wharf pilings with the incoming tide. Folks in the Barbary Coast area knew him as Captain Jamie.”

“Was he a ship’s captain?” Hoss asked.

Will shook his head. “A handful of men, who’ve survived long enough to earn the respect of the villains, thieves, and scoundrels who make their homes and do business in the Barbary Coast area, are referred to as captain,” he explained. “Captain Jamie was as cunning and as treacherous as they come, though quite elderly. His death ended up being ruled as an accidental drowning, but he DIDN’T drown. The doc who conducted the post mortem found no water in his lungs.”

“He was murdered?” Ben asked.

“Yes,” Will replied.

“How can you be so sure?”

“Captain Jamie was whacked pretty hard over the head and beaten BEFORE he entered the water,” Will explained. “The doc who examined his body confirmed it. I have a copy of that report . . . hidden right now in a very safe place, which is a very good thing because the doc who wrote it just . . . up and disappeared one night. Three days later, my boss and a new doctor reported that Captain Jamie’s death was the result of an accidental drowning.”

“Are you saying the police department covered up this Captain Jamie’s murder?” Ben asked.

“Covered it up and swept it under the rung,” Will affirmed.

“Somehow THAT doesn’t surprise me one bit!” Teresa said with a wry, sarcastic tone, remembering the set-to she, Hoss, and Ben had with one Officer Zephaniah Sonders when they had gone to report Adam and Joe missing.

“Captain Jamie had no heirs . . . none willing to come forward at any rate,” Will continued. “His assets . . . a boarding house a couple of blocks up from the wharf, and part ownership of the Neptune Bar--- ”

“Did you just say Neptune Bar?” Hoss asked with a scowl.

“Yes, Cousin,” Will replied.

“That’s were ADAM disappeared,” Hoss said, his scowl deepening.

“The other man who owned the Neptune Bar disappeared, too,” Will said, “not long after Captain Jamie’s body was hauled out of the drink. The boarding house and the saloon went on the auction block for non-payment of property tax. Some dame by the name of Stephens bought both of ‘em up for a song.”

“You said this happened about four or five years ago?” Trudy asked.

“Yes, Mrs. Magruder.”

“That’s right around the time Grandpa Harker kicked Cousin Stephanie out of the house,” Trudy said slowly.

“Within the following year, four others turned up floating face down by the wharves,” Will continued. “Three men and one woman . . . all of whom had been in the same business as Captain Jamie. Like Captain Jamie, they, too, came and set up shop shortly after gold was discovered and ship’s captains found themselves very short handed, with men jumping ship and heading for the gold fields . . . and like Captain Jamie, they, too, had assets and no heirs to speak of.”

“ . . . ‘n these assets were also bought up by Miss Stephens?” Hoss asked.

“Yes, they WERE,” Will replied, “and . . . again like Captain Jamie, all four of ‘em were dead before they were thrown into the water. Their deaths, too, were reported as accidental drowning in the face of concrete evidence to the contrary. My partner and I began to entertain suspicions of corruption within the ranks of San Francisco’s finest. He went to our boss . . . and three days later, was found shot to death in his home. I think I was the only one who wasn’t the least bit surprised when his death was written off as a suicide.”

“You sound as if you don’t believe it,” Ben observed.

“I don’t,” Will snapped, “not for a minute. That man had a good marriage to a very lovely woman, and three half grown kids, of whom he was very proud. He was about to be promoted from police lieutenant to captain. He had absolutely NO reason to kill himself . . . no reason in the world! But, even if he did, I know for fact he STILL wouldn’t have done it.”

“How can you be so certain?” Ben asked.

“Because he was a devout Roman Catholic,” Will replied. “In his mind, taking his life . . . for any reason . . . would have condemned him to hell for all of eternity. I . . . don’t know which devastated his wife and children more. Coming home and finding him dead, or his church denying him the rite of Christian burial because his death was declared a suicide.

“I . . . owe that man a lot, Uncle,” Will continued, his voice filled with bitterness, anger, and grief. “He was mentor . . . teacher . . . the older brother I never had. When Laura called off our engagement . . . I’m pretty sure I’d have ended up drinking myself into an early grave, if he hadn’t been there to help me pick up the pieces.”

“I’m sorry, Will,” Ben said quietly. “Losing a good, trusted friend is very hard, and I can see his death still touches you.”

“Thank you,” Will said curtly. “This brings us now to Mister Swanson’s accusations. Everything he told you was true. I WAS with Miss Murphy that night.”

Hop Sing’s jaw tightened with anger upon seen the shock, devastation, and grief reflected in the eyes and faces of his family.

“What?” Cousin Number Eyes queried in Chinese, as his eyes darting from one face to the next.

Hop Sing grimly translated.

“Why . . . you . . . . ” Teresa whispered, her face white as a sheet, and her eyes burning with rage. “So help me . . . if Adam, Joe, and Paul end up setting sail for China or . . . or . . . worse . . . I’ll KILL you, Will Cartwright. Cousin or NO cousin . . . I’ll kill you with my bare hands if I have to . . . . ”

“You said somethin’ about workin’ t’ find out who this Miss Stephens is . . . ‘n puttin’ her outta business for good,” Hoss said very quietly. “Is THAT why you’re in cahoots with the likes of Kathleen Murphy?”

“Yes, Hoss,” Will replied. “I’ve been working undercover for the past two years to get the goods on the mysterious Miss Stephens. I also hope to expose the corruption within the ranks of San Francisco’s finest, AND in so doing, prove conclusively that my partner did NOT commit suicide. It won’t bring him back, but it will give his wife and children peace of mind.”

“Sounds t’ me like this partner o’ yours has every bit as good a friend in YOU . . . as you did in him,” Hoss said. “But Adam ‘n Joe are your cousins, Will. They . . . along with Pa, Li’l Sister, ‘n me . . . are your FAMILY. Paul Magruder ain’t family, but he ‘n his wife, Trudy, here are real good friends o’ ours, which t’ MY mind is every bit as good as being family. THEY need help, too. Every bit as much as your late partner’s wife ‘n kids.”

Will sighed. “I may be able to stand and fight with YOU, Cousin . . . or my uncle separately, but I can’t fight the both of you,” he said reluctant and resigned. “Uncle Ben . . . . ”

“Yes, Will?”

“ . . . and you, too, Mrs. Magruder,” Will continued. “Let’s begin with the both of you telling me everything you know about my cousins’ disappearance . . . and about Mister Magruder’s.”

“Now we get somewhere!” Hop Sing declared with a broad grin.



Police Lieutenant William John Cartwright stood well hidden in the deep shadows cast by a waning, yet near full moon, wondering for at least the thousandth time how in the ever lovin’ world he had allowed himself to be talked into this ill-conceived, misbegotten venture . . . this fool’s errand.

“There she is, Uncle,” he said very quietly, with a glance at the big silver haired man standing beside him to his right. “The Aisling!”

“Impressive,” Ben murmured softly, as he took in the lines of the sleek yacht with open, frank admiration. “Very . . . VERY . . . impressive.”

“ . . . ‘n Kathleen Murphy owns her?” Hoss asked. He stood behind his father, just a little to the right.

“Yep,” Will replied.

“Seems the li’l lady’s doin’ right well for herself,” Hoss quietly observed.

“She is, Cousin, but not quite THAT well,” Will said. “The yacht was a gift . . . from the same elusive Miss Stevens who’s bought up most of the businesses flourishing in this neck of the woods.”

“Y’ know . . . if I didn’t know better . . . I’d say that was Grandpa Harker’s yacht,” Trudy whispered, as she squeezed in between Will and Hop Sing.

“Oh?” Will queried, as he turned to her with left eyebrow slightly upraised.

“She looks t’ be about the same size . . . she’s got the exact same lines, ‘n all, but it can’t be Grandpa Harker’s boat,” Trudy sighed. “She went down out in the bay yonder, when Cousin Stephanie ‘n a bunch o’ HER friends took it out for a big sailin’ party.”

“Really,” Will murmured, waxing thoughtful for a moment. “Now that’s very interesting, Mrs. Magruder. How long ago did that happen?”

“Five years ago, or somewhere thereabouts,” Trudy replied. “For Grandpa Harker . . . it was the final straw.”

“The final straw?” Will asked.

“Grandpa Harker ‘n Cousin Stephanie’d been fightin’ like cats ‘n dogs that whole year before,” Trudy explained, her voice filled with anger and sadness, “when they were speakin’ to each other, that is . . . . ”

“What did they fight about?”

“Money mostly,” Trudy replied. “My cousin was somethin’ o’ what Grandpa Harker calls a spendthrift. The way she acted when the boat sank . . . . ” She sighed very softly and shook her head. “To HER . . . it was nothin’. Can you imagine that?! Grandpa Harker threw her outta the house bag ‘n baggage.”

“Really,” Will murmured as he briefly mulled over what Trudy had just told him. “So . . . tell me something, Mrs. Magruder . . . what’s your cousin doing for money these days?”

“She DID have a sizable trust fund left her by her ma, though she’d hafta watch her pennies real close if she expects t’ live off it,” Trudy replied. “Grandpa ain’t heard nothin’ about Cousin Stephanie bein’ reduced to beggin’ or anything like that, so . . . .” She shrugged. “ . . . maybe after all these years she’s finally learned a li’l somethin’ about watchin’ her money.”

“Sometimes it IS possible to teach an old dog a new trick or two,” Will quietly observed.

“Don’t EVER let HER hear that,” Trudy warned. “She’s real sensitive about her age . . . has been from the git go so far ‘s I’M concerned. Why d’ ya ask?”

