HERITAGE OF HONOR

A DREAM DIVIDED
Book FIVE
by
Sharon Kay Bottoms

CHAPTER ONE

Beginning Again

Standing rooted in front of the Pioneer Hotel in Carson City, Ben Cartwright stared at the dust of the departing stagecoach, which was carrying fully one-third of his heart away from him.  The sound of a low chuckle at his right elbow broke his trance, and he turned toward his long-time friend, Clyde Thomas.

            “Reckon if you stare long enough, that stage’ll just turn right around and bring him back?” Clyde teased.

            Slight smile curving his lips, Ben shook his head.  “Wouldn’t want that if it could.  Boy has a right to his dream.”  And what a dream that boy had!  Ben was still reeling from the recent revelation that his eldest son dreamed of educating himself at one of the most prestigious colleges in America, but if any boy from the far West could accomplish that auspicious goal, it would be bright, studious Adam.

            “Maybe,” Clyde conceded, clapping a hand to Ben’s broad shoulder.  “On t’other hand, maybe boys ain’t got sense enough to do the pickin’ and choosin’, even for their own dreams.”

            “Oh, hush your fussin’ ‘bout your own boy and leave Ben in peace ‘bout his,” his wife Nelly scolded.  “Ben, you and the boys come on down to my place and, at least, have a cup of coffee before you head back to the Ponderosa.  Be better if you stayed to lunch.”

            “That I can’t do,” Ben said, “but coffee sounds good.”

            Satisfied, Nelly lifted Little Joe from the arms of his older brother and, making cooing sounds as she wiped away the trickle of tears on his cheeks, led the way to the yellow frame house on a side street off the plaza.  Eleven-year-old Hoss Cartwright trotted at her side.  “You got any cookies, Aunt Nelly?” he asked.  “I don’t want no coffee, but I’d favor a cookie or two.”

            “Or twenty,” giggled Inger, Clyde and Nelly’s daughter, who was two years younger than Hoss and thought of him as a big brother—in other words, a God-given object for teasing.

            Nelly reached out to yank one of Inger’s strawberry-blonde braids.  “He can have all he wants.  Mind your manners, girl.”

            “With Hoss?  He ain’t company.”  With a mischievous grin that proved her to be a true member of the Thomas clan, the little girl scampered ahead.  “Come on, Hoss.  Race you home!”  With a grin, Hoss gave chase, even though he suspected that she had too much head start to make the race a fair one.

            Little Joe squirmed for release from Nelly’s arms, but she held tight.  “Oh, no, Sugarfoot, you stay with me.”  She lengthened her stride, however, to keep pace with the other youngsters and soon left the ambling men behind.

            “Was that comment about boys not having sense to pick their own dreams meant for Billy?” Ben asked.

            “Yeah, Nelly pegged that one right, I reckon,” Clyde admitted, spitting a stream of tobacco juice off to the right.  “That scamp is soon gonna be out of a job with the Pony Express, but he won’t hear of coming to work with his pa in the blacksmith shop.  Says he never took to that work, rather work out in the open.”

            “How soon?” Ben asked.

            Clyde shrugged.  “Month, month and a half at the outside, I reckon.  Soon as the telegraph meets up.”

            “And he doesn’t have any plans after that?”

            “Nary a one . . . but that’s Billy for you, takes one day at a time.”

            “Well, he’s always got a place with me, if he wants it,” Ben offered as they turned onto the Thomas’s street.  He grinned.  “So happens I’m short a hand.”

            Clyde laughed at the reference to Adam’s departure.  “I’ll mention it to Billy, next time he rides in.  Flighty as that boy is, though, he might not have sense enough to settle in with a steady job.”

            “Back to that, are we?” Ben scolded.  “Billy may be a mite flighty, but he’s got a good head on his shoulders and generally lands on his feet.  Quit worrying, Clyde.”  He mounted the porch steps and entered the Thomas home, the door of which had been left ajar for their arrival.

            “I will if you’ll quit frettin’ over yours,” Clyde jibed back.

            Nelly came from the kitchen with Little Joe still in her arms.  “I put the coffee on,” she said.  “Be ready soon.  Ben, I’m gonna put this boy down for a nap.  He’s plumb wore out from gettin’ up so early to see his big brother off, and you can stay a mite longer than just time to down a cup of coffee.”

            Seeing Joe’s tiny hand scrubbing at his red eyes, Ben nodded.  He could ill spare the time, but it had been a difficult day for his youngest and Ben didn’t want to make it any harder.  That child—all his sons, for that matter—had endured enough hard days lately without adding needlessly to the load.  Maybe if he dozed off soundly now, Little Joe would stay asleep when he was moved to the buckboard and little time would be lost.  Following Clyde’s lead, Ben entered the kitchen and sat companionably at the table.

Inside, Inger was heaping a platter with cookies.  “We’re takin’ ‘em up to my room to eat,” she told her father.  “Ma said we could.”

            “Long as you clean up,” Clyde said.  “Don’t want you makin’ more work for your ma.”

            “I always do—clean up, I mean,” Inger announced with a proud flounce of her head.  “Come on, Hoss.  We’ll play house.”

            House was far from Hoss Cartwright’s favorite game, though he often good-naturedly consented to play it with the little girl.  Having real cookies for their meal this time was a powerful incentive, of course.

            Clyde checked the coffee pot, but it hadn’t even started to boil yet.  Since he was up, he took three cups and saucers from the cupboard and brought them to the table before sitting back down.  “Bill Stewart’s already knocking on doors,” he commented.

            Ben laughed.  “Doesn’t surprise me.  He was angling for my vote when I asked him to write that letter of recommendation for Adam.  I had to remind him that I reside in District Seven, not Carson City!”

            Clyde slapped his knee.  “That’s a politician for you, fishin’ for votes in any crick he can.  I didn’t promise, but I figure he’ll get mine.”

            Ben nodded.  “No argument here.  He’s ambitious, but on the whole a good man, in my opinion.”

            “So, who you votin’ for, come the end of the month?”

            “James Sturtevant for the House,” Ben answered.  “Not sure about the Senate yet.”

            “You’d be a better man than him—or Stewart, either,” Clyde suggested.

            Ben shook his head.  “No.  There was a time I had ambitions, too, but . . . well . . . things change.”

            Clyde nodded, knowing that Ben was referring to the untimely death of his wife Marie.  “Something to consider, though . . . for the future.”

            “My boys need me, will for a long time,” Ben said softly.  He’d made the mistake of neglecting those precious boys in his grief over Marie’s death and had vowed that nothing would ever come between him and them again, certainly not something as unimportant as political ambition.  What would a seat in the Governor’s office mean, anyway, without her at his side as first lady of the territory?  He’d envisioned that so clearly the day he and Marie had dined with Territorial Governor James Nye, seen it almost as their destiny together, never dreaming that they had no destiny together.

            Nelly came back in, gave Clyde a pat of appreciation when she saw the cups and saucers already on the table and started setting out the sugar bowl, cream pitcher and spoons.  “Ben, I was noticin’ that Hoss’s britches seem a sight short.”

            Ben smiled in warm affection for his middle son.  “Yeah, he’s growing.”

            “Don’t think they can be let down enough,” Nelly observed as she brought the coffee pot to the table and poured a cup for each of them.  “Probably need new ones before school starts.”

            Ben sighed.  Marie had always kept so abreast of the boys’ need for new clothes that he’d paid no attention.  Another responsibility he would obviously have to take on, and despite his brave show for Adam’s sake, to keep the boy from giving up his dream, he still felt hard-pressed just to make it through a day, much less do all he ought for his sons.  “Appreciate your bringing it to my attention,” he said.  “Can’t really rig the boy up the way he deserves by the time school starts, though.  Been a lot of extra expenses lately, and things are gonna be tight ‘til I drive some cattle to California.”  Another brave show he’d put on for Adam, the fantasy that paying for the boy’s college and travel expenses was no hardship.  Adam merited every penny spent on him and would prove it by his performance at Yale, Ben had no doubt, but added to the expense of Marie’s funeral, those pennies meant there weren’t many freely available at home.

            Nelly understood exactly what expenses Ben meant and discerned that he was now feeling guilty about shorting one son to support another.  “Ben, you shouldn’t be too proud to accept help when you need it,” she began tentatively, for Ben had once been highly touchy on that subject.  “You’ve helped us often enough, and I’d be more than happy to make some new clothes for Hoss.”  Seeing him start to protest, she hastened to add, “You can pay me for the cost of the fabric later, but don’t insult me by offering to pay for my labor.  That boy’s practically like one of my own.”

            “I know that,” Ben said with genuine warmth, “and I’ll take you up on that offer.”

            “I’ll just go up and take some measurements then,” Nelly said.

            “Best take them cookies away,” Clyde cackled, “or them measurements’ll change before you get his new britches sewed.”

* * * * *

            Ben took a final draw on his pipe and set it aside.  The hour was late, the house dark, except for the lamp burning beside him, and still, but for the rhythmic ticking of the tall clock on the opposite wall.  The boys had long since been tucked into bed, and it was time he joined them, but Ben couldn’t quite bring himself to face the loneliness of that empty bed.  It had been a long day and a difficult one.  He’d managed to get away from the Thomases in time to get some work in, but he’d found it hard to focus on chores, however needed, when his mind kept wandering . . . to exactly where it was wandering now . . . to a stagecoach rolling east.

Wonder where. . . .  He smiled, recalling the boys’ conversation at dinner.  “Adam in Haven now?” Little Joe had asked earnestly.

            “New Haven,” Hoss had been quick to correct, “and ‘course he ain’t.  It’s a far piece, punkin.”  His nose had crinkled in thought.  “Just how far along is Adam by now, Pa?”

            Ben had taken a rough guess, as much as he could do now.  Adam was still in Nevada Territory, of course, somewhere out in that rough desert country to the east, but having never traveled that direction by stage, Ben didn’t know the schedule well enough to calculate just where.  Did it matter?  The boy isn’t here; that’s what matters.   Gone less than a day, and already the house feels empty without him . . . without her . . . emptiness upon emptiness.  Ben shook himself, made himself get up and bank the fire and head up the stairs.  He stopped to look in on Hoss and Little Joe, who had chosen to sleep together in Hoss’s room, no doubt to assuage each other’s loneliness for their big brother.  Ben drew up the rumpled sheet, all the cover needed on a warm August night, and placed a kiss on each sweaty temple.  Neither boy stirred, although Hoss’s soft snores were momentarily disrupted.

Across the hall, he quietly opened the door to Adam’s room.  Pushed for time as the boy had been, he’d left the room orderly.  The only clutter was the items laid out for later shipping: clothes neatly folded, books tidily stacked and, of course, that bulky guitar, lying on the bed.  That would take some careful packing, Ben mused with a smile.  Well, he had time to figure that one out; he wouldn’t ship anything until he heard from Adam and had an address for him.

            For just the briefest moment he allowed a fleeting thought that perhaps he wouldn’t have to ship those things at all.  Then, chiding himself for the selfishness of wanting his son home, he breathed a prayer that Adam would successfully pass his entrance exams and start down the path toward his individual dream.  I want him to have his dream, Ben reminded himself as he walked down the hall.  Just never expected it to be divided from my own.  Entering his own room, he sighed as he contemplated another night alone in a bed too large for one.  He’d never expected that, either.  Despite his previous losses, he’d never expected to sleep alone again.  Should he have foreseen tragedy piled upon tragedy?  Ben shook his head.  No, a man couldn’t live that way; if he did, he missed all the blessings, too.

            Blessings he’d had, more than many men twice his age.  In remembrance of them, he went to the massive rosewood armoire that Marie had selected in New Orleans and from the bottom drawer drew out two framed portraits, one of Hoss’s mother Inger and the other of Adam’s mother Elizabeth.  They were in the drawer because Marie had been uncomfortable with having them displayed.  Oh, she’d never said anything; he’d just sensed her insecurity, so when they’d moved here, he’d put them away, to be gazed at only in private moments.  Now—now that she was with the originals of the portraits—he thought Marie would understand, and he wanted to hold all his blessings close.  He set the frames side by side on his bedside table, gazing a long time at the likeness of Elizabeth.  “Keep him safe, my love,” he whispered.  He kissed his fingers and touched them to her face first and then to Inger’s.  Finally, he got into bed, gave Marie’s empty pillow the same sort of kiss and with a strangled cry buried his face in the downy depths that had once cushioned her golden head.

CHAPTER TWO

Trail Lessons

            Chattering with enthusiasm, Little Joe swung his feet frenetically beneath the dining room table.   His curly head bobbed with energy to emphasize each point he was making.

            “Yes, that’s all very interesting, Joseph,” Ben said, picking up the child’s fork and placing it once again into his left hand, “but you need to finish your breakfast.”

            “Not hungry, Pa,” Little Joe insisted, letting the fork drop, “and it’s ‘bout time for us to hit the trail, huh?”

            Ben’s lips twitched with amusement as he picked up the utensil yet again.  “Soon, but a real wrangler would never ‘hit the trail’ on an empty stomach, son.”

            “He ain’t much of a wrangler,” a glum-faced Hoss mumbled into a plate as neglected as that of his younger brother.

            The amusement faded from Ben’s face.  “What was that, Hoss?”

            Hoss shrugged.  “Nothin’.”

            “A lie is a poor way to start the day, young man,” Ben said sternly.

            Hoss squirmed and, seeing no alternative, answered honestly this time.  “I said he ain’t much of a wrangler.”  Ignoring the scowl on his brother’s face, he added, “I’d make a better one, Pa; you know I would.”

            Ben sighed.  “Hoss, we’ve been all through this, more than once.”

            “Yes, sir,” the boy agreed perfunctorily.  Pa had, after all, spoken the plain truth, no arguing that.  They had been through all the reasons he couldn’t go on the trail drive, over and over again.  Well, there was only one reason, a bad one in Hoss’s book, but there’d been no talkin’ Pa out of it.  School had started just one week ago, and Pa insisted that he couldn’t afford to miss a string of days so soon after starting.  Missing the trip to California just to bury his nose in a book, on the other hand, seemed a pure waste of time to Hoss.

He hadn’t gotten truly disgruntled, though, until he’d learned that Little Joe was going on the drive when he couldn’t.  He’d come close to earning a trip over Pa’s knee for the fit he’d pitched when that was announced.  He understood about Joe, honest he did.  The poor little kid had screamed in terror when Pa told him that he was going away for a spell.  For Pa to leave, on top of Mama and Adam both disappearing, was just plain more than the little fellow could take, and fearing that Little Joe would have nightmares every night he was gone, Pa’d decided to just take the baby with him.  Joe’d been yappin’ a mile a minute ever since.  “I’m a big boy now, Hoss,” he’d chirped gaily.  “I’m goin’ on roundup.”  All that eagerness had been hard for Hoss to swallow when he couldn’t share it himself.

            “Cheer up, Hoss,” Ben said now with forced brightness.  “You’re going to enjoy staying with your friend.”

            Hoss nodded.  Staying over with Pete Hanson was the one sunny spot on his horizon.  It had come about when Diego, who usually handled the chuck wagon on trail drives, had taken a bad fall and broken his arm.  Hop Sing had offered to take his place, and for a moment Hoss had thought that meant that he, too, would be going, since he couldn’t very well stay home alone.  Then Pa’d come up with the idea of asking the Hansons if he could stay with them and they’d said yes.  Pete was excited about it, and Hoss guessed he should be, too, but he sort of felt like he was gettin’ stuck with second best, especially when Pa talked nonsense, like callin’ Little Joe a wrangler.  Some wrangler!

            Hop Sing bustled in from the kitchen and stood glowering at the food still on the plates.  “Why boys all-a-time play with food?” he demanded.

            Ben arched a regal eyebrow.  “I don’t believe they are.”

            “Not eat, same as play,” the cook scolded.  “Hop Sing want leave kitchen clean.  No can ‘til have plates for wash.”

            Ben gestured toward the one in front of him.  “Take mine, then; I’m finished.”

            “Me, too,” Hoss insisted, pushing his forward.

            “Me, too,” Little Joe added in chorus.

            “No, Joseph, you’re not,” Ben said firmly.  “Please take a few more bites.”  He glanced at Hoss’s plate.  Not as clean as the boy normally left it, but at least his middle son had eaten enough to tide him over until noon.  “If you’ve finished eating, Hoss, get your things together.”

            “I got my bag packed already,” Hoss said, wiping his mouth with a red-checked napkin.  “Just got to get it.”

            “You pack plenty clean clothes?” Hop Sing asked.  “Plenty soap?”

            Halfway to the stairs, Hoss turned.  “Not soap.  Miz Hanson’ll have soap.”

            “You take,” Hop Sing insisted.  “Wash hands, behind ears ev’ly day.”

            “No, that’s not necessary,” Ben began, but the cook interrupted him.

            “Velly nes’saly.  Hop Sing not want Missy Hanson think he raise dirty boy.”

            Ben exhaled loudly.  “I didn’t mean washing wasn’t necessary.  Of course, Hoss will wash.”

            “Behind ears.”  The cook punctuated his dictate with a crisp bob of his chin.

            “Yes, behind his ears,” Ben agreed with strained patience, “but he doesn’t need to take soap.  Mrs. Hanson might think we were insinuating that she couldn’t provide for a guest.”

            Hop Sing pondered a moment.  “She lose face?”

            Ben grasped the analogy like a drowning man.  “Yes.  She would lose face.”

            The cook nodded soberly.  It was a concept he understood.  “All light.  Not send soap.”  He frowned.  “Hop Sing bake cookies for Hoss take with him.  That make lose face?”

            “No, that’s all right, a gift for all to share,” Ben assured him.

            “All light.  Hop Sing wrap for take.”  Gathering up the soiled plates, he exited to the kitchen, shaking his head.  Soap bad, cookies good.  American ways most puzzling.

* * * * *

            Ben rested a broad palm on his middle son’s shoulder.  “All set?”

            Hoss finished attaching his book strap to his saddle.  “Yeah, Pa.”

            Hearing the disconsolate tone in the boy’s voice, Ben smiled gently.  “I know you’re disappointed, son, but this really will be for the best.”

            Not trusting himself to speak, Hoss merely nodded, but the gesture conveyed no confidence.

            “I know I don’t have to tell you to be a good boy, ‘cause you always are.”  Ben gave Hoss a hearty hug.  “Now, go say goodbye to your little brother and be off.  Don’t want you late to school.”

            “Yes, sir.”  Still dragging his feet, Hoss walked toward Little Joe, who was supervising Hop Sing as he loaded the last of the supplies in the cook wagon.  “Hey, punkin, time to say goodbye.”

            Little Joe looked confused for a moment, and then his face contorted.  “No!” he screamed and grabbed Hoss about the knees.

            Hoss patted his brother’s curly head.  “Hey, I’ll miss you, too, but I got to go, else I’ll be late to school.”

            “No!” Little Joe shrieked.  “You come with me!”

            Hoss gulped.  There was nothing he’d like better, but Pa had made it clear that he had to stay behind and go to school.  Still, staying wasn’t his idea, so he didn’t think he should have to be the one to explain it to Little Joe.  He glanced over at his father and shrugged.

            Ben strode swiftly up behind his youngest and took hold of his arms.  “Joseph, turn loose of your brother,” he ordered.

            “No,” Little Joe declared defiantly, clinging all the tighter.

            “Now, Joseph, we’ve been all through this.”  He stopped short in sudden realization.  True, he’d repeatedly been through the subject with Hoss, but he hadn’t discussed it at all with Little Joe.  He’d assumed the child had overheard and understood his conversations with Hoss.  Evidently, a critical mistake.

            “Son, brother has to go to school,” he explained patiently now, as he gently pulled the recalcitrant arms.

            “No!  I hate school!”  Joe raised pleading eyes to his father.  “I want my brother.  Him and you and me and Hop Sing, all together.”

            Ben forcefully detached the clinging vine and gathered the now sobbing child into his arms.  “Why, Little Joe,” he cajoled, “I thought you were a big boy now, big enough to go on roundup.”

            “With Hoss.”  The little boy’s expressive emerald eyes, so reminiscent of his mother’s, shimmered and threatened to spill over.  His lower lip quivered as he added, “I’m big enough to go with Hoss . . . and you.”

            “And Hop Sing,” the cook added.

            Ben glared at the Oriental.  “That was not a helpful addition!”

            With an eloquent shrug Hop Sing turned back to his work, resolving to let Number Three Son work his magic alone.  Such speaking eyes the child had!  His honorable father would read their message, whether he listened to words or not.

            Little Joe patted his father’s cheek urgently.  “Please, Pa . . . Hoss, too.  He be lonely without me and I be lonely without him.  We needs us, Pa.”

            Hope sparkled in Hoss’s alpine blue eyes.  Could Little Joe do what he’d found impossible, sway Pa into letting him go to California, too?  “We needs us, Pa,” he whispered tentatively.

            Ben looked from one son to the other, and in that moment he understood that all of them were coping with loss, not just him and not just Little Joe.  They’d all lost Marie, and in a way that must seem almost as permanent to his younger sons, they’d all lost Adam.  Hoss had said little about his feelings over either loss, but he, too, was aching, Ben realized.  He might not have nightmares like Little Joe, but for him, as well, it was too soon to be separated from the only family he had left.  Slowly, Ben nodded.  “Yeah . . . we needs us,” he sighed.  He straightened and squared his shoulders.  “Hoss, I want you to mount up and—”

            “No!” Little Joe wailed.

            “Hush now,” Ben soothed, patting the small back.  “You’re going to get your way, little tyrant.”  He gazed at his middle son.  “Hoss, first put your carpetbag in the wagon; then mount up and ride over to the Hansons.  Tell them I greatly appreciate their willingness to board you, but I’ve decided to take you with me.”

            “Hooray!” Hoss whooped, tossing his hat into the air.  “Thanks, punkin!”

Thanks, punkin?  For a moment Ben looked irked; then his countenance softened.  Why should he expect thanks himself?  After all, it was Little Joe who had insured that his brother was coming, and everyone in the yard clearly knew it.  “Get on with you,” he scolded playfully.  “Meet us down at the meadow where the herd is gathered.  Oh, and give Mrs. Hanson those cookies to make amends for any trouble she’s gone to.”

            “Yes, sir!”  Hoss snatched his carpetbag from his horse and tossed it into the back of the wagon.

            “Get the books, too.  You will be doing some lessons on this trip, boy.”  Ben shook his head.  Had he taken leave of his senses?  Trailing a herd over the mountains was tough enough, without caring for a four-year-old and now tutoring a schoolboy added into the mix.  He turned to see Hop Sing gazing at him with a knowing smile.  “What are you staring at?  If you’re loaded, head on out to the herd.”

            Hop Sing continued to smile as he slowly shook his head.  “Not quite loaded, Mistah Cahtlight.  Have extra man feed now; need little mo’ food.”  He paused, considering Hoss’s appetite.  “Maybe lot more.  Not Hop Sing fault: you tell him this many men, he take this much food; you not tell him you change mind.”  With an inimical smile he turned toward the kitchen, ostensibly to gather extra supplies for that extra hand.

            “I’m gonna gain a reputation as the softest touch on the Comstock,” Ben muttered to himself.  He held Little Joe high over his head and grinned broadly.  “And do you know whose fault that is?  Do you, hmm?  That’s right, little boy—yours!”  He pulled the giggling child close to his chest and joined in the infectious laughter.

* * * * *

            In the flickering firelight Ben saw his two younger sons frolicking in a self-styled version of tag.  “Hoss, Little Joe—come here,” he called.

            Tired of the chase, Hoss reached for Little Joe’s hand.  “Come on, punkin.  Pa’s callin’.”

            Little Joe scampered just out of reach.  “I wanna play some more.”

            “Thought you wanted to be a wrangler,” Hoss said with just a hint of reproof.

            Little Joe thrust out his lower lip.  “I am a wrangler.”

            Hoss shook his head.  “Wrangler has to do what the trail boss says and you ain’t, so you must not be a wrangler.”

            “Am, too,” Little Joe insisted, hurrying back to his brother’s side.  “We go see what the trail boss wants now?”

            Hoss grinned then.  “Yeah, let’s do that.”  Taking Little Joe’s hand, he led him back to their father.  “You wanted us, Pa?”

            Sitting near the campfire, Ben patted the ground next to him.  “Time for lessons, son.”

            Hoss scowled.  “Aw, Pa, it’s too dark to read.”

            Ben chuckled.  “Adam wouldn’t have thought so, but I agree.  No books tonight, just a geography lesson, of sorts.  Sit down, boys.”  He reached for Little Joe and placed the child between his legs.

            “I don’t go to school, Pa,” the four-year-old protested.  “I’m too little.”

            “Only for formal schooling.  You’re not too little to learn, sweetheart,” Ben said, kissing the rampant curls.  “Did you notice all the bright stars tonight?”

            Little Joe looked up at the pinpoints of light in the sky.  “Lots,” he agreed.

            “Did you know that the stars have names?”

            Little Joe’s eyes widened at the innumerable lights.  “All of ‘em?”

            Ben rumpled his son’s hair.  “Well, maybe not all, but many do.”  He pointed to a group.  “Like those.  I’ll bet Hoss can tell you their name.”  He arched an inquiring eyebrow toward his other son.

            Hoss grinned.  He didn’t mind lessons one bit when he knew the answers, and Pa had taught him this long ago.  “That’s the Big Dipper.”  He traced his finger from star to star, outlining the shape.  “See, Little Joe?  Don’t it look just like the dipper that hangs by our well back home?”

            Little Joe nodded vigorously.  “Who drinks out of that dipper, huh, Hoss?  God, maybe?”  His eyes brightened suddenly.  “Mama?”

            “Maybe,” Ben agreed quickly, seeing Hoss’s perplexed expression.  “It isn’t a real dipper, though, Little Joe, just a picture of one.”

            “A star picture,” Little Joe said, sounding awed.

            “A star picture . . . and an important one,” his father continued.  “Every night while we’re on the trail I want you to show me where that star picture is, Little Joe.  Do you remember why it’s important, Hoss?”

            “Sure, Pa,” the other boy replied readily.  He ran his finger on a line from the two stars at one end of the dipper until it pointed to another.  “It shows the way to the North Star, and if we know where north is, we can always find our way.”

            Ben smiled.  “So, which way is home?”

            Hoss lowered his finger to the horizon.  “That way—north.”

            “And which way is California?”

            Hoss pointed to the left, where a range of mountains lay.  “West.”

            “Now point toward Adam.”

            With a grin Hoss swung his arm to the opposite side.  “That way—back East.”

            “Adam in Haven now?” Little Joe asked, staring east.

            “He’d better be,” Ben chuckled.  “He’s supposed to sit for that entrance exam tomorrow.”

            “You reckon he’ll pass, Pa?” Hoss asked.  “Adam said it was a real hard test.”

            “Yeah, probably the hardest he’s ever taken.”  A wistful look crossed Ben’s face as he thought of his oldest son, so far away, poised on the brink of a great adventure.  “Boys, I think we should pray for your brother tonight, that God will help him on that test tomorrow.”

            Little Joe crawled over his father’s leg.  “Nuh-uh.  I’m gonna pray he don’t do good; so’s he’ll come home.”

            Ben pulled his youngest back into his lap.  “Joseph, that’s a very selfish prayer.”

            “Don’t care.”  A petulant pout emphasized his point.

            Ben tilted the tiny chin upward.  “God doesn’t like us to be selfish, Little Joe.”

            “Don’t like God much, either.  He takes people ‘way.”

            “Joe!”  Hoss sounded as if he expected a bolt of lightning to strike his baby brother any second.

            Remembering his own brief rejection of God after Marie’s death, Ben smiled softly.  “It’s all right, Hoss.  God’s big enough to deal with a little boy’s anger.”  He cuddled Joe close.  “It isn’t fair to wish your big brother bad luck, Little Joe.  He’s always been good to you, hasn’t he?”

            Reluctantly, Little Joe nodded.  “He can’t be good to me in Haven,” he argued.

            Ben brushed a drooping tendril from the child’s forehead.  “Well, I don’t know about that.  Maybe he can, somehow, but one thing I know for sure: he wouldn’t pray for bad things to happen to you.  I bet he’s praying that God will take good care of you and keep you safe.”

            “I—I want him safe,” Little Joe whispered.

            “And happy?”

            “Happy, too,” Little Joe agreed after a brief hesitation.

            “Then you need to pray that he’ll pass that test,” Ben said, “because Adam won’t be happy if he doesn’t.”

            Little Joe sighed deeply and slowly.  “Okay.”  He folded his hands, as his mother had taught him, and his high-pitched voice piped a simple—and remarkably reluctant—prayer: “Dear God, keep Adam safe and make him happy in Haven and—and do it fast, so’s he can come home soon, okay?”

            Ben chuckled as he tousled the child’s chestnut locks.  “That’s a good prayer, though I don’t think that last part’s going to get answered very soon.  Now, it’s time for all little wranglers to wrap up in their bedrolls.  We have to be up early tomorrow.”

            “To make up for today, huh, Pa?” Hoss asked as he spread his bedroll below his upturned saddle.

            “We need to,” Ben agreed.  Waiting for Hoss to return from the Hansons meant the drive had gotten a late start that morning.  As a consequence, the herd was bedded down just north of Genoa, miles shy of where Ben had planned to be tonight.  He spread his bedroll not far from Hoss and fixed a pallet of blankets between them for Little Joe.  Pulling up his own blanket against the chill of the September evening, he gazed at the stars and let his mind drift eastward to his oldest son.  Heavenly Father, be with him.  Like Little Joe, I want him home, but not at the cost of his dream.  Make it possible for him, as you’ve made my dreams possible for me.  You know how tired he’ll be after his long journey, with no time to rest up before that important test.  Give him the strength he needs and—

            “Pa?”

A little body snuggled up against him.  Ben turned toward his son and saw Joe’s tiny arm stretched over his head.  “That’s north—Ponderosa,” a sleepy voice mumbled.

            “That’s right.”  Ben stroked the boy’s forehead.

            Joe pointed toward the mountains.  “West—California.”

            “Shh—go to sleep.”

            The little arm flung itself across Hoss’s slowly rising chest.  “East—Adam.”

            Ben drew Joe’s arm back before his brother awoke and tucked the covers snugly around him again.  “Very good, son.  Now, go to sleep!”

            With a gaping yawn Joe cuddled closer and drifted into his dreams.

            “You are a precious nuisance,” Ben whispered just before he dropped a kiss on the smooth forehead.

* * * * *

            The hand holding the reins also encircled the waist of his youngest son as Ben leaned forward in the saddle and pointed ahead with the other hand.  “You know what that is, Little Joe?”

            Little Joe frowned in thought.  “West—California?”

            Ben chuckled.  “Yes, yes, it’s west—well, more like southwest, but close enough—and we’re already in California.”  He shook his head, ruing the day he’d shown Little Joe the north star and the points of the compass.  Every night since then he’d been awakened by a groggy recitation of the information.  “I wasn’t asking the direction, son.  Do you recognize that town up ahead?”

            Joe shook his head.  “Not Haven; it’s east.”

            Ben rolled his eyes.  Would this child never stop with the geographical liturgy?  “No, not New Haven.  That’s Placerville, son, and do you remember who lives in Placerville?”

            “Mama Zue-Zue—”  Little Joe frowned in frustration as the word refused to come out.

            “Zuebner,” Hoss, who was riding at his father’s side, finished for him.

            “Yeah!” Little Joe said, face beaming.  “Good food!”

            “That’s for sure!” Hoss agreed.

            “And good friends, too, you little greedy bellies,” Ben chided playfully.

            “Yeah, Pa, I wasn’t forgettin’ that,” Hoss cackled, “but I’m lookin’ forward to somethin’ besides trail grub.”

            Ben guffawed and then collected himself.  “Don’t let Hop Sing hear you say that, boy, or you’ll be eatin’ my cooking on the trail home.”

            Hoss grinned.  “No, sir, Pa; I got sense.”

            Sense.  Ben had to smile.  Nothing about this trip made sense.  He’d seen the men’s faces when they realized he was bringing along a four-year-old.  Complete disdain, and Ben couldn’t blame them.  Little Joe had been every bit as much—no, more—trouble as he’d expected.  He’d entertained foolish notions of the child riding with Hop Sing in the cook wagon, but soon learned that Little Joe would have none of that.  Oh, no, he was a wrangler; and wranglers, however small, spent all day in the saddle.  Ben had lost that battle the first morning and had shared his saddle with his son ever since.  Needing to protect, he’d held out against letting Little Joe ride with his brother until late the second afternoon, when there’d been a problem with the herd.  Keeping Joe in his own saddle then would have been more dangerous than trusting Hoss, so Ben had made a quick transfer and ordered both his sons to safety.  Thereafter, the two older Cartwrights had alternated as saddle companions for the youngest, and while the sight of Little Joe on a horse still reminded Ben vividly of the way the child’s mother had died, he had to admit that Little Joe was just as safe with his brother as with his father.

            The men’s opinion of him as a doting father had only been augmented as they waited for Hoss to join them that first day, for they all knew he hadn’t originally been part of the crew.  Accustomed to working with him during the summer, however, they’d quickly accepted him, and Hoss had easily proven his value as a trail hand.  For that matter, the men had seemed to delight in having both youngsters along, especially lively Little Joe.  No matter how tired they were when camp was made, the men not standing night guard managed to find energy to romp with the little fellow and his bigger brother, who readily switched from willing worker to child-at-play when the opportunity arose.  And Ben found that he relished having his children with him, even looked forward to that little body crowding up against his and that groggy recitation of north, east and west, as it related to the Ponderosa, New Haven and California.

* * * * *

            “Uncle Ben!”  The girlish squeal of delight belied the womanly dignity signified by the upturned flaxen hair.

            Ben still preferred the braids the girl had worn along the trail.  “Hello, Marta,” he said with a fond smile.  “Can you seat three hungry wranglers?”

            “Oh, of course.”  She started to lead them toward a table by the front window.  “Only three?”  She wagged an admonishing finger.  “Don’t tell me you made Adam stay with the herd.  You know how I relish seeing him.”

            “As would I, my dear, as would I.”  Seeing her look of perplexity, he explained quickly.  “Adam’s gone back East to continue his education.”

            Marta touched a slender hand to her rosy cheek.  “Oh, my, that’s a surprise.  I thought . . .”

            “As did I,” Ben murmured, a trace of sadness tingeing his tone, “but Adam had other ideas, and young people are entitled to their dreams.”

            “Yes,” Marta said softly, making Ben wonder what dreams of her own this young woman might be keeping from her mother, as Adam had kept his from his father.  “Well, do sit down,” the young woman urged.  “We have oxtail stew today.”

            “And strudel?” Hoss asked eagerly.

            She shook her head.  “No, but Mama did bake a delicious cake with thick, creamy icing, Hoss.”

            “I want some,” he said with a decisive nod.

            “Stew and cake all around,” Ben ordered, “and I’d like to see your mother if she has time to come out.”

            “She’ll make time,” Marta assured him.  She started toward the kitchen and then turned back.  “Mr. Thomas wrote us of your loss,” she said awkwardly.  “I’m so sorry, Uncle Ben.”

            Ben nodded acceptance of her condolences, but said nothing.

            When she saw clouds form in Hoss’s sky-blue eyes, the girl bit her lip, fearing she had spoken amiss, and hurried to the kitchen.

            Within minutes Ludmilla Zuebner scurried out from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron.  As she squatted down between the chairs occupied by Hoss and Little Joe, she put an arm around each.  “Ach, meine lieblinge,” she cried.  “Meine armen lieblinge.”

            Neither of the Cartwright boys had the slightest idea what she had said, but they each understood the sympathy behind the sobbed words, and each fell into her arms.  Ben blinked back a tear at this fresh evidence of how much his sons still yearned for a woman’s—a mother’s—affection.  “It’s . . . good to see you, Ludmilla,” he said.

            Ludmilla stood and wrapped Ben in her warm and ample embrace, just as she had the boys.  For a moment he felt embarrassed, fearful of displaying his emotions in public, but then he yielded to the comfort he needed as much as Hoss and Little Joe.  “I thought this was all behind me,” he choked.

            Realizing he was referring to the loss of two wives before Marie, Ludmilla held him tighter.  “Is behind,” she promised.  “Is life ahead for you, Ben.”

            Ben broke and began to sob unashamedly.  Life ahead.  Exactly what he had promised Marie after the duel at the Plantation Allard, when she had said that death followed her.  Life ahead—a promise fulfilled, though cut short of what it should have been—but their brief time together, what vibrant life it had been!  He lifted his head from Ludmilla’s shoulder and his loving gaze fell on Little Joe’s sprite-like face, upturned in concern.  And what life it had produced!  “Forgive me,” he whispered, with a swipe at his damp cheeks.

            “Is good you cry,” the German woman insisted.  “To hold in is—is”—she floundered for the right words in English—“greater pain.”  She patted his shoulder consolingly.  “You sit, eat.  Tonight, you come to my house.  We talk . . . of my Fredrich and your Marie, yah?”

            “Yah,” Ben said with gratitude.  Sometimes, in his grief, he forgot that others had faced loss, too, and he was grateful for the reminder and for the chance to talk openly with someone who would understand exactly what he felt.  “Yes, tonight we will talk . . . of your Fredrich and my Marie.”

* * * * *

            Ben tenderly tucked the covers around his youngest son and bent to kiss him good night.

            “Pa,” Little Joe whimpered plaintively.  “I miss Mama.”

            Ben sat down beside the child.  “I know, son.”  He smoothed the unruly curls and smiled gently.  “I miss her, too.”  Words he’d hesitated to speak aloud before, but somehow they came more easily after the evening of sharing with Ludmilla and her family.  Probably the reason his baby could say them now, too, for both Joe and Hoss had listened, enrapt, to the conversation.

            Little Joe smiled back, yawned and snuggled down in the covers.  “Night, Pa.”

            “Good night, Little Joe.”  Ben stood and made his way back into the outer room of their suite at the El Dorado Hotel.

            Hoss looked up from the table, where he was struggling with an arithmetic problem.  “Pa, I could use some help with this one.”

            Ben at once came to stand over his second son’s chair.  “You forgot to carry the two,” he said, pointing at the column of figures.

            “Oh, yeah.”  Hoss quickly rubbed out the wrong number and added two to it.  “That works.  Thanks, Pa.”

            “You’re welcome.”  Ben gave the boy’s sandy head a soft pat and started toward the settee across the room.

            “Pa.”  Hoss’s voice sounded as plaintive as had his little brother’s earlier.  “I—I sure liked hearing you talk about Ma with Mama Zuebner.  Her and my other ma, too.”

            Momentarily, a lump caught in Ben’s throat.  “Leave the books for now, Hoss,” he urged.  “Come sit with me.”

            Hoss came gladly and nestled up against his father on the settee.

            “It felt good to talk about them,” Ben said.  “We haven’t done enough of that.”

            Hoss swallowed hard.  “I thought, maybe, you didn’t want to . . . that it . . . hurt.”

            “It does . . . some,” Ben answered honestly, “but I think Ludmilla was right when she said holding it in made a greater hurt.  Anytime you want to talk about your ma, Hoss—either one of them—you let me know, and we’ll talk.”

            Hoss’s eyes sparkled, and an almost shy smile touched his lips.  “It’s kinda hard to remember what she looked like—my first ma, I mean.  There used to be a picture . . .”

            Ben wrapped an arm about the boy’s shoulders and squeezed.  “There still is; it’s in my room.”

            “Could I see it sometime?”

            “Sure, you can.  In fact, I’ve been thinking that I might bring it downstairs and set it on the desk by Mama’s—and Adam’s mother, too.  You think that would be all right?”

            Hoss beamed.  “Yeah, Pa.  I’d like that a lot.  I could see her anytime I wanted then.”

            “You don’t think Little Joe will mind?”

            Hoss shook his head.  “He’ll like seein’ ‘em, knowin’ what they looked like.  They’re—they’re part of him, too, ain’t they, even if he never knew ‘em?  Like Adam’s ma is part mine, ‘cause she gave me him?”

            Ben planted a warm kiss on his middle son’s broad brow.  “Hoss, my boy, you are wise beyond your years.  Yes, they’re all part of all of us, and it’s time we let that be shown plainly.  First thing I do when we get home is set all three of those pictures on my desk.”

            “I’ll help you bring ‘em down,” Hoss offered.

            Ben chuckled.  He was quite capable of carrying two pictures by himself, but he sensed Hoss’s need to participate.  “All right, son.  You can carry your ma’s picture.  Now, I think you have a few more arithmetic problems to work out . . .”

            Not even the thought of lessons could dim the brightness of Hoss’s smile.

CHAPTER THREE

Fire and Fools

            Ben leaned back in his green leather desk chair and with his right hand massaged the aching muscles at the back of his neck.  Paperwork—there was nothing he hated more, especially at the end of a long day.  They’d only arrived back on the Ponderosa late that afternoon, and there’d been myriad details to tend to since then.  He hadn’t found an opportunity to open the books and record the results of the successful cattle drive until after the boys were in bed.  He smiled.  Nothing unusual about that.  The boys always commanded his attention whenever they were up and about, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

            As his eyes fell on the three framed portraits gracing the corner of his desk, he chuckled.  Nothing would satisfy Hoss except bringing those pictures of his mother and Adam’s downstairs the minute they walked through the front door.  Pa had said “first thing,” and the boy had taken the promise quite literally.  Then, since the pictures were completely new to Little Joe, he’d had to take the little lad on his lap and help him understand the family history.  He wasn’t sure it had all sunk in, but there’d be other nights, and there were definitely more stories to tell.

            “He’ll know you all, my loves,” Ben promised.  “Both of them will.”  He spared a wistful wish that Adam could be there, too, to listen to those stories and share his own memories, but Adam was back East, making fresh ones.  It would be a long time before that son could join them around the fireplace and share his memories, old or new.  When they’d come home this afternoon, a telegram had been waiting, slipped under the door.  Just a few brief words, giving the basic facts and his boy’s new address, but Ben could read between the lines well enough to visualize how excited Adam had been to pass his exams at Yale.  He was excited for the boy, too, though the thought of four years without his eldest son sometimes seemed as crushing as the lifetime ahead without Marie . . . or Inger . . . or Elizabeth.

            Shaking himself free of the sorrow that came rushing toward him, Ben stood and rounded the desk, just as the clock struck ten.  That late?  He had a full day’s work ahead tomorrow, and it was time he was in bed, but he turned, instead, toward the front door.  If he tried to sleep now, he was certain, all the figures he’d been dealing with for the last couple of hours would just keep marching through his brain.  A few minutes out in the cool, pine-scented air would relax him and help him sleep.

            He walked slowly, aimlessly, into the yard, no destination in mind, but found himself strolling toward the open area beyond the corral.  Can’t go far, he advised himself, just need to stretch my legs a bit and work out the kinks in my muscles.  Nothing puts kinks in a man’s back like leaning over a set of figures, however favorable they might be.  These had been mighty favorable, too, he realized with a satisfied smile.  The drive had been a success.  Its proceeds would see them through the winter, even leave enough left over to send some extra funds to Adam, in case college expenses turned out to be more than they’d estimated.

            He halted and took a deep breath of the fragrant air.  Then his nose wrinkled.  Something sharper than pine was wafting toward his nostrils, an acrid odor of wood smoke and . . . burning pitch!  Following his nose, he looked toward the northwest, and the auburn reflection of the sky over the far ridge shot alarm through every nerve of his body.  He turned and ran back toward the house.  “Fire!” he shouted.  Reaching the house, he grabbed the rope of the bell hung in the front yard to signal an emergency and pulled it again and again, all the time yelling, “Fire!  Every man out!”

            Men in varying degrees of dishabille stumbled groggily out of the bunkhouse.  Most looked first to the house or the barn before noticing the orange-red glow on the horizon.  “That ain’t on the Ponderosa,” mumbled one, a man who had hired on just for the drive.

            “And we aim to see it stays that way!” snapped Hank Carlton, one of the Ponderosa’s regular hands.

            “Fire like that can go ‘most anywheres,” another agreed, “and there’s other settlers in them hills.”

            Ignoring the discussion, Ben fired orders to gather shovels, hitch the wagon, saddle horses and “stop that fire before it spreads!”  A couple of men, who hadn’t been asked to stay on past the night, sneered their disdain of the orders, but most, regardless of whether they still had a job or not, had enough civic responsibility or zest for adventure to join the battle against the encroaching flames.

            As supplies were being gathered and transportation readied, the front door burst open, and the two youngest Cartwrights barreled into the yard, though it was more of a tumble in Little Joe’s case.  “What’s wrong, Pa?” Hoss cried.  “I heard the bell and come runnin’.”

            “It’s a fire up in the hills, son,” Ben explained quickly.  “Go back inside and take Little Joe with you.”

            “Fire?”  Hoss looked toward the hills northwest of the house, and his eyes widened in alarm.  “I wanna help,” he insisted.

            “Me . . . too,” Little Joe chimed in, yawning between the two words.

            “I don’t have time for this,” Ben muttered, but though he knew that was true, he nonetheless took time to squat down in front of the two boys.  “Son,” he said, directing his words toward Hoss, “the best help you can give is to take your little brother back to bed and make sure he stays there.”

            “Aw, Pa,” Hoss whined.  “Can’t Hop Sing see to him for once?”

            “No,” Ben said firmly as he stood to his feet.  “He’s your brother, Hoss, and I expect you to ‘see to him.’  No argument.”

            “Pa,” Little Joe whimpered.  He stopped rubbing his eyes long enough to reach his arms up toward his father.

            Though he had no time to spare, Ben couldn’t resist the plea.  As men rushed around him, carrying out his orders, he lifted the boy up and instinctively tucked the little cold, bare feet inside his jacket.  “Pa has to go, son,” he whispered.  “There’s a job to be done.  You stay here with brother and be a good boy for Pa.”

            Little Joe laid his head on his father’s shoulder.  “You stay, Pa.  Don’t want you burned up.”

            “Oh, precious,” Ben soothed as he gave the child a comforting squeeze.  “Pa isn’t going to get burned up, I promise, but I have to go, so that fire doesn’t burn up part of the Ponderosa or one of our neighbors’ homes.  Now, you go with brother.”  He set the child down and gave him a light shove toward the older boy.

            Hoss’s mouth puckered with dissatisfaction, but he instinctively gathered Little Joe in and put his arm protectively around him.

            “Got your horse saddled, Mr. Cartwright,” Carlton called, leading Ben’s bay gelding toward him.

            “Thanks, Hank,” Ben said, taking the reins.  He mounted and turned back toward the house, where his sons still stood, wide-eyed with apprehension.  “Back inside, boys,” he urged.  “It’s too chilly to be out in your nightshirts.”

            Hoss watched his father ride away and then hoisted Little Joe up on one hip.  “Come on, punkin.  Time you was in bed.”

            “You, too,” Little Joe dictated.  “Pa said.”

            “Aw, shut up,” Hoss growled, perturbed at the reminder that Pa had lumped him in with the baby.  It made no sense to Hoss.  Hadn’t he done a man’s work all summer in those same woods that were ablaze now?  Didn’t he have as much—or more—at stake as any of those trail hands?  The Ponderosa was part and parcel of him, and by all rights he should be out there, protecting their land and their home alongside Pa, not snuggling under the covers like there was nothing going on.  He’d earned the right to be treated like a man, hadn’t he?  Not according to Pa!  No, Pa was treating him like he was no older than Little Joe—well, not much older, anyway.  Pa might try to make it go down easier by pretending it was important for him to stay here and look after his baby brother, but what he was really doing was making sure both his little boys stayed safe.  “Only I ain’t a little boy,” Hoss muttered under his breath.

            “Hoss,” Little Joe whimpered imploringly as his brother carried him up the stairs.  “You sleep with me?”

            “Aw, doggone you,” Hoss started to grumble, but then he saw the terror shimmering in the depths of his little brother’s emerald eyes.  “Yeah, I reckon so,” he said.  “Guess you best come into my bed, though.  Don’t much think I’ll fit in yours.”

            Little Joe giggled at the picture of Hoss all scrunched up in his short bed and for a moment forgot his fear that the fire would take Pa away, the way a horse falling had taken his mother and a team of six of them had ripped Adam away.

            Hoss carried him up and put him in the mahogany four-poster and then crawled in after him.

            Little Joe snuggled close.  “Pa be okay, Hoss?” he whispered.

            “Yeah, Pa’ll be fine,” Hoss assured him.  “Now, get them cold feet off o’ me and get to sleep!”

            Thirty minutes later the first nightmare struck.

* * * * *

            Trickles of perspiration carved rivulets down the sooty landscape of Ben Cartwright’s rugged face as he leaned heavily on the handle of the shovel whose blade was sunk into blackened earth.

            Smudging the soot on his own forehead with a swipe of his sleeve, Hank Carlton ambled toward him.  “I think that’s got it, Mr. Cartwright.”

            “Yeah, I think so,” Ben agreed.  “Take a couple of men and ride the perimeter of the burned area, just to make sure.  I’m gonna head up that way, see if I can’t discover what started this blaze.”  As he pointed north, he could almost hear his little son lisping, “North—home,” and the memory of those nights on the trail brought a gentle smile to his lips.  North wasn’t home now—thank God.  If it had been, home could have been a huge ash heap tonight.

            “Sure you’ll be all right alone, Mr. Ben?  I could ride along with you.”

            Ben shook his head.  “Appreciate the offer, Hank, but I know this land like the back of my hand.  I’ll be fine.  Just check the perimeter and then get yourself some shut-eye.”

            The two Ponderosa men walked back to the horses.  Then Hank took the shovel from Ben.  “You sure, boss?” he asked again.  “If this was a set fire . . .”

            Ben’s eyes went from grim to glinting.  “If it was, someone will answer to me!”  The thought of an arsonist loose near the Ponderosa, endangering his home and his sons, appalled him, but he had to admit the possibility.  There’d been no hint of lightning on this cool September evening, so the fire had to have been the work of man, but whether by accident or intent, the signs, thus far, gave no clue.

            He followed the track of scorched earth to the shore of Lake Tahoe and then rode along its edge, looking for any indication of what could have started the fire.  Finally, he came upon a manmade clearing and dismounted for a closer look.  There were signs here of habitation: rough-hewn trunks, blackened tin cans, ash-covered plates.  Someone had been living here, and by the awkward look of the blade strokes on nearby trees, someone who didn’t possess many pioneering skills.

            Laughter filtered to him through the trees just to his north, but there was no trace of humor on Ben Cartwright’s face as he followed the sound to the shore.  Two men were pulling a boat out of the water, one of them shaking soot from his great bush of auburn hair.  “Superb!” he was crying to his companion.  “We’ll never see the like of that again, Johnny!”

            “I would hope not!” Ben roared.  “Are you two the fools behind this infernal blaze?”

            The men looked startled, but then the auburn-haired one came forward, waving a languid greeting.  “Howdy, neighbor,” he drawled.  “Did you see the conflagration?  Magnificent, wasn’t it?”  He swept his hand toward the treetops.  “Like blazing banners, a hundred feet in the air.  Grand as any Fourth of July fireworks I ever saw.”

            “‘Cept it’s a good bit past the Fourth, Sam,” his companion snickered.

            Sam scratched beneath his rusty slouch hat.  “Well, never too late to celebrate the nation’s birth, eh, friend?  We had a splendid view of it from out on the lake.  That’s the place for a sight like this, I can tell you!”

            For a moment, in the face of such idiocy, Ben could only stare in consternation.  Then his face hardened as he planted clenched fists on his hips, mostly to keep from plowing them into the idiot’s nose.  “Listen here, Sam, or whatever your name is—”

            The man thrust out his hand.  “Sam Clemens,” he said congenially.

            The scathing words he’d been about to spew withered on Ben’s tongue.  “Clemens?” he croaked.  “Any relation to Orion Clemens?”  Though he had yet to meet the man, he knew the name of the new secretary of the territory.  Who in Nevada did not?

            Sam beamed.  “Yes, sir!  Orion’s my brother, I’m proud to say.  You’ve heard of him, I take it?”  He laughed.  “Well, of course, you have!  Very important man, my brother.  I’m secretary to the Secretary, you might say, though the job pays nothin’.  That’s why me and Johnny here set out to build ourselves a little timber ranch.”  He gazed around at the blackened tree trunks.  “Guess that’s come to naught.”  He shrugged nonchalantly and tried to grin at Ben, but the grin faded at the sight of Ben’s darkening countenance.

            Ben kept a tight grip on his temper.  The secretary of Nevada Territory was, indeed, an important man, and from all reports, a decent one.  Out of respect for the man and his office, Ben restrained himself from the tongue-lashing Secretary Clemens’ idiot of a brother so patently merited, but even as careless an eye as that of Sam Clemens could tell the broad-shouldered rancher was seething.  He had a feeling the scent of smoke came from more than just the charred trees.

            “See here, now.”  Sam shot off a fusillade of fast-fired arguments in his defense.  “It’s not like we did it on purpose.  A pure accident, I assure you.  Campfire just got away from us, and we didn’t do any real harm, did we?  Just burned off the undergrowth, mostly, right?  Maybe a few trees burned.  Plenty to spare here.”  He forced a grin again.

            That did it.  Important brother or no, Ben could contain himself no longer.  “No harm?” he bellowed.  “Acres burned, homes endangered.  Only by the grace of God none lost!  My eleven-year-old boy understands more about the woods than you do.  For that matter, my four-year-old has better sense!”

            Sam Clemens flinched back with a nervous titter.  “Well, as you say, we—uh—we are the proverbial babes in the wood.  Maybe Johnny and I had best take up another line of work, eh?”  He laughed again, through an obviously tighter throat.  “I—uh—guess the fire pretty much put us out of operation here, and, anyway, chopping wood is too tough a job.”  Step by step, he edged away from Ben.  “Got to be an easier way to make a living, don’t you think?  Yes, yes, I agree.  Maybe we’d best pack up our gear and head back to Carson City, do a little more work for the Secretary.”  He clapped his companion on the shoulder, and Johnny’s head bobbed in ready agreement.

            As the two scrambled away in haste, Ben stared at them in dismay.  It was hard to know what to do with culprits as ignorant as Clemens and his cohort.  Evidently, they had intended no harm . . . nor done much, the rancher was forced to admit.  Since the fire had never crowned, it was mostly underbrush and dead sentinels of the forest that had burned.  He tried to temper his wrath by reminding himself that his own pioneering skills had once been as primitive as—he shook his head.  No, not even at his most naïve had he ever been as careless as those two.  It hadn’t been much of an exaggeration when he’d said that even Little Joe would have fared better on his own in the woods, though Ben shuddered at the image that brought to mind.  “One thing for sure,” he grunted as he mounted his horse, eager to get back to his sons.  “Orion Clemens may be a fine man, but that brother of his will never amount to much.”

* * * * *

            The sky was dark, even the stars dimmed by the haze drifting in the air, when Ben returned to a quiet house.  Inside, a lamp had been left, burning low, on the round table beside his favorite chair.  Ben was tempted to fall into it, but mindful of his soot-stained garments, he delayed that collapse long enough to take a dark wool blanket from the credenza by the door and drape it over the chair.  Then he sank into the inviting cushion with a long, slow sigh of gratitude.  He reeked of smoke, and his weary muscles yearned for a relaxing soak in a steaming tub.  He didn’t have the energy to draw himself a bath, though, and he wouldn’t dream of rousing Hop Sing this early to do it for him.  It wasn’t long until dawn, anyway; the chair would just have to do for the few hours remaining before time to rise and begin the new day.  He’d begin it with that hot tub and a good hard scrub, but for now he’d just rest his eyes.  A millimeter at a time, they closed, and his head unwittingly fell against the wing of the chair.

            He woke with a start and threw aside the blanket draped over him.  His brow furrowed for a minute, his hand fingering the blanket that still rested beneath him, to protect the upholstery.  He didn’t remember taking a second one from the credenza, though.    Had he taken to walking in his sleep?  Then he smiled as the obvious answer came to him.  Hop Sing, of course, the same person responsible for the tempting aroma of fresh coffee that had no doubt drawn him from his slumber.  He stood, yawning and stretching, and moved toward the kitchen, but came to an abrupt halt and stared in disbelief at the window in the dining room.  A glance back at the grandfather clock confirmed what the level of light pouring through that window had hinted at: it was late . . . very late.

            Ben hurried on into the kitchen.  “Why didn’t you wake me, Hop Sing?” he chided.

            The little cook looked up from the batch of biscuits he was stirring.  “You much tired, Mr. Ben.  Need sleep.”  His nose wrinkled disdainfully.  “Need bath, too.”

            “I know that,” Ben grumbled.  “I’d already planned to bathe this morning.”

            The Chinaman beamed.  “Hop Sing have plenty hot water ready, fixee bath chop-chop.”

            “Thank you,” Ben murmured, whatever disgruntlement he’d felt evaporating like dew on a scorching hot morning.  “If that coffee is ready, I’ll have a cup first.”

            Hop Sing’s nose again crinkled, but he said nothing.  Mr. Ben have hard night; another time mo’ better for remind him wash before eat.  He poured a cup of coffee and handed it to Ben.

            Ben took a soul-restoring sip.  “Little Joe still asleep?”

            “He sleep, Mr. Ben,” Hop Sing replied.  “They both sleep.”

            Ben looked up.  “Both?  Hoss, too?  You didn’t get him up for school?”  He dashed the tin cup to the table, sloshing coffee over the side.  “Oh, for goodness’ sake!  This whole house is gone to rack and ruin this morning!”

            The little cook drew himself up, his rigid posture the picture of affronted pride.  “Is-a not Hop Sing fault, Mr. Ben.”

            “No, no, of course not,” Ben agreed quickly.  The last thing he needed to deal with right now was a threat to go back to China.  “It isn’t your fault.”

            “Whose fault it is?” Hop Sing demanded, for he, too, was displeased with the way this day had begun: meals off schedule, housework not yet started, dirty boss yelling at him and spilling coffee everywhere.

            “Sam Clemens!” Ben bellowed as he charged out of the kitchen.

            The cook shuffled to the doorway and peered inquisitively around it.  “Who dat Sam man?” he called.  “He come breakfast?”

            “Not if I have anything to say about it!” Ben yelled as he bolted up the stairs.

            He rounded the corner at the upper landing and dashed down the hall and through the open door into Hoss’s room.  Mouth open, ready to shout out a wake-up call, Ben skidded to an abrupt halt, transfixed by the tender tableau before him.  Little Joe, looking absolutely cherubic, without a trace of underlying mischief, lay curled trustingly in the crook of his brother’s arm, while Hoss’s other arm rested on his little brother’s back.  With a soft smile Ben gently disentangled his sons’ limbs and lifted his youngest to his shoulder.  Then, leaning over the bed, he lightly shook Hoss’s shoulder.  “Wake up, son,” he urged.  When Hoss didn’t respond, he shook a little harder and spoke a little louder, although still softly enough not to wake his other boy.

            Hoss cracked an eyelid and stared groggily at his father.  “Huh?  Oh, hey, Pa.”  He yawned widely.  “Is it mornin’?”

            Ben rolled his eyes.  “It’s halfway to being afternoon, son.  Now, get up and get dressed.  You’re already late to school.”

            Hoss groaned.  “Aw, Pa, do I got to?”

            “Yes, of course, you ‘got to,’” Ben said, his voice growing a little gruff.  “You’ve already missed quite enough class time, young man, by going on the trail drive.  Now here you are late for your first day back and whimpering to be let off the hook, but you will make an appearance and that’s final.  Now, get up!”

            “Yes, sir.”  Hoss dragged first one foot and then the other out of the bed and stumbled over to his washstand.

            Ben placed Little Joe back in the bed and tenderly covered him.  He brushed aside an errant curl, his hand lingering against the boy’s brow.  So like his mother, Ben thought wistfully.

            “How come he gets to sleep?” Hoss grumbled from behind the towel with which he was drying his freshly washed face.

            Ben frowned at his middle son.  “Because he’s only four years old, and unlike you and me, he has no responsibilities to fulfill.  I’ve had a hard night, son, and I don’t feel any more inclined to go to work than you do to go to school, but when a man has a job to do, he does it.”

            Hoss yawned.  “Okay, Pa.”

            Ben relaxed, and a loving smile replaced his frown.  “That’s my boy.  You get dressed and get down to breakfast.  I’m going to have a bath before I join you.”

            Hoss snickered softly, so as not to wake Little Joe.  “Yeah, Pa, I reckon you better.  Fightin’ fires sure is dirty work, ain’t it?”

            Ben clapped his son’s sturdy shoulder.  “It sure is, son.”

* * * * *

            Ben could have happily spent the other half of the morning, easing his muscles in the luxurious tub that Hop Sing had prepared for him, but he made himself climb out and dress for work.  He’d lost enough time as it was, and he did want to see Hoss again before the boy left for school.  As he walked briskly down the stairs, however, he was surprised to see his middle son, elbow on the table, cheek propped on his palm, his half-finished breakfast being pointedly ignored.  Even before he reached the dining room Ben’s ears told him why, as Hoss’s sonorous snores broke the otherwise silent air.  “Hoss!” he said sharply, sliding into his place at the head of the table.

            Hoss’s hand fell, striking the edge of his plate.  He barely managed to keep his head from doing the same.   “Huh?”

            “What on earth is wrong with you this morning, boy?” Ben chided.  He opened his napkin and laid it in his lap as Hop Sing placed a plate of bacon and eggs before him.

            Hoss stifled a gaping yawn.  “Just plumb tuckered, I reckon, Pa.”

            Despite his irritation, Ben chuckled lightly.  “Now, why are you so tuckered?”  A possible explanation suddenly struck him, and he felt ashamed that he hadn’t earlier explored the reasons behind Hoss’s uncustomary lassitude.  “I know the fire bell woke you last night.  Did you have trouble getting back to sleep, son?”

            “A mite,” Hoss admitted.  “Little Joe kept puttin’ his cold feet on my bare leg.”

            Ben smiled gently.  “You didn’t have to take him into your bed, you know.”

            Hoss shrugged.  “Felt like I did.  He was workin’ up a fret ‘bout you and the fire.  He’d’ve ended up there anyway, once them nightmares started.”

            “Oh, dear,” Ben sighed.  He looked more carefully at his middle son’s drooping eyes.  “Nightmares, you said.  More than one?”

            “Yeah,” Hoss said.  “I’d no sooner get the little feller quieted down and get back to sleep myself than he’d start in screamin’ again.  I sure hate it when he does that, Pa.  I wanna help him, but don’t seem like I do much of a job of it.”

            Ben reached over to rest a consoling hand on his son’s sturdy arm.  “Hoss, I’m sure you did as good a job as anyone could.  I’m real proud of you, boy.”

            Hoss sported a lopsided grin as he picked up his neglected fork.  “Thanks, Pa.”

            “All things considered,” Ben said, “I think, maybe, you should go on back to bed, instead of to school.”

            A sparkle flickered in Hoss’s blue eyes for a moment; then he shook his head.  “You said when a man has a job to do, he does it, Pa.”

            “True enough, and I’m glad you gave heed to what I said, Hoss,” his father replied with a tender smile, “but I think you’ve been manly enough for today.  Missing school one more day won’t make that much difference.  Besides”—his smile widened into a grin—“I don’t think you’ll learn much with your eyes closed, and the noise just might keep the other scholars from learning, too.”  He mimicked a resonant snore.

            Hoss cackled.  “Reckon you might be right about that!”

            Ben laughed, too.  “Let’s finish up breakfast, son, and then I’ll roust your little brother out of your bed.”

            “Aw, you don’t have to,” Hoss said with a good-natured shrug.  “His feet oughta be toasty warm by now!”

            “All right, then.”  Ben readily accepted the generous offer, for moving Joe always ran the risk of waking him, with the predictable consequence of dealing with a cranky child.  He’d gotten off lucky once this morning, and didn’t feel inclined to press his chances.  “Later you can help me crate up Adam’s belongings,” he told Hoss, “so we can send them to him the next time we’re in town.”

            “Maybe we could do that this afternoon,” Hoss suggested eagerly.  “Adam needs them things bad, I’ll bet.”

            Ben arched an eyebrow.  “And I’ll bet he can just get by without them ‘til a month from Saturday.  I do need to get some work done today, young man.”

            Hoss yawned.  Pa was probably right.  Besides, he’d done enough traveling lately and would probably enjoy a trip to town on Saturday more than he would today.

CHAPTER FOUR

Building Bonds in a Broken World

            Frustrated frown on his face, Little Joe sat on the top porch step and with the heel of his shoe, he rhythmically kicked the riser of the step below him.  Yipping for attention, a small brown dog bounded up the steps, leaped on the little boy and began licking his face.  Joe’s nose scrunched up as he turned away from the slobbering tongue, but the next moment his arms closed around the pup in a heartfelt embrace.  “You miss him, too, doncha, Klam?” he asked with a sniff of sympathy, mixed with a heavy dose of self-pity.

            Little Joe had spent a good part of the morning feeling sorry for himself.  During the trail drive he’d come to expect the constant companionship of his father and his big brother, and it had even extended through yesterday, when Pa had let Hoss stay home from school because he was too tired to go.  All that had ended this morning, though.  Pa’d gone off to work, and Hoss had headed to school right after breakfast.  Though Hop Sing was here, he was busy working in the kitchen.  He’d told Little Joe to play outside, but Little Joe didn’t feel like playing.  He just felt lonely.  Mama gone.  Adam gone.  And now Pa and Hoss gone, too.

            He gave the dog’s short-haired coat a rub.  “You hungry, Klam?  Bet you are.  I’m gettin’ that way, too.  Wanna bone, fella?  I’ll ask Hop Sing for you.  Come on.”  He stood up, and Klamath trotted at his heels as he headed toward the side door to the kitchen.

            Hop Sing, who was chopping vegetables, spun around at the sound of the opening door and scowled at the brown dog following the boy in.  “No let dog in house, Little Joe,” he ordered.

            Little Joe looked up at the cook with the “speaking eyes” the Chinaman had seen so effectively used to turn Ben Cartwright into moldable mush.  “He’s hungry.  Doncha got a bone for him?”

            “Little dog is-a not hungry,” Hop Sing declared.  “Hoss feed him all-a time.”

            “Hoss ain’t here.”  The diminutive lips puckered into a pout.  “And it’s ‘most lunch time.  Klam needs lunch, same as me, and Hoss ain’t here to get it for him.”

            “Is-a not lunch time yet, Little Joe.”  Then the cook’s eyes filled with concern.  “You hungry?  You not eat big breakfast.”

            Joe nodded.  “Little bit.  Klam, too.”

            “All light, all light,” Hop Sing muttered with a shake of his head.  “I give little dog little bit food after we eat.  Not much or he be fat like pig and Hop Sing use for bacon.  He go out now.  Little dog is-a not belong in kitchen.”

            Satisfied, Little Joe climbed into a chair at the table while Hop Sing shooed Hoss’s pup outside, slipping him a bite of carrot to keep him quiet.  “What you fixin’ for lunch?” the boy asked, eyeing the array of chopped vegetables on the cutting board.

            “This not fo’ you; this Hop Sing lunch,” the cook said.  “I fixee nice food fo’ you first.  Just chopee this fo’ cook after.”  Since the little boy had said he was hungry, Hop Sing hurried to finish preparing the vegetables for his own meal, intending then to set them aside and tend to the child’s need.

            On his knees in the chair, Little Joe propped his elbows on the table and leaned closer to scrutinize the food Hop Sing was preparing.  “Ain’t that nice food?”

            “Velly nice,” Hop Sing affirmed with a vigorous nod.  “It Hop Sing food—velly nice, velly tasty.”

            Little Joe sat back on his haunches and frowned at the cook.  “Joe’s food, too,” he proclaimed, a stubborn pucker at his lips.

            “No, no,” the cook remonstrated.  “This Chinese food.  You little ‘Melican boy.  You not like.”

            The frown deepened, and the lower lip thrust further out.  “Would, too.”

            “Not think so,” Hop Sing said.  “You want nice slice beef sandwich, maybe?”

            Little Joe shook his head wildly from side to side.  “Want that,” he declared, pointing at Hop Sing’s pile of vegetables.

            “You not want that,” the cook insisted.

            “Do, too!”

            “All light, all light,” Hop Sing told the red-faced child.  “I give you bite or two, all light?  You see.  Is-a velly different from ‘Melican food.”  He quickly finished dicing the vegetables and bits of beef, added sauce and seasonings to his liking and sizzled it over the fire.  The meal was soon prepared, and he served Little Joe a miniscule portion atop a spoonful of fluffy white rice.

            “That all I get?” Joe protested.

            “You like, I give more,” Hop Sing promised.  “You taste now, please.”

            Little Joe maneuvered a small bit of the mixture, along with some rice, onto his fork and raised it tentatively.  Slowly he slid the food into his mouth, chewed cautiously and swallowed.

            Hop Sing watched warily and awaited the verdict.

            Little Joe pushed his plate toward the cook.  “More, please,” he chirped.  “It’s good!”

            A broad beaming smile split the Oriental face.  “Little ‘Melican boy got little bit sense, after all,” he declared.

* * * * *

            Hoss’s face twisted in tortured concentration.  Greeting his friends out in the schoolyard on his first day back had been fun, but then the bell had rung and all the fun had ended.  While he’d hate to admit it to Pa, for fear of future consequences, his trip to California had put him behind everyone else in his class, and if this morning was anything to go by, he was going to find it hard to catch up.  The arithmetic problems Miss Appleton had set for him just plain made no sense.  Oh, they weren’t hard in themselves, except the teacher had said he wasn’t to use his slate, but add the sums in his head.  She’d called it mental arithmetic, and Hoss had already decided he didn’t like it one bit.  Arithmetic was hard enough for him, even when he could line the numbers up and see them together, but seeing them sitting sideways from each other, with a bunch of words in between, was pure foolishness in his book—and dad-blamed hard foolishness at that!

            Recitation had been even worse than studying the problems at his seat, for then he couldn’t even use his book.  Instead, Miss Appleton read one after another out loud, asked him to repeat it and give the solutions.  The first few went well enough, even without being able to see the numbers.  After all, the book started with a solution as simple as two plus one and only gradually got harder.  Then on one problem the teacher had warned him would take extra concentration, he’d stumbled over repeating it back just right, and there’d been hoots from the back of the room that distracted him into adding the numbers wrong, too.  The hoots turned into guffaws before the teacher threatened extra work if it continued.