“Curiosity, Mrs. Magruder. Goes hand in hand with my line of work,” Will replied in a manner carefully off hand and dismissive.

“Cousin Will . . . . ”

“Yes, Cousin Teresa?” Will queried, as he turned his attention to Adam’s wife.

“I’m sure you can appreciate how anxious I am to find my husband,” Teresa said curtly, taking great care to keep her voice low.

“Yes,” Will responded with a long suffering sigh and a sarcastic roll of his eyes heavenward.

“So when do we get this show of yours on the road?”

“Patience, Teresa!” Ben hissed, favoring his daughter-in-law with a stern glare.

“We take the proverbial show on the road, Cousin Teresa, AFTER I go over our plan of action one last time,” Will replied.

“I’m all ears,” Teresa declared.

“First of all,” Will began, “one of my more reliable informants, a man by the name of Hung Jow, tells me that the Aisling has an eleven man crew.”

Hop Sing blanched. “You say Hung Jow?” he demanded.

“Yes, Hop Sing . . . I said Hung Jow,” Will replied. “What of it?”

“He laundry man?”

“Why . . . yes,” Will replied with mild surprise. “Hung Jow IS a laundry man . . . one of the best, in fact. I’ve been taking my shirts to him for years.”

“Oh no,” Hop Sing moaned very softly. He closed his eyes and dolefully wagged his head slowly back and forth. “Oh no, no, no . . . no good, no good. Mister Ben Nephew . . . your plan no good. Doomed before we get going!”

“Why do you say THAT, Hop Sing?!” Stacy asked, with heart metaphorically pounding in her throat.

“Hung Jow . . . he Hop Sing number twelve cousin,” Hop Sing explained. “He very good laundryman, like Mister Ben Nephew say. He also very good look out, good at tell you who come, who go.” He closed his eyes and groaned again. “But number twelve cousin . . . he NOT so good counting.”

“Well . . . taking her size into account, I’D hafta say there can’t be any MORE than a dozen or so men crewing the Aisling,” Ben said quietly, as he studied the vessel with a more critical eye . . . .

“Alright . . . to be on the safe side, let’s figure our ‘good’ friend Kathleen Murphy has twelve crewmen aboard that yacht of hers,” Will said. “First, we’ll need to divert the attention of that big ugly guy guarding the gangplank long enough here for Hoss to move in behind him and knock him out. Once that little chore’s taken care of, Hoss will signal the rest of us--- ”

“ . . . with the cry o’ one o’ them seagulls,” Hoss said. “I’ve pretty much got it down pat now.”

“Excellent,” Will said, a small half smile tugging hard at the corner of his mouth. “When we hear Hoss’ signal, that’s OUR cue to sneak aboard that tub. Uncle Ben . . . . ”

“Yes, Will?”

“You and Stacy will begin circling around to the starboard side,” Will continued. “Hop Sing, you and your cousin will begin circling around the port. Hoss . . . . ”

“Yeah?”

“After you’ve taken care of the man guarding the gangplank, you go port side and follow after Hop Sing and his cousin,” Will continued. “Mrs. Magruder, YOU will be with ME. We’ll go to the starboard side and follow behind my uncle and cousin.”

“ . . . and what am I supposed to do, Cousin Will?” Teresa demanded. “If you think for one moment--- ”

“ . . . that I’m going to leave you on the sidelines?” Will quickly jumped in, cutting off a potential tirade mid-sentence. “Heaven forbid!” He grinned. “For starters, Cousin Teresa, YOU are going to serve as the, ummm . . . distraction.”

“The things I do for my husband . . . . ” Teresa Cartwright silently mused from her place, well hidden in the shadows cast by the warehouse behind her. “Adam Stoddard Cartwright . . . love of my life . . . you’re gonna owe me big time for this . . . . ” she continued her grim, silent ruminations while eyeing the big, unkempt man standing before the gangplank leading up to Aisling’s deck.

Beneath the white linen sheet, she clutched tightly in both hands, she wore a strapless, form fitting camisole of black silk, and a pair of loose fitting black trousers.

“ . . . uhhh, Teresa . . . you . . . sure . . . you, uhhh . . . wanna go through with this?” Hoss asked, as he stared dubiously at the mean, rough looking water rat pacing slowly back and forth in front of the gangplank.

“If it means getting my husband back, I’ll do whatever I have to, no matter how distasteful I might find it personally,” Teresa replied. “YOU just make damn sure you’re ready to do WHAT you’re supposed to do, Eric Hoss Cartwright, WHEN you’re supposed to do it.”

“Teresa . . . if you’re having second thoughts . . . . ” Ben said anxiously.

Truth be known, she was long past having second thoughts. In another moment, she’d be having, ninth, tenth, and eleventh thoughts. “Like I just got through telling Hoss . . . I’ll do whatever I have to in order to get Adam back,” Teresa said stiffly.

“Then let’s stop jawin’ and as YOU said just a short time ago, Dear Lady,” Will said, flashing a wry smile over in Teresa’s general direction, “ ‘Let’s get this show on the road.’ ”

“Yoo hoo! ‘ey, Mister!” Teresa called out to the big wharf rat standing in front of Aisling’s gangplank, lightly striking his left palm with the billy club clasped in his right. She tried very hard not to grimace at the sight of the dark stubble covering the lower portion of his face, the single gold loop through his left ear, and the leering skull and crossbones tattooed on his beefy, well muscled right forearm.

The man glanced up sharply upon hearing a woman’s voice, very heavily accented. “Who th---?!” His words ended abruptly in a startled gasped upon seeing the vision of a goddess standing before him, with shoulders bare, clutching a linen sheet that reached down to her ankles tightly about her.

“Can ya give a poor li’l gal, who’s ‘way down on ‘er luck a warm place for the night?” Teresa asked, with a very convincing desperate edge to her voice. “I lost ever’thing I own in a poker game at one o’ them saloons over yonder . . . . ” She inclined her head toward the general direction in which the saloons along the docks were located.

“ . . . ‘n YOU look soooo-ooooo nice ‘n warm,” she continued, as she slowly moved toward him, swaying her hips provocatively. “I hear it git’s mighty cold ‘long these here parts.”

The man cast a quick, furtive glance over his shoulder toward the top of the gangplank. Seeing no one, he focused his entire attention to the woman standing before him. “C’ mere!” he growled, opening his arms. “Ol’ Peter here’ll keep ya PLENTY warm.”

Teresa Cartwright blithely stepped into the circle of his embrace. As she slipped her own arms around him, she relieved him of dagger and pistol with the well practiced skill of a veteran pickpocket, tossing them down on the wharf behind him.

Hoss, clad entirely in black, moved with the silence and stealth of a prowling cougar behind the seemingly enamored couple.

Peter, the guard, was so mesmerized by the goddess he held in his arms, so intoxicated by the heady, lilac scent of her hair, he never even heard the thud of his gun and knife striking the wooden pier. Nor was he even the slightest bit aware of Hoss, armed with a club, taking up position directly behind him.

One minute, he was greedily nuzzling the neck of a goddess, savoring the anticipated pleasures soon to come. The next, his insensate body lying on the wooden dock at her feet.

“Come on, Teresa . . . let’s get this fella tied up,” Hoss said, as he knelt down alongside the insensate guard and slipped the coil of rope off of his shoulder.

“There’s Hoss’ signal,” Will said curtly, his voice barely above that of a whisper. “Uncle Ben . . . Hop Sing . . . that’s YOUR cue.”

“What . . . he . . . say?” Cousin Number Eight queried in halting English.

A big, wide feral grin slowly spread across Hop Sing’s face as he translated Will’s words for the benefit of his young cousin.

Ben was heartily dismayed to see the same wild ferocious gleam reflected in his daughter’s eyes and face as well. “Stacy . . . . ”

“Yes, Pa?”

“You keep real close behind me, you hear?” Ben exhorted in a stern tone of voice, “and you do exactly WHAT I say . . . WHEN I say to do it. No questions asked, no arguments. That understood?”

“Yes, Pa. Understood,” Stacy replied very solemnly.

“Let’s go.”

“Very good, Cousin Hoss,” Will complimented with a tight mirthless smile as he and Trudy Magruder came upon his big cousin of male persuasion and Teresa tying the last of the knots binding the still unconscious guard’s wrists and ankles together. “You’ve got him wrapped up real pretty. All you need now is a gift tag and a ‘Do not open ‘til Christmas’ sticker.”

“Thanks,” Hoss returned in a wry tone of voice, as he removed a clean handkerchief from his pocket and stuffed it into the guard’s mouth. He next removed the dark blue bandanna from around his neck and effectively gagged the guard.

“As for YOU, Cousin Teresa . . . . ” Will said, turning his attention to Cousin Adam’s lovely wife with an appreciative grin. “You were magnificent! Nothing less than absolutely magnificent!”

“Thank you, Kind Sir . . . I think,” Teresa retorted sardonically, as she dropped the sheet she had clutched so tightly. “I . . . don’t suppose you remembered to bring my jacket and my boots?”

“I’VE got ‘em, Teresa,” Trudy said as she handed over the jacket first, then the boots.

“I just KNEW you were good for that Yankee granite head of a first cousin,” Will declared with a bold, roguish grin, as Hoss quickly set right to work with helping Teresa with getting her boots back on.

“Let’s get one thing straight right now, Cousin Guillermo,” she returned in a tone of voice just oozing with sugar and honey that Adam would have immediately recognized as his lovely wife about to become her absolute worst.