            His face relaxed when Miss Appleton announced recess.  He enjoyed getting away from the schoolroom, at least until his old nemesis, Cal Hulbert, sauntered up to taunt his poor performance.  “Still can’t add worth a lick, can you, horse brains?” Cal snorted almost as soon as they were dismissed.

            “Don’t insult horses,” snickered Walter Grogan, close behind Cal.  “I’ve seen trick ponies that can add better than fat boy here!”

            “You’re right, Walt!” Cal, eager to have the older boy back in his camp, was quick to agree.

            Face grim and eyes narrowed, Hoss came nose-to-nose with Walt.  “Thought we had a bargain, Grogan.  Thought you said you kept your bargains.”  Last year he’d fought single-handed against three boys, to make them stop bullying him.  Cal’s word had meant nothing, but Walt Grogan had so far kept his promise.

            “We did—and I do,” Grogan barked, “but seems to me you’ve forgotten what the bargain was, Cartwright.  It was to leave you be ‘til the end of the school year.”  He grinned snidely.  “In case you ain’t noticed, flea brain, it’s a new year.  Bargain’s over.  If you can’t take some ribbin’, study hard, so’s maybe you can figure out two plus one equals three.”

            “That ain’t the one he missed,” snapped Pete Hanson, who had originally been one of the three boys making sport of Hoss every day.  After losing the fight to Hoss and being abandoned by his cohorts, however, Pete had become a steadfast and loyal friend.  “That Mustard problem was a hard one!”

            “Ten plus eleven—twenty-one.”  Grogan flapped a disparaging hand as he and Cal strode off, laughing.

            Pete shook his head.  “That ain’t right, either.  That’s the answer I gave last week, and Miss Appleton said it was wrong.  Wouldn’t tell me the right one, though.  Just smiled and said to think it through.”

            George Winters, another friend of Hoss’s, chuckled.  “We all missed that one.  It’s a trick question, to my mind.”

            “What you mean, George?” red-haired Joe O’Neill asked, pushing into the circle of friends.

            George leaned back against a tree trunk and folded his arms.  “Okay, so here’s the problem: ‘Mustard has 10 sisters and 11 brothers; how many are there in the family?’”

            “What kind of name is Mustard?” Joe’s younger brother Robert demanded.

            “No worse than Hoss, I reckon.”  Hoss grinned as he shrugged a shoulder.

            “Lots worse,” Pete insisted, “but what matters is his brothers and sisters.  I still count twenty-one.”

            “Which means his ma was one busy lady,” Joe cackled.

            George grinned.  “You gotta remember to count Mustard hisself in the family.  That’s the trick.  So, the answer’s twenty-two.”

            “Oh!”  The other four looked satisfied for a minute; then Joe asked, “What about his ma?  She’s in the family, too, ain’t she?”

            Obviously having not thought of that, George scratched his head.  “Uh, yeah, guess so, so I guess there’s twenty-three in the family.”

            “Or twenty-four, if you count Mustard’s pa,” Hoss put in.

            “If he’s got one,” Robbie said.  “Not everyone does.”  He spoke from experience, since his own father had died before they came west.

            “Not everyone’s got a ma, either,” George, whose mother had died in a steamboat accident, said soberly.

            “Yeah.”  Hoss could only get that single syllable past the lump in his throat.

            The awkward silence said that each of Hoss’s friends understood he was thinking about his recent loss, but none of them knew what to say to comfort him.  Finally, Joe O’Neill said, “Well, I think we oughta tell Miss Appleton that we can’t work this problem ‘til we know a heap more about Mustard’s kin.”

            “Yeah!” the others agreed noisily, and since their teacher had just come outside to ring the bell to end recess, they all rushed upon her and demanded to know the exact makeup of Mustard’s family.

* * * * *

            Hop Sing stood, arms akimbo, and glared at the child standing in the doorway from the dining room into the kitchen.  “What for little boy out of bed again?” the cook demanded.  He had already tucked the four-year-old into his bed three times and didn’t appreciate the necessity of climbing the stairs again.

            Little Joe flashed a puckish grin.  “Nap all done.  Time to play.”

            Hop Sing scowled.  “Is-a not time fo’ play.  You not take nap yet.”

            The child skittered past the cook.  “Don’t need nap.”

            “Honorable father say you do.”  Hop Sing strode after the boy, who pranced down to the opposite end of the cook’s worktable.  “You stay one place,” Hop Sing scolded.

            “No!” Little Joe slapped the tabletop with both palms. The anger disappeared as quickly as it had surfaced and with a giggle, the child cried, “Catch me!”

            As the sputtering Chinaman came toward him, Joe scooted around the table away from him.  Around and around they went, Little Joe’s hilarity increasing and Hop Sing’s face flushing more with each circuit.  Finally having enough, the cook pulled out a chair behind him, setting it directly in Joe’s path.  Then he pretended to carry on the chase, but the minute the child slowed down to get around the roadblock, Hop Sing reversed directions and caught the boy up into his arms.  “Bad boy,” he stated emphatically.  “Now you go bed—and you stay there this time if Hop Sing have tie down!”

            Tears instantly sprang into the boy’s green eyes.  “No, no, please no,” he whimpered.  “I-I don’t like it up there all alone.  Don’t make me—please!”

            Feeling the little body tremble against his chest, Hop Sing sat down in the chair he had used as a roadblock and began to pat the boy’s back as he rocked back and forth.  As many times as he’d waged this naptime war with Little Joe, he’d never before realized that fear lay behind the child’s recalcitrance about going to bed upstairs.  “Nothing hurt Little Joe,” he soothed.  “Hop Sing not let anything hurt Little Joe.”

            Little Joe buried his head on the cook’s shoulder.  “You’re too far,” he sobbed.  “I don’t like it alone . . . so—so far away.”

            “All light, all light,” Hop Sing said, his calloused hand caressing the child’s soft curls, “but father say you take nap, so you take nap.”  As Little Joe shook his head violently from side to side, the cook arrested the motion with a steadying hand and laid the curly head back against his shoulder.  “Little boy must obey father,” he said gently, “but Hop Sing keep close, all light?”

            Little Joe pulled back so he could look into the Oriental’s face.  “Real close?” he asked hesitantly.

            “Velly close,” Hop Sing promised.  He moved down a short hallway just off the kitchen and turned into a small room.  He laid the child on a narrow bed.   “You sleep here in Hop Sing bed, all light?”

            Little Joe clambered up on his knees to scan the unfamiliar room with interest.  Though sparsely furnished, it looked like no room he’d ever been in before, from the lacquered boxes on the bureau to the picture hanging over it of a fascinating creature with fire coming out of its mouth.  “What’s that?” he asked in awe, pointing.

            Hop Sing laid the child down and drew a light coverlet over him.  “That dragon.  Him have much power for protect little boy.”

            The child’s eyes widened.  “Won’t that fire burn things?”

            “No, no,” the cook assured him.  “Only bad things that try hurt little boy.  You not be afraid . . . but maybe best you not tell father about dragon.  It be our secret, all light?”

            “O-okay.  I-I like it here.”

            Hop Sing smiled.  “See?  Like Hop Sing say before, little ‘Melican boy got little bit sense.  You sleep now.”  Sitting on the edge of the bed, he began to croon a soft Cantonese lullaby he remembered hearing his mother sing, long ago in Kwangtung Province.  The words were meaningless, the tune alien to Little Joe’s American ears, but he felt the undertone of love, and that soothed him into dreamless sleep.

            Hop Sing gently stroked the soft chestnut curls.  Little ‘Melican boy like Chinese things . . .  like Hop Sing, too, he thought, surprised at how full his heart suddenly felt.

* * * * *

            Hoss slowed his gray mare to a walk as he entered the yard at the Ponderosa.  He never knew when Little Joe might be playing outside; and if he were, the little fellow was bound to come running to greet his big brother.  No amount of scolding or “necessary talks” seemed to have any effect on those flying feet.  Put something he wanted in front of Little Joe’s eyes, and he just plain forgot everything he’d been taught.  It was easier—and smarter, Hoss thought—just to slow down.  Charcoal wasn’t skittish like some horses; she wouldn’t kick out at the little boy, but if she galloped in fast, it might happen accidental-like.  Hoss chose to be safe, especially where his baby brother was concerned.

            He grinned as he dismounted.  Sure enough, there was Little Joe at the kitchen door, pulling against the restraint of Hop Sing’s hand.  Once the cook saw that Hoss was on the ground, he let go, and Little Joe came rushing over to throw his arms around his big brother’s legs.

            “Hoss!  I thought you’d never get here!”

            “Thought that myself!”  With a laugh Hoss scooped the little boy up and swung him around in a circle until both were breathless.  Then he set Little Joe in Charcoal’s saddle for his usual ride into the barn.

            Little Joe leaned over to pat Hoss’s head sympathetically.  “School rotten, like always?”

            It had been, and Hoss was tempted to give an earful to the only audience on the ranch that would commiserate with his complaints.  He remembered, though, that Mama hadn’t liked him to say such things to Little Joe, hadn’t wanted him to teach his little brother to hate school before he ever went, so out of respect for her memory, he shook his head.  “Naw.  Just sort of middlin’ bad today.”  He figured that if he told Joe out of the blue that school had been great, the poor kid might think he’d lost his mind, so it seemed better to just step down to “middlin’ bad” and ease his way into something better—if he could do it without lying.  Mama wouldn’t want him to lie, either, he reasoned.

            Little Joe nodded soberly at his brother’s assessment of his day and then smiled brightly.  “Hop Sing’s got cookies waitin’,” he announced, “and milk.”

            “That’s great!”  Hoss returned with enthusiasm.  Good ole Hop Sing; just like Mama, he never forgot.  “Let’s get Charcoal taken care of, so’s we can get right to ‘em.”  He reached up and pulled Little Joe from the saddle.  He set the boy on top of the slats dividing Charcoal’s stall from the empty one next to it and went to work unbuckling the cinch.

            “Can we go fishin’ after the cookies, huh, Hoss?” Little Joe asked, leaning over to stroke Charcoal’s mane.

            “Naw, there ain’t time before supper, punkin,” Hoss said, reaching for the curry brush.  “Fishin’ is for Saturdays or maybe, once in a while, on a Sunday.”

            “You take me fishin’ Saturday?” Little Joe pressed.

            Hoss shook his head.  “Can’t this Saturday, punkin.  We got to go to town, to mail that box of things to Adam.”

            Little Joe sat up straight, eyes shining with excitement.  “Me, too?  I wanna go to town, too!”

            Hoss looked up, his open face communicating both his doubt and his concern for what voicing it might mean.  “I don’t know, Little Joe,” he said, deciding plain honesty was his safest option.  “Pa ain’t said.”

            “Ask him,” Little Joe begged.  Then he smiled craftily.  “Tell him we needs us.”

            Hoss chuckled.  “I ain’t so sure that’s gonna work every time, punkin.”

            “But it might work this time,” Joe insisted.  “Ask . . . okay, Hoss?  Please!”

            “Yeah, I’ll ask,” Hoss said, “but you keep quiet and let me be the one to do it.”  He rolled his eyes.  Might as well tell his little brother to stop running at horses; it would do just about as much good.

* * * * *

            Ben barely had time to take off his hat before Little Joe, with poignant pout and pleading puppy eyes, trotted out his “we needs us” argument.  “You scamp,” Ben chuckled as he scooped the youngster into his arms and carried him to the fireside chair.  “You are just like your mother.”

            “He ain’t nothin’ like Mama,” Hoss scoffed, scowling at his little brother.  “She could keep her mouth shut.”

            Ben settled into the chair.  “When it suited her need,” he said.  “She was a master manipulator, just like this one.”  He snuggled Little Joe and rumpled his curly head.  Seeing Hoss’s mystified look, he explained, “She knew how to get her own way.”

            “Oh!” Hoss said with a grin.  “Yeah, she did—and he’s right good at it, too.”

            Little Joe peeked up at his pa.  “I get my own way?” he queried with his sweetest smile.

            Ben laughed.  “Yes, little scamp, you do.”  He tilted Little Joe’s chin up and looked into his eyes.  “Joseph, I always intended to take you with us on Saturday.  An occasion such as this should definitely be a family affair.”

            “Huh?”

            Ben kissed the boy’s forehead and simplified.  “We needs us.  And what we needs now—the lot of us—is to get washed up for supper.”  He set Little Joe down and patted his backside.  “Off you go.”

            After supper Ben suggested that Hoss write a letter to Adam, to be included with their package.  “Me, too,” Little Joe insisted.  “I write Adam, too.”

            “You can’t write,” Hoss scoffed.

            “Can, too!”

            “You can print your ABCs,” Hoss said with a consoling pat to his little brother’s head, “but you don’t know how to make words with ‘em yet, punkin.”

            “That’s all right,” Ben soothed as he handed his youngest a blank piece of paper.  “Adam will enjoy seeing how you’re getting on with your letters.  And you could draw him a picture, Little Joe.”

            “I know just what to draw!” Little Joe announced.

            “You do that, then.”  Waving the boys over to the fireside table, he took out stationery of his own and wrote a long, gossipy letter, full of news about everyone Adam held dear.

            “See, Pa, see!” cried Little Joe, running over to show his completed letter to his father.

            Ben halted his pen and took the paper in hand to peruse the letters of the alphabet at the top of the page and the rather remarkable creature sketched below it.  “Well, that’s fine, Little Joe, just fine.  Your writing is . . . well . . .”

            “Tipsy,” Hoss, who had come around the desk to look over his father’s shoulder, said.

            “Now, Hoss,” Ben chided, “he’s just a beginner, and, well, he hasn’t had much help with his letters lately.”  Something else I need to take in hand, he told himself.

            Remembering that it was Mama who used to work with Little Joe on his writing, Hoss swallowed hard.  “Yes, sir.  I reckon they ain’t so tipsy as all that.”  He laughed to get past the knot in his throat.  “You sure gave Klamath a long tongue, though, punkin.”

            “That’s not Klam,” Little Joe scoffed. “That’s”—he clapped his hand over his mouth, remembering Hop Sing’s admonition to keep the dragon a secret.

            “What is it, son?” Ben asked.

            “What?”  Little Joe looked startled.  “Oh!  I mean it’s not Klam’s tongue; it’s a big stick he’s fetchin’.”

            “Oh, I see.”  He didn’t, of course.  The picture looked nothing like Hoss’s little dog, nor did the thing in the dog’s mouth look much like a stick.  He’d never imagined that art would be one of Little Joe’s talents, though, so this drawing was simply confirmation.  Nonetheless, it would do its job of bringing a touch of home to Adam, far away in New Haven, and Ben assured the youngster that his big brother would be delighted with it.

* * * * *

            “For the sixth time, Joseph, sit down!”  Exasperation was evident in Ben Cartwright’s voice, and tension tightened his grip on the reins.

            Either unconscious of or unperturbed by his father’s rising irritation, Little Joe sat down, but chattered on about anything and everything that caught his attention.  “Pa, you got my letter to Adam?” he asked in an abrupt change of subject.

            “Yes, Joseph.”  Ben refrained from mentioning that Little Joe had already asked that question a mile back  . . . and a mile or so before that, too.

            “You sure?”

            “Yes, Joseph, I’m sure.”  He fought to hang on to his patience.

            “Real sure?” 

            Ben exhaled gusty frustration.  “Joseph, I am completely confident that I have your letter to Adam and Hoss’s letter to Adam and my letter to Adam all tucked safely inside my vest pocket.”

            “Maybe you oughta check, huh?”

            “Joseph, that is enough!”

            “Okay, Pa.”  Little Joe’s tone held a hint of offended innocence, but it disappeared as he asked brightly, “Can I drive the team, Pa?”

            Ben laughed.  “No, of course not.”

            Seated to Little Joe’s right, Hoss burst out with a loud guffaw.

            A pout puckered Little Joe’s mouth.  “Adam let me.”

            “Oh, he did not,” Hoss cackled.

            “Did, too!”

            “He just let you think so, punkin,” Hoss said.  “You ain’t big enough to handle a team.”

            Disregarding all previous warnings, Little Joe jumped up from the seat of the buckboard.  “Am, too!”

            “Joseph, do you want me to turn this rig around?” Ben asked brusquely.

            Hoss gazed wide-eyed at his father.  Pa looked serious, but he couldn’t mean it, could he?  Why, they were almost to Carson City!  And Adam needed all those things they had packed up in the back of the wagon.

            For the first time Little Joe seemed to comprehend that he was dangerously close to overstepping some line with his father.  “No, Pa,” he said quietly.

            “Then, sit down,” Ben ordered, “and no more talk about driving the team.  Your brother is right: you’re much too small.”

            “I’m too small for everything,” Little Joe sulked.

            “That’s just about right,” Ben said dryly, and over the head of his youngest he gave his middle son a wink.

            He pulled up in front of the Wells, Fargo office and with Hoss’s help unloaded the crates holding Adam’s books and his carefully packed guitar.  As he waited in line inside, a bittersweet smile touched his lips.  The last time he’d been in this building, Adam had been at his side.  What a flurry they’d been in, those last few days, getting the boy ready for his long journey, and now, standing inside these same four walls again, Ben couldn’t help realizing how much longer the journey seemed now—four years long.  Oh, he’d never really doubted that his son would pass the entrance exam for Yale—being Adam, how could he do otherwise?—but until the telegram confirming that arrived, he hadn’t let himself dwell on just how long it would be until he saw his beloved boy again.  Four years.  How would they ever get by without him for that long?  The same way Adam would get by without them, he supposed—one day at a time.

            A short drive from Wells, Fargo brought the trio of Cartwrights to the Thomas’s yellow frame house.  “Billy!” squealed Little Joe.

            The lanky redhead stood up, laid down his hammer and sauntered over with an inviting grin.  “Hey there, Shortshanks.  Been awhile since I seen you.  Hey to you, too, Hoss.”  He rumpled the sandy hair of the boy closest to him.

            “And me?” Ben asked with a chuckle.

            Billy thrust out his hand.  “Always good to see you, Uncle Ben.  Ma said you was comin’ to dinner tomorrow, but I wasn’t expectin’ you today.”

            Ben laughed as he stepped down from the buckboard and reached back to lift Little Joe down.  “Neither is she.  I hope I’m not banking on a welcome I have no deposits to cover.”

            “You’re always welcome, you know that,” Billy chuckled, “but we’d better let Ma know, so she can throw an extra potato in the soup.”

            “What kind of soup?” Hoss asked.

            Billy gave the boy’s sturdy back a sound clap.  “Don’t know as we’re havin’ soup at all, buddy.  I just meant we need to tell Ma to cook a mite more.”  Patting Hoss’s tummy, he sported an impish grin.  “Or maybe a lot more?”  All humor left his face as he hollered, “Little Joe, you put that hammer down!”

            As if it were a hot poker, Little Joe dropped the hammer he’d just picked up from the porch step and spun to face Billy with a cherub’s smile.  “Just helpin’, Billy.”

            Billy’s characteristic grin came back as he bent over to pick up the hammer and keep those little fingers safe from it.  “I can do without your help, Shortshanks.  Besides, I gotta earn my keep, now that I’m back home.”

            “Oh?” Ben looked quizzical for a moment; then his countenance lifted as the implication struck him.  “Has the telegraph met up, then?”

            “Not yet,” Billy said, “but it’s covered the ground of my run.”

            “So the Pony’s over.”  Ben said it with a hint of regret, and Hoss looked positively glum at the thought of never again seeing a red-shirted Pony rider gallop in and take off in the space of minutes.

            Billy nodded.  “For me, it is.”

            “Lands sakes, what are you yellin’ about, boy?”  Seeing the others in the yard, Nelly Thomas pushed open the front door and aimed straight for the two youngsters.  “Sunshine!  Sugarfoot!” she cried, opening wide her arms.

            “Next time I’m just sending the boys,” Ben said wryly as his two sons rushed into Nelly’s warm embrace.  “Appears I can’t get a welcome around here myself.”

            Nelly flapped a dismissing hand in his direction.  “You know better.  Thought you wasn’t comin’ ‘til tomorrow, though.”

            “We had some packages to mail to Adam,” Ben explained, “and thought we’d stay over.  With Billy home, though, maybe you don’t have room for us.”

            “Oh, sure we do,” Billy said.

            “Lands, yes,” Nelly agreed.  “I got plenty of blankets to spread a thick pallet for the boys . . . or I reckon one could bunk with you and the other with Billy.”

            Ben and Billy exchanged a glance of mutual commiseration; then with a smile lifting one side of his mouth, Ben said, “I’m sure the boys would relish the chance to sleep on a nice thick pallet.”

* * * * *

            Ben tamped tobacco into his pipe from the stock he kept stored at the Thomas house for his frequent visits.  Once he’d lit the pipe, he set it in his mouth and opened the latest copy of the Territorial Enterprise, which Clyde had just handed him.

            “Best news is right at the top,” Clyde offered from across the room.

            Ben smiled.  “You mean that the Enterprise is going to publish daily, starting next week?  It is good news, especially for those of you in town, who can benefit from it.  Still, there are occasions when I get in more than once a week, and I must admit I relish news from back East more these days, with all that’s going on . . . and with someone back there it might impact.”

            “War news ain’t none too good,” Clyde said slowly.

            “Just getting to that,” Ben said, eyes riveted to the column.  Clyde was given to understatement, he decided.  The war news was bad and, worse, it did impact someone he knew back East.  St. Joseph, Missouri, had been captured by the Confederates, and no one was being permitted in or out of there.  Not even the mail was being allowed through.  That didn’t bode well for the packages he’d just deposited with Wells, Fargo.  They’d get through sometime, he was sure, but God alone knew when Adam would get his things.

            He chided himself for not having included a larger draft of credit for his son.  The trail drive had been successful, so he’d felt comfortable forwarding fifty dollars against unexpected expenses.  Now, however, the territory and the turmoil between them might make it difficult to send more, and he chided himself for being overly cautious with his funds.  Who else were they for, if not his sons?  But he had two here, as well, and—

            Nelly came into the room.  “The boys are settled on their pallet, Ben, and I think they’ll drop off soon.

            “What?”  Ben shook himself from his absorption with the news story and its implications for those he loved.  “Oh, yes.  Thank you, Nelly.  I should go up and kiss them goodnight.”

            “Something wrong, Ben?” she asked, sitting down in her chair by the fire.

            Ben nodded, frowning, and briefly mentioned his concern.

            “Why, Ben, you’re not worried about Adam, are you?” she asked as she picked up her latest knitting project from a basket beside the chair.

            “No, no,” Ben said.  “I had a wire from Adam after he reached New Haven, so I know he’s safe.”

            “You knew that, woman,” Clyde chided.  “He told you at supper about Adam wirin’ that he passed that test.”  He looked over at Ben.  “It’s that friend of yours you’re worried about, ain’t it?  Didn’t he live in St. Joe?”

            “Yeah,” Ben said, “and I am concerned about him.  He’s a Union man, and that could put him at risk . . . unless he left with the others.”

            “Into Kansas, ain’t that where the paper said the Union men went?” Billy, who was lounging on the floor in front of the fire, asked.  “Took the ferry with ‘em, too, so the Rebs couldn’t cross after ‘em.”

            “That’s what it said,” Ben agreed, “but it can’t tell me where the one man I’m concerned about is.”

            “Trust the Lord and hope for the best, Ben,” Nelly advised as her knitting needles clacked.

            Ben smiled.  “I’ll try, Nelly.”  He set his pipe down on the occasional table by his chair and stood up.  “I’d better get up to the boys.”

            He lay, wide-eyed, in bed later, his spirit unable to find rest from his concern for Josiah.  If only there were some way to know that his friend was safe.  There had to be a way!  He considered telegraphing Adam, to see if Jamie had heard anything from his father, but two things held him back.  Knowing Adam, the boy would perceive the query as urgent and would feel obliged to telegraph back.  With his freshly awakened concern that his son might have run into unexpected expenses back East, Ben didn’t want the boy to squander precious resources on a telegram when a little patience would give him the information he wanted in due course.  Secondly, any display of apprehension on his part would communicate itself to Adam and automatically on to Jamie, as well, and if the boy hadn’t heard from his father, he certainly didn’t need an old fussbudget friend heightening his own anxiety.

            In the end, the only place of rest Ben found was the one Nelly had suggested.  As he sat in church with fellow worshippers the following morning, he finally released Josiah Edwards into the hand of God.  His reward came only days later when Billy Thomas rode over to the Ponderosa to deliver the latest news from the now-daily Territorial Enterprise.  Union forces had retaken St. Joseph, and though some sort of bridge disaster was still hindering passengers and mail, both were slowly getting through.  It wasn’t a guarantee that his friend was safe, but it raised his hopes.  He composed a short letter of inquiry and sent it back with Billy to be posted, knowing he’d have to wait weeks for a response, but trusting that the news, when it came, would be good.

~ ~ Notes ~ ~

George Winters and Joe and Robert O’Neill are historic characters; Cal Hulbert, Pete Hanson and Walter Grogan are fictional.

Hoss’s puzzling problem in mental arithmetic is found in The Normal Mental Arithmetic: a thorough and complete course by analysis and deduction by Edward Brooks, published in 1858.

News items from the East in this chapter, as well as throughout the book, are usually taken from the historic New York Times online.  Dates any particular news arrived in Virginia City are generally conjectures, based on the date it appeared in New York and communication capabilities available at the time.

For a full description of how the bridge disaster mentioned in the final paragraph impacted Adam, please see the Heritage Companion, A Separate Dream, Book 1, A Fresh Beginning.

CHAPTER FIVE

News From Near and Far

            Ben dropped the final copy of the Territorial Enterprise to the floor beside his chair and reached for his pipe, which was sitting on the table at his elbow.  It had taken quite some time to read all the back issues Clyde had saved and let him bring home for private perusal.  Now that the newspaper was a daily, catching up was a bigger challenge than it used to be, but he couldn’t think of a better way to spend a quiet Sunday evening at home.  The boys had romped themselves into exhaustion upon coming home from the Thomases after church and a fine, big meal; and now, with them in bed, Ben had time to sit and read, smoke his pipe and think over the news of the week.

            With a long poker he reached over to stir the embers of the fire.  October had brought with it chilly nights, though the days were still pleasant enough.  He glanced down at the papers in the floor, wondering how much of the news he should share with Adam.  He certainly needed to tell the boy about the opening of a post office in Washoe City.  That meant they wouldn’t have to ride all the way in to Carson to fetch the mail.  Hoss could stop by there every day after school and bring the latest letters—hopefully, many from Adam—and they could post more regular letters to Adam, too.  It made him seem closer.  Yes, he’d definitely need to include their new address in his next letter to Adam.

            He questioned whether he should waste precious letter space on local politics, although had Adam still been home, father and son would, no doubt, have discussed the subject thoroughly.  The newspaper had devoted much of its space to the opening of the Territorial Legislature on the first of the month, and Ben had followed each line of its proceedings with a reawakening awareness of the outside world.  His interest was tainted with a tinge of regret, however.  Once he had envisioned a large role for himself in the shaping of the territory—and then state, should Nevada continue to prosper—but those dreams were dead now, dead and buried with the woman he had expected to share them.

            He smiled softly into the fire.  He had a different dream now, one that all along had meant more to him than any political ambition.  All he wanted from life these days was to raise three healthy, happy and honorable sons, and, maybe, one day, to see them take places of importance in the development of this wild land into civilized society.  Dream enough for a man’s lifetime, he mused as he gazed into the flickering flames, so he said farewell to dreams of political office.  His sons—the younger ones, at least—needed him here at home, not always away in some committee meeting or another, and they’d need him for a very long time, long enough for the political power brokers to have long forgotten the name of Ben Cartwright.

            Bill Stewart hadn’t forgotten him yet.  The new council member evidently still thought Ben had enough influence with the Governor that he’d invited him to the ball at John Winters’ house that would end the legislative session.  Ben was grateful for the honor, but he couldn’t bring himself to attend.  It would be too sharp a reminder of similar dances with golden-haired Marie on his arm, especially that last wonderful evening, when they’d driven home beneath the stars and stopped by the lake to . . .

            Ben pushed aside the exquisite pain of recalling that final ecstatic coupling in the grass and stood to his feet.  No, he definitely wouldn’t be attending any formal political balls for some time to come.  Far better to focus on the fruit of the love that he and Marie had shared.  He moved toward the stairs, eager to gaze into the slumbering faces of his beloved boys and to fall asleep thinking of the one far away, whom the new post office would keep in closer touch.

* * * * *

            Hearing a horse ride into the yard, Ben rose from his chair behind the desk and looked out the window behind it.  Glad of the excuse to get away from the hated bookwork, he threw down his pen and walked to the front door, arriving just in time to answer the rhythmic tap of the brass doorknocker.  “Enos,” he greeted his foreman.  “Now, what are you doing here on your afternoon off?”

            Enos Montgomery extended a sheaf of envelopes.  “Well, first, I picked up the ranch mail while Kat finished her shopping.  There’s a couple of pieces I didn’t think could wait,” he said with a grin.  “I told ‘em to forward everything to Washoe City from here on, too.”

            Ben glanced down at the top two letters on the pile and smiled broadly as he recognized the handwriting of his oldest son.  “I’m obliged,” he said.  “I think you know how eagerly I’ve been waiting for this!”

            “Yes, sir, sure do.”  Enos twisted his hat in his hand.

            Noting the nervous gesture, Ben asked, “Anything wrong, Enos?”

            Enos laughed and shook his head.  “No, sir.  Everything’s right as rain.  Just figure I’m likely to get shot for telling you another piece of news, but I’m about to burst with it.”

            With instant intuition, Ben murmured, “Katerina’s with child.”

            Enos’s mouth dropped.  “Now, how could you know that?  I know she ain’t said nothin’.  Blushed red as a beet, just tellin’ me last night.”

            Ben chuckled.  “Let’s just say you’ve got that future-father look in your eye.”

            Enos’s brows drew together as he puzzled Ben’s remark.  “I thought it was the woman who got a certain glow about her,” he mumbled.

            Ben rested a hand on his foreman’s shoulder.  “Oh, it’s hard for man or woman to keep the glow from their eyes when a child’s on the way.”  He gave the shoulder a hearty clap.  “Congratulations, my man!”

            “Just had to tell you,” Enos said with a shrug.  “I guess you know how it is.”

            “I do, indeed,” Ben assured him with a comradely smile.  “When is the child due?”

            “Kat figures sometime in April.”  Enos lowered his eyes and then looked up into the face of his employer.  “I just hope I can be half the father you are, sir.”

            “I hope you’ll make only half the mistakes I have,” Ben said modestly, though he flushed with pleasure at the praise, for being a good father had become his highest goal in life.  He’d been thinking about that a lot this week, so the praise was especially sweet.

            “Don’t let Kat know I told you,” Enos warned.  “She thinks it ain’t proper to speak of such things.”

            Ben gripped the other man’s hand in solemn covenant.  “It’ll be our secret, Enos.  Believe me, I have had enough experience to know how women feel about ‘such things.’”

* * * * *

            “Pa!  I caught a big fish!” Little Joe shouted as he blasted through the front door later that afternoon.

            Ben caught the little boy up in his arms and hugged him tight.  “That’s wonderful, Little Joe!  Is he big enough to make supper for all of us?”

            Little Joe excitedly bobbed his head up and down.  “Hoss is takin’ him to Hop Sing right now, Pa!”

            “Yum, yum,” Ben said with an exaggerated smack of his lips.  “Crispy fried brook trout—just what I was hoping for.”

            “We caught a bunch,” Hoss reported, coming in from the kitchen.  “Hop Sing said he’s real happy to have so many.”

            Ben reached over to ruffle the boy’s straight, wheaten hair.  “Did you have a good time together?”

            Hoss grinned.  “Yeah.  Little Joe’s gettin’ better at fishin’, Pa.”

            Ben laughed.  “Keeping quieter, you mean?”

            Hoss returned the laughter.  “Yeah, that’s what I mean.”

            Little Joe patted his father’s cheek to get his attention.  “I didn’t scare fish away today, Pa.  I do good, huh?”

            “You did well, son, very well.”  Ben kissed his youngest and set him down.  He walked toward his office alcove.  “As if the day weren’t special enough, with this wonderful supper to look forward to, I have another treat for you boys.”  He took two envelopes, one already opened, from his desk.

            “Letters from Adam!” Hoss shouted.  “Hurray!”

            “Hurray!” echoed Little Joe.  When Ben handed the unopened envelope to Hoss, Little Joe eagerly reached for the other.

            Ben held it out of reach.  “No, no, baby; that’s Pa’s letter.”

            “Where’s mine?” Little Joe cried.

            Ben squatted down to take the toddler in his arms.  “There isn’t one to you this time, Little Joe, but I’m sure there will be soon.  I’m going to read my letter to you, though, and perhaps Hoss will share his.”  Seeing the hesitant look on his other son’s face, he added quickly, “If it isn’t private, that is.”

            “Sure, Pa,” Hoss quickly agreed, “if’n it ain’t private.”

            “What’s ‘private’ mean?” Little Joe demanded.

            “Sort of secret,” Hoss said.

            Little Joe folded his arms and glared at his brother.  “I don’t like secrets.”

            Hoss gave him a quick squeeze.  “Ah, don’t fret, punkin; I bet there ain’t much private to it.  Let’s open ‘er and see.”

            Ben smiled his approval, and they all went over to the seating area near the fire.  He sank into his padded armchair, while the two boys perched, side by side, on the settee.

            Hoss quickly scanned his letter and grinned.  “Ain’t nothin’ private,” he assured his little brother, “so I’ll just read the whole thing out loud.  Okay, Pa?”

            “Hoss, that sounds wonderful,” Ben replied.

            Hoss held the letter with both hands and began to read:

Dear Hoss:

            I thought I’d write the first letter to you, but please tell Pa and Little Joe I will write to them also, as soon as I can.

            “He didn’t write me,” Little Joe said, pouting.  “Adam lied.”

            “Hush now, Little Joe,” his father urged.  “You know that isn’t so.  You can see from Hoss’s letter that Adam is thinking about you.  And your brother is a man of his word:  if he said he’ll write, you can depend on it that he will.  Your letter will probably be at the post office the next time we pick up the mail.”  He nodded to his other son.  “Please go on, Hoss.”

            Be glad, little brother, that you have never had to ride a stagecoach all the way to the Missouri River.  Bump, bump, bump!  It’s a wonder I don’t have bruises head to toe.  It was interesting to see so much of our great country so quickly, though, and I know you would enjoy that.  At a couple of stage stations, I picked up some interesting rocks that I will be sending to you and Little Joe.

            “Me?  He’s sendin’ ‘em to me?”  Little Joe bounced on the settee.

            “There now, you see,” Ben soothed.  “Your brother hasn’t forgotten you.”

            “When’ll they get here?” Little Joe asked urgently.

            “When they get here,” Ben said firmly.  “Now let your brother finish the letter, please, or it’ll be your bedtime before he gets to the end.”

            Little Joe giggled.  “Silly Pa.  We gotta eat trout first.”

            Ben chuckled.  “So we do; so we do.  Now, let your brother read, Joseph.”

            Hoss began again where he’d left off:

The rocks are obsidian, granite, flint and quartz in different colors.  I tried to make your set and Little Joe’s as nearly alike as I could, but all rocks are a little different, you know.  If either of you thinks you’ve gotten the short end of the stick with the way I divided them up, let Pa settle any fusses between you.

            Hoss frowned at his little brother.  “There ain’t gonna be no fussin’, is there?”

            Little Joe shook his head.  “No fussin’ . . . long as Adam plays fair.”

            “I’m sure he will,” Ben interjected.  “Hoss . . . the letter?”

            “Yes, sir,” Hoss said and continued to read:

            We ran into some bad weather just east of Courthouse Rock.  (Ask Pa to tell you where that is.)  I had never seen a tornado before, and it’s something to see, but dangerous, too.  It’s a big windstorm that circles around on itself, and when it touches down to the ground, it looks a little like the funnel Hop Sing sometimes uses in the kitchen. The tail came twisting toward us, whipping up a cloud of dust, but we were safe inside the sod station.

            “That’s good Adam didn’t get blowed away,” Little Joe offered.

            “Yes, I’m sure we’re all glad that your brother came through the storm safely,” his father agreed.  “Anything more, Hoss?”

            “Just a mite,” Hoss said.  “Adam says to tell you he’ll write you next, Pa, and then Little Joe.”

            “Why I gotta be last?” Little Joe demanded.

            “‘Cause you can’t read yet,” Hoss said.

            “Oh.”

            Whatever Adam’s reason had been, Ben was quite sure that wasn’t it, but as long as Little Joe was satisfied, he was content to accept Hoss’s explanation.

            “Anyway, the last thing Adam says is about you, punkin,” Hoss said.

            “Really?”  Little Joe’s eyes grew wide.

            Hoss bobbed his head.  “Yup, sure ‘nough.  He says, ‘Give Little Joe a hug from me—not a bear hug, though; you’ll squish him.’  Then he says ‘Love, Adam,’ and that’s all.”  Taking Adam’s directive literally, Hoss put his arms around his little brother and squeezed gently.  “There!  That’s from Adam.”  He looked over at his father.  “Now, what’d Adam write to you, Pa?”

            “You come suppah now,” Hop Sing ordered as he set the platter of crispy fried trout and fried potatoes on the table.  “Eat fish while hot.”

            “That’s when it’s best,” Ben agreed, standing up.  “We’ll save the letter for dessert.”

            “Ain’t there no real dessert?” Hoss asked, his face drooping dolefully.

            Ben laughed.  “Yes, I’m sure there is, Hoss, but I think I’ll write to your brother and tell him just how well he stacks up against apple pie!”

            “Aw, Pa, you know I’d a lot druther have a letter from Adam than even a whole pie,” Hoss protested

            “I want pie and a letter,” Little Joe declared adamantly.

            “Oh, you always want it all, you scamp,” Ben scolded jovially as he swung Little Joe to his back and trotted him to the table.

* * * * *

            Ben slid the single sheet from the envelope and spread it open on the desk.  The boys were in bed, and he wanted to get his letter to Adam written before time for
him to retire, as well.  Still, he couldn’t resist reading Adam’s letter just one more time before he framed his reply.  Some of it had been disturbing and would require a well-worded response.

Dear Pa,

I am so full of news I scarcely know where to start.  In fact, there wouldn’t be room in this letter to tell you everything I’d want to say if we could just sit down together and talk.  The most important thing, I suppose, is that I started classes today, and they are all I’d hoped for and more.  Thank you again for allowing me this opportunity; I promise to make the most of it.  I had to put down two hundred dollars as bond, and Jamie and I are intending to join a freshman society together, so finances may be tight, but I’ll manage.  My Greek professor, a wonderful man and outstanding teacher, has loaned me the use of an old text of his until I can afford my own.  (Jamie and I had hoped to share, to curtail expenses, but because we are separated during class that won’t work.)  We joined an eating club, the Vultures, which is helping with that expense.  (Tell Hoss I’ll write him more about the club in my next letter.)

            The trip here was amazing.  I couldn’t help contrasting it with the journey you and I and Inger—and then Hoss—made together.  The stagecoach went whizzing past landmarks that we’d strain our eyes for weeks, hoping to see.  (Remember Chimney Rock and how much it meant to me to finally reach it?)

            You know about the tornado from my letter to Hoss, but the trip was mostly uneventful, until just before I reached the Missouri River.  That’s where I learned about the Confederates burning the bridge over the Little Platte River.  I was frantic to get to St. Joseph then, to make certain that Josiah—Mr. Edwards says I should call him that, now that I’m a man—was all right and whether I’d be able to continue on or not.  Fortunately, he had thought ahead and had everything worked out.  It took some doing, but I made connections with the railroad past the bridge and was on my way again.

There was one incident on the train.  We were about halfway down the line when I saw riders coming toward us.  At first, I thought they were another Union patrol, as I’d seen soldiers riding along the railroad earlier, but they were Rebel raiders.  Thanks to Josiah’s warning, I had my gun with me and was able to help defend the train until Union soldiers arrived to drive off the attackers.  Frightening, but only for a few minutes.  I was beginning to think I’d never make it to New Haven, but I finally did—with not a single day to spare.  I was exhausted, but somehow I made it through two days of entrance exams, and it has all been worth it.

            There’d been no problem with that part of the letter.  Oh, it had been a little too stimulating to the boys when they heard about that attack on the train.  Little Joe had immediately said that he wanted to ride that train in Missouri and fight off bad men, but Ben had put a short end to that nonsense.  He’d been concerned, too, about Adam’s mention of tight finances.  Thankfully, the cattle he’d sold on the last drive had enabled him to send the boy a draft of credit to help with that, and since St. Joseph was now in Union hands again, he could send another with his next letter.

            What followed, however, what Adam had written for his father’s gaze alone, had unsettled him.

FOR YOU ONLY:

As happy as I am to be here, sometimes I still fear I’m doing the wrong thing.  I still feel I’m abandoning you, Pa, but I won’t say more about that, as we’ve been through it all before.  The only way I can validate your sacrifice is to get the most benefit possible from my time here, and I will.

Maybe it’s because of all I saw in Missouri, but it’s hard sometimes to think that it’s right to sit in a classroom, enjoying myself, when men my age—and some younger—are giving their lives for a cause in which I also believe.  Don’t worry, Pa; I remember my promise to you to stay out of the “eastern conflict,” and I’ll keep it.  That will be easy, as it lines up with my own desire.  It just seems selfish, somehow, but maybe my weariness is keeping me from thinking clearly.  Maybe I’ll feel better in the morning.  I guess I shouldn’t have poured out my heart like this and caused you unnecessary concern, but I can’t take the words off the paper, and I don’t have either the supplies or the time to start a new letter. 

Please don’t worry about me.  I am happy and healthy.  I miss you and the boys so much.  Give them both my love, and tell Little Joe I will write him soon.  I was going to put a short note in with this, but I knew the little fellow would feel left out if he didn’t get a letter all his own.  All my love to you, too, Pa.  I owe you everything.

Your grateful son,

Adam

Laying Adam’s words where he could see and refer to them, Ben began his own letter.  He wrote the easy part first, telling Adam how much they missed him, how much Hoss had enjoyed his letter and how eagerly Little Joe was looking forward to his and to the promised collection of rocks.  He thanked his son for being so thoughtful in selecting that remembrance of his trip for his brothers.  Then he wrote homey news of family and friends, including Hoss’s response to his remark about serving up Adam’s letter as dessert and Little Joe’s insistence on having it all.  Knowing that Adam was far enough away to keep the secret, he shared the good news of an upcoming birth on the Ponderosa.  Then he turned to more serious matters:

            My dearest boy, never fear that you should withhold from me any thought of your heart.  Though parted by thousands of miles, I am still your father and, as such, am intended to help carry such loads.  My shoulders are broad, Adam, and strong enough to share your concerns.

            I’m sure that you were much affected by what you experienced on the trip, and I can understand that you might feel drawn to the service of your country when you see others answering that call.  However, I believe you are wrong in referring to what you are doing as sitting in a classroom, enjoying yourself.  That is not what you are doing, my boy, just seeking your own pleasure; you are preparing yourself for the future beyond this terrible conflict that separates our country.  Remember, Adam, that your goal is to become a builder, and how greatly our country will need builders when this cruel war is over!  You are doing the right thing, and I hope you will no longer waste precious time second-guessing your decision.  Though it is hard to be parted from you, I know—I absolutely know—that you have made the right decision.

            Let us hear from you often.  As Hoss said, a letter from you rates higher than even an entire apple pie—with all of us.

            With a heart filled with love and longing,

            Pa

* * * * *

            Hoss began to dread coming home from school each day.  His little brother had always looked so happy to see him before, but now all Little Joe wanted to see was his letter from Adam and his special package of pretty rocks.  Though it was a little out of his way, Hoss checked the post office every day; but every day he had to disappoint his little brother.  Today would be no different.  There’d been a letter for Pa from Uncle John, back in Denver, but nothing from Adam.

            Little Joe scampered out to greet Hoss as soon as Hop Sing released him from the kitchen.  Seeing the envelope in his brother’s hand, he whooped, “It came!  It came!”

            Hoss bent down and hugged his little brother to his heart.  “No, punkin,” he said sadly, “it ain’t from Adam; it’s from Uncle John.”

            Little Joe broke away, and Hoss cringed as he saw a single tear trickle from the corner of one eye.  “Ah, don’t do that, punkin,” he begged.  “That letter’s comin’ soon, I promise you it is.”

            Little Joe shook his head wildly from side to side and turned and ran around the corner of the house.

            Hoss gave chase and quickly caught up with the shorter-legged child.  “Don’t you go runnin’ off,” he scolded as he pulled Little Joe into his arms again.

            “I ain’t; I’m just runnin’,” Little Joe said, “‘cause I just plain need to, Hoss.”

            Hoss stood up and held his brother by one hand.  “Yeah, I can understand how you might, but let’s run together, okay?”

            Joe used his free hand to wipe his sniffling nose and bobbed his head up and down.  “Yeah, let’s run together.”

            The two boys ran around the house and then the yard until they were breathless.  Hoss thought the exercise had pushed all thoughts of the missing letter from Little Joe’s mind until their father came home and the first thing from his brother’s mouth was the report that “that letter still ain’t come, Pa.”

            Ben lifted his youngest son and carried him to the chair beside the fireplace.  Sitting down, he held Little Joe in his lap and said, “I’m sorry, son.  It should have been here by now, except there has been some problem with mail getting through from the East.”

            “Yours did and Hoss’s did.  Even that’n from Uncle John,” Little Joe said through pouting lips.

            “Well, Uncle John’s didn’t have to come as far,” Ben explained.  “There’s been no disruption from Denver.”

            “Huh?” Joe asked, and Hoss looked confused, too.

            “No mail problems from Denver,” Ben said more simply, “but there were some further east.  Remember Adam’s letter to me, when he told about the problems he had getting to New Haven because a bridge had been destroyed?”

            “Yeah,” Hoss said.  “Mail might have trouble the same way, huh?”

            “I think so,” Ben said, stroking his youngest son’s unruly curls.  “The Enterprise said that mail was getting through now, but I’m sure it got backed up some.  I think that’s the explanation, boys.  The letter’s on its way . . . just delayed by war problems.  Try to keep trusting just a little longer, all right, Little Joe?”

            After frowning thoughtfully for a moment, Little Joe looked into his father’s face and said, “I’ll try, Pa . . . just a little longer.”

            Ben gave his son’s smooth cheek a kiss.  “That’s my boy.  Now, let’s see what news Uncle John has to share.”

* * * * *

            Still clad in his nightshirt, Little Joe lay sprawled across the foot of his father’s bed as Ben stowed a change of clothing and grooming necessities into a saddlebag.  “Why you gotta go, Pa?” the boy demanded.

            Ben fastened the saddlebag’s buckle.  “I can’t say no to the Governor, son.”

            “I can,” Little Joe declared stoutly as he scrabbled up to his knees.

            Laying a caressing hand on the child’s curls, Ben chuckled.  “You say no entirely too easily, little boy.”  He bent down to Little Joe’s level and looked into his eyes.  “It’s important that we keep up good relations with the Paiutes, son, and Governor Nye feels he needs the help of someone who knows them well.  I’m honored that he asked me to go along on this mission.  Do you understand?”

            Stubborn frown on his face, Little Joe shook his head from side to side.

            “I understand, Pa,” Ben’s other boy said quietly, “but I sure wish you didn’t have to go.”

            Ben crossed the room to place a hand on Hoss’s shoulder.  “I don’t enjoy leaving my boys, either, but this is important.  You’ll look after Little Joe for me?”

            “Sure, Pa.  Always do.”

            Ben gave the boy a hearty hug.  “That’s right; you always do.  I can always count on my good boy.”

            “Me, too, Pa,” Little Joe said, bouncing up.  “I can count—one . . . two . . . three.”

            Ben grinned.  “Not that kind of counting, sweetheart.”  He caught Little Joe in mid-bounce and held him close for a moment.  “Be a good boy for brother . . . and for Hop Sing.  Pa’ll be back in just a couple of days.”

            “Take me with you,” Little Joe pleaded.

            Ben smiled, remembering his first trip to the Paiute encampment.  He’d taken a very young Hoss, diapers and all, with him and Adam, but those days of innocence were gone.  Though the Pyramid Lake War was over and the Indians established on reservations, relations were still strained.  He expected no trouble on this trip, but he wouldn’t risk his child’s life on that assumption, not in these times.  “I can’t, Little Joe,” he said as he set the boy’s bare feet back on the bed.  “Be a brave boy for Pa now . . . please?”

            Reluctantly, Little Joe nodded.  As his father left the bedroom, he slid to the floor and followed in his wake, right behind Hoss.

            “Now, I’m a big enough boy to see myself off,” Ben chuckled when he noticed the parade behind him.  “Hoss, you help your brother get dressed and down to breakfast, please, and then get off to school on time.  Start the week right.”

            “Yes, sir, I will,” Hoss promised.  Taking Little Joe’s hand, he went as far as the head of the stairs, and they both waved until Ben disappeared through the front door.  “Come on, punkin,” he said then.  “Let’s get dressed and see what Hop Sing’s got that’s good to eat.”

* * * * *

            There was a pleasant crispness in the air that morning as Ben rode toward Washoe Lake, where he would meet the Governor’s party.  His spirits were soaring high enough to reach the fluffy white clouds drifting above.  Was it only two weeks ago that he’d decided his usefulness to the territory was finished, that he had no role to play in its development?  Now, in about an hour, he’d be riding at the Governor’s side on a special mission.  He still didn’t believe he should hold any regular office, for that would take too much time from his growing sons.  It felt wonderful, however, to discover that he could, in unofficial ways like this, influence the growth of Nevada, as well.

            As planned, he reached the lake early; and while his horse grazed, he walked the shore, reliving memories of gatherings here with family and friends.  We’ll have to make a point of having Hoss’s birthday party here, he mused.  The boy got short-changed last year, and I’ll not allow that again.

            Looking up, he saw enough dust on the horizon to herald the Governor’s arrival, evidently with a considerable entourage.  Maybe I shouldn’t flatter myself with his invitation, Ben chuckled.  Looks like half of Carson City came along for the parley.  When the caravan came closer, however, he saw that most of the dust was being raised by two wagons full of supplies.  It was the first thing he commented on after greeting the Governor.  “I’m glad to see that the government is sending food to our Paiute friends.  They need that sort of help with winter coming.”

            Governor Nye’s rueful smile looked more like a scowl.  “It isn’t food, Ben, and I doubt what’s in most of those crates will be much help in preparing for winter.  Apparently, the Federal Government has a very poor understanding of needs out here.”

            Ben was almost afraid to ask, but he did.  “What is it?”

            Nye shook his head apologetically.  “Hoops,” he grunted.

            Ben’s jaw dropped.  “Hoops?  Barrel hoops?”

            Nye pursed his lips.  “Barrel hoops would be an improvement, Ben.  No, what Washington, in its infinite wisdom, has sent me to deliver to our Paiute friends is the kind of hoops ladies wear beneath their dresses.”

            “You’re joking,” Ben gasped.

            The flabbergasted look on Ben’s face made Nye laugh.  “I wish I were . . . and I’m appointing you to come up with some way to explain this to the Paiutes.”

            “Oh, thanks!” Ben sputtered.  “I believe, Governor Nye, that you have confused me with Solomon.”

            The Governor gave Ben his most charming smile.  “I have the utmost confidence in you.”

* * * * *

            Ben had never felt more grateful for Paiute ritual than he did that afternoon as the pipe made its way around the circle of men.  He took a puff and again passed it to the man on his right.  How many circuits had it made now?  Four—or just three out of the traditional five?  He hoped it was only the third, so he’d have a little more time to think.  Not that he was sure it would help.  He’d wracked his brain every mile of the trail here to Pyramid Lake, but still didn’t know how he could explain those blasted hoops.  The Paiutes valued honesty, so maybe he should just put it to them straight: It’s like this, Winnemucca, the white leaders in Washington are a bunch of blathering idiots.  No, he could scarcely say that.  Gracious a man as he normally was, Governor Nye might yield to the temptation to string him up to the nearest tree on their way home!  But he couldn’t come up with some cock-and-bull lie, either.  Winnemucca’s daughters had lived among white people long enough to know exactly what those hoops were really used for.  Ben rubbed his crossed legs to keep from clinching his fists and wondered where the wisdom of Solomon was when a man needed it.  If any man lack wisdom, let him ask of God . . . didn’t the Scripture say something like that?  I’m asking, God!

            He saw Winnemucca pass the pipe to the Governor, seated on his right.  Once more around, then; at least that much respite.  As his troubled gaze fell on the circular and open-topped structure behind the chief, an idea slowly started to take shape.  The ritual ended, and the Governor began to speak, telling the assembled chiefs that the white father in Washington had sent gifts to his friends, the Paiutes.  “The White Winnemucca will present them,” Nye said with a significant look at Ben.

            Ben stood slowly and motioned the soldiers forward with the first crate.  He ordered it opened for the chiefs’ inspection and was surprised to see that this crate, at least, contained something more useful than dress hoops.  “Wool blankets to keep your people warm through the cold winter nights, Winnemucca,” he said with relief.

            One by one the crates were opened and their contents described for the assembled Paiutes.  Some were useful, some not readily so, but Ben managed to find some explanation that satisfied the Indians.  The sixth crate contained the dreaded hoops.  Sending one last prayer winging heavenward, Ben took a deep breath.  “Winnemucca, you know I always speak the truth to my friend.”  He swallowed hard and continued.  “I am not sure what the white father intended you to do with these.  They are used by the women of our villages, and perhaps your women will find things to do with them that a man such as myself cannot think of.”  He lifted one hoop from the crate.  “I have thought of one thing, though.”  He pointed to the dwelling behind the chief, tracing its domed shape in the air and then ran his hand over the smooth curve of the hoop.  “Perhaps the curve of these hoops will be useful as a foundation for your karnees.  It is all I know to suggest, but I am sure that the wisdom of the Paiute will show you even better uses for these—these wonderful mechanisms.”

            Winnemucca took one of the “wonderful mechanisms” and began to stroke the wood as Ben had.  He still looked puzzled, but grunted acceptance of the gift.

            From across the circle the voice of Winnemucca’s nephew Numaga rang out.  “The trinkets of the white man are of little importance,” he said.  “What we must learn is why you build such a high fence through our land.”

            Ben now looked as confused as the chief examining the hoop.  “Fence?” he asked, looking to the Governor for enlightenment.  Clearly bewildered, the Governor shook his head.  “I know of no high fence on your land, Numaga,” Ben replied slowly.

            Numaga’s keen black eyes did not flinch.  “The White Winnemucca says he always speaks truth, but only the blind cannot see this fence.  Poles that stretch to the sky, tied with long ropes.  Which side must the Paiute stay on?   We do not wish war again, but we must know which side is ours or war may come.”

            Ben’s mind raced.  Poles that stretch to the sky . . . tied with long ropes . . . what on earth had the man seen?  Then it hit him, and he smiled in relief.  “It is not a fence, Numaga,” he said.  “It is a telegraph line.  It sends the words of the white men from one side of our country to the other.”

            The Paiutes all exchanged skeptical glances.

            Sensing their befuddlement, Ben tried again.  “It is like the Paiute signal fires that sent word of Captain Truckee’s death from hill to hill.  The ropes—they are called wires—carry news in a similar way.”

            Some nodded in polite recollection of the memorable event at which Ben had been present; others still shook their heads.  A signal fire could be seen, and all knew its meaning, but ropes to carry words?  It made no sense . . . but, then, many things about the white man made no sense. To the Paiutes’ minds, however, only one question mattered.  “Which side ours?” Winnemucca demanded.

            Governor Nye took over.  “The Government is grateful that you allow our telegraph poles to be planted on your land,” he said, “but they are not intended to restrict your movement in any way.  You may ride, hunt, do what you will on both sides, Chief Winnemucca.  Treat them as if they were not there.”

            Ben could tell that the Indians still didn’t understand the purpose of the “high fence,” but relief also was evident on their faces.  The Paiutes wanted peace as much as the white man, Ben realized, and though his contribution had been small, he felt warm satisfaction in the part he’d played this afternoon in keeping it.

* * * * *

            The hem of his nightshirt brushed his kneecap as Hoss Cartwright propped his elbows on the windowsill and gazed out at the dark sky.  Ma would have noticed that he needed new nightclothes, that the old ones were getting too short, but Pa didn’t take note of such things as quick.  Hoss hated to ask, ‘cause he knew Pa’d spent a heap of money on sendin’ Adam back East to school and had even had to borrow the goods to make his new school clothes from Aunt Nellie.  Nobody saw him under the sheets, so the nightshirt could wait . . . not much longer, if he kept growing, but a little while.  That wasn’t what was keeping him awake in the middle of the night.

            It was a pretty night, the kind he liked best, with the stars all twinkly and the air still enough to hear a bird twitter, except most of them had already taken off south for the winter.  The setting didn’t give him the usual sense of serenity tonight, though, and he knew why.  The house just didn’t feel right with Pa gone.  Hop Sing was right downstairs, if they needed anything, but at night, up here, it was just him and Little Joe, and the house felt mighty lonesome without Pa . . . and Adam . . . and Ma.

            A piercing cry knifed through the stillness.  Hoss jumped back and padded across the room and down the hall on bare feet, as if he’d been waiting for that cry to come.  Maybe he had.  There at the window he’d felt like he was waiting for something, but he hadn’t put words to what it was.  Now he knew.  Little Joe’d started having nightmares right after Ma died and then again when Adam left.  It had happened the night Pa went off to fight the fire, too; so, deep down, Hoss had known it could happen tonight—or anytime Pa was gone, ‘cause Little Joe was plumb scared of losing folks.  He felt the same himself, but he was bigger and handled it better.  At least, he tried.

            He raced into the next room and saw Little Joe sitting in the middle of his bed, wide-eyed and wailing.  Hoss climbed up behind him, and on bended knee he pulled his little brother back against his chest.  “Hush now,” he soothed.  “Ever’thing’s all right, little punkin.  You’re just havin’ a bad dream.”  He brushed the boy’s damp curls as he’d seen Pa do.  “Wanna tell brother ‘bout it?”

            “Paiutes!” the little boy cried, near hysteria.  “Scalpin’ Pa!”

            Hoss held the quivering little body even tighter.  “No such thing,” he said firmly.  “I ain’t never heard of a Paiute scalpin’ nobody, even when they was at war.”  He knew what had planted that fear in his little brother’s head.  It was all that fool talk after church yesterday about what was goin’ on in Arizona with the Apaches.  “I know there’s some injuns that do,” Hoss explained as calmly as he could over the anger he felt at people who’d let a little boy hear such talk, “but not the ones Pa went to see—not ever.”

            “Not ever?” Little Joe asked, leaning his head back to look up at his brother.

            “Not ever.”  Hoss’s voice was solid and sure.  “You just put that right out of your head.”

            “I don’t like Pa goin’ off,” Little Joe whimpered, tears trickling down his face.

            “Me, neither,” Hoss admitted, “but it’s gonna happen from time to time, so there ain’t no use cryin’ about it.”

            Little Joe responded with a fresh stream.

            “Aw, now,” Hoss said, hugging his brother close.  “Didn’t mean to make you feel worse.  What can brother do to make it better, huh?”

            Little Joe shook his head, as if to say that nothing could make him feel better.

            “How ‘bout I sing you a little ditty?” Hoss offered, casting desperately for an idea.

            “You can’t sing,” Little Joe sniffed as he shifted around to look directly at his brother.

            “Can, too.  Maybe not good as Adam, but good enough when it’s just you and me, I reckon.”  Unable to think of a song that fit the occasion, Hoss started to hum whatever notes came into his head and then he slowly put words to them.  “Whatcha gonna do when your tears run dry?” he crooned, slightly off key.  “Whatcha gonna do then, punkin pie?”  He held an imaginary pitcher over his eyes and mimicked a pouring motion.  “Gonna pour a little more water in?”  He shook his head in wild negation.  “Or gonna give in—and grin?”

            Little Joe laughed at the big, silly grin that spread across his brother’s face and clapped his hands.  “Sing it ‘gain, Hoss; sing it ‘gain.”

            Hoss obliged, complete with motions:

Whatcha gonna do when your tears run dry?

Whatcha gonna do then, punkin pie?

Gonna pour a little more water in?

Or gonna give in—and grin?

            When Little Joe demanded yet another repetition, Hoss shook his head.  “Nope.  That’s lullaby enough.  Bedtime now.”  Seeing his little brother start to pucker up again, he slid off the bed and, wrapping the younger boy in a light coverlet, lifted him into his arms.  “You can sleep with me,” he said. 

            Little Joe immediately settled.  “Bun-bun,” he said, hand stretching toward his stuffed rabbit.

            “And Barker,” Hoss agreed, with his free hand gathering up both the rabbit and the seal that Aunt Nelly had made for the little boy.  He carried his brother into his own room, put him into bed and handed him his cuddle critters.  Then he crawled in beside his brother, who immediately snuggled up against him and started to doze.  As Hoss drifted off himself, his last coherent thought was Shoulda done this to start with.  House don’t feel half so lonesome when we’re together.

* * * * *

            As he neared home after school the next day, Hoss had a big grin on his face.  Not only was Pa due home today, but he had something in his saddlebag guaranteed to add to the joy of that.  Rounding the final curve, he saw Little Joe jump up from the porch step, where he was seated.  Hoss immediately dismounted, so that he could better control both his horse and his little brother.

            However, Little Joe didn’t come running toward him, as usual.  Instead, the light in his eyes faded and his chin drooped.  “I thought you was Pa,” he said.

            Leading Charcoal, Hoss walked over to his brother.  “Ain’t Pa back yet?” he asked, fret lines furrowing his forehead.  “I thought for sure he would be.”

            Little Joe shook his head.  “You real sure Paiutes don’t take scalps?”  He looked up, and Hoss could see again the fear that had been in his brother’s eyes the previous night.

            “I’m real sure, punkin.”  Hoss wrapped Charcoal’s reins around the hitching rail.  Ordinarily, the first thing he did when he came home each afternoon was to tend to his horse’s needs, but he thought Pa would understand why he let the animal wait today, ‘cause another little critter needed tending even more.  He opened his saddlebag and took out an envelope.  He put his arm around his brother and led him back to the porch.  “Pa’s just runnin’ late—maybe had some extra parleyin’ to do with the Paiutes, but he’ll be home soon.  And look here what I got for you.”  He waved the envelope.

            Little Joe’s eyes widened.  “Is it . . . mine?” he asked hesitantly.

            “Sure is.  Want me to open it and read it for you?”

            “Yeah!”

            With his pocketknife Hoss carefully slit the envelope and drew out the single sheet.  “Dear Little Joe,” he began:

            I told a lot about my trip in the letters to Pa and Hoss, but there was one place we passed that made me think of you.  Just past Courthouse Rock we crossed a small creek called the Little Punkin.  Now, how do you suppose they named a creek after you when you’d never been there?  Isn’t that funny?

            Little Joe giggled.  “My creek,” he chirped.  “All mine.”

            Hoss grinned.  “Sure sounds like it.  Now, why you reckon there ain’t a creek called the Little Hoss?”

            “Big Hoss,” Little Joe tittered.

            Hoss laughed.  “Yeah, I reckon it ought to be, at that.”  He again read from the letter:

You’ll probably think it’s funny, too, that I took a nap this afternoon, just like a certain baby brother of mine.  I know you don’t like them, but I really needed one, because it was hard to sleep in a stagecoach, and I couldn’t rest when I got here, either, because I had tests to take.

            “Bad ole tests,” Little Joe said with a scowl, “to wear Adam out.”

            “Tests wear me out, too,” Hoss agreed.  He scanned ahead in the letter and chuckled.  “This is more like it.”

            We met a black man named Candy Sam, who sells candy to students here.  He’s blind—that means his eyes don’t work—but he can make change just as if he could see.  His fingers see for him.  Jamie and I bought some divinity, and it was really good.  I think Candy Sam will get plenty of our business!

            “He’d get plenty of mine, too,” Hoss said with a lick of his lips.

            “Yeah.  Maybe Pa’ll bring us some candy,” Little Joe suggested.

            “From the Paiute camp?”  Hoss made a face.  “Naw, they just suck on tule shoots for sweetening.  It ain’t too good, punkin.”

            “Oh.  That all Adam says?”

            “Just a little bit more.”  Hoss finished the letter:

            It will soon be time for supper, so I will say good-bye until next time, and I’ll mail this on our way to the meal.  I will be sending a gift from the trail at the same time.  I hope you enjoy it.

            Your big brother,

            Adam

            “Our rocks!” Little Joe cried.  “Did they come, too?”

            “In the saddlebags,” Hoss said as he folded the letter and put it back in the envelope.  “We’ll get ‘em out later, but first I gotta stable Charcoal.  Poor pony’s waited long enough.”

            Little Joe looked disappointed, but he solemnly nodded his head.  Young as he was, he already understood Pa’s feelings about keeping a horse waiting for proper care.

* * * * *

            Little Joe scampered at his brother’s side as Hoss carried the pail of milk, fresh from the cow, out of the barn.  Hearing hooves coming up the road that led around the barn, Joe sprang forward happily.

            Hoss dropped the pail of milk and chased down his brother, just as their father rode into the yard.  “Doggone you,” he scolded as he grabbed Little Joe’s hand, pulling him back from the horse’s path just in time.  “Look what you gone and made me do.”  He pointed at the pail, lying on its side, milk draining into the dirt.

            “Sorry,” Little Joe muttered, but he pulled against Hoss’s restraint, crying, “Pa!”             Ben, who had reined in and dismounted as soon as he saw his little son rushing toward him, opened his arms wide.  “Let him come, Hoss.”

            Hoss released his brother and then stalked over to the tipped pail and set it upright.  “It’s ‘most all spilt,” he grumbled.  Feeling a hand on his shoulder, he looked up to see his father, holding Little Joe in one arm while reaching out to him with the other.  He moved into the warm embrace.

            “It’s all right, son,” his father said.  “Your little brother’s more important than any amount of spilled milk.  Thank you for watching out for him.”

            Hoss nodded.  “Proud to, Pa, but he oughta know better by now.”

            “Yes, he should,” Ben said, turning grave eyes on his youngest.  “What should you know by now, Little Joe?” he asked, keeping his voice gentle.

            Little Joe hung his head.  “Don’t run at horses.”  He glanced up with brimming eyes.  “But I missed you, Pa.”

            Ben’s parental resolve melted.  “Pa missed you, too, baby—and you, Hoss.”

            “You was kind of later than I ‘pected, Pa,” Hoss said.

            Ben nodded.  “We didn’t get off as early as I expected this morning.  The Governor had some extra talking to do with Winnemucca.”  He felt his hat falling back from his head and made an unsuccessful grab for it.

            “Oops,” murmured Little Joe.

            “What are you doing, son?” Ben asked.

            “Just checkin’,” the boy said.  “You got hair.”  He looked relieved.

            “Well, of course, I have hair,” Ben chuckled.  “A little grayer, thanks to you, but it hasn’t fallen out yet.”

            “I think he was more afeared it might’ve got lifted, Pa,” Hoss explained.  “Remember all that talk about the Apaches after church?”

            “Oh.”  Ben held his little son closer.  “I wasn’t with the Apaches, Little Joe,” he said.  “The Paiutes are our friends and would never hurt me, son.  There’s no need for you to fear when I’m with them.”

            “That’s what I told him.”

            Ben gave Hoss a nod of approval.  “That’s right.  And you can always trust your big brother, Little Joe.”

            “Guess what, Pa!” Little Joe exclaimed.  “I got a letter!”

            Ben’s eyes sparkled.  “From Adam?  That’s wonderful, Little Joe!”

            “And pretty rocks, too!  Wanna see?”

            “I surely do.”  Ben set the boy down.  “Run get them for me.”  As Little Joe ran toward the house, Ben smiled at Hoss.  “That’s a relief.  I was afraid that letter had gotten lost in the mail.  I didn’t want to say that to Little Joe, but it’s a risk with war-torn country between us and Adam.”

            “I sure was glad to see it at the post office this afternoon,” Hoss agreed.  “I didn’t know how I was gonna keep ‘splainin’ it to the little feller.”

            Ben ran a tender hand through his son’s wheaten hair.  “Oh, Hoss, that’s not your job; that’s mine.”

            “Mine, too,” Hoss insisted.  “I got to be a good big brother to Little Joe, like Adam always was to me.”

            Ben patted his head.  “That’s right—and you are.  Any problems I should know about, while I was gone?”

            Hoss had already decided not to mention Little Joe’s nightmares.  If Pa knew that, he’d most likely feel he shouldn’t have gone with the Governor, and Hoss figured it was important for Pa to do that kind of thing.  “Nary a one,” he started to say; then he faltered.  “Well, just one little un.  Joe liked my yellow quartz better than his, ‘cause it was smoother, so I just traded with him, and then he was happy.”

            Ben pulled the boy into a one-armed embrace.  “Hoss, I think you’ve got this big brothering down just about pat.”

~ ~ Notes ~ ~

            The Government really did send the Paiutes a collection of women’s dress hoops with James Nye, and according to the San Francisco Bulletin, one of their chiefs came into Carson to inquire about the high fence and which side belonged to the Indians.

CHAPTER SIX

Unwanted Offer

            The last half of October flew by, like Hermes on his winged feet.  Ben smiled to himself as that comparison came to his thoughts, for it seemed like something his bookish son back East might have said.  He found his mind working more like Adam’s these days, a way to keep the boy closer, he supposed.  The completion of the transcontinental telegraph near the close of the month made the distance between them seem shorter, although he doubted that there would be need for either of them to send an expensive telegram to the other.  Expense hadn’t bothered the territorial legislature, however, when it was accorded the privilege of sending the first telegram east over the completed wire.  Like true politicians, the legislators had waxed verbose:

Resolved by the council, the house concurring, that:

Whereas, the privilege of forwarding the first telegraphic message across the continent, has been given to the legislature of Nevada Territory, therefore be it,

Resolved, that the said communication shall consist of the following language, viz:

Nevada Territory, through her first legislative assembly, to the president and people of the United States—

Greeting:

Nevada for the Union, ever true and loyal!  The last born of the nation will be the last to desert the flag!  Our aid, to the extent of our ability, can be relied upon to crush the rebellion.