“ . . . and what’s THAT, My Dear Cousin Teresa?” Will brashly demanded, wholly lacking in the knowledge and wisdom his cousin, Adam, had acquired during the years of his courtship with and marriage to the magnificent goddess of a woman standing before him.

“No one!” Teresa snapped, all sweetness, honey, and light instantly gone, almost as if it had never been. “Absolutely no one but his youngest brother and me is allowed to call my husband a Yankee granite head. You got that?” For emphasis, she seized hold of Will’s shirt in one hand and shoved the other, now balled into a tight, rock hard fist, under his chin before he knew what had happened.

“Y-Yes . . . yes, Ma’am,” Will stammered, filled with a deep, profound new respect for this tiger of a woman Cousin Adam had taken for wife. “Absolutely, positively. I got it!”

“Come ON,” Trudy urged. “We’ve gotta get goin’.”

“Hey! I thought you said you wuz good with numbers!” A sailor named Ishmael stood towering over Adam, with his beefy, well muscled arms folded across his chest and murder burning in those dark brown almost black eyes.

“Oh he is,” Joe said earnestly. “He really is. In fact he’s just about the best guy with numbers I know . . . ‘n THAT’S the honest truth.”

Ishmael turned and favored Joe with a dubious glare that questioned his grip on reality.

“It’s the truth,” Joe insisted. “I’m tellin’ ya . . . . ”

The Cartwright brothers and Paul Magruder were still in the Aisling’s cargo hold, securely bound hand and foot. Ishmael’s task was to guard the three men and prepare them for delivery to Captain Stark’s ship, the Pride, as soon as negotiations between him, Miss Murphy, and Miss Stephens, the one all of them answered to these days, were done.

“No!” Ishmael vigorously shook his head in denial. “I’ve been workin’ for Miss Murphy steady now for three years t’ pay off my debt. How is it I owe MORE money NOW ‘n what I borrowed in the first place?! That don’t make no SENSE!”

“Actually, it all makes PERFECT sense,” Adam said very quietly.

Ishmael glared down at Adam for a moment, then unfolded his arms and crouched down beside Ben Cartwright’s first born once again. “Ok. How ‘bout you ‘n me goin’ over them numbers again . . . this time slow. REAL slow.”

“Certainly,” Adam readily agreed . . . .

Hop Sing, meanwhile, noiselessly led the way up the gangplank to Aisling’s deck, with his cousin and Stacy following single file right behind, and Ben bringing up the rear. Ben moved across the aft end of the yacht toward the starboard side, keeping very close to the cabin wall and well within the deep shadows. Stacy followed, making sure she stayed very close to her father. Ben paused at the very edge of the cabin.

“I’m gonna peer around the corner and check out the lay of the land . . . as it were . . . before us,” Ben said. “I want to see how many men are out there and where they are. For the moment, YOU stay put.”

“Pa,” Stacy whispered very softly, “before you move out, I think maybe YOU oughtta put THIS on,” she said, removing the black stocking cap from her head.

“Oh?” Ben whispered back, favoring her with a bemused look.

She smiled. “I think your snow white locks make you look very handsome, but in the light of that moon up there, they’re gonna stand out like a beacon.” With that she shoved the cap down over Ben’s head.

“Point taken,” Ben had to agree, as he pulled the cap down further to conceal as much hair as possible.

On Aisling’s port side, Cousin Number Eight, with shoulders slumped, hands thrust deep into the pockets of the black seaman’s jacket he wore, and face tilted down toward the deck, deliberately bumped into the rough looking man slowly making his way from the fore section to the aft.

“ ‘ey, Swabby, wotsa big idea?”

“ . . . uhhh . . . you . . . got . . . light?” Cousin Number Eight squeaked in uncertain, halting English.

“Yer ought not take up smokin’, Sonny,” the man guffawed. “It’ll stuntcher growth— auhk!” He grimaced, then all of a sudden his entire body suddenly went limp.

Hop Sing grabbed the seaman as he fell, wrapping his thin, wiry arms around the unconscious man’s chest and dragging him back into the deep shadows. He quickly confiscated the man’s gun, knife, and billy club. After tucking the gun into the waistband of his pants and the knife into his boot, Hop Sing handed his young cousin the billy club.

“I’ll grab his arms . . . you grab his feet,” Hop Sing ordered in Chinese. “We need something to tie him up. You have any rope?”

“I saw some back there, where we came on board this ship,” Cousin Number Eight replied, also speaking in his mother tongue.

“Get it,” Hop Sing said, after they had set the unconscious man down on the deck, well out of the way of anyone who chanced to walk by.

Cousin Number Eight nodded curtly, then set off at a dead run. He returned less than a moment later with a short length of rope clasped in his hands. “There’s only enough here to tie his hands,” the young man reported, dismayed and chagrinned.

“Give me the rope,” Hop Sing said, reaching out his hand. “While I tie his hands, YOU remove his pants.”

Cousin Number Eight grinned. “I see. You’re going to use his pants to tie his legs.”

“Yeah,” Hop Sing replied, grinning back. “While you’re at it, remove his boots, too. That’ll make it harder for him to chase after us, in the unlikely event he manages to work himself loose.”

Cousin Number Eight snickered very softly, as he set work removing the seaman’s boots and pants.

“C’mooooooonnn, box cars! Daddy’s li’l gal needs a brand new pair o’ shoes!”

Ben and Stacy flattened themselves against the cabin wall and froze, hardly daring even to breathe. A few scant yards up ahead, two men were shooting dice. The smaller of the pair was down on his knees, shaking the dice with a flourish, in his left hand. The bigger man stood behind him, with back stiffly erect, arms folded tight across his chest, and a thunderous scowl on his big, beefy face.

The smaller man blew hard upon the loosely formed fist, then released the dice. Both cubes bounced against the wall and landed sixes up.

“Hot diggity!” the smaller of the two men exclaimed with excitement, as he rubbed both hands together in triumphant glee.

“Ho-leeee . . . . ” the bigger man groused. His remaining words degenerated into a long string of unintelligible vowels and consonants, angrily uttered.

“Pay up, Chump!” the smaller man chortled, leaping to his feet.

“The hell I will!” the big man growled back. “The kind o’ luck YER havin’ t’night AIN’T natural!”

“ . . . . an’ just waddya mean by THAT?” the small man demanded, outraged and highly indignant, as he straightened his posture.

“I MEAN luck like yer havin’ t’night don’t happen without it being helped along.”

“You accusin’ ME o’ CHEATIN’?!”

“I ain’t accusin’ nobody o’ nuthin’!” the bigger sailor returned in a lofty, imperious tone that clearly set the smaller man in edge. “I just call ‘em as I see ‘em, ‘ n the way I see--- ”

“Why you---!!” the winner, growled. He balled his fingers into a hard tight fist, and lashed out striking his accuser in the stomach before the latter even had a chance to react.

The big man doubled over, howling in agony. His arms instinctively wrapped themselves around his abdomen, as he stumbled, then collapsed to the deck with a dull, sickening thud, revealing Stacy, armed with a club.

“HEY!” the small man shouted. “WHO?? WHERE’D YOU—?!” His cry abruptly terminated with a soft grunt a split second before he, too, fell to the deck unconscious.

“Wow!! Great work, Pa!” Stacy softly congratulated her father, her eyes shining with awe.

“You didn’t do so badly yourself, Young Woman,” Ben had to admit with much reluctance. Though he was proud of the way she seemed to be able to look after herself, participation in capers like this one on a frequent basis wasn’t something he wanted to encourage. “I saw some rope--- ”

“Pa! I hear voices!” Stacy reported, her entire body tensing.

“Quick! Over here by the cabin and DUCK!” Ben ordered, sotto voce, “and STAY there, ‘til I give you an all clear signal.”

Stacy immediately did as she was told.

“Hey! You!” a rough gravelly voice called out. “Who---??!”

“Dis-GRACE-ful!” Ben roared in his best authoritative first mate’s tone of voice, as he stepped in between the insensate two crew men, who moments before were shooting dice. “Drunk on duty . . . AGAIN!” He exhaled a long exasperated sigh and shook his head. “ ‘Tis a SHAME! A real cryin’ shame!”

The two burly seamen walking back from the bow paused a moment, just long enough to exchange troubled glances.

“We’ve got t’ report this to the captain AT ONCE!” Ben snapped out the order. He stepped over the inert form of the smaller man and began walking toward the pair who had just come onto the scene. “You!” He pointed to the man nearest him, an unkempt man, with a patch over one eye.

“ . . . ungh?!” the man grunted, as he turned and looked Ben square in the face.

Ben immediately followed through with a powerful straight punch, knocking the man right off his feet. The other sailor ducked his head and charged. Ben side stepped, dodging the intended head blow, barely.

“I got ‘im!” a third man crowed, as he stepped from the deep shadows and wrapped his strong arms around Ben, effectively rendering him helpless. “Skunk . . . Jimmy . . . I got ‘im! I got ‘im REAL good.”

“You hold on to him, Eddie,” Skunk growled, as he seized a fistful of Jimmy’s shirt and hauled him to his feet.

Stacy, in the meantime, silently crept in behind the man holding her father, with a fierce, determined scowl on her face. She gritted her teeth, then brought her billy club down hard against Eddie’s skull. The instant Ben felt Eddie’s grip loosen, he surged forward, freeing himself from the sailor’s clutches, and drove his balled fist deep into Skunk’s ample girth all in a single fluid move.