While Ben approved the patriotism of that pledge of loyalty, he didn’t see his territory offering much real aid to the war effort.  In money, maybe; in men, unlikely.  The telegraph, on the other hand, would prove an invaluable aid in providing up-to-date news of the war, but the first news transmitted west—in answer to the question, “How goes the war?”—was not encouraging.  The Union had sustained yet another defeat at Ball’s Bluff, this time with 1,900 Northern casualties and, Ben assumed, about that many, more or less, from the South.  As he bowed his head in church the following Sunday, he thanked God that both his family here in Nevada and his son in Connecticut were secure from such devastation.

            With the final amen of the benediction, Ben rose from his seat and began to herd his sons down the aisle behind the Thomases, who were with them today at the Washoe City church and would take dinner at the Ponderosa.  His intentions of getting out quickly were blocked, quite literally, when Nelly stopped at the exit to tell the Reverend Bennett how much she had enjoyed the sermon.

            “Ben, oh, Ben,” called a sharp voice behind him.  “Ben Cartwright!”

            Ben sighed, but quickly disguised his frustration at being trapped by the widow Hunter.  “Good morning, Elvira,” he said, “or I suppose ‘good afternoon’ would be more appropriate, given the hour.”

            Elvira Hunter chuckled.  “My, yes, the good reverend did run a mite overlong, didn’t he?” she observed in a conspiratorial whisper.

            “I found his message most edifying,” Ben said.

            “Oh, to be sure,” she said quickly, “and goodness knows, there’s heathen enough in this territory to call for even longer sermons.  I just wanted to see how you and yours were gettin’ along these days.”  She patted Little Joe’s curly head.  “Can’t be easy, runnin’ a ranch and raisin’ two boys.”

            Ben felt somewhat perturbed that she’d omitted his oldest son, but magnanimously concluded that she might have assumed that one was already raised.  “Oh, we manage,” he said, for he was catching the drift of this conversation and didn’t care to encourage it.

            “I’m sure,” Elvira said, not sounding the least bit certain.  “I just wanted to remind you that we’re close enough neighbors for you to call on me, any time you need”—she veiled her eyes demurely—“a woman’s touch with these younguns.”

            Ben felt outraged at the thought of any woman taking the place of his beloved Marie, but tried to give Elvira Hunter the benefit of the doubt as simply a concerned neighbor.

            Nelly Thomas was far from that generous.  “She’s on the prowl for a man,” the woman who was like a sister to Ben snorted as they drove away.  “You be on your guard, Ben Cartwright.”

            “I assure you I have no interest in Elvira Hunter,” Ben said, glancing over his shoulder to the back seat of the surrey, where Clyde, Nelly and young Inger were sitting.

            “She ‘pears to have plenty in you,” Clyde snickered.

            “Ma’s right, Uncle Ben,” Billy, who was riding his horse beside the surrey, chimed in.  “Best keep your guard up or you’ll find yourself hitched before you know it.”

            “Hitched?  To her?  Pa, you wouldn’t!” Hoss protested.

            “No, I wouldn’t—and that’s the end of this subject!” Ben growled.

            “Wouldn’t what?” Little Joe asked.

            “Never you mind, boy.”  Seeing the child shrink back from his irritated tone, Ben leaned over to drop a kiss on the curly head and softened his voice.  “Nothing for you to worry about, Little Joe.  Just grownup nonsense.”

            “I like nonsense,” Little Joe said, bright smile returning.

            “Don’t we just know it!” Clyde cackled.

* * * * *

            Toward the middle of that Sunday afternoon everyone decided to indulge in a second piece of pie before the Thomases headed back to Carson City.  Billy was helping Hop Sing corral the three youngsters in the kitchen, an appropriate place for him, his parents had teased, saying he was little more than an overgrown youngster himself.  Ben had chuckled, but assured Billy that he knew a man when he saw one.

            “Know which side your bread’s buttered on, you mean,” Clyde had cackled, referring to the fact that Billy would be staying over at the Ponderosa for a few days to help with the haying.

            The pie was about half consumed when someone knocked on the door.  Hop Sing answered and ushered a man and woman into the room.  With a wide smile on his face, Ben rose to meet them.  “Eilley, Sandy,” he called.  “It’s good to see you.”

            “That it is,” Nelly added.  “We don’t see near enough of you folks, now that you’re livin’ in Gold Hill.”  Her arms automatically reached for the baby girl in Eilley’s arms.

            Eilley didn’t look nearly as glad to see Nelly as Nelly to see her, but she quickly schooled her face to cordial courtesy.  “Yes, indeed!” she said as she reluctantly surrendered her child to the other woman.  “How’ve you been, Mrs. Thomas?”

            Nelly clucked her tongue.  “Now, it’s Nelly to old friends.”

            “Of course,” Eilley said, but the condescending way she said it made Nelly frown.

            The frown fled, however, as Nelly gazed down at the baby, who was just waking.  “My, isn’t she a beauty?” she cooed.  “Eyes like wild violets.”

            Eilley warmed at the compliment.  “Oh, yes, and such a joy!  Perfectly formed and putting on weight just as she ought.”

            Nelly nodded compassionately, remembering that Eilley’s first child, a sickly boy, had passed away last summer, a day shy of being two months old.  Having experienced both the loss of a son and the joy of a daughter born thereafter herself, she could readily relate to the other woman’s present contentment.

            “Hop Sing, is there any of that wonderful blackberry pie left?” Ben asked as he directed Sandy to the blue chair that sat at right angle to the settee where he led Eilley.

            “Little bit left, Mr. Ben,” the cook said with a smile.  “Just enough.”

            “Oh, my, I shouldn’t,” the plumpish Eilley demurred.

            “Why, of course, you should,” Ben insisted.

            “I’ll polish off whatever you don’t eat,” her husband offered.

            “Oh, Sandy,” she chided.  “These folks’ll think I never feed you.”

            “Not at all,” Ben assured her congenially.  “A long drive like the one you’ve just made works up a man’s appetite, that’s all.”

            “Yah, sure does,” Sandy agreed spiritedly.  He greeted the arrival of blackberry pie and coffee with even greater enthusiasm.  “Long time since I eat anything this good,” he said, wiping a dribble of blackberry juice from his chin with the back of his hand.

            “Delicious,” his wife concurred, daintily dabbing her mouth after each bite.  “I wish I could send our cook to your Chinaman for lessons.”

            Tickling the baby under the chin, Nelly chuckled.  “Hop Sing puts together a right fine feed, I must admit, but I brought the pie.”

            “Oh.”  Eilley looked nonplussed.  “Well, then, that explains it.”

            “We’re always appreciative of Nelly’s contributions to any meal,” Ben said with a wink at Sandy, who was clearly enjoying his wife’s discomfiture.

            “Any news over to Gold Hill?” Clyde asked, hoping to steer the conversation to a more interesting topic than compliments to his wife’s cooking, much as he enjoyed the fruits of her labors.

            “Biggest news is the Chollar Mine falling in,” Sandy said, “but maybe you heard that already.”

            Clyde nodded.  “Read about it in the Enterprise.  Sounded like a pretty severe cave-in.”

            “Dreadful,” Eilley said.  “Just up and swallowed a two-story building above it—and the racket!  In the middle of the night, too.”

            “Yah, it was loud,” Sandy said.

            “Anyone hurt?” Ben asked.

            “By a miracle, no,” Eilley replied.  “Bein’ eleven at night, the grocery was closed, of course, and the bookkeeper who lived on the second floor said his dog woke him up, scratchin’ and whinin’ to be took for a walk.  Reckon he’s countin’ his blessings that he obliged the critter.”

            “Cave-in happened while they was out,” Sandy added.

            “That young man does have reason to count his blessings,” Nelly said, “and I hope he has the sense to do it.”

            “Yes . . . well . . .”  Eilley glanced back at the grandfather’s clock near the door.

            “Now, you’re not going to eat and run, are you?” Ben scolded, a twinkle in his eye.  “It’s too long a trip for so short a visit.”

            “Well”—she looked awkwardly at the Thomases—“we were hoping to talk with you, Ben.”

            “I hope you’re not wanting your land back,” Ben said.  “I’ve got a good long lease on it, if you recall.”

            “Oh, no, no,” she said, biting her lower lip as she again glanced at the other guests.

            Clyde caught the hint and stood up.  “Reckon it’s time we started back, else we’ll be drivin’ after dark.”

            “Well, now, Clyde,” Nelly said with a suspicious cast of her eye at the other woman in the room, “if you’re frettin’ over that, I reckon we could stay over, just this once.”

            Clyde’s look of astonishment was exceeded only by Eilley’s expression of horror.  She relaxed, however, when Clyde exploded, “Have you lost your senses, woman?  If you don’t have work to do tomorrow, I do!  Now, get your gear together, so we can head out.”

            “Gear,” Nelly sputtered as she reluctantly stood and handed the baby back to its mother.  “A fine way to talk about your own daughter!”

            Ben laughed.  “That’s right, Clyde.  I’m sure Sandy would never speak of little Teresa here that way.”

            “Not in front of her mother, for sure,” Sandy guffawed.

            Amidst the men’s merriment Nelly marched huffily to the kitchen to collect Inger, who was trailed back into the great room by the Cartwright boys and Billy.  Minor pandemonium ensued for a few minutes as farewell hugs and kisses and promises to see each other again soon were exchanged all around.  As her family moved across the yard to the buggy, Nelly pulled Billy aside.  “Stick close in there,” she ordered.  “Something’s up and I want to know what it is.”

            Billy sported an impish grin.  “Why, Ma, I never figured you’d want me to be a spy when I growed up.”

            She swatted his arm.  “None of your smart talk!  That woman’s up to something; you keep an eye on her.”

            “Oh, yes, ma’am,” Billy snickered.  “If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s keepin’ an eye on women.”

            “Ooh!”  With a gusty exhale of exasperation, Nelly stalked to the buggy and got in, but as they drove away, she kept a concerned watch over her shoulder until the Ponderosa ranch house was out of sight.

            Inside, Little Joe had wandered over to the visitors, drawn especially to the infant gurgling in Eilley’s lap.  “She’s a baby,” he informed the doting mother.  “I’m not; I’m a big boy.”

            Eilley beamed at the child as she stroked his smooth cheek.  “That you are, and such a handsome, bright little fellow, too.”

            Little Joe patted Teresa’s back.  “Does she cry much?  I like babies, but not when they cry.”

            “Oh, no, she’s a happy girl,” Eilley said with a smile.  “I’m sure you and Teresa will get along together just fine.”

            When Ben, Billy and Hoss came back in from saying their farewells to the Thomases, Hoss perched on the settee at Eilley’s side.  “Howdy,” he offered.

            “Oh . . . hello, child,” Eilley said absently as she continued to drink in the interaction between the two younger children with satisfied eyes.

            The men discussed territorial affairs for a while, but soon all that could be said on that subject had been said, and a blanket of silence seemed to fall over the room.  “You said there was something you wanted to talk to me about?” Ben invited.

            Eilley glanced uneasily at Billy.  “Well, yes, but . . . well, perhaps, this young man would like to take the children out for a romp while we talk?”

            When Billy didn’t appear disposed to volunteer, Ben cleared his throat.  “Would you mind, son?” he asked.  “I’m sure the boys—and possibly you, as well—would find a business discussion uninteresting.”

            Billy gave his adopted uncle a cunning grin.  “Oh, I’d be interested—and Ma even more.  I can take a hint, though.  Don’t mind wrastlin’ the boys, but I’m no hand with babies.”

            “Oh, no,” Eilley said quickly.  “She’ll be just fine here with me.”  As if she’d ever trust her precious Teresa Fortunatus to that red-headed lout—the very idea!

            Billy gathered up both Hoss and Little Joe, who were eager to play outdoors awhile before the autumn air grew too cold.  An awkward silence again descended over those remaining in the room.  Ben shifted uncomfortably in his armchair and finally turned to Sandy with a shrug.

            “It’s woman’s business,” Sandy muttered, and with a roll of his eyes, Ben looked back toward Eilley.

            “Now, that’s not so, Sandy!” his wife protested.  “We both agreed”—she bit her lip and composed herself.  “Ben,” she began again, “I want you to know how much I sympathize with you in the loss of your wife.  I—I’ve had a loss of my own this last year, and I know how hard it is.”

            Ben swallowed the rising lump in his throat.  “Yes,” he finally said.  “Marie and I both were saddened to hear of the death of your little boy.  She lost a son once herself—from her first marriage—so she understood better than most what that pain was like.”

            With a pudgy pinky Eilley dabbed at the corner of her left eye.  “She . . . never mentioned that, but she spoke so kindly when John Jasper passed away that—well, never mind.  I didn’t come here for sympathy.”

            Ben dearly wanted to ask what she had come for, but good manners prevented him.

            After another moment of silence, Eilley took a deep breath and said, “I can only imagine how hard it’s been for you, being both father and mother to your little lad.”

            “We manage,” Ben said quietly, realizing with some chagrin that he’d already said those same words once this afternoon.  There were times, he knew, when he had managed very ill, but he was trying his best now to be a true father—and mother, when needed—to all his sons.  That everyone in his acquaintance seemed to question his fitness to do so was decidedly disconcerting.

            “Oh, I’m sure,” Eilley said, “but I do think that it’s best for a child to be raised by both a father and a mother, don’t you?”

            “Perhaps,” Ben said cautiously.  He had a sudden horror that Eilley was about to propose some friend or relative as a prospective bride.  Then, with rising apprehension, it occurred to him that she might even be applying for the position herself.  In her faith polygyny was more common than polyandry, but it was not unheard of for a Mormon woman to have more than one husband, and that notion would certainly explain Sandy’s evident discomfort.  “Marrying again is not something I’m ready to consider yet,” he said bluntly, deciding that it was best to nip any such suggestion in the bud, “so I guess I’ll just have to muddle along alone.”

            Eilley’s face flushed crimson.  “Oh, no, Ben!  I wasn’t suggesting . . . I mean . . . oh, dear!”

            “Spit it out, woman!” Sandy snapped, striking his knee with his fist.  “You’re driving Ben and me both daft with this blathering.”

            “Oh, honestly, Sandy,” she sputtered.  “It’s a delicate matter, and I—well, I suppose it might be best to say it straight out.  It’s about the child, Ben.”

            “The child?”  Ben shook his head in continuing confusion.  Slowly, comprehension dawned.  “My child?” he asked hesitantly; then his spine stiffened and he demanded, “Which one?”

            Eilley uttered a nervous laugh.  “Why, the youngest, of course.  The other boy is half-grown, but think what a blessing it would be to your little one—to everyone, in fact—if we were to adopt him.”

            Ben erupted out of his chair.  “Adopt him?  You think I’d turn over my own flesh and blood to someone else to raise?”

            “Why not,” Eilley pressed, leaning forward, “if it’s for the child’s own good?”  Ignoring Ben’s wildly shaking head, she plunged ahead.  “With our mine turning out silver faster than we can spend it, we can offer him so much, Ben: food, clothing, playthings, the best education, everything money can buy, and, of course, a loving home with two doting parents.”  Tears misted her eyes as she continued, “It would be like having my own sweet son back again, and while your boy is a little older than Johnny would have been, he’ll still make a wonderful older brother for Teresa, and it would be so much easier on you, too, if—”

            “Please stop,” Ben interrupted, his face anguished.  “I appreciate your kindly intended suggestion, but I cannot consider it.  I am not a rich man; no doubt I will never be able to give Joseph all the advantages a silver baron can afford, but I am convinced that no one can offer him greater love.  I’ve made many mistakes as a father, but this is one I refuse to make: I will not give my child away, not for what others may see as his benefit and certainly not to make my life easier.”  Seeing Eilley’s crestfallen face, he softened his voice.  “Surely, you, who have lost a son yourself, can understand how I would feel if I were to lose mine.”

            “Well, yes,” Eilley murmured, wringing her hands, “but—”

            “Yah, sure we can,” Sandy said, rising abruptly.  “I told you this was foolishness, Eilley.”  He moved toward the credenza and picked up his hat.  Fumbling it in his hands, he looked sheepishly at his host.  “Forgive her, Ben.  She meant well, but this was poorly done.”

            “Of course,” Ben said perfunctorily.  Normally, he would, at least, have said that there was no need to rush off, but today he couldn’t wait to see the back of these visitors.

            Eilley rose slowly.  “I’m afraid we’ve offended you, Ben.”

            “No, not at all,” Ben assured her, hoping that he wasn’t stretching the truth too far.  “As I said, I know it was kindly intended.”  That much he was determined to believe; nonetheless, he was finding it enormously difficult to keep his emotions in check long enough for the Bowers to leave.

            Once their buggy had disappeared, Billy Thomas skittered over with the two youngsters at his heels.  “What’d she want?” he asked with eager curiosity.

            Ben spun on his heels and threw the full brunt of his anger on the young man’s hapless red head.  “What she’ll never get!” he shouted.  “How could she . . . how could anyone?” he sputtered.  “I may not be all I should be as a father, but—”

            “Who says so?” Billy demanded.  “Her?  Is that what she wanted, to take you to task for a poor father?”

            “That ain’t so!” Hoss hollered, his reddening cheeks puffing with outrage.  “You’re the best, Pa!”

            “The best!” Little Joe chimed in.

            Ben caught the child up in his arms and hugged him close.

            “Pa, you’s squeezin’ too tight,” the four-year-old protested.

            With an effort Ben relaxed his arms.  “I’m sorry, precious,” he whispered.  “Pa doesn’t mean to squeeze too tight.”

            “Okay,” Little Joe said, content now to rest his head on his father’s broad shoulder.

            Billy caught sight of a tear trickling down Ben’s cheek, and putting that together with his tenacious grip on his little boy, intuitively knew what the Bowers woman had been after.  “Oh, lands,” he gasped.  Wait’ll Ma hears this!  Then he placed a supportive hand against the older man’s back.  “Don’t never let her sway you to that, Uncle Ben.  You’re the best father I know, second only to my own—and sometimes I wonder about him.”

            He said the final phrase with a wink and a wicked grin that made Ben smile despite the emotions gripping him so intensely.  “I’ll do you a favor and not repeat that to your father, young man,” Ben chuckled.

            “Obliged,” Billy said, grin widening.  “Want me to romp with the boys some more?”

            Ben shook his head.  “No, I’m going to reserve that privilege for myself this afternoon.”  He set Little Joe down and pointed to a tall pine across the yard.  “Run to that tree, Little Joe, and you, too, Hoss.  Let’s see if you can beat Pa in a race.”

            “I can!” Little Joe declared and took off.  Ben let both boys get a sizable lead and then slow-trotted after them, his eyes shining with renewed love and determination.

* * * * *

            Late that night, however, the troubling questions that Ben had evaded all evening kept him restless in his solitary bed.  Was he really doing right by his son—by either of them, for that matter—in letting him grow up without a mother’s love?  His mind drifted back to the day a lonely Adam’s life had been transformed by gentle Inger’s loving touch and remembered as if it were yesterday how Hoss had soaked in Marie’s love like a thirsty sponge.  Did his youngest not need and deserve a mother’s love as much as either of his brothers?  How could he, rough man of the frontier that he was, hope to provide that sort of nurture for the boy?

            He raked his fingers through his disheveled hair.  He’d been incensed by Eilley’s suggestion, however well meant, but scarcely less odious had been Elvira Hunter’s hints at sharing his bed.  His parenting called into question twice in one day!  And on Sunday, to boot, when a man was most drawn to considering his ways.  Was God trying to tell him something?  Was he so unfit to be a single father that everyone but him saw it?  Or were these women simply opportunists, eager to satisfy their own needs, without real regard for his or those of his sons?  He chose to believe the latter, but agonized, hour upon sleepless hour, over the former.

            Give Little Joe up?  Separate the child not only from his only living parent, but from the brothers who adored him?  Unthinkable!  Ben smiled for a moment as he recalled Little Joe’s frequent assertion, “We needs us.”  We do, indeed, he decided.  No, separation would do them all irreparable harm, so adoption was clearly out of the question.

            Remarriage, then?  Not to the widow Hunter, of course.  Oh, he’d heard of instances where marriages of convenience had blossomed into true love, but having known genuine passion and deep commitment with three wonderful women, he could not imagine a union in which those qualities were missing.  Would he find another woman to compare with Elizabeth, Inger and Marie?  Impossible! his heart cried, but he’d thought that before and been proven wrong twice.

            Smiling sadly, he touched the vacant pillow beside him.  Months now since golden-haired Marie had lain there with him, yet his heart still wrenched with every fleeting memory of what they had shared.  Marry again?  Maybe someday, he conceded without genuine belief, but not now—not while all I yearn for is to twine your silken tresses around my fingers and to taste the sweet honey of your lips.  Burying his face in her pillow as he once had pressed it into her rose-scented bosom, he wept—for what had been and seemed likely never to be again.

* * * * *

            Ben waited with growing expectation for the theater curtain to rise.  After a long, hard week of haying, second only to bookwork on his list of hated chores, he felt he had earned this reward, and he had insisted that the Thomases be his guests for the Saturday matinee appearance of renowned Shakespearean actor James Stark.  Originally, he had hoped to leave Little Joe with Sally Martin, but with Mark Wentworth’s regiment due to leave the territory any day, she had been reluctant to share a last chance to be with her betrothed.  Then Billy had offered to look after both Little Joe and his sister Inger, saying, “Don’t worry, Uncle Ben.  I’ll guard him with my life.”

            “See that you do!” Nelly had snapped, and the significant glances exchanged between mother and son told Ben that the latest gossip had been transmitted and that Nelly was as furious as only an adopted aunt could be at the notion of Sandy and Eilley Bowers taking off with her little Sugarfoot.

            In the darkness of the theater, Clyde leaned over to whisper in Ben’s ear, “Ain’t so sure me and this Shakespeare feller will get along too well.  Kinda for educated folks, ain’t he?”

            Ben shrugged.  “He’ll use some words we’re not familiar with, because English has changed since his day, but I’ve always found that the action on the stage helps me make sense of the dialogue.  Just concentrate on that, Clyde, and don’t worry about what you’re supposed to be getting out of it.  Just enjoy yourself.”  He smiled down at his young son.  “Same advice for you, Hoss.”  He’d been somewhat concerned about bringing the boy to this particular production.  Hoss had always loved going to the theater, since seeing that first production of Pocahontas, but tonight’s offering was King Lear, deep waters indeed for an eleven-year-old.  Still, Hoss had worked as hard as anyone at the hated haying, and he couldn’t deny the boy the same reward.

            “Sure, Pa,” Hoss said, eyes alight with anticipation.  “I’ll just mind what they do and not what they say.”

            Giving the boy’s light hair an affectionate rumple, Ben chuckled.  “That’s not quite what I said.  Let one help you with the other, son; that’s what I meant.”  He had little hope that Hoss would do more than endure Shakespeare’s play, but since the scheduled afterpiece was a comedy, he should enjoy that, at least, and his enjoying dinner afterwards at the finest restaurant Virginia City could boast was a given.

            A finely proportioned man in a frock coat and cravat stepped through the curtain and addressed the audience.  “Good evening, gentlemen,” he said and as he spotted the few women scattered across the hall, added, “and especially you ladies who have graced us with your presence tonight.”

            Nelly blushed as if the compliment had been addressed specifically to her.  Given the small number of ladies in the audience, it wasn’t an unreasonable conclusion, Ben thought with a smile.

            “I must apologize to you all for the quality of our production tonight,” the man continued after introducing himself as James Stark.  “Snow in the mountains has prevented our costumes from arriving, but we have done our best to provide the actors with suitable apparel locally.”  He smiled puckishly, inviting his hearers to share the humor with him as he added, “Surprisingly few of your shops carry robes designed for ancient British kings and maidens.”  When the laughter died down, he concluded, “We will, however, do our best to provide you with an evening of entertainment that will meet your expectations in every other way.  To that end, I now offer you an additional recitation before the drama begins.”

            He raised his head and stood taller, emphasizing his imposing carriage, and began to recite “The Battle of Bunker Hill.”  When he finished, no one applauded with greater enthusiasm than Hoss, for he’d been studying the American Revolution in school and Stark’s powerful delivery had brought the battle to life for him.  No longer would Bunker Hill be only a list of names and dates to memorize.  The people involved had become real, and he knew he’d remember them the same way he remembered anyone he met in the territory.  For once, Hoss felt confident of doing well on his next history test.

            After a brief intermission, the main production began.  Ben had seen James Stark perform in California, so he couldn’t help contrasting the amateurish costumes on stage today with those he’d seen before.  Once the actor began to speak, however, nothing mattered but his deep, resonant voice with its subtle interpretation of emotion.

            Hoss didn’t even recognize the white-bearded King Lear as the same man who had earlier recited the poem.  At first, he didn’t understand what the men on stage were talking about, but he leaned forward when the girls started to tell how much they loved their father.  The first two could sling words together fancier than Adam, but Hoss’s sensitive spirit went out to the youngest when she said, “I cannot heave my heart into my mouth.”  He had the same problem!  He wanted to tell Pa and Adam and Little Joe how much he loved them, but the right words just wouldn’t come.  He thought back to what had happened Sunday, when that Bowers lady had made Pa feel like he wasn’t a good father.  He’d wanted then and there to tell Pa everything that was in his heart, but all he’d been able to come up with was “You’re the best!”  It was true, but it wasn’t enough.  Maybe that wasn’t his fault, though.  Maybe there just plain weren’t words enough in the whole blame dictionary to tell what a great father Pa was.  Hoss sensed that that was what Cordelia felt, too, and his heart was won from that moment.

* * * * *

            Hoss had been so groggy by the time they finally arrived in Carson City that night that Ben had found it necessary to help the youngster change into his nightshirt.  Nelly had laid a thick pallet on the floor of the guest room for the Cartwright boys, but it remained unoccupied.  Though he wasn’t sure what had possessed Billy Thomas to invite squirmy Little Joe into his bed, Ben guessed that his youngest had probably pitched a fit over going to sleep alone on that pallet.  With Billy’s sterling example of hospitality set before him, Ben didn’t feel right about asking Hoss to sleep on the floor, so he’d told the boy they could sleep together “just this once.”

            Hoss had accepted with delight and now lay beneath the covers, watching his father get ready for bed.  “I want to tell ya somethin’, Pa,” he said slowly, rising up to lean back on his elbows.

            Ben draped his ruffled shirt over the back of a chair and started to unbuckle his belt.  “What’s that, son?”

            “I just want you to know that you got nothin’ to worry about,” Hoss declared earnestly, “when you get real old and white-headed, I mean, ‘cause me nor Adam, neither one, wouldn’t act like them gals in that play done, and turn you out and take the Ponderosa away from you.  We know how lucky we are to have a pa like you, and—and I’m gonna see to it that Little Joe understands and does right by you, too.”  He emphasized his purpose with a vigorous nod of his head.

             “You’re going to explain King Lear to your little brother?” Ben choked out with as serious a mask as he could don.  Wouldn’t he just love to be a fly on the wall when that discussion took place!

            “Yes, sir,” Hoss replied, his solemn intent completely artless and genuine.  He blushed slightly.  “The best I can, anyway.  I didn’t understand ever’thing that went on in that play, Pa.”

            Ben sat on the bed beside his son and tousled the boy’s corn tassel hair.  “Hoss, don’t worry about that.  I think you caught the main meaning just fine—probably better than most of the men in that theater.”

            Hoss grinned, the expression ending in a prodigious yawn as he nuzzled into his pillow.  Ben soon joined him in the bed, but he lay awake for a while, wondering if Hoss’s comments had been sparked more by what had happened the previous Sunday than by the drama on stage this afternoon.  The boy was too young to be weighed down with such heavy matters, but when Ben had imprudently let his anger and frustration flare out in Hoss’s hearing, he’d felt obliged to explain everything, emphasizing that the Bowers had meant well, so his son would bear them no ill will.  Hoss had been upset, but had accepted his father’s assurances that the family would stay together, no matter who thought they’d do better apart.

            Little Joe, of course, remained in innocent ignorance of the whole affair, knowledge of which could do nothing but undermine his fragile sense of security in the wake of his mother’s death and his oldest brother’s departure.  Ben had debated whether to keep it from Adam, too, not wanting to distract him from his studies, but wondered whether he had the right to withhold news of such importance.  He’d finally decided that no one had a greater right to know what concerned Joseph than the young man who had born the burden of his father’s failures during those grief-fogged days of collapse, so he’d written a full account and posted the letter upon arriving in town today.

            Now, as he listened to his middle son’s soft snores, he smiled with pure pride and joy.  If this good-hearted boy, like Adam before him, was the product of his parenting, maybe he didn’t need to entertain those haunting self-doubts one minute longer.  He’d done all right by them, even if it had been largely without a mother’s aid, and with their help he’d raise Little Joe to be just as fine a man as his older brothers were turning out to be.

~ ~ Notes ~ ~

            The ends of the transcontinental telegraph met on October 26, 1861, and the new territory of Nevada was granted the privilege of inaugurating it by sending the first telegram east.

            Having lost her first child, John Jasper at just short of two months of age, Eilley Orrum Bowers must have been thrilled by the birth of a daughter, Theresa Fortunatus, in June, 1861, although that child, too, was not destined to survive.

            Near the end of October, Shakespearean actor James Stark arrived by stage in Virginia City, although his costumes, shipped separately, were delayed for weeks by the swirling snow.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Chasing a Kitty and a Kid

            Ben pulled the buckboard to the edge of C Street in Virginia City and peered at the stock board outside his broker’s office.  He shook his head in disbelief.  Stock prices had been rising sharply of late, higher every time he came to town, and the soaring numbers had led to a frenzy of stock manipulation.  “Stay right here, Little Joe,” he said as he climbed down from the wagon.

            “This ain’t the store, Pa,” Little Joe argued.  “You said we was goin’ to the store.”

            “Yes, yes, we are,” Ben said, patting the boy’s head, “but Pa has a couple of errands to run first, son.  Now, be a good boy and wait here.  I won’t be long.”

            He went inside the office and made a few prudent sales of stocks he considered risky, investing some of his profit in shares of more solid mines.  The rest he’d bank with Wells, Fargo, for he felt certain that the stock prices were being artificially elevated and was unwilling to gamble that they’d stay high, especially when he could put the money to better use.  Just yesterday he’d received a letter from Adam, informing him, to his relief, that Josiah Edwards had reached New Haven safely, but, to his distress, that his old friend was virtually penniless, the war having disrupted the school system in St. Joseph and left him without an income.  Josiah would find a new position eventually, Ben was certain, but until he did, he’d likely be doing without himself to insure that his son had sufficient funds for college.  Ben well knew how expensive that was and was only grateful that his profits made it possible for him to help the man whose friendship had meant the world to him back in St. Joe.

            Occupied with folding his papers and tucking them into his vest pocket, Ben didn’t look at his wagon until he was standing next to it.  When he saw the empty seat, he exhaled with exasperation.  That boy!  Was he incapable of following one simple instruction?  Wisdom usually dictated having Hoss along to help corral his youngest, but Hoss was in school today.  Ben had been so concerned about getting much needed funds to Josiah that he hadn’t wanted to wait for the weekend.  He hadn’t been able to resist Little Joe’s pleas to come along, especially since he saw the boy so rarely during the day, but he was definitely reconsidering that decision now.  Where was that boy?  Ben looked down the rough-planked walkway, but heard a chuckling voice call from the opposite direction.  “Lose something?”

            He spun around and smiled in relief, for there was his youngest son, standing next to a man who looked familiar, although Ben couldn’t put a name to the face at first.  Then with a shudder he remembered that cold rainy night when the whole countryside, including this man, Roy Coffee, had turned out to search for his runaway child.  “It appears I did,” he said, striding over to the lawman.  “Joseph,” he rebuked sternly, “I told you to stay with the wagon.”

            “It’s right over there,” Little Joe insisted.  “I was just talkin’ to the sheriff.”  He looked offended that his father would scold him when he hadn’t done anything wrong at all.  Nothing ever dampened the child’s spirits for long, though.  “See that, Pa?” he asked, pointing to the shiny silver star pinned to Coffee’s shirt.  “That means he’s a sheriff.”  Just in case his father didn’t know, he added, “Sheriffs keep bad men from making trouble in town.”

            “They do a fair job of tracking down naughty little boys, too,” Ben chuckled, reaching out to clasp Coffee’s hand.  “I can never thank you enough for your help that night.”

            “Didn’t do anything,” Coffee said, returning the handshake warmly.  “Was you that found the boy.”

            “By the grace of God,” Ben murmured.  He could never think of that night without large doses of both guilt and gratitude.  He cocked his head to look closer at the badge on Coffee’s chest.  “Say, the boy’s right: that is a sheriff’s badge.  You were a deputy last time I saw you.”  His eyebrows knitted in thought.  “And you worked out of Carson City then, didn’t you?”

            Coffee almost beamed with pride.  “Right on both counts.  Been a couple of changes in my life.  I’m sheriff over this area now, office right down the street in the new jail.”

            “I’m glad to hear that’s been built,” Ben observed.  “I’m afraid there’s been a growing need for that sort of accommodation.”

            Coffee nodded gravely.  “That’s why I was hired.  And I insisted on a decent jail before I’d take the job.  You seen that disgraceful excuse for one they had down in Carson?”

            Ben flashed a mischievous grin.  “Not from the inside, thankfully, but I know what you mean.”  The log shanty that had housed lawbreakers in Carson City had been a farce: prisoners found escape easy and recapture rarely attempted.  “Losing a qualified lawman such as yourself must have inspired them to rectify that.”

            Coffee laughed.  “Yeah, I no sooner left than they started building a better jailhouse.”  He touched the brim of his hat in a farewell tip as he prepared to return to his rounds.  “Good seein’ you, Mr. Cartwright,” he said.   “Hope you’ll come by and share a cup of coffee sometime when you’re in town.  Promise not to make it from roasted barley, neither.”

            Ben joined the lawman in laughing at the jest, for he, too, had read that suggested substitute in Placerville’s Mountain Democrat in the wake of the heavy duties recently imposed by Congress on the genuine article.  “I’ll do it,” he said, “and I want you to come out to the Ponderosa for dinner, where I also vow to serve nothing but real coffee.  Least I can do to say thanks for your help with this one.”  He affectionately tousled Little Joe’s rampant curls.

            “I’ll do it,” Roy responded.  “Widower like me don’t get many chances for a home-cooked meal.”

            For a moment pain clouded Ben’s eyes, but when he realized that here, too, was a man who had known the loss of a wife, he felt a kinship with Roy Coffee and with it a desire to strengthen that bond.  “Come on Sunday,” he suggested.  Then his brow wrinkled in thought.  “Sunday week, that is.  I’ll be in Carson this Sunday, so make it the next, and come hungry.  Hop Sing, our cook, sets a fine table, especially on Sunday.”

            Coffee nodded enthusiastically.  “I’ll be there.  You keep track of that youngun, now.”  He gave Ben a sassy wink.

            Ben rolled his eyes.  “I’m trying.  It’s a chore, I can tell you.”

            Coffee laughed and chucked Little Joe under the chin before continuing down the street.

            Ben plunked his son onto the wagon seat and climbed up after him.  Taking the reins, he guided the horses back into the busy street.

            Little Joe tapped his father’s arm.  “Store now, Pa?”

            “No, not yet, Little Joe.  Pa has a couple more errands first.”

            Little Joe frowned.  This trip to town wasn’t turning into quite the adventure he’d hoped.  “Where we goin’ now?” he asked, lips forming a pout.

            “Wells, Fargo,” his father replied.  “I need to bank some money and get a draft to send to an old friend.”

            “What’s a draft?” the boy asked.

            Ben did his best to explain how a simple slip of paper could be transformed into money at a distant destination, but as he pulled up to the bank on the corner of A Street and Sutton Avenue, he felt pretty certain that he’d failed to get the concept across.  Not trusting his son to stay with the wagon, he lifted the boy down and took tight hold of his hand as he led him into the Wells, Fargo office.

            Ben’s banking business was quickly transacted, and the next stop was the post office, where a letter containing the draft was dispatched to Adam, for transmission to Josiah Edwards.  Then, at last, it was time for the promised visit to the general store.

            Little Joe ran in ahead of his father and made a beeline for the row of glass jars filled with colorful confections.  Certain that contemplation would keep his young son occupied throughout the visit, Ben handed his list of supplies to Will Cass and moved toward a display of detachable collars and cuffs.  “New line of merchandise?” he asked lightly.

            Cass chuckled.  “Thought I’d give it a try, but they’re not selling too well.  I reckon folks that want that kind of finery are more apt to look for it at a regular haberdashery.  Do me a favor and take a set off my hands.”

            “Make me a good price and I might,” Ben returned with a smile.

            Cass bent down to Little Joe’s level.  “And how about you, young fellow?  What you plan to take off my hands?”

            “Candy,” Little Joe said, “but I don’t know what kind.”

            Cass straightened up and lifted the lid from a jar of peppermint sticks.  Taking one out, he handed it to the child.  “Well, give that a lick while you’re thinkin’ on it.”

            Little Joe grinned and took the candy.

            “Say ‘thank you,’ Little Joe,” his father directed.

            “Thank you, Mr. Cass,” the boy said.

            “You’ll spoil that child’s dinner,” declared a woman looking down her narrow nose at Ben.

            “Oh, I don’t know,” Ben said.

            “Well, I do,” the woman insisted.  “If you’d raised six children the way I have, you’d have more sense.  Just look how scrawny that child is!”

            As directed, Ben looked at Little Joe, but saw nothing to raise his concern.  Certainly, the boy was slim, but Dr. Martin had long ago assured him that his youngest was perfectly healthy and that his size was as natural for him as Hoss’s larger frame was for the older boy.  He turned back to the woman.  “Ma’am, I appreciate your concern, but I doubt one stick of candy will irreparably damage his health.”

            “That’s where you’re wrong.”  The woman launched into a lecture on the upbringing of children, emphasizing the importance of proper diet on everything from bone strength to moral rectitude.

            Ears wincing at the woman’s strident voice, Little Joe backed toward the door and slipped through it.  He didn’t want to be anywhere near that woman who wanted to take away his candy, so he decided he’d just wait for Pa out by the wagon.  He was moving toward the buckboard when a ginger-coated cat came streaking out the door of the shop next to Cass’s mercantile.  With a grin of delight, Joe tucked his peppermint stick into his pocket and gave chase.

            Ben was doing his best to extract himself from the clutches of the self-proclaimed expert on child-rearing when he suddenly realized that Little Joe wasn’t any longer standing next to the candy jars.  Frantically, he called the boy’s name, and when there was no answer, he asked Will Cass, “Did you see where he went?”

            “Sorry, Ben,” Cass said.  “Guess I was distracted.”

            Ben well knew by what.  He groaned and rushed out the door, with a piercing accusation following him:  “See?  This is just what I was warning you about.  Sweets before dinner naturally leads to a child thinkin’ he can have every little thing his own way.”

            Ben scarcely heard her.  He was too busy frenetically looking up and down the street.  Little Joe was nowhere in sight.  Ben hurried back inside, hoping the child was simply playing a game of hide-and-seek, but he soon exhausted all possible hiding places and was forced to admit that his four-year-old son was somewhere in Virginia City, all on his own.  Having no idea which way the child had gone, Ben turned south and began walking down C Street, gazing into each store or saloon along the way, asking every man or woman he passed if they’d seen a curly-headed tyke of four.

            No one had.  The longer Ben looked, the more apprehensive he became.  Virginia City wasn’t a spot on the hillside anymore, no longer the tent camp of a few miners.  Now it was a town of over four thousand, well on its way to earning its moniker of city.  Businesses lined both sides of C Street, and the town didn’t stop there.  A and B streets ranged up the mountain from the main business area, while D Street ran below and down beyond it were the mines and their hoisting works.  A thousand places for a little boy to hide.

            Why on earth had the child taken off like this?  He’d been perfectly content, picking out the candy promised to him.  Then that interfering busybody had stuck her oar in,  Ben had gotten occupied with defending himself, and the next thing he knew, his son was gone.  Had that shrill biddy frightened him?  Perhaps . . . perhaps enough to make him run outside, and once there, it wouldn’t take much to lead inquisitive Little Joe astray.  Even at home the child was into everything, and the temptations here far exceeded any on the Ponderosa.

            He reached the southern end of C Street and stood outside one of the seedier saloons, trying to decide which way to go next.  Back up C Street?  But what about the side streets and alleys?  Weren’t they just as likely to entice a small boy’s capricious interest?  Ben closed his eyes in anguish.  Too many choices.  Too many places for one man alone to search.  He had to have help, just as he had that dreadful night when his son had run away from home, hoping to find his mother.  Here, however, his resources for mounting a search were far fewer than they’d been on the Ponderosa.  No older sons, no ranch hands, no neighbors.  Ben had business acquaintances among the mine owners in Virginia City, but which among them could he really call upon for anything other than business?  He was just about desperate enough to try them, though, when he suddenly remembered the one man here in town who had responded to a plea for help before.  He turned and began to run up C Street.

* * * * *

            Little Joe plopped down on the dusty stoop of a small shack framed haphazardly with pieces of scrap lumber.  He’d chased the ginger cat up one street and down another until it dashed out of sight.  Then he’d tried to retrace his steps back to the store, but since he hadn’t been paying attention to anything but the cat, he never even made it back to C Street.  He’d heard some interesting banging down below him and hurried that way, where he stood, fascinated by the hoist mechanism lowering men into a mine, until a burly man roughly told him to be off.  He’d started to make his way back up the hill when he’d realized that he didn’t know if that was the right direction, either.

            Now he sat in a forlorn heap, wondering how he’d ever get back to Pa . . . and what Pa might do to him when he did.  Pa’d been upset with him, just for going the teensiest bit away from the wagon to talk to the sheriff, and he was much more than a teensy away this time.  He had a feeling a “very necessary little talk” would be waiting for him if he ever found his way back to Mr. Cass’s store, but while he dreaded that, even worse was the thought of losing Pa.

            As he sat staring at the dirt between his boots, a swish of satin caught his eye just as a soft voice said, “Mon petit ami?  Pourquoi êtes-vous ici ? ”

            Little Joe’s head bounced up in anticipation.  “Mama?”  His face fell for a moment; then his eyes lighted again, for while the woman stooping down to him was not his mother, as the French phrases had made him hope, she was someone he recognized.  “I couldn’t catch the kitty,” he told her mournfully, adding with a catch in his voice, “and now I can’t find Pa.”

            She stood and reached her hand toward him.  “Come, mon petit,” she said.  “We will find your papá.”

* * * * *

            Ben paused outside the door to the sheriff’s office to gather his frayed nerves.  It went against a man’s pride to admit he couldn’t keep track of his own child, but pride was a commodity he couldn’t afford at present.  He needed help, and the only way to get it was to admit he needed it.  Taking a deep breath, Ben turned the knob and opened the door.

            Roy Coffee looked up from his desk and smiled warmly.  “Well!  Did you decide to take me up on that cup of coffee?”  He looked beyond Ben.  “Say, where’s the young fellow?  You didn’t leave him out by the wagon again, did you?”

            Ben shook his head.  “No.  I—I lost him.”

            One side of the sheriff’s mouth quirked up.  “This is getting to be a habit, Cartwright.”

            Ben closed his eyes and murmured painfully, “I know.”  The sheriff’s rebuke was a mild one, compared to the castigations he’d already poured on his own soul, but it was an extra tablespoon of salt rubbed into his wounded heart.  He felt a hand pressed to his shoulder and looked up to see warm compassion in the other man’s eyes.

            “Sorry, Ben,” the sheriff apologized.  “It’s no laughing matter, and I shouldn’t make light of it.  When did you see the boy last?”

            Ben spread his hands in self-disgust at his inability to answer the simplest of questions.  “I—I didn’t check the time.  He was right there and then—not.”  He collected himself.  “I searched from Will Cass’s store to the south end of C Street and then came directly here.”

            Coffee scratched the back of his neck.  “Long enough for him to be anywhere,” he muttered.  “Well, we best get some help and find that boy before harm comes to him.”

            “Harm?”  Ben couldn’t keep the panic from his face.  “But, surely, no one would harm a child.”  On the Comstock, a child had always been considered a cherished rarity, although more of them were around, now that the town was growing.

            “No, no, I’m sure no one would,” Coffee explained, “but this town’s littered with abandoned shafts and prospect holes from the old days, every one of ‘em big enough for a little boy to fall through.  Why, just last week an eight-yoke team of oxen disappeared into one!”

            “Dear God,” Ben whispered in stricken prayer.  “We’ve got to find him!”

            “And we will,” Coffee said firmly.  “First, let’s get some help.”  Taking the ring of keys from its peg on the wall, he moved toward the cell block.  “Don’t worry,” he said in answer to Ben’s fretful frown.  “I ain’t settin’ hardened criminals after your boy, just a couple of fellers locked up ‘til they settle down after gettin’ into a ruckus.  Except for that, they’re a decent sort of gents.”  He walked in and stood before the cells.  “How about it?” he asked.  “You two willing to help find a little lost boy and earn yourselves some time off for good behavior?”

            Both men quickly assented, and Sheriff Coffee unlocked their cell doors.  The four men moved out onto C Street and were in the midst of discussing who would search what part of town when they heard a happy cry of “Pa!”  Little Joe broke away from the hand of the woman who had been leading him and raced into his father’s open arms.

            Ben pressed his cheek against the boy’s windblown hair.  “Oh, baby,” he murmured.  Then he looked at the woman, who was dressed with surprising modesty, given her profession.  “Miss Bulette,” he acknowledged her awkwardly and immediately felt ridiculous.  Why try to deny familiarity with the woman, especially when she’d obviously done him such a great service?  “Julia,” he said more warmly and extended one hand as the other continued to hold Little Joe close.

            “Monsieur Cartwright . . . Ben,” she said.  “I think I have found something you lost, oui?”

            “Oui,” Ben replied, as he had so often to Marie.  “I am eternally grateful.”

            “He was on D Street, near my home,” she said, “and I must return there now.”  She looked hesitantly at the other men, who were gawking at their interchange.  “Ben,” she said softly, “I was much saddened to hear of the death of your wife.  She was a true and faithful friend.”

            “Thank you,” Ben said.  “She . . . felt the same.”

            Julia Bulette ran tender fingers through Little Joe’s curls.  “Good-bye, mon ami,” she said.  “You will not chase any more kitties, non?”

            “No,” Little Joe promised.  “They run too fast.”

            Laughing, she kissed his cheek, nodded to the assembled men and turned away.

            “Hey, sheriff,” one of the recent residents of his new jail snickered, “what’s our chances now of gettin’ any time off, huh?”

            Coffee chuckled.  “I reckon you still earned it, just by showin’ yourselves willin’ to be good citizens.  Now, if you’ll shake hands and swear not to tear into each other once my back’s turned, you can go along home.”  The two men, their quarrel forgotten as soon as the whiskey had worn off, shook hands willingly and departed, each heading a different direction.  Looking at the little boy as Ben set him down, the sheriff shook his head.  “D Street, huh?  A mite young for that sort of thing, ain’t you, boy?”  He winked at the boy’s father.

            The reference to what generally went on in the small houses of the red-light district sailed meaninglessly over Little Joe’s head, of course.  Ben favored the sheriff with a reproachful smile.  “The two of them . . . with my wife and middle boy . . . were holed up together in a miserable excuse of a sanctuary during the Paiute War,” he explained.  “I understand Miss Bulette was a major asset in keeping this one entertained.”  He affectionately tousled Little Joe’s hair.

            “Still a major asset in keeping men entertained, from what I hear,” Coffee said with a grin.

            “Oh, will you stop?” Ben chided.  He stooped down, eye-to-eye with his son.  “Little Joe, that was very naughty of you to run off.  I’m afraid you and I will need to have a very necessary little talk about that.”

            “Got me a couple of empty cells now, if you decide the boy needs more than a talk,” the sheriff teased.

            Ben gave the other man a significant look.  “The sort of conversation I have in mind should do the trick.”

            Comprehending, Roy Coffee laughed.   “Good luck, young fellow,” he said to Little Joe as he headed back toward his office.

            “Thank you again, sheriff . . . Roy,” Ben said.

            Roy gave him a nonchalant wave.  “Just part of the job,” he said.

            Ben took tight grip on his son’s small hand, determined not to release it again until they reached the Ponderosa or, at least, the wagon headed there.

            “I’m sorry, Pa,” Little Joe whimpered as he was dragged along.

            “You will be,” Ben said sternly.  He tried to ignore the child’s sniffling all the way back to Will Cass’s place, but like the dripping from the lip of a pump, it demanded attention.  Be firm, he told himself.

            “Well, well,” said the storekeeper, bending over with his hands on his knees to look at Little Joe.  “I see the lost has been found.”

            “Yes, thankfully,” Ben replied.

            “Already loaded your wagon, from the list you left,” Cass said.  “Didn’t you see it, comin’ in?”

            Ben smiled ruefully.  He hadn’t seen much but red on the way here.  “Didn’t look . . . but thanks.  Give me the tally, and I’ll settle up.”

            Cass turned back to the counter and handed Ben the bill.  “That’s what’s in the wagon.  If you want anything different, either more or less, let me know.”

            Ben scanned the list.  “That’s everything—no more, no less,” he said and started to dig into his pocket.

            Little Joe tugged at his father’s britches.  “Pa?” he asked tentatively.  “Candy, Pa?”

            “Candy!” Ben Cartwright exploded.  “You think you’ve got candy coming after today’s shenanigans!”

            Little Joe shrank away, lips tight, head waving sadly from side to side.

            Ben’s resolve melted.  The boy wasn’t the real culprit here; the blame rightfully belonged to that interfering woman.  In the name of good health, she’d tried to deprive his child of a simple, and rarely indulged in, treat.  To punish him now was not only unjust, but it would reward the very one who most deserved censure for this misspent afternoon.  “Well, I did promise, didn’t I?” he said and then, lest he lose all credibility as a man to be obeyed, added, “But only two pennies’ worth.  It would have been more, if you’d done as you were told.”

            Little Joe’s mouth flew open in delight.  To him, two pennies’ worth of candy was a fortune.  Running back to the row of glass jars, his eyes sparkled as they moved from one to the next.  Ben groaned, feeling that his trip back to the Ponderosa would probably be delayed another hour, while the boy decided.  He was wrong, though.  Not wanting that mean lady or another like her to come back and rob him, Little Joe made his choices quickly.

            “Thanks, Pa,” the boy said, as he sat on the wagon seat, holding a paper bag surprisingly full for two pennies’ worth, in his father’s opinion.

            “You’re welcome, son,” Ben said, his sanity and good humor restored, now that they were safely headed home.  “Now, tell me, what was it Miss Julia was saying about chasing kitties?”

~ ~ Notes ~ ~

            The high stock prices mentioned at the beginning of this chapter were being artificially manipulated.  Many sank every dollar into these wildcat claims, but the bottom fell out of the market by winter, when San Franciscans realized the fraud.  The savings of Virginia City were wiped out, and even worthy stocks sold at cents on the dollar.  Many of those bankrupted returned to California, and the area suffered a serious depopulation.

            Shopkeeper Will Cass was a character in “Broken Ballad,” an episode of Bonanza written by John T. Kelly.

            Roasted barley was suggested as a substitute for coffee in the October 5, 1861, issue of the Mountain Democrat, available online.

            Virginia City’s first jail was constructed in November, 1861.  The Carson City jail had been as big a farce as described here.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Nothing Short of Murder

            With a bounce of enthusiasm, Hoss pointed at the line of blue-coated soldiers entering the Carson City plaza on the chilly Sunday morning of November 10th.  “There he is!”

            Ben caught his son’s arm as he lunged forward.  “Sally first,” he chided.  “The troops won’t stop here long, and Mark will prefer to spend most of that time with his fiancé.”

            “Reckon so,” Hoss said with a sigh.  He liked Mark Wentworth, almost as much as his sister Mary, and didn’t get near enough chances to see him, even with him being posted at nearby Fort Churchill.   Now the Sixth Infantry was being marched off to fight in that war back East, so he likely wouldn’t see his friend again for a long time, same as Adam.  That “back East” had a way of swallowing up people he loved that Hoss didn’t care for one bit.  Sally planned to marry Mark, though, so she looked even sadder about his going away.  There were tears in her eyes as she threw her arms around Mark after he came running across the plaza, and that made Hoss feel like crying, too.

            “Oh, I wish you didn’t have to go,” Sally moaned, as the others, including her father and the Thomases, as well as the Cartwrights, looked on in sympathy.

            “So do I, sweetheart,” Mark said, “but that’s part of the bargain I made.”  Everyone knew he was referring to his original reason for joining the army, so that he could march with the rescue forces sent to Nevada at the height of the war with the Paiutes.  He’d done it for love and in Paul Martin’s mind had well earned the reward of his daughter’s hand.  There was a price to be paid for enlistment in the army, however, and the army was now set to collect it in wartime service.

            Still holding Little Joe in his arms, Ben stepped forward to lay a supportive hand on the girl’s shoulder.  “At least, Mark will be serving as a surgeon’s assistant,” he reminded her.  “That’ll keep him behind the lines.”  He looked across at Mark, who nodded soberly.  The glance they exchanged communicated their mutual realization that service in the medical corps did not guarantee his safety, but at least he wouldn’t be quite as exposed to enemy fire as the combat troops.  “I’ll be praying for you, my boy,” he promised, “just as if my own Adam were going to war.”

            “We all will,” Nelly Thomas put in.

            “Adam?” Hoss asked, his brow crinkling with anxious thought.  “He gonna soldier, too?”

            “No, no, of course not,” Ben assured him, bouncing Little Joe to soothe his sudden disturbance, for while the child had no understanding of war, he readily picked up on other people’s emotions, especially Hoss’s.  “Adam’s a student, far from where the battles are taking place.  I’ll show you on the map when we get home.”

            “He’s right about me working behind the lines,” Mark was saying to Sally while Ben was settling down his boys, “and just think of the surgical experience I’ll get.”

            “More varied than here, to be sure,” Paul Martin said, putting an arm about both his daughter and his future son-in-law.  “Invaluable experience for someone who hopes to become a skilled surgeon.

            “Oh, I know,” Sally sighed, “but it’s hard to remember that when all I can think of is how much I’ll miss. . . .”  With determination she brushed at a tear moistening the corner of her eye.

            Little Joe reached for the black visor of Mark’s blue forage hat, all he’d had eyes for since the young soldier had come over to them.  “I like that hat,” he hinted.  Laughter at the easy way he tossed worry aside and the frankness with which he expressed his desire chased away everyone’s tears.

            Mark took the hat off and put it on the youngster’s head.  “I’ll need it back when I leave,” he warned.

            “Okay,” Little Joe agreed reluctantly.  When Ben set him down, he strutted off across the green sward to demonstrate how fine he looked in the new headgear.

            “Hey, don’t go far,” Mark called.

            “Hoss, go watch him,” Ben ordered.  “See he doesn’t stray.”

            “Can’t do a worse job than you,” Clyde cackled, for while they’d stood around waiting for the regiment to arrive, Ben had regaled them with his four-year-old’s solo excursion around Virginia City earlier in the week.  Nelly gave her husband a sharp jab in the ribs, while their daughter Inger snickered into her cupped hand.

            Ben shuddered.  “Don’t remind me.”

            “Sounds like a story I need to hear,” Mark observed, “but time’s short.  You’ll write me, sir?”

            “I will,” Ben promised, “and you let us know how things are going with you back there.”

            “If I don’t hear once a week, I’ll be frantic with worry,” Sally warned him.

            “There’s an incentive!” her father chuckled.  “Mark, son, please spare me that.”

            “I’ll write faithfully,” Mark said.

            Hoss, who had stoically gone after Little Joe, dragged him back over to the group.  “I still ain’t had a proper chance to say good-bye,” he complained.

            Mark thrust out his hand.  “Good-bye, then, Hoss.  Take care of my girl for me, okay?”

            “Well . . . sure,” Hoss said slowly, not sure whether Mark was serious or funning with him.  “I wouldn’t let no harm come to Miss Sally.”

            Mark chucked him under the chin.  “I know, but don’t you go stealing her heart away from me, either, you hear?”

            Realizing now that he was being teased, Hoss grinned.  “I wouldn’t do that, neither.”  He motioned for Mark to bend down to his level.  “I wouldn’t trust that Billy too far, though,” he whispered just loud enough for everyone to hear.

            “Oh, I know better than to trust him,” Mark said with a lopsided smirk.  “Billy and me go way back, you know.”

            “Yeah, further back than him and me, even,” Hoss said, “so I reckon you know he’s plumb ornery.”  He tried to keep a straight face, but his shoulders shook with the effort to hold back his amusement at his own joke.

            From behind, Billy hoisted Hoss up by the elbows and plunked him down again with a solid thunk.

            “Hey!” Hoss protested.

            “No more than you deserve, you backstabber,” Billy said with a forced growl.  Then he grinned at Mark.  “Don’t worry about Sally for one minute, pal.  I’ll see to it she don’t get lonely.”

            “That’s what I’m afraid of!” Mark laughed.  “Now, if the rest of you don’t mind, I’ll let her walk me back over to the regiment.”

            “So’s they can smooch some more,” Billy confided to Hoss, bumping the boy’s shoulder with his hip.

            “Exactly!” Mark laughed, as he plucked his hat from Little Joe’s head and placed it on his own.  “Oh, here’s the books you loaned me, Dr. Martin.”  He offered three volumes to the doctor.

            “Keep them, if they’ll be of any help to you,” Paul Martin urged.

            Mark placed one in his other hand and extended the remaining two to the doctor.  “Just this one, if you don’t mind.  I haven’t finished it yet.”

            “Study hard,” the doctor admonished with a smile.

            “But first, go kiss that girl,” Ben ordered.  He pointed off in the direction of the regiment.  “Off with the both of you!”

            Laughing, the young couple made a quick, arm-in-arm exit, Mark calling back good-byes over his shoulder.  Everyone waved wildly and shouted their wishes for him to keep safe and keep in touch.

            “Lands, I’m gonna miss that boy,” Nelly said with a sniff.  “You all are comin’ by the house, ain’t you?  I’ve got a jelly cake set out and coffee ready to brew.”

            Hoss smacked his lips.  “Jelly cake!  That’s one of your best, Aunt Nelly.”

            “I want cake,” Little Joe chimed in.

            Ben laughed.  “Count me in.  I was hoping to come by, anyway, at least long enough to drop a line to Adam.”

            With a wry grin Clyde wagged his head.  “Thought you already wrote that boy once this week, when you sent him money for your schoolteacher friend.  Two letters in one week’s bound to spoil him close to rotten.”

            Ben gave his friend a rough slap on the back. “I’ve had quite enough advice on that score this week,” he declared.  “In my opinion, you can’t spoil a boy by loving him.”

            “Amen to that,” Nelly agreed.  “I’ll head on to the house, get the coffee started.  You younguns want to come with me or stay to see Mark off?”

            “Stay,” said Hoss, who wanted to watch the soldiers march in step.

            “Stay,” Little Joe echoed, well satisfied that his big brother would make the best choice possible.

            “See you soon, then,” Nelly said, drawing her woolen shawl close, for the wind was picking up and turning sharp.  Inger trotted along at her side, eager to help her mother play hostess.

            The others saw Mark march away and waited for Sally to join them before they all walked down to the Thomas house.  Ben slipped an arm around the forlorn girl.  “He’ll be in my prayers nightly,” he assured her, “and I’m sure God will keep him safe; he has such potential.”  He felt a momentary rebellion as his thoughts turned to a young woman with great potential who had nonetheless been taken from him.  He’d already struggled through his crisis of faith, however, and wouldn’t allow the things he could not understand to strip him of it again.  All of them here and all those they loved back East rested in God’s strong and loving hands, and to that conviction he would cling, as trustingly as Little Joe now held to his own hand.

* * * * *

            The rest had all gathered in the parlor after enjoying jelly cake and coffee together and had left Ben alone at the dining table to compose his letter to Adam on a sheet of borrowed stationery.  As he considered how to begin, he chuckled at Clyde’s notion that two letters in one week would spoil his son.  Ridiculous idea!  regular communication of love was the best antidote to spoiling that he knew.  Besides, the territory was changing, almost daily it seemed.  Adam would not only be interested in that, but would feel less a stranger when he finally returned if he’d been kept abreast of those changes.

            With that in mind, Ben started his letter with general news.  He told Adam about recent acts of the Territorial Legislature.  Just this week they’d passed a bill permitting construction of a railroad across Nevada.  “Wouldn’t it be wonderful, son,” he wrote, “if that were completed by the time you returned to us?  Your journey would be so much faster and more comfortable than your recent trip back East.”

            Next, Ben mentioned talk he’d heard recently about plans for a new private school, to be called Sierra Seminary.  “It will be located in Carson City and will offer elementary courses, with some advanced work.  Don’t you wish you’d had that available when you were so eager to learn?  Hoss, of course, doesn’t have your zeal for learning—well, book learning, that is.  He seems to absorb information about the outdoors and animals and ranch work, but still struggles at times with his three R’s.  His friend Pete Hanson is a good influence, though, and Hoss seems to benefit from their studying together.  Maybe it’s just that having someone to share the lessons makes them more enjoyable and, therefore, more likely to stick in his head, but his marks have shown steady improvement this year.”

            He hadn’t meant to get into family news so soon, but decided he might as well proceed with Little Joe’s latest antics, including that frustrating chase through Virginia City earlier in the week.  “Next time, I take a rope,” he vowed to his eldest, who would know an idle threat when he read one.

            Ben wrote, lastly, about the arrival of volunteer forces from California to take over Fort Churchill.  “That means that Mark is headed back East.  After he leaves San Francisco, he’ll be stationed in Washington, D. C., but who knows what the future holds for a soldier in a nation at war?  Keep him in your prayers and write to him, son—Sixth United States Infantry, Company H.  You well know what it’s like for a young man to be away from home, alone, for the first time, and I hope, at least, that our letters have eased that separation for you.  I know yours to us make all the difference, though we continue to miss you.”

            Nelly Thomas came to the doorway.  “Hate to rush you, Ben, but you might want to finish that up and head for home.”

            Ben’s mouth quirked up at one corner.  “Worn out our welcome, have we?”

            Nelly flapped a reproachful hand at him.  “You know better, but it’s starting to snow, so it might be a case of leave now or stay the night . . . which you’re more than welcome to do, of course.”

            Ben stood and hustled over to the window.  Snow was coming down, though not heavily, as yet.  That could change quickly, though, as he knew from experience.  “You’re right.  We’d better leave right away.  I’ll just add a line or two in closing and address this.  Could you get Little Joe bundled up for me?”

            “That’s right: give me the hard job,” Nelly laughed.  Then she said, “Be glad to, and Clyde can post that letter for you.  You just might have a race on your hands with them snowflakes.”

            Ben hurriedly told Adam that it was starting to snow and closed the letter with more assurances of his love.  Then he sealed and addressed it and left it, with a few coins to cover the postage, on the dining table.

            Good-byes said, Ben bundled his boys into the buggy.  Sliding a package of jelly cake slices beneath the seat, he climbed aboard and directed the horses out of town.  They’d barely passed the edge of Carson City when Hoss spoke up.  “I just don’t understand, Pa.”

            “What don’t you understand, son?” Ben asked.

            “Why the army didn’t just send them Californy soldiers back East and leave Mark here, instead of switchin’ everybody back and forth.”

            Ben chuckled.  “Doesn’t seem to make much sense, does it?”

            “No, sir, it sure don’t,” Hoss declared.

            “It’s because we’re dealing with two different kinds of soldiers, Hoss,” his father tried to explain.  “You see, Mark’s with the regular army, which is supposed to be more trained for battle, while the soldiers from California are volunteers, most of whom haven’t been soldiers for very long.”

            “Mark ain’t, either,” Hoss alleged.

            “Better than a year,” his father corrected.  “With the volunteers, it’s more like a few months or even just weeks.  I guess the army figured they’d do better close to home, fighting Indians, if need be, while freeing up the professional soldiers to fight back East.”

            Hoss shook his head.  “Still seems like a powerful lot of marchin’ around for no good reason.”

            Ben reached behind Little Joe to rub Hoss’s back.  “That’s the army for you, son.  Might as well try to argue with the weather.”

            “It’s snowing, Pa,” Little Joe put in at the mention of the weather.  “Lots of pretty snowflakes.”

            “Yeah,” Ben agreed, “and starting to come down heavier, too.  We’d better make tracks for home, boys, before we get snowbound in Washoe Valley.”

* * * * *

            Seven days later the snow was still falling.  The flurries hadn’t been heavy enough to keep Hoss from school the previous week or to keep them from attending church in Washoe City that morning, but he hadn’t been surprised when the Thomases didn’t join them, as they generally did on alternate Sundays.  Carson City was a long, cold drive when snow lay on the ground.  Sometimes they braved it anyway, as he and the boys did on their turn to visit Carson City, but little Inger had shown signs of coming down with a cold last Sunday.  He hoped it hadn’t grown worse, but even if not, her mother wouldn’t want to risk the frosty air for a recovering child.  What did surprise him was the knock at the door after he’d sent the boys upstairs to change after church.  He was even more surprised to see who stood at his door when he answered.  “Sheriff Coffee!”

            Coffee awkwardly twisted his hat in his hand.  “Thought I was invited to dinner.  Did I get the wrong Sunday?”

            “No, no, not at all,” Ben said, opening the door wider.  “I’m surprised, though, that the prospect of a long ride in this weather didn’t dampen your enthusiasm for a home-cooked meal.”  To tell the truth, he had forgotten the invitation he’d extended that frenzied day in Virginia City, but he blamed his lapse of memory on the weather, too.  It had kept him so busy, finalizing preparations for winter, that he’d had little time to think of anything else.

            Coffee grinned.  “Nothing dampens that!”

            “Good!” Ben said enthusiastically, as he closed the door after ushering the sheriff in.  “Come over by the fire and warm up.  I’ll get us some coffee.”  And warn Hop Sing that we have a guest!  No doubt the cook would rant in Cantonese, but he wouldn’t really mind.  He would have planned food with the Thomases in mind, anyway, so there’d be plenty.  There always was.

            Little Joe clattered down the stairs, with Hoss right behind him.  “Howdy, Sheriff,” he called as he jumped on the lower landing with both feet.

            “Howdy,” Roy Coffee chuckled.  He cast a mischievous side glance at Ben.  “I see you’ve managed to keep a rein on him for a mite over a week now.  Sure would’ve hated to chase after the youngun in this weather.”

            Ben moaned.  Everyone of his acquaintance seemed determined to remind him of his failure to keep track of Little Joe.  “Keep it up,” he warned, “and I’ll manage to misplace your share of dessert.”

            “Yeah, you’re right good at misplacin’ things,” Roy snickered; then, seeing Ben’s glower, he decided he’d pushed his luck far enough for a new acquaintance.

            Hop Sing soon called them all to dinner, and after eating a good portion Roy raved about the tender roast beef.  “How’d a Chinaman learn to make Yorkshire pudding?” he asked when the cook was out of the room.

            “Goodness only knows,” Ben laughed.  “I think he’s a regular recipe thief.  Just mention a yearning for some dish in his hearing, and it’s likely to turn up on the table within a week.”

            Roy grinned.  “I’ll keep him in mind the next time I need some detective work done.”

            Ben leaned toward his guest with a conspiratorial whisper.  “I think it only works for recipes.  The only crime he’s interested in is failure to appreciate a good meal.”

            “Not appreciating this meal would be a felony,” Roy declared.

            “I fell on my knee once,” Little Joe announced.  “It bled and everything.”

            “Little Joe!” Hoss scolded.  “It ain’t proper to talk about bleedin’ at the table.”

            “He did,” Little Joe accused, pointing a finger at the sheriff.

            “That’s enough, boys.”  Ben shook his head as he worked to keep his mouth from twitching.  “Never underestimate the ability of a four-year-old to misinterpret anything you say,” he muttered to Coffee.

            The sheriff grinned.  “I’ll take your word for it.  He’s a fine little fellow.”  He smiled across the table at Hoss.  “And his big brother’s a good, strapping boy, too.  The oldest one ain’t around today?”

            “That’s right, you wouldn’t have heard,” Ben said.  “Adam’s back East, attending Yale University.”

            “We miss him,” Hoss added.

            “I can see as how you would,” Coffee said kindly.  “All the way to the east coast, huh?  Reckon he’ll be gone a good, long time, then.”

            “Too long,” Ben agreed and quickly changed the subject.  “Did you save room for dessert?  I believe we’re having dried apple pie.”

            The sheriff poked his stomach with two fingers.  “Yep, there’s a spot right there, so bring it on!”

            “I got a spot, too,” Hoss said with a grin, imitating the sheriff’s gesture.

            Roy Coffee chuckled.  “I figured you would!”  He reached over to poke a tickling finger into Little Joe’s tummy.  “And I reckon there’s another pie-sized spot right . . . about . . . there!”

            Little Joe giggled.  “Pie spot, Pa!”

            “Yes, that makes it official,” Ben said and called, “Four pieces of pie, please, Hop Sing.”

            “Hop Sing hear plenty good without yell all-a time,” the little cook muttered from just beyond the doorway, his favorite spot for eavesdropping during meals.  He quickly produced the pie, however, serving the sheriff first with an approving smile, for he had heard the compliments to his cooking.

            After the pie was consumed and more compliments issued, Ben requested coffee by the fire.  “Do you play chess, by chance?” he asked Roy.

            Roy shook his head.  “Never could get the knack of that, but I play a fierce game of checkers, if you got a board.”

            “We got one!” Hoss cried, springing up to fetch it.

            “Do you have time for a game?” Ben asked as Little Joe clambered up into his lap.

            “I reckon it won’t take long to wallop you a time or two,” Roy replied with an almost wicked grin.

            “We’ll see about that!” Ben retorted to the challenge.  What he soon saw was that the new sheriff from Virginia City was more than a match for him, defeating him soundly in two games.