“Pa! Look out!” Stacy called out as loud as she dared, upon catching sight of Jimmy trying to sneak around behind her father.

Ben turned and landed a good, solid right cross against Jimmy’s cheek, while, Skunk, in the meantime, dragged himself over to the rail, half doubled over, with one arm wrapped protectively across his abdomen.

“Wow! Way to go, Pa!” Stacy exclaimed, her eyes shining with awe.

“Yeah, Uncle . . . what Cousin Stacy just said.” That was Will Cartwright. He caught hold of Jimmy’s collar and slammed him hard up against the rail. “Mrs. Magruder, if you’d be so kind as to tie HIM up?” He inclined his head toward the man, addressed as Eddie, who lay sprawled upon the deck, unmoving. “I got a couple o’ lengths of rope right here.”

Trudy caught the two lengths of rope that Will tossed her, then set right to work binding Eddie’s hands and feet very securely.

“Cousin Stacy, you’ll find more rope . . . something closer to the size and thickness we need, back aft.” Will pointed, drawing a sharp glare from Ben. “Don’t worry, Uncle,” he very quickly added. “I left Hoss and Teresa back there to stand guard, in case any unannounced guests show up.”

“Even so, Young Woman . . . you be careful,” Ben cautioned.

“Yes, Pa,” Stacy replied, then set off as Will had instructed.

“Uncle Ben, if you and Mrs. Magruder’d be so kind as to move the ruffians who’re still conscious up to the bow of the ship?” Will asked. “Hop Sing and his cousin will meet us there with any and all swabbies THEY encountered. I’ll wait here for Stacy.”

“Alright, Will, but so HELP me, if there’s so much as a scratch on her . . . . ”

“She’ll be fine,” Will promised.

“You jus’ remember, Mister . . . ‘n you, too, Lady . . . y’ can’t take on the whole lotta us,” Jimmy threatened as he and his shipmate, Skunk, headed toward the bow of the ship, on legs very unsteady with their hands high in the air.

“Perhaps not,” Ben allowed with an air of insulting indifference. “However, before you and your other crewmates think of trying something very stupid, YOU’D do well to remember that the lady and I are well armed.”

“ . . . which means you fellas try somethin’ . . . some of ya ain’t gonna be around long enough to see the finish,” Trudy added with angry, bloodthirsty relish. “Now get movin’.”

“Quick! Over here!” Hop Sing took his young relative by the arm and dragged him into the deep shadows. They flattened themselves as flush against the wall of the cabin as was humanly possible and waited.

“Say wha---!”

There were two men, both wearing black and white striped shirts, black clacks and jackets. The smaller of the two had halted mid-stride and rubbed his eyes.

“What?” the bigger man growled.

“I just saw the shadows move, Mister Murdock . . . there!” He pointed right at the spot where Hop Sing and Cousin Number Eight had been standing mere seconds ago.

The big man addressed as Murdock leaned forward, and squinting, peered hard into the dark shadows before him for what seemed a dreadfully long eternity.

“I KNOW that man,” Cousin Number Eight whispered to Hop Sing. “Everyone calls him Murdock. I know for fact he’s been working steady for Miss Murphy for a couple o’ years now, and rumor has it he ALSO works for a crimp who calls herself Cut-Throat Katie.”

“He just might be living proof of a connection between Miss O’Malley and Cut-Throat Katie,” Hop Sing mused thoughtfully.

“Hey! You up there!” Murdock shouted. “Y’ better come out NOW, ‘cause so help me if I gotta come LOOK for ya . . . . ” His threat trailed off to an ominous silence.

“Uh oh! As your friends say, Cousin, the jig is up,” Cousin Number Eight groaned softly.

“Not quite,” Hop Sing replied. “Not if we go with Plan D.”

Cousin Number eight grinned. “As yes. I forgot about Plan D. You ready?”

“Ready.”

Cousin Number Eight pulled himself up to the fullness of his height and stepped out of the shadows.

“Aww . . . it’s that Chinese fella . . . works down by the docks. Miss O’Malley must’ve hired him t’ help out what with all this, ummm . . . special cargo we’re handlin’ ‘n all . . . . ” Murdock said, relief evident in his voice, as Cousin Number Eight moved into view.

“Ssshh! I thought that special cargo Cu-uuhhh Miss Murphy! that Miss Murphy’s handlin’ . . . ain’t that s’posed to be top secret?”

Murphy chuckled softly. “Yeah, but don’t make no never mind. Kid there don’t understand a lick o’ English, ‘cept maybe for hello, please, ‘n thank you.”

“You sure?” the smaller, younger man queried dubiously.

Hop Sing in the meantime moved into position directly behind Murdock. Then, grasping the gun, he had taken from one of the sailors he and his cousin had encountered but a few moments before, he whacked Murdock soundly over the back of the head. The big man collapsed to the deck like an inert sack of potatoes. Before the younger man had time to even register what had just happened, Cousin Number Eight leapt upon him and very quickly rendered him unconscious with a hard blow to the head with a tightly balled fist.

The two cousins very quickly dragged the unconscious sailors into the deepest shadows, confiscated their weapons, which included another pistol, four knives, two billy clubs, and a pair of brass knuckles, which was taken from Murdock.

“No rope,” Cousin Number Eight sighed.

A wicked grin slowly spread across Hop Sing’s face. “That’s all right . . . we can improvise,” he chuckled as he set right to work shucking off Murdock’s outer clothing.

“Hey, you! Ishm’el!”

Ishmael turned and found fellow crewmember “Long John” MacAfee standing in the open door way to the cargo hold. “Long John” was a tall man, reed slender, with a dour visage that seemed permanently etched into his flesh. For the entire three years he had worked alongside this man as a member of Aisling’s crew, Ishmael had yet to see him so much as crack a smile.

“Miss Murphy ain’t gonna real happy if she finds out you been down here frat-ner-izin’ with that special cargo o’ hers,” “Long John” warned as he ducked his head so that he might step through the door.

Ishmael rose to his feet like a shot. “Say, ‘Long John’ . . . YOU’RE good at cipherin’ . . . ain’t ya?”

“Fair t’ middlin’ once, I s’pose,” “Long John” replied favoring the younger man with a suspicious frown. “Ain’t used it in so long, I’m like as not real rusty. What of it?”

“Come ‘ere a minute.”

“Wha’ FOR?!”

“Just come ‘ere. You gotta hear this.”

Against what he felt to be his better judgment, “Long John” sauntered across to the other side of the hold and took up position beside Ishmael.

“Ok, Mister Real-Good-With-Numbers!” Ishmael challenged. “S’pose you tell HIM what ya done got through tellin’ ME.”

“I would be more than happy to do so,” Adam readily agreed, laboring to keep the wicked grin off his face. “Would the both of you mind sitting down? I’m going to get a very stiff neck if I have to keep craning it like this . . . . ”

Ishmael dropped back down to the deck like a millstone in water. He again crossed his legs and invited “Long John” to sit with a pointed glance.

“THIS swabbie here tells ME I owe Miss Murphy lots more NOW ‘n when I borrowed from her . . . ‘n here I been workin’ for her three years t’ pay her back,” Ishmael explained.

“Long John” threw back his head and roared. “Ain’t . . . ain’t possible,” he gasped, as his mirth finally began to subside.

“Yes, Sir . . . I’m afraid it IS,” Adam countered.

“G’won with ya!” “Long John” snorted with derision.

“Show him,” Ishmael urged Adam. “You show HIM what ya done got through showin’ ME.”

“It’s all very simple really,” Adam began. “When you signed aboard the Aisling, did Miss Murphy provide you with a uniform and a place to stay until you set sail?”

“Long John” grinned. “Yeah! Got me a whole bran’ new uniform, only a li’l bit used . . . cost me two hunnert three dollars.”

“Two hunnert ‘n three dollars?!” Ishmael echoed, incredulous. “MINE only cost ME a hunnert.”

“That’s ‘cause I’m so danged tall ‘n skinny,” “Long John” said ruefully. “Miss Murphy said MINE hadda be special ordered.”

“Oh,” Ishmael grunted.

“Then she got me a real nice place t’ stay . . . though I had t’ share the room with this drunken bum uva sailor, ‘cause the place was all full up, but Miss Murphy got me a real good discount, though.” “Long John” grinned proudly from ear-to-ear.

“How much?” Adam asked.

“Eight hunnert bucks,” “Long John” replied, his grin never waivering.

Ishmael quaked in his boots upon seeing that big silly grin on the other man’s face, half fearing it was going to shatter into millions of pieces at any moment.

“Was that the total for your entire stay?” asked Adam.

“Naa-aahhh. That was just a night, for two nights,” “Shorty” explained. “Whole thing came to three thousand bucks.”

Adam frowned. “Now let me get this straight,” he said. “You were charged three thousand dollars for two nights in a room going for eight hundred dollars a night?!”

“Long John” nodded.

“By MY reckoning, Sir, two nights lodging at eight hundred dollars a night SHOULD total sixteen hundred dollars,” Adam said.

“Oh,” “Long John” grunted. “Maybe the rest was for my board, ‘n that extra fee for my food. But I only have t’ pay a hunnert percent interest per day for the first year, TWO hunnert percent per day each year after . . . . ”

Adam very quickly calculated the original debt, the interest, and all the various and sundry fees, penalties, and fees on top of fees, then subtracted the total wages “Long John” MacAfee had earned to date. “According to my calculations, you NOW owe Miss Murphy roughly three quarters of a million dollars.”

“WHAT?!” “Long John” exclaimed.