            Hoss, who had settled companionably next to their guest, proclaimed, “You’re ‘bout as good as Uncle Clyde.”

            “Didn’t know there was any more Cartwrights hereabouts,” Roy said as he set the board for a third match.

            Ben laughed.  “No, just a friend who’s close as kin.  Perhaps you met him when you were deputy in Carson City—Clyde Thomas.”

            Roy’s mouth screwed up in concentration.  “Red-haired fellow?  Walks with a limp?”

            “That’s him.”

            Roy nodded.  “Knew him to speak to, but that’s all.  Wish I’d known he was a checkers player.”

            “Checkers master,” Ben declared, “and I’d love to watch a match between the two of you.”

            “Have to be here,” Roy said.  “I ain’t in Carson much these days.”

            “You’re welcome any time,” Ben assured him, “and if you come on a Sunday, you might find Clyde here, as well.”

            “I’ll look forward to it,” Roy said, “and to more of that fine cooking.”

            With a smile of satisfaction, Hop Sing peered around the corner from the kitchen and disappeared back inside to wash the dishes.

* * * * *

            Ben pulled the collar of his sheep-skin coat up around his neck, thankful for the warmth of its wooly lining.  Snowflakes drifted slowly earthward on the mercifully light wind to join the six inches already there.  He viewed it as a harbinger of fiercer cold to come and felt an urgency to get the weaker cattle and particularly the newly weaned calves into feed lots nearer the house.  The handful of men he was keeping on over the winter had fanned out across the Ponderosa, searching out animals in need of critical care for that purpose.

            Something—an unexpected sound or perhaps just instinct—made him look toward the south, and his eyes squinted as he spotted a group of riders moving toward him.  Too many to be his own men, but he couldn’t imagine any reason for anyone else to be on the Ponderosa, especially in this weather.  The haze in the air at first kept him from distinguishing individual riders; when he did, he felt even more concern.  Sheriff Coffee?  Yes, that was him, with Clyde and Billy Thomas among the group of nine behind him.  He had a fleeting thought that his two friends had met up and decided to hold a checkers match at his house.  Then he shook his head at the ridiculous notion.  A group this large, led by a sheriff, could only mean one thing: official business.

            He waited for the men to reach him and then, to forestall what he was sure was more serious, teasingly asked Roy, “Couldn’t go more than two days without Hop Sing’s cooking?”

            “Wish it were that,” Roy said. “We’re here on—”

            “You’re not in charge here,” another man with a badge pinned to his coat snapped.

            “True enough,” Roy conceded, keeping his voice civil, although Ben could detect a note of irritation at the younger man’s interruption.  “Ben, let me introduce you to Deputy Tim Harrison of Carson City.  Deputy Harrison, Ben Cartwright of the Ponderosa, the land you’re riding on.”

            “I know that,” Harrison growled and then turned to Ben, “and I’m acting sheriff of Carson City, Mr. Cartwright.”  He emphasized the more prestigious title with a glare of offense at Roy.

            Ben’s forehead wrinkled with misgiving, but he asked, more hopefully than expectantly, “Sheriff Blackburn resigned?”

            “Murdered,” Clyde Thomas spoke up, and Billy chimed in, “We saw it!”

            The furrows in Ben’s brow deepened.  He had a thousand questions, but most of them he preferred to ask his friends in private.  To Harrison, he asked only, “You’re after the man who did it?  And you think he could be on my land?”

            “He headed this way,” Harrison said and then asked sharply, “You friendly with William Mayfield, Cartwright?”

            “I don’t even know the name,” Ben answered honestly.

            “Gambler,” Clyde inserted.

            Ben chuckled.  “That explains why I don’t know him.  I’m not attracted to games of chance.”

            “All well and good,” Harrison said brusquely, “but the last word we had placed him this direction.  Of course, the snow’s covered any tracks now.”

            “Have you seen any sign of strangers on your land, Ben?” Roy Coffee asked.

            “Just this posse,” Ben responded.  “I can ask my men, when I meet up with them this evening.”  He glanced up to note the position of the sun, whose light filtered weakly through the cloud-covered sky.  “About three hours ‘til then.”

            “We’ll be using those hours of daylight to search your land,” Harrison announced.  Then, seeming to remember his manners, he added, “Assuming you have no objection.”

            “I have no objection; in fact, I welcome it,” Ben said, “but I would like to ride with you, if only to ensure than you don’t mistake any of my men for this Mayfield or his accomplices, if there were any.”

            “Looking for three men,” Coffee offered, “and I’m sure we’d welcome another posse member, eh, Harrison?”

            “Right,” Harrison agreed, although clearly perturbed with what he considered the other sheriff’s preemption of decisions rightfully his.

            Realizing what time it was, Ben felt a sudden concern knot his stomach.  “Billy, would you do me a favor?” he asked urgently.

            Billy moved forward.  “Sure . . . I reckon,” the young man said a little hesitantly, for he had a feeling this favor might be of the sort to interfere with his own plans.

            “Would you ride over to the Franktown school and see Hoss home safely?” Ben asked.  “I don’t like the idea of him riding home alone with armed assassins lose on my land.”

            “Aw, Uncle Ben,” Billy protested weakly, for he knew in the long run he’d have to do as he was asked, much as he preferred staying with the posse.  Grown man though he now considered himself, he would be expected to show respect for his elders, especially for one as close in affection as Uncle Ben.  “It’s just that I was hopin’ to earn a share of the reward, me bein’ without a job now.”

            “You’re welcome to my share if we find the fugitive before you get back,” Ben offered.

            “Ain’t necessary,” Clyde said firmly.

            “No, not necessary,” Billy agreed quickly, wanting to forestall any further display of parental authority.   He knew full well that Ben would keep any promise he made, so he squared his shoulders, and mostly so the other posse members wouldn’t think he was just giving in to his pa, like a blame kid, he said, “Yeah, you’re right.  Protecting the innocent is more important than catching up with the guilty.  I’ll see to Hoss and then join back up once he’s safe in the house with Hop Sing.”

            “Good thinking, son,” Ben stated firmly, quite willing to feed the young man’s need for esteem in return for the favor.  “Make sure Hop Sing knows the danger, and tell him to keep both Hoss and Little Joe inside—oh, and tell him there’ll be extra mouths to feed for supper.”

            “Right!  Be back soon,” Billy announced and took off.

* * * * *

            Ben knew his boys were safe because Billy had returned to report a mission successfully accomplished, but he still felt a surge of relief when his two younger sons charged out the front door as he rode into the yard at dusk.

            “Did you catch ‘em?” Hoss asked, clearly excited by the prospect of bad men on the Ponderosa.

            Ben scooped an equally animated Little Joe up in his arms.  “No, not yet.  We’ll be going out again tomorrow, so I’d like you to stay home from school, Hoss, and look after your little brother.”

            Looking after Little Joe did not top Hoss’s list of favorite activities, but skipping school certainly did, so he readily agreed to accept the responsibility.

            Since he knew exactly what inspired the easy compliance, Ben smiled, but then turned his attention to the other men dismounting in the yard.  “Sheriff Harrison,” he said, using the title he knew the man preferred, justified or not, “your men are welcome to the use of my bunkhouse, but I can offer you a bed in the house.”  Frankly, he would have preferred to relegate Harrison to the bunkhouse, too, but the man’s position did dictate a little more consideration, even if his presence would add nothing to the congeniality of the rest of the house party.  “There’ll be hot food for everyone soon,” he added and was rewarded with warm smiles and expressions of thanks from the rest of the posse.

            He moved close to Roy Coffee, so that he could say quietly to him, “You’ll stay inside with us, as well, unless you’d prefer the company in the bunkhouse.”  He winked at the sheriff from Virginia City.

            Roy winked back his understanding of Ben’s poke at the almighty “acting sheriff” of Carson City.  “I reckon the company inside will be mostly to my liking,” he whispered back.

            “And you’ll definitely tip the balance to my liking,” Ben chuckled back.

            To his surprise, however, Harrison proved a perfectly pleasant dinner guest.  After the meal was finished, the youngsters were sent upstairs for baths and bed; and even then, as the men began to discuss the incident that had brought them to the Ponderosa, Harrison did not exhibit the need to take charge, seeming willing to let Clyde and Billy describe what had happened two nights before in a Carson City saloon.

            “Pa and me’d been patchin’ the roof on the barn.  Took most of the day, but we finally finished up a mite before supper time,” Billy related.  “To take the chill off our bones, he suggested we traipse over to the St. Nicolas for a drink.”  He tossed his adopted uncle an impish grin.  “Reckon you know how rare it is for Pa to treat to a drink, so, of course, I said yes right quick.”

            “It’s only rare to you, you young scalawag,” Ben snorted.

            “And you can see why,” Clyde chipped in.  “Ungrateful little wretch.”  He grinned when he said it, though, so even those in the room who didn’t know him well realized that his son was actually the proverbial pride and joy of his life.

            “Is that where the killing took place?” Ben asked, surmising that Sheriff Blackburn must have been dealing with a rowdy drunk.

            “Yeah,” Clyde said.  “Me and Billy was in the back corner, at a table by ourselves, and didn’t realize what was happenin’ at first.  Heard later that Blackburn had tried to arrest this Mayfield earlier in the day.”

            “Not exactly right,” Harrison put in.  “Man he was trying to arrest was a fugitive murderer from California, name of Henry Plummer.  We’d heard that Mayfield might be hiding him out, so we’d gone to search Mayfield’s cabin earlier that day—that’d be Monday, Mr. Cartwright.”

            Ben nodded.  He’d gathered as much from the brief conversations exchanged while they’d been searching for Mayfield that afternoon.

            “Mayfield admitted that Plummer had been there, but left,” Harrison continued.  “Then he commenced to taunt the sheriff about it, saying he’d never find Plummer.”  He shook his head with dismay.  “We should’ve arrested him then and there, while we had him outnumbered.”

            “For aiding and abetting?” Roy asked.  “Might have held up in court; might not.”

            “At least, he’d’ve been behind bars,” Harrison grunted, “not free to—”

            “Might have just come for Blackburn later, all the more set on harming him,” Ben suggested.  “Never possible to predict where a different road will lead. . . at least, so I’ve found.”

            “Reckon you’re right,” Harrison conceded.  “Still, I keep asking myself what would have happened if I’d been with the sheriff that night in the saloon.”

            As the man stared soberly into the fire, Ben wondered if his brusque manner throughout the day had been motivated more by the guilt stirred by that unanswered question than by the prideful assertion of his new mantle of authority, as Ben had presumed.  With Clyde or Billy or even Roy Coffee, he might have felt free to speak the thought directly and hopefully provide a fresh perspective to release that guilt, but since Harrison was still a stranger to him, he hesitated and the opportunity was lost.

            “Wouldn’t have mattered,” Clyde said.  “Blackburn had too many friends in that saloon as it was.  Would you have done any different than them?”

            Harrison looked up sharply.  “Yeah, I think I would!” he snapped.  “I had more reason to suspect Mayfield of foul play than them others did.”

            “Sorry.  Wasn’t meaning to cast blame,” Clyde said quickly.  “Everything happened so fast that everyone was just actin’ on pure instinct . . . and their instincts was bad.  Yours might’ve been better, but it still might not have made any difference.  I was there, and there wasn’t a thing I could’ve done to stop it.”

            “We was trapped back in that corner,” Billy explained.  “Heard some sort of argument goin’ on, and when we looked up, Blackburn was reaching for his gun, hollerin’ that Mayfield was under arrest.”

            “The friends with him grabbed his arm, though,” Clyde said.  “Reckon they meant to prevent a fight, but all it did was give Mayfield a chance to come at the sheriff with a Bowie knife.  Stabbed him four or five times before Blackburn got loose and tried to shoot, but he couldn’t before he fell over.”

            “And all those friends weren’t able to prevent Mayfield’s escape?” Ben asked, incredulous.

            “Mayfield had friends, too,” Clyde said.  “They kept the rest of us hemmed in while he got away.  After that, most of us focused on getting help for Blackburn, though it did no good.  A few tried to follow Mayfield, but dark came on and they had to turn back.”

            “Funeral was yesterday morning, and no one would hear of forming a posse ‘til that was past,” Harrison said sourly.  “No tracks to be found by then, of course, so we just headed this way ‘cause that’s the direction he took when he left Carson.”

            “Fittin’ and proper for folks to show their respect for Sheriff Blackburn,” Roy put in.  “That’s what brought me to Carson.  We’ll get Mayfield, Harrison.  Too many respected Blackburn for them to rest easy ‘til his killer’s brought to justice.”

            Ben nodded his agreement.  While he hadn’t personally known John Blackburn well, he knew that, at least earlier in his career, he’d been a respected lawman.  Lately, he’d lost some of his sharpness, due to excessive alcohol consumption, but he’d died in the line of duty and merited the honor due such a man, especially when he had served faithfully for so many years.  “He had a wife, didn’t he?” he asked.

            “A girl of just twenty,” Roy responded, “and a baby girl, no more than seven or eight months old.”  He shook his head, grieved for the man under whom he had once served and for the family left behind.  “It’s a shame,” he said and could say no more without losing control of his emotions.

            Wanting to lighten the atmosphere, Ben turned to Clyde, “My friend, I’ve discovered that our new sheriff from Virginia City just might be able to take you at checkers.”

            Clyde’s eyes lit up with the spark of challenge.  “That so?  Well, now, if’n he ain’t too tired, I just might let him take his best shot at it.”

            The competitor in Roy couldn’t resist.  “Best two of three?” he suggested.  “Then the winner takes whoever wins between Ben and Harrison here?”

            Ben looked over at the acting sheriff of Carson City and saw an awkward frown form.  Correctly guessing that Harrison wasn’t much of a player, he said, “They won’t drag us into this, will they, Harrison?  We’ll leave this battle to the masters.”

            Looking relieved, Harrison readily agreed and settled back to root for Roy, out of loyalty to a fellow lawman.

* * * * *

            After showing his guests to their respective rooms, Ben checked on his sons before turning in himself.  Little Joe was sleeping soundly, his blankets in typical disarray.  Ben untangled them, tucked the boy in snugly, dropped a kiss on his forehead and then moved to the room next door.

            Hoss rose up on his elbows as his father entered.  “Hey, Pa.”

            “Hey yourself, young fellow,” Ben said.  “Having trouble sleeping?”

            Hoss shook his head.  “I—uh—wanted to talk to you, Pa.”

            A son who needed to talk always took precedence over his own need for sleep, so Ben sat down on the edge of the bed.  “What about, son?”

            Hoss twisted the sheet between his fingers.  “Well—uh—it’s about Little Joe.  He’s—uh—kind of worried ‘bout you trackin’ down them bad men.”

            Recalling the peacefully sleeping child he’d just left, Ben raised a skeptical eyebrow.  “He is?”

            Hoss bit his lip.  “Um, yes, sir; you know how he gets when you’re away.”

            Ben smiled.  “I’m not away, Hoss; I’m right here on the Ponderosa.”

            “Yeah, but . . .”

            Ben took his son’s hand.  “I’m not going to take any foolish chances, son, but I can’t let a man like that run around loose on my land.  None of us would feel safe.”  He chuckled as he patted his boy’s soft cheek.  “And you don’t really want to be trapped in the house with Little Joe on a permanent basis, do you?”

            Remembering how hard it had been to keep his restless little brother occupied that afternoon, Hoss winced.  “Not forever . . . just ‘til them men leave.”

            Ben stood up.  “They’re going to do that a lot sooner with encouragement, my boy.”  He tucked the covers up to Hoss’s chin and bent over to kiss him good night.  “You tell Little Joe not to worry,” he said with a wink that told Hoss his father had figured out who was really fretting.  “Tell him his pa knows how to take care of himself.”

            “Yes, sir, I will,” Hoss said.  “Just—just do a good job of it.”

            Ben again promised that he would, gave Hoss another kiss and slipped quietly out.  Smiling and shaking his head, he made his way down the hall to his own room.  Hoss’s protectiveness for him seemed so out of the natural order of things that he found it almost comical, and the thought that his tiny youngest son might share the sentiment bordered on ludicrous.  Still, he mused as he changed into his nightshirt, perhaps it was understandable when he was all his boys had.  He slipped into bed and gently touched the empty pillow at his side.  “I’ll take care of myself . . . for them . . . for you,” he promised.

* * * * *

            Following Ben’s proposed plan, the posse split up the next morning.  He had suggested that the miserable weather might have influenced Mayfield to hole up somewhere, and the snug line shacks of the Ponderosa represented the best shelter near to hand.  “I’ll send one of my men with each pair of posse members,” Ben offered.  “They know where the line shacks are, and that way, there’ll be three men in each group, in case they do run into Mayfield’s bunch.”

            “Even odds,” Roy Coffee said with an approving nod.

            Harrison also agreed.  “A solid plan.  Much obliged for the idea and the help, Cartwright.”

            After assigning each of his hands a line shack to check, Ben teamed up with Sheriff Coffee and a man named John Bartholomew, who had a ranch west of Carson City.

            “Sure hope we find ‘em today,” Bartholomew said.  “Work’s pilin’ up back at my place.”

            “Same here,” Ben commiserated, “but I won’t feel comfortable going back to it until I’m certain the ranch is clear of danger.”

            “I’d feel the same, if it was my place,” Bartholomew assured Ben.

            “Can’t stay away from Virginia City much longer myself,” Roy put in, “so we’re all in agreement: this needs to end today.”

            Ben smiled ruefully.  He’d learned, by oft-experienced frustration, that things didn’t necessarily get done just because they needed to.  He hoped it would prove otherwise today, though, and could only count his blessings that the busier seasons of the ranching year had already passed.

            His group rode north into a biting wind that snaked down their mufflers and up the sleeves of their jackets.  Typical November weather, if weather in Nevada could ever be described as typical, Ben mused.  November temperatures could range from the seventies down to single digits, and skies could vary from clear to the deadly obscurity of a sudden blizzard.  Today was relatively moderate, except for the sharp wind that blew snow from the ground into the air, making it appear to still be falling, when it was actually just being redistributed.

            Knowing that any tracks would long since have been covered by the snow, they didn’t bother looking, but kept their horses to a steady pace as they rode straight for the northernmost line shack.  Ben never wanted it said of him that he had asked another man to do what he would not, so he’d assigned himself the longest ride.  Sheriff Coffee had offered to ride with him, and Bartholomew had just accepted the fact that someone had to make the harder ride and it might as well be him.

            Conversation was held to a minimum because all of them had their mufflers pulled up over their mouths and noses.  During a brief halt, however, Ben pulled his down so that he could take a drink from his canteen.  He started to put the woolen scarf back over his face; then his nose wrinkled as he caught a faint whiff of wood smoke.  He reported it to the sheriff, adding, “It looks like they are holed up in that line shack; it’s about a mile from here, as the crow flies.”

            “How close can we get without being seen?” Roy asked.

            Ben exhaled gustily.  “Well, we try to keep the surrounding trees cut back, to lessen the fire hazard, but we could get fairly close if we came in from the west.  Take longer that way, but probably safer, especially as we’d be coming in at the back side of the shack.”

            “Door on the opposite side?” Roy asked.

            Ben nodded.  “And one window on that side, too.  With a bit of luck, we should be able to get right up to the back wall without being seen.”

            “Sounds good.  Let’s circle around to that side, then,” Roy said and both ranchers concurred.  Though willing to do their civic duty, neither of them were gunmen, and Ben, in particular, was mindful of his promises to Hoss and to Marie to take no foolish chances.

            They altered their course to detour through the trees.  When they drew close to the shack, they dismounted and tethered their animals, for fear that they might scent the fugitives’ horses and reveal the posse’s presence with an ill-timed neigh.  Moving cautiously forward, they came to the edge of the trees and huddled together beneath that final shelter.

            “Walk easy ‘til we get to the back of the shack,” Roy directed.  “Then we’ll move slowly around to the front, the two of you on one side and me on the other.  Is there a lock on that door, Ben?”

            “Just a latch,” Ben replied, “but it can be drawn in.”

            Roy shook his head.  “Might be hard to bust through, if they did that . . . and they probably did.  Wish there was some way to draw them out in the open.”  Neither of the other men suggested anything, so he shrugged.  “Well, at my signal we rush the door together, then, and just pray it gives way quick enough to catch them off guard.”

            Realizing the risks of such a plan, Ben took a deep breath and exhaled a prayer for their safety.  Then, softly and silently, the three men made their way through the cushioning snow to the back of the shack and, once there, began to move around both sides.  Just as they got into position, Ben heard Bartholomew begin to whistle “Dixie” behind him.  “Shh!” he cautioned, but Bartholomew persisted.

            As the door opened, the posse members pulled back to the side, so they wouldn’t be seen.  A man came out the door and looked around.  “No one in sight,” he called back inside, “but I’m sure I heard whistling.”

            Another man appeared in the doorway.  “Aw, you’re hearin’ things,” he snorted.

            “Ain’t, neither!” the first man snapped.  “I heard ‘Dixie.’”

            Gun drawn, Roy rounded the corner.  “Hands up!” he ordered.  “You’re not in the land of cotton, mister; you’re under arrest.”

            Seeing only one man, both of the fugitives slapped leather, but not fast enough to outshoot the sheriff, who winged one man.  Ben fired a warning shot into the air.  The other man swung around to fire on him, and Ben pulled the trigger, hitting the man in the shoulder.  A third man crouched in the doorway, firing first one direction and then the other.

            “You’re surrounded, Mayfield,” Coffee called.  “Give yourself up and we’ll see to it you get a fair trial.”

            A few more shots were exchanged before Mayfield realized the futility of his ammunition outlasting three opponents and threw his gun out the door.  Snapping on a set of handcuffs as Ben and Bartholomew wrestled the wounded men to their feet, Roy asked, “Which one of you had the bright idea to whistle ‘Dixie’?”

            Bartholomew grinned.  “Me, but I wasn’t sure if it was a bright idea or suicide, to be honest, sheriff.  Kept thinking about what you said about getting them out in the open.  Then I suddenly remembered that Mayfield was secesh—no secret to anyone who ever gambled with him—and figured, maybe, if he heard ‘Dixie,’ he’d think it was friends and come out less suspicious.”

            Roy chuckled as he secured the other prisoners.  “You’re right, Bartholomew.  Could just as easily been suicide.  As it is, though, you read them right and we’re alive to tell the tale.”

            Alive to tell the tale.  Ben shook his head a bit ruefully.  As entertaining as the boys would probably find the story, he doubted that this was a tale he’d be telling his sons—at least, not before they turned twenty or thirty.

* * * * *

            Predictably, the boys rushed out the door the minute the posse rode into the yard, prisoners in tow.  Hoss’s eyes widened at the sight of real, live bad men right in the front yard.  “That them?”

            “Yes, son, that’s them,” Ben said, dismounting and lifting Little Joe into his arms.  He waved to Clyde and Billy and another man, who had followed the youngsters out the door.

            Hop Sing scurried out the side door.  “Hot coffee all ready,” he said.  “Sorry not see you in time for stop boys run out.”

            “I’m not sure that’s ever possible,” Ben said with a smile.  “Can you put some sandwiches together quickly, Hop Sing?”

            The cook pointed at the handcuffed men.  “Them, too?”

            Ben glanced at the sheriff.  “Any objection?”

            “Harrison probably would have,” Roy replied with a wry smile, “but I believe in feeding prisoners.”

            “Go in and help yourselves to some of that hot coffee,” Clyde said.  “Me and Billy and the minister here can guard these three.”  He was referring to the third member of his segment of the posse, the man who had preached John Blackburn’s funeral and had been largely responsible for inspiring so many men from Carson City to join the search for the lawman’s killer.

            Ben carried Little Joe inside and headed toward the stairs.  “Come up with me, Hoss,” he said.

            “Doncha want a sandwich, Pa?” Little Joe asked.

            Ben squeezed him tight as he reached the landing and made a left turn to ascend the rest of the stairs.  “I sure do, but they’re not ready yet.  Come up and help me pack.”

            “Pack?” Hoss asked, clambering up behind them.  “You goin’ somewheres, Pa?”

            “Yes, son, I am,” Ben said.  “I’m going to help escort those men back to jail in Carson City, and I’ll stay the night with Uncle Clyde.”

            “Can I go, too?” Hoss asked eagerly.

            “Me, too?” Little Joe pleaded.

            Ben laughed as he made his way down the hall and into his room.  Setting Little Joe on the bed, he said, “No, Hoss.  You have school tomorrow.”

            “I skipped today,” Hoss pointed out.

            Ben shook his head, smiling with amusement as he chucked the boy’s chin.  “All the more reason to show up tomorrow, young fellow.”

            As glum-faced Hoss sat down in a chair, Little Joe bounced on the bed.  “I don’t got school; I can go with Pa!”

            “No, not you, either,” Ben said, wrestling the boy to the mattress and tickling his tummy.  “You are much too young to ride with a posse.”

            Little Joe frowned eloquently.  “I’m much too young for everything,” he complained.

            “I agree,” his father chuckled.  “Well, maybe you’re not too young to pick Pa out a shirt and pants to wear tomorrow.  Think you can do that, Little Joe?”

            “‘Course, I can,” the boy declared and hopped off the bed to forage in his father’s dresser drawers.

            “Just the one night, right, Pa?” Hoss asked.

            “That’s all I’m planning,” his father said, “but something could come up in town.  Don’t fret if I’m not back tomorrow night, son.”

            Hoss pointed at Little Joe.  “Tell him.  You know how he gets . . .”

            “When I’m away,” Ben finished, recalling their conversation of the night before.  He sat on the bed.  “Come here, boys.”

            When they had settled, one on either side, he put an arm around each.  “Now, listen to me good: there will be times when I’m away for a day or two.  It’s just the nature of life out here.  It doesn’t mean that anything’s wrong or that anything bad is happening to your pa.  It just means something has delayed me: bad weather or business I need to tend to or a dozen other things that come up unexpectedly.  But I will come back; I’ll always come back to you, because you boys are my life.  You understand?”

            Both boys nodded, Hoss mostly for Little Joe’s sake and Joe because whatever big brother Hoss did must be right.

            “Good,” Ben said.  “Now, give me your best hugs and kisses and let me be on my way.”

* * * * *

            Ben had originally agreed to ride into Carson with the prisoners simply out of obligation to finish a job he’d started.  As he rode down the street toward the log building that served as the town’s jail, however, he began to realize that taking Mayfield and his accomplices into custody just might have been the easiest part of the job.  Crowds lined the way, cheering Mayfield’s capture, but some voices sounded a more chilling call.  “Why bother locking him up?” a man shouted above the roar.  “String him up to the nearest tree!”

            “Echo the sentiment,” Harrison mumbled.

            Though Ben knew the words hadn’t been loud enough for the crowd to hear, he felt a shiver run up his spine and a fervent wish fill his heart that Roy Coffee had not felt obliged to return to Virginia City that night.  Harrison was a decent man, but was he strong enough to resist the urge for revenge, especially when he had to do so at the risk of his own life?  Ben just didn’t know the man well enough to answer that, and the uncertainty was worrisome.

            Perhaps it was unnecessary, he decided as the acting sheriff had the posse form a cordon flanking the path to the jail’s door.  Harrison prodded the prisoners between the ranks of armed men, who filed into the jail as soon as the lawman had passed inside.

            “You think this place’ll hold us, once our friends get word we’re here?” Mayfield taunted.

            “I think this’ll hold you,” Harrison growled, bringing over a set of irons.

            “You’ll pay for this, Harrison, sure as your hero Blackburn did,” Mayfield snarled.

            Harrison backhanded the man.  “Shut up!  Keep John Blackburn’s name out of your filthy mouth!”  He hit the man again.

            Ben lurched forward to grab Harrison’s arm.  “Stop it, Harrison!  This isn’t the way to honor Sheriff Blackburn.”

            “Rightly said,” declared the minister on the posse.  “I want justice for Blackburn as much as you do, Sheriff Harrison—we all do—but not at the price of injustice, even to such men as this.  That wasn’t Blackburn’s way.”

            Harrison still seethed with anger, but he let himself be pulled away from the prisoner.  “Get him out of my sight,” he grunted, and a couple of posse members quickly put the irons on Mayfield and the other prisoners and led them back to the cells.

            “Two of them need medical attention,” Ben said softly.

            “They’ll get it,” Harrison snapped.  “Somebody fetch Doc Martin.”

            “I will,” Billy offered and moved toward the door.

            “I’ll go with you,” Clyde said, concerned for his son’s safety in the unruly crowd.  “You need us back here, Harrison?”

            “Could use you later,” the acting sheriff said.  “You and the boy and your friend Cartwright can go have yourselves some supper and be back here by eight, if you don’t mind.”

            “Glad to help out,” Ben said.

            “Any of the rest of you willing to help out, stick around long enough for me to work out a schedule,” Harrison ordered.  “We’ll guard these men by shifts through the night.”

* * * * *

            Ben pushed back from the table and patted his stomach.  “Nelly, a superb meal, as always, for which I give heartfelt thanks.”

            Nelly blushed, as pleased with the compliment as if it had been her first.  Much as she liked to hear her cooking commended, however, she found it hard to accept high praise for such a simple meal.  “Sure you wouldn’t rather save your thanks for Sunday?” she asked lightly.

            “You want me to stand up and testify to your excellence in church?” Ben teased.

            She wagged her finger at him.  “I meant no such thing and you know it.  You are still planning to take Thanksgiving dinner with us this Sunday, ain’t you?”

            Ben sobered.  “Still planning to, yes.  As I told the boys this afternoon, though, you never know what can intervene in this territory, whether from wild weather or wild men.”

            “You worried about this Mayfield business?” Clyde asked.

            “I don’t like the looks—or the sound—of that crowd,” Ben admitted.  “I think I’ll head back over to the jail, in case Harrison needs the extra help before time for my turn at guard duty.”

            “Reckon we both should,” Clyde said with a sour scowl.  He didn’t favor leaving his warm hearth tonight, but he felt obligated.  Carson City was his town, so he had more responsibility to see justice done here than Ben did, though he’d be grateful to have his friend’s help.

            “I want a second piece of pie first,” Billy put in, reaching for the pie plate.  “Then I’ll come on down and join you.”

            “Now, don’t all of you need to go crowding in there,” Nelly protested.

            Reading her concern for her son’s safety, especially with a husband already putting himself at risk, Ben agreed, saying, “No need to come before your time, Billy.  A couple of extra men is about all that jail will hold.”  He smiled mischievously.  “Stay here and help your mother with the dishes.”

            Billy shook his head as he eased a slice of dried peach pie onto his plate.  “That’s Inger’s job.”

            “Well, I wouldn’t mind sharing it!” the nine-year-old girl announced with a fling of one strawberry blonde braid over her shoulder.  “Wouldn’t kill you to help out; ain’t like you got any other job.”

            “Hush, now, girl,” Nelly scolded.  “No need to be tauntin’ your brother ‘cause the Pony quit runnin’.  He’ll find work soon enough, and in the mean time he’s a big help to your pa in the smithy.”

            “Right enough,” Clyde said.  “We’ll see you over at the jail around eight, son.  You ready, Ben?”

            “Ready,” Ben replied.

            The two of them bundled into their coats and walked out into the crisp, cold air of the November night.  The wind had died down, but the dropping temperature had formed a crust on top of the snow that crunched beneath their steps.  Carson City was usually quiet during the dinner hour, but tonight the air resounded with angry words, some hissed so low only the speaker’s closest companions could hear them, others shouted loud enough to be heard across the plaza.

            As they neared the jail, Ben and Clyde could hear exuberant strains of “Dixie” from an off-key choir of sorts, assembled in front of the log building.

            “Guess we know which side they’re on,” Clyde grunted.

            “You knew Mayfield had southern sympathies?” Ben asked.

            Clyde spat to one side.  “Couldn’t be around him long without knowing.”

            Ben clucked his tongue.  “Have you been gambling, my friend?  And does sister Nelly know?”

            “I ain’t, so there ain’t nothin’ for her to know,” Clyde snorted.  “Just seen the man around town enough to know who he pals with, and they’re secesh, every one.  Well, either that or fellow gamblers—or both.”

            They pressed through the crowd, ignoring the protests of both factions: Mayfield’s friends calling them blasted Yankees, while the other side hollered for the killer’s hanging.  Ben banged his fist on the jail door and shouted, “Harrison, it’s Cartwright and Thomas.  Let us in.”

            The door opened a crack, and a hand reached out to pull Ben in, with Clyde pushing through in his wake.

            “You’re early,” Harrison said.

            Ben shrugged.  “Thought you could use the help, and I had nothing else to do.”

            “Same here,” Clyde said.  “If you don’t want us, say so.”  Frankly, he wished that Harrison would say exactly that and give him good reason to go home.

            Harrison relaxed.  “No, you’re more than welcome.  Thanks for coming in.”  He glanced out the front window.  “Sorry if I was abrupt.  The noise outside tends to make a man edgy.”

            “Gonna get edgier before morning,” called Mayfield from his cell.

            “Shut up!” Harrison hollered.  To Ben and Clyde, he said, “Noise outside ain’t bad enough, but I got to put up with that.”  He jerked a thumb in the direction of the cell block.

            “You think there’ll be trouble?” Ben asked, just as a knock came at the door.

            “Oh, there’ll be trouble—for you!” came the taunting yell from the cell.  “Blackburn couldn’t hold me, much less this sorry runt.”

            Harrison stormed back to the cell.  “Shut your mouth, Mayfield, before I shut it for you.”

            “Make me,” Mayfield said, spraying spittle into the acting sheriff’s face.

            With his left hand Harrison reached through the bars to grab Mayfield by the shirt and slammed him up against the iron barrier.  Drawing his gun, he held it inches from the prisoner’s face.  “One word, Mayfield; one more word, and it’ll be your last,” he threatened.

            “Harrison, no!” Ben cried, rushing forward.

            “Stay out of this, Cartwright,” Harrison hissed.  “Mayfield’s been asking for this ever since we brought him in.”

            “Stop at once!” rang out an authoritative voice, and Ben spun around to see the governor of the territory, whom Clyde had just admitted.  “I order you to release your hold on that man,” Nye demanded.

            Harrison did, but his chest continued to heave.  “He had it coming, Governor.”

            “A judge and jury will decide what he has coming,” the governor declared, “and if you think otherwise, you are not fit to serve as sheriff.  Give me your gun, Mr. Harrison, and turn in your badge.”

            “You got no right,” Harrison protested.

            “As chief executive of this territory, I have every right.”  James Nye held out his hand.  “Your gun and your badge, sir.”

            Harrison looked around the room for support.  Seeing none, he tossed his gun onto a nearby table and unpinned the star from his chest.  “You’ll be sorry,” he warned.  “Good luck on getting Mayfield to that fair trial you’re so keen on without my help.”  He strode to the door, flung it open and stalked out, slamming the door shut behind him.

            “Good riddance to bad rubbish,” muttered one of the posse members assigned to that guard shift.

            “No, not rubbish,” Ben said quietly.  “He wasn’t all bad, just so loyal to Blackburn that he let it cloud his judgment.”

            “Perhaps,” Nye said severely, “but that makes him unfit for duty.”

            Ben nodded.  “For now.”

            “Yeah, but . . . but who’s g-gonna be in ch-charge now?” asked a young deputy  named Baker, who had served under Harrison.  His anxious face and stammering tongue reflected his obvious concern that the duty would now fall upon his inexperienced shoulders.

            A hush fell over the room, punctuated by the rising roar outside, and all eyes turned to James Nye.  His reflective gaze surveyed the group and finally came to rest on Ben’s face.  “Mr. Cartwright, would you accept the responsibility?”

            Overwhelmed, Ben found his tongue almost as unmanageable as had young Baker.  “I—I’m not a resident of Carson City, you realize?”

            “Only makes you more suitable, in my opinion,” Nye stated.  “No feelings about Mayfield one way or the other—am I right?”

            “You’re right,” Ben agreed.  “He was found on my land, so I helped to bring him in, but that’s all.”

            “Your only interest is in seeing justice done,” Nye reiterated, “and I remember how well you acquitted yourself on our visit to the Paiutes.  I believe you’re the man for this job, Cartwright.”  He stretched out his palm, in which rested Harrison’s badge.  “Will you accept this?”

            Ben’s mind swirled.  To accept that badge seemed tantamount to turning his back on vows made to those most precious to him, but the governor’s deep, dark eyes pleaded so eloquently that he found his fingers, almost of their own volition, closing on the tin star.  “This can’t be permanent,” he said, his voice croaking a bit.  “I have obligations to my own home . . . and family.”

            Nye placed a supportive hand on Ben’s shoulder.  “Just for the night,” he said with a smile.  “I’ve already sent to Ft. Churchill for military support, and I expect them by morning.  I should have told you sooner.”

            “You certainly should have!” Ben laughed in relief.

            “I’ll check back with you during the night,” Nye said as he reached out to shake Ben’s hand.  “You’re not alone.”

            “Be careful out there,” Ben said as the governor prepared to take his leave.

            Shrugging, Nye shook his head.  “No one will bother me.”

            Probably right, Ben thought, as he followed the man out, ready to offer protection, if needed.  Nye was popular, and his previous experience as New York Police Commissioner heightened people’s respect, especially regarding law enforcement.  Suddenly, the weight on Ben’s shoulders didn’t seem as heavy, even though he could hear the crowd buzzing with questions like “Who’s that?” when they saw him sporting the sheriff’s badge.  He didn’t feel obliged to answer; in fact, if pondering that kept them from stewing over the Mayfield mayhem, so much the better.

            A lanky young body pushed through the crowd while it was distracted by Nye’s departure and conjectures about the new lawman.  “What’s going on?” Billy asked, tapping the badge on Ben’s shirt.

            “Get inside,” Ben ordered crisply.

            “Yes, sir!”  Billy popped a sassy salute, but when he saw Ben glower at him, he sobered and moved quickly for the door.

            Ben backed through after him, exhaling with gusty relief as the door closed behind him.

            “What’s going on?” Billy asked again.

            “Your Uncle Ben’s decided to turn lawman,” the boy’s father announced with a lopsided grin.   “He’s the new sheriff of Carson.”

            “Acting sheriff—and only for one night,” Ben reminded him firmly.

            “What happened to Harrison?” Billy asked.

            After a brief explanation Ben addressed the men gathering around him.  “I’m sure any of you could have handled this job as well as I,” he said.

            “Don’t know as I could have,” Baker admitted.  “I only signed on as deputy last week, and I ain’t never seen the likes of that crowd out there.”

            “Out there’s where they’re going to stay, son, so don’t worry about them,” Ben advised.  “Now, does anyone know the schedule of guards that Harrison had worked out?”

            “I do,” Baker said and proceeded to fill the new acting sheriff in on who was expected to return and when.

            “Whatever else may be said about him, Harrison knew how to organize,” Ben observed.

            “Harrison was a fool to think he could fill Blackburn’s shoes,” came a jeering voice from the cell, “and you ain’t even fit to walk in Harrison’s, rancher man.”

            His two cohorts chortled with glee at the jest.  Imagine that fool governor thinking a mere rancher could hold them in line!  “Is he even fit to traipse after cows?” one hooted.

            “I’d advise you to keep your mouths shut,” Ben warned.

            “Or what, mister?  You’ll ram your gun barrel down it, like Harrison did?” Mayfield heckled.  “Don’t do it in front of the governor or you’ll get yourself fired, too, and then who’ll these brave souls get to lead them?”

            Refusing to be baited, Ben smiled judicially as he shook his head.  “No, but I might consider putting a gag down your throat—and I doubt the governor would object.”

            The laughter died down in the cells, and Mayfield threw himself down on his cot, feigning a sudden desire for sleep.

            Sleep was a luxury not afforded Ben or his assistants throughout that long night.  The noise outside ebbed and flowed like waves on the ocean he used to sail, without the rhythmic comfort of their lapping against the sides of the ship.  Ben kept a steady watch through the window, while the others inside dealt with the tension in whatever way they could.  Restless Billy couldn’t sit still, even when his father sharply ordered him to “stop that confounded pacing.”  Baker handled his nerves by constantly talking about them, while others tried to relax by swapping yarns or retelling their favorite Dan Dequille quaint from the Territorial Enterprise.

            “Sure wish there really was an ammonia tank hat like he wrote about,” one man said.  “Would have come in handy to keep my head cool, crossin’ the Forty-Mile Desert.”

            “Yeah, but you gotta remember what happened to the inventor,” Clyde reminded them.

            The other man slapped his leg.  “Couldn’t shut the blasted thing off and froze to death, with an icicle drippin’ off his nose!”

            “Even with it bein’ a hun’erd seventeen in the shade!” another recalled.

            Loud as the hoots of laughter were, they couldn’t drown out the noise from outside, which suddenly rose to a level of frenzy unheard before.

            Rushing over to stand by Ben, Billy tried to see out the window.  “They comin’?” he asked anxiously.

            Ben peered earnestly through the spattered window.  “No,” he said, “they’re fighting among themselves.”  He moved for the door.

            “What you doin’?” Clyde demanded.

            “Let ‘em kill each other off, if’n they’s a mind to,” said another man, who’d been as fidgety as Billy, if not more.

            “I can’t do that,” Ben grunted, and he slipped through the door, shutting it behind him.  For a moment he stood, surveying the situation.  Too busy battling each other, the opposing factions ignored him until he pointed his rifle to the sky and fired.

            As one, the crowd turned toward him.  “Neighbors, this behavior isn’t gaining any of you what you want, and it needs to stop now.”

            “Who do you think you are, mister?” called a spokesman, pushing his way to the front.

            “Just some rancher, mixin’ in where he don’t belong,” another man snorted.  “This is a Carson City matter, Cartwright, so why don’t you hightail it back to the Ponderosa afore you get hurt?

            “Yes, I’m a rancher,” Ben agreed, “but there’s one thing you need to remember about ranchers.”  He paused until he had everyone’s full attention and then raised his rifle, though careful not to point it at anyone in the crowd.  “Ranchers grow proficient in the use of firearms, in providing both meat for our tables and protection for our land.  Mayfield learned that the hard way, and so will any man who tries to take him from custody—for whatever purpose.”

            “Words I’d give heed to, gentlemen,” said Governor Nye as he mounted the steps to stand beside Ben.  “I advise you all to disperse and go to your own homes.”  He turned toward Ben.  “Shall we go inside, Sheriff Cartwright, and give our friends the opportunity to mull over your wise words?”

            “I trust they will,” Ben said loudly enough for the crowd to hear him.  Matching the courage shown by the governor, he turned his back on the murmuring men below him, and they walked into the jail together.

            He exhaled with relief as soon as the door shut behind them.  “Governor,” he said, stretching out his hand, “I was never happier to see you.”

            “I said I’d be back,” Nye reminded him as he returned the handshake, “but it seemed to me you had the situation well in hand.”

            “Maybe, maybe not,” Ben said.  “Nevertheless, thank you for your timely intervention.”

            Nye made his way to each man there, gave them words of commendation and encouragement and then took his leave again.  As promised, he returned every couple of hours to ascertain that all was well and to lend his support.  The crowd seemed to quiet down after Ben’s confrontation with them, and from his frequent observations through the window, he thought the numbers had dwindled, as well, especially as midnight approached.  The men taking turns at the guard post were able to enter and exit without hindrance.  Some elected to stay, once they arrived, catching a few winks by turn; but others, like much of the crowd outside, evidently decided that it was time to be in their beds and seemed content to let others decide the outcome of the night.

            To Ben, the night seemed endless, and despite the people surrounding him, he felt alone—alone in the responsibility and alone with thoughts and feelings that sent him reeling from one extreme to the other, like a drunken sailor.  Fear battled with intrinsic courage, pride in the governor’s confidence in him with undulating feelings of inadequacy, hopes for a larger role in territorial affairs with the guilt of potentially leaving his children orphans.

            Finally, the first faint light of daybreak disclosed a sight Ben’s eyes had searched for throughout the long, lonely night.  He turned from the window and smiled at the men who had stayed with him during those dark, tense hours.  “The soldiers from Ft. Churchill are here,” he said. “Rouse the others, so we can turn this responsibility over to them in an orderly manner.”

            “Turnin’ it over to ‘em will be a pleasure,” Clyde said with a grin as he shook the shoulder of his slumbering son.

            “Heads high, men,” Ben said as fifteen soldiers formed a line in front of the jail and a lieutenant stepped toward the door.  “You’ve done work to be proud of this night.”

            The men, civilians though they were, formed a line almost as regimented as that of the soldiers.  Eyes shining with pride in them, Ben turned and opened the door.  “Lieutenant,” he greeted the man approaching him, “you are a sight for sore—and I do mean sore—eyes.”

            The lieutenant stepped through the door and introduced himself.  “We are proud to assist you, Sheriff Harrison.”  He seemed surprised by the round of laughter that met his greeting.

            “I’m not Harrison,” Ben explained.  “He—uh—had to resign suddenly.  Governor Nye appointed me to take his place, just until you arrived.  My name is Ben Cartwright.”

            Looking dazed, the lieutenant absently accepted the hand Ben extended.  “Resigned?  But I was told to report to Harrison,” the lieutenant almost babbled; then military discipline reasserted his self-control, and he asked with an authoritative voice, “Is there no lawman here at all?”

            “Just me,” young Baker admitted hesitantly.  “I’m the deputy—the new deputy.”  The very way he said the word “new” emphasized his lack of experience and confidence.

            “The rest of us are just volunteers, lieutenant,” Ben explained, “and more than pleased to turn this responsibility over to the professionals.”

            The lieutenant nodded crisply.  “The professionals will be more than pleased to accept the responsibility until such time as sufficient local law enforcement can be established.”

            The turnover was handled efficiently, and soon the men who had guarded the three prisoners throughout the night were on their way home for some much-needed sleep.  At Clyde’s invitation, Ben borrowed a bed for a few hours’ rest, but he refused Nelly’s insistence that he should stay the night before returning home.  “The boys will be worried,” he said, and she let him go without further argument after obtaining his promise to return with his sons for a meal of Thanksgiving on Sunday.

* * * * *

            “Pass me some more of that goose Billy shot, please,” Hoss requested.

            “You are a goose,” Inger Thomas tittered.

            “Mind your tongue, Inger,” her big brother ordered.

            “You’re not the boss of me,” the girl declared, letting about a quarter inch of her tongue slip out in Billy’s direction.

            “Well, I am,” her father thundered, “and I won’t have you sassin’ a guest.”

            “It’s just Hoss,” Inger mumbled, so low that no one but Hoss heard her.  He just scowled at her and took the plate Billy was passing to him.

            “Now, Clyde,” Ben said.  “She’s only teasing.”

            “Manners is manners,” Clyde insisted and Ben nodded.  He would have demanded no less of his own boys, had this meal been held at the Ponderosa.

            “Just don’t see why anyone would pick Billy’s old goose over that fat turkey,” Inger said.

            “I’ve frequently wanted to cook Billy’s goose,” Ben observed dryly.

            “Ma does a better job,” Billy thrust back with a saucy grin.

            “I want ‘em both!” Hoss exclaimed with enthusiasm.  “Goose and turkey.”

            “Me, too,” Little Joe chimed in.  “Goose and turkey, just like Hoss.”

            “You’d best eat what’s already on your plate before asking for more, Little Joe,” Ben said with an indulgent chuckle.  He was so thankful to be safely back with his boys that either one of them could have gotten away with just about anything short of—murder, he might ordinarily have finished that phrase, but with Blackburn’s death and its dangerous aftermath so recent a memory, murder was nothing to joke about.

            Ben counted himself among the most blessed of men.  It had been a difficult year, no denying that, but there had been bountiful blessings, too.  The nights still seemed lonely without Marie at his side, but he had his boys: here at home, Hoss and Little Joe with all their challenges and charms and Adam off at school, doing him proud.  He had life—vibrant, promising life—and family and friends to help him enjoy it.  If there were times he still yearned for more, he could only trust that God, in ways known only to Him, would satisfy every desire of his heart.

~ ~ Notes ~ ~

            In November, 1861, California volunteers replaced the regular army at Fort Churchill, so the Sixth Infantry could be sent to the eastern battle zone.

            John Blackburn was stabbed and killed on November 18, 1861, by William Mayfield under the circumstances described in this chapter.  Although Harrison is a fictional character, Governor Nye did have to disarm a former deputy and send to Ft. Churchill for a military guard, as depicted here.  Mayfield was tried and convicted on February 28, 1862, but escaped on March 15^th.  He was eventually killed in a saloon brawl in Montana.

            Dan De Quille was the pen name for William Wright, a man more esteemed in his time than his colleague on the Territorial Enterprise, Samuel Clemens.  His “quaints” entertained the newspaper’s readers with a gentler humor.  A contemporary contrasted the two in this way:  “Mark Twain, with his droll humor, would lead his victim up to the shambles he had in waiting for him and the unconscious creature would never suspect what was going to happen until the ax fell.  But Dan had a softer way.  The intended victim would know all the time after the first ten lines that he was going to be sacrificed, but he was under a spell, enjoyed the process, and laughed after he was downed."  Today, De Quille is best known for The Big Bonanza, his history of the Comstock Lode, although collections of his humorous works are also available.

CHAPTER NINE

Follow the Star

            Forehead furrowed in thought, Ben nibbled the end of his pen.  He couldn’t recall when he’d had such trouble writing a letter to Adam.  Ordinarily, there was so much going on that there scarcely seemed room enough on a sheet of stationery to tell all the news, but after the excitement of the previous week, this had been a quiet one.  Even Little Joe hadn’t pulled any shenanigans!  Once Ben had described their Thanksgiving feast with the Thomases the previous Sunday, there just didn’t seem to be much else worth writing, unless he related that miserable business with Mayfield, and he found himself strangely reluctant to remind his oldest son just how violent and dangerous a land Nevada could be.  He finally added a paragraph about how warm the weather had been and then scowled at the words he’d written.  News really was scarce if he’d been reduced to writing about the weather, unusual as it was to have warm days at this time of year.

            When Enos Montgomery had returned from town with a copy of the Territorial Enterprise just before supper, Ben had hoped that he’d find some news to share, but other than the heavy wind blowing down the Catholic Church in Virginia City on Sunday night, there hadn’t been much he’d thought would interest Adam.  The Territorial Legislature had been busy passing laws, all right, but he didn’t think marriage and divorce, much less statutes on miscegenation an appropriate topic to discuss with a young man.  Adam would be as outraged as he to learn that marrying any Chinese, Indian or Negro now carried a penalty of up to two years in jail.  For lack of anything else to share, Ben lifted his pen to write that anyway and then, shaking his head, laid it down.  No need for Adam to worry about such things.  Nothing he could do about it, so he wouldn’t risk distracting the boy from his studies to no good purpose.

            He finally ended the letter with a few questions about how Adam was doing, whether that eating club of his had provided a good Thanksgiving meal, if he thought he’d do well on his upcoming term exams and if he had any plans during the holiday break.  He addressed and sealed it and laid it aside with intentions of sending it back to town with the Thomases tomorrow afternoon or, if the weather turned bad suddenly and hindered their coming to Sunday dinner, with Hoss on Monday, when he rode into Washoe City after school.

* * * * *

            Billy Thomas sliced into Hop Sing’s tender roast beef.  “Hey, Uncle Ben, you want anything brung back from California?”

            “California?” Ben chuckled as he speared a chunk of roasted potato and one of carrot onto his fork.  “Who’s going to California this time of year?”

            “Me!” Billy announced and popped the beef into his mouth.

            “Me, too,” Little Joe burbled.

            Billy almost choked on his mouthful of meat.  “Not on your life.”

            “Or on yours,” Ben scoffed.  “It’s rather late in the year for that sort of excursion, son.”

            “Yeah, I know,” Billy admitted, “but the weather’s holdin’ fine.”

            “Could change any minute,” his mother scolded.  “I said all along this was a fool notion, and you can see that Ben agrees with me.”

            “Don’t drag Ben into this,” Clyde said.  “We been all over it, and the boy’s old enough to make up his own mind.  I think the weather’ll hold, and if it don’t, I reckon he knows how to handle hisself.”

            Ben nodded.  Billy was young, but he did know the ways of the land, including how to protect himself in inclement weather.  If Clyde had already agreed to the trip, there wasn’t much point in arguing; so, although he secretly agreed with Nelly that Nevada’s winter weather wasn’t to be trusted, he asked conversationally, “Is this a pleasure trip or do you have some serious shopping . . . or sparking . . . to do?”

            “Got hired to haul in a load of supplies,” Billy explained, “but there’d be room if you wanted me to bring back something . . . special.”  He grinned as his gaze flicked significantly between Hoss and Little Joe.

            Ben stifled his own telling smile.  “Well, maybe,” he agreed, thinking that he’d like to show the boys an especially fine Christmas this year.  “How far you going?”

            “Just to Sacramento,” Billy said.  “Not as many fancy goods to choose from, but I wouldn’t want to risk going as far as San Francisco.”

            “Glad to hear you’ve got some sense,” Ben chuckled.

            “Precious little,” Nelly groused.

            “None I ever seen,” Billy’s sister chirped.

            “Me, neither,” Hoss piped in with a conspiratorial wink at the little girl.

            “Reckon I won’t be loading any extra sweetening, then, seein’ as how you likely don’t think I got the sense to pick out any prime candy,” Billy said, wrinkling his nose at Hoss.

            “Come to think of it, I reckon you got lots of sense,” Hoss said hurriedly, “especially when it comes to candy.”

            “Maybe a mite,” Inger added coyly.  “Bringing me something extra nice might raise my opinion.”

            “Who says I give two cents for your high opinion, little sis?” Billy retorted with a yank on her braid that produced the expected squeal.

            “You want mine, don’t you?”  The look on Hoss’s open face was practically pleading.

            Billy laughed.  “I reckon as how I might, on account of us bein’ pals.”

            “Good pals,” Hoss affirmed, and Little Joe echoed the same words.

            “I’ll make you a list of what I’d like,” Ben chuckled, resolving then and there to add some extra “sweetening” to it.

* * * * *

            An old frontier adage said that only fools and tenderfeet tried to predict the weather, but Billy had proven a pretty good prognosticator.  Or maybe, Ben mused, another old adage, God looks after fools and little children, applied in this case.  At any rate, the happy-go-lucky redhead ran into no foul weather on his trip to Sacramento, and he returned safely with everything Ben had requested and, to forever insure Hoss’s high opinion of his sense, a carefully wrapped package of Ludmilla Zuebner’s best apple strudel.  “Feels like Christmas already!” Hoss had declared when Hop Sing served the pastry for dessert that night.

            It began to feel even more like Christmas the next day, at least to those who favored a white wonderland for the season.  No sooner had Billy made his deliveries to the Ponderosa than the snow started down with a vengeance to make up for all the warm days before.  And it didn’t stop for ten days . . . ten long days.  Ben thought he would go stark, raving mad with two active boys cooped up inside that long.  As he had once before, he conserved their wood supply by building a fire only in the kitchen on the worst days.  The memories aroused were bittersweet, for the last time Marie had shared this confinement with him, and her presence had eased the challenge of keeping the boys occupied.

            Hoss needed to keep up with his schoolwork, so Ben decided to turn the kitchen into a makeshift schoolroom.  For lack of anything else to do with Little Joe, he began giving the little lad reading lessons from Adam’s old primer.  When he caught Hop Sing repeatedly peeking over the boy’s shoulder, he invited the cook to join the class, and somehow Hank Carlton from the bunkhouse heard about the lessons and asked if he could join in, too.  “Why not?” Ben said, and soon the kitchen was so crowded that Hop Sing grumbled that he had no room to cook when mealtimes arrived.  “We’ll work around you,” Ben assured him.  “This is your domain, Hop Sing, and what you say goes.”

            His honor satisfied—even inflated, Ben feared—Hop Sing decreed exactly when lessons could take place and when it was time for men to do chores and bundled-up boys to play games of hide-and-seek in the cold regions of the house.

            Somehow, they survived, and on the morning of December 22^nd, Ben welcomed the sun and the cloudless sky.  “Snow or no snow, we’re going to church,” he declared.  Not only did he feel the need for spiritual replenishment, but the outing would hopefully burn a bit of his boys’ boundless energy.  He found himself whistling “Joy to the World” as he hitched the horses to the sleigh; then, piled beneath lap robes, the three Cartwrights sang one exuberant Christmas carol after another all the way to Washoe City.

* * * * *

            Sitting on the hard wooden pew, Little Joe swung dangling legs back and forth, and then, for variety, began alternately pulling them apart and bringing his heels together with a satisfying smack.

            Ben grunted as one of those little shoes barked his shin, and he made a restraining grab for the errant legs.  Bending down, he whispered, “Be still, Little Joe, and pay attention to the preacher.”

            Little Joe frowned eloquently until a stern glance from his father made him straighten up and rivet his eyes on the man in the pulpit.  Paying attention to the preacher was not his idea of the best way to spend a Sunday morning.  It was a far sight better than having his britches tanned, though, so he kept his feet painfully still and tried to look like he was listening.  Suddenly, his eyes brightened with genuine interest.  The preacher was talking about three men coming from the East.  East!  That’s where Adam was!  Maybe Adam was one of them; maybe he was coming home for Christmas!

            Beside his brother, Hoss tried to concentrate earnestly on what the preacher was saying.  Unlike Joe, he knew that the three men were from much further east than Adam had gone and from a long time past, back when Baby Jesus was born.  Reverend Bennett was saying that they needed to be like those wise men, to go looking for Baby Jesus, to follow the star of Bethlehem until it led them to the Savior.  “Which star is it, Pa?” he asked when they’d loaded into the sleigh and headed for home.

            “What?” asked his father, pulling the reins away from the grasping fingers of his youngest son.

            “The star Reverend Bennett wants us to follow,” Hoss explained.  “Which star is it?  Can we really see it, still today?”

            Ben chuckled.  “No, son, not exactly.  The reverend wasn’t speaking of a literal star.  He meant to follow the light of God’s Word and let it lead you to the Lord.”

            “Oh,” Hoss said, satisfied.

            “Adam’s following that star,” Little Joe piped up cheerily.

            Ben smiled wistfully as he thought of his eldest sitting reverently in chapel at Yale College, worshipping there as they had in church here.  “I certainly hope so.”  He tweaked Joe’s tiny nose.  “And I hope you will, too, wiggle worm.”

            Little Joe cocked a puzzled glance at his father.  Then he pointed a tentative finger.  “East—Haven—Adam.”

            Ben eased the horses around a curve in the road.  “What?  Oh, yes—yes, of course, Adam’s east, in New Haven.”  He exhaled gustily.  He couldn’t count the number of times he’d heard that particular litany in the last three months, and he was half-sorry he’d ever taught that trailside geography lesson to Little Joe.  Certainly, the child needed to learn his directions and how to chart his course by the stars, but perhaps—for his own sanity—he should have held that lesson back a couple of years.  “That’s enough chatter, boys,” he said firmly.  “Time we got home . . . before Hop Sing throws a fit.”

* * * * *

            Hop Sing did, indeed, pitch a fit, as he tended to do when anyone was a minute late for mealtime.  The Cartwrights, oldest to youngest, appeased him by giving due diligence to the food on their plates, so it was not until the cook had cleared the table that Little Joe asked eagerly, “When’s Adam comin’?”

            Ben gazed blankly at the boy and then said gently, “Son, we’ve told you again and again that Adam will be back East for four years.  I know it’s hard for you to comprehend how long that is, but it’s a very long time, Little Joe.”

            Little Joe stared back at his father.  “It’s not long ‘til Christmas, is it?”

            “No,” Ben chuckled, amused by, although grateful for, the abrupt change of subject.  “That’s only three days.”

            “I thought so,” Little Joe said with a bounce, “and that’s when Adam’ll be here—for Christmas!”

            Ben shook his head in consternation.  Not a fortuitous change of subject after all, then, just a complete muddling of the things his youngest wanted most.  He reached out to stroke the little lad’s curls with a comforting hand.  “No, Joseph.  I’m sorry, but Adam will not be coming home for Christmas.  It’s too far, sweetheart.”

            “Yeah, punkin,” Hoss added.  “Don’t you remember?  Adam never did come home for Christmas, even when he just went to school in Sacramento, and that was a heap closer than where he is now.”

            Little Joe’s head bobbed and he pointed a finger toward the west.  “Mountains that way . . . and snow.  That’s why.”

            Ben pointed the opposite direction.  “Mountains that way, too . . . and snow and plains and rivers and more mountains and more snow.  It’s a very long way, Joseph.  I know how much you want to see your brother—goodness knows, I do, too—but he simply cannot come home for Christmas.  It’s too far.”

            “He is, Pa!” Little Joe insisted.  “The preacher said so, and he don’t lie.”

            Ben stared at the earnest face, trying to fathom how even as overactive an imagination as Little Joe’s could have interpreted the morning’s sermon as having anything to do with his older brother.  Failing completely, he finally asked, “Joseph, what are you talking about?  The reverend didn’t so much as mention your brother Adam.”

            Little Joe folded his arms.  “He did!” he exclaimed.  “You didn’t pay ‘tention!”

            “I didn’t pay attention?” Ben sputtered.  He turned to Hoss.  “Did you hear anything about your older brother in that sermon?”

            “Nope, not a word,” Hoss assured him.  “The youngun’s gone plumb crazy, Pa.  It ain’t like the sermon was about the garden of Eden.  At least, there’s an Adam in that one.”

            “Yes, but how did this child manage to hear ‘Adam’ when the reverend spoke of nothing but the three wise men this morning?”

            “From the East,” Little Joe chimed in excitedly.  He held up one finger.  “Adam”—he lifted another thoughtfully—“and his friend”—he raised a third finger, beaming—“and one more—all coming for Christmas.”  He smiled brightly.  “We got ‘nough beds or we gonna need a pallet?”

            Ben dropped his head into his hands, his fingers kneading his temple, where a dull ache was starting to form.  “You—you think your brother is one of the three wise men?” he croaked, finally making the connection.

            Hoss snickered.  “Well, Adam is mighty smart, Pa.”

            Ben reared up to glare at his middle son.  “That was not helpful, Hoss!”

            Hoss gulped and shrunk back.  “Sorry, Pa.”

            Ben lifted Little Joe and set the child in his lap.  “Baby, I don’t know how you got such an idea in your sweet little head, but Adam is not one of the wise men from the Bible.”

            Little Joe pointed in approximately the correct direction.  “Adam—east—Haven,” he said, his voice almost a whimper.

            “Yes, I know,” Ben soothed patiently, “but the wise men the preacher was talking about are not from New Haven, and Adam is definitely not one of them.”

            Little Joe’s lower lip trembled.  “He—he is,” he insisted with a quavering voice.

            “No, he is not,” Ben said firmly, “and that’s the last I want to hear on the subject.” 

            Little Joe wiped away the single tear trickling down his cheek and pressed his face into his father’s vest.

            Ben was overcome with instant remorse.  “Oh, baby,” he cried, cradling the crop of chestnut curls close to his heart.  “Pa didn’t mean to be harsh with you.  I just don’t want you to build your hopes up to a bigger hurt later on.  Hush now,” he soothed as he felt the little body quivering against his chest.  “You’ll have a merry Christmas, even though Adam can’t be here.”  Later, as he tucked a still inconsolable Little Joe into bed, he wondered if that were true.  With Marie gone and Adam away, there were two holes in the heart of this family that no amount of holiday merriment could fill.  But he’d do his best for the two precious boys who would be here with him this Christmas, and if his own heart could not be whole, somehow he would see to it that theirs were.

* * * * *

            Knees hugged tight to his chest and tiny toes tucked under the hem of his nightshirt, Little Joe huddled in the cushioned rocker beside his bed and contemplated the dream that had awakened him.  It hadn’t exactly been a nightmare, like the ones he’d had after Mama died and right after Adam left, but it bothered him.  It left him feeling that something was wrong and he needed to fix it, but he didn’t know how.

            The dream had made him happy at first, for he’d seen his oldest brother in it.  Adam was sitting at a desk in a room Little Joe had never seen before, but he knew it had to be where Adam was staying back East, just as Joe knew, though he’d never met him, that the other boy in the room had to be Adam’s old friend Jamie, ‘cause that’s who Adam lived with now.  Jamie was trying to talk to Adam about going home for Christmas, but Adam wasn’t paying any attention.  He just kept his nose stuck in a book, the way he used to when he was here at home.

            That’s when the dream had started to bother Little Joe.  He had never liked Adam doing that—except when he was reading a story to his little brother, of course.  Adam read stories real good, ‘most as good as Pa—and even better than Mama, although the youngster felt a moment’s disloyalty at such a thought.  No, he decided, Mama wouldn’t mind him thinking Adam read better, ‘cause he really did; he just didn’t do it often enough.

            He wasn’t reading a story in the dream, either.  Little Joe could tell, ‘cause the book was one of those big thick ones that Adam liked and no one else did.  Well, except maybe Jamie, since he was back East at that same school and seemed to be a lot like Adam, from what Joe had heard.  Even Jamie, though, was ready to quit the books and take time for Christmas, but not Adam.  “It’s too far,” Little Joe heard his big brother say.

            Just then a man all dressed in red with white fur had come bursting into Adam’s room.  “It’s not too far!” the man, who could only be Santa himself, cried.  “We only have to follow the star!”

            In the dream Adam had shaken his head sadly and said, “It’s not a real star,” and then he’d gone back to that awful book.  That’s when Little Joe had awakened, not with a scream, as if it had been a real nightmare, but with an anguished whisper, “It is a real star, Adam.  It is, and you’re s’posed to follow it home—you and Jamie and Santa, too.”    Frown lines deepened in the child’s forehead as he worried whether Santa could convince Adam the star was real or Adam would convince Santa it was not.  If that happened, there wouldn’t be any Christmas at all at the Ponderosa, and that horrid thought was enough to propel the little boy out of the rocker.

            Bare feet pattered across the icy floor, down the hall and into the empty room across it.  Little Joe rushed to the window of Adam’s room, and climbed into the chair beneath it to peer out through the frosty pane.  He’d always felt like he could see more through Adam’s window than his own, the view from which was largely obscured by tall pines.  He looked up into the heavens and smiled as he spotted the North Star.  “See, Adam?” he whispered as he tapped the glass.  “There it is.  That’s the star that’ll lead you home.  Pa says so.  He taught Hoss and he taught me.  Didn’t he teach you?  Or did all that book learnin’ push the ‘portant stuff out of your head?”

            Little Joe nodded soberly.  That must be it.  There was only so much room inside a person’s head, and Adam had pushed in so much book learning that there wasn’t room for the star lesson anymore.  That must be why Pa had only said that he hoped Adam was following the star.  Pa couldn’t be sure that Adam would still remember, and it looked like he’d been right to worry.

            Then Little Joe remembered what Pa had said right after that, and his countenance lifted.  Pa had said that he hoped Little Joe would follow that star, too, and the little boy suddenly realized that the same star that should have led Adam home could lead him straight to Adam.  Adam had forgotten how to follow the star, and what Pa had meant, though he hadn’t said it straight out, was that he was hoping Little Joe would follow it to Adam and bring him home for Christmas.  Adam and Jamie and Santa, too—they were the three wise men coming from the East, and it was Joe’s job to get them here!

            With a gasp at the awesome responsibility, Little Joe hopped down from the chair and hurried back to his room to ready himself for the journey.  He dressed as quickly as he could, for the room was cold and it would be colder still outside under the stars.  Then he scurried to gather extra clothes.  Pa had said it was real far to Haven, so it would probably take a couple of days to get there—and it was only three days ‘til Christmas.  He really needed to hustle!

            Little Joe’s fingers fumbled as he unbuttoned the case from his pillow.  He wasn’t good with buttons, and this was taking much too long.  He had to have something to carry things in, though, and the pillowcase was the best he had.  He needed saddlebags, of course, like Pa and Hoss had, but theirs would be too big for him.  Little Joe smiled vibrantly.  Maybe he’d have a chance, on the way back, to talk to Santa Claus about his need for saddlebags—and a horse to go with them.  If anyone could talk Pa into that, it would be Santa, but the important thing now was to get to Adam and bring him home for Christmas.  That’s the only present I really need, Joe thought, ‘cept it’d be nice if Mama could come, too, just for Christmas Day.  Adam and Mama, home for Christmas—that’d be the perfect present!  You listenin’, Santa?

            Little Joe put the loaded pillowcase over his shoulder, looking like a miniature Santa himself as he slipped quietly out of his room and tiptoed down the stairs.   He could not have explained why he sensed such a need for stealth since he was supposedly carrying out his father’s wishes.  Perhaps at some deep level he knew that he was twisting Pa’s words to mean exactly what he wanted them to mean, but Little Joe was too young to analyze what made him act as he did.  He just felt strongly that what he was doing was right, but that at the same time it was something he should do very, very secretly.

            Secretly described the way he entered the kitchen, too, peering cautiously around the doorjamb from the dining room.  Though it was the middle of the night, he wouldn’t have been surprised to find Hop Sing in that kitchen at any hour, and he instinctively knew that little boys who snitched food from the pantry were likely to be in big trouble with the cook.  As he stuffed a loaf of bread, some leftover cookies and a hunk of roast beef into his pillowcase, Little Joe was proud of himself for remembering to pack food.  The last time he’d taken off from home without permission he hadn’t taken anything with him—no food or water or even a jacket.  He’d been little then, of course, and now he was a big boy—well, bigger, anyway, and smarter, too.  Satisfied with his preparations, he quietly opened the door to the yard and went outside.

            The sky was as black as Little Joe had ever seen it and the moonlight only half as bright as it might have been, but the stars were twinkling brilliantly, just like the ones in the child’s eyes as he found the North Star.  Purposely positioning it in line with his left shoulder, he started to trot in as straight a line as he could while climbing over fence rails and dodging around thick tree trunks.  The cold night air made his breath puff like the smoke from Pa’s pipe as he whistled a happy tune to start off his urgent quest.

            It wasn’t long before the trot turned into a walk and then into flagging footsteps accompanied by wide-mouthed yawns.  Little Joe hadn’t slept much the early part of the night, and weariness quickly caught up with him.  The snow on the ground was deep in places and hard to push through, and the wind pushed him ways he didn’t want to go.  He didn’t see any good places to take shelter from it, though, and he was afraid he’d catch cold if he fell asleep with that whistling in his ear.  Besides, he had a long way to go, and it was too soon to stop.

            So on he trudged, coming at last out of the trees into sage-covered flatland.  Even less favorable places to rest here, so he kept going, though his feet dragged through the snow and the pillowcase felt heavy enough to hold toys for all the children in the territory.  He set it down for a minute and stretched his aching arms as he gave the biggest yawn yet.  When he picked up the pillowcase again, he checked the position of the North Star, and as his eyes lowered to the horizon, he spotted a house perhaps a quarter mile away.  He didn’t recognize the place, but figured that ‘most any neighbor wouldn’t mind him resting up a bit in the barn that stood nearby.  He’d get out of the wind for a while and snatch a little sleep before heading east again.  With renewed energy, Little Joe ran toward the barn.  The heavy bar across its door was hard to lift, but he managed; then he pushed the door open a crack, and slipped in.  Looking up, he saw piles of hay in the loft, and with a grin he climbed up, burrowed into its sweet-smelling comfort and promptly fell asleep.

* * * * *

            Ben scrubbed the sleep from his eyes and splashed his face with cold water from his washbasin.  As he rubbed himself dry, he pondered why he always found it so hard to get started on Monday mornings.  You’d think taking a day to rest, like the Good Lord intended, would make a man feel rested and ready for a new week, he mused, but all I seem to feel is a lazy urge to stay beneath the covers.  Natural depravity, I suppose.

            “Come in,” he called in answer to the light tap on his door.

            As expected, Hop Sing came in with a hot cup of coffee, a kindly habit he had fallen into since Marie’s passing.

            “Hop Sing, you spoil me,” Ben said, reaching for the coffee with an appreciative smile.  He sighed with contentment as the warmth from the cup comforted his chilly hands.

            “Just do job,” the Chinese cook insisted.

            “More than that—in every way,” Ben returned.  “The boys up yet?”

            “Hop Sing not hear peep.”

            “Hoss isn’t any fonder of Monday mornings than his father,” Ben chuckled, “but I’ll have to get him up soon or he’ll be late to school.  With the break in the weather, I think they’ll hold it today.  No need to fix Little Joe’s breakfast until you see him, though.  I suspect he can use a little extra sleep; he had a rough start to his night.”

            Hop Sing nodded soberly.  “He miss brother.”  He added in a more tentative tone.  “You, too, Mr. Ben.”

            “We all miss Adam,” Ben agreed.  “It’s just harder for Little Joe to understand time and distance.”  He settled on the edge of the bed and sipped his coffee as the cook quietly slipped out to return to the kitchen.  Spoiled or not, he had to admit he relished the pampering Hop Sing gave him every morning.  Even Monday morning seemed easier to face after that first cup of hot coffee had warmed him through and through, especially compared to last Monday, when all he’d had to look forward to was another day snowbound in the house.

            Setting the empty cup on his bedside table, Ben finished dressing and made his way down the hall to Hoss’s room.  The snores he could hear through the door told him that Hoss was still dead to the waking world, and with a shake of his head, Ben went in to rouse the boy.  “Come on, son, wake up,” he said as he patted Hoss’s shoulder.

            “Huh?”  Hoss woke with a start and then a soft groan.  “Oh, hey, Pa.  Mornin’ already?”

            “Already,” Ben chuckled, tousling the sleep-tangled hair.  “Time you were up.  School this morning.”

            “Yeah, I reckon,” Hoss said with a discontented grunt.

            Ben pulled back the covers and tickled Hoss’s bare foot until the boy squealed.  “Up—now,” Ben said, giving the foot a final light slap.

            “I am,” Hoss said.  Yawning widely, he swung one leg and then the other over the side of the bed.

            “See you downstairs,” his father said.  Ben walked down the hall to the next door.  Even pressing an ear against the door, he couldn’t hear a sound from Little Joe’s room, and since he intended to let the child sleep, he started to leave.  Then he remembered Little Joe’s tendency to toss off blankets as he slept and thought he should, at least, check to make sure his little boy was covered.

            The sight of an empty bed brought a troubled frown to his face.  Poor little lad, he must not have slept well at all.  I’ll need to spend some extra time with him this morning, try once more to help him understand.  He didn’t begrudge the time, of course.  Work never ceased on a growing ranch like the Ponderosa, but his sons came first.  He did, however, wonder if he had the wisdom to deal with the parenting challenges that seemed much tougher to face without Marie at his side.

            “Little Joe!” he called as he descended the stairs.  There was no answer, and a quick scan of the great room with its easy flow from one area to another revealed that his youngest wasn’t there, either.  The kitchen, then?  With long strides Ben made his way across the room and through the doorway into Hop Sing’s domain.

            The Chinese cook turned from the stove.  “Bleakfast leady soon.  You want mo’ coffee?”

            Ben shook his head as his eyes searched the room.  “No, I want my little son to come out from wherever he’s hiding.  Have you seen Little Joe, Hop Sing?”

            The diminutive Oriental looked perplexed.  “Not see.  Hop Sing tell you dat befo’, Mr. Ben.”

            “I know, I know,” an appeasing Ben said.  The last thing he needed to deal with right now was an offended cook.  “I thought he might have gotten up while I was dressing.  He’s not in his bed.”

            The cook’s face wrinkled with concern.  “Not see little boy.  You want I look?”

            Ben waved aside the offer of help.  “No, just get Hoss’s breakfast cooked.  Don’t want him late for school.  I’ll see if I can locate the little mischief.”

            “Hope he not go far, like befo’,” Hop Sing mumbled.

            Ben shivered as he grabbed his coat from the pegged rack beside the door.  “Like before,” he muttered.  “Dear God, not that!”  It had been only months since his youngest son had run away from a father so wrapped in his own grief that he’d had no strength left to soothe his sons’.  That harrowing night, searching for Little Joe and finally finding him at the treacherous top of Eagles’ Nest, had snapped Ben from his emotional stupor, and he’d thought he had successfully rebuilt his relationship with his boys.  Maybe not as well as he’d hoped, however, if disappointment over his big brother’s absence for Christmas could once again propel Little Joe into flight.  No, it couldn’t be that, Ben assured himself.  Joe seemed happy enough these days; he was just being his usual mischievous little self.  Dear God, let it be mischief!

            “Little Joe!” he called as he left the house.  “Time to come in.”  He deliberately kept his voice calm and steady as he added, “You better show yourself, little boy.”

            Looking across the yard, he saw the barn door standing partway open.  Ah, that must be it.  Joe loved to visit the barn and the animals there.  He wasn’t supposed to go in alone, of course, but Ben felt lenient this morning.  He’d let the boy off with a soft scolding.  “Little Joe, you in here?” he called as he entered the out building.

            A ranch hand holding a pitchfork turned as the boss came in.  “Ain’t seen the youngun this mornin’, Mr. Cartwright.”

            “Little Joe,” Ben called loudly, aiming his voice into the loft.  “If you’re hiding up there, you’d better come out.”

            The other man shook his head in the silence that followed.  “Don’t reckon he’s up there, Mr. Cartwright.  I been in here a spell, and I think I’d’ve heard him by now.”

            “Probably,” Ben conceded.  Little Joe wasn’t noted for long spells of quiet.  Ben left the barn and tried to puzzle where else a four-year-old might hide.  He tried the outhouse, the smokehouse and the springhouse without success before finally turning back to the main house.  Maybe the little scamp had been hiding inside all along.  If so, he’d probably tired of the game by now and was ready to sit down to breakfast.

            Hoss was seated at the table when his father walked in, but he immediately sprang to his feet.  “Did you find him?” he asked anxiously.

            “Not yet,” Ben said.  “Sit down and finish your breakfast, son.  I’m gonna check around the house again.”

            “I already did that,” Hoss said.  “I checked all the places he likes to hide, Pa.  He ain’t in here, and if he ain’t outside, neither . . .”  He gave his lower lip a nervous nibble.  “He’s gone missin’ again, ain’t he, Pa?”

            Ben sighed deeply.  “It looks that way, Hoss, but don’t you worry; I’ll find him.”  He noticed the half-full plate in front of Hoss.  “Finish up your breakfast, son, and get on to school.”

            “No, sir!” Hoss declared adamantly.

            Ben arched a surprised eyebrow at this response from his normally tractable middle son.  “Are you defying me, young man?”

            “I guess so.”  Hoss wasn’t entirely sure what “defying” meant, but he figured from the look on Pa’s face that he was probably guilty of whatever it was.  “I’ll finish my breakfast, Pa,” he announced clearly, “but I ain’t goin’ to school today—not ‘til we find Little Joe.”

            Understanding the concern that lay behind Hoss’s unaccustomed willfulness, Ben said gently, but firmly, “I can find your brother without your help, Hoss, and you need to be in school.”

            Hoss’s chin began to quiver.  “Pa, I wouldn’t learn a thing, not with worryin’ over Little Joe; I just know I wouldn’t.  Let me help.  Please!”

            Ben hurried across the room and, kneeling beside Hoss’s chair, took the boy in his arms.  “You’re right, son,” he said, his voice choking.  “Of course, you’re right.  Some things are more important than school work or ranch work, and finding your brother heads the list.  Neither of us will be able to think of anything else until he’s home safe.  You’ll come with me, and once we find Little Joe, you can go on to school.”  It was his way of assuring Hoss—and himself—that they would find the child quickly.  “Now, finish up that breakfast, so we can get started.”

            “You, too, Pa,” Hoss insisted urgently.  “Hop Sing said you ain’t et yet, ‘cause you was out lookin’ for Joe, and you gotta ‘fore we can leave.”

            Ben smoothed his son’s tawny locks with the tender touch this tender-hearted boy, so like his mother, seemed to draw out of him.  “You’re right again, my wise young son.  We both need to fuel up before we head out into the cold.”  He shivered involuntarily at the thought of his youngest son out there in the cold, wondering if the child had given a thought to fuel for himself or even warm clothing.  He hadn’t last time, but that had been summer.  Maybe, since he was never allowed out without a coat these days, the little lad had, at least, had sense enough to dress warmly.  He’d check to see whether Joe’s little coat was missing as soon as he finished the breakfast Hop Sing was now setting at his place at the table.

* * * * *

            As she left the warmth of her kitchen and headed across the yard, the woman turned up the collar of her coat and pulled it snug about her neck.  It had become habit as she went about her daybreak chores.  Her lean flesh felt the chill of the early morning, and lately each had seemed chillier than the one before it.  Snow drifts piled against the house, but that was as it should be, so close to Christmas.  It takes a blanket of snow, she thought, to make a proper New England Christmas, and from the looks of that sky, the blanket just might get thicker.

            It would be a comfort to have a touch of home, this first Christmas without her man.  She hadn’t wanted to come out here to this God-forsaken barrenness in the first place.  That had been Obadiah’s doing, and then he’d up and died on her and left her the care of a place she didn’t much want and scarcely knew what to do with.  Somehow she’d kept it going and even put a little aside from the sale of her eggs and butter, enough for a Christmas dinner with all the trimmings . . . if only she’d had someone to share her table.

            Brushing self-pity aside, for that went against her New England grain, she headed for the barn, but as she approached the door, she saw that it was slightly ajar.  “I know I closed that door,” she muttered.  She remembered putting the bar across it, too, so no amount of wind could blow it open and risk the health of her precious dairy stock, precious because upon their lives rested her own livelihood.

            Someone had opened that door, she reasoned, and that someone might still be inside, maybe even planning to rustle himself a milk cow from a poor, defenseless widow woman.  It was at times like this that she keenly missed Obadiah, for purely practical reasons.  She didn’t fancy facing down some thievin’ varmint, but she wasn’t about to let anyone waltz off with her best stock.  That varmint was about to find out that this widow woman wasn’t as helpless as he’d hoped!

            First she put a cautious ear to the doorway.  She couldn’t hear anyone moving around inside, so she slipped in quietly, thankful that her spare bones enabled her to squeeze through the scant opening.  She lifted the pitchfork from its place beside the door and advanced, step by guarded step.  She still didn’t see or hear anything except the soft lowing of her cows.  She checked each stall and breathed a sigh of relief as she tallied the presence of each animal.  Not rustlers, then.  Had she simply been so addle-pated last night that she only thought she’d shut and barred that door?

            Then in the faint light that filtered through the partially opened door, she saw straw flutter down through the cracks in the loft floor and heard a slight rustle of movement.  Someone was up there!  Not a rustler, then, but a vagrant.  She wouldn’t have begrudged any man shelter on a cold December night, but one that took without asking might take other things without asking, too—like the virtue of a defenseless widow woman.

            Her grip tightened on the pitchfork as she held it warily before her.  “You up in the loft!” she yelled.  “Show yourself!”

            She heard no response except the same soft rustling as before, but more straw trickled through the cracks.  Finally, a small head peered over the edge of the loft, and wide eyes stared down at her.

            “Land sakes,” she gasped when she saw the tiny boy.  “Who’s up there with you, child?”

            Little Joe shook his head.  “Just me, ma’am.”

            “Just you?”  The woman looked dumbfounded.  “What’s a little thing like you doin’ out on such a night?”

            “Just travelin’, ma’am,” the boy lisped.

            “Travelin’!”  She collected herself.  “Well, you can just travel down from that loft right now, boy!”

            Little Joe stood up slowly and pointed a shaky finger at the pitchfork.  “Put that down,” he quavered.

            “Oh, lands, I’m not gonna hurt you,” the woman said, hastily setting the implement aside.  She cocked her head and studied the child.  “Why, I know you.  You’re that little mite of a Cartwright boy, ain’t you?”

            “Yes’m,” Little Joe said, relieved to be recognized, for surely no one who knew his family would use a pitchfork on him.

            “Well, get on down here, child,” she ordered.  “For the love of mercy, don’t Ben Cartwright never keep a watch on you?”  It hadn’t been that long back, she recalled as the youngster climbed down from the loft, that half the countryside had been turned out to look for this boy, who’d run off looking for his dead mama, or so gossip at the time had said.  She’d thought then, as she had almost from the first moment she’d heard of Marie Cartwright’s passing, that Ben ought to take himself a new wife to look after those three boys of his.  Boys needed a mother, especially boys as young as this one, and if Ben Cartwright needed proof of that, this child’s traipsin’ ways ought to give it to him.

            She met the boy at the foot of the loft ladder and brushed stray straw from his curls.  “You know me, don’t you, boy?”

            “Yes’m, you’re the widow Hunter, from church,” Little Joe said.

            Mrs. Hunter scowled.  She hated being known by that title.  It reminded her of her still-painful loss and of a marital status she utterly loathed.  Still, it wasn’t the child’s fault; he was, no doubt, only repeating what he’d heard.  Touching his red cheeks, she exclaimed, “Lands, you’re cold!  And no wonder, drafty as this barn is, me havin’ no man to mend it.  You come in the house right this minute, child, and we’ll get you warm and fill you up with a nice hot breakfast.”

            A warm kitchen and a hot breakfast sounded just about perfect to Little Joe, so he took her hand amiably, offered her his charming cherub’s smile and skipped at her side as they made their way across the snowy yard to the house.  For a childless widow woman, that was just about as perfect a start to a morning as she’d had in many a day.

* * * * *

            Ben’s steps were brisk with determination as he left the ranch house.  He’d been relieved to discover that Little Joe was evidently wearing his warm coat, and Hop Sing’s tirade about a loaf of bread and some other items missing from the pantry indicated that his little lad had provided himself with breakfast, as well.  Still, Nevada winters could be highly unpredictable.  Ten days of snow and then the break in the weather yesterday, but the cloud-filled sky this morning looked primed to send down another deluge.

            Struggling to keep close to his father’s heels, a bundled-up Hoss asked, “Where we gonna look first, Pa?”

            “Eagle’s Nest,” Ben answered brusquely.

            “Where he run off before?”

            “Yes.”  Ben’s clipped response indicated his inner turmoil, his sense of failure as a parent.  His little boy was unhappy and had once again run from him, rather than to him.  I didn’t take enough note, Ben chastised himself.  I thought we’d worked past the problems we had—that I caused—after Marie’s passing.  I thought my boy knew now that I loved him and that he could trust me.  Now, this.  He’s hurt and it’s her he wants, her he trusts.  Must be.  What else could it be?  We’ll find him soon.  Have to.  Dear God, let it be before he starts up Eagle’s Nest again.  I don’t know how he made that steep climb before, and I don’t relish carrying him down during a snow storm.  He recalled how raindrops had splattered them on that terrifying earlier descent, but snow . . . or even sleet?  A thousand times worse.

            “Thanks,” he said to Hank Carlton, who had saddled his horse and Hoss’s.

            “Glad to help,” Hank said.  “Anything else I can do, Mr. Cartwright.”

            “I think I know where he is,” Ben replied, “but if Little Joe turns up back here or you hear anything new, ride out to Eagle’s Nest and let me know.”

            “Sure will, Mr. Cartwright, and I’ll be prayin’ you find the little feller.”

            “Thank you,” Ben said, giving the man an earnest handshake.  He swung into the saddle and once he saw that Hoss was securely mounted, he headed out toward Eagle’s Nest, where he confidently hoped to find his lost child.

* * * * *

            Mrs. Hunter slid a plate of sizzling ham with fried egg, fried potatoes and a piping hot biscuit already spread with butter and honey before Little Joe.  “There!” she announced with satisfaction.  “I’ll bet you’re glad to get some woman-cooking for a change.”

            “Hop Sing cooks good,” Little Joe replied just before he took a bite of biscuit.

            “Well enough for his kind, I suppose,” Mrs. Hunter said, “though you don’t have enough meat on your bones to prove it.”

            Little Joe flashed her a mischievous grin.  “Hoss does.”

            Mrs. Hunter laughed.  “True enough.  Do you like the biscuit?  My Obadiah always prized my biscuits.”

            “It’s real good,” Little Joe said with enthusiasm.

            The woman patted his head.  “Eat everything on your plate and you can have another.”  She went back to the stove and after filling her own plate came back to sit across from the little boy.  “Now, what’s this nonsense about you travelin’ somewhere by yourself?  Were you lookin’ for your mama again, little lamb?”

            “Oh, no, ma’am, she’s in heaven,” Little Joe said.

            Mrs. Hunter scowled, but knowing it wouldn’t set well with Ben Cartwright, she kept to herself her opinion of the eternal destination of Catholics.

            “I’m goin’ to fetch my brother home for Christmas,” Little Joe offered between bites of egg.

            “Don’t tell me he’s taken off, too!” Mrs. Hunter cried, dropping her fork.

            “Yes’m, all the way to Haven,” the child told her, “but I know how to find him.”

            “Haven?”  Mrs. Hunter looked confused for a moment.  Then comprehension slowly spread across her countenance.  “Oh, you mean New Haven, where Ben’s oldest boy went off to school?”

            “That’s right!” Little Joe declared.  “Adam’s in Haven—east.”

            Mrs. Hunter tucked a straggling strand of jet black hair behind her ear.  “I thought you meant your other brother, the one with meat on his bones.”

            Little Joe shook his head, clearly confounded by such a colossal error.  “Hoss?  He’s already home, ma’am.  ‘Sides, he could find his way anywhere; he knows about the star.”  Chattering on, he reached for the glass of milk.  “Adam’s comin’ home for Christmas,” he explained, “but I think, maybe, he’s forgot how to get here, so I’m goin’ to fetch him.”

            Mrs. Hunter rested her elbows on the table, her chin in the palms of both hands, and stared at the child.  “Does your pa have the slightest notion of this nonsense?”

            “Oh, yes, ma’am!” Little Joe assured her brightly.  “He wants me to find Adam.  He said he hoped I would.”

            Mrs. Hunter’s dark eyes widened as she chewed on that, along with her breakfast.  Ben Cartwright was twelve kinds of a fool for trying to raise a little handful like this on his own, but she didn’t believe any man could be a big enough fool to send such a tiny tot to the East Coast by himself.  “Child, that just can’t be,” she said when her mouth was empty.

            “Oh, yes,” Joe insisted, head bobbing emphatically.  “He told me to follow the star and bring the wise men home.  Adam’s one of them—and Jamie and Santa’s the others.”

            “What!”  What sort of Popish sacrilege had Ben Cartwright’s late wife drilled into these innocent ears?  The sooner Ben was made to realize this boy’s need of a god-fearing mother, the better!  “We’ll just see what your father has to say about that, child.  Soon as we’ve finished breakfast and I wash up these dishes, I’ll hitch the team and take you home.”

            “I can’t go home,” Little Joe said, a stubborn frown forming on his lips.  “I ain’t found Adam yet.”

            “And you ain’t a-gonna find Adam, not today,” the woman declared, hands on her hips.  “The very idea of a little mite like you traipsin’ off to the East Coast by hisself!”

            “Pa said to!”

            “If he did, his ears’ll be burnin’ by the time I get through tellin’ him my opinion on that subject,” Mrs. Hunter snorted.  “Now, finish up your milk quick-like, child, so we can be on our way.  If things stand the way I think they do, your pa’s likely frettin’ hisself silly ‘bout this time.”

            “O-okay,” Little Joe said, his head dropping, though he managed to keep her face within his line of sight.  “I don’t want Pa to worry.”

            Anyone who knew Little Joe would have been suspicious of such easy acquiescence, but Mrs. Hunter had not been blessed with experience with any child, much less one who might be generously described as crafty.  She simply assumed that her child-rearing theories were being vindicated.  All any parent had to do, she firmly believed, was state plainly the way things were to be, and a child would automatically comply.  “There now, that’s a good boy,” she cooed.  “And look how you’ve cleaned up your plate.  Would you like another biscuit?”

            Little Joe smiled sweetly.  “Yes, please.”  He accepted another light and airy biscuit, every bit as good as Hop Sing’s, and took a nibble before lowering it into his lap.

            Attention fixed on her own plate, Mrs. Hunter didn’t seem to notice.  Little Joe sat quietly watching her, and anytime she looked up, he moved his mouth as if he were chewing the bread he had eventually slipped into his pocket.  Grub this good should not be left behind when hitting the trail.

            When the woman finished her breakfast, she looked across at the child’s empty plate.  “All done?” she asked, and when Little Joe nodded, she stood and carried both her own plate and the boy’s to the basin of soapy water waiting for dirty dishes.

            “Ma’am?” Little Joe asked as he walked up behind her.  “I’d best go to the outhouse now.”

            Her hands in the dishpan, Mrs. Hunter looked at him over her shoulder.  “I’ll take you before we leave.”

            “But I need to go now!” Little Joe wailed piteously.

            “Oh, my goodness!” the woman ejaculated.  “I wish you’d spoke up before I got my hands all soaped up.”

            “I can go by myself; I’m a big boy,” Little Joe assured her.  “It’s out back, I guess?”

            “Of course, it is,” she said.  “Well, I reckon you are big enough to manage, at that.  You go on and do what needs doin’.  That’ll give me a chance to wash up.  Then we’ll head out to the barn.”

            “Yes’m,” Little Joe said, adding as he scooted out the back door, “I’ll meet you there.”

            “Wait, child!” she called, but the door shut with a slam.  “Goodness!” she said, vigorously scrubbing the cast iron skillet in which she’d fried the eggs.  “What a whirlwind!  Ben definitely needs help with that one.  Well, there’s nothing in the barn to hurt him; won’t hurt to leave him there alone a few minutes.”

            The whirlwind slunk around to the side of the house, the opposite direction from the outhouse.  He paused there only long enough to unbutton his fly and give the icy garden plot a sprinkle.  His immediate need met, he hurried over to the barn, scrambled up into the loft to retrieve his pillowcase of supplies and scurried back down again.  Spotting a back door to the barn, he quickly darted to it and through it.  He couldn’t see the star, now that it was morning, but Hoss had told him that the sun always came up in the east, so Little Joe grinned at the golden orb rising in the cloudy sky and was soon running as fast as his legs could carry him—east, toward Adam and the other wise men.

* * * * *

            Staring up at the top of Eagle’s Nest, Ben breathed a sigh, whether of relief or dismay he couldn’t say.  Both, he decided.  Relief that Little Joe wasn’t perched precariously atop that craggy pinnacle, dismay that he didn’t know where to look now.  After staring thoughtfully at the rock formation for a long time, he asked pensively, “Hoss, does your brother have a strong enough sense of direction to find his mother’s grave?”

            Hoss lowered the muffler wrapped around his nose and mouth.  “Maybe,” he said, but he sounded doubtful.

            “Do you think he might go there?”

            Hoss’s forehead crinkled in thought.  “I ain’t sure he could, Pa.  I don’t recollect you ever talkin’ ‘bout what direction that was from the house.”

            “What he can or can’t do may not be the right question, son,” Ben said.  “It’s what he might try to do that we have to ask ourselves.”

            Hoss nodded soberly.  “He might try.  Him and me’s been there a time or two on our own, and he might recollect which way we went.  He does seem to like it there.”

            Ben sighed heavily.  A shot in the dark, but so would be every other choice he might make.  “Let’s look there, then.”

* * * * *

            Best bonnet tied on with an attractive bow beneath her left ear and wrapped in her warm woolen cape, Elvira Hunter came into the barn.  “Child, where are you?” she called when she saw no sign of the little boy.  “Are you up in that loft again?”  When only silence met her ears, she raised her voice.  “You’d best answer me, boy!”  There was still no answer, so gritting her teeth with resolve, she marched toward the loft ladder.  Just as she mounted the first rung, however, a gust of wind blew open the back door, which Little Joe had failed to latch.  “Oh, my gracious!” Mrs. Hunter cried as she stepped back down and ran to the door.  Looking through it, she could see no trace of the child, but she knew, sure as the world, that the little hellion had taken off again.

            Hurriedly she harnessed the team to her buckboard, mourning again the lack of a man to switch the wheels for runners.  “East, he said,” she muttered.  “Not sure he knows which way that is, but it’s the best place to start.”  She climbed into the seat, flicked the reins and took off, head swiveling every few seconds, so she could search both sides of the road.  After she’d gone two miles, she pulled the team to a stop.  A child on foot couldn’t have come this far in the time that had passed, so either he’d gone a different direction or he wasn’t traveling along the road.  She couldn’t take the team across uneven, snow-covered terrain in a buckboard.  With snow up to the hubs, she could barely manage on the road.  Regretting the delay for the child’s sake, she turned the team around and headed back the opposite direction, keeping up her constant search of the roadsides.  She still saw no sign of Little Joe, but she kept going this time and even quickened her pace as a flutter of snowflakes sprinkled her maroon felt bonnet.  The road would ultimately lead her to the Ponderosa, where she could give Ben a piece of her mind and tell him that he needed to mount a search on horseback.

* * * * *

            Little Joe wedged himself inside a nest of boulders.  No one had to tell him that the widow Hunter would come chasing after him as soon as she realized he was gone.  She was a nice lady, and she really thought that taking him home to Pa was the right thing to do, so he couldn’t be mad at her.  But he couldn’t let her stop him, either.  He had a job to do, a job Pa was trusting him to do, so running away and hiding from her was the right thing for him to do.  He’d run as hard as he could, as long as he could; then he’d spotted the boulders and decided they’d be a safe place to rest a spell.  He pulled the biscuit from his pocket and nibbled it.  Still good, even though it was cold now, and he’d been smart to take an extra one and save Hop Sing’s loaf of bread for later.  The lady was a good cook, and it had been good to start the morning with a hot breakfast, especially since it seemed extra cold again this morning, like those mornings they’d all spent huddled up in the kitchen.

            A snowflake plopping on his nose startled Little Joe and made him grin with delight.  More snow for Christmas—perfect!  The pines on the Ponderosa were beautiful when they were dusted with snow, and Adam would think so, for sure.  One of the letters his big brother had written when he was going to that old academy in Sacramento talked about how he missed seeing snow at Christmas.  Little Joe wondered for a minute if there was snow in Haven or if Adam was missing it now.  He shrugged.  He didn’t know, but Adam could tell him when they met up—or, maybe, if he had to go all the way east, he’d just see for himself.

            Little Joe finished the biscuit, stood up and peeked over the boulders to make sure the nice widow lady hadn’t caught up with him.  Then he stepped out and began walking toward the fading light of the cloud-covered sun, catching the falling snowflakes with his outstretched tongue as he crunched through the ice-crusted snow covering the ground.

* * * * *

            A shot in the dark.  That’s all it had been, and like most of its kind, it had struck nowhere near its target.  Dejected, Ben dismounted and, gathering the reins in one gloved hand, led the buckskin toward the familiar grove of pines.  Sensing his father’s need to be alone, Hoss held back and watched as his father knelt by the engraved headstone.

            “Oh, Marie,” Ben sighed, his face falling into his right hand, “I’ve failed you once again—failed him again—failed to understand how lonely his little heart was—for you, for Adam—especially at this time of year, when family ought to be together.  I’ve lost our little boy, Marie, and I’ve looked everywhere I can think of.  God and good angels brought him back to me once before, and I have no right to ask such grace again.  But I am asking, because I must, and, perhaps, because God is gracious, He will hear . . . again.”

            Lifting his tear-streaked face, Ben addressed his Creator directly.  “Lord, You know the heart of a father, for You are one Yourself.  At this season of the year we’re reminded of how You were parted from Your Son, but You knew that He was on a mission the two of You had planned together before the earth was formed.  I feel that way about Adam.  Much as I miss him, I know he’s working toward Your mission for him, and I’m comforted in the separation, knowing it’s for good purpose and that it won’t be forever.”  His voice broke.  “It—It’s different with Little Joe.  He’s not on a mission; he’s just lost.”  Snowflakes mingled with salt droplets on his upturned face.  “He’s so little, Lord, and it’s turning so cold that if we don’t find him soon, he may never even start whatever mission You have for him in this life.  Oh, please, please show me what to do, which way to turn.  I have no other hope.”

            He ended with a broken sob, but just as he reached the end of himself, an inexplicable peace settled over his troubled heart.  He rose from his knees and walked back toward Hoss with purposeful strides.  “Let’s go, son,” he said.

            “Where now, Pa?” Hoss asked.

            Ben smiled, though his lips quavered.  “Home, son.”

            “You think Little Joe’s found his way back there?”

            Ben swung into the saddle.  “I don’t know.  I just know we need to go home.  I can’t explain, Hoss, but I feel it in my heart.”

            Hoss, who of all Ben’s sons best understood being led by the heart, immediately turned his horse around.  “Let’s go home, then.”

* * * * *

            Sitting in the ample armchair beside the great stone fireplace, Elvira Hunter sipped a hot cup of tea and surveyed the interior of the Ponderosa.  There was a grand majesty about the way the room flowed from one function to another, but the décor lacked a certain polish, she thought.  Odd, since Ben’s woman had seemed to carry herself with a sort of flair that one might have expected to carry over to the house.  What I could do with this place! Elvira mused as she took another sip of the warm drink.  It’ll never look like a print from Godey’s Lady’s Book, but a few well placed doilies would soften all this rugged masculinity, give the place some genteel grace.  She swirled the beverage around in her mouth.  The child had been right about one thing: the Chinaman could cook—well, at least, he could brew a decent cup of tea, which made a certain amount of sense, she supposed, with tea coming from China.

            She shivered as the front door flew open and two snow-frosted figures came in, along with a strong gust of frosty air.  “Lands!  You’re lettin’ all the warm air out,” she called sharply, setting the china cup and saucer down with a clunk as she came to her feet.

“El—Elvira?”  Ben blinked in bewilderment.  He’d seen the unfamiliar buckboard outside, of course, but would never have guessed that a solitary woman would be out on a day like this.  “I—uh—it’s good to see you, of course, but I’m afraid I haven’t the time for a social call just now.  I’ve got a bit of a problem on my hands.”

            “Out of your hands, don’t you mean?” Mrs. Hunter snorted.  “I know all about your problem, Ben, and you’ve got my sympathy, tryin’ to keep track of that one.”

            “Hop Sing told you?” Ben surmised.

            “As if I needed to be told!”  Elvira marched across the room and stood before Ben, knuckles planted on her hips.  “I know all about it, Ben Cartwright, all about your oldest boy and Santa Claus bein’ wise men and followin’ a star to fetch ‘em back here for Christmas.  Of all the mixed up batch of ferdoodlement I ever heard!”

            Goggle-eyed, Ben stared at her.  It was the most mixed up batch of whatever ferdoodlement was that he’d ever heard, too, and he found himself wondering if Elvira Hunter had completely lost her mind.

            “Adam is mighty smart,” Hoss suggested hesitantly.

            Ben spun to glare at his middle son.  “Hoss, that is not helpful!”  He stopped short as he recognized that he and Hoss had had this conversation before.  “You don’t mean . . . ?”

            Hoss had winced when his father started yelling, and the worry lines remained etched around his mouth as he slowly nodded.  “I think . . . maybe . . . yeah.”

            “Would one of you start talkin’ sense?” Elvira demanded.  “This is no time to be blatherin’; that child is out alone, Ben, with a storm comin’ on again.”

            Seeing genuine concern reflected in the woman’s eyes, Ben set aside his own fears for a moment and laid a consoling hand on her bony shoulder.  “We’ll find him, Elvira,” he said with more confidence than he felt.  “Come back over by the fire and tell me what you know about this.  Who told you about the wise men and a star?” he asked as he led her back to the warmth of the blazing logs.

            “Why, the child himself,” she said as she took the offered seat.  “Goodness, Ben, what were you thinking to fill an innocent child’s head with that Popish nonsense?”

            Ben shook his head to clear it.  “It isn’t Popish nonsense,” he said.  “It’s just childish nonsense.  Little Joe told you?”  The implication of that suddenly struck him, and his face lit up.  “You’ve seen him?”

            “Seen him?  I fed him breakfast,” Elvira declared.

            Ben’s hands raised in an automatic gesture of praise.  “Oh, thank God!  Where is he, Elvira?  You brought him home?”  He closed his eyes and gave his head another shake.  “No, no, you said he was out alone . . . but . . . you fed him breakfast.”  He stared blankly into her eyes.  “I don’t understand.  They can’t both be true, can they?”

            “They can when you’re dealin’ with that child,” Elvira Hunter grunted.  Her gruff expression crumbled.  “Oh, Ben, I been chidin’ you for a fool, but I’ve been just as big a one.  I let that little conniver trick me into thinkin’ he was just goin’ to the outhouse, but he took off on me, still headed east, I reckon.”

            “East?  He’s headed east?” Ben babbled.

            “To get Adam, Pa,” Hoss, who had trailed them over to the fire, inserted.  “The wise men came from the East, remember?  And he knows that’s where Adam is.”

            Ben reached over to massage his son’s shoulder.  “Yes, yes, of course,” he said, as if everything they were saying made perfect sense.  “He’s trying to get to New Haven, then.”

            “That’s what the child said,” Elvira reported, “and he said you’d sent him there to fetch his brother home for Christmas.”

            “What!”

            At the sound of that wild bellow, Elvira shriveled back in the armchair, as cowed as Hoss had been moments before.  “Well, it’s what he said, and I said to myself, ‘Ben may be twelve kinds of a fool for tryin’ to raise this child without a woman’s help, but he couldn’t be that big a fool.’”

            “Make it thirteen kinds of a fool, and you’ll about hit the mark,” Ben muttered.  “Why didn’t I think about him heading east?”

            “‘Cause it’s plumb loco,” Hoss said, plopping down on the settee and dropping his chin into his hands.

            Elvira nodded her agreement.  “I hitched up the buckboard and tried to follow him,” she went on, “but he wasn’t on the road and I couldn’t leave it with a wagon, deep as the snow was.  I told the first hand I spotted when I got to your ranch, and he sent another one out toward my place, while he took off after you.”

            “He didn’t find me,” Ben said, realizing that he had left Eagle’s Nest by the time his man had searched for him there.  “Elvira, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your driving over here to tell me this.  It means we know which way to search now.  You’re welcome to stay here, but I need to get saddled and head out.”

            “Of course, you do,” Elvira declared.  “Ain’t that what I’ve been sayin’ all along?”  Recollecting her manners, she stood up.  “I thank you for the invite, Ben, but I’d best be headin’ on home.  I’ve got stock to tend.”  She looked over at Hoss.  “You reckon you could help me hitch my team back up, boy?”

            Hoss looked anxiously over at his father.  Ordinarily, he would have agreed at once, knowing that he was expected to do whatever he could to help a neighbor.  But Pa’d said he could help search for Little Joe, and they needed to leave quick as they could.

            “Yes, he can,” Ben answered for his son.  “In fact, he can drive the team for you.”

            “But, Pa . . .” Hoss protested.  “You said . . .”

            Ben took his son’s face between his hands.  “I know, but that’s as far as I can let you go, Hoss.  There’s a storm brewing, and I won’t have two sons out in it.”  He looked over at his neighbor.  “He can stay with you until I return for him?”

            “Of course, he can.”  Her tone was an unmistakable rebuke for thinking her answer might be anything else.  “You get on your way, Ben, and find that little tyke.  I’ll take good care of your other boy for you ‘til you get back with him.”

            “Bless you, Elvira,” Ben said in benediction for her faith that he would find Little Joe.  Impulsively, he planted a kiss on her forehead and hurried out the door.

            Blushing with elation at how this morning’s events were advancing her relationship with the elusive Mr. Cartwright, Mrs. Hunter turned toward Hoss.  “Can you handle a team, boy?  You look big enough, but I know you’re younger than you seem, and there’s snow on the road.”

            “Oh, yes, ma’am.  I’m real good with stock.”  Hoss still looked wistfully after his father, but knowing that Pa trusted him to drive the lady, even with a storm coming on, swelled his pride and eased his disappointment at not helping to find Little Joe.  He squared his shoulders.  “We’d best get on, ma’am, before the roads get worse.”

            “You’re right, boy,” she replied as she took her coat from the peg by the door.  She tied on her bonnet and followed him out into the barn to get her horses.

* * * * *

            Spinning round and round, Little Joe frantically scanned the sky.  The snow was still pretty, but it was coming down so thick and fast now that he couldn’t see the sun, and dark as it was, the star still wasn’t shining to guide his way, either.  His pant legs were wet, up to the knees, and he was cold and miserable . . . and scared.  The same uneasiness that had made him sneak out of the house earlier was creeping over him.  He wasn’t quite ready to admit that he’d known all along that Pa didn’t really want him to go after Adam—that admission might lead to one of Pa’s “very necessary little talks”—but that conclusion was slowly working its way up to the surface of his mind.

            The little boy stomped the numbness from his feet, while he pulled on his lower lip with his mittened left hand.  Which way was east?  He couldn’t tell.  Should he go home then?  Real panic hit when he realized he didn’t know which way that was, either.  Instinctively, he bolted forward, not sure whether he was trying to get to Adam now or back to Pa.  He just knew that he had to get out of the cold, wet snow, and one direction seemed about as good as another.

* * * * *

            Slackening his speed only enough to spare his mount needless risk, Ben had ridden hard until he reached the Hunter ranch.  Then, heading east from there, he’d slowed down.  In the fast-falling snow, there were no tracks to follow, so he had to rely on sighting the child, and no one knew better than he what a wild stroke of luck—or more likely, the guidance of Providence—it would take to spot one small boy in this swirling white nightmare.  Eyes stretched to both horizons, he kept going, as near due east as he could, even though he knew Little Joe’s sense of direction couldn’t be strong enough to keep him on that steady a course.  What other alternative did he have, though?  The sage plains were broad expanses of sparsely settled territory, where neither Nature nor man provided much by way of shelter.  They could easily swallow up a child as small as Little Joe.

How would I bear that? Ben asked himself.  Merciful God, You can’t let it happen—not again! I’ve lost two good women to this difficult land; I can’t lose my son, too.  Show me where he is! The wise men followed the star until they came to where the young child lay, he recalled from Scripture, but I’m no wise man and there is no star—no sun, either, now, no way for Little Joe to find his bearings.  Or me, either.  Which way should I go?

            Not east.  He suddenly knew that as certainly as if he’d heard a voice from heaven.  Not due east, at least.  He’d been foolish to try to keep that course, when he knew Little Joe couldn’t.  No, his son was at the mercy of the elements, and his path would be more directed by the force of the wind than by the unseen sun and stars or landmarks the father might recognize, but the son would not.  He slackened the reins and let his horse pick its own path, hoping that somehow it would respond as a child might.

* * * * *

            Little Joe stumbled and fell forward into a deep drift of snow.  Clawing his way out, he clambered wearily to his feet.   “Papa,” he whimpered.  No answer came, but a trickle of tears did, and he furiously wiped them away with his damp mittens before they could freeze on his face and tattle that he wasn’t a big boy.  He was ready to admit now that he’d done a bad thing in sneaking out of the house.  Pa would be mad, but he didn’t care anymore.  Pa could be as mad as he wanted—even mad enough for that necessary little talk—just so long as he found him.  Little Joe was sure he would, even without a star to follow.  Pa was very smart about finding things.  In the meantime, though, it was cold—real cold.  Little Joe knew he couldn’t just stand still in the freezing wind.  He had to find some rocks or something to hide behind until Pa came for him.  He walked on, though it was harder with each step through the deepening snow.

* * * * *

            As his buckskin plodded forward according to instinct, Ben raised his eyes to the leaden gray sky.  Was it his imagination or was the snow easing up?  And was it his imagination, too, that the terrain seemed more level?  No, that sensation was definitely real, and Ben smiled with sudden understanding.  The horse, taking the path of least resistance, had made his way back to the road.  Would Little Joe have done the same?  He wouldn’t know where to look for it, but if he stumbled across it?  Yes, he might stay with the road then, choosing it for the same reason the horse had, since the cross-country route he’d charted before must be increasingly hard for those short, tired legs to maneuver.  The road led more north than east, but Ben had long since given up the notion that his son was still headed east.  He’d follow the road for a while and see where it took him . . . hopefully toward Little Joe.

* * * * *

            Little Joe trudged through the snow, but the going didn’t seem as hard as before.  The ground felt different, somehow, and now the snow didn’t seem like a wild monster, eager to gobble him up.  Just pretty snow again, drifting down real slow . . . but there was so much of it already.  The wind was still cold, too, and he hadn’t found a good place to get away from it.

            Then, up ahead, he saw something.  He wasn’t sure what at first, but it was big.  Boulders, maybe? he thought as he cocked his head for a closer look.  Funny shape for boulders, but they could be ‘most any shape, couldn’t they?  As Little Joe squinted, trying to puzzle out what he was seeing, the wind blew aside some of the snow piled against the object, and he saw—spokes!  A wheel!  A wagon—it was a wagon!  And wagons meant people and maybe a house nearby.  Hope pouring energy into his exhausted legs, Little Joe ran for the wagon.  “Hello!  Hello!” he called, loud as he could, but no one answered.

            He was almost up to the wagon when he skidded to an abrupt halt.  Something was wrong.  The wagon had a cover over its top, like people used when they were traveling far, and harness was trailing on the ground, but there were no horses.  Cautiously, he approached the still-silent wagon and slowly climbed up onto the seat.  He peeked through the front opening in the wagon cover and immediately tumbled inside, eyes wide with excitement.

            Presents!  The wagon had packages, wrapped in paper and tied with ribbon.  Oh, it had the usual stuff people packed for a trip, too—trunks and bags and pots and pans and odds and ends of all kinds—but this wagon had presents, too.  It must be Santa’s wagon!  Then puzzlement furrowed across his brow.  But where was Santa?  And where were the other wise men?  Most importantly, where was Adam?

            Little Joe nodded in sober decision.  Lost, just as he’d feared.  Maybe he hadn’t been wrong, after all, to come out looking for his brother, except now they were both lost in the snow, without a star to guide them.  If he could just find Adam, though, they’d at least be together, and Pa wouldn’t have to look for the both of them.  That would help Pa be less mad . . . but where had Adam and Santa and Jamie gone?

            His tummy was rumbling, so he retrieved his pillowcase from beside the wagon, where he’d dropped it, and took out the cookies.  Cookies always seemed to perk Hoss up when he came home from school.  Maybe they’d help him think better, too.  As he brushed the last crumbs from his lap, however, he still had no idea where the wise men might have gone.

            He crawled over the assorted goods and gifts in the wagon until he could peer out the small oval opening in the back.  He wasn’t sure what he had expected to see, but not such a clearly marked trail.  Of course!  The horses—or were they reindeer?—would leave a broad path like that, even through the snow.  All he had to do was stay in the path and it would lead him straight to Adam—and Santa, too.  Maybe he’d even get an extra present for finding them!

            The back opening was laced too tightly for even so small a child as Joe to fit through, so he scrambled back to the front of the wagon and clambered out the way he’d come in, dragging his pillowcase behind him.  He jumped off the wagon, and once he’d picked himself up out of the cushioning snowdrift, he raced for the back and followed in the path of whatever animal had been pulling the wagon.  It was better than a star, ‘cause it was wider and harder to miss.  His eyes shone with expectation, and his heart sang for joy.

* * * * *

We need more men, Ben thought.  Too much territory to cover.  Even in good weather it would take an army, stretched out in a line, to be certain we weren’t riding right past him.  Just two searchers now.  Earlier he’d spotted Hank Carlton, the hand who had tried to find him at Eagle’s Nest, across the road; and after checking the bounds of that man’s search, he’d sent him back to the Hunter place.

            Hank had protested at first.  “I’m mighty fond of that little youngun, Mr. Cartwright, and finding him’s the important thing.  We can all rest up later.”

            “I know, and I appreciate your help, more than I can say,” Ben had told him, “but you’re half frozen, man.  Get Mrs. Hunter to give you a cup of coffee, at least, and warm up awhile.”

            “What about you, Mr. Cartwright?” Hank had challenged.

            “He’s my son,” Ben had stated in a voice that brooked no argument.  Hank had acquiesced and gone on his way, promising to get back to searching soon.

Good man, Ben mused now.  Not many who would ride out in a snowstorm to find one wayward little boy.  Actually, he knew a good number of neighbors who would have readily joined the search, but they lived far apart and he hadn’t wanted to waste time riding around to inform them.  Once he knew which direction Little Joe had gone, he had hoped to find the boy quickly, without needing to disturb his neighbors so close to the holiday.  Fool, he chided himself.  Will I never stop making foolish mistakes, mistakes that could cost me all I hold dear?

            With a shake of his head, he tossed aside the condemning thoughts.  Waste of time, such thoughts.  If he let such foolishness distract him, so that he missed that one vital sign that would lead him to Little Joe, he’d have a lifetime remaining for self-accusation.  No need to waste time on it now.  With renewed determination he again began to scan every inch of the snowscape around him before moving further down the road.

* * * * *

            Though the snow had stopped, the sun was still obscured by clouds.  Even had it been out, however, the light from Little Joe’s face would have beamed brighter.  A barn—the wise men had found a barn!  While he’d set out looking for them, they’d been the ones to lead him to shelter.  Shoulda known, the boy acknowledged with a grin, ‘cause Adam is real smart, like Hoss said, and his wise men friends would be smart, too, especially Santa.

            He ran now, knowing he was only a few steps from Adam’s arms.  He pulled eagerly at the bright red door.  It was heavy, so he only cracked it as far as he needed to get in.  “Adam!” he called as he came into the dark interior.

            He froze as he heard a clicking sound, and in the dim light from the doorway, he saw the barrel of a rifle, pointed straight at him.

* * * * *

            Ben dismounted and slowly approached the abandoned wagon.  At least, he assumed it had been abandoned, since the team that had pulled it was obviously gone.  Still, it would have made an ideal shelter for a small boy, if Little Joe had come this way.  “Hello . . . the wagon!” he called with rising hope.

            There was no answer, but he had to check, so he climbed up and looked inside, just as his son had done before him.  No sign of life, but there were indications that life had been here . . . and not too long ago.  The wrapped gifts told him someone had been traveling to some sort of Christmas gathering, but something—probably the snowstorm—had gone wrong and caused them to leave the wagon.

            He circled the wagon and soon spotted the problem, a wheel broken after slipping off the icy road.  But where were the people?  He could see, by the wake of the draft animals they’d taken with them, that they’d gone back the way they’d come.  Did they have a destination in mind or were they strangers to this territory, aimlessly floundering through the snow?  If so, he really would need to take time to notify neighbors, and he could ill afford interrupting his search for Little Joe that long.  It could mean his child’s death.  However, he couldn’t ignore the imminent danger to those others, either.

            Where could they have gone?  Where would someone who knew the land go?  The Hunter place was the closest ranch, but these people hadn’t headed that way.  Suddenly, Ben’s head reared up.  No, there was shelter closer than that, and even a stranger might have seen it, coming down this road.  He mounted quickly and rode as hard as he could.  He’d check on the strangers, make sure they were all right, and then get back to searching for his son.  Maybe, depending on what kind of folks these were, he might even enlist some help.

* * * * *

            “Marty, don’t!” a high-pitched voice cried.  “It’s a child!”

            The rifle lowered and a loud exhale of relief could be heard.  “Land o’ Goshen, boy, where’d you come from?”

            “The Ponderosa,” Little Joe said, his voice still quavering, though he no longer felt threatened.  “Wh-where’s the wise men?”

            The woman, who had been reclining at the rear of the barn, rose on one elbow.  “Come in, child,” she said gently, waving him forward with a welcoming gesture.

            Little Joe moved slowly toward her, as the man passed him to look out the barn door.

            “No one out there,” Marty reported.  “What’s a youngun like this doin’ out alone in a snowstorm?”

            “Lost, same as us, I reckon,” said the woman.  “That about the size of it, boy?”

            “I guess,” Little Joe admitted.  “I was lookin’ for the wise men.  I found their wagon . . . I thought.”

            The woman smiled softly.  “It was our wagon you found.  You followed us here?”

            Little Joe nodded.

            “Smart youngun,” Marty said, coming back over to the woman.  “What’s your name, son?”

            “Little Joe,” the child lisped.  “Little Joe Cartwright.  You know my pa?”

            Marty shook his head.  “No, we’re new to these parts.”  He extended his hand as if the little fellow before him had been a grown man.  “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Little Joe Cartwright.  We’re the Maguires.  I’m Martin—you can call me Marty—and this is my wife”—he broke off with a cackle.  “Well, we’ve got a Joseph to go with you now, Mary, and we got the stable.  Now all we need’s the baby.”  He reached down to give his wife’s ample belly a loving pat.

            “Baby Jesus?” Little Joe asked in an awed whisper.

            “I’m mighty tempted to name him that,” Marty chuckled, “all things considered.”

            “It is not funny,” Mary said through gritted teeth.  She held her stomach until the mild contraction ceased.  “At least,” she panted, “that other Mary had a manger . . . and some hay to lay her baby in.”

            “Yeah, gotta admit this is the barest barn I’ve ever seen,” her husband agreed.  “Our horses the only stock and not a stray strand of straw for them.  Lumber even smells fresh-cut.  It’s shelter, though, and we oughta be grateful for it.”

            “You seen the wise men yet?” Little Joe asked, sitting down and companionably cozying up to the woman.  “Guess not, or they’d still be here.  They’ll be comin’ to see Baby Jesus, though, so can I wait with you?  My brother Adam’s one of them, and I need to take him home.”  His face puckered as he wondered just where home might be from here.  “Or, maybe, he needs to take me home.”

            “What on earth?” Marty exclaimed.

            “Tell us, child, what you mean and how you came to be here,” Mary said, stroking the curls lying against her breast.

            Little Joe sat up and dug into his pillowcase.  “Want some bread and beef?” he asked, holding out all he had left.  “You look hungry.”

            Marty took the food gratefully and, using his pocketknife, roughly cut the bread and beef for sandwiches.  Little Joe accepted his share with a smile, but he didn’t eat yet; happily and confidently he began at the beginning, his nonstop chatter accompanied by sounds of munching and accentuated from time to time by Mary’s low moans.

* * * * *

            Ben dismounted and walked cautiously toward the building.  “Hello . . . the barn!” he called, following the frontier tradition of announcing himself.

            The door opened, and a thin young man wearing a bedraggled felt hat came out, rifle in hand.

            “You the people from the wagon back a ways?” Ben asked.

            The man held his rifle warily.  “We don’t mean no harm, just needed shelter.”

            “I assumed as much,” Ben said, “Are there more of you?”

            “My wife,” Marty said, lowering the rifle, “and a stray youngun . . . that’s all.”

            “Stray youngun?” Ben asked, rising hope making his voice squeak.  “Curly hair, green eyes?  About yea tall?”  He held his hand at Little Joe’s height.

            Marty grinned.  “Yeah, and if he’s got an imagination twice as tall as that, I reckon I’ve got what you’re lookin’ for, mister.”

            “Thank God,” Ben murmured.

            Marty opened the door wider and Ben went in.  As soon as his figure filled the doorway, Little Joe scrambled to his feet and ran pell-mell into him.  “Papa!” he cried.  “I knew you’d find me!”

            Ben dropped to his knees and engulfed the little boy with hugs.  “Oh, baby,” he whispered between kisses on the wind-reddened cheeks.  “Pa is so glad he did find you.”

            Little Joe pulled back and gave his father a rebuking pout for calling him a baby, but it faded a moment later and he threw himself back into his father’s arms.  “I couldn’t find the wise men,” he said sadly into his father’s ear.

            “The wise men are exactly where they should be,” Ben said, “but we’ll talk about that later.”  He stood up, still holding his son on his shoulder, and walked further into the barn.  “Good evening, ma’am,” he said, touching his hat brim with his free hand.  “I don’t know how you managed it, but thank you for finding my little boy.”

            Mary smiled.  “He found us.  If this is your barn, sir, we’re mighty obliged for the use of it.”

            “It’s not mine,” Ben replied.  “It’s Thee Winters’ barn, and there’ll be a fine new house to go with it in time.  His family’s staying in Carson City until it’s built, and I know he wouldn’t begrudge shelter to anyone in need.”

            “Carson City!” Mary cried.  “Why, that’s where we were headed.”

            Marty moved alongside his wife.  “Shouldn’t’ve been, I reckon, with my wife ‘great with child,’ like the Good Book says.”

            “Marty,” his wife chided, blushing furiously.  “Such things ain’t spoke of.”

            “The man has eyes, Mary,” Marty said, rolling his own.  “Anyway, the baby wasn’t supposed to come ‘til after the new year.  Her folks are in Carson, so when the weather broke yesterday, we thought we could make it there for Christmas and stay on ‘til the baby was born.  Fool notion, as it turned out, but Mary wanted to be with her ma when the baby came.”

            “Baby Jesus,” Little Joe supplied with a wide yawn.

            The adults all laughed.  “I don’t think so, Joseph,” Ben chuckled, patting his son’s back, “but a child just as precious to these folks.”

            “We weren’t expecting the snow to start up again,” Marty explained.

            “Or the broken wheel?” Ben added with a smile.

            “Or the broken wheel,” Marty agreed with a shake of his head.  “We’d seen this building from the road when we passed, so we made our way back here.  Never thought my boy—”

            “Or girl,” Mary interrupted.

            Marty nodded.  “Or girl would be born in a barn, but it’s sure beginnin’ to look that way . . . unless Carson is closer than I think.

            “Too far for your need,” Ben said soberly, “but if you think you could manage about five miles, ma’am, we can do better than this barn.  Solid walls, a bed and even a woman to help with the birthing.”

            “A woman!” Mary cried.  “Oh, Marty!”

            Her husband looked dubious.  “Mary, I’m not sure even five miles is close enough.”  He looked at Ben.  “She’s havin’ pains.”

            “How far apart, ma’am?” Ben asked.

            Mary glanced away for a moment.  Then, eased of her embarrassment by Ben’s solicitous manner, she answered plainly, “Closer than I’d like, but my water’s not broke yet.”  She turned pleading eyes on her husband.  “Oh, please, Marty, let me try.  A woman, Marty, and a proper bed!”

            “All right, Mary, all right,” Marty said, still sounding concerned.  “We’ll try, but you gotta promise to hold off long as you can.  I don’t relish layin’ you down in the snow for this business.”

            It was a promise no woman could realistically make, of course, but Mary made it anyway, and the two men felt they had no choice but to let her have her way.

* * * * *

            “Come away from that window, boy,” Elvira Hunter said sharply, looking up from her knitting.  “You’re puttin’ prints all over it.”

            “Sorry, ma’am,” Hoss said, reluctantly pulling back from the window, to which his face had been pressed.  He came back over and perched next to the woman on the hard settee.  “I was just hopin’ to see someone comin’.”

            “I know that, and . . . well, I reckon, it’s understandable,” she said more softly, “but a watched pot never boils, son.”

            “Huh?”

            Elvira chuckled.  “Just an old saying.  In this case, it means you won’t make ‘em come sooner by smearing your nose on my windowpane.”

            Hoss gave her a lopsided grin.  “Guess not.  I didn’t mean to mess your window, ma’am.  If you tell me how, I’ll clean it for you.”

            Elvira waved the offer aside.  “It’s no matter,” she said.  “Just you and me to see it.”  One of Ben’s men had been here earlier, but had left again after having a hot cup of coffee and a good warm by the fire, so it was just her and the boy now, as it had been most of the afternoon.  Seeing him wistfully eyeing the window again, she patted his arm.  “You’re a good boy, and you’ve been plenty of help to me today.  I’ve got a nice hot soup simmering and fresh bread in the oven.  Be ready soon.”  She’d made a big pot, since she’d invited the hand to come back for supper and bring the other man with him, if they crossed paths.  And she was especially looking forward to sitting across the supper table from Ben Cartwright.

            “It smells good, ma’am,” Hoss said, smiling politely at her; then his eyes strayed back to the window.

            “Oh, lands, if that’s the only thing that comforts you, go smear up the window some more,” she ordered, giving his shoulder a push.  “I’ll check on the bread.”

            The bread was almost ready, so Elvira puttered around in the kitchen awhile, setting out bowls and spoons, a glass for Hoss’s milk and a cup for her coffee.  She peered out the kitchen window, not looking for anyone, since it faced a direction no one was likely to come from, but gazing anxiously at the sun dipping toward the horizon.  Surely, Ben Cartwright would be back before nightfall . . . one way or the other.  She shook her head sadly.  She’d known loss in her own life, but to lose a child . . . she couldn’t even imagine the hurt of that, especially so soon after losing the boy’s mother.  Her heart had sent up silent prayers all through the long afternoon of trying to distract Hoss from his fretting, but the more time passed, the less likely it seemed that they would be answered.

            She had just pulled the bread from the oven and set it aside to cool when she heard Hoss call from the other room, “They’re comin’!  They’re comin’!”

            “Stay where you are, boy!” she cried as she hurried from the kitchen.  She’d learned her lesson from Little Joe and knew now how fast boys could disappear.

            “But it’s them, I know it is!” Hoss cried.

            “I hope so, boy, I do, but you ain’t traipsin’ out in your shirtsleeves, even if it is.”

            “I’ll get my coat.”

            Hoss tried to rush past her, but Elvira gripped his shoulder with her strong, lean fingers.  “Stay put, boy.”  She maneuvered him back to the window and looked out herself.  “That’s your pa, right enough, but lands sakes, he’s got a whole caravan with him.”  She turned Hoss loose.  “All right.  Go get your coat . . . and mine.”

            “Yes’m!” Hoss shouted and took off.

            Bundling into their winter wraps, they made their way outside just as the “caravan” was arriving.  “Pa!” Hoss shouted.  “You found him!”

            “Shh,” Ben hissed.  “You’ll wake your brother.”

            “Is the child all right, Ben?” Elvira called from the front step.

            Ben smiled broadly.  “Exhausted, but otherwise fine.”  He motioned Hoss forward and handed Little Joe down to him.  “Get your brother inside, son, and then get the animals into the barn.  We’ll groom them later.”  He dismounted and stepped briskly over to Elvira.  “I came across some stranded travelers,” he explained.  He leaned close to whisper, “The woman’s in labor.”

            “Oh, good lands!” Elvira cried.  “Get her in the house.  Hurry now.”

            Marty helped his wife down from the back of the draft horse he had been leading, and, making a saddle of their interlaced hands, he and Ben carried the expectant mother inside.  Elvira led the way.  “Here . . .  into the bedroom,” she said.

            “Sorry to land on your doorstep like this, ma’am,” Mary said, sinking onto the bed.

            “Don’t think a thing of it,” Elvira said.  Scowling at the men standing around like stiff and stupid fence posts, she shooed them out.  “One of you might set some water on to boil, if you aren’t so useless you never learned how.  And there’s soup and fresh-baked bread waiting in the kitchen for anyone who’s hungry.  Help yourselves.”  She turned her attention back to Mary.  “There now, dear, let’s get you settled.”

            Ben clapped Marty on the back.  “I guess we’ve got our orders.”  He led the stupefied father-to-be from the room and into the kitchen.

            Hoss came in next, leading a very groggy Little Joe.  “Sorry, Pa,” Hoss said meekly.  “Guess I woke him up after all.”

            Ben, who was pulling open cabinet doors, right and left, turned.  “It’s all right, Hoss.  He needs to eat.  Just set him at the table, and I’ll serve you both up some of Mrs. Hunter’s good soup . . . as soon as I can find a pot to boil some water.”

            Hoss grinned and, dropping Little Joe’s hand, hurried over to his father.  “Here, Pa,” he said, swinging open the one door Ben hadn’t tried.  “I saw her get the soup pot from here.”

            “Thank you, son,” Ben said with an absent-minded brush of the boy’s sandy hair.  Only dropping the pot once on the way to the pump, he filled it with water and set it on the stove to boil.  “Now for the soup,” he said.  He looked back at his middle son.  “I don’t suppose you know where she keeps soup bowls.”

            “Dishes is up high,” Hoss said, “but I ain’t sure what kind.”

            Since this had been a two-person household, there weren’t enough soup bowls to go around, but between those and serving dishes Ben managed to find enough for everyone.  Then he sliced the warm, aromatic bread and saw that each person had a piece.  Little Joe was so sleepy that he could barely lift a spoon, so Ben set the child in his lap and encouraged him to eat, bite by bite.

            Little Joe leaned his head back against his father’s chest and raised his eyes.  “You mad, Papa?”

            Ben dropped a kiss on the curly head.  “No, Joseph, Papa isn’t mad.  I’m too tired and too relieved to be angry, but you do know that you were very naughty to run off like that, don’t you?”

            “Very naughty,” Hoss added emphatically as he reached for a second slice of bread.

            Ben chuckled.  “I can handle this, Hoss.  Joseph?”

            A trace of a pout touched the boy’s lips.  “I tried to follow the star, like you told me, Pa.”

            “Like I told you?”  Ben shook his head in bewilderment.  “Joseph, I never said anything of the kind.”

            “Uh-huh,” Little Joe insisted.  “You said you wanted Adam to follow the star and me, too.”

            Ben turned dazed eyes on his other son.  “Do you have any idea what your brother’s talking about, Hoss?”

            Hoss rested his chin in his palm and slowly nodded.  “Yeah, sort of.  Don’t recollect it real clear, but seems like you said something about him and Adam followin’ a star on the way home from church, when I asked you if the preacher was talking about a real star.”

            Memory gradually filtered back.  “But I said it wasn’t a real star,” Ben recalled, dragging a frustrated hand over his face.  “I said that clearly, didn’t I?”  He looked to his middle son for confirmation.

            Hoss just shrugged.  As he’d had many opportunities to observe, clear wasn’t always clear to Little Joe.

            The youngest Cartwright tugged at his father’s sleeve.  “I tried, Pa, but I couldn’t find him; I couldn’t find Adam.”

            He sounded so sorrowful that Ben cuddled him close.  “Baby, didn’t I tell you that Adam couldn’t come home for Christmas, that New Haven was too far?”

            Little Joe rubbed his face up and down against his father’s vest.

            “Has Pa ever lied to you?”

            The little head moved sideways.

            “Then will you trust me in the future?”

            Little Joe yawned in response.  “Sleepy, Papa,” he mumbled.

            Ben smiled, acknowledging the futility of further discussion.  “All right.  Let’s bed you down then.”  He carried his son into the parlor and laid him on the settee, covering him with the crocheted coverlet draped across its back.  With a kiss he tucked the boy in and wished him a good night.

            As Ben again took his seat at the table, Marty said, “I hope you’re not gonna be too hard on the little fellow, Mr. Cartwright.  If it hadn’t been for him findin’ us and then you findin’ him . . . well, things sure would’ve been a lot tougher for my Mary.” 

            “He’ll probably get a lot less than he deserves,” Ben admitted wryly, “especially since, according to both my boys, I’m the one to blame for this massive confusion.”

            “I didn’t say that, Pa,” Hoss protested.

            A sharp cry from the other room forestalled Ben’s response.  Marty flinched and winced in commiseration

            Ben laid a steadying hand on the other man’s arm.  “Bear up, man,” he urged.  “I can tell you from personal experience—thrice over—it’ll get worse before it gets better.”

            Marty shook all over, like a wet-furred dog.  “Don’t know how I can stand it.  Don’t know how she can.”

            “Women are strong creatures,” Ben said.  He leaned close and said in a conspiratorial whisper, “Just between you and me, though, I think we’ve got the harder job.  Not to make light of what the women endure, but to sit and wait, listening to the love of your life screaming in pain and feeling nothing but useless, as Mrs. Hunter put it—that’s about the hardest work a man ever does.”

* * * * *

            The pain and the heart-wrenching cries went on and on.  Ben and Hoss had gotten away from it long enough to tend the stock, but it only seemed more intense when they returned.  Well past dark, Ben’s two men finally showed up at what they viewed as headquarters for the search and were overjoyed to discover that the lost had been found.  Ben dished them up what was left of the soup, after setting aside some for Elvira and Mary, and filled them in on how he’d found Little Joe and what was taking place in the next room.  It wasn’t often that single men had the chance to be in on the birthing of a baby, so after they’d eaten, the two men joined the others lounging around the parlor.  Marty was beside himself by this time, and no amount of reassurance could stop his restless pacing.  The commotion eventually woke Little Joe, who crawled into his father’s lap and refused to be soothed back to sleep with so much to interest him going on.

            Finally, the men all broke into broad smiles as the distinctive cry of an infant interrupted their conversation.  Marty was slapped, punched and pounded in masculine expressions of congratulations, and then Elvira stepped into the room to announce that he could come back to the bedroom.

            “So, what is it?” one of Ben’s hands demanded, but she just shook her head in disgust at the ways of men and followed Marty.

            It was a good ten minutes before he returned, carrying a blanket-wrapped bundle.  Little Joe stood up in his father’s lap for a better look.  “You gonna name him Jesus, like you said?” he asked eagerly.

            Marty walked over to the little boy and uncovered the baby’s face for him to see the delicate features and wisps of dark hair.  “I think Jessica might suit this little mite better,” he chuckled.

            “Ah, it’s a gal,” said Hank, as everyone crowded around for a look at the little girl.

            “Mercy sakes, give that child air to breathe,” Elvira scolded.

            With the grace to look a little shame-faced, Ben stepped back.  “We should be going,” he said.  “We’ve imposed on your hospitality long enough.”

            Elvira planted both fists on her hips.  “Ben Cartwright, you will not take these boys out into the cold night air.  It’s miles to the Ponderosa!”

            “Well, I know, but—”

            “But nothing,” she declared stoutly.  “It’ll be crowded, but we’ll manage.  The Maguires can take my bed, I’ll sleep here on the settee, and we’ll lay a pallet for the young ones.”  She spread her hands, looking at the others with some abashment.  “The best I can offer you men is my barn, but a stable was good enough for our Lord, so it ought to do you for one night.  Might even give you a kinship with Him at Christmas.  I got plenty of quilts to go ‘round, and if you choose to stay—and I think you should—I’ll send you off tomorrow morning with a hot, hearty breakfast.”

            “She makes real good biscuits,” Little Joe offered.

            “Real good everything,” Hoss, who had sampled two meals of Elvira’s cooking, added.

            After seeing the agreeable nods from his men, Ben took the hand of the suddenly flushed widow.  “We’re pleased to accept your fine hospitality.  Thank you, Elvira.”

            The crimson in her countenance deepened while his hand held hers.  “Well, never let it be said there was no room in this here inn,” she said with a coy lowering of her eyes.

* * * * *

            The clouds had parted, and the stars shone clearly as Ben, quilt over his arm, made his way from the house to the barn, where his men had already turned in for the night.  He paused and searched the sky for the North Star.  “East—Haven—Adam,” he whispered.  “Merry Christmas to you, my son.  I wish you could be here with us, but you still have that dream to find, and once you have, you’ll find your way back to us.  Just follow the star, Adam; follow the star.”

~ ~ Notes ~ ~

            While his family stayed in Carson City, Theodore (Thee) Winters built a tall frame house in Washoe Valley at approximately the time of this chapter.  That he built the barn first is the author’s surmise, but it fits the practice of the times to provide first for the livestock and then for the family.

CHAPTER TEN

Tidings of Comfort and Giving

            The barn door opened and Hoss slipped through.  “Pa,” he called, “Miz Hunter says to come to breakfast before it gets cold.”

            Hank Carlton set aside the pitchfork with which he’d been tossing fresh straw into one of the cows’ stalls.  “Don’t know about you, Mr. Cartwright, but I sure don’t have to be called twice.  That woman’s a right good cook.”

            “I’m with you,” Ben’s other hand agreed quickly.

            “I won’t argue,” Ben chuckled, “but as soon as we’ve eaten, we need to get out of this good woman’s hair.  We’ve imposed on her hospitality long enough.”  He circled an arm around Hoss’s shoulders.  “Where’s your little brother, son?”

            “Aw, he’s in pesterin’ that lady that had the baby,” Hoss reported.

            “Oh, Hoss,” Ben chided as they walked across the snowy yard.  “You shouldn’t have let him bother them.”

            “Miz Hunter said to leave ‘im be, said he had less chance of sneakin’ out from the back bedroom.”  Hoss’s face scrunched with worry as he looked up at his father.  “You don’t reckon he’d take off out a window, do you?”

            Ben squeezed the boy closer.  “I don’t think so.  I think that little boy’s wandering days are over . . . for a week or two, at least.”

            “Maybe,” Hoss said, mouth quirking up.  “I gave him a good talkin’ to.”

            “I’m sure that will have great impact,” Ben said wryly.  Then he shrugged.  For all he knew, Little Joe might pay more attention to his big brother than to anyone else.  Goodness knows, that boy needed to learn to pay attention to someone!