“How can THAT be?!” Ishmael demanded. “HE’S been workin’ for Miss Murphy a couple o’ years or so longer ‘n ME . . . ‘n you said I only owe HALF a million.”

“It’s all the compounded interest,” Adam replied. “It’ll getcha every time.”

“What’s compounded interest?” “Long John” demanded.

“Basically, it means you’re paying interest on your interest on your interest with each passing day,” Adam explained. “At the rate of a hundred percent interest per day for the first year, and TWO hundred percent interest per day for each year after . . . all that compounded interest adds up very quickly.”

“I dunno ‘bout anyone ELSE, but that compounded interest stuff sounds more crooked than . . . than . . . than ‘n ol’ Irish shillelagh stick!” Ishmael declared, his voice filled with righteous indignation.

“Know what, Mister? That compounded interest stuff sounds crooked to ME, too,” Joe wholeheartedly agreed.

“I know a li’l about numbers . . . not as much as Adam here, but a li’l,” Paul said, “ ‘n THAT not only SOUNDS crooked, but I’ll betcha dollars t’ do-nuts, it IS crooked.”

“There’s gotta be some mistake somewhere,” “Long John” begged. There was an edge of desperation in his voice. “Else . . . me ‘n Ishm’el here . . . we gonna be workin’ our whole lives fer Miss Murphy without EVER payin’ her back.”

“Knowing Miss Murphy the way I do, I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if that’s what she’d intended all along,” Joe said.

“Y-You talkin’ ‘bout this . . . this compounded interest stuff?!” Ishmael sputtered, incredulous and outraged.

“Aww, I don’t believe it!” “Long John” vehemently pooh-poohed the idea. “Not a nice lady like Miss Murphy!”

“Did the, ummm ‘nice lady’ tell you gentlemen exactly how long you’d have to work for her in order to pay off your debt?” Adam asked.

Ishmael and “Long John” exchanged troubled, bewildered glances.

“She told me one year,” Ishmael said very slowly, “then six months later, she said some kinda taxes came up, ‘n she’d hafta pay THOSE first before I could pay off my debt. She told me it’d be another year.”

“Said the same thing t’ ME,” “Long John” said, “only it WEREN’T no taxes. T’was . . . some kinda fees, I think. City fees, ‘n a police fine.”

“Then . . . it was six months after THAT, Miss Murphy said she had some kinda reversal . . . reversal . . . . ” Ishmael frowned as he tried to recall Kathleen Murphy’s exact words.

“Perhaps the words you’re looking for are reversal of fortune?” Adam kindly offered.

“Yeah. Yeah that’s it!” Ishmael declared with a bright smile, which soon faded. “ . . . uhhh . . . what’s a reversal o’ fortune . . . exactly?”

“It usually means that a man . . . or in Miss Murphy’s case, a woman . . . isn’t doing well money wise,” Adam explained.

“Oh,” Ishmael squeaked.

“Even so,” Paul said, “Miss Murphy’s reversal of fortunes . . . whatever taxes, fines, and fees she has to pay . . . that shouldn’t in any way change or stop your wages going to pay off what you owe her.”

“ . . . and I have a real strong feeling here that the both of YOU and probably anyone ELSE who owes her money ‘s paid back on the original debt ten . . . twenty . . . who knows? maybe even a hundred times over by now,” Joe added.

“All o’ us on board the Aisling’s workin’ t’ pay back money we own Miss Murphy,” “Long John” said slowly, “ n to a man, Miss Murphy’s says the same thing ever’ six months or so.”

“Really?” Adam queried, though “Long John’s” disclosure came as no surprise him in the least.

“What do you fellas intend to do about it?” Paul asked.

“I’M thinkin’ maybe it’s time we had ourselves a nice, in-tuh-mit li’l mutiny,” “Long John” declared with a feral grin. “Ishm’el? Ya with me?”

“You betcha.”

“Say, uhhh, Mister?” Joe queried with an eager, hopeful look on his face. “Anything WE . . . .” he glanced over at his brother, then at Paul, “ . . . can do to help ya out?”

“Ok. We’ve got the man who was guarding the gangplank . . . . ” Will Cartwright began to tally up the number of crewmen he and his cohorts had “neutralized” in the past half hour. “There’s also the three men Hop Sing and his cousin knocked over . . . . ”

“ . . . and the five Pa and I got,” Stacy added, grinning from ear-to-ear with bloodthirsty relish.

“We need to put these men somewhere for safe keeping,” Ben said, “and find a way to make sure they can’t warn any of their fellow crewmen who may still be at large.”

“Anyone have any good suggestions?” Will asked.

“How about hanging from yard-arm?” Hop Sing suggested with a feral grin.

“Hop Sing, how about a suggestion that’s a little less permanent?!” Ben growled.

“We COULD hang ‘em from the yardarm after we gift wrap ‘em, Pa,” Stacy said.

Ben looked over at his daughter as if she had just taken leave of her senses. “Gift wrap ‘em?!” he echoed, incredulous. “In what?”

“Fishnet.”

“Miss Stacy right, Mister Cartwright, Hop Sing see plenty, lots of fishnet in aft.” He pointed.

“I think that just might work, Uncle,” Will declared. “Hop Sing . . . do you think you and your cousin can sneak back aft and grab the fishnet?”

“No problem,” Hop Sing replied, then left with Cousin Number eight following close behind.

“We need to get a line up and over that cross piece,” Ben said, pointing to the mast supporting the square sail.

“I think I can manage that, Pa,” Stacy volunteered.

Ben looked up doubtfully, then back at his daughter. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Alright,” Ben reluctantly agreed, “but you be careful.”

“I will, Pa. I promise,” Stacy replied, then set off.

Ben watched anxiously as Stacy moved carefully through the shadows toward the rope ladder on the port side extending all the way up to the crow’s nest. He was grateful that she didn’t have to go all the way up there. The distance she DID have to climb was worrisome enough. Upon reaching the rope ladder, Stacy noiselessly climbed up on the rail and stepped to the ladder.

“Mister Cartwright . . . . ”

It was Hop Sing, approaching from along the starboard side of the ship’s cabin. Ben and Will exchanged anxious glances. Something in his tone of voice . . . .

“Mister Cartwright, Hop Sing and Cousin Number Eight . . . find one more.”

Ben frowned. “You and Cousin Number Eight found one more . . . what?”

“Looks like Hop Sing and cousin Number Eight found one more crewman,” Will responded with sinking heard as he eyes came to rest on the man standing behind Hop Sing and his cousin. The sailor stood roughly the same height as himself, but weighed in at a good fifty pounds heavier . . . every last ounce of that extra weight being in the form of iron hard muscle.

“Drop yer weapons, over there,” the man behind Hop Sing and his cousin inclined his head to his right, “then git yer hands up . . . slow ‘n easy. One wrong move, I turn your friends here into a REAL Chinese Chop Suey.”

Ben, Will, Trudy, and Teresa, immediately complied, while Hoss unobtrusively stepped back into the deep shadows cast by the moon above and the ship’s cabin, pressing himself as flush up against the wall as was humanly possible.

“Now step out here, past me into the light.”

Ben moved into the lead, threading his way through the tangle of still unconscious crew men. Teresa and Trudy fell in behind Ben, with Will bringing up the rear.

“Lesse . . . four o’ you . . . plus these two Chinese guys . . . . ” the sailor peered hard into the darkness. “Where’s the rest?”

“ . . . uhhh . . . WHAT rest?” Will queried.

“OK, THE REST O’ YA . . . COME OUT NOW WITH YOUR HANDS UP,” the sailor yelled, his eyes darting back and forth as he peered intently into the shadows.

“There’s no one else, Mister,” Will insisted.

“That’s RIGHT,” Ben said, making sure he kept himself between the sailor and the two women. At the same time, he fervently hoped and prayed their captor wouldn’t find Stacy or Hoss.

“Gotta hand it to ya,” the sailor said, with a touch of awe. “Sneakin’ past ol eagle eye Peter down there’s a blamed miracle all by itself. Doin’ that AND takin’ down me other mateys over there . . . . ” He shook his head in complete and utter disbelief.

Hoss, meanwhile, moved stealthily along the cabin wall, venturing as close to his family and friends as he dared. “Ok, Li’l Sister . . . next move’s up t’ YOU,” he mused silently. Knowing only too well that wherever she was, she wouldn’t stand by idle for long.

Stacy, from her vantage point above, watched grimly as her father, cousin, sister-in-law, and new friend were taken prisoner along with Hop Sing and Cousin Number Eight. She carefully slipped the coil of rope off her shoulder and uncurled it as quickly as she dared. Down below, she saw her cohorts walking along the starboard side of the ship’s cabin with their hands upraised. A big sailor followed behind them with the business end of a pistol aimed square at their backs.

Stacy crawled halfway out onto the timber from which the first and largest of three square sails hung, hoping and praying that Big Brother Hoss was lurking somewhere close by. She looped the rope twice around the timber, and tested it for give. The rope moved around the timber fairly easily. Satisfied, she grasped both ends of the rope in her hands and waited . . . .

“AVAST THAR, SWABBIES . . . LOOK OUT BELOW!”

The words rang out from above.

Will and Hop Sing, acting purely on instinct, immediately dove for the deck.

Teresa and the man who had taken them into custody, hesitated then turned just in time to see Stacy swinging down from the top of the timber above their heads.

Ben seized his daughter-in-law by the waist and dragged her well out of harm’s way seconds before Stacy struck the sailor hard in the abdomen with both feet, and sent him reeling across the deck straight into the arms of her biggest brother as he emerged from the shadows. Hoss immediately sent the man off to dreamland with a what he generally referred to as “a real light love tap,” then slung the man’s inert form over his shoulder.

“Big Brother, am I glad to see YOU!” Stacy declared, as she let go of the rope as it began its upswing, then dropped to the neck noiselessly as a cat.

“I sincerely hope we don’t run into any MORE surprises,” Will said with a touch of wryness as he set to work trussing up the man Stacy and Hoss had just taken down.

“Stacy Rose Cartwright, where in the world did you EVER learn do to that?” Ben demanded, while Hoss and Hop Sing set themselves to the task of binding and gagging the man who had almost taken them all prisoner.

“Swing from the yardarm?” Stacy quipped with a grin. “Molly and I, ummm . . . well, when we were, uhhh younger?! We USED to swing out over the old swimming hole on the old wild grape vines, then . . . we’d uhhh . . . let go and drop into the deep end of the pond???”

Ben had a sudden sneaking suspicion that those days were NOT as much past tense as she might like to have him believe. “A circus trapeze artist couldn’t have done better!”

“Thanks, Pa.”

“Nigh on near miraculous considering how rusty you almost certainly must be,” Ben couldn’t resist making her sweat just a little.

Stacy averted her eyes away from Ben’s all knowing gaze, grateful for the shadows concealing the sudden rush of blood to her cheeks. “Well, Pa, it’s like swimming or riding a horse. Once you learn, you NEVER forget.”

The Aisling’s crew, those who had been subdued by Will Cartwright’s gang of family and friends, were placed within the fishnet, found aft by Hop Sing and his cousin, while the three women took turns standing watch.

“It sure is good getting all that ‘trash fish’ off the deck,” Ben declared as he stood watching his middle son haul the net up high over their heads and secure the line.

“Aye, aye, Cap’n Pa,” Hoss quipped. “What’s next?”

“Well, Me Hearties,” Will growled, favoring family and friends with a roughish grin, his eyes sparkling with pure impish delight. “I’M thinkin’ it’s time we paid the owner of this vessel a visit.”

Kathleen Murphy and her benefactress, Miss Stephens, sat in the parlor below deck negotiating with Captain Stark a deal that would ultimately be sweet, long awaited revenge for all three, blissfully ignorant of the chain of events happening top side. Miss Stephens had slipped off her shoes, and was now reclining on the settee presiding over their negotiations like a veritable Queen of the Nile. Ever since the women had acquired their “special cargo,” Miss Stephens had made herself quite at home aboard the Aisling . . . a little too much at home for Kathleen’s liking.

“Then we have a deal, Captain Stark,” Miss Stephens said primly. “Two thousand dollars for the Cartwright brothers, and we add Mister Magruder free of charge . . . on the condition you make absolute certain that Mister Magruder never again sets foot in San Francisco.”

“I’m sure you’re aware there’s only one sure fire way for preventing Mister Magruder from ever returning to this fair city by the bay,” the ship’s captain said briskly. “I . . . trust we understand one another?”

A nasty smile oozed its way across Miss Stephens’ lips. “We do indeed, Captain Stark.”

“That will be easy enough to accomplish after the Pride’s gone beyond the four mile limit into international waters,” the captain replied. “Once there, MY word becomes law, and I can do anything I please with impunity. I assume the, umm minor details, like where, when, and how are to be left to my discretion?”

“May I be frank, Captain Stark?”

“By all means, Miss Stephens . . . . ”

“I honestly don’t give a damn about when . . . where . . . or how you decide to deal with Mister Magruder,” she said firmly. “Just so long as he never . . . ever . . . sets foot in this city . . . again. Is THAT clear enough for you, Captain?”

“Yes, Ma’am. Quite clear,” Captain Stark replied, “and dealing with Mister Magruder will work out very well for me, too. It’s essential to maintain discipline on the high seas, and better I think to make a real fine example of someone like Mister Magruder than waste an experienced seaman. Miss Stephens . . . . ”

“Yes?”

“Would you mind if I asked you a personal question?”

“You may,” Miss Stephens warily allowed. “I, however, am under NO obligation to answer.”

“Fair enough,” Captain Stark acquiesced. “Just out of idle curiosity . . . what has Mister Magruder done . . . or for that matter NOT done to warrant what amounts to murder for some trumped up charge on the high seas?”

“Why . . . nothing, Captain. Nothing at all,” she replied with a supreme air of complete indifference. “My reasons for doing away with Mister Magruder are highly personal in nature however . . . . ”

“Of course,” Captain Stark murmured politely, content for the time being to let the matter go. He made a mental note however to wire his brother-in-law, who made his living as a private investigator, and ask him to find out every thing he possibly could about one Paul Magruder. The man owed him at least a dozen favors, and there was also the matter of an ever-so-slight indiscretion he would be only too happy NOT to tell his sister . . . for a small price.

“The Cartwright brothers, however, will be left to YOUR tender mercies to do with as you will,” Miss Stephens continued. “I . . . understand that misbegotten family has been the cause of YOUR down fall as well as ours.” This last she said, casting a sidelong glance over at Kathleen, who sat very primly at the very edge of the settee, with back painfully straight and hands resting, one over top the other, in her lap.

“Yes, Miss Stephens,” Captain Stark replied, “as YOU well know. Had it not been for YOUR kind generosity, I’d have, to be blunt, Ladies, stood about a snowball’s chance in hell of ever commanding a dinghy again, according to the men running the shipping company I used to work for . . . . ”

“Miss Murphy . . . . ” Miss Stephens turned and spoke to Kathleen for the first time since Captain Stark’s arrival, “I think this calls for a toast. Some champagne, perhaps . . . along with some light refreshment?”

“Of course, Miss Stephens,” Kathleen replied. Though outwardly meek to the point of subservience, she inwardly seethed with anger and righteous indignation. “First that high-‘n-mighty bitch thinks she’s hot ambergris, ‘n acts like I’m not even here . . . THEN, the stupid snot starts orderin’ me around like I’m her damned scullery maid,” she groused in silence. “Some day . . . sooo-ooome sweet day, in the ol’ bye-‘n-bye, so HELP me . . . . ”

“Miss Murphy . . . NOW?!” Miss Stephens ordered in a condescending tone that set Kathleen’s teeth on edge. “We haven’t all night, after all . . . . Captain Stark’s ship sails in two hours’ time with the outgoing tide.”

“Yes, Your Worship,” Kathleen muttered through clenched teeth as she rose to her feet.

Upon reaching the galley, Kathleen angrily slammed a wooden tray down onto the counter and threw open one of the doors to the cabinets above her head.

“Good evening, Miss Murphy . . . my! Aren’t WE in a snit this evening.”

Kathleen froze upon hearing and recognizing the voice of Lieutenant Will Cartwright, one of San Francisco’s finest. She turned slowly, with much reluctance, and found him leaning against to closed galley door, favoring her with a tight, mirthless smile that sent a tiny, ice-cold shiver running from the base of her neck down the entire length of her spine.

“There’s no way in hell that YOU’RE in the family way, Mister Cartwright . . . ‘n you’re NOT the Queen of England, or . . . or . . . or King Neptune of the seven seas, so there’s no call for ya to refer to yourself in the plural,” Kathleen snapped, taking all of her anger and frustration out of the police officer who kept grinning at her like a damned, bloody hyena. “You’re also about as welcome here right now as the plague. I’m sure y’ can find your own way OUT, seein’ as how you found your way in . . . . ”

“I’m sorry to find you so inhospitable this evening, Miss Murphy,” Will responded in a tone of voice ever so slightly condescending. “I have family visiting, and . . . well, I’ve told them so much about you that they’re very anxious to MEET you.”

“Can’t you see I’m BUSY?!”

“Here . . . please allow me.”

Kathleen cried out with alarm when she turned and found Ben Cartwright standing beside her, reaching up, and opening one of the overhead cabinets.

“My uncle, Miss Murphy,” Will said.

“Get OUT! NOW! the BOTH of ya!” Kathleen ordered, her voice filled anger and a whole lot of healthy fear.

“I’m NOT leaving without my sons and Paul Magruder,” Ben said in a firm, even tone of voice.

“I DON’T know what you’re talking about!” Kathleen snapped back a bit too quickly. Though she stared Ben straight in the face, her eyes fell very short of meeting his.

“I think you DO,” Ben countered.

“Are you calling me a liar, Sir?”

“I am NOT leaving this vessel without my sons and Paul Magruder.” Ben stubbornly maintained his ground.

“I wouldn’t know your sons or this Paul Magruder from Adam’s housecat!” Kathleen declared. “Now get out!”

“Aww . . . now you’ve gone ‘n hurt my feelin’s, Miss Murphy,” Hoss said as he stepped from the shadows and took his place on Kathleen’s other side, directly facing his father, “ ‘cause I sure remember YOU.”

Kathleen whirled in her tracks and found herself almost literally nose to nose with the big man who had single handedly demolished the holding area belonging to a crimp she worked for at the time, who called himself Cut-Rate Joe. She swallowed nervously, and involuntarily took a step backward bumping into Ben.

“My pa ‘n me ain’t leavin, Miss Murphy . . . not ‘til ya produce my brothers ‘n our friend, Paul Magruder,” Hoss said.

“Shu-Shu-Surely . . . y-ya wouldn’t h-hit a . . . a LADY . . . now . . . uhhh . . . WOULD ya?!”