            He opened the door and walked into the kitchen, pleased to see that Little Joe was no longer “pesterin’ that lady that had the baby.”  Giving the boy’s curls an affectionate tousle, he turned to his hostess.  “Elvira, it’s good of you to feed this crowd again, but I know we’re using up a lot of your supplies, and with the Maguires staying on with you for a spell, too . . . I’d be pleased to send over enough to replenish your cupboards.”

            Elvira Hunter battled against opposing instincts.  On the one hand, her sense of hospitality took umbrage at the thought of repayment.  Still, if Ben were to deliver the supplies himself . . . well, such opportunities shouldn’t be rejected out of hand.  “I reckon as how you might bring me over some extra flour and such,” she said.  “It can wait ‘til after the holidays, though.”

            “That’s right; it’s Christmas Eve!” Hoss cried suddenly, sliding into a seat at the table next to his baby brother.  “We gonna get a tree on the way home, Pa?”

            “Yeah!” Little Joe chimed in gleefully.

            Ben laughed aloud.  “You think we should tie it to my saddle, boys?”

            Hoss grinned sheepishly as he reached for a biscuit.  “Maybe we oughta go home and get the sleigh first, huh?”

            “Maybe we oughta go home and stay home,” Ben said dryly.  “One of us in particular needs practice at that.”

            The remark sailed right over Little Joe’s head, and he was so busy with his breakfast that he didn’t notice the glare his brother aimed in his direction, either.

            Everyone dallied over breakfast, seeming reluctant to leave the warm fellowship in the kitchen for a long ride in the bitter cold.  At length, however, the men could hold no more coffee and the boys no more biscuits, so they bundled up and said their farewells.  Ben set Little Joe in the saddle in front of him, while Hank Carlton invited Hoss to a seat behind the cantle of his mount.  It made for slow-going, and by the time they reached the Ponderosa, everyone was eager for warm drinks and some of Hop Sing’s Christmas cookies.

            “Pa, we gonna get that tree now?” Hoss asked between munches of sugary cutouts.

            Ben groaned.  “For the love of mercy, boy, we just got home.”

            “But, Pa,” Hoss protested.  “It’s Christmas Eve.  Ain’t we gonna have a tree?”

            Ben leaned his head back and exhaled his exhaustion.  As far as he was concerned, they could skip the entire celebration this year, but he’d promised himself that he’d make this Christmas special for his boys, who had lost so much in the last few months.  And had almost lost more yesterday, he reminded himself.  If anything merited a celebration, it was Little Joe’s safe return, so regardless of how tired he was and how little he relished a return to the cold air outside, he forced enthusiasm into his voice.  “Of course, we are!” he declared.  “Let’s warm up and have Hop Sing’s good lunch before we set out, but then we’ll find the best tree there is . . . close at hand.”

            Hoss noticed the qualifier and, thoughtful boy that he was, quickly perceived that his father was doing more than he felt up to, just for their sakes.  The least he could do was not demand more, even if it meant that this year’s tree wouldn’t match up to ones they’d had before.  Besides, they were getting a late start, so they wouldn’t have time to go far and still get the tree decorated tonight.  “Yeah,” he said.  “I bet there’s some right pretty trees nearby, Pa.”

* * * * *

It’s amazing what a good meal can do for a man’s disposition, Ben mused as he guided the team over the snow.  He really hadn’t wanted to go on this expedition, but now, with two laughing boys beside him and warm food coddling his stomach, he felt like a new man, and he was enjoying the afternoon out in the bracing air.  I don’t tell Hop Sing often enough how much he adds to this family, he thought.  The special gift he’d purchased was a good start, of course, but when he considered how far the little Cantonese cook had gone beyond his kitchen duties, especially in looking after Little Joe, no gift seemed special enough to convey his gratitude.  Appreciation of that magnitude should be expressed verbally, as well as visibly.

            He glanced over at his youngest son.  There, if ever he’d seen one, was a child in desperate need of a nap . . . and a properly tanned bottom.  He’d get neither today, and if that made him a poor father, so be it.  Sooner, rather than later, he’d need to set the boy down and make him understand that there were dangers out beyond the ranch yard which made strict obedience to the rules an absolute necessity.  But not today.  Today was a day for celebration, not discipline.  “How about a carol, boys?” he suggested.  “Which one would you like?”

            “Joy to the World!” Little Joe cried.

            Ben’s laughter echoed through the trees.  “Well, it would scarcely be ‘Silent Night’ with you, would it?”

            Hoss hooted at the joke.  “That’s a good ‘un, Pa.”

            “Yeah!” Little Joe burbled, missing the point.  Reading the exchange as approval of his choice, he burst into the first line of the carol.

            They had barely finished the song when Hoss excitedly pointed ahead.  “And there’s a great tree!”

            Ben reached over to playfully shake his older son’s neck.  “I’d still be chopping on that by this time tomorrow,” he snickered.  “Set your sights a little lower, my boy.”

            “Reckon you’re right, Pa,” Hoss admitted.  Having worked alongside tree fellers in the woods, he knew how long it took to bring down the big pines and felt a bit put out with himself for letting his Christmas spirit make him overlook something so obvious.  Pa didn’t seem irked, though, so he let it go easily and peeled his eyes for a tree they could cut in the time they had.  Soon he spotted one and pointed it out to his father.

            “Hoss, that’s perfect,” Ben declared.  “You’re developing a real good eye, son.”

            Hoss’s heart swelled with pride as they climbed out of the sleigh and his father set to work on a beautifully shaped, if somewhat smaller than usual, Christmas tree.

* * * * *

            As Ben guided the team into the yard, he spied another sleigh just outside the barn and shook his head in wonderment.  “We certainly seem to be a magnet for company these snowy days, don’t we, boys?” he asked cheerily.

            “Can’t be Miz Hunter this time,” Hoss returned with a grin, “‘cause she ain’t got a sleigh.  ‘Sides, Little Joe’s still with us.”

            “And he’s going to stay with us, aren’t you, Little Joe?”  Ben lifted his youngest from the sleigh and gave him a light toss into the frosty air.

            Little Joe squealed with delight, which was answer enough for Ben.

            The front door opened, and a tall young man exited.

            “Oh, Enos, it’s you,” Ben said.  “Kat’s not with you, is she?”

            “Sure is,” Ben’s foreman announced.

            “Aunt Kat!” Little Joe cried, trying to squirm out of his father’s arms.

            “All right, down you go,” Ben said, setting the boy down and giving his backside a soft pat in the right direction.  Little Joe took off at a run, and it was clear from the look on Hoss’s face that he wanted to follow.  “Go along, Hoss,” Ben urged, correctly discerning that his older son’s dutiful adherence to the oft-repeated adage that the stock came first was all that was holding him back.  “Enos and I can see to the team.”

            Hoss needed no further invitation and took off at a run.

            “Good to see you, son,” Ben said to Enos as they worked together to unhitch the horses.

            Enos chuckled.  “You see me ‘most every day, Mr. Cartwright.”

            Ben laughed back.  “True, but Katerina is an unexpected—and most welcome—addition.  What brings the two of you out on a day like this?  Just making Christmas Eve calls?”  New Year’s Day, of course, was more traditional for that sort of socializing, at least back East, but out here people came when they could, and this had been a day off for his foreman.

            Stripping harness from the team, Enos grinned.  “Something like that.  Kat’s got a special gift for you and the boys, and she brought some lebkuchen, too.”

            “Umm,” Ben murmured appreciatively.  “All such gifts find a welcome home here.”

            “In Hoss’s tummy?” Enos teased.

            “And mine,” Ben said with a wink.

            “But not Joe’s?” Enos quipped back.

            “Not if we beat him to them,” Ben chuckled, “and that’s usually not hard to accomplish.”

            “I’d be ashamed to take advantage of them short legs of his,” Enos observed with a grin.

            They finished the work quickly and went inside, bringing the tree with them.  Ben frowned when he saw Little Joe sitting in Katerina’s lap.  “Joseph . . .” he began in a chiding tone.

            “Now, don’t scold, Uncle Ben,” Katerina inserted quickly.  “He’s just where I want him.”

            “Don’t—uh—push yourself beyond your comfort, my dear.”  Ben didn’t quite know how to tactfully suggest that, given Katerina’s condition, she might prefer to avoid taking a fidgety boy into her lap.

            Katerina guessed his concern and laughed.  “I’m fine.  Men worry too much.”

            “Probably,” Ben conceded, recalling how well Mary Maguire had handled the dire circumstances surrounding her child’s birth yesterday.  As he’d said then to the frantic father, women were strong, stronger than men gave them credit for.  Marie had been and—he could get no further, for the rush of memories overwhelmed him.

            “Uncle Ben?” Katerina asked, her face reflecting concern.

            Ben shook himself from his painful reverie.  “It’s so good to see you, Katerina  . . . so nice to have friends to share the holiday with.”  The pain throbbed through him again as he recalled the joy of earlier Christmases, with friends and family . . . Marie . . . filling this great room with laughter and warmth, children gazing enthralled as he and Dr. Martin read A Christmas Carol, adults toasting one another with wishes for a happy new year.  He’d felt unable to host such a party this year, believing that a quiet celebration with the boys was all he could muster strength for.  The inclement weather, making it impossible for distant friends to come, had seemed to validate that decision; yet here were two who had braved it, solely for the pleasure of sharing the season with him.  On the spur of the moment, he chose to turn this afternoon into a celebration, slapped together as it must, of necessity, be.  “You’ll stay and help us put up the tree, won’t you, and for dinner?”

            Katerina clapped her slender hands.  “Oh, can we, Enos?”

            Enos scratched his head.  “I don’t know, Kat.  Weather might set in again, make it hard to get home.”

            “More than welcome to stay over, if it does,” Ben offered, “although perhaps you’d rather be alone on Christmas morning.”

            “Let’s chance it,” Katerina urged.  “We didn’t have room for a tree at home, and I’d love to help with theirs.”

            “Well, all right,” Enos gave in, “but no complaints if your Christmas present comes late, little lady.”

            Katerina smiled.  “No complaints, I promise.  This will be a—a—”

            “Foretaste of things to come?” Ben supplied.  His gaze rested tenderly on the slight bulge in the young woman’s abdomen.  “Too late to turn back now, little mother.”

            “I wouldn’t want to!” Katerina declared as she snuggled Little Joe closer.

            Ben laughed.  “Evidently, you haven’t heard about that one’s lastest hair-raising escapade.”

            “Yeah, we did,” Enos said soberly.  “Hop Sing told us; then I checked with Carlton, to make sure I’d heard it straight.  Surprised you can sit comfortable, little fellow.”  He gave Joe’s curls a tousle.

            “Hush,” Katerina scolded, drawing the child close again.  “It’s Christmas.”

            “So it is,” Ben announced and with a fond glance at his youngest added, “Peace on earth and goodwill to men . . . even to naughty little boys.”  He ended with a laugh and plucked the youngster from Katerina’s lap for an indulgent bear hug.

            “Ain’t we better get that tree set up?” practical Hoss suggested.

            “Right,” his father said.  “You and Enos work on that, and Katerina and I will see about sweet-talking Hop Sing into popping some corn for a garland.”  He offered the young woman his free arm and led her toward the kitchen.

            “Well, Hoss, seein’ as how you and me got the easy chore, let’s get to it,” Enos suggested.

            “Aw, they got Joe,” Hoss snickered.  “He sweet-talks better’n anybody I know.”

            “Yeah, well, you’re better with trees,” Enos said, clapping the boy’s sturdy shoulder.

            “Right!” Hoss said.

            By the time they had the crosspieces nailed to the base of the tree and had set it in place, the others returned from the kitchen with heaping bowls of popped corn.  “All hands on deck,” Ben called and began distributing needles and string.  “Not you,” he said, avoiding Little Joe’s outstretched hand.  “Naptime for you.”

            “Not sleepy,” Little Joe insisted.

            “Then get sleepy,” his father ordered, plunking the boy onto the settee.  Pulling a coverlet over the child, he added, “You can watch as long as you lie down.”

            Little Joe gave in with only a small pout, but though he fought hard against the drowsiness, even the merry voices in the room couldn’t keep him awake.  He slept through most of the afternoon, while the others, including the two hands from the bunkhouse, threaded kernels of corn and an occasional whole cranberry into long strands.

* * * * *

            “‘Bout time,” Hoss grunted when Little Joe finally sat up, yawning and stretching.

            “‘Bout time for what?” Little Joe asked.

            “Time to decorate the tree, sweetie,” Katerina said.  “We wouldn’t dream of starting without you.”

            Little Joe looked at the strands of popcorn and cranberry circling the tree.  “Yes, you did,” he pouted.

            The others laughed.  “Just the garland,” Enos chuckled.  “Trust me, boy; ain’t nothin’ but work to that!”

            “Amen!” Ben agreed heartily.  He held out a small carved bird to his youngest.  “Want to make this fly through the branches, Little Joe?”

            “Yes!” Joe chirped happily.

            They took turns, each person placing the ornament of his or her choice until the tree was full.

            “And now for the crowning glory,” Ben announced as he held forth the metal star for the treetop.

            “You might want to use this, instead,” Katerina suggested shyly, handing him a small, soft package, wrapped in tissue paper.

            “Oh, is this the gift for the boys you mentioned?” Ben inquired.

            Katerina nodded.

            Ben extended the package toward his sons.  “Well, then, boys, I guess you’d better open it.”

            Hoss outreached Joe for the gift and eagerly tore off the paper.  “It’s an angel!” he cried.

            “It’s Mama,” Little Joe whispered in awe.

            As Ben examined the handcrafted angel, tears came to his eyes.  No doll could do justice to the original, of course, but this angel was clearly meant to resemble Marie.  The carved features of the wooden head closely captured her countenance, the hair had been painted in her exact shade, and the eyes were emerald green to match the flowing silk gown, a detailed replica of one Marie had often worn to parties and balls.

            “Anybody’d know that was the missus,” Hank Carlton said with an approving smile at Katerina.

            “Is it all right?” the young woman asked anxiously.  “It won’t make you sad to see it, will it?”

            Ben put his arms around her and kissed her cheek tenderly.  “Oh, my dear.  It will be like having her shining down on us this Christmas.”  He smiled at his foreman.  “Enos, I had no idea you were such a craftsman at woodcarving.”

            Enos waved off the praise.  “Oh, no, Mr. Ben.  That ain’t my work.  Mr. Thomas did the carving; I just painted it, and Kat did the rest.”

            “A three-fold blessing, then,” Ben said.  “Thank you so much.”

            “Can I put it on the tree?” Hoss asked, eyes misting.

            “Let Little Joe,” his father suggested softly.  “You opened it, Hoss.”

            “Besides, he’s easier to lift,” Enos chuckled to lighten the mood.

            Everyone laughed at that, even Hoss.  “Reckon so,” he admitted.  “Can I hold him up?”

            “You bet,” Ben agreed quickly.  “I’m always glad to hand off that chore.”

            Another round of laughter circled the room as Hoss lifted his little brother over his head and Ben bent the tree’s top down so the boy could set the angel’s skirt over it.  “Put it on the tree, Little Joe,” Ben urged.  “Brother can’t hold you forever.”

            “Can, too,” Joe insisted.  “Hoss is strong, Pa.”

            “Joseph,” Ben drawled warningly.  His face softened, though, as he saw Little Joe gently kiss the angel’s face before putting it into place and heard him whisper, “Merry Christmas, Mama.”

            From that moment it was as though Marie’s presence hovered over the celebration.  The slapped-together activities flowed as seamlessly as if they’d been planned.  Ben had earlier told Hop Sing to keep supper simple and hadn’t considered asking more, just because the guest list had grown.  The cook, however, had produced what Inger would have called a smorgasbord.  Was she, too, smiling down on them this Christmas?  He knew that if there were any way possible, his second wife would want to be near her son at a time like this.  He closed his eyes and searched to feel Elizabeth’s spirit.  He couldn’t, but perhaps she would be hovering near Adam this Christmas.  Perhaps the whole notion was too fanciful, and he wasn’t sure how it fit in with theology, either, but it didn’t matter.  He opened his eyes and smiled at the happy faces around the table.  They were what mattered, and he suddenly realized that he was no longer making an effort to give the boys a good Christmas.  They, in conjunction with the other loving hearts around the table, were giving him one, too.

            The after-supper reading of A Christmas Carol and the exuberant singing of carols together made the evening’s activities run late, so Enos and Katerina did elect to spend the night, once assured that their presence on Christmas morning would not be an intrusion.  “You’ll have to resign yourselves to an early rising, though,” Ben teased as everyone headed upstairs.  “There’s no keeping these youngsters in bed on Christmas morning.”

            Given that early rising, Ben knew he should turn in at once, but he had a problem to solve first.  His gifts to his sons only needed to be placed beneath the tree as soon as he was sure they were asleep.  He also had small gifts of appreciation for each of his hands, including his foreman Enos—goodness knows when the snow would have permitted delivery of that had the man not turned up on his doorstep—but nothing for Katerina, an unexpected though most welcome Christmas guest.  For her to be the only person with nothing to unwrap in the morning was unthinkable, but what could he possibly give her?  The only things he possessed suitable for a woman had belonged to Marie, and at first to give away anything of hers, even to so cherished a friend as Katerina, seemed unthinkable, as well.

            Ben smiled softly as he let his mind consider what Marie would have said to such reasoning as that.  He could almost see the scorn in her eyes at the very notion of holding on to everything her hands had touched while on earth.  What was he saving them for, anyway?  Little Joe, of course, should have some remembrance of his mother, just as Adam had Elizabeth’s music box and Hoss dear Inger’s Swedish Bible.  In Joe’s case, there was plenty to choose from and still would be, even after selecting a gift for Katerina.

            He opened the armoire, where Marie’s dresses still hung, pulled one out and just as quickly put it back.  No, he couldn’t give away the dress she’d been wearing when they first met; it held memories too poignant.  Besides, it was too grand a frock for Katerina.  Perhaps something more practical.  Even Marie’s everyday dresses had been more elegant than anything Katerina ever wore, but perhaps she could use one for church.  He drew another dress from the armoire, and as he pulled it toward him, a whiff of Marie’s scent wafted into his nostrils.  With a groan he buried his face in the fabric and breathed in deeply.  Her scent had faded from her pillow, and he couldn’t, he just couldn’t part with something that still carried it.  He quickly hung the dress back in the armoire and shut the door.  Perhaps this had been a bad idea in the first place.

            He shook his head.  No, not a bad idea, although the man who’d thought of it seemed too weak to carry it out.  Get a grip on yourself, Ben, he chided himself.  He did need a gift for his young guest, and when he thought of how she’d come to them the morning after Marie passed and ministered such loving comfort to his sons, desire to give her a tangible expressions of his esteem superseded even the obligations of a good host.

            He still had nothing but Marie’s belongings to give; that truth hadn’t changed.  Not something as personal as a dress, though.  Katerina might even have been uncomfortable wearing that, although Nelly hadn’t felt that way about Inger’s blue satin dress the year he gave that to her for Christmas.  Goodness, he’d forgotten that.  Ten—no, eleven—years ago he’d faced this same struggle.  He’d chosen then to give, rather than cling to his beloved’s possessions, and he’d felt the richer for the giving.  Surely, he would again.

            His purpose reinvigorated by the memory, he gazed around the room in search of inspiration, and his eyes strayed to the jewel case sitting atop the chest of drawers.  He walked across the room, picked it up and carried it back to the bed.  Sitting down, he opened the case and began lifting out necklaces and earrings, considering them one by one.  This one seemed too intimately associated with Marie, that one too ornate for Katerina’s simple taste, until finally Ben raised a strand of creamy pearls with a single teardrop pendant of glass so beautifully cut that it sparkled like a diamond—perfect!  Needing some container to hold it, he pawed through Marie’s drawers, located a small sachet bag and dropped the necklace down onto the lavender inside.  Then he tiptoed down the stairs and hung the bag from a high branch.  He quickly took the boys’ gifts and those for his men from their hiding place and arranged them beneath the tree.  Just before going back up to bed, he let his eyes rest on the angel with Marie’s face, and though he knew he was being fanciful, he was almost certain he’d seen her smile of approval.

* * * * *

            Ben woke early the next morning, but not because of the boys.  He woke to the sound of rain pattering on the roof and groaned.  What sort of winter was this, anyway?  Snow for ten days and now rain?  The heavens were conspiring to keep him cooped up inside with two rambunctious boys.  He chuckled.  Oh, well, he didn’t mind that on Christmas; tomorrow would be soon enough to fret over how to keep his sons occupied.  At least, all those new trinkets waiting beneath the tree should be an asset in that regard.

            He rose and dressed quickly, wanting to get downstairs and build up the fire before the others woke.  As he descended the stairs, however, he saw that Enos was already performing that task, while Katerina huddled in Ben’s armchair, her stocking feet tucked up beneath her rumpled skirts.  The young man looked up when he heard a stair creak beneath Ben’s foot.  “It’s a mess outside, boss,” Enos said.

            “Oh, Uncle Ben,” Katerina moaned.  “We should have gone last night.”

            “Nonsense,” Ben pronounced.

            “Maybe it’ll stop by afternoon,” Enos suggested.  At Ben’s urging, he and Katerina had planned to stay for the Christmas Day feast, currently scheduled for around two o’clock.

            “Hopefully,” Ben agreed, moving across the room to give Katerina a good morning kiss on the cheek.  “However, if it doesn’t, you’re not to think of taking this dear girl out in a storm.  We have plenty of room, and you’re more than welcome to stay as long as necessary.  I only regret that your own private little celebration may be delayed; I know how meaningful that can be to a young couple.”

            Katerina reached up to circle his neck with her slender arms.  “Uncle Ben, you mustn’t think that.  Being here with you is making this such a memorable Christmas.”

            Ben laughed.  “I think you can thank—or blame—the weather for that, more than me.”

            Suddenly, there was a rumble on the stairs and an anxious call, “Did he come?”

            Ben hurried across the room to catch his youngest up in his arms.  “Did who come, Little Joe?”  He hoped the boy wasn’t back to hoping that Adam had come home for Christmas; he wasn’t sure he was up to another round of that discussion.

            “Santa!” Little Joe cried.  Then his gaze fell on the pile of presents beneath the tree.  “He did!  He did come!”

            “Of course, he did,” Ben declared enthusiastically, “but there will be no tearing into gifts until your brother is up.”

            Little Joe immediately squiggled out of his father’s arms and tore up the stairs, yelling, “Hoss!  Get up!  Santa came!”

            “Whether by boat or sleigh, I couldn’t say.”  Ben winked at Katerina, who laughed in delightful anticipation of the day she would share such moments with her own boy or girl.

            Soon Hoss thundered down the steps in his brother’s wake.  “Doggone it, you’re right, Joe,” he said with a meaningful grin at his father.  “Looks like Santa did make it through.”

            “Was there ever any doubt?” Ben chuckled.

            Pandemonium reigned for the next several minutes as the youngsters uncovered their treasures.  “Put them aside for now, boys,” Ben ordered gently, “and get yourselves cleaned up and dressed for breakfast.  There’ll be plenty of time to play later.  No, Hoss, you cannot have any of that candy before breakfast.”

            Hoss sheepishly dropped the lemon drop back into his stocking and hung it back up on the mantle, the better to resist its temptations.  Little Joe just left his lying beneath the tree and headed upstairs.

            “Not exactly what I meant by ‘put them aside,’” Ben chuckled as he placed his sons’ gifts in an orderly pile.  “Why, goodness me, if there isn’t something here for the best foreman in the territory,” he said, handing a small package to Enos.

            Having received yearly gifts from Ben, the foreman wasn’t surprised, at least until he unwrapped an obviously expensive wallet.  “That’s prime leather, Mr. Ben,” he said.

            “For a prime man,” Ben assured him.  He reached up to take the sachet bag from its branch and walked over to place it in Katerina’s hand.  “And this for the fine young lady who graces our home this Christmas.”

            “How sweet of you to think of me,” Katerina murmured.  She held the bag to her nose and sniffed in the scent.  “Ooh, lavender, my favorite.”

            “I’m glad,” Ben said, smiling, “but there’s something inside besides lavender, my dear.”

            “Oh?”  She loosened the drawstring, and her blue eyes widened and her mouth formed an “O” as she gazed inside.  “Oh, my,” she said, drawing out the pearl necklace.  “Uncle Ben, it’s beautiful, but I can’t.”  Eyes shimmering with compassion, she looked up at him.  “It—it was hers, wasn’t it?”

            “Yes,” Ben said softly, “but I want you to have it.  I think she would, too.”

            Enos took the necklace, noting how the teardrop glistened in the firelight.  “No, sir, Mr. Ben, this is too much.  We’re much obliged, but we can’t accept a diamond.”

            Ben chuckled.  “It’s just glass, son.  The pearls are real, of course, but it’s not an expensive piece.  Please let Katerina have it and wear it in honor of Marie.”

            Enos still seemed unsure of the propriety of such a gift.  “Well,” he drawled out to give himself a few seconds more to reflect, “I guess, seeing as how you put it that way, my Kat would be pleased to do Marie that honor.  She sure deserved that much.”

            “And more,” Katerina whispered.  She rose and, coming to Ben’s side, stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek.

            Ben pointed to the angel atop their tree.  “You brought her to us this Christmas; it’s only right that you take a piece of her with you.”

            Teary-eyed, Katerina nodded.

            Ben kissed her forehead.  Then, gathering up the gifts for the hands in the bunkhouse and one for Hop Sing, he disappeared into the kitchen.

            The rain continued throughout the day, but so much warmth and happiness surrounded the occupants of the ranch house that no one seemed to mind until mid-afternoon, when Katerina said, “I’m afraid we’re going to have to impose on your hospitality a bit longer, Uncle Ben.”

            “Imposition!” Ben scoffed.  “Why, Katerina, I’d be ready to tear my hair out if you hadn’t been here to help with these rowdy youngsters.”

            Katerina smiled, but shook her head.  “They’ve been very well behaved and you know it.  I only wish I’d foreseen this happening and brought a change of clothes.”

            Ben hesitated only a moment.  “You’re welcome to one of Marie’s dresses.”

            Katerina laughed.  “They wouldn’t fit, Uncle Ben . . . especially now.”  Her eyes dipped toward her rounded belly.

            “I suppose not,” Ben conceded somewhat sheepishly, “but you could have one of her nightgowns to sleep in, if you like.  They might fit loosely enough.”

            “I’d appreciate that,” Katerina said.

            “I think Adam left a nightshirt here that might do for you, Enos,” Ben offered.

            “Thanks,” the foreman said.  “Sure hope this downpour eases up by tomorrow.”

* * * * *

            The rain continued the next day and the day after that, melting the accumulated snow, but freezing a sheet of ice over it every night.  The constant drizzle began to weigh on everyone’s nerves, especially the young couple who had not expected to be stranded when they made their Christmas Eve call at the Ponderosa.  Hop Sing generously did their laundry overnight, but as their clothes were not yet dry the next morning, both Enos and Katerina appeared at the breakfast table in borrowed nightclothes and robes.

            “Do you suppose it will ever end?” Katerina sighed.

            “Probably in time for the spring showers,” Ben commented dryly.

            Katerina wagged a chiding finger at him.  “In that case, I hope you’re prepared to play midwife.”

            “Don’t you dare,” a flushing Ben growled menacingly.

            “It’s a mess out there,” Enos observed.  “I reckon the Carson River’s flooded.”

            “Bound to be,” Ben agreed.  “In fact, Carson Valley’s probably a lake by now.  All that melting snow has to go somewhere.”

            “We going to the lake?” Little Joe asked.

            “Sure, son,” Ben chuckled.  “Just step outside the front door and wade right in.”  He grabbed hold of the boy when he jumped up, apparently intending to do just as he was told.  “That’s all we need,” he scolded, “you tracking in mud and making Hop Sing stomp off for old China.”

            “Not a chance, Pa,” Hoss said with a grin.  “He’d need a boat, and they don’t sail over the mountains.”

            “Another day or two of this and they will,” Ben groused.

            Fortunately, the rain ended that night, but Ben persuaded Enos and Katerina to stay on one more day, to let the ground dry out a little.  When the trip was finally deemed safe, Ben loaned them his buckboard, for with the snow gone, their sleigh was no longer a practical choice.  Enos could load his wagon wheels into the buckboard when he returned to work and switch them out for the runners then.

            “I’m going to ride along with you,” Ben insisted, leading his horse from the barn.

            “Hate to put you to the trouble,” Enos demurred, although he looked grateful.

            Ben waved the objection aside.  “No trouble.  I need an excuse to get away from those boys for a while.”

            Katerina laughed.  “And you’ll be just as eager to get back to them, you know you will.”

            Ben admitted it with a smile, as he mounted his horse.

            Thankfully, the trip was uneventful, and after sharing a cup of coffee at the Montgomery place, Ben rode on south, wanting to see for himself the extent of the flooding.  The roads were still bad, though, so he didn’t make it all the way in to Carson City.  That was a disappointment, for he’d hoped to catch up with the Thomases and to buy a newspaper to discover what was going on in the outside world.  He was beginning to feel cut off, but he decided, after all, that it didn’t much matter, since the people who meant the most to him were right on the Ponderosa—with the exception of Adam, of course; no way to keep in touch with him but by mail.  He’d try tomorrow to get into Washoe City and see if there was a letter waiting, and with that thought in mind he hurried home to make certain that he had a letter ready to post to his boy.

~ ~ Notes ~ ~

            From mid-December of 1861 on, the weather was every bit as cold, wet and miserable as depicted in this and the previous chapter.  The storm that started then was described by long-time residents as the worst “since Frémont forced the mountains,” and the warm rain that began on Christmas and continued for three days did, indeed, make a massive lake of Carson Valley.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Keeping in Touch

            Ben tucked his letter to Adam into his inner coat pocket and buttoned the garment snugly.  As he buckled his gun about his hips, he spotted a small figure out of the corner of his eye, jumping up in an attempt to pull a jacket from the peg by the door.  “Just what do you think you’re up to, little boy?” he asked as he caught his youngest son in mid-leap.

            “Goin’ with you, Pa,” Little Joe declared, “‘cept I need my coat and I can’t reach it.”

            “You don’t need it,” Ben chuckled, “‘cause you’re not going anywhere.”

            “Am, too,” Little Joe insisted.

            Ben set the boy on the credenza and shook his head.  “No, Little Joe, you are not.”

            “But . . . we needs us,” the youngster said with a cunning smile.

            Ben laughed.  “We may needs us,” he said, “but we don’t need you, not on this expedition.”

            “That’s for sure,” Hoss chuckled.  “You’d just be one more thing to tote in at the widow’s.”

            “Mrs. Hunter to you, boy,” Ben said firmly.

            “Yes, sir . . . Miz Hunter,” Hoss at once corrected himself.

            Little Joe’s lips pushed out in a pout.  “She’s my friend, too.”

That makes one of us, Ben thought, though he knew he was being unfair.  Elvira Hunter had certainly been a friend to them last week, but he felt reluctant to admit even that much when her eyes and her manner so visibly stated that she wanted to be more—much more—than just a friend and a good neighbor.  Still, he’d promised to bring her supplies, in return for the ones she’d expended, and it was time he kept his word.  The way the weather had been lately, he couldn’t count on having another chance soon.

            Lifting Little Joe, he gave him a hug.  “Not today, sweetheart,” he soothed.  “This is not a friendship visit, just a brief, working stop on the way into town.”  The minute he said it, he knew he shouldn’t have.

            “I want to go to town,” Little Joe insisted.

            “No,” Ben said, setting the boy onto the floor.  “Pa doesn’t want you out in the cold that long.”

            Little Joe’s face puckered, and he glared at his brother.  “Hoss gets to be in the cold that long.”

            “Hoss is older.”  Ben automatically offered the time-honored excuse.  “Now, you run along into the kitchen and . . . and . . .”  and let Hop Sing deal with you, he finished silently, sending the boy on with a soft pat to his backside.

            “And what, Pa?” Hoss asked with a grin after his little brother had scooted off in a snit.

            Ben bent down and answered in a conspiratorial whisper, “And get out of our hair.”

            “Yeah!” Hoss whispered back.  He was delighted at the prospect, not only of a trip to town, but time alone with his father.  Much as he enjoyed playing with Little Joe, he’d had his fill of it since Christmas, especially with the weather keeping them indoors, and being with Pa made him feel grown up.  It was a good feeling; he relished it as they walked out together, hitched the team and began loading the supplies into the buckboard.

            Hank Carlton, coming out of the bunkhouse, hefted the final sack of flour into the wagon.  “These the things for Mrs. Hunter?” he asked.

            “That’s right,” Ben replied.  “An obligation it’s high time I fulfilled.”

            “Be glad to take ‘em over for you,” Hank offered.

            “Oh, Hank, you don’t have to do that.  It is your day off.”

            Hank tipped his hat forward, putting his reddening face into shadow.  “Yeah, but I don’t mind.  Well . . . fact is, I’d sort of like to, Mr. Cartwright.  Got some thank yous of my own to say to the lady.”

            Ben inhaled sharply and pursed his lips, to keep his sudden sense of exhilaration contained.  “Well, if you’re sure,” he said slowly.

            “Aw, Pa,” Hoss whined.  “Ain’t we goin’ no place, after all?”

            Ben felt an instant’s shame, as he admitted to himself, for the first time, that the reason he’d wanted Hoss along was to act as a shield against the widow Hunter’s advances.  That wasn’t fair to his son; nor was depriving him of a day out, when he’d undoubtedly been looking forward to it.  Ben rested a consoling hand on Hoss’s shoulder.  “Of course, we are, son.  We’ll still go into Washoe City . . . . unless you’d prefer to visit the wid—Mrs. Hunter with Hank.”  He raised a questioning eyebrow at Hank, who, oddly enough, looked reluctant to have Hoss along.  “He—uh—could be a good help to you with unloading the supplies,” Ben suggested hesitantly.

            “Sure, if’n you was especially wanting to see Mrs. Hunter,” Hank said without enthusiasm, though he smiled at Hoss.

            Ben stepped in before Hoss could answer.  “On the other hand, there aren’t that many supplies, so maybe you’d prefer to come with me, Hoss.  We’ll pick up the mail and post our letters to Adam and then have lunch at the Antelope restaurant and see what’s on offer at the mercantile.”

            Hoss pondered for a moment.  He’d been hoping for an invite to Mrs. Hunter’s table, but the restaurant sounded right good, too—and more definite.  “I’ll go along with you, Pa,” he decided.  “And maybe we could find some candy at that mercantile—for Little Joe.”

            “You think we’re gonna have to buy our way back into his good graces?” Ben asked with a chuckle.

            Hoss’s mouth skewed to one side.  “I reckon as much.”

            Ben’s mouth twitched.  “And you wouldn’t mind having a share of that candy yourself, I suppose.”

            Hoss responded with his characteristic, gap-toothed grin.  “No, sir, not a bit.”

* * * * *

            Stopping by the post office, the Cartwrights discovered no mail waiting for them, but the postmaster assured them there was a stage due in just past noon.  “Well, that fits our plans fine, doesn’t it, Hoss?” Ben said with forced enthusiasm.  “We were staying over for lunch, anyway.”

            “Right!” Hoss said.

            Taking a page from his young son’s book, Ben decided to simply savor whatever pleasures the day offered, one of which, obviously, was just being with this sunny, easy-to-please son of his.  “Might as well check out the mercantile first, hmm?” he asked as they left the post office.

            “Yeah!” Hoss cried with enthusiasm.  Whistling, he walked along the board slats of the sidewalk at his father’s side, clearly content with the way the day was unfolding.  He didn’t even mind when Pa stopped to talk to friends or acquaintances along the way.  They had the whole day before them, after all, and nothing to do but enjoy it.

            When they turned in to the mercantile, Ben said, “I’m putting you in charge of the candy, Hoss.  You probably know your little brother’s tastes better than I do.”

            Hoss wasn’t sure he did, since he normally paid more attention to his own taste when buying candy.  He knew Little Joe didn’t care for horehound drops, and he didn’t seem to be partial to the lemon drops Hoss favored.  Taffy, maybe?  Hoss didn’t especially like the sticky stuff, but sticky might be right up Little Joe’s alley, seein’ as how he generally was makin’ a mess of one sort or another.  Hoss frowned.  Hop Sing probably wouldn’t appreciate sticky hands all over the house, though.  He stared at the glass jars holding the penny candy and pondered what was becoming an increasingly difficult decision.

            “Having trouble making up your mind, Hoss?” a treble voice inquired.

            Grin spreading across his face, Hoss spun around.  “Howdy, Miss Appleton.  Sure been a spell since I seen you.”

            “Since you saw me, Hoss,” she corrected gently.

            “Yes’m, I meant ‘saw,’” he said quickly, and she smiled her approval.

            Ben came up to stand beside his son.  “Miss Appleton . . . a pleasure to see you.”

            “A pleasure to be out for a change,” Miss Appleton laughed.

            Ben smiled cordially.  “That it is.  Is school still scheduled to start again on the second?

            “Weather permitting,” Miss Appleton said.

            “Hoss will be there, weather permitting,” Ben assured her.

            Hoss shrugged.  School was never his favorite place to be, but he liked his teacher and he missed his friends.  All in all, he found himself looking forward to that Tuesday—weather permitting, he thought with a soft snicker—and if it didn’t, well, he’d just look forward to whatever came.  “I am havin’ trouble pickin’ out some candy for my baby brother, Miss Appleton,” he said.  “What kind do you like?”

            “Mmm,” Miss Appleton murmured as she thought.  “I believe peppermint sticks are my favorite, Hoss.  Do you think your brother would like that?”

            “Yes’m, I’ve seen him eat them—uh, those—uh, that—aw, shucks.”  He gave up in frustration over the intricacies of English grammar.

            “‘Them’ is fine, so long as you end your sentence there, Hoss,” his teacher chuckled.

            “That’s what I’ll get him, then,” Hoss replied, relieved.

            “I’m glad I could help.  I’ll see you next Tuesday.”  She shook his hand and that of his father and went back to looking at the meager supply of dress goods on display.

            Ben and Hoss finished their shopping and took their few purchases to the buckboard.  Due to the inclement weather of late, the mercantile hadn’t had much in stock, but there were plenty of foodstuffs, at least, at home.  Ben had learned years ago never to trust a Sierra winter and always laid in his supplies early and in abundance.  This year, with weather far more severe than usual, was proving the wisdom of that practice.

            They meandered down the street, enjoying the smell of fresh air and the sight of fresh faces.  Finally, they turned in at the Antelope, sat at a small, round table and perused the menu written on a chalkboard nailed to the wall.  “The plate lunch is the best deal, huh, Pa?” Hoss said.

            “If you want a full meal,” his father replied.

            “Oh, I do,” Hoss declared at once.

            Ben’s mouth twitched at the predictability of that answer.  When had Hoss ever opted for less than a full meal.  Only when he was sick, and that was next to never.  “I think I’ll have that, too,” he said.  Fricasseed rabbit was on the plate lunch today, with baked beans, biscuits and gravy on the side.  Ben would have preferred some greens, but it wasn’t the season for such things.  Dried apple cobbler came with the plate lunch, so it seemed well worth the fifty cents charged, especially when he figured in the pleasure of a meal out with his middle son.  He loved being with the whole family, but spending time with just one at a time carried its own special magic.  He should plan some time alone with Little Joe soon, too, he decided.  Then he sighed as he thought of Adam, far away.  It would be a long time before he could spend a day with his eldest.  Suddenly, he missed the boy more than ever and hoped all the harder that there’d be a letter on that afternoon stage.

            As if in answer to his yearning, the stage rumbled past the window by which they were sitting.  “There it is!” Hoss cried.  “And there’s gonna be a letter from Adam: I just know it!”

            “Sure hope you’re right,” Ben said.  He dug into his pocket, pulled out a coin and handed it to Hoss.  “Run down and pick up the mail, all right, son?  That should be more than enough to cover the postage.  And if there is a letter from Adam, we’ll just have ourselves another cup of coffee—milk, in your case—and read it right here.”

            Hoss grinned ear to ear, clinched the coin in his fist and trotted out the door.  Soon he was dancing back, waving a letter in each fist.  “One’s from your friend back East,” he reported, “but this one’s from Adam!”

            “Well, let’s have that one!” Ben declared with enthusiasm to match that of his young son.  Much as he’d enjoy the letter from Josiah Edwards—he assumed that was the “friend back East” to whom Hoss referred—it didn’t hold a candle to one from his oldest son.

            “Can we really read it right here and now?” Hoss asked eagerly as he took his seat back at the table.  “Don’t we gotta wait for Little Joe?”

            Ben leaned across the table and said in a conspiratorial whisper, “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

            Hoss gave a little bounce in his chair.  “No, sir.  You can count on me.”

            With an affectionate smile at his son, Ben unsealed the envelope and gave the letter’s contents a quick scan, just in case there was something private he should withhold, and then began to read:

Dear Pa, Hoss and Little Joe,

            Merry Christmas!  Although I’m sure it will be past the holiday when you receive this, I send you greetings and gratitude for the unexpected, but much appreciated Christmas draft you sent to me.  I will spend it carefully and promise not to waste it on frivolous things—well, except for some of Candy Sam’s divinity.  I’m sure Hoss, at least, will agree with me that that is not a frivolous purchase.  How about you, Little Joe?  Mr. Edwards was deeply touched, as well, by what you sent to him, Pa.

            I have wonderful news to share on his behalf.  He has, at last, obtained a teaching position.  Jamie and I, of course, are well pleased for his sake, but less so for our own, as the position is in Springfield, Massachusetts.  That is close enough for visits between terms, depending on the type of housing he’s able to locate, but we will miss having him here close at hand.  He has in a sense filled your shoes for me in his encouragement and concern, so perhaps I’ll be even more lonely for you, once he, too, is far from me.  He doesn’t have lodgings there yet, but I will send you his new address as soon as I learn it.

            Term exams begin soon, but while I feel some natural nervousness, I am certain that my preparation has been diligent and that I’ll do you proud.  Once they are finished, Josiah, Jamie and I will be off to New York City for a few days.  Because he’s found a teaching position, Josiah wasn’t as much in need of the funds you sent as when you posted that draft, so he wants to spend a portion of it on this final fling together.  He insists on paying for everything, but I will, of course, be mindful not to impose on his generosity.  I expect we’ll see some shows and some sights, and I’ll be sure to send you a full description of our activities after we return to New Haven.

            To all of you I wish a happy New Year.  May it be as full of joy as the last one was of sorrow.

Your loving son and brother,

Adam

            “Pa, what’s ‘frivolous’ mean?” Hoss asked as his father finished reading.

            “Oh, something of little importance,” Ben replied.  “Adam was certain you wouldn’t think candy was an unimportant purchase,” he explained with a chuckle.  “I think he knows you, son.”

            Hoss cackled with delight.  “Sure does!”  Then his face wrinkled in thought.  “Have I ever had divinity, Pa?”

            “Sure,” his father said.  “It’s that light, fluffy candy with nutmeats that Aunt Nelly sometimes makes at Christmas time.”

            “Oh, yeah,” Hoss said dreamily.  “Sure wish we coulda had some this year.”

            Ben nodded.  “I wish we could’ve had the Thomases’ company for Christmas, too.”  Need to get over to Carson and check on them, he thought.  Hope they made out all right in all this weather.

            “Umm . . . Pa?”

            Slowly, Ben came out of his reverie and looked across to see his son nervously licking his lower lip.  “Yes, son, what is it?”  Though he tried to keep his tone even, his voice was laced with concern.

            Hoss kept his eyes glued to his finger as he drew figure eights on the rough-planked table.  “That last part of Adam’s letter . . . about this year bein’ happier than the last un . . . he was talkin’ about Ma, wasn’t he?”

            Ben’s hand closed gently over the boy’s restless fingers.  “Yes, I think so.”

            Hoss looked up hesitantly.  “You don’t think she’d mind, do you, if’n we was happy this year?”

            Ben’s smile was warm with compassion and love.  “Hoss, I know for a fact that your mother hopes that 1862 will be one of your happiest ever, and she’ll wish the same every year of your life.”

            “I—I thought so,” the boy murmured.  “I was just checkin’.”

            With a pat Ben released his son’s hand.  “You can always check anything you need to with me, Hoss.  You know that?”

            “Yes, sir, I know . . . and I’m real grateful for it.”

            Gratitude . . . another notion the boy had picked up from his brother’s letter, and Ben found himself feeling it, too . . . for the blessing of having a son like Hoss . . . and Adam . . . and that little scalawag he’d left at home today.  “Well, we need to get back on the road soon, son,” he said, “but maybe we should warm  up with a cup of cocoa for you and coffee for me before we leave.”  At Hoss’s eager acceptance he signaled the restaurant keeper and then opened his letter from Josiah to read while he waited for their drinks to arrive.

* * * * *

            Brow furrowing deeper with every step, Ben let his horse pick its way down the muddy main street of Carson City.  The place sure was a mess: mud marks on the sides of the buildings and the plaza strewn with tangled brush, both evidence that the river had overflowed its banks and left behind deposits that only garnered the interest of extra work.  All around the square people were hard at it, scrubbing and sweeping and setting things right again.  Some places, the damage was worse.  Coming in, he’d seen a mill washed away and a couple of adobe buildings that had simply dissolved to join the mass of mud he was now slogging through.

            “They musta got lots more snow than us, Pa,” Little Joe, perched in front of him in the saddle, said.  He was clearly awed by the sight of so much enticing mud.

            In keeping with his new resolve to spend time separately with each of his sons, Ben had brought Little Joe with him today, but he was beginning to think he should have chosen another time and place for that.  Odds were, his friends would need help cleaning up, and bringing this little mud magnet into the house would do nothing but add to the chaos.  Still, he’d enjoyed the child’s chatter all the way to town and couldn’t really regret having him underfoot, even now.  He leaned over to rub his rough cheek against the boy’s smooth one.  “More in the mountains, son, which fed the river, once the rains came.  That’s what made the Carson flood.”

            “Don’t like floods,” Little Joe declared.

            Ben tousled the boy’s curls.  “I suspect that puts you right in line with everyone else in town.”

            Moving down a side street, he found Nelly Thomas on her knees, scouring her front porch.  “Excuse me, ma’am, but could you put up a couple of weary travelers for the night?” he asked saucily.

            Dropping her scrub brush, Nelly got to her feet.  “Why, if it ain’t my little Sugarfoot,” she said, reaching up to pull Little Joe down from the horse.

            “Howdy, Aunt Nelly,” Little Joe chirped.

            “Howdy, Sugarfoot.  Well, light down, Ben,” she ordered, balancing the little boy on one hip.  “You know better than to ask if you can spend the night: you’re always welcome.”

            “I was teasing, Nelly,” Ben chuckled as he dismounted and looped the reins around the porch rail.  “We’re heading back this afternoon.  I just wanted to check on you and Clyde, see how you made out in all this weather.”

            “Took some water in the cellar, like most folks,” Nelly sighed.  “Even Governor Nye, I heard.”

            “Water is no respecter of persons,” Ben observed.  “Now, what can I do to help?”

            “Clyde and Billy are down in the cellar, tryin’ to clear out the muck, so’s it’ll dry faster.”  She jounced Little Joe.  “I’ll get Inger to watch our boy here, while I finish up, and then I’ll get dinner on.”

            “Nelly, don’t you dare go to any trouble on a day like this,” Ben scolded as he followed her inside.

            “Something simple,” she promised, “but the Good Books says the workman is worthy of his pie . . . or something like that.”

            “I’m sure the Reverend Bennett would sanction that interpretation,” Ben said with a wink.

            “I like pie,” Little Joe offered.

            “You and every other man I ever met,” Nelly laughed.

            “I like vinty, too,” the little boy hinted.

            Nelly cocked her head quizzically.  “Vinty?”

            Heading toward the entrance to the cellar, Ben paused and turned around.  “I think he means divinity.  Adam mentioned it in his last letter and whetted his brothers’ appetite for it.”

            Nelly laughed.  “So happens I’ve got a mite left from Christmas, and you’re welcome to take it home with you.  Goodness knows, we’ve eaten enough of it to last us another year.  I’ll be expectin’ to hear all about Adam’s news at dinner.”

            “Fair exchange,” Ben said.  He made his way down the steps into the cellar, where Clyde and Billy were shoveling mud into tin pails.  “Little old for mud pies, aren’t you?” he suggested dryly.

            “Done lost my sense of humor on the subject,” Clyde groused, “so unless you wanna take a bath in this here mud, hobble your lip.”

            Billy flashed Ben a grin.  “Real congenial, ain’t he?”

            “Can’t say as I blame him,” Ben said.  “Hand me that shovel, Clyde, and take a breather.”

            Clyde promptly thrust the shovel at his friend and sat down on the bottom cellar step.  Streaking his forehead with mud as he wiped his brow with the back of his hand, he said, “I ain’t turnin’ down an offer like that.”

            “‘Course, it’ll cost you,” Ben said, scooping up a shovelful of mud.

            Clyde snorted.  “Name your price.”

            “News of the day,” Ben said.  “I haven’t seen a newspaper in so long, for all I know the eastern seaboard’s collapsed into the Atlantic.”

            “Be kind of hard on Adam, wouldn’t it?” Billy cackled.

            Ben conceded the point with a tilt of his head.

            “Afraid you won’t get much salary that way,” Clyde said grumpily.  “Ain’t nothin’ been over the Sierras since that blame Christmas storm started up.  From what I hear, road’s closed up so tight not even a horseman can get through.  They say there won’t be a deluge like this for another generation, and it feels like it’ll take about that long to get any news this side of the mountains.”

            “Well, there’s some,” Billy offered.  When his father looked at him as if he’d lost his mind, he said, “The new warden.”

            Clyde scowled.  “Territory done appointed Abe Curry warden of the prison.”  A bit of his usual mischief sparked in his eye as he added, “Maybe they figured he could talk the prisoners to death.”

            “Could be a powerful incentive to staying on the right side of the law,” Ben agreed with a grin.  If there was one thing Abraham Curry loved, it was the sound of his own voice, and a captive audience would suit him to a T.

            “Or give ‘em all the more reason to stage a jailbreak,” Billy suggested with a grin.

            With a chiding frown at the sass, Ben promptly changed the subject.  “Any war news?”

            “Nah, nothin’s come over the wire.  Reckon they’re in camp for the winter,” Clyde replied.

            “Probably,” Ben agreed.  He started to heft his full bucket when Billy reached for it.

            “I’ll take it up,” the boy offered.

            Ben joined Clyde on the step.  Glancing around the room, he noticed that the shelves that normally bulged with preserved foods were almost bare.  “You lose a lot?” he asked.

            “No, not much,” Clyde said.  “First sign of trouble, Nelly had us tote out everything that was stored low.  I balked at the notion, but was glad I gave in.”

            “Which means, I presume, that there’s plenty of potatoes for dinner.”

            “And biscuits, if you’re lucky.”

            Ben chuckled.  “With lots of ‘gavvy,’ as Hoss used to say.”

            “He with you?”

            “No . . . school, but Little Joe’s here.”

            “Lord, help us,” Clyde quipped with a roll of his eyes.

* * * * *

            It snowed off and on for the next week, though not as heavily as before.  Some days Hoss was able to get to school, but other times Ben felt it not worth the risk.  He rode into school with the boy on January 14^th and continued on into town for elections in the newly organized Washoe County.  After filling in his ballot for the officials to serve until September, he made a stop by the post office and had his hopes fulfilled when he was handed another letter from Adam.  That and the prevailing cold made a hot cup of coffee suddenly enticing, so he ambled down to the Antelope and placed his order.  Then he opened the envelope and noticed with approval that it also held a separate note addressed jointly to Adam’s brothers.  His own letter was short this time, merely discussing Adam’s final exams for the first term.  He described them as being different from what he was accustomed to, but assured his father that he thought he’d done well.  A good school report was always gratifying, of course, and probably uppermost in Adam’s mind, but Ben hoped there’d be something more remarkable in the note to the boys.  After all, Adam always did well with his studies; that was scarcely news, Ben thought with a smile into his coffee cup.

            The boys’ letter was both longer and more interesting, for it gave a better picture of what college life was like for his son.  When Hoss came in from school that afternoon, they all gathered before the fire, and Hoss read the letter aloud to his father and younger brother.  In it, Adam described what he called a “peanut bum” at his freshman society meeting, and Hoss smacked his lips at the thought of all the peanuts and cocoa a boy could hold.

            “I can supply the cocoa,” Ben chuckled, “but you’ll have to settle for popcorn.  We don’t have any peanuts.”

            “Popcorn bum!” Little Joe demanded.  “Right now!”

            Ben leaned close to the boy’s face and scowled with mock ferocity.  “After supper . . . and only then if you eat well.”

            “He will,” Hoss promised and fixed his younger brother with a commanding stare.

            “Any more news?” Ben asked, gesturing with his chin toward the letter in Hoss’s hand.

            “Just a mite,” Hoss said.  “Adam says again that he’ll write about all the fun he has in New York City, once he gets back, and he wants me to tell all about Christmas on the Ponderosa.”

            “Can you remember back that far?” his father teased.

            “Pa!  ‘Course, I can.”

            “Tell ‘bout the angel,” Little Joe urged.

            “You do that, Little Joe,” his father said.  “I’ll write down whatever you want to say to Adam.”

            “Okay . . . and I can draw a picture,” Little Joe declared happily.

            Remembering the last drawing his youngest son had sent to his eldest, the one that had convinced him for all time that Little Joe had no artistic bent, Ben smiled ruefully, but he said only, “Sure” and went to get a sheet of paper for the project.

* * * * *

            Floods surely were a nuisance to clean up after, Ben decided.  The house had been in no danger, but fences had been swept away and landslides had dumped debris on good pastureland.  He had only a couple of hands held over from last summer, and he kept them and himself busy, clearing the land and making sure the cattle had feed and water and a clear path to them.  The fences would have to wait until spring, maybe even later if the ground stayed spongy, as it was now.

            Trips to town were few and far between for Ben, but Hoss, on the days he could get in to school, stopped by the post office in Washoe City.  Toward the end of the month, he rode in, excitedly waving another letter from Adam.  “It’s a thick un, too,” he announced to Little Joe as he plopped the youngster onto Charcoal’s back for his regular ride into the barn.

            “Gimme,” Little Joe demanded, stretching out of the saddle for the letter.

            Hoss held it just out of reach.  “You can hold it, but don’t try to open it; it’s addressed to Pa.”

            Little Joe’s mouth formed an expressive pout as he took the envelope and stared at the written inscription on its front.  “My turn,” he insisted.

            “Naw, not really,” Hoss said.  “We had a letter last time, remember?”

            “Pa, too,” Joe argued.

            Hoss pulled his brother out of the saddle and set him on the side of the stall.  “Yeah, he does write to Pa more, but that’s as should be, I reckon.  He is Pa, little brother.”

            “Yeah,” a slumped Little Joe muttered grudgingly.

            “No, I mean it,” Hoss said as he unfastened the cinch of his saddle.  “It’s like when Pa took me to Washoe City and then you to Carson.  Sometimes a feller just needs to have pa to hisself, and them letters is the only way Adam can have that.  Understand?”

            “Maybe,” Little Joe conceded, though reluctantly.

            Hoss hefted the saddle over the side of the stall, next to Little Joe.  “Thick as that letter is, I bet it’s got something for us in it, too.”

            Little Joe sat up straighter, and his eyes brightened.  “Yeah?”

            “I’m guessin’,” Hoss admitted, “but you just wait and see if’n I ain’t right.”

            “Well, hurry up, then,” Little Joe demanded.

            “You know better’n that,” Hoss scolded.  “Charcoal here deserves a proper rubdown, and she’s gettin’ one.”

            “Okay,” the youngster agreed quickly.  He knew there was no arguing against Pa’s adage that caring for the stock came first, especially since, if anything, Hoss had even stronger feelings about it.  Besides, Charcoal was a nice horse and, like Hoss said, deserved the attention she was getting.

            After what seemed like an eternity to Little Joe, the chores were done, and he and Hoss were settled on the floor with a plate of cookies between them on the table before the fireplace.  Ben was seated in his favorite chair and after taking a draw on his pipe, unsealed the envelope and pulled from it several sheets.  As he opened them, a couple of small cards fluttered to the floor, and Little Joe was quick to snatch them up.  “Ooh, pictures,” he said.

            Ben held out his hand.  “Little Joe, give those to me.”

            “Mine,” Little Joe insisted.  “Hoss said.”

            “I said I figured Adam had sent us something,” Hoss scolded, “and I did say ‘us,’ not just ‘you,’ doggone it.”

            Ben wiggled his fingers.  “Little Joe,” he said sternly, and the boy reluctantly handed over the pictures.  Ben set them aside and turned back to the letter.  “My, isn’t this a nice, newsy letter?”

            “Lots longer than usual,” Hoss said.

            Ben, who had scanned a few lines ahead, smiled.  “It’s about his trip to New York City, and it looks like your brother has lots of adventures to tell.”

            “Read ‘em!” Little Joe demanded.

            Ben laughed.  “All right, Little Sir Impatience, I will.”  He began to read Adam’s  account of his Christmas trip to New York City with the Edwards, which was so detailed that they could easily picture every place the travelers had seen, every performance they’d attended and every bit of fun they’d enjoyed.  Adam recounted the items he’d purchased in stores along Broadway and elsewhere and at that point mentioned the cards included with his letter:

The cartes de visite are for the boys.  The picture of Whittier’s Barefoot Boy reminded me so much of Hoss that I wanted to buy it for him, and I chose The Little Match Girl for Little Joe.  I understand that collecting cartes de visite is quite the rage here in the East, so perhaps I’ll find others to send them on future trips.

            “I want the boy,” Little Joe whined.

            “You will take what your brother sent or go without,” Ben said firmly.

            Little Joe weighed the gravity of going without for a moment, but he couldn’t stop himself from muttering, “But I don’t like girls.”

            “Fine.  Hoss can have both, then,” Ben said, picking up both cards and extending them to his middle son.  “He’ll probably take better care of them, anyway.”

            “No!” Little Joe protested.  “She’s mine.  Adam said.”

            “And you’re content with that?”  Ben eyed his youngest inquiringly as he slowly drew back the cards.

            “I’ll share,” Hoss inserted quickly.  “You can borrow the boy part time.”

            “Okay,” Little Joe agreed readily.

            Ben wasn’t sure whether to hug Hoss for his selfless generosity or scold him for interfering with an obviously needed lesson, but he let it go and simply handed each boy the carte de visite intended for him.  Then he continued reading Adam’s letter:

And there will be future trips to New York City.  That is probably the most exciting news I have to share with you.  At Josiah’s suggestion I visited the offices of several architects, seeking their advice on how to better prepare myself for that profession.  Most were polite, but not particularly helpful.  Mr. Addison Bracebridge, however, not only took a genuine interest in me and gave me sound counsel; he also extended an offer of a job with him during my summer break from Yale.  While I’ll gain practical experience, I’ll also earn some money toward my college expenses and be less a burden to you, Pa.  He’s also asked me to submit sketches to him from time to time, and I intend to begin my first, of the State House on the Green, tomorrow after we see Josiah off to Springfield.

            “Ain’t Adam comin’ home for the summer?” Little Joe asked, his face troubled.

            Ben sighed.  “Sweetheart, we have been over and over this: Adam is not coming home this summer.  It’s too far.”

            “Ain’t comin’ home next summer, neither,” Hoss put in glumly.

            “No, and let’s leave it at that,” Ben said with a warning glance at Hoss, who nodded understanding of the message.  “Adam will be gone a long time,” he continued.  “That’s why letters—from him to us and us to him—are so important.”

            “And presents,” Little Joe added.

            Ben chuckled.  “Especially when they’re to you, right?”  He reached over to tousle the child’s curls.  “Better drink down that glass of milk and then put your card in a very special place, where it’ll be safe.”

            “I’ll help him find one,” Hoss offered, earning his father’s grateful smile.

~ ~ Notes ~ ~

            The Antelope was a historic restaurant in Washoe City, and fifty cents was the price of a plate dinner there.  Regular diners could obtain meals for $8 a week.

            The winter of 1861-62 was one of the most brutal the Comstock would experience.  The unparalleled snowfall, followed by rain, washed out every dam on the Carson River and flooded towns throughout California and Nevada.  Landslides crashed down the mountains, taking out everything in their path, and Lake Tahoe rose higher than any white man had ever seen it.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Damsel in Distress

            Snow was falling outside again on the first of February, its powder fine as lace against the evening sky, but a roaring fire on the Ponderosa’s grate kept the Cartwrights snug and warm.  Sitting in his favorite chair, Ben was deep into the Territorial Enterprise, which Hank Carlton had obligingly brought back from town when he’d returned from his day off.   With wrinkled face and puckered lips Hoss was wrestling with some stubborn arithmetic problems.  Disinclined to accept the lack of attention he was getting from the pair of them, Little Joe pushed his head beneath the newspaper his father held in both hands and peered up at him.  “Whatcha readin’, Pa?”

            “Hmm?”  Spotting the curly head between his knees, Ben chuckled.  “What are you doing there, Little Joe?”

            Taking the question as an invitation, Little Joe crawled up into his father’s lap.  “Whatcha readin’, Pa?” he asked again.

            “Oh, just a description of a new ship the government is building.”  Ben set the paper aside and cuddled his boy closer.  “It’s covered in iron.”

            “Can somethin’ that heavy float, Pa?” Hoss asked, propping his elbow on the table and leaning his head on his palm.

            “Seems it can, Hoss,” his father replied.  “Homework done?”

            Hoss frowned.  “I got a couple left.”

            “Well, time enough tomorrow, I suppose.”

            Hoss closed his arithmetic book with a bang that brought a frown to his father’s face.  Hoss crinkled his nose and then relaxed when the frown faded and was followed by a wink.  He got up and came to lean on the arm of his father’s chair.  “What’s it say about the ship, Pa?”

            “Hmm?  Oh, the Monitor?  It’s intended for the war, son,” Ben explained.

            “So bullets can’t get through?”

            “That’s the general idea,” his father chuckled.

            “Did you ever sail a ship like that, Pa?” Hoss asked.

            “No,” his father scoffed.  “My ships were all sailing vessels.”

            “Tell ‘bout it, Pa,” Little Joe demanded.

            Ben ruffled the boy’s curls.  “Oh, it’s stories of the high seas you want, is it?”

            “Yeah, Pa!” Hoss chimed in with enthusiasm.

            “Well,” Ben said slowly, drawing out the word until it was as long as one of three or four syllables, “I’m afraid I couldn’t possibly tell any stories tonight without”—he let the pause linger another few beats and finally said, “Popcorn!”

            “Popcorn bum!”  Little Joe bounced so hard on his father’s thigh that Ben momentarily regretted having burst that surprise so abruptly.

            “I’ll tell Hop Sing!” Hoss cried and hurried out to the kitchen.

            Soon all three were ensconced in the roomy armchair, with Joe perched on his father’s right thigh and Hoss on the opposite arm of the chair.  The bowl of buttery popcorn rested on Ben’s left thigh, but since Ben had an arm around each of his sons, he couldn’t reach it.  Little Joe’s sharp eyes noticed that, and he helpfully grabbed a fistful of the warm, fluffy kernels and crammed it into his father’s mouth just as he started to speak.

            “Mmff,” Ben sputtered, shaking his head at the offer of more.  He chewed as quickly as he could and protested, “Thank you, Joseph, but Pa can’t tell stories with his mouth full.”

            “Oh,” Little Joe accepted without chagrin.  “Tell, then.”  He took a handful of popcorn for himself and munched expectantly into his father’s face.

            “Yeah, Pa, tell,” Hoss ordered with a lop-sided grin.

            “You know, Hoss, I was just about a year older than you when I first went to sea,” his father began.  “Uncle John had found me a place as cabin boy under Captain Stoddard.”

            “Adam’s grandpa?” Hoss asked.

            “That’s right.”

            “I got a grandpa?” Little Joe asked.

            “Well, you did,” his father answered awkwardly.  “Two of them, in fact, but they’re both . . . in heaven now.”

            Little Joe’s face lengthened.  “Like Mama?” he whispered.

            “Yes,” Ben answered softly.  He dropped a kiss onto the boy’s curls and hurried on with his story.  “I’d been with Captain Stoddard for several months and fancied myself quite the sailor.  As the captain’s messenger, I’d run up and down that ship a hundred times, and I’d kept my eyes open and learned about all the sails, lines and ropes, but we’d had such beautiful sailing weather that I’d never seen them put to use in a storm.  And that’s just what was blowing our way.”

            Sensing excitement blowing their way, the two boys leaned in closer, and Ben continued, “The clouds grew darker and the wind fiercer, like nothing I’d ever seen on shore.  The ship began to pitch and reel, and waves splashed over the deck.  When I skidded back to the captain’s side after delivering a message aft, he took pity on my youth and told me to get to his cabin and stay there until I was called.  And what do you think I did?”

            “Went to the cabin and stayed put,” Hoss said at once.  He couldn’t fathom the notion of Pa, who set such store by obedience, ever doing other than he was told.  Little Joe, who couldn’t fathom the notion of anyone hiding in a cabin when there was an exciting storm going on, just looked puzzled.

            “That’s what I should have done,” Ben chuckled, “but I’m afraid your pa wasn’t a perfect little boy, son.”

            Feeling a certain sense of relief that Pa hadn’t always been perfect, Hoss grinned.  “What did you do?” he asked.

            Reading his boy’s thoughts on his open face, Ben smiled.  “I didn’t want to stay a cabin boy forever, you see.  I didn’t have dreams of becoming a captain or even a mate back then, but I wanted to be an able-bodied seaman, like my big brother, so I told myself that it was important to learn all I could about handling a ship in all kinds of conditions, good and bad.  So I hid myself behind some tackle and prepared to advance my education in seamanship.”  He framed his features into a serious countenance.  “You boys realize, of course, that I was just making excuses for doing what I wanted and that this was very wrong.”

            “Uh, yeah, Pa,” Hoss muttered, squirming on the chair arm.

            Little Joe frowned.  Was this a story or a lesson in how to behave?  Steering his father toward the former, he asked quickly, “What’d you see from back there, Pa?  More big waves?”

            Drawn in, Ben said, “Well, not as much as I’d hoped . . . and that’s when things started to go wrong.  I wanted to see more, so I gradually inched out of that hiding place and stood gawking as the men struggled with the sails.  I had my eyes so fixed on them that I didn’t notice the huge wave that came surging across the deck until it knocked me off my feet.”

            Both boys gasped, and the kernel of popcorn headed toward Little Joe’s mouth never made it there.  “Did—did it wash you over, Pa?” Hoss asked urgently.

            Ben patted the boy’s back.  “Son, I wouldn’t be here now if it had, but it came mighty close.  I went sliding down the deck as the ship plunged down a tall wave.  I don’t think I’ve ever been more afraid in my life because I knew that I was about to be thrown overboard.  Then I felt a hand close around my arm and haul me back.  I found myself face to face with the captain, and the scowl on his face made me tremble for my life all over again.  ‘Get below,’ he bellowed, ‘or I’ll feed you to the sharks myself!’”

            “Grandpa was mean!” Little Joe declared.

            Ben laughed.  “Now, how can you say that, Little Joe, when he saved my life.  Why, if it weren’t for Grandpa Stoddard, there would never have been an Adam . . . or a Hoss . . . or a Little Joe.”  He tapped the nose of each boy in his reach as he mentioned his name.  “But I must confess: at that moment I thought Captain Stoddard was pretty mean, too,” he added with a chuckle.

            “Bet you got below right quick, huh, Pa?” Hoss snickered.

            “You bet I did!” his father declared.  “Then, when the storm had passed, and the captain had calmed himself, he set me down and explained to me that the first duty of any seaman was to obey his captain’s orders and that I’d never amount to anything if I didn’t learn that.”

            Little Joe pouted.  “Is this a lesson?  It’s ‘sposed to be a story, Pa.”

            Ben tousled the boy’s curly mop.  “There’s a lesson in every story, Little Joe, and wise little boys learn from them, so they don’t have to learn everything from their own mistakes.  What we learn in each adventure prepares us with what we’ll need for the next one.  You understand?”

            “Maybe,” Little Joe conceded.

            “Hoss?”

            Hoss lifted his right hand in a snappy salute.  “Aye, aye, Captain.”

            Ben returned the salute.  “I believe you’ve got it, matey.  Now, did I spin you a good enough yarn to earn some of that popcorn?”

            With an impish grin Little Joe grabbed a handful and pushed it into his father’s mouth.

            “Mmff,” Ben sputtered, catching the hand headed for his mouth with a second load.  “Pa’s a big boy, Little Joe,” he said. “He can feed himself!”

            Hearing the laughter from the front room, Hop Sing peered around the corner and then with a secret smile of satisfaction, slipped back into the kitchen to finish his evening chores.  Too long after Missy Cartwright went away, the walls of this house heard no laughter, he thought as he scoured the final kettle.  As our Chinese proverb says, one joy scatters a thousand griefs.  Mr. Ben is learning that now.  Softly he began to hum a tune he had learned at his mother’s knee.

* * * * *

            During the early weeks of February, the streets of Virginia City rang with exultant shouts, as the Territorial Enterprise reported Union victories at Fort Henry, Roanoke Island and Fort Donelson.  But the fighting continued, seemingly with no end in sight.  Ben kept abreast of the national concerns, but those faraway battles paled by comparison with the civil war that soon broke on the Ponderosa itself.

            On the twenty-second day of the month, he was headed into Carson City for supplies, and since the skies were clear, he decided to risk taking the boys with him.  Nelly Thomas, especially, always delighted in seeing the youngsters and hadn’t had much chance recently, with the changeableness of the weather.

            Thinking that, perhaps, the weather might have kept the Montgomerys tied to home, too, Ben stopped by his old cabin to see if he could pick up anything for Katerina while he was in town.  She opened the door in response to his knock, but only by the space of about six inches.  “Yes?” she asked hesitantly.

            “Aunt Kat!” Little Joe squealed and held up his arms, expecting to be picked up, as he always was.  Katerina did not respond except with a pursing of her lips.