“Mister Cartwright . . . both of them . . . wouldn’t, being the gentlemen they are,” Teresa said, as she, Stacy, and Trudy moved from their places of concealment. “WE . . . on the other hand . . . . ” She allowed her words to trail away to an ominous silence.

“You have a choice, Miss Murphy,” Will said in a surprisingly bland tone of voice, given the dark angry scowl on his face. “Either you can produce Mister Cartwright’s sons, my cousins, AND Paul Magruder and leave this vessel walking on your own two feet albeit under arrest . . . . ”

“ . . . or WHAT?!” Kathleen demanded, wondering if this was how a trapped wild animal felt.

“ . . . OR, I can let there three lovely ladies have at ya,” Will replied.

“HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAFTA TELL YA . . . I DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU’RE TALKING ABOUT!” Kathleen wailed.

“MISS MURPHY!” Miss Stephens’ voice rang out from the parlor. “WHERE IN THE HELL IS THAT CHAMPAGNE?!?”

Upon hearing Miss Stephens’ voice, Trudy’s face went white as a sheet.

“Well, well, well. You didn’t tell us you had company,” Will said with an insolent grin. “Doesn’t sound to me like she’s the patient sort either.”

“MISS MURPHY! WHAT’S GOING ON OUT THERE?!” Miss Stephens yelled again, sparing no energy to conceal her growing impatience and exasperation. “DID YOU SWIM ALL THE WAY TO FRANCE FOR THAT DAMNED CHAMPAGNE???”

“Outta my way!” Trudy growled. She shoved Will aside, sending him reeling into Hoss’ outstretched arms and bolted headlong for the door before anyone could even think of stopping her.

“Where in the hell IS that woman?!” Miss Stephens fumed in silence. Had Kathleen Murphy been one of her household servants, she would have fired the woman on the spot, AFTER having her flogged within an inch of her worthless life. “Captain Stark,” she said apologetically, “I’m so sorry . . . Miss Murphy isn’t usually so . . . so . . . . ”

Miss Stephens and Captain Stark immediately shot right off the settee to their feet upon hearing the door between Aisling’s parlor and gallery slamming into the wall. The blistering reprimand sitting just at the tip of Miss Stephens’ tongue instantly evaporated when she saw Trudy Magruder charge into the parlor like an enraged bull, her heavy footfalls rattling everything not properly nailed down.

“COUSIN STEPHANIE! I KNEW IT WAS YOU!” Trudy cried, the instant her eyes came to rest on Miss Stephens. “I KNEW IT!”

“Cuh-Cuh-Cousin Trudy . . . . ” Stephanie stammered, “wh-what . . . what are y-you . . . d-doing . . . here?!”

“WHERE’S PAUL?”

“I . . . h-how should I know,” Stephanie replied, involuntarily taking a step backward.

Captain Stark began to edge his way very quietly toward the door opening out on the steps leading back up to the deck.

“So help me . . . . ” Trudy vowed in a voice barely audible, her entire body trembling with rage, “soooo-ooooo HELP me . . . if any harm’s come to Paul, I’m gonna make YOU real sorry you were ever born!”

“Missing is he?” Stephanie queried. “I’m very sorry to hear that, Trudy Dear, but if you can’t hold your man . . . that’s not MY fault.”

“Why you . . . . ” Trudy leapt upon her cousin with a cry borne of raw fury. The two women crashed onto the light wood coffee table, reducing it to kindling, then rolled across the floor clawing at each other like a pair of tom cats battling over territory, screaming colorful pejoratives at the tops of their voices.

“HOSS!” Ben shouted, as he, his nephew, and middle son bolted into the parlor. “DO SOMETHING!”

“Hoo boy,” Hoss sighed and rolled his eyes heavenward. “I was afraid you were gonna ask me that . . . . ” He’d almost rather be at home, getting ready to cover over an old latrine under a broiling hot sun in the middle of summer than wade into that fracas before him. Almost.

“Hoss!” Ben tersely prompted.

“Yes, Pa,” Hoss sighed disparagingly. He mentally braced himself, best as he was able, then charged into the fray.

“Hop Sing . . . over there . . . there’s four . . . no! Make that five! Headed OUR way!” Cousin Number Eight whispered as he dragged his elder relative into the deepest shadows up next to the outer walls of the ship’s cabin.

The two Chinese men had drawn the task of standing watch over the gangplank and the door that opened onto the stairs leading from the deck to the rooms and cargo hold below. “We don’t want any rude surprises in the form of visitors or crewmen returning form shore leave,” Will Cartwright had said.

Hop Sing silently studied the approaching men for a moment, trying to size them up. Though their features were lost in the play of shadow and moonlight across their faces, he saw that the man who seemed to be leading the others was very tall and thin. Two of them appeared to be about the same height as Adam, but the one walking directly behind the tall, thin man looked to be a good deal heavier.

“Think we can take them?” Cousin Number Eight queried in their mother tongue.

“Not with that short guy in the back,” Hop Sing responded in kind. “He’s built a lot like Little Joe . . . small, but strong and quick. I’ve got an idea, though . . . . ”

“What?”

“See if there’s some more rope over there,” Hop Sing ordered. “We don’t need much, just enough to stretch across the deck and secure it on both ends.”

Cousin Number Eight nodded then noiselessly disappeared into the shadows.

Hop Sing, meanwhile, kept a close eye on the approaching men, noting with a twinge of dismay how close they kept themselves to the deepest shadows. “Do those swabbies up ahead know something’s amiss?!” he silently fretted. Or worse, had they stumbled upon their crewmates hanging suspended over the drink in a fishnet . . . and freed them, heaven forbid?

“Cousin.”

Hop Sing started violently upon hearing Cousin Number Eight’s voice in his ear, though, thankfully, he didn’t cry out.

“I didn’t find any rope . . . only a bucket of water, a mop, and a bar of soap,” Cousin Number Eight continued.

“I think I can make do . . . I just hope this works,” Hop Sing murmured very softly, as he plunged the bar of soap into the water. After making sure he got the soap good and wet, he placed the bucket down near the edge of the shadow and tipped it over. The water spread out in a near circular shaped puddle across the deck. Hop Sing set the soap down and scooted it out to the center of the puddle, hoping and praying that the approaching men didn’t detect his movements. “We attack the first man that falls,” he whispered back to his young cousin.

A few moments later the tall man, whom Hop Sing picked out as the leader of the group, strode through the puddle of water without pause or incident. The man following right behind stepped right on the soap. His leg slipped out behind him, causing him to tumble forward knocking the tall man to his knees.

“NOW!” Hop Sing screamed to his cousin in Chinese.

Hop Sing and Cousin Number Eight leapt from the darkness upon the tall man and the man who had brought both of them down respectively. While the sailors and their assailants exchanged colorful insults along with fisticuffs, the other three man formed a circle around the combatants. The instant Hop Sing managed to rap his arm around the tall man’s neck, he felt a pair of strong, well muscled hands coming down upon his shoulders.

“Get back!” Hop Sing ordered, switching once again to English. “Hop Sing have gun. You get back or Hop Sing drill friend full of lead.”

The hands immediately left his shoulders.

“Hop Sing?!” a familiar voice queried.

Hop Sing turned and found himself staring up into the face of the Number One Ponderosa Boss’ first born. “Mister Adam?!”

“Hey! Did I just hear Hop sing or am I imagining things?!” Joe demanded as he and Paul Magruder moved into the moonlight.

“Hop Sing . . . you and your friend can let these gentlemen go,” Adam said quietly. “They’re on OUR side.”

Hop Sing released “Long John,” the tall man and nodded for his cousin to do the same for the man he had subdued.

“For a couple o’ li’l fellas, you two sure pack a good wallop,” “Long John” declared as he and Ishmael rose to their feet.

“Mister Adam . . . Little Joe . . . and YOU, too!” Hop Sing glared at Adam first, then at Joe, and finally Paul. “Where you go?! Everybody worry sick!”

“To make a long, sad story very short, the three of us were shanghaied,” Adam explained. “We agreed to help these gentlemen here with their mutiny in return for our freedom.”

The perplexed frown on Hop Sing’s face deepened. “You help sailor mutiny?!” he exclaimed, incredulous.

“They have just cause, Hop Sing,” Joe said.

“So . . . what brings you and your friend here?” Adam asked.

“He not friend, he Hop Sing Cousin Number Eight. No speak or understand English, only Chinese,” Hop Sing said by way of introduction. “We come with Papa and rest of family . . . look for YOU.”

“ . . . uhhh . . . D-Did you say that Pa’s HERE?” Joe asked, unable to quite believe what he had just heard.

Hop Sing nodded. “Whole family here. Come looking for YOU. Everyone down below. See owner of ship. Hop Sing and Cousin Number Eight stand guard. You go.”

“Sounds like the rest o’ yer mateys’ve gone below to see Miss Murphy,” “Long John” said grimly. “Ishm’el, you take these swabbies down t’ her parlor. I’LL stay above ‘n help these fellas stand guard.”

Ishmael darted over to the cabin door and threw it wide open. “This way, Mateys,” he said.

“So. Why you and other sailor boy mutiny?” Hop Sing asked, after the Cartwright brothers and Paul Magruder had gone below with Ishmael.

“Compound interest,” “Long John” growled . . . .

“HOSS CARTWRIGHT! LET ME GO, Y’ HERE?!” Trudy screamed, her face beet red, hair askew, clothing mussed and torn, her arms and legs flailing uselessly in the air. “LET ME GO, OR SOOOO-OOOO HELP ME . . . .!!!!”

“Dadburn it, Trudy! My pa sure as shootin’ taught me never t’ hit a lady, but if you don’t settle down . . . I’m MIGHT hafta make an exception,” Hoss threatened.

“Lieutenant Cartwright, I DEMAND you put that . . . that insane harridan under arrest!” Stephanie Harker growled, while struggling mightily to escape Will’s less than fond embrace.

Captain Stark was nearly giddy with relief when he finally reached the door leading out of Aisling’s parlor. Reaching behind him, he slowly turned the knob and opened the door. He pivoted one hundred eighty degrees very quickly, and found himself staring into a solid wall formed by Joe and Adam Cartwright.

“Well, well, well! If it ain’t our old ‘friend’ Captain Stark,” Joe declared with a feral grin. “Is that demon rum I smell on your breath?”

“No! It’s fine champagne,” Captain Stark replied in a sullen tone of voice.

“Hmpf! I never thought I’d see the day when a zealous teetotaler like YOU would develop a taste for fine spirited beverages,” Joe said wryly.

“Driving me to drink, Young Man, is perhaps the only nice thing you and your father ever did for me,” the captain returned.

“Uncle Ben, it looks to ME like all three of our lost boys have come home to roost,” Will observed wearily, as Adam and Joe entered, with Paul and the sailor, Ishmael following close behind . . . .

Will Cartwright paced slowly in the spot left vacant by the coffee table. It’s splintered remains had been gathered up and dumped into a pile near the door to the galley. Kathleen Murphy, Stephanie Harker a.k.a. Miss Stephens, and Captain Stark sat together on the settee, ankles securely bound, and hands tied behind their backs. Ben, his two younger sons, and daughter stood guard behind the settee, while Trudy and Paul stood guard before the door to the stairs.

“You WON’T get away with this, Lieutenant Cartwright,” Kathleen declared smugly, with an infuriatingly complacent smile. “My crew is loyal. They won’t let ANY of you leave Aisling alive.”

“Loyal my foot!” Will returned. “Miss Murphy, after my cousin, Adam, and his lovely wife, Teresa, get through explaining the nature of compound interest to your crew, I’M, like as not going to have to protect YOU from them.” He stopped his pacing, and stepping over to the settee, sat down on the arm nearest Kathleen. “The way I see it, Miss Murphy, you have two choices. You can testify against Miss Stephens here--- ”

“Lieutenant Cartwright, how many times do I have to tell you that I haven’t the slightest idea who this Miss Stephens you’re so obsesses with . . . IS?” Stephanie demanded in a petulant tone of voice.

“You can testify against Miss Stephens and get a reduced sentence,” Will continued, pointedly ignoring Stephanie, “OR you can take your chances against a jury. If you’re found guilty, Miss Murphy, you’re looking at twenty-five to thirty years in prison.”

“ . . . and what, may I ask, do ya have in the way of proof?”

“I’M thinking that once my son and daughter-in-law get through explaining to the members of your crew how you’ve cheated them the entire time THEY’VE worked for YOU in good faith, every last one of ‘em will be more than happy to testify against you in a court of law,” Ben replied.

“Don’t LISTEN to them, Miss Murphy,” Stephanie begged. “They’re trying to scare you.”

“How much of a reduced sentence are ya offering?” Kathleen asked.

“One to three years on lesser charges,” Will replied, “with the possibility of time off for good behavior.”

“One t’ three years . . . . ” Kathleen murmured softly.

“ . . . with the possibility of time off for good behavior,” Will quickly added.

“Miss Murphy, listen to me,” Stephanie pleaded. “They have NO proof . . . no proof WHATSOEVER that WE did anything wrong.”

“I wouldn’t go so far as to say that, Stephanie,” Paul said. “Adam remembers seeing you with Miss Murphy down in the cargo hold of this ship, and I’m sure HE’LL be more than willing to testify to that.”

“It’s HIS word against MINE,” Stephanie argued.

“ . . . AND against MINE,” Kathleen said. There was a smug, triumphant note in her voice. “Lieutenant Cartwright, I accept your offer.”

“You’ll regret this,” Stephanie threatened. “So help me, Miss Murphy, you WILL live to regret this.”

“Requiem aeternam dona ei, Domine, et lux perpetua luceat ei. Requiescat in pace. Amen,” the priest intoned the final words of the Mass for the Dead. He was an elderly man, short in stature with stooped posture, clad in vestments that appeared too large for his small, bony frame. He leaned heavily on a solid oak cane, stained mahogany, and clutched a prayer book in a hand that had a slight tremor.

“Amen,” the mourners responded very softly. The group had gathered to give Will’s late partner the rite of Christian burial, as proscribed by the church he had loved and devoted himself with the same passion he devoted to his family and to doing his part as a member of San Francisco’s finest to enforce the law and preserve some measure of order. Will Cartwright, his uncles, and cousins, were in attendance, along with the wife and children of his late partner.

“Anima ejus, et animae omnium fidelium defunctorum, per miseric ordiam Dei requiescant in pace,” the priest continued. “Amen.”

“Amen.”

“Grant unto your child and servant, James Matthias Fox, of late police captain and hero, eternal rest, O Lord, and let light perpetual shine upon him. May he rest in peace. May his soul, and the souls of all the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace. Amen.”

“Amen.”

“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, I commit the body of Lorenzo Enrico Estevan to the hallowed earth. Amen.”

“Amen.”

The priest sprinkled the open grave first, then the coffin, exhumed from the city’s burying ground to be interred in the small cemetery behind the church where James Matthias Fox had received his baptism nearly four and a half decades ago. He lifted his right hand and blessed them all, making the sign of the cross. “In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti . . . in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, go in peace.”

The police captain’s family responded with “Thanks be to God,” softly uttered. The rest responded with a scattering of amens.

A woman, clad entirely in black, made her way over toward Will Cartwright with four children following close behind. “Will,” she said quietly, her voice tremulous, “I . . . mere words can’t possibly express my gratitude. Thank you seems . . . . ” she closed her eyes and shook her head in complete wonderment, “thank you seems woefully inadequate.”

“That man saved my life, Clara,” Will said quietly. “That’s a debt I can’t even begin to repay. I’m glad I could do this for him, for you, and the children. Jim’s family and his church meant everything to him.”

“ . . . and YOU, Will. You meant everything to him, too,” Clara said quietly.

“Clara, I’d like you to meet my uncle and cousins,” Will continued. “Uncle Ben, this is Clara Fox . . . my late partner’s wife.”

“I’m pleased to meet you, Mrs. Fox,” Ben said quietly, taking Clara’s hand in both of his. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you, Mister Cartwright,” Clara graciously responded.

Ben introduced his three sons, his daughter, and daughter-in-law to the widow of Will’s later partner, then chatted with her and her children for a few moments longer.

“All’s well that ends well,” Adam murmured softly, after Will had excused himself so that he might walk Clara Fox and her children to their waiting buggy. “Poetic justice that Miss Murphy far from the only crimp willing to testify against Stephanie Harker.”

“She’ll be goin’ t’ prison for a real long time, that’s f’r dang sure,” Hoss agreed. “I can’t help feelin’ sorry for Mister Harker. Findin’ out one o’ his granddaughters made her livin’ off o’ most o’ the crimps operatin’ in the Barbary Coast . . . can’t be an easy thing t’ face . . . . ”

“Frank . . . Mister Harker . . . told me yesterday that he, Trudy, and Paul have agreed to stand by Stephanie and support her as best they’re able, but they’ve also agreed that she must pay the consequences for her actions,” Ben said.

“Mister Harker’s also decided to by the Aisling to replace the one Stephanie and her friends sank out in the bay,” Joe added, “AND he’s offered the crew a choice between a stage or train ticket home or staying on the Aisling and working for HIM.”

“ . . . uhhh, Pa?”

“Yes, Adam?”

“Speaking for myself, I owe you an apology,” Adam said contritely, “for the way I’ve teased you unmercifully about being shanghaied yourself when you, Hoss, and Joe were here before the war. I had no idea . . . no idea in the world one could become a victim so easily.”

“Pa, that goes double for ME,” Joe said with all sincerity.

“Apology accepted, Boys,” Ben replied, “which reminds me . . . Stacy, you and I have a few things to discuss. Shall we take a walk?”

“Yes, Pa,” Stacy meekly acquiesced, knowing that while phrased as a question, that last was actually an order.

“Hoo boy! Here it comes,” Hoss sighed, his eyes glued to the retreating backs of his father and sister.

“Hoo boy! Here it comes,” Hoss sighed, his eyes glued to the retreating backs of his father and sister.

“What do you mean?” Joe asked.

“Eavesdroppin’ for one,” Hoss explained, “ ‘n not goin’ back t’ the hotel like Hop Sing ‘n Teresa told her f’r another . . . . ” He frowned. “ . . . ‘n Pa said somethin’ about her explainin’ how it was she could swing from the yard arm the way she did, bein’ that she’s s’posed to be outta practice swingin’ from the vines at the swimmin’ hole.”

“That last could land ME in a whole world of trouble,” Joe murmured softly.

“I ain’t gonna ask ya to explain that one, Li’l Brother, ‘cause somethin’ tells ME the less I know the better,” Hoss said soberly.

“Knowing our two younger siblings, I’d say your instincts are dead on, Hoss,” Adam agreed wholeheartedly.

“Still ‘n all, I . . . well, I just hope Pa goes easy on her,” Hoss said.

“Yeah,” Adam replied, “me, too.”

The End
August 2009

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