            Sensing that something was wrong, Ben hesitantly said, “Perhaps we’ve come at a bad time.  I just wondered—”

            Before he could finish, Little Joe squeezed through the narrow opening in the door, and with dismay Katerina spun around with a soft cry of dismay.

            “Hi!  I ‘member you,” Ben heard his youngest son chirp.  With a frown he followed Katerina in, to retrieve the boy, with Hoss at his heels.

            Hoss spotted the other occupant of the small room first.  “Hey, Marta!” he cried.

            “Why, Marta, what a pleasant surprise,” Ben said.  “When did you arrive?”

            Marta looked up from her task of peeling potatoes at the kitchen table.  “Just two days ago, Uncle Ben,” she said quietly.  “It’s—it’s good to see you and—and the boys.”  She quickly lowered her eyes, however.

            “But . . . how did you get here?” Ben asked, perplexed.  Not only had the weather been chancy for travel over the mountains, but he couldn’t imagine her making the trip alone.  It simply wasn’t the sort of thing a single young woman did.

            “Stefán brought her,” Katerina replied crisply.

            “Stefán is here?  Enos never said a word,” Ben chided lightly.

            “No, he returned home the next day,” Katerina said.  “Were you looking for Enos?”

            Ben sensed her urgency to tend to whatever had brought him here and get him out of her house, so he answered hastily, “No, no.  I just stopped by on my way into Carson, to see if I could bring anything back for you.”

            Keeping her eyes averted, Katerina smoothed her muslin apron.  “No, we need nothing.”  Fearing her abruptness might be construed as rudeness, she added, “Thank you for thinking of us, though.”

            “Well, we—uh—should be on our way, then,” Ben said awkwardly.  “Come along, boys.”

            “Aw, Pa, cain’t we visit some with Marta?” Hoss asked.  “We ain’t seen her in ages.”

            Seeing Katerina’s face tighten and Marta’s gaze drop even lower, Ben said, “No, not this time.  Come along now.”  As the boys reluctantly moved toward the door, Ben said softly, “Come over to the Ponderosa whenever you feel able.  We’d like to see more of you.”

            Katerina flushed deeply.  “I—I don’t get out much these days, Uncle Ben.”  She touched her rounded stomach, as if to blame her reluctance on her advanced pregnancy.

            “Of course,” Ben said, though he didn’t understand at all.  He knew from experience that pregnant women could be moody, but this tense lady seemed totally unlike the light-hearted girl who had brought such warmth to their home at Christmas.  He touched the brim of his hat in farewell.  “Good day, Katerina, and to you, too, Marta.”

            Marta glanced up and for a moment a ghost of a smile touched her lips.  She said nothing, but the wells of unaccustomed sadness in her eyes sent shivers of apprehension down Ben’s spine.  He longed to take her in his arms and ask what was wrong, but restrained himself.  Much as he loved these children from the wagon train, they were not his daughters, and they were entitled to—and obviously wanted—their privacy.

            As they drove toward Carson City, it became apparent that Hoss, too, had noticed the uneasy atmosphere in the Montgomery kitchen.  “Is there somethin’ wrong at Aunt Kat’s, Pa?” the boy asked.

            Ben made a shushing gesture with his lips as his chin dipped toward the child seated between them on the buckboard seat.  “Probably just busy,” he said aloud, but the significant glance he exchanged with his middle boy communicated his concern, and Hoss nodded his understanding that he wasn’t to speak of it before Little Joe.

            Ben was less restrained with the Thomases, though.  After dinner, while the two boys and Inger played in her room, the adults gathered in the parlor for a final cup of coffee.  “I’ve never seen those girls act like that,” Ben said, “and I can’t understand Stefán coming all this way and not bothering to pay me a call.”

            “Didn’t call here, either,” Clyde said, nodding his agreement over the peculiarity of it.

            “Downright worrisome,” Nelly said.  “If the weather stays clear, maybe I’ll just pay ‘em a call myself.  They might speak easier to another woman.”

            “Maybe,” Ben agreed.  “Maybe I could have a word with Enos, man to man.”

            Billy stood to his feet.  “I reckon I might just mosey over to their place now.  Marta’ll talk to me.”

            “Billy,” Ben cautioned, “you might want to reconsider rushing in where angels fear to tread.”

            “Ain’t seen any wings sproutin’ off your shoulders yet,” Billy said with an impish grin and headed into the hall for his coat and hat.

* * * * *

            For the third time Billy Thomas pounded on the Montgomery door.  This time an exasperated Katerina opened it.  “What do you want, Billy?” she demanded, not inviting him in.

            Billy spread his arms disarmingly wide and sported his most enticing smile.  “To see Marta, of course.  Uncle Ben said she was visiting.”

            Katerina stiffened and with an uplifted chin declared, “Marta is not receiving visitors.”

            Billy’s mouth gaped.  “Aw, come on, Kat.  It’s just me, your old pal from the trail; she always sees me when I go through Placerville.”  He again donned his winsome smile.  “I know it’s short notice, but there’s this drama company puttin’ on a show over to Silver City tonight, something called Ingomar and then a piece by our own Dan DeQuille.  Calls it Sage Stuck Yankee,” he added with a laugh.  “Just the way to welcome Marta to the territory, don’t you reckon?”

            “I do not,” Katerina said crisply.  “Marta will not be gallivanting around the territory with you or any other man.”

            “What you got against me, all of a sudden?” Billy demanded.

            “Nothing, Billy,” she said wearily, “but please go.  Your invitation is kind, but Marta cannot accept.”

            Billy stubbornly thrust out his jaw.  “Like to hear that from her.”

            “No,” Katerina said and promptly shut the door in his face.

            Billy stood in shock, staring at the closed door.  Then, clinching his fists, he walked to his horse, mounted and rode back toward home.  Spotting the Cartwright wagon traveling home from Carson City, he halted and waited until they reached him.

            Ben reined in the team.  “Well, how did it go?”

            Billy shook his head.  “Couldn’t get past the door,” he said.  “Doggone sure is somethin’ wrong, Uncle Ben.  I ain’t never seen Kat act like that.”

            “What’s wrong with Aunt Kat?” Little Joe demanded, looking worried.

            “Nothing, sweetheart,” his father assured him with a pat on the leg.  “She’s just got a lot on her mind.”

            “If I could just get to Marta, she’d tell me; I know she would,” Billy grumbled, “but that sister of hers is doing a mighty good job of playing guard dog, and I just can’t figure why.  It ain’t never been this way, Uncle Ben!”

            “I know Billy, I know.”  He didn’t point out that he’d said the same thing himself back in town.  “Now, don’t fret, son; we’ll get to the bottom of it.”  Ben gave his friend’s son a determined nod, gathered up the reins of his team and once again headed for the Ponderosa.

            Getting to the bottom of the girls’ strange behavior proved harder than anyone could have imagined, however.  Ben tried his hand at prying something out of Enos on Monday morning, but got no more than that Marta would be staying several months past the birth of Katerina’s baby, “to help out,” Enos said, but his honest face denied the words forced through his lips.  That child wasn’t due until April, which left plenty of time for a more seasonable trip over the mountains for its young aunt-to-be, and Enos’s excuse that needs at Stefán’s brewery had forced his immediate return made no sense whatsoever, either.  Uncomfortable pressing the issue, Ben shrugged his acceptance of the explanations and turned their conversation to the work of the ranch.

            Nelly Thomas paid her social call, and while she was allowed in the cabin, the visit was awkward and she didn’t learn any more than the men had.  “Bunch of poppycock that Marta’s here to help with the baby,” Nelly ranted to Ben when she stopped by the Ponderosa afterwards.  “Ain’t likely Kat needs her here more than her mama does back across the mountains, with that restaurant to run all by herself now.”

            “I don’t buy it for a minute, either, Nelly,” Ben said as he poured them both a cup of coffee, “but it’s not really our business.”

            Nelly sighed.  “Reckon not, but you can’t turn off carin’ for folks like the spigot on a water barrel, Ben.”

            “No, no, you can’t,” Ben agreed, resting his chin in his hand, but neither of them could figure out how to show their concern without prying where they obviously weren’t wanted.

            Billy, on the other hand, seemed to be working on the theory that if he knocked on that cabin door enough times, he’d eventually wedge a toe, then a boot and then his entire, charming self inside.  However, whether he asked to escort Marta to church on Sunday or to the Grand Social Ball at Genoa later in the week, the answer was always the same—no.  And it was always delivered by Katerina.  For all he saw of Marta, she might still have been across the Sierras in her mama’s restaurant.  “They got her under lock and key, and I just plain don’t understand it,” he fumed as his family gathered around the Ponderosa table after church on the second of March.

            “No one does, son,” Ben said, “but maybe you ought to just leave them be.  If they want to talk, they’ll do it in their own good time, and that might come a lot sooner if we quit pushing.”

            Ben’s words proved more prophetic than he could have dreamed.  The next afternoon, while Hoss was still at school and Little Joe napping in the downstairs bedroom and he himself wrestling with the hated bookwork, a timid knock sounded at the door.  Welcoming the interruption, Ben waved Hop Sing back to the kitchen and answered the door himself.  On his doorstep stood a bedraggled figure, clutching a worn carpetbag.  “Marta!” he exclaimed in surprise and then quickly smiled in welcome.  “Come in, my dear,” he said as he took the carpetbag from her blue-knuckled grip.  Peering beyond her into the yard, he saw neither buggy nor horse nor any other person.

            “Katerina didn’t come with you?” he asked as he took her elbow and steered her inside.  Marta shook her head.  Troubled by her forlorn face and haunting silence, he concentrated on her practical needs.  “Goodness, child, you’re chilled to the bone,” he scolded as he set her carpetbag beside the credenza.  He wondered, of course, why she was carrying baggage for an afternoon’s call, but such questions could wait.  He led her to his roomy fireside chair and urged her to sit.  “Now, you just get yourself warmed up, young lady, and I’ll tend to your horse.  Did you put it in the barn?”

            “N-no,” Marta stammered.  “I—I walked.”

            Ben’s eyebrows rose as what he’d first feared was confirmed.  “You walked?  From the cabin?”

            Marta bit her lips and nodded as she looked away.

            Taking a seat on the low table before her, Ben gently turned the girl’s face toward him and saw tears shimmering in her eyes.  “My dear, what’s wrong?” he asked tenderly.

            “Oh, Uncle Ben!” she cried, and the tears began to stream down her face.  “I—I know this is a terrible imposition, but—but could I stay here . . . with you?”

            “It’s no imposition,” Ben said slowly, “but I don’t understand.  Do—do Enos and Katerina know you’re here?”  He couldn’t imagine that either of them would have knowingly allowed her to walk so far in such weather, and his suspicion was confirmed by the girl’s hesitant shake of her head.

            “Please, Uncle Ben, please let me stay with you,” Marta pleaded, her face anguished, her fingers interlaced almost as in prayer.  “I—I just can’t stay with them any longer.  I can’t bear Katerina’s cold looks or—or the shame of being hidden away, when I’ve done nothing wrong!  And though they’d never say it, I’m in the way in that little cabin, sleeping in their parlor, making every mealtime conversation uncomfortable.”

            Ben took her icy hands between his warm ones and began to chafe them.  “Sweetheart, you and your family are always welcome here,” he told her, “but you must remember that there is no longer a woman in my household.  Happy as I’d be to have you stay here, it could damage your reputation.”  He gave her an encouraging smile.  “I know it’s crowded in that cabin—was when it was just me and the two boys—but I’m sure they don’t really feel you’re in the way, and it would be better—for you, my dear—if you stayed with family, whatever the problems are.”

            Marta laughed bitterly.  “I’ll soon have no reputation to protect, Uncle Ben.”  She touched her rounded belly and glanced shyly up to see if he’d understood.  The shock on his face told her that he had, so she said hastily, “I suppose I wasn’t thinking about what having me under your roof could do to your reputation.  Forgive me, Uncle Ben.”  She rose to go.

            Ben immediately sprang to his feet and took her trembling body into his arms.  “I’m not concerned about my reputation, Marta dear,” he said as he stroked her damp hair.  “You have a home here as long as you need it.”

            “Oh, Uncle Ben!”  She collapsed on his shoulder, heaving sobs of relief and gratitude.

            “Shh, shh,” he soothed, continuing to stroke her gently.  “There now; it’s going to be all right.”

            She pulled back, wiped the tears from her cheeks and smiled weakly.  “You haven’t even asked about . . .”  Her gaze fell to her abdomen.

            “Would it help to talk about it?” he asked softly.  When she nodded, he seated her back in his armchair and sat once again on the table before her, this time holding her hands.

            “You’re so kind; you remind me of Papa,” she said, looking down at the strong hands whose gentle touch conveyed such love and acceptance.  “I like to think he would have believed me, but . . . perhaps . . . no one can.”

            “I’ll believe you,” Ben promised, instinctively knowing that that confidence would inspire her frank openness.

            “I’m with child,” she said plainly, though she was certain he had already surmised that.

            “And the father?” he queried, careful to keep any hint of judgment from his voice.

            She sighed.  “I don’t know.”  Her head came up abruptly.  “But that doesn’t mean what Stefán thinks, that—that I’ve ‘played the harlot,’ as he puts it.  I haven’t, Uncle Ben.”

            “I believe you,” Ben said firmly.  “Tell me what did happen, Marta.”

            She looked into the fire, as if seeing the scenes of that fateful night dancing in the flames.  “I was alone in the restaurant,” she began, her hands slipping from his to rest in her lap.  “Mama wasn’t feeling well, and I had begged her to leave early.  I could finish up the dishes and sweeping alone, I promised her, and I did that with no problem.”

            “You weren’t afraid?”

            Briefly turning back toward him, Marta spread her hands.  “Why would I be?  Placerville’s rough, of course, like any other mining town, but we’ve always been treated with respect, even kindness.  And the restaurant was closed, the front door locked.”

            “Not the back,” he suggested, his apprehension rising.

            She smiled.  “No, but no one came in, if that’s what you were thinking.”  Turning her gaze back to the flames, she continued, her fingers tightening on the arm of the chair.  “I finished my chores, except for taking out the garbage.  We dump it in a ditch in the woods behind the restaurant, to keep from drawing flies.  Stefán always shovels dirt over it the next morning.”

            Fearing the worst, he closed his eyes.  “You went into the woods alone.”

            She looked back at him.  “I’ve done it a thousand times, Uncle Ben, and no one’s ever bothered me.”

            “Until that night,” he said grimly, looking at her suddenly veiled eyes.

            She nodded sadly.  “Until that night.  I—I heard a twig snap behind me, but it was dark, a moonless night.  I couldn’t see anyone, so I called out, asking who was there.  No one answered, but I felt a—a presence, so I dumped the garbage quickly and started back toward town.  That’s when . . . someone grabbed me.”

            “My God,” Ben murmured.

            Tears again leaked from the girl’s eyes.  “I cried out to Him, too, but . . . but it happened anyway.  I couldn’t stop him, Uncle Ben,” she sobbed.  “He—he—”

            “He raped you,” Ben finished, to spare her the necessity of speaking the painful words.

            She nodded; then she looked up sharply.  “You believe me?”

            “Of course,” he said.  He reached toward her, but she drew back.

            Again she uttered a bitter laugh.  “Why is it so easy for you and so hard for Stefán?”

            “He didn’t take your word?” Ben asked.  “Was there no evidence of what had happened?”

            “A tear in my skirt,” Marta replied, “but I told Mama that I’d caught it on some brush in the woods.”

            “You didn’t tell them?”  Ben was incredulous.

            Marta shook her head.  “I should have, of course; I know that now, but I was so ashamed.  I felt so stupid and so—so dishonored and . . . dirty.”  Her voice had dropped to a whisper and rose but little as she continued.  “I was afraid Stefán would shout his outrage to the world, trying to find who’d done it, and then everyone would know.  I thought it was better to keep it to myself, but then I . . . I missed my time,” she finished awkwardly, for a woman’s monthly cycle was not something she’d ever mentioned to a man.  “I had to tell Mama then.  She told Stefán, and he—he called me a liar . . . and worse.  He talked of nothing but the shame I would bring to his house and to our mother, when my belly swelled with the fruit of my—my fornication.”

            “Oh, Marta.”  Ben took her damp face in his hands, and this time she leaned into the cradle of his palms.  “Did your mother not believe you, either?”

            “I—I’m not sure.  I think Mama felt caught between the two of us, and Stefán is head of the house now.  What he says is law, as has always been our way.”  As she pressed her left cheek into his tender touch, tears poured down to dampen his hand.  “Over and over he demanded that I tell him the name of my lover.  I couldn’t, of course, because there was no lover.  He finally said that if I stuck to that story, so that there was no possibility of marrying the father of my child, I would have to leave their house before my disgrace became known.  Mama agreed I should go, because I would soon begin to show, and most people would believe what Stefán did; they’d gossip and ruin any chance I had for a happy marriage, ever.  She—she thinks I should give the baby to Katerina to raise, come home and pretend it never happened, but my sister doesn’t want it, I can tell.  Why should she, with a child of her own on the way?”  Marta stepped back, clinching her small fists.  “It’s my child, however it was conceived, and it would be better off with someone who loves it, don’t you think?”

            “There’s time enough to think through all your options,” Ben said slowly.  His own mind was racing, trying to figure some way to solve the girl’s problem.  Marry her himself?  He couldn’t bear the thought so soon after losing Marie, but it was a solution of sorts.  He shook his head, and his next words were directed as much to himself as to Marta.  “Don’t make a hasty decision either way.”

            The girl gave a weary nod.  “I couldn’t leave until the roads cleared, but Stefán brought me here, to Katerina, with the first break in the weather.”  Her chin dropped.  “He told her what he believed, those terrible lies . . . and she has treated me like—like a scarlet woman from then until now.”  She looked up at him and said through trembling lips, “I can’t bear it, Uncle Ben.  Send me away, if you must for decency’s sake, but I can’t go back there.”

            Ben stood, lifting her and pulling her into his arms.  “Marta, my dear, you—and your child, when the time comes—are welcome here.  We’re delighted to have you, and if tongues must wag, we’ll just let them wag.”

            She slipped her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek.  “Thank you; thank you so very much.”

            Slowly he moved out of her embrace, which had taught him one thing: his feelings for her were those of a father, not a husband.  From that moment he knew that he couldn’t consider a marriage of convenience; it wasn’t fair to either of them.  Smiling at her with encouragement, he said, “Now, let’s get you settled in your room.  Then while you wash your face and freshen up, I’ll have Hop Sing brew us a cup of—shall it be coffee or tea?”

            “Tea, please,” Marta said, wiping her cheeks.

            Ben moved to the carpetbag.  “Are these all your things or do I need to collect the rest from the cabin?”

            “That’s all,” she said.

            As they walked up the stairs together, he suggested that he should, at least, let Enos and Katerina know where she was.  “I’m sure Kat’s frantic with worry by now.”  Enos, he assumed, was out working and wouldn’t learn of her disappearance until later that evening.

            “Katerina was taking a nap when I left,” Marta said.  “That’s how I was able to slip out, but I suppose she would have wakened by now.  I think they’ll probably be relieved not to have to put up with me, but I hate making trouble for you, Uncle Ben.”

            “No trouble at all,” Ben assured her, knowing he’d probably have to repeat it many times before the humiliated girl could accept it.  He walked her down the hall to the well lighted guest room at the back corner of the house.  “This is where Mary Wentworth stayed when she was with us,” he explained.  “I hope you’ll enjoy it as much as she did.”

            Marta laughed.  “After that settee in the parlor, any room would seem like heaven, and this is lovely.”

            “I’ll send Hop Sing up with some fresh water,” Ben promised and then left her to stow her belongings as she saw fit.  After delivering the request for water to his Chinese factotum, he moved to his desk.  With a shake of his head he closed the books.  No time to finish them today.  As soon as he finished having a cup of tea with Marta, he’d need to ride over to the Montgomery place and, somehow, explain that she would now be staying with him.  Would Katerina be outraged at his interference?  Would he lose a good foreman because of it?  He shrugged.  Sometimes a man had to do what was right, even if his actions brought unwanted consequences, and taking Marta in was, he felt absolutely certain, right.

            He’d barely finished putting his books away when he heard a door creak open and a soft voice call, “Pa?”

            “Here, Little Joe,” he said, coming around the corner of the alcove.

            “All through with books?” the little boy asked hopefully as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

            “Well, I’m through for now,” Ben chuckled, “but I’m going to have to go out for a while, son.”

            Little Joe brightened immediately.  “Can I go, too?  Town, maybe?”

            Ben lifted the boy into his arms and tickled his tummy.  “No, no.  I’m just going over to Katerina’s.”

            “I wanna go!” Little Joe insisted.

            “Not this time, son,” his father said, stroking the child’s smooth cheek.  “I’m going to—to talk business,” he finished lamely.  Then he lifted the diminutive chin.  “Besides, I need you to take care of something for me here.”

            Little Joe looked puzzled.  Other than a few small chores, Pa never gave him much to do, certainly never anything “to take care of.”  He wasn’t sure whether to feel proud or worried.  “I think I’m too little,” he said slowly.

            Ben laughed aloud.  “Not for this.  In fact, I think you’re just the right size for this job.  I want you to entertain our company, Little Joe.”

            Little Joe’s eyes lit up again.  “Company?  What company?”

            Catching sight of Marta coming down the stairs, Ben spun the boy around in his arms and said, “That company!”

            Little Joe squealed with delight, wriggled out of his father’s arms and ran to meet Marta on the landing.  “Hi!”  He cried.  “I’m glad you came!”

            “Oh!” Marta cried as she dropped to the floor and gathered him into her arms.  “I’m glad, too!”  She nuzzled her nose into his curly crop and sighed in deep contentment.

            “I imagine the tea’s ready now,” Ben suggested.  “I have time for one cup with you, and then I’ll have to leave Little Joe here to keep you company.”

            The look on Marta’s face said that she couldn’t possibly have had better company.  Standing, she took the child’s hand and led him to the table.  “Do you drink tea, Little Joe?”

            He wrinkled his nose, making both Ben and Marta laugh.

            “Milk for him, I think,” Ben suggested.

            “And cookies—for company,” Little Joe hinted.

            “You’re the host; you tell Hop Sing,” Ben chuckled, and Little Joe ran into the kitchen to comply.

            “He’s darling,” Marta said, her eyes shining for the first time since arriving.

            Noting that, Ben nodded his agreement.  “I’m not sure how attentive a host he’ll be, but Hoss will soon be home from school.  If you need anything, you ask him.”  He finished his tea as quickly as politeness permitted and with further admonitions to Little Joe to take care of their guest, departed.

            Since he needed time to form his thoughts, to consider the best way to present the rather controversial idea of allowing Marta to stay in the home of an unmarried man, he rode slowly.  He wasn’t sure he’d found the right words by the time he dismounted in the Montgomery’s yard, but there was no point in further procrastination.  He walked to the door and knocked on it.  There was no answer.  He knocked again with the same result.  “Kat, it’s Uncle Ben,” he called.  “I have news about Marta.”

            Still no response.  Ben frowned.  Was it possible that Katerina was sleeping that soundly?  He didn’t think so.  Hesitantly, he opened the door, which was unlocked as usual, and entered.  A few steps through the parlor to the open bedroom door confirmed his suspicion that the house was empty.  Rebuking himself now for that slow trip from home, he pondered his next step.

            Obviously, Katerina had awakened, found Marta gone and set out to look for her, but he hadn’t seen her on the road here.  He instantly chided himself for the self-centered notion that she should have automatically known that her younger sister would seek refuge at the Ponderosa.  There was, of course, no reason for Marta to go there, instead of to other friends.  Here in Nevada, though, there weren’t many: only him and the Thomas family.  Nelly had been here to visit, so maybe Katerina had assumed that Marta would view the older woman was her best source of support.

            Then he groaned.  No, there was a more disheartening possibility, and he knew instinctively that it was the one driving Katerina right now.  There’d been another Thomas who’d come calling, one who had proven more persistent than any of them in trying to contact Marta during her imposed isolation.  Given Katerina’s belief that her sister was a wanton woman, wouldn’t she naturally assume that Marta would head for the man likeliest to take her in?  Ben checked the barn quickly, saw that the buggy was missing and rightly concluded that if he wanted to speak to Katerina, he’d have to ride into Carson City.  And if he didn’t ride quickly, he’d be having that conversation with an ear-pricked audience.

            As the red-orange sun slipped toward the western hills, he rode hard down the road to Carson City, but when he finally acknowledged that he wasn’t going to overtake that buggy, he slowed down.  Procrastination again possessed him, but gained him nothing.  Little as he wanted an audience, he was going to have one, and it didn’t change the facts he needed to relate.  He’d start there and try to build a case convincing enough to earn even Nelly Thomas’s strait-laced approval.

            The raised voices he heard as he climbed the steps to the Thomas’s porch told him he was walking into a raging inferno of charged accusations.  It was young Inger who finally responded to his knocks at the door.  “I’m not supposed to be listening,” she whispered in his ear, “but how can I help it?”

            “No way I can see,” he whispered back.  “Just scoot on back to wherever your mother sent you, and I’ll pretend I let myself in.”

            Inger nodded solemnly.  “Pa’s in the smithy, if you came to see him.  Reckon you can hear where everyone else is,” she said and hurried back to the kitchen and whatever chores her mother had assigned her.

            As Ben made his way to the parlor, he winced as he heard Katerina demand, “Where are you hiding her?”

            Nelly took that about as well as he figured she would.  “I told you before: she ain’t here; if she was, I’d tell you straight out.  I got no reason to be hidin’ anyone; it plain ain’t the sort of foolishness I’d ever take to!”

            “I’m sure Katerina knows that, Nelly,” Ben said from the doorway.  “She knows you for an honest woman, don’t you, Kat?”  He arched an eyebrow toward the younger woman that invited her to pour some oil on the waters she’d troubled.

            Katerina blanched, as if suddenly aware of the ugliness of her accusation.  “I—I accept your word, Nelly, and . . . no . . . it isn’t the sort of foolishness you’d condone.”  Her anger still simmered beneath the surface, however, and bubbled over as she pointed an accusing finger at the Thomas son, who was standing by the fire, his face a study in bewilderment.  “But he’s been at our house every day, trying to see Marta, and I think he got his chance today, while I was napping.  And I want to know where you’ve taken her, Billy?  You tell me now!”

            “I ain’t even seen her!” Billy declared.  “You saw to that!”

            Nelly bristled.  “If you think accusing an innocent boy is—”

            “Stop!” Ben shouted, and in shock at his sharpness, everyone did.  He lowered his voice and said, “Marta is at the Ponderosa, Katerina.  She walked there this afternoon.”  Seeing the young woman begin to sway, he hurried to her side and helped her to a chair.

            “You feelin’ faint, child?” Nelly asked.  “Let me get you a glass of cool water.”  She hurried out to the kitchen to get one.

            “Katerina, dear, are you all right?” Ben asked anxiously.  “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

            “No, I . . . I’m all right,” she said.  “I—the Ponderosa, you said?  Marta is there?”

            “Yes,” Ben replied.

            Nelly hurried back in with the water and held it to the young woman’s lips.  “There now, honey,” she said, “you drink that down and settle yourself.  It ain’t good for a woman in your condition to get herself all wrought up like this.”  Gone from her demeanor was any hint of offense over the unfounded accusations she’d been fielding since the other woman arrived.

            Katerina tenderly touched her ample abdomen.  “I know.”  She looked up at Nelly, tears in her eyes.  “I’m sorry . . . for . . .”

            “Don’t speak of it,” Nelly soothed.  “Bein’ with child can put all sorts of notions in a body’s head.”

            His brow furrowed, Billy asked.  “Marta walked to the Ponderosa from Kat’s place?  Why’d she do a thing like that?”

            “Not happy with the situation as is,” Ben said plainly.

            Katerina gathered herself together and sat up straight.  “I am sorry that Marta has caused you such trouble, Uncle Ben.  I will come at once and bring her back home.”

            “She’s been no trouble,” Ben said.  That wasn’t strictly true, of course; Marta’s situation had already cost him a frantic ride into Carson City and thrust him into an incredibly awkward position, but he didn’t hold any of that against the girl.  He knelt beside the chair and took Katerina’s hand.  “I hope you’ll let her stay on at the Ponderosa, my dear.”

            Nelly Thomas gasped.  “Ben, you can’t be serious.”

            “I’m serious,” Ben said, his eyes fixed on Katerina’s face.  “She’ll be happier there, and there’ll be less stress on you at a time when you should be receiving the tenderest of care.”  He gently stroked her cheek.

            The young woman shook her head.   “No, that can’t be.”

            “Certainly not,” Nelly put in.

            “Please,” Ben urged.  “It’s best for everyone.”

            “You don’t understand,” Katerina murmured, staring into her lap.

            “Yes, I do,” Ben said softly.  “Marta told me the . . . circumstances.”

            Katerina paled again, causing Nelly to reach for the glass of water and offer it again.  “Now, Ben, you’re actin’ just like a man,” Nelly scolded, “not thinkin’ things through.  Kat here was wrong in thinkin’ what she did about my Billy, but not wrong in tryin’ to protect young Marta’s reputation.”  She stopped short at the sound of Katerina’s bitter laugh, and then hurried on to make her point.  “You ain’t married; she ain’t married; so she can’t stay under your roof; it ain’t decent.”  She frowned again as Katerina almost collapsed in hysterical, hiccupping laughter.  “Get hold of yourself, girl,” she ordered.

            Ben exhaled gustily.  “You might as well tell them,” he said to Katerina.  “It’s not the kind of secret that keeps well.”

            Tears began to leak from the corners of Katerina’s closed eyes, and her hands flew to cover her mouth, as if to hold the secret in; yet she nodded her permission.

            Ben put it as simply and as kindly as he could.  “Marta’s with child,” he said.

            “What!” Nelly cried.

            Jaw dropping, Billy jerked erect.  “I’m going to see her,” he said and headed for the door.

            Ben sprang up and caught him by the elbow.  “Oh, no, you’re not.  You leave that girl be for now, Billy Thomas.”  Don’t complicate what I’m trying to do here, he wanted to say, but for Katerina’s sake kept that to himself.  Maybe the message was communicated by his face, for Billy slumped and shuffled back over to the settee, where he flopped down to listen to the discussion between Kat and his Uncle Ben.

            “I’m so ashamed,” Katerina said, the tears now streaming down her face.

            “It ain’t you that needs to feel that,” Nelly said stiffly.

            “Nelly, please,” Ben implored.  He turned back to Katerina.  “My dear, unless you intend to lock your sister inside until she gives birth, this . . . situation . . . is going to be known.  As Marta says, at that point she will have no reputation to protect, and I’m not concerned about mine.  Those who know me will know the truth, and it’s only their respect I cherish, anyway.  Marta will be treated like a daughter in my house . . . and I think she’ll be happier there.  I think it’ll make things easier on you, too.  Nelly rightly points out that you shouldn’t become overwrought so near your time.  It’s not good for your little one, and, of course, the same is true for the child Marta is carrying.”

            “That’s the first thing you’ve said that makes sense,” Nelly grunted.

            “I—I need to talk with Enos,” Katerina whispered.

            “Of course,” Ben agreed at once.  “And you’ll let Marta stay with me tonight, while you talk it over?”

            Katerina slowly nodded.  “I know she’s safe with you, Uncle Ben, and one night shouldn’t cause too much talk . . . I suppose.  As you say, the people who matter most know now, and I hope they won’t think ill of me.”

            “Not of you,” Nelly said bluntly.  “Lands, what were your folks thinkin’, puttin’ you in a fix like this with a child comin’?”

            Katerina uttered a nervous titter.  “Stefán thought I could pass the child as my own.  Just five months between the two!  How did he think I could explain that?”

            “Men,” Nelly snorted.  “Them and thinkin’ just naturally don’t go together.”  She patted Katerina’s hand.  “Now, sweetie, you’ve had yourself a hard day—whole string of ‘em, most likely—and I think the best thing for you to do is stay the night here.”

            “Oh, no, I can’t,” Katerina objected, though weakly.

            “Now, I insist,” Nelly pressed.  “You gotta think about that child you’re carryin’, girl!  I promise you not another word’ll be said about this sad business.”  She fixed an authoritative glare on her son, who shrugged and looked away.  “In fact, if you want your dinner on a tray in your room, that’ll be just fine.  Might be the best thing, so you can have yourself some peace and quiet for a change.  Ben here can let Enos know where you are and what’s goin’ on.  He’s welcome to come stay the night, too, if he pleases, or if’n he needs to stay home to tend to chores or whatever, he can pick you up in the mornin’.”

            “I’ll tell Enos,” Ben promised to forestall any further objections from Katerina, “and keep him from worrying.  But if I’m going to do that, I’d best ride out now.”

            “Well . . . all right,” Katerina agreed.  “I am tired, and I thank you for your hospitality.”

            “Wish you could stay to supper, too, Ben,” Nelly said, “but you’re right: Enos’ll be frettin’ if he comes home and finds Kat gone.”

            “And the boys and Marta would worry, too,” Ben added.  “None of us were expecting me to come quite so far to find this young lady.”  He kissed Katerina on the cheek, shushing her whispered apology, and then impulsively hugged Nelly in appreciation for her help that afternoon.

            “Get on with you now,” Nelly chuckled and hurried him toward the door with a slap to his back.

            Billy followed Ben out to his horse.  “Tell Marta I want to see her,” he said gruffly.  He flushed as he added, “That other stuff you’re sayin’ . . . it don’t matter to me.”

            “All right,” Ben said, “but give it a few days, son.  Let her family sort things out first.”  When Billy agreed, Ben mounted and rode back toward home.  He didn’t procrastinate this time.  It was a long ride back to the Ponderosa, and with a possibly difficult conversation with Enos added on to the day’s duties, home seemed a long way away.

* * * * *

            Hurrying toward home, Ben saw a figure flying the opposite direction.  When the rider recognized him, however, he pulled up.  “Mr. Cartwright, I gotta find the girls,” Enos Montgomery said.  He’d never been able to call his employer ‘Uncle Ben,’ as his wife did.  In private, he might say ‘Mr. Ben,’ but in front of other hands it was always ‘Mr. Cartwright,’ and by habit the more formal term spurted out now.

            “I know where they are,” Ben said with a smile, “so slow down, son.  There’s nothing to worry about.”

            Enos took off his hat and wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.  “You sure?  When I got home and saw that they was both gone, I just knew that Kat had done somethin’ rash . . . like push Marta on a stage for Placerville, maybe, or even back East.”  The mask of pretense that there was nothing going on at their house but a sisterly visit cracked and fell.

            “Marta’s at my house,” Ben told him, “and Kat’s with the Thomases.”  He quickly explained that he knew about the difficult situation his foreman had been dealing with.

            Enos slumped with relief.  “I’m glad of that, Mr. Ben,” he said, relaxing into their more family-like relationship.  “Pained me to lie to you like I did, but Kat felt shamed and wanted to keep it secret.  Don’t see as how we could have for long, things bein’ the way they are.  Didn’t want to upset her, though, so near her time, you know?”  His eyes pleaded for understanding.

            “I know,” Ben assured him in commiseration over a man’s need to spare the woman who carried his child from all needless stress.  Pregnancy could be mighty hard on a man, he recalled.  “I think we’ve come up with a plan that will ease things at your place.”  He extended his offer for Marta to stay with him, giving the reasons he thought it the best, though scarcely an ideal, solution.  “You and Kat talk it over and let me know what you decide.”  Emphasizing that his wife was fine, though exhausted, he mentioned Nelly’s invitation for her to spend the night, which Kat had accepted.  “And you’re welcome to stay there, too,” he finished, “or to pick up Kat in the morning.”

            Enos grinned.  “I’m halfway to town now.  Think I’ll just go on in and stay there, but it might put me some late for work in the morning.”

            “Take tomorrow off,” Ben urged.  “I can run my own ranch for one day,” he added with a chuckle, “and I think the two of you need some time alone, to relax . . . and talk.  Come to supper tomorrow night, and we’ll talk things over.”

            “Thanks,” Enos said sincerely, thanking his lucky stars, as he had so many times in the past, that he worked for a man like Ben Cartwright.

* * * * *

            The sky was dark, lighted with twinkling stars, by the time Ben arrived home.  He handed his horse over to Hank Carlton and went directly to the house.  As soon as he came through the door, he was trampled by a stampede.  “Pa!” both his boys cried as they rushed to engulf him in hugs.  Ben knelt and drew them both into his embrace.

            “You’re late, Pa,” Little Joe scolded, the quaver in his voice showing just how much that bothered him.

            “Hop Sing ain’t a bit happy,” Hoss said under his breath.

            “I’m sure he’s not,” Ben said as he rose, “but it couldn’t be helped.”

            He saw Marta watching him anxiously and hurried to set her mind at ease.  “It’s all right . . . for now,” he said.

            She came forward shyly.  “I—we were worried; you were gone so long.  You must have done some fancy talking to make it all right . . . for now.”  Her glance at the children told him she understood that detailed explanations would have to wait.

            “Little bit,” Ben acknowledged, “but that wasn’t what took the extra time.  Finding Katerina did that.  She was . . . out looking for you, my dear.”  The way he said it indicated that there was more he could not say in the presence of two young boys.

            Marta’s hand flew to her lips.  “Oh, dear,” she sighed.  “It never crossed my mind she’d do that.  I have been selfish, haven’t I?”

            “Misery can turn a person’s thoughts inward,” Ben said, his smile softening what might otherwise have come across as censure.

            “Who’s miserable?” Hoss asked, nose crinkling in puzzlement.

            “We all will be if we don’t get to the table right quick!” his father declared.

            “We done ate,” Hoss said.

            “Me, too,” Little Joe put in.

            “Marta?” Ben asked.

            She shook her head.  “I . . . couldn’t.”

            “Well, that means the two of us are in a heap of trouble,” Ben told her.  Seeing the girl’s troubled expression, he gave her a wink to let her know he was teasing.  Time in this household would soon teach her to take Hop Sing’s oft-expressed disgruntlement with a tablespoon of salt.  He took her arm and led her to the table, calling out to the cook.

            “Why you late?” Hop Sing demanded, coming to the doorway.  “All-a time Hop Sing make good food nobody eat.”

            “Now, don’t you call my boys nobody,” Ben chided with a chuckle.

            For once, the cook seemed caught off guard.  “Hop Sing not mean that, but Mr. Cartlight, Missy Marta need eat, too.”

            “And that’s what we’re here to do,” Ben pointed out.  “I apologize for the delay, Hop Sing, and, of course, I’ll understand if you can’t provide a meal for us, but—”

            “What you say?” the cook demanded.  “Hop Sing always have food ready; you know that.”

            “You do, indeed, spoil us,” Ben said.  “So, could we please have some of that good food now?”

            “All light, all light; keep shirt on,” Hop Sing scolded, muttering Cantonese under his breath as he headed back into the kitchen.

            “Homework done, Hoss?” Ben asked.

            “Yes, sir,” the boy replied.  “Marta helped.”

            “Good.  Now, unless you boys intend to eat more, I think it’s time you headed up to bed.  Can you get Little Joe changed?”

            “Yes, sir,” Hoss said reluctantly.  He had a feeling there was going to be some interesting talk going on down here in the dining room, but even if what his father’d just said sounded like a request, he knew an order when he heard one.  “Come on, punkin, time for bed.”

            “I hope they weren’t too much trouble,” Ben said to Marta once the boys had disappeared upstairs.

            “Trouble!”  Marta’s eyes sparkled.  “They’re precious, Uncle Ben.  They . . . they gave me back my laughter.  Well, they and you, of course.  I couldn’t even have smiled if you hadn’t been so kind, so—”

            “Now, now, enough of that,” he chided.  “Let me tell you where things stand.”  And over supper, under Hop Sing’s watchful eye, he shared what had transpired in Carson City, being careful to omit any of the stated or implied criticism that had been directed her way.

* * * * *

            Dinner the next night was a stiff and formal affair, compared to the meals the group gathered around the table had shared previously.  The presence of the two youngsters provided the only light-hearted conversational moments, and what godsends they were in the midst of adult anxiety!  As soon as the meal ended, however, Ben suggested that the boys play upstairs.  “I’ll be up to tuck you in at bedtime,” he assured them.

            He had taken Hoss aside earlier in the day and asked for his help in keeping Little Joe corralled up there after supper.  “There’s going to be some serious conversation,” was the only explanation he offered, and Hoss—bless him—had asked no questions.  No doubt his sweet, discerning heart had told him something was amiss with their friends and that Pa needed private time with them to fix it.

            Ben hadn’t bothered talking with Little Joe earlier, for the four-year-old couldn’t hold onto such explanations long enough to make them anything but pointless.  No matter what he’d said earlier, Ben knew that by the time several hours had passed, he would have gotten exactly the same reaction that he now did.

            “I don’t wanna go up there yet,” the child declared.  “It’s early, Pa, and I wanna see Aunt Kat some more.”  Enos was less of a draw, since he saw the foreman regularly, but Katerina was one of his favorite people, and he saw no reason he should be deprived of her company before bedtime.

            Ben picked the boy up and gave him a hug.  “Now, Little Joe, I understand that, but we need to have some grown up talk.”

            Little Joe’s lips puckered.  “I wanna talk grown up.”

            Despite the apprehension everyone was feeling about the upcoming conversation, they all laughed at that.  Still chuckling, Ben said, “Well, son, if you want to talk grown up, you’re just going to have to grow up first . . . and it’s a known fact that little boys do all their growing while they’re asleep.  Maybe you should just skip playtime and go straight to bed, so you can start growing faster.”

            Little Joe frantically wagged his head from side to side.  “I don’t wanna talk grown up that bad,” he said as he squirmed to get down.

            “I thought not,” Ben observed dryly, struggling, as was everyone else in the room, to keep from laughing out loud.

            “Come on, punkin,” Hoss snickered.  “I’ll let you see my bird egg collection.”

            That in itself was a “grown up” enticement, as Hoss had always protected his prized collection from his younger brother’s careless hands, so Little Joe contentedly said his good nights, giving hugs and kisses to one and all, and allowed Hoss to lead him up the stairs.

            Once the boys were gone, an awkward silence descended on the group gathered around the fireplace.  Ben sat in his customary chair, with Marta opposite him in the blue one that had been Adam’s favorite.  Between them, on the settee, Enos and Katerina sat side by side.  All the others fixed their eyes on Ben, and he shifted uncomfortably, wondering why all these children of their trail family seemed to think he was possessed of the wisdom of Solomon, when he so definitely knew he was not.  He cleared his throat.  “Well . . . Enos, Katerina . . . have you had time to consider my proposal?”

            Katerina sighed heavily.  “If only it were a proposal.”

            Marta blanched, and then her cheeks reddened with embarrassment as she gripped the arms of the chair.  “Oh, Katerina, how could you?” she cried.

            Sparks of ice flashed in Katerina’s alpine blue eyes.  “How could I?  You dare to ask that!  As if, to you, marriage to a decent man were an act of shame.” 

            “Katerina,” her husband said sharply, and his rare use of her full first name brought her up short.  “No one’s talking marriage here.”

            “No,” Ben said quickly.  “I did consider it.”  He smiled at Marta’s surprised expression, but shook his head sadly.  “I’m still grieving Marie’s loss,” he said, rekindling the sympathy of the other three, “and even if I weren’t . . . my feelings for Marta are . . . well . . . fatherly.  It just wouldn’t work.”

            “No one expects that of you, Mr. Ben,” Enos said firmly, and reluctantly Katerina nodded.

            “What I’m offering Marta,” Ben said, “is a home, for as long as she needs it.  I’ve told Katerina my reasons, and I assume she’s passed them on to you.”

            Enos  nodded.  “There’s bound to be talk,” he pointed out.

            “Unless you keep her out of sight,” Katerina put in.

            “People will gossip,” Ben agreed.  “As I told Marta and you, I’m not concerned for my reputation.  For the sake of hers, perhaps we could come up with some story . . . the daughter of an old friend . . . recently widowed . . .”

            “Only a man could think that would wash,” Katerina scoffed in a way that made Ben wonder how much of Nelly Thomas had rubbed off on the girl in one night’s stay.

            “No, I suppose people would see through that,” Ben conceded as he saw Marta nod.

            “Any woman would,” Katerina sniffed disdainfully.

            “Look, Mr. Ben,” Enos broke in, “we know you’re a good man and would never do nothin’ improper with a woman.  We got no fears on that account about lettin’ Marta stay on here with you.  Goodness knows, it’d be a help to us, but it sure don’t seem fair to you.  You say you ain’t worried about your reputation, but maybe you oughta be.  Whether you think it or not, you’re an important man in this territory.  Folks look up to you, might even run you for office someday, but a spot like this on your record could spoil any chance of such as that.”

            Ben shrugged.  “There was a time I thought about public office, but that’s all in the past.  All I want now is to make a good home for my boys.”

            Enos leaned forward, folded hands dropping between his knees.  “What about them?” he asked.  “Little Joe ain’t likely to understand what’s going on; a baby’s just a baby to him, but what about Hoss?  You really want him around . . . well”—he nodded toward Marta as he groped for words that would not offend—“this sort of situation?  Even if it didn’t bother him—and bein’ your boy, it might not—still, younguns hear the bad-mouthin’ of their parents, and they carry it to school and can jab it into a fellow like a pointed stick.  I’d sure hate to see that boy hurt.”

            It was the one argument that could have weakened Ben’s resolve.  The thought of his tender-hearted boy, who was still grieving the loss of his mother, being exposed to taunts and jeers on behalf of a friend, pierced him as if the pointed stick of Enos’s metaphor had been stabbed into his own heart.  He paused for a moment and then slowly shook his head.  “I know children can be cruel,” he admitted, “and that does concern me, but I’ll take care of Hoss.  He’s a strong boy; he’ll survive schoolyard bullying, already has on his own behalf.  But I don’t think he would survive knowing that I’d turned away someone who needed our help, just to spare him.   That would break his heart.”  So much of his mother in him, he thought wistfully.

            Marta turned her face into the wings of the blue chair, her left hand covering her cheek, to hide the tears trailing down it.  Though she knew herself innocent of the accusations her brother had railed against her, she felt unworthy of such sacrifice, especially on the part of a young child.  Maybe I should go back with Enos and Katerina, she thought, though a stone sank to the bottom of her heart.  She felt a hand on her arm and turned to see Ben kneeling at the side of her chair.

            “Everything’s going to be all right, dear,” he soothed.

            His eyes were so filled with love and compassion that the tears ran down her face more swiftly.  What had she done, what could anyone do, to merit such gracious acceptance?  “I—I would like to stay,” she whispered.  She looked shyly across at the Montgomerys.  “Please, Katerina?”

            Katerina looked to her husband, who nodded and said, “Seems like it’s for the best, Kat . . . for the both of you.”

            “Stefán will rage,” she said hesitantly.

            Enos circled her waist with his arm, at least as far as he could reach.  “I’ll deal with Stefán,” he said.  “He needs to remember that you’re my wife, and a husband’s word weighs more than a brother’s.”

            Katerina laid her head on his shoulder, relaxing into his strength; then, chin trembling, she looked over at Ben and nodded.  “We thank you, Uncle Ben, but grateful as we are, this doesn’t solve the biggest problem.  What are we to do with this child that’s coming?”

            As Ben rose and returned to his chair, everyone again looked at him; again he had that uncomfortable feeling that he was supposed to play the part of Solomon in these weighty decisions.  “Cut the living child in half” certainly wasn’t going to work here the way it had back in Solomon’s day.  “Do we have to solve that tonight?” he asked almost desperately.  “We do have a few months to weigh the alternatives.”

            “Do you plan to keep her hidden away in this house?” Katerina demanded sharply.       

            Like you did? Ben might have thrust back, but to avoid making matters worse, did not.  He did, however, say decisively, “This is not a prison, and I am not a warden.  Marta is my guest, free to come and go as she pleases.”

            “Then I think we do have to make some decisions tonight,” Katerina insisted.  “We do not have months, Uncle Ben.  She is beginning to show already!  There will be questions, and we must have answers.  What is to be our story?”

            “Why not the truth?” Marta suggested hesitantly.

            “Oh, Marta, don’t be such a child!” her sister scolded.  “You can’t do that.”

            “Why not?” Marta demanded, standing to her feet and staring down at them.  “Whatever lie we concoct tonight, no one will believe it!  I’ve had enough of lies, Katerina; lying is what kept Stefán from believing me when I finally did tell the truth.  I was raped!  If that makes me a scarlet woman in people’s eyes, so be it.”

            Ben kneaded his aching temple.  “And the child?  Do you realize what hell people can put an illegitimate child through?”

            Her eyes filled with tears, but she drew herself up with courage and faced them all with steadfast intent.  “You said you would teach Hoss to survive schoolyard bullying.  I have all these months to watch you do that and learn from you how to teach my child to be strong like Hoss.  He, too—or she—will survive.”

            The other three all stared at her, open-mouthed.  None of them seemed to know whether to applaud her bravery or be appalled by her audacity.  Ben swallowed hard and with what he hoped was wisdom granted from above, said, “That would be a hard road to walk, my dear: I urge you to consider it carefully, but if that’s the road you choose, I’ll walk it at your side.”

            Katerina lumbered to her feet.  “I want nothing to do with such nonsense, nor will Stefán.  You think he will welcome you back into Mama’s house if you bring this—this—”

            “Don’t say it, Kat,” Enos urged as he stood up and put a supportive arm behind her back.  “We’re much obliged to you, Mr. Ben, for all you’ve said and done.”

            “Please don’t leave in anger,” Ben pleaded.

            “No one’s angry,” the foreman said calmly.  “Marta, we wish you the best, honest we do, but like Mr. Ben says, you need to think this through before you start a road there ain’t no turnin’ back from.”

            “I will,” Marta promised.  “I know there’s more lives than just mine to think about.  I’ll try to do what’s best.  Oh, but Katerina, I wish you could believe me!”

            “I—I’ll try,” her sister said, but she could not bring herself to look at Marta as Enos helped her into her coat and they left.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Knight in Homespun Armor

            Holding both sides of his back, Ben stretched this way and that as he came out of the barn after grooming his riding horse.  Amazing how a day’s work could kink up a man’s muscles, especially after a winter of semi-idleness.  This had been a short day, too!  Hoss wasn’t even home from school yet, and if he were lucky, Little Joe might still be napping.  He hoped so; he could certainly use a few minutes to unwind before that little instrument of perpetual energy demanded his undivided attention.

            The sound of hooves halted him halfway across the yard.  Hand shielding his eyes against the sun, he watched as the rider rounded the barn and came into sight.  He grinned and shook his head.  Well, all he’d asked for was a few days, and to a young fellow like Billy Thomas, three probably more than met that requirement.  He waved a greeting as the young man dismounted.

            “Marta to home?” Billy asked.

            “Just got here myself,” Ben chuckled, “but I’m sure she is.”

            “Can I see her?”

            “Up to her,” Ben replied, adding wryly, “I—uh—forgot to tell her you wanted to see her, but I doubt it’ll come as much surprise.”  After all, the young scamp had all but beaten down the Montgomerys’ door for days running.  “Come on; I’ll walk you in.”

            Marta was sitting in the blue chair, reading a book from Ben’s shelf, when they walked in.  Her face lighted when she spotted Billy and she set the book aside.

            “Hey, Marta,” the boy said.  “I been hopin’ to see you.”

            “I know,” she said, and her smile was one of appreciation for his steadfast effort in pursuit of that hope.

            “Little Joe still asleep?” Ben asked.

            “Thankfully,” she answered.  “If he didn’t need the rest, I did.”

            “Oh, he’ll wear you out, that one,” Ben agreed with a fond smile.  “I’ll—uh—go check on him and try to keep him out of your hair for a spell.”

            “No need,” Billy said.  Then his face reddened.  “I mean, it’s a right nice day, and I thought me and Marta could take us a walk . . . if that’s all right with you, that is, and if that youngun ain’t plumb wore you out today.”

            “Not quite,” the girl laughed.  “A walk sounds lovely, Billy.”

            “In that case,” Ben said, “I’m claiming the settee for a lie-down until ‘that youngun’ gets up on his own.”

            “Wise decision,” Marta said with a smile as she stood up and went to take Billy’s arm.

            They walked in silence past the corral and into the greening meadow.  “All that snow we had sure is makin’ the spring grass sprout up,” Billy observed.

            “It’s beautiful here,” Marta said.  “I . . . haven’t had much chance to see it yet, except that day I walked here.”

            Billy’s mouth hardened.  “Weren’t right, you havin’ to do that.  I’d’ve brought you here myself, if I’d knowed you wanted to come.”

            “I know that, Billy,” she said softly.  “It’s . . . good to see you . . . at last.”

            “Yeah,” he said.  They walked again in companionable silence.  Then Billy stopped abruptly and turned to face her.  “Don’t reckon there’s any point in skirtin’ around it: I know you got yourself a problem.”

            Her fingers instinctively touched her abdomen, but she quickly dropped her hand.  “Yes,” she said.

            “Ain’t the scalawag that got you in this fix willin’ to marry up with you?” Billy demanded.

            Marta lifted her chin proudly.  “I’m not willin’ to marry up with him,” she declared, “even if I knew who he was.  Any brute who’d take a woman against her will . . .”   Having said more than she intended, she bit her lip and looked away.

            With a gentle hand Billy turned her face back toward him.  “Is that the way of it?” he asked.  “Some feckless piece of trash force himself on you?”

            Tears shimmered in her eyes as she nodded.  “Uncle Ben believes me; Stefán does not.  That’s why he brought me here, so no one back home would ever need to know.”

            “Seems like Kat and Enos have their doubts, too,” Billy said grimly.

            “They’ve been kind, for the most part,” Marta said.  “Even keeping me out of sight was meant to protect me, but like Mama, they don’t seem to know what to believe.”

            Billy took her hand.  “I know what to believe.”

            She looked up and smiled through her tears at the look of trust in his eyes.  “Thank you,” she murmured.

            They walked further into the meadow.  Then Billy stopped again.  “If you don’t mind me askin’, what you aim to do about it?”

            Marta sighed.  “I’m still pondering that one.  Stefán wanted me to give the baby to Katerina to raise, but she doesn’t really want it.”

            “Can’t hardly blame her,” Billy said, mouth skewed to one side.

            “I don’t blame her,” Marta said quickly.  “She had a mess landed on her doorstep and didn’t know what to do with it.  I don’t know what to do, either.  I guess it sounds odd, knowin’ how it all came about, but I love this baby, Billy.  I’d like to keep it, raise it myself, but there’s no good way to do it.  Either I tell the unvarnished truth and hear my child called bastard all its life.”  She choked on the word; then she tossed her head and plunged ahead.  “Either that or I come up with some lie, like a husband who died right after planting his seed.  I know I’m talkin’ too plain, but . . .”

            “We’re friends,” Billy said firmly, “and friends talk plain to each other.”

            She touched her head to his shoulder.  “Thank you.”

            They stopped at the woods edging the meadow and headed back toward the house.  Billy gave his lips a nervous lick and said, “You said there was only them two choices, and you don’t really like either of ‘em, right?  What—what if there was another way?”

            Marta gave a short laugh.  “I’m willing to listen to anything . . . even a hair-brained Billy Thomas notion.”

            He planted himself in her path.  “What’s hair-brained about marryin’ up . . . with me?”

            Her eyes opened wide with surprise.  “What?  Oh, you’re not serious.”

            He took both her hands in his.  “Yeah, yeah I am.”

            Still dazed, she shook her head.  “You’d do that?  You’d marry a—a soiled woman and raise a baby that’s not yours . . . out of friendship?”

            He looked awkwardly at his toes.  “I ain’t so sure friendship’s all there is between us, Marta.”

            “Now, you’re not gonna tell me you’re in love with me,” she scolded.  “That’s one lie I won’t stand for.”

            Looking up, he gave her a lopsided grin.  “I ain’t sure it’s real love I feel for you,” he said honestly.  “Maybe it ain’t the kind my folks have or like what I saw between Uncle Ben and Inger and then Marie, but I do know seein’ you hurt hurts me . . . right here.”  He thumped his chest with a closed fist.  “That’s gotta be some kind of love, don’t it?”

            “I think that’s called sympathy,” she said.

            “No, it’s more than that,” he insisted.

            “But is it enough to last?” she probed.  “Especially knowing there’s some hard times ahead.”

            Some of Billy’s devil-may-care cockiness sprang back into his face.  “Aw, I bet we can make it last, if’n we work at it.  We always got on good together, Marta; I think we’d make a good team.”

            She pulled her hands back and walked away from him.  Then she turned back toward him.  “Oh, I shouldn’t,” she said, holding her flaming cheeks in her hands.  “It’s purely selfish of me to use you that way.”

            “I don’t feel used.”  Billy hurried to her and pulled her hands away from her face.  “And, hey, it ain’t like you’re gettin’ some bargain in me, you know.  Why, Ma’d say I was lucky to find any woman willin’ to take me on trial.”

            Marta laughed then.  “Oh, Billy!  One thing is sure: we’d never get bored.”

            “Then you’ll have me?”

            She couldn’t hold back the tears.  “I should say no; for your sake I should, but Billy, I can’t remember the time I didn’t love you.  I always hoped you’d look to me, once you were ready to settle down, but I hate having it happen this way.  I wanted it to be for love.”

            Billy pulled her into his arms.  “You’ll be loved, girl,” he promised.  “Count on it.  Seems to me, love is a thing a man can learn, like sittin’ a horse or poundin’ an anvil.”

            She gave him a playful shove backwards.  “Billy Thomas!  Only you could talk about love and blacksmithing, like they were one and the same!”

            “I ain’t no Shakespeare,” he cackled.  “Shucks, I can’t even spin words as fancy as Adam Cartwright.”

            “They’re fancy enough for me,” she said, stepping back into his embrace.

            He kissed her and then, grasping her hand, swung it back and forth.  “Let’s tell Uncle Ben,” he said.  She nodded happily, and hand in hand, they ran back to the Ponderosa ranch house.

* * * * *

            “That you, Billy?” Nelly called as she heard the front door open and close.

            “Yeah, Ma,” he called back.  He stood in the entry a moment, gathering the courage to enter the parlor and face his parents.  Telling the news to Uncle Ben had been a piece of cake, compared to this.  He’d been surprised, but once he realized that the two young people were serious, he’d given them all the encouragement either could have hoped for.  Putting off the telling wouldn’t make it any easier, though, so Billy took a deep breath and walked through the doorway.

            “Well, you’re late enough,” Nelly scolded, looking up from the stockings she was darning.  “Wouldn’t’ve thought there’d be that much for you to say to that girl.”  Truthfully, she didn’t see the need for anything to be said to the likes of Marta Zuebner.

            “Spent more time ridin’ there and back than talkin’,” Billy said with an attempt at his usual grin.

            “True enough,” Clyde cackled.  “Never could figure why Ben had to move hisself so far into the hills.”

            It was an old joke, but nobody but Clyde laughed at it tonight.  “There’s a plate for you in the warming oven,” Nelly told Billy.

            “Thanks,” he said.  “I’ll have it in a bit.  Inger already in bed?”  The last thing he needed was having his baby sister walk in on this discussion!

            “Not yet,” his mother said, frowning.  “She’s up in her room, but not likely to be sleepin’ this early.  Why you askin’ about your sister?” she asked suspiciously, for while Billy had a brother’s affection for Inger, he wasn’t in the habit of asking her whereabouts of an evening.

            Billy decided to be direct.  “Need to tell you something that may not sit well on first hearing, and—well—I’d just as soon the girl didn’t have to listen to you yell at me.”

            “You robbed a bank?” Clyde asked dryly.

            “No, Pa, ‘course not.”  Billy scoffed at the idea.

            “Then I don’t reckon you’re likely to hear any yellin’,” his father said, reaching for his tin of tobacco.  “You’re a man now, fit to make your own decisions.”

            Billy exhaled with a measure of relief, although the guarded look on his mother’s face was still disquieting.  “Glad to hear you say that, Pa, ‘cause what I need to tell you is that I’ve decided to get married.”

            The plug of chewing tobacco heading toward Clyde’s mouth hung in midair, and his eyes all but popped out as he looked up at his son.  “Didn’t even know you was sparkin’ any gal,” he said, and then evidently feeling the need to chew that one over, tucked the tobacco into his cheek.

            “Oh, Clyde, don’t be a fool,” Nelly snapped.  “It’s that Zuebner hussy he’s talkin’ about.”

            “Don’t call her that, Ma,” Billy entreated.

            Nelly’s nostrils flared.  “I could use worse words.”

            “Nelly, hear the boy out,” Clyde said.  “She right?  It the Zuebner girl you’re plannin’ to marry up with?”

            “Yeah, it’s Marta,” Billy replied.  “That’s why I went out to the Ponderosa, to ask her, and I’m pleased to say she accepted.”

            “Don’t see nothin’ pleasin’ in that,” Nelly spat out.

            “Ma, please,” he pleaded.

            Clyde shook his head.  “Gotta side with your ma on this one, son.  Friend or not, a gal like that, who ain’t kept herself pure, just ain’t the right woman for you”

            Billy wanted to defend Marta’s honor, but unsure how she’d feel about the circumstances of her pregnancy being known, he couldn’t decide what to say.  His lip quirked up with a stubborn curl.  “I’ve already asked her . . . and I got no regrets.”

            “You’ll have plenty if you keep to this fool notion,” his mother warned.  “Why’d you even want to raise another man’s bastard, boy?”

            “It ain’t another man’s bastard!” Billy shouted.

            “Whoa, whoa,” Clyde broke in, while Nelly gasped.  “You sayin’ you fathered this baby, boy?”

            It wasn’t what Billy had meant at all: he’d only been objecting to the use of the word ‘bastard’ in speaking of Marta’s child, but suddenly he realized that his parents’ wrong assumption had provided the best possible reason for them to accept this marriage.  If he’d had time to think it through, he might have discarded the wild scheme, but since he’d always been a speak-first, think-later kind of fellow, he grabbed the opportunity.  “Yes, sir,” he said.

            “Oh, it ain’t possible,” his mother sputtered.

            “Yeah, yeah it is, Ma,” Billy insisted.  He did a quick calculation of the time that had passed since his last trip to California.  Early December—three months ago—yeah, that would work, almost perfectly, in fact.  “Must’ve happened when I did my Christmas shopping over in California . . . remember?”

            The pallor of Nelly’s face said that she did and that she’d counted the months herself.  “Oh, lands,” she moaned.  “To think that a boy of mine . . .”

            “Ma, I’m sorry,” Billy said.  Seeing her pain, he almost retracted the lie, but to do that would bring disgrace back onto Marta’s innocent head.

            While he was weighing the heartache of the two women, his father spoke up and said, “If that’s the way of it, the only honorable thing for you to do is marry the girl and give the child your name.  Right, Nelly?”

            She nodded mutely.

            Billy knelt in front of her.  “Don’t fret, Ma,” he soothed.  “It’ll be a good marriage, see if it ain’t.”

            “I—I hope it will be,” she said and, picking up the mending that had dropped into her lap, began darning with all her might.

* * * * *

            The next night Billy was back at the Ponderosa.  Ben came around the corner of the alcove just as Hop Sing ushered the young man inside.  “Well, well,” he chuckled.  “Are we going to be privileged with your company for supper every evening, young fellow?  You’re always welcome, of course, but if that’s the case, we should warn Hop Sing.”

            “Not every night, Uncle Ben,” Billy grinned back, “but I figured me and Marta had some things to talk over . . . about the wedding, I mean.  We oughta fix on a date, leastwise, so I can get a wire off to her folks.”

            Ben sobered.  “You think they’ll come?”

            Billy shrugged.  “Don’t know, but only seems right to give ‘em the chance.”

            “Good thinking,” Ben agreed.  “Always good to get off on the right footing with the in-laws—so I hear, at any rate; I never had much opportunity in that line.”  He had known Captain Stoddard, of course, but he’d been on a good footing with him before marrying Elizabeth.  He’d known Gunnar, too, though only briefly.  They’d parted on friendly terms, but he had no idea what had become of Inger’s brother.  Marie, of course, had been an orphan, and neither of them had ever had any desire to keep in touch with her cousin Edward, even if he was her only family.

            Billy twisted his hat in his hand.  “Marta to home?” he asked.

            “Nearby,” Ben said with a welcoming gesture toward the fireside.  “Hoss had something in the woods he wanted to show her, and Little Joe tagged along with them.”

            “Figures,” Billy snickered.

            “Yeah.”  Ben acknowledged his youngest son’s penchant for getting underfoot as he settled into his well padded armchair.  “So, how’d your folks take the news?”

            Billy winced.

            “That bad, huh?” Ben said.

            “Ma was.”  Billy shook his head.  “I ain’t never seen her so contrary, Uncle Ben.”

            “You’re her baby boy, son,” Ben offered with a wry smile.  “Likely, no woman would be good enough for you, but this situation . . . well, it’s not exactly the fulfillment of a mother’s hopes and dreams.”  Or a father’s, he added to himself.

            Billy gave his lips a nervous lick.  “Guess I might as well tell you I—uh—wasn’t exactly honest with ‘em about the way things are.”

            Propping his elbow on the arm of the chair, Ben rested his head in the palm of his hand and scrutinized the young man with narrowed eyes.  “Billy Thomas, what have you done?” he asked soberly.

            The young man swallowed hard.  “I told ‘em I was the baby’s father.”

            Ben bolted upright.  “What!”

            “I told ‘em—”

            “I heard you the first time,” Ben interrupted bluntly.  “I just couldn’t believe my ears.  Why on earth would you concoct such a lie?”

            Billy shrugged sheepishly.  “Didn’t exactly concoct it; they sort of misunderstood something I said and took it to mean that, and then I thought it might go down easier—for Ma, at least—if I just didn’t say different.”

            “Does Marta know?” Ben asked.

            Billy shook his head.  “No, sir, but I’ll tell her.  Just figured I ought to let you know, so you wouldn’t spill the beans on me.  You won’t tell ‘em, will you?”

            Ben exhaled in stuttering puffs.  “Oh, no worries there.  Wild horses couldn’t drag me into that!”  He leaned forward, hands on his knees.  “I’d advise you to be honest with your family, though . . . and with hers.  I understand why you did it: it does tend to silence objections; but I doubt it’ll really help for them to think ill of both Marta and you.”

            “That’s the way I want it,” Billy insisted with a stubborn jut of his chin.

            “Oh, and you do insist on your own way, don’t you, young man?”  Ben exhaled another gusty whoosh of air and fell back into his chair.

            Unperturbed, Billy grinned at him.  “When I think I’m right—and I ‘most always am.”

            Rolling his eyes toward the ceiling, Ben moaned softly.  What could he possibly say to this impudent young idiot?  That really would take the wisdom of Solomon, and if he’d doubted before whether there was any resemblance between him and the ancient Israeli king, this latest challenge had forever settled that question.  Solomon would keep his reputation as the wisest man ever born—and welcome to it!

* * * * *

            Over supper that night, the young couple settled on March 16^th as the date for their wedding.  Short notice for Marta’s family, certainly, but it was long enough to make the trip possible, though neither of them thought it likely, with Stefán’s brewery and Ludmilla’s restaurant to run.  Hoss almost bounced in his excitement over the joining of two of his favorite people, and Little Joe’s attention could scarcely be drawn to his supper when things so much more interesting than eating were going on at the table.  Hop Sing frowned at everyone as he cleared the plates of half-eaten meals, and he muttered indecipherable calumnies on them all as he took the dishes into the kitchen.

            Even in the short time she’d lived under the Cartwrights’ roof, Marta had come to understand that the little Oriental’s tirades were mostly bark with no bite, so she merely covered her mouth to hide the laughter that bubbled up.  The last two days had witnessed the resurrection of her natural effulgence, and Ben thought he had never seen her look more radiant.  Could her countenance be any brighter, even on her wedding day?

            “What kind of wedding do you want?” Billy asked.

            Marta sobered momentarily.  “Oh, a quiet one, I suppose.”  Her hooded eyes conveyed her lingering shame over the circumstances of this wedding.

            Sensing that, Ben said brightly, “Now, you mustn’t deprive us of a celebration.  This calls for a grand party at the Ponderosa, right, boys?”

            “Right!” Hoss declared with an enthusiastic bob of his head.

            “Right!” Little Joe echoed.  “A big party with cake and ice cream!”

            “Well, maybe not the ice cream,” Ben chuckled.  “It’s still a shade cold for that.”

            “I . . . don’t know,” Marta said, looking to Billy for guidance.

            “We could have it here, Uncle Ben?” Billy asked.

            “Sure.  Not the first wedding the Ponderosa’s seen, you know.”  Ben smiled benevolently at Marta.  “That staircase makes a mighty elegant procession for the bride.”  He saw her purse her lips and at once understood what her main concern was.  “If Stefán isn’t able to come”—or won’t, he added silently—“then it will be my pleasure to give the bride away.”

            She smiled then.  “A real wedding—more than I’d hoped for, that’s for sure, but”—she hesitated—“we will keep it simple, yes?  No big crowds?”

            “No big crowds,” Ben promised.  “Just family, maybe a few close friends.”

            Billy gave Marta a questioning look, and face beaming, she nodded happily.  “Then we accept,” Billy said.  “Thanks, Uncle Ben—and, hey, Shortshanks, I’m with you about that ice cream.”

            Little Joe clapped his hands in glee, while Ben shook his head in wonderment.  He could only hope that as his son grew older, his inclinations wouldn’t always match those of that scapegrace, Billy Thomas.  Looking at Marta, however, and remembering that scapegrace’s generosity and loving-kindness in taking a desperate girl under his sheltering wing, he decided maybe he wouldn’t mind all that much if his youngest did turn out to model some of the traits of that young man.

* * * * *

            “Wow, Marta, you look gorgeous!” Hoss announced as the girl walked down the stairs Saturday afternoon.

            “Why, thank you, kind sir,” she said with a ladylike curtsey, spreading the skirts of her burgundy taffeta dress.

            “Much too pretty for the likes of Billy Thomas,” Ben said with a wink.

            She smiled, but wagged a reproachful finger at him.  “Now, I won’t hear a word against my intended.”  She felt a pull on her skirt and looked down at Little Joe, who held up his arms toward her.

            “Aw, leave ‘er be, Joe,” Hoss chided.  “You’ll get her pretty dress all smudged.”

            Marta knelt down and cuddled the child.  “No harm if he does,” she said and pressed a kiss to his cheek.  She laughed lightly.  “I guess I really should have saved it for the wedding, but Billy insisted on going out tonight, and I don’t have anything else fit for that.”

            “Marie had some very nice dresses,” Ben suggested softly, “if you’d care to make one of them over for your wedding.”

            Marta’s hand flew to her cheek.  “Nice!” she cried.  “Her gowns were fit for a princess.  I—I couldn’t.”

            “You’re pretty as a princess,” Hoss declared.

            “It won’t bother me, if that’s your concern,” Ben assured her.  He’d had some trouble letting go of Marie’s things, but Katerina’s stay at Christmas had convinced him that sharing them was the best way to let her spirit live on.

            “What about . . . ?”  Marta’s chin dipped toward the child who remained in her arms.

            “Little Joe, come here,” Ben called, and the child ran into his open arms.  Ben lifted the boy and set him on his knee.  Smoothing the tousled curls, he asked, “Is it all right with you if Marta wears one of Mama’s dresses for her wedding?”

            Little Joe grinned ear to ear.  “Mama has pretty dresses!”

            “Yes, but may Marta wear one of them?” Ben pressed.

            Little Joe looked confused, but finally said, “If it fits.”  He leaned close to his father’s ear and attempted to whisper, although the sound carried across the room, “I think Mama was a little bit bigger, maybe.”

            Ben chuckled.  “That can be fixed.”  He looked across at Marta.  “Does that answer your question?”

            “Yes,” Marta said, eyes shining.  “It also tells me I’d better get busy.  Maybe I should tell Billy to forget about taking me to this play.”

            “And have him take my head off for luring you away?  Nothing doing!” Ben declared.

            “I wanna wait outside for Billy,” Little Joe announced, slipping from his father’s knee.

            “Excellent idea,” Ben agreed quickly.  “Hoss, you’d better go along and keep an eye on him.  You know how he is about running to meet horses.”

            Hoss got up and dragged toward the door after his little brother.  He had a feeling Pa was about to talk more secrets with Marta and would rather have stayed to listen in.  He’d overheard enough whispers the last few days to know that something more than just a wedding was going on with their guest, but hadn’t figured out just what.  He knew Pa was right, though: left to himself, Little Joe would run right at Billy’s horse, and no secret was worth taking a chance on that.  He had only to remember his mother to know what damage a horse could do to anyone that got in their way.

            Ben took a draw on his pipe after the boys left and then set it aside.  “Looking forward to tonight?” he asked.

            “I really am.”  Marta sat down in the blue chair, smoothing her skirt carefully.  “It feels like being courted, you know?”

            Ben smiled.  “Brief courtship.  Maybe that’s why Billy wants to pack it as full as possible.”

            “So it’ll look like a real romance?”  Marta stared soberly into the fire.

            Ben’s brows came together in a straight line.  “It’s as real as any romance I’ve ever seen or read about in literature, my dear.”

            She glanced timidly at him.  “On my part, yes.”

            “On his, too,” Ben stated confidently.  “Do you think he’d allow people to think what they’re bound to think of him for anything less than real romance?”

            “I don’t know.”  Her voice was so soft Ben could barely hear it.  “I still don’t know the right or wrong of that, Uncle Ben.”  She looked at him more directly.  “I don’t like lies, but Billy’s insisting on this one.  With all he’s doing for me, I don’t feel able to cross him, but it really bothers me.”

            “Have you told him that?” Ben asked gently.

            She nodded.  “He pointed out—and I had no answer for this—that people will count the months and know the baby comes too early.  He says he means to be a real pa to our child, so folks might as well think that’s what he is.”

            “There’s a certain wisdom in it,” Ben admitted.  “People will think what they please, but most won’t come out and ask.  No need for you to volunteer anything to them; your private affairs are none of their business.”

            “But his family?” Marta asked.

            Ben shook his head.  “I’ve already told Billy that I think he should be honest with them.  And what about your family?”

            Marta laughed bitterly.  “I’ve already told them the truth; I think they’ll prefer the lie, Uncle Ben.”

            “Yeah, maybe.”  His head turned at the sound of shouts from outside.  “Ah, there’s your Prince Charming, I believe.  Pinch your cheeks and put that pretty smile back on.”

            With a laugh she followed orders to the letter.  He took her arm and escorted her outside to her betrothed.

* * * * *

            Over the next few days Ben wondered why Billy Thomas didn’t just move in, for he seemed to spend more time at the Ponderosa than he did at home.  Of course, there were decisions the young couple needed to make, and make quickly.  Where they would live was the first question.  Since Billy still worked with his father in the smithy, the natural expectation might have been for them to stay with the Thomases, at least until he could provide a home of their own.  However, the underlying animosity that Nelly, in particular, felt toward Marta would have meant a miserable existence for the young bride, so Billy ruled that out at once, to Marta’s obvious relief.

            Ben offered them a room at the Ponderosa “until you get on your feet,” and while both Hoss and Little Joe thought that was the ideal solution, Billy pointed out its main problem.  “I work in Carson,” he said, “and that’s a long ride to make every day.”

            “Doesn’t seem to be bothering you lately,” Ben muttered wryly, and Billy responded with a sheepish grin.  “You know you always have a job here, if you want it,” Ben added.

            Billy thought that over for a minute, but then shook his head.  “I don’t want to make things worse with my folks than they already are.  I might need to take a better-payin’ job sometime, but I don’t want to leave Pa high and dry, right off.”

            “Yeah, you don’t want to build more resentment,” Ben sighed.

            Hoss’s ears perked up.  The big word had meant nothing to Little Joe, of course, but Hoss knew what “resentment” meant.  It had been on a spelling list at school.  And Pa’d said “more resentment,” meaning there was already some going on over at the Thomas place.  It didn’t make sense to Hoss, who knew of no reason that Billy and Marta should be on the outs with Uncle Clyde and Aunt Nelly.  He opened his mouth to ask if they were and then closed it just as quickly.  All asking would get him was an early trip upstairs to bed, and there’d been too many of those lately, as it was.  The best thing to do, he decided, was just keep on playing Noah’s Ark in front of the fireplace with Little Joe and keep his ears stretched for any more hints about the big secret that the grownups were hiding.

            “Well, I think you’re just going to have to look for a place in Carson City, then,” Ben said.

            “Something small,” Marta urged.

            “You wanna come with me, scout out the prospects?” Billy asked.

            “I can’t imagine there are many, Billy!  Find what you can and then take me to see it.  Just remember—small—I don’t need much.”  She laughed.  “After camping in Katerina’s parlor, anything will seem like a mansion.”

            “What’s a mansion?” Little Joe asked as he walked his giraffe up the ramp into the ark.

            “A big house, sweetie,” Marta replied.

            The boy looked up at her with a bright smile.  “Like this one?”

            The adults laughed.  “No, Little Joe,” his father said.  “A mansion is both big and fancy . . . like the Larrimore’s house in San Francisco.  You remember that?”

            The boy’s nose wrinkled as he shook his head.

            “It ain’t such a much,” Hoss grunted.  “I like the Ponderosa better.”

            “I’d have to agree,” Ben chuckled.  “Haven’t those animals all made it into the ark yet, boys?”

            “They’re in,” Little Joe announced, depositing the giraffe on board.  He stood up and trotted toward the kitchen.  “Now it’s time for the rain!”

            “Oh, no,” Ben said, catching the boy around the waist.  He well remembered the fate of the floor the last time Little Joe had tried to simulate forty days and nights of rain.  Hop Sing had hollered for hours about that mess!  “Time for all animals and little boys to head up to bed.”

            “Too early, Pa,” Little Joe squealed.

            “Oh, it is not.”  Ben stood up, lifting Little Joe to his shoulders for a piggy back ride upstairs.  “Hoss, put the toys away, please, and get into your night clothes.”

            “I gotta go to bed, too?” Hoss protested.

            “No, just get dressed; then you can stay up a bit longer, but not much.  School tomorrow, son.”

            Hoss scowled at the reminder, but said only, “Yes, sir.”  He got into his nightshirt, robe and slippers and came back downstairs, but since the grownups were only talking about the wedding ceremony, who’d do the preaching and who’d bake the cake and such, he soon said his good-nights and headed up to bed.

* * * * *

            To call the Ponderosa a madhouse the afternoon before the wedding would have done disservice to the madhouse.  Hop Sing was in a frenzy with final household tasks and preparation for the wedding feast the next day.  Ben and Marta were busy decorating the mantel and the stair rail with the pink blossoms of the wild peach tree and the delicate yellow petals of antelope brush, and the boys were busy getting underfoot and in the way at every turn.

            “More antelope brush, you think?” Ben queried, as he and Marta stepped back to survey their work.

            “The more, the better,” Hoss put in.

            “I wasn’t asking you,” Ben grunted.  “Nor you, either,” he added when he saw Little Joe start to open his mouth.

            Marta cocked her head first one way and then the other.  “I’m not sure,” she sighed.  “Could we ask Hop Sing?”  She’d noticed that he seemed to have a natural instinct for placing things in a way that made a room feel welcoming and serene, two qualities she hoped would reign at the ceremony tomorrow.

            Ben lifted an eyebrow.  “He might have our heads, but we can try.  Hop Sing!” he called.

            Dark eyes snapping, Hop Sing stormed into the main room.  “What you need now?  Hop Sing much busy!”

            “I’m sorry, Hop Sing,” Marta said, lips trembling.  “It’s my fault.”

            “No, no,” Hop Sing said quickly when he saw her eyes mist.  To his mind, there could be no greater offense than upsetting the bride as she prepared for her special day.  “Hop Sing allays happy help Missy Martee.  What Missy need?”

            “Your advice,” she said.  “We can’t decide if we need more antelope brush or if that would be too much.  You have such good taste, I was sure you’d know.”

            Hop Sing’s chest puffed out with pride.  “Missy show good sense.  Chinese people have much knowing of how place flowers.  Allays remember: little better than much.”  Deftly he began to rearrange the flowers as he moved up the staircase, thinning them out and placing them in more balanced groupings..  Little Joe clambered up after him, tucking the discarded stems into his shirt.  When Hop Sing reached the top of the stairs, he handed a final blossom to his less-than-helpful young assistant and looked down at the bride.  “You like?”

            “Yes . . . yes!”  She clapped her hands in appreciation.  “That’s just what it should look like.”

            The cook walked down to the landing, where he paused to frown at Ben.  “You think you can do same for mantel?”  The skeptical look on his face said that he doubted Ben had it in him.

            “I’m sure we can,” Marta said quickly, “and we’ll try not to bother you again, Hop Sing.”

            As the cook returned to the kitchen, Little Joe jumped with both feet on each step as he came downstairs with his shirt full of flowers.  He had to stop several times to pick up blossoms he’d dropped, so by the time he reached the first floor, his father was already on the ladder, rearranging the flowers on the mantel.  “Where you want these, Pa?” he asked.

            “Oh, put them in that bucket of water with the others,” Ben said absently.

            Little Joe did exactly as told, although with decidedly less care than his father might have hoped.  He dropped the whole load at once, splashing water out of the bucket.  “Uh-oh,” Little Joe said, hiding his hands behind his back and looking up nervously at his father.

            Ben turned and groaned.  “Not . . . like . . . that.”

            “Joe, you is a mess waitin’ to happen every other minute,” Hoss scolded.

            “Get a towel and clean it up, would you, Hoss?” Ben asked.  Lowering his voice, he added, “And don’t tell Hop Sing.”

            Marta tittered as the boys took off after towels.  When they returned, she helped them mop up the floor, and then Ben sent them into the woods for a little more greenery.  “And to keep them out of our hair,” he added to Marta as they raced outside

            “And now, young lady,” Ben charged, “just keep your eyes on this mantel and make sure I’m doing this right.”

            He had, of course, refused to allow her on the ladder and, therefore, had to do the job himself, but he felt a genuine lack of confidence in his decorative instincts.  Marta made suggestions here and there, and they finally decided it looked as well as it could.  “Beautiful, in fact,” the girl declared.  She bent to straighten the flowers that remained in the water bucket.  “I wish now that I hadn’t sent Billy to find more.  This should be enough for my bouquet, don’t you think?”

            Ben started to declare himself incompetent to answer such a question, but stopped when he heard the knock at the door.  “That’s probably him now,” he said.  “If I were you, I wouldn’t mention that the flowers are unneeded.”

            Marta giggled.  “And scare him off the day before the wedding, you mean?”

            “Not a chance,” Ben chuckled.  Both he and Marta knew that if what the young man already knew hadn’t scared him off, nothing was likely to.  He walked over to the door and opened it.  “Come on in, Bil—.”  His eyes widened and his mouth gaped for a moment, but he quickly regained his composure.  “Stefán—an unexpected, but most welcome surprise.  Come in, come in.”  Then he spotted the woman standing behind the man.  “Ludmilla!”

            Marta’s face, which had looked fearful at the announcement of her brother’s name, brightened when she heard her mother’s.  “Mama!” she cried and ran to the door.

            Ludmilla squeezed past her son to engulf her daughter in her arms.  “Ach, mein Mädchen,” she cried.

            “Oh, Mama,” Marta sighed, lying her head on her mother’s shoulder.  “This is more joy than I had hoped for.”

            “Or deserved,” said Stefán severely.  “So now we know, little sister, who took you into the woods—or was it his hotel room?”

            “Stefán!” pleaded his mother.  “Is it not enough that Billy will now do what is right by your sister?”

            Face red with embarrassment, Marta looked to Ben, who spread his hands as if to say that the decision was hers.  Billy had been adamant about claiming responsibility as the natural father of Marta’s child and had personally told that story to Katerina and Enos, and Marta had reluctantly gone along with it.  “I guess you’ve come from Katerina’s house,” was all she said now.

            “Yes, we stopped there,” Stefán said stiffly, “and she has told us all.”  He turned to face Ben.  “I will stay with them, sir, but Mama would find more comfort here, if it does not trouble you too much.”

            “No trouble at all,” Ben assured him, “and there’s plenty of room for you as well, Stefán.”  His mouth twitched.  “I know from experience that there’s not at the Montgomerys’ cabin.”

            Though Ben would not have thought it possible, Stefán’s stance grew more rigid.  “I will not stay under the same roof where soiled linen is welcome.”

            Ben’s jaw hardened.  “Stefán, I understand your anger, but that was uncalled for.”

            “I apologize to you,” the young man said; then his eyes snapped, “but not to her!  I am sure, Mr. Cartwright, that your intentions are honorable, and that is why I can allow Mama to stay here with you, but I will not sleep where that teller of lies is welcome.”  His chin jerked once in Marta’s direction.

            “She’s not—”, but Ben broke off in the sudden awareness that Marta was lying, not in the way Stefán thought, but lying nonetheless.  And since he’d been sworn to silence by Billy Thomas, he was implicated in the lie, as well.  While he was debating whether to break that promise, he heard shouts of greeting outside and realized that not only were his young sons back, but so, evidently, was Billy Thomas.  And with his usual aptness, he was showing up at the worst possible time.

            The door banged open and Hoss came through first.  “Hey, Pa, we’re back,” he cried.

            “Billy, too,” Little Joe announced happily, “and lots of flowers.”

            Face beaming and arms full of wild peach blossoms, Billy sprang through the door.  “If this ain’t enough, girl, I plumb give up,” he called.  Then he caught sight of the visitors.  “Oh, hey, your folks made it, after all.  Glad you could come, Stef—”

            Before Billy could finish his welcome, Stefán stormed across the room and plowed an iron-hard fist into Billy’s jaw.  Blossoms scattered everywhere as Billy fell down, his head striking the doorsill.  Stefán fell prostrate on him, pummeling the other man.  Marta and Ludmilla shouted for him to stop; Little Joe shrieked, while Hoss stood back, stunned at the sight of two good friends battling on their doorstep.

            Ben rushed forward, wading through the women and pushing the boys out of the way.  He yanked Stefán off Billy and wrapped his arms around the other man’s torso.  Stefán was younger, however, and well muscled, so he broke free and lunged for Billy again.  “Not in my house!” Ben bellowed.

            Stefán stopped, breathing hard.  “No,” he gasped.  Then he scowled down at Billy.  “We take this outside.”

            Billy scrambled to his feet.  “Fine by me,” he retorted.

            Ben grabbed each combatant by an arm.  “Not by me!”

            “Not by me, too,” Ludmilla cried.  “Ach, mein Sohn, denkt on di Kinder!”

Stefán twisted free of Ben’s grip.  “I think of the child . . . the child that should not be . . . the child this spoiler has fathered.”

            “Marta, take Hoss and Little Joe upstairs,” Ben ordered sharply.

            “But I should stay,” she started to say, but Ben’s voice interrupted her.

            “Now!” he roared, and the girl at once reached for Little Joe’s hand.

            “What’s he sayin’?” Hoss demanded, looking at Stefán.  He’d known for days that some sort of secret was being whispered in this house, and though he still couldn’t put the pieces together, he was beginning to get an inkling.  To be sent upstairs now, when it might all become clear, seemed intolerable.

            “Go with Marta, boys,” Ben said, softening his voice when he saw his youngest trembling.  “I’ll talk with you later, but now I need to speak to these rowdy young men in private.”

            Marta took Hoss’s hand.  “Come on, sweetie.  I’ll tell you a story.”  Blushing, she looked up at Ben.  “Not that story,” she whispered, and he nodded his understanding.

            With anxious looks over his shoulder, Hoss reluctantly let himself be led off.  Little Joe, on the other hand, was only too glad to escape that room where Pa was yelling at everyone.  A story from Marta sounded much more appealing, so he happily skipped up the stairs at her side.

            Once the trio disappeared, Ben rounded on the men— mere boys in Ben’s sight.  “You . . . will . . . not . . . shout such accusations in front of my innocent children again,” he said tersely, eyes snapping.

            Ludmilla buried her tear-stained and shame-flamed face in her hands, but none of the men appeared to notice.

            “I am sorry,” Stefán replied awkwardly.  “It was wrong to speak of such evil before them.”

            “Evil.”  Ben all but spat the word.

            Stefán’s head rose proudly.  “Yes, evil.  I call it what it is.  To take the honor of a young girl is evil.”  He turned a glowering glare on Billy Thomas.  “And he has done—”

            “Nothing,” Ben snapped.  “He has done nothing . . . at least, nothing you think he’s done.”

            “Uncle Ben . . . no!” Billy protested, for he sensed what was coming.

            “Don’t tell me no, Billy Thomas,” Ben said hotly.  “The time for lies is past.  They’re doing more harm than good.  Can’t you see that?”

            Billy slumped in resignation.  Stefán eyed him warily, while Ludmilla peered hesitantly through her sheltering fingers.

            Seeing her, Ben hurried over to her.  “Ludmilla, my dear friend, please sit down.  I am sorry to upset you in any way, but there is something you and Stefán need to hear.”  He led her to the blue armchair and seated her gently.  He waved toward the settee.  “Stefán . . . Billy . . . opposite ends, please.”

            Still eyeing one another with suspicion, the young men took their designated positions, Stefán on the end nearest his mother.  He reached over to stroke her hand soothingly.

            Ben noted the tender gesture with approval, but continued to look sternly at the two young men facing him as he stood before the fire, arms folded.  “I can only hope that when my boys grow up, none of them is as stubborn as the two of you!”

            Stefán’s features hardened, and he pointed an accusing finger at Billy.  “He has done—”

            “Nothing,” Ben said again.  “He has done nothing . . . except ask your sister to marry him.”

            “He—he is not father?” Ludmilla asked hesitantly.  “But Katerina told us—”

            “What she believed to be true,” Ben said softly.  “Billy told them, as well as his own family, that he had fathered Marta’s child.  It isn’t true.”

            Stefán snorted.  “It is as I have said from the beginning: Marta has lied.”

            “No,” Ben said sharply.

            “No,” Billy jumped in, in defense of his bride.  “The lie’s my doing, not hers; she said all along we should just tell the truth—to the whole world.”

            “Which might be going a bit too far,” Ben grunted.  “The whole world has no right to know . . . but you do.”

            Ludmilla tilted her head and looked at Billy.  “You are not the father?”

            Billy reluctantly shook his head.  “No, ma’am.”

            “And you still will marry my girl?”  Ludmilla’s eyes were dazed with disbelief.

            “Yes, ma’am,” he said earnestly.  “I want to very much.”

            “Why?” Stefán demanded.  “Why do you want soiled linen?”

            Billy reared up like a cock, fists clenched for battle.  “You take that back!”

            “Both of you settle down!” Ben ordered.  “Stefán, I told you once before that that language was uncalled for, and as long as we’re dealing with truth here, it’s not only uncalled for, but untrue.”

            “She is unmarried and with child,” Stefán growled.

            “Yes,” Ben said gravely, “and there was evil done, not by your sister but by the man who forced himself on her.  His soul is soiled, I agree, but hers as pure as the snow on the Sierras.”

            “You believe her story,” Stefán asserted, “but you cannot know it to be true; you were not there.”

            “You do not believe her story,” Ben retorted, “but you cannot know it to be untrue; you were not there.”

            For the first time doubt crossed Stefán’s face, and he sat back in solemn thought.

            “If only she had come to us when it happened,” Ludmilla sighed.

            “Yes,” Ben said sadly.  “It was a mistake; Marta knows that now and is paying dearly for it.  Must she pay forever?”

            “I don’t know,” Stefán said hesitantly.  “You have given me much to think about, and I must have time to search my heart.”  He glanced toward the far end of the settee.  “I see now that I have misjudged you, Billy.  I ask your forgiveness.”

            “You got it,” Billy said, stretching out his hand.  “Always thought highly of you, Stefán, and I’ll be proud to call you brother.”

            The other man shook the extended hand briefly before turning to Ben.  “I ask your forgiveness, too.  I should not have spoken of these things before your children.”

            Ben acknowledged that statement with a nod and then added, “I’ll see to them.  They’ll be all right.”

            Stefán stood.  “I will tell Katerina and Enos the truth of this marriage.  They should know.”

            Billy licked his lips uncomfortably.  “Yeah, all right, but don’t say anything to my folks tomorrow.”

            “Billy,” Ben chided.

            “I know, I know,” he sighed.  “I ought to tell ‘em the truth . . . and I will.  Just let me do it in my own way . . . and when I see fit.  I want to get through tomorrow in peace.  I want that for Marta, more than for me.”

            “All right,” Ben agreed, thinking that Marta, indeed, deserved peace and happiness on her wedding day, though it was likely to come at the expense of that of Clyde and Nelly.

            “Stefán?”

            “I will say nothing,” the other man promised.  He moved to his mother’s side and leaned down to kiss her cheek.  “Rest well, Mama, and I will see you tomorrow.”

            Ben saw him to the door.  “Come early tomorrow,” he urged, and Stefán said that he would.  Ben closed the door and, exhaling slowly, walked back toward the others.  “Well, I’m glad we got that cleared up.”  He arched an eyebrow in Billy’s direction to invite his comment.

            “Yeah, I guess I am, too,” Billy admitted.  “Marta didn’t like lyin’ to you, ma’am,” he told Ludmilla.  “It was all my doin’, like I said.”

            Ludmilla was all smiles.  “You can do no wrong in my eyes, mein Sohn.  For what you do for mein Mädchen, I thank you forever.”

            Billy’s face flushed red.  “Aw, it weren’t nothin’; I’m gettin’ myself a mighty fine girl, ma’am.”

            Ludmilla wagged a finger at him.  “Not ma’am now . . . Mama.”

            Billy grinned then.  “Mama.”

            Hearing that the shouting had stopped, Hop Sing came in from the kitchen.  He took one look at the flowers strewn over his carefully polished floor and began crying out in words no one understood, but whose meaning no one doubted.

            “We’ll clean it up,” Ben promised.  “Now, if you could bring some coffee for our guest, I would appreciate it.”

            “That why I come in,” Hop Sing grunted, “but not expect find big mess.”

            “Billy, get to work,” Ben growled out the corner of his mouth.

            “I’m gettin’ ‘em, Hop Sing, don’t you fret,” Billy said, jumping up and picking up flowers as fast as he could.  He looked up at Ben.  “Then you reckon I could see Marta?”

            “I’ll send her down,” Ben said.  He smiled at Ludmilla.  “I’m sorry to leave you so soon after you’ve come, but I need to talk to my sons.  We’ll have a chance to visit at supper, all right?”

            Ludmilla glanced over at Billy and smiled.  “I have good company.”  She looked back to Ben and said softly, “Gott sei mit ihnen, my friend.”

            Mounting the stairs, Ben also implored God to be with him, to give him, once again, the wisdom he did not possess, to speak the right words to his boys.  He found them in Marta’s room, sitting enthralled at the foot of her bed, while she spun a tale of a boy and girl and a house made of gingerbread.  “You can go downstairs now, dear,” Ben told her.

            “Finish the story first,” Little Joe demanded.

            “No, son, Marta needs to go to her mother; she’ll finish the story another time.”  Seeing Marta hesitate, he added, “It’s all right.  I need to explain some things to my sons.”

            “I’m sorry,” she whispered, knowing the conversation might be difficult and, but for her, unnecessary.

            Ben stroked her smooth cheek.  “Not your fault, dear.  Go on now.  Billy’s anxious to see you.”

            Her eyes brightened at the mention of that name, and she hurried from the room.

            “I wanted to hear that story,” Little Joe pouted.

            “You will . . . for bedtime, if you’re a good boy,” his father said, picking his youngest up and setting him on his knee.  “You were upset, seeing Billy and Stefán fight, weren’t you?”

            The child’s face clouded.  “I didn’t like you yelling.”

            Ben cuddled him close.  “I’m sorry for yelling; I didn’t mean to frighten you.”  Just those two big scalawags, he thought.  “Is there anything you want to know about what happened?”

            Little Joe’s nose crinkled.  “What they fightin’ ‘bout?”

            “Stefán thought that Billy had done a bad thing,” Ben explained as simply as he could.

            “Billy wouldn’t do nothin’ bad,” Little Joe declared loyally, for Billy Thomas was one of his favorite people.

            Ben had his doubts about the complete accuracy of that statement, but in this case, his young son was right and he quickly agreed.  “Of course not.  Stefán had him mixed up with someone else, and that’s why he hit Billy.  I straightened him out, and they’re not fighting anymore.”

            “That’s good,” Little Joe said, his face clearing.  “I like ‘em both.”

            “So do I.”  Ben tousled the boy’s curls and set him down.  “Billy’s still downstairs.  Why don’t you run down and see if he or Marta needs your help?”  The odds that they did were, of course, nonexistent, but he wanted his youngest out of the room before this conversation went further.

            “Okay!”  Little Joe trotted out the door.

            Nibbling his lower lip, Hoss looked up at his father.  “That ain’t all there is to it,” he said, not wanting Pa to think he was some baby like Little Joe, who could be as easily put off.

            Ben sighed.  “No, that’s not all there is to it.  Hoss, I wish you hadn’t seen that fracas, but I don’t want you imagining things worse than they are, so you ask me anything you want, and I’ll try to answer.”

            “Stefán said somethin’ about a child that shouldn’t be,” Hoss said, “and he said Billy was the father.”

            “Stefán was wrong about that,” Ben said.  “Son, this is a big secret: you can’t tell anyone.  Now, I know you’re a big enough boy to understand that.”

            Hoss’s chest swelled.  “You bet I am.”

            Ben pulled him close to his side.  “Hoss, Marta is going to have a baby.”

            A wide grin split Hoss’s face.  “Hey, that’s great!”

            Ben squeezed him tighter.  “Well . . . it’s not that simple, son.  You see, if people knew that Marta was with child before her marriage . . . well, they’d think she’d done something wrong.”  He quickly added, “And she didn’t.  She did nothing wrong; it’s important you understand that.”

            “I know that,” Hoss said, as if Pa should have known he wouldn’t believe any such nonsense about his friend.

            “But other people don’t know her as well as you do,” Ben explained, “so they might think she did.  That’s why we have to keep the baby a secret.”

            “Okay,” Hoss said slowly.  “That why the child shouldn’t be . . . ‘cause they ain’t married yet?”

            “That’s right,” Ben said.  “It’s just earlier than it should be, son.”

            Hoss looked pensive and finally said, “Little Joe was born early.  That what you mean?”

            Ben gasped and then uttered a short laugh.  “Well, not exactly, but Marta’s baby will be born sooner than most folks expect, like your brother was.”

            Hoss’s lips began to tremble.  “Aunt Nelly said he might die from comin’ early.”

            Ben took the boy’s cheeks between his hands.  “She told you that?  Oh, Hoss, I never knew.”  He swallowed the lump in his throat.  “That’s true.  Little Joe was premature—that’s one kind of coming early—and he was in some danger.  Marta’s baby isn’t premature, though; it’s coming early for another reason, and so there shouldn’t be any risk at all.”  Please, please don’t let him ask what that reason is, Ben’s heart implored.

            Hoss breathed a sigh of relief.  “That’s good, then.”  He frowned.  “Billy ain’t the father?”

            “He will be . . . when the baby comes.”  Ben licked his lips.  “Uh—Stefán thought Billy was making the baby come early and—uh—that’s what made him mad.”

            Hoss nodded solemnly.  “I bet he thought it was that other kind of early . . . like Little Joe . . . and he was scared for Marta.”

Close enough, Ben decided with relief.  He certainly didn’t want to explain rape to his eleven-year-old son, if it could possibly be avoided.  “We don’t want anyone else being scared,” he said, “so you can’t even tell Uncle Clyde or Aunt Nelly.  Billy will do that himself, when the time is right.”

            “When they won’t be scared,” Hoss concluded.  “Fair enough.”

            “And whatever you do,” Ben said in a conspiratorial whisper, “don’t tell your little brother.  He can’t keep a secret for anything!”

            “Pa,” Hoss reproved with a patient shake of his head, “I got me some sense.”

* * * * *

            The air was crisp and cold on Sunday, but the sky was relatively clear, with only a few dusky gray clouds drifting overhead.  The wedding had been set for three o’clock that afternoon, to accommodate those who wished to attend church, and, of course, the reverend wasn’t available until afternoon, anyway.  Ben sent Hoss and Little Joe off to morning worship with Hank Carlton, mostly to get them out from underfoot.  He had other reasons, too, however, and hoped Stefán would come early, as requested.  There was still something he needed to discuss with that young man.  It would have been better to have settled everything yesterday, of course, but he hadn’t wanted to lay more on those already overburdened shoulders—shoulders that had carried too heavy a load from a very early age and obviously still did.  Stefán had said he needed time to think, and that had seemed reasonable to Ben.  In fact, it had given him time to do some thinking of his own and come to some conclusions.

            The boy’s reaction from the first had bothered Ben.  Why was Stefán so willing to believe the worst of his little sister?  To his knowledge, the girl had always been forthright and honest, and surely Stefán knew that better than he.  Ben wondered if it wasn’t the responsibility he’d carried since his father died along the trail that had hardened him.  He’d accepted the load willingly, but how heavily it must have weighed on the young man to find himself suddenly charged with providing for three women and for helping his mother to rear two fatherless young girls.  Having seen Adam bear a similar burden after Marie’s death, Ben knew how taxing it could be, how it could strain a young man almost to the breaking point; and Stefán had carried that burden for—what was it?—a dozen years now.

            Did Marta’s situation make him feel that he had failed to bring her up properly?  Stefán was a young man who took his responsibilities seriously, who had possibly put his own dreams of marriage and family aside for the sake of his mother and sisters.  Was he now so harsh and bitter because, in the light of this family crisis, the sacrifice seemed meaningless?  Ben couldn’t, with certainty, answer those questions, but as he had pondered them late into the night, he found himself thinking that they might carry more than a grain of truth.

            The hustle and bustle of that morning, however, left little time for further contemplation.  There were baths to be drawn for both Ludmilla and Marta, last minute touches he and Hop Sing needed to give the house, moving furniture to accommodate the ceremony and double-checking that everything was in order for the wedding itself and the wedding feast afterwards.  Given the short notice, Hop Sing had outdone himself with a three-course dinner.  Oyster stew would open the meal, to be followed by New England favorites like roast beef and chicken and accompanying vegetables and topped off with Charlotte Russe, an elegant dessert the Cantonese cook had picked up from Marie.  For those who arrived early, there would be finger sandwiches, pickled eggs and peaches, olives and cheeses, bowls of walnuts and a variety of cookies, including an almond one that Hop Sing insisted would bring good luck to the new couple.

            It was nearly noon when George and Laura Dettenrieder arrived, bringing the two-tiered wedding cake.  Though the guest list had been purposely kept short, they were, of course, invited to stay and gladly accepted.  They didn’t know Marta, but were well acquainted with the Thomases, and now that they lived in Dayton, rarely saw old friends like them or Ben, either.  “Glad you asked me to bake the cake,” Laura said after she’d supervised its placement on the reception table.  “I’ve been too long in coming to see you, Ben.  You getting along since Marie passed?”

            “We’re managing,” Ben said quietly.  Much as he appreciated her concern, today was not a day to dwell on the sorrow of a love lost, but on the joy of one just beginning.

            She seemed to understand and excused herself into the kitchen to see if Hop Sing needed any help.

            “You’re a guest today,” Ben protested, but she just laughed and waved his objections away as she kept moving through the dining room.  Ben shrugged and, finding himself finally with nothing to do, he showed George to a seat and the two men were soon wrapped up in a discussion of news local and distant, everything from the new mint to be built at Carson City and the government’s first issuance of paper money, both having been announced earlier that month, to the battle of the ironclads, Monitor and Merrimac, in the war back East.

            The boys came back about half an hour later, Little Joe tearing off his tie as he scampered in.

            “No, no, Joseph,” Ben scolded.  “You have to stay dressed today, for the wedding, remember?”

            “All day?” Little Joe whined.

            “Yes, all day.”  Ben slowly drew out each word.  He started to cinch the tie around the boy’s neck again and then laughed at the futility.  “Never mind,” he said as he dropped it into his pocket, instead.  “We’ll wait until closer to the ceremony to make you miserable again.”

            “Hey, Mr. Dettenrieder,” Hoss said with a big grin.  “Jimmy come with you?”

            “Out in the kitchen with his ma, son,” George replied.

            “Come on, Joe,” Hoss called as he headed that direction.  It had been far too long, in his opinion, since he’d seen his old friend.

            “Get something to eat while you’re there,” Ben called.  Then he shook his head at his own foolishness.  When had he ever had to remind Hoss to eat?

            Marta was an entirely different matter, but with Ludmilla’s help he did persuade her to take a little nourishment.  The other guests who began to trickle in had either eaten already or willingly nibbled at the sandwiches and other tidbits as Hop Sing circled the room, tray in hand.

            The Montgomery party arrived about one o’clock, and Katerina immediately went upstairs, where Ludmilla and Marta were beginning to arrange their hair and lay out their dresses.  After greeting George Dettenrieder, Enos sat on the settee; Stefán started to join him, but Ben asked if he could speak to him privately.  “Why don’t we walk outside, get some fresh air?” Ben suggested.

            In deference to his host, Stefán agreed, and the two men walked outside together.  Ben led the way toward the meadow.  Bending over to pluck a blade of new spring grass, he rubbed it between his fingers, and his eyes were focused on it as he asked, “Have you had time to think over what we were discussing yesterday, Stefán?”

            “You mean whether I can believe Marta?” the young man asked.

            “Yes.”

            “I don’t know,” Stefán said.  He looked up at Ben, who instinctively raised his own gaze to meet that of the other man.  “I can never know,” he murmured.

            “Can’t you?” Ben asked softly.  “You’ve grown up with her, Stefán.  Would you have ever thought her capable of such behavior or of lying about it?”

            For a moment Stefán stiffened; then his shoulders slumped.  “No, never before.  I—I tried to teach her what was right.”

            Ben placed a hand on the other man’s shoulder.  “You didn’t fail, Stefán.”

            Stefán flinched away.  “That is worse!” he cried.  “If it happened as she said, then—then . . .”

            In that moment Ben realized that he had only half guessed the source of Stefán’s torment.  “You want it to be true, don’t you?” he suggested.  “You want her to have been dissolute, because as bad as that would be, it’s far worse to believe that she was violently attacked and you failed to protect her.”

            A guttural groan of anguish ripped from Stefán throat.  “Gott forgive me if that is true!” he cried.

            Ben moved closer and again gripped the young man’s shoulder, more tightly this time.  “Stefán, this was not your fault.  You have stood in the place of a father to Marta all these years, but you cannot stand in the place of God.  You are not all-knowing and all-powerful, as He is; there was no way for you to foresee her danger that night, no way to prevent it without foreseeing it.”

            “I don’t know,” Stefán said, shaking his head slowly.  “I don’t want what you say to be true, but I think . . . maybe . . . it could be.  I cannot decide.”

            “Listen to your heart,” Ben advised, giving the shoulder one final squeeze before releasing it.  “If you set aside your fears and just listen to that, you’ll find the truth.”  He took a deep breath.  “There is one other thing I need to ask you.”

            Stefán looked up warily.  “If it is as hard as this, I don’t know.”

            “It shouldn’t be,” Ben said.  He paused and then asked, “Will you give the bride away?”

            Stefán looked puzzled.  “But Katerina said that you would do that.  That is what you and Marta planned.”

            Ben shook his head.  “Only because we feared that you would not be able—or willing—to do it yourself.”

            “I . . . don’t know,” Stefán replied, looking at the ground.

            “It should be you,” Ben urged.  “What will people think if you don’t?  Won’t they suspect that something is amiss, and once that sort of gossip starts, won’t it tear holes in the shelter that Billy has offered her?”

            “Yes,” Stefán admitted breathlessly.

            “Stefán,” Ben said and waited for the young man to meet his probing eyes.  “Are you so sure of Marta’s guilt that you’re willing to put her to public shame?”

            They stared into each other’s eyes for a long moment, and it was Stefán who first broke away.  “No,” he whispered.  “No . . . I . . . I am not sure at all, and I have been wrong to punish where there was no proof of wrong.”

            “Tell her,” Ben urged.  “Undo the damage by taking her on your arm to meet her new husband.”

            Stefán nodded decisively and turned at once back toward the house.  As he walked inside, George and Enos turned, but he ignored them and moved directly up the stairs.  At the top, however, he stopped, for he had no idea in which room to look for his sister.  Ben, who had followed him in, said, “Down the hall, turn right and straight to the back of the house, son.”

            Stefán nodded his appreciation of the directions and proceeded down the hall.  He rapped on the closed door to the bedroom, and his mother came to answer his knock.  She paled when she saw him standing there, perhaps in fear that he would spoil this day for her daughter with more harsh words.  However, when he asked if he could come in, she naturally stepped aside and admitted him.  Her son was now head of the family, and from girlhood she had been taught to respect that position.

            He entered and saw Marta standing at the foot of the bed, dressed in a blue gown that was simply styled, but matched the shade of her eyes and brought out the bloom in her cheeks.  “You look beautiful, little sister,” he said softly.  “A beautiful bride.”

            Her mouth, tense before, curved upward.  “Thank you, Stefán.”

            He gazed at the floor for a moment; then he raised his head and looked forthrightly into her face.  “I will be proud to give you away, if you wish it.”

            Ludmilla cried out for joy, for, to her, the day would now be perfect.

            Tears shimmered in Marta’s eyes.  “Yes,” she murmured.  “I wouldn’t let myself hope for it, knowing what you think of me, but it is what I have wanted most—my family with me and you at my side.  Oh, yes, Stefán.  Thank you!”

            Man that he was, Stefán’s lips began to quiver.  “I—I think I may have wronged you, little sister.”

            She swayed on her heels and might have fallen had she not grasped the bed post with one hand.  “You—you believe me?” she whispered.

            He hesitated only a moment.  “Yes,” he said.  “Ben has made me see that I have no reason to doubt you, except my own guilt.  I—I am only sorry that I could not have been there for you that night.”

            “Oh, Stefán,” she cried softly, “I never blamed you for that.”  Her eyes fell to her abdomen.  “Anymore than I blame this child inside me for how it got there.”

            “Ach, meine Kinder,” Ludmilla cried, stretching an arm toward each of them.  “You make me proud—and so happy.”

            They both came into her embrace, and with tears in her eyes, Katerina hurried forward to join them.  For the first time since Stefán had dropped Marta off at her cabin, she knew, without doubt, that her sister had been telling the truth all along, and she wept with her sister over the violent attack she had suffered and the bitter disbelief of her own family, which had hurt far more.  But those tears, hers and those of the others, were mingled with tears of joy at a family reunited.

            While the Zuebners celebrated the restoration of their family, Ben struggled to deal with a fractured one downstairs—or, rather, to keep himself from dealing with it, since he’d promised not to.  The Thomases had finally arrived, so late that he had, for a few disturbing minutes, feared they weren’t coming at all.  And if one judged by the expressions on their faces—Clyde’s and Nelly’s, that is—their hearts had remained at home in Carson City.  It appeared to be all Nelly could do to respond politely to the congratulations of friends, such as Dr. Martin and Sally and the Dettenrieders, who were among the few invited to the ceremony.  Billy was so excited and filled with nervous energy, however, that no one seemed to notice his parents’ lethargic attitudes toward what should have been a joyful occasion.

            “What you think of them making Warren Wasson a U.S. Marshal?” Clyde asked.

            “What?”  Ben gathered his distracted thoughts.  “Oh . . . I’m sure he’ll do well.  I’d hate to lose him as Indian Agent, though, so I only hope that he can handle both jobs.”

            “Why not apply for the vacancy yourself, Ben?” Dr. Martin suggested.  “You’ve certainly had the training for it.”  He laughed as he nodded toward Little Joe, who had just come running in from the kitchen and when he saw nothing but grownup chatter going on, just as promptly run back out.

            Ben smiled.  “One wild Indian does not a tribe make.”

            “That one does,” Clyde cackled.  “Can’t say as I’ve noticed you havin’ much success keepin’ him on the reservation, though.”

            Ben groaned at the bad joke, but at that point he was grateful for anything to lighten the mood in the room.

            The Reverend W. S. Blakely, who had succeeded Jesse Bennett, at the church in Washoe City, was the last to arrive, and shortly thereafter the ceremony began.  Billy’s nervous energy had by this time turned into absolute shakiness, and his freckles flamed in his overheated face as the fiddle player struck up a wedding march.

            All eyes turned to the staircase.  Little Inger appeared first, scattering peach blossom petals on the stairs, and Katerina, happily serving as matron of honor now that Stefán had sanctioned the wedding, followed her. Then everyone’s gaze riveted on the blushing bride as she descended on the arm of her brother.  Hers, however, were fixed only on that freckled face waiting to receive her, and they shone with the love she’d felt for him since childhood and gratitude for what he was doing for her now, in her hour of crisis.

            Ben felt his eyes misting.  Marta was not his daughter, but he felt almost a father’s fondness for her, especially since, in that hour of crisis, she had turned to him.  Some of the emotion may have been due, as well, to seeing her float down those stairs in his wife’s dress.  Marta had picked one of Marie’s simpler gowns, primarily because she wasn’t comfortable wearing those with a lower neckline, and she had made some alterations, but Ben could still picture Marie in that dress, and the memories were both endearing and excruciating.  Today was a day for joy, however, and he willingly pushed aside the pain and smiled with pride and pleasure as the young couple shyly exchanged their vows.

            When the two were proclaimed man and wife and Billy had planted an exuberant kiss on his bride, a wild whoop rang out, and Ben was somewhat chagrined to discover that it had come from his own son.  However, when Billy turned around and with a broad grin echoed Hoss’s outburst, the room erupted with laughter, and everyone rose to surround the newlyweds and offer their congratulations.  Ben invited all the guests to stay for the wedding feast, which would be served shortly, and everyone accepted.  Home was a distant drive for most of them, and even those who lived close at hand weren’t about to turn down the opportunity to enjoy a meal prepared by Hop Sing.

            Immediately after the feast Billy and Marta said their farewells and, with shouts of goodwill called after them, drove off for their overnight stay in Genoa.  It wasn’t much of a honeymoon, being both brief and close to their new home in Carson City, but Billy had insisted on that one special night before carrying his bride over the threshold of their new, rented home.

            The other guests lingered long into the afternoon.  The Dettenrieders, Martins and Thomases were invited to spend the night, but only the Dettenrieders accepted.  Doctor Martin had patients scheduled to be seen in his office the next morning, and Clyde insisted that he had to work, too.  Ben knew an excuse when he heard one, but knowing what a strain the afternoon had been on them, he didn’t press.  When he walked them out to their wagon, he reminded them of the planned outing on Saturday.  As a sort of wedding present, although both Billy and Marta insisted that he’d done too much already, he had offered to take them, as well as all their family members, to see Dan DeQuille’s second play.

            “Appreciate the invite,” Nelly said, “but we won’t be able to make it.”

            “Now, why not?” Ben asked, perturbed, for he thought he knew the reason.

            Her eyes snapped.  “I may need to break bread with that girl from time to time, for decency’s sake, but it gives me no pleasure to be in her company any more than I got to.”

            “Don’t judge her too harshly,” Ben urged.  He wanted to say more and could have cheerfully throttled young Billy for forcing a gag into his mouth, but he kept his promise.

            “See how you feel when some hussy traps one of your boys into this kind of marriage,” she snorted.

            “I understand,” Ben said, and if he hadn’t before, her example made the situation more personal, “but ‘judge not, that ye be not judged,’ the Scripture says.”

            “Turnin’ preacher now, are you?” Clyde grunted.

            “No, of course not,” Ben said quickly.  “Just a reminder.  They’ll need your support, my friends, as all young couples do . . . and their child will be your first grandchild. Surely, you’ll love it.”  There was a note of hesitance in his voice that almost turned the statement into a question.

            Nelly paled visibly.  “I’ll try, of course,” she said tautly.  “I wouldn’t want any child to suffer for the sins of its parents, but I doubt I’ll ever be able to look at it without remembering all the pain, Ben.”

            “Oh, Nelly,” Ben sighed.  “I know all about that sort of pain, and believe me, it only leads to more.  That’s how I felt about Little Joe after his mother’s death; I just couldn’t bear to look at him, with him reminding me so much of Marie . . . until the night I almost lost him.  Don’t make the mistake I did.  It nearly cost me what I cherish most.  Love your grandchild for himself or herself, and don’t attach other memories to him or her.”

            “Good words, Ben,” Clyde said, “and I reckon we’ll make a spot in our hearts for the little tyke.  The girl—that’s harder.”

            “Nigh impossible,” Nelly said, “after her leading my boy astray.”

            Ben’s eyebrows rose.  For her, as a woman, to automatically assume the woman in the situation was at fault, surprised him.  Maybe that’s the way it was with mothers, though . . . or fathers.  Maybe he’d be just as prone to assuming his boys could do no wrong in a similar case.  Thank God, he was years away from having to consider such questions!  Except for Adam, of course, who was barely younger than Billy.  Goodness only knew what his oldest was getting up to, far from the influence of a father’s oversight.  Ben shook that unwelcome idea from his head and said, “You think about it.  I guess I’d better get back inside or George and Laura will wonder what’s become of me.  Remember: if you change your mind, the invitation for Saturday stands.”

            “Ain’t likely, but thanks again for the invite,” Clyde said, clucking to the horses.  As Ben watched them drive away, he thought, Billy Thomas, you’d better get them told—and pronto!

* * * * *

            They made a large party as they filed into Barnum’s Restaurant: Billy and Marta Thomas, Enos and Katerina Montgomery, Ludmilla Zuebner and Ben and Hoss Cartwright.  Stefán had returned home the day after the wedding, while Ludmilla planned to stay for an extended visit.  Little Joe had been left at home with Hop Sing, as Ben felt that he was still too young for an evening at the theater, but he didn’t want to deprive Hoss of the sort of outing he always enjoyed, even if he was the only youngster in the group.

            Ben could scarcely keep from laughing as he saw Ludmilla scrutinizing the menu as if it were a student’s textbook.  “So, how’s it stack up?” he asked, a saucy twinkle in his eye.

            Caught in the act, she blushed.  “Some things, the same, but I get some ideas, maybe, ja?”

            “That’s always good,” he said with a smile.  “Goodness knows you deserve a vacation, Ludmilla, and I know Kat’s thrilled that you’ll be here for the birth of her baby, but aren’t you afraid your customers will all have been lured away by the time you get back home?”

            Ludmilla chortled deep in her throat.  “No.  I think, maybe, they miss me so much I have even more business then.”

            Ben laughed.  “Ah, yes.  Absence makes the heart grow fonder . . . and I’m sure that applies to stomachs, as well.”

            Everyone at the table laughed at the joke, Hoss loudest of all.  “I know I sure been missin’ Mama Zuebner’s stew and strudel,” he said in the broadest hint Ben was sure he’d ever heard.

            “I make for you,” Ludmilla promised.  She had consented to stay on at the Ponderosa until closer to the baby’s scheduled arrival.  Neither she nor Ben feared the wagging tongues of gossips.  They were mature, both widowed, and neither saw in the other anything more than a good friend.

            After dinner they walked down to the theater.  Inside, Ben gestured for the others to precede him into the row.  He wanted to seat Hoss on the aisle, lest he be caught behind someone tall enough to block his view.  As Billy led Marta in first, he paused and thanked Ben once again for the fine evening.

            “My pleasure,” Ben assured him.  “I just wish your parents had come.”  He’d ascertained at dinner that Billy still hadn’t admitted his falsehood to them, and while that irritated him, he couldn’t really blame the young man for avoiding a confrontation during his first week of marriage.  Goodness knows, there were enough adjustments to be made inside their new home without adding fresh ones outside it, but the telling needed to be done, and he’d told Billy so.  Still, he wasn’t sure whether knowing the truth would have made Clyde and Nelly more willing to come tonight or more likely to stay away.

            Enos settled in on Ben’s right.  “Sure appreciate the invite, boss.  That Dan DeQuille always makes me laugh with his quaints, so I’m expectin’ this play he wrote to be a hoot.”

            “I trust that it will be,” Ben said.  He would have personally preferred something of better quality than “The Wheelers in Washoe! Or Taking in a Stranger from the Bay” was likely to be, but everyone else in the party would probably like DeQuille’s comedy better.

            “You been readin’ the stuff that new feller, Josh, sends in to the Enterprise?” Enos asked.

            “I’ve seen it,” Ben replied.  “His pieces are amusing, but DeQuille’s quaints are better, to my mind.”

            “Reckon so,” Enos admitted, “but anything that makes me laugh is right up my alley.”

            Remembering the crisis that Enos and his family had just come through, Ben suddenly sensed that “The Wheelers in Washoe!” was exactly what the doctor ordered.  The Good Book had said it best: “A merry heart doeth good, like a medicine.”

* * * * *

Ben stifled a yawn and tried to concentrate on the Reverend Blakely’s sermon.  Left to himself, he’d have probably slept in this morning after their late night at the theater and the long drive home from Virginia City.  Ludmilla, however, had professed a strong desire to be in church this morning, “to say dank zu Gott” for the provision He’d made for Marta’s happiness and for the reuniting of her family.  He’d left Hoss at home asleep, but had brought Little Joe with them to church.  After all, that youngster had had a full night’s rest, and to Ben’s amusement, he seemed delighted to be having a special outing with Ludmilla and his pa that Hoss wasn’t party to.  Ben pursed his lips to keep from chuckling right in church.  Maybe, to Little Joe, a stage play or a Sunday sermon were pretty much alike, nothing more than grownups putting on a show for his entertainment.

            As soon as the final amen was said, however, Little Joe bounced out of his seat and spread his energy throughout the congregation, as he greeted everyone he knew, old and young.  Ben let him go, knowing the boy couldn’t come to harm in the churchyard . . . or in the whole of Washoe City, for that matter.  Besides, he was busy introducing his friend from California.

            One fellow worshiper was especially interested in the matronly lady on Ben Cartwright’s arm.  She snared Little Joe as he trotted past her and demanded, “Who’s that with your Pa, child?”

            Little Joe’s head spun around to look for his pa.  Then he grinned and said, “Oh, that’s Mama Zuebner.  She’s stayin’ with us ‘til the baby comes.”

            Elvira Hunter gasped.  The woman was staying right in the house at the Ponderosa?  And already had the child calling her mama?  And a baby on the way?  Maybe she’d be wise to rethink her chances of changing her name to Mrs. Ben Cartwright.

~ ~ Notes ~ ~

            Congress passed a bill establishing a branch mint at Carson City on March 3, 1862.

            On March 6, 1862, Warren Wasson was appointed by Abraham Lincoln as U. S. Marshall of Nevada Territory.  Subsequent events indicate that he may have retained his old position as Indian Agent, as well.

            The Federal Government issued the first paper money, in denominations of 5, 10, 20, 50, 100, 500 and 1,000 dollars, on March 10, 1862, just one day following the historic battle of the ironclads, Monitor and Merrimac.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Birth, Blizzard, Business and Battle

            As Ben came out of the barn one April morning after tending the stock, he pulled up the collar of his coat against the frosty air.  His nostrils curled.  The air not only felt chillier than it had in weeks, but it smelled odd.  Not quite like the sea had before a squall, but somehow he sensed a kinship between the two scents.  He glanced up and the disturbed feeling within him grew.  The sky didn’t look right; the whole atmosphere didn’t feel right.  There was a stillness that felt like hovering doom, a feeling he recognized from long ago.  He still wasn’t as confident at reading the weather on land as he had been back in his sailing days, but he trusted his instincts.  Hurrying into the house, he spotted Hoss at the breakfast table.

            “I’ll get right to the chores, soon as I finish eatin’, Pa,” Hoss said between bites of sausage and eggs.

            Ben ruffled the boy’s hair as he passed behind him and took his own seat.  “No hurry,” he said.

            “Yeah, Pa, there is,” Hoss insisted, “if I’m gonna get ‘em done before school.”

            Ben shook his head.  “No school for you today.”

            Hoss looked stunned, but he couldn’t hold back his grin.  “Yeah?”

            “No need to look that pleased,” Ben chuckled.  “I’ll set you some lessons to do here, but I don’t want you riding into town today.  That’s a storm sky out there, if ever I saw one.”

            “Rain?” Hoss asked.

            Ben shook his head.  “Cold as it is, it’s likely to be snow.”

            “Snow!”  Hoss almost scoffed.  “Pa, it’s April.”

            “Yeah, well, it’s happened before,” Ben reminded him, “and no telling how much we’ll get, so I’m keeping you home.”

            “Hurray!” Hoss shouted.

            “Hurray!” came an echoing cry from the stair landing, followed by jumping thumps on each step down to the ground floor.

            “Another country heard from,” Ben muttered.  Oh, well, he wouldn’t begrudge his boys their pleasure in extra time together.  It was good for brothers to share days like this, and if there really were going to be a heavy snowstorm, he could use Hoss’s help in corralling his youngest.

            Ludmilla Zuebner bustled out of the kitchen, bearing another plate of fluffy biscuits.  “I thought I heard more hungry stomachs call.”

            Ben grinned.  What she’d heard wasn’t really the rumble of hungry stomachs, certainly not whatever faint murmurs ever issued from Little Joe’s pint-sized one, but he welcomed the hot bread, the perfect compliment to the plate of food Hop Sing slid before him.

            “Little boy want egg or flapjack?” Hop Sing asked the youngest Cartwright.

            “Egg—like them!” Little Joe insisted, pointing at his father and brother.

            Hop Sing nodded in approval and scurried back to the kitchen.

            “He didn’t offer me a choice,” Hoss pouted.

            Ben cut him a significant side glance.  “Because he knew you’d pick both!”

            “Well, yeah,” Hoss said, wondering why both his father and Mama Zuebner thought that was so funny.

* * * * *

            Ben shook his head as he walked into the kitchen for a cup of coffee about mid-morning.  “Ludmilla, will you please try to remember that you’re our guest?  You don’t have to spend the whole day in the kitchen.”

            “Missy Marty mama help Hop Sing make . . . what you call?”  Hop Sing turned inquisitive eyes toward Ludmilla.

            “Strudel,” she said.

            Hop Sing sighed at the hopelessness of ever saying the German word the way she did.  “Apple cake,” he said.  “Velly good apple cake.”

            “Pastry,” Ben amended.  “Very good apple pastry.”

            Hop Sing’s brow furrowed again.  Another “r” sound.  Too hard, even if Mr. Ben did say it softer than Missy Lu . . . Lu . . . another name hard to say.  “Apple cake,” he insisted stubbornly.

            “All right,” Ben capitulated.  It never paid to argue with Hop Sing in his own kitchen, and if the little Chinaman could learn Ludmilla’s baking techniques, that boded well for future meals.  Yes, this was a good time to keep his mouth shut.

            He wandered over to the kitchen window and peered out.  The snow had started about an hour ago and was falling pretty briskly.  As he peered past the falling flakes, he saw a rider round the corner of the barn.  “It’s Enos,” he said and hurried into the other room to get his coat.  Enos had been told to stay close to home in these final days before his baby’s due date, particularly if the weather turned bad.  Katerina was, in the Biblical term, “great with child,” and might need to send for help at any moment.  The fact that Enos had left her and come out in this storm could mean only one thing, in Ben’s mind, and obviously in Ludmilla’s, too, for she threw her apron aside and followed him right to the front door.

            Enos sprang from his horse and rushed toward Ben.  “It’s comin’!” he yelled.  “Kat needs her mama—now!”

            “Easy, son, easy,” Ben said, resting calming hands on the young man’s shoulders.

            “You don’t understand, Mr. Ben,” Enos said.  “It’s snowin’!”

            “I’d noticed,” Ben said dryly.

            “That means I can’t get the doc here,” Enos announced.  “He could be trapped here for days!”

            “I know, I know,” Ben said.  “Relax, son; women have been having babies without doctors’ help for centuries.”

            “But I gotta have—"

            “Ludmilla,” Ben finished for him.  “You need Ludmilla.  Of course.”  He turned to his guest and suggested that she get her things together.

            “Ja, ja,” she babbled.  “Ach, I knew I should go before.”

            Ben followed, trying to reassure her that she would get to her daughter in plenty of time.

            Enos grabbed his arm, jerking him back outside. “Mr. Ben, Mr. Ben, can I borrow your buckboard?” he asked urgently.

            “No, son,” Ben said, but before he could explain Enos seized him by both arms and held them in an unyielding vise.

            “But I need it—to get Mama home.  You gotta loan it to me, Mr. Ben; you just gotta!” the panic-stricken father-to-be jabbered.

            “Enos!  Get hold of yourself,” Ben ordered, and Enos instinctively let go and backed off.  This was, after all, his boss.  “Now, take a deep breath,” Ben told him, and again Enos instinctively obeyed.  “That’s better,” Ben said, keeping his own voice calm and matter-of-fact.  “Now, you get on that horse, son, and get back to Kat.  I’ll bring Ludmilla.”

            “Don’t want to put you out,” Enos mumbled.

            “Enos, son, your wife needs you, and you can make better time on a horse than in a buckboard.”  Ben spun him around and pointed him toward his mount.  “Now, get home, boy, and I’ll follow as soon as Ludmilla is ready.”

            “Tell her to get a move on,” Enos said as he swung into the saddle.  “I got no notion what to do if he . . . she . . . it . . . comes before she does.”

            “You can’t leave Kat to face that alone,” Ben declared, pointing toward the road.  “Now, ride!”

            Enos wheeled the horse and tore out of the yard.

            “And ride careful!” Ben hollered after him, though he doubted that the words would carry to his jittery young foreman, hurtling pell-mell down the road.  “Young fool,” he grunted as he turned back toward the house.  Then he grinned.  He’d scarcely been less edgy at the birth of his own firstborn, and he’d been living in town then, with a doctor only minutes away.  His eyes saddened for a moment.  Liz had had a doctor’s attention, but it hadn’t been enough.  The best medicine had to offer hadn’t been enough to keep her at his side, and suddenly the pain was as fresh as yesterday.  No, he wouldn’t fault Enos for his fears; sometimes they were all too well founded.

            He entered to a cacophony of Cantonese.  Clinching his fists at his sides, he roared, “What’s your problem?”  As the ranting Hop Sing turned on him, Ben was almost certain he saw smoke blasting from each nostril.  “In English!” he snapped.

            “How Hop Sing cook apple cake if Missy go?” the cook demanded.  “Is-a velly hard cake for make.  Why you take away in middle?”

            Ben raked a hand down his face.  “Believe me, Hop Sing, Missy Kat needs her more than you do.  The baby’s coming.”

            The Chinaman’s jaw dropped.  “Baby come?  Why you not say so?  Why you dilly dally?  You take mama to Missy Kat, chop chop!”

            Ben threw his hands to the ceiling, and Hop Sing apparently deemed it prudent to make a fast retreat to the kitchen.

            “Hey, Pa, what’s all the yellin’ about?” Hoss called as he tromped down the stairs with Little Joe at his heels.

            Ben took a deep breath.  “Come on down, Hoss.”

            Little Joe dropped to his knees on the landing and peered through the stair posts.  “Me, too, Pa?” he asked, voice quavering.

            Ben gave a weary chuckle.  “Yes, you, too, Joseph.”

            At that moment the door to Ludmilla’s room opened and she came in carrying her carpetbag.  “I am ready, Ben.”

            Ben nodded at her.  “I still need to hitch the team,” he said.  “Why don’t you go on back to the kitchen and give Hop Sing some final advice on that strudel ‘til I’m ready.”  As Ludmilla hurried to the kitchen to comply, he turned back to his sons.  “Boys, I have to take Ludmilla over to the Montgomery place.”

            “No!” Little Joe wailed.  “I want Mama to stay here!”

            “Joseph, I don’t have time to argue,” Ben said, an edge of irritation creeping back into his voice.  “Aunt Kat is having her baby and—”

            “Right now?” Hoss asked, eyes widening.

            Ben exhaled gustily.  “Yes, right now and—”

            Hoss sprang to his feet.  “I’ll hitch the team for you, Pa,” he cried.

            Ben grabbed his arm as he rushed past.  “Just a minute.”  He took a breath.  “That would be real helpful, Hoss, but I want you to understand that I’ll need you—”

            “To look after Little Joe,” Hoss interrupted.  “I know all that, Pa.  We’re wastin’ time!”

            Ben laughed and released his middle son.  “Right you are.  I’ll just leave it all in your capable hands, then, Hoss.  We’re taking the buckboard.”  With a wide grin Hoss took off, and Ben turned back to his youngest.  He set the boy on his knee and tried to explain that, however much Little Joe would miss Mama Zuebner, she needed to take care of her own little girl at a time like this.  Little Joe responded with a string of questions, most of which Ben had neither time nor inclination to answer.  Somehow he put the boy off, and after a few more words of explanation and firm admonishment to “mind Hoss and Hop Sing,” Ben took Ludmilla’s carpetbag in one hand and her elbow in the other, and they went out to the buckboard.

            Ben kept up a steady stream of conversation all the way to the Montgomery cabin.  He couldn’t have said afterwards exactly what he’d talked about; he was only speaking to the anxiety in Ludmilla’s face anyway, and it did little good.  As she jumped from the wagon and ran into the house, she seemed as frantic as ever to reach her daughter.  When Enos came out to help with the team, Ben started to shoo him back to his wife, but suddenly realized that, now that Ludmilla was here, he’d probably be banished from Kat’s side for the duration.  It was the way women handled birth, and what man was fool enough to thwart them in the midst of that process?  No, best to keep Enos busy, so Ben made that his particular responsibility.

            That task became harder once the barn chores were finished and they had nothing to do but sit in the parlor and, in Enos’s case, flinch at every groan coming from the bedroom.  “Now, quit jumping,” Ben chided.  “Believe me, I’ve heard much worse.”  The look on his foreman’s face immediately told him that he’d said exactly the wrong thing.  “With Little Joe, I mean,” he stumbled to explain.  “He came out breach, but there’s no need to think your child will do the same.”  No need to tell him, either, that the groans would get worse as time went on, even in a normal birth.

            The ruse worked.  Enos gave him a nervous grin and said, “Little fellow always did like to do things the hard way.”

            Ben forced a chuckle.  “Yeah.  Still does.  You want some more coffee?”

            “Uh, yeah, I guess,” Enos muttered, eyes fixed on the bedroom door.  He shook himself and started to stand.  “I should be servin’ you,” he said.  “You’re company.”

            Then Ben genuinely laughed as he pushed the other man down.  “Company!  Why, I’m that child’s uncle, aren’t I?”

            Enos sank back into the settee.  “That’s right.  You’re family; help yourself, Uncle Ben.”

And help you, too, Ben told himself, turning away to hide his twitching lips.  Several pots of coffee later he mused that although Katerina’s baby hadn’t presented itself breach, according to Ludmilla, it was certainly rivaling Little Joe in stubbornness about entering the world.  Afternoon slipped into evening, and since everyone else was either too occupied or distracted, Ben prepared a simple supper.  As he moved about the tiny kitchen, he was reminded of the many meals he’d served his boys here.  Tonight’s supper was a replica of one of them: chipped beef in gravy, served over biscuits.  Back then he’d always made it with “lots of gavvy,” as Hoss used to say, to stretch their meager supplies, but he’d made it a little richer in meat tonight.  Enos choked it down gratefully, while Ludmilla consumed hers hastily before hurrying back to Katerina.

            “Would she want some?” Ben asked as she moved back toward the bedroom.

            Ludmilla frowned and shook her head fiercely and then disappeared.

            A wry smile twisted Ben’s lips.  He couldn’t blame her.  Any similarity between his supper and what regularly appeared on the menu at Mama Zuebner’s Café in Placerville probably existed only in the realm of unfounded hopes.  And he supposed Katerina was far too occupied with other matters to care for food at all.

            The increasing intensity of the cries issuing from the bedroom was only exceeded by the thickening snow falling outside.  “Gonna be a heavy one,” Ben mused from the window, inviting Enos to share the view with him.  “Good thing you came for us when you did.”

            Enos gaped at the snow-covered yard.  “You won’t get home tonight,” he said.

            “That’s all right,” Ben assured him.  “Hop Sing is there with the boys; they’ll be fine.”  Inwardly, he sighed.  The boys would be safe and well cared for, of course, but Little Joe, in particular, would be upset that Pa was not home with him, and even his older brother might worry.  Pity there wasn’t some way to communicate house-to-house and let them both know that everything was all right.  With the next cry from the bedroom, Enos lurched from the window and stood staring at the closed bedroom door.  Ben shook his head and moved back to the coffee pot, to make sure the supply would last through the siege.

            The siege lasted into the wee hours of the morning.  Having exhausted every line of conversation he could think of, Ben drifted in and out of a light sleep and could only hope that Enos did, too.  Finally, he was roused by an infant’s instinctive protest against entering a strange new world.  He clapped his foreman on the back and exclaimed, “Congratulations!”

            “Is it a boy or a girl?” Enos asked blearily.

            Ben stared at him in wide-eyed consternation.  “How should I know?”

            “I figured, maybe, you could tell,” Enos babbled.  “By the sound, I mean.”

            Gape-mouthed, Ben shook his head.  “No,” he gasped, wondering when he had become the expert on all things pertaining to childbirth.  Then he chuckled.  “You’ll know soon enough, my boy.”

            As he had predicted, before long Ludmilla bustled into the sitting room with a blanket-wrapped bundle.  “You like to hold your baby girl, Papa?” she asked, extending the child to its father.  Enos looked terrified, but Ben gave him a shoulder nudge forward and Ludmilla placed the tiny girl in his trembling arms.

            “A little beauty,” Ben said, peering over his foreman’s shoulders.

            Obviously overcome, Enos nodded.  Then he looked anxiously at his mother-in-law.  “Kat?”

            “Katerina is tired, but fine,” Ludmilla said.  “You come see her and then she will sleep.”  She took the child again and nodded Enos toward the bedroom.  “You come, too, Ben,” she directed.

            Though he felt somewhat out of place, Ben dutifully followed, but remained standing in the door until Kat called, “Uncle Ben,” and reached toward him.  He went in then and took her hand.  “She’s a lovely little lady, just like her mother,” he said tenderly.

            “And her namesake,” Kat whispered.  “If you don’t mind, Uncle Ben, I’d like to name her after Marie—and Marta.”

            “Marie Marta,” Ben said awkwardly, the syllables feeling strange on his tongue.

            Kat laughed lightly.  “The other way around.”

            “Ah,” he said, smiling.  “Marta Marie.  Yes, that sounds better.  Thank you, my dear; it’s a great honor.”  Moisture welled in his eyes.  For the second time one of his wives had been so honored by a friend from the Larrimore train, and he felt profoundly touched that little Inger and now little Marie, although she’d surely be familiarly known by her first name, would remind all those who knew them of their beautiful and loving predecessors.  For Katerina to extend that honor to her sister, too, was a thoughtful and healing gesture of the family’s acceptance of the much-maligned Marta.

* * * * *

            Ben woke to the sound of water dripping from the roof.  He was getting too old to sleep comfortably on a pallet on the floor, he ruefully admitted, and the steady plop of melting snow onto the windowsills had kept him from going back to sleep.  What tricks isn’t the weather here in Nevada capable of? he mused.  That afternoon a blanket of snow had stretched as far as the eye could see, and by this time tomorrow the world outside their door would probably be an equally expansive mud puddle.  He’d better plan on heading for home at first light, while there was still some solid ground underfoot.

            He had trouble getting away that quickly, however.  Ludmilla, who had slept on the settee in the sitting room, rose with the sun, and he got up then, too, since his pallet was spread on the kitchen floor.  She, of course, insisted that he have a hot breakfast before he left.  He couldn’t deny the attraction of that, so he’d helped her start the fire and find whatever supplies and cooking utensils she needed.

            He’d just finished eating when Enos awakened, and the two men discussed a division of responsibilities over the next few days that would enable the new father to stick close to home.  Then Ben finally thought he was ready to leave, but Katerina woke, and he certainly couldn’t leave without seeing her and Marie’s beautiful little namesake one more time.  By the time he got away, patches of sodden earth were showing, for the snowed had melted away as quickly as it had come, and he began to wonder whether he could make it home in a buckboard.

            He was about halfway home when he heard an ominous rumble and instinctively looked to the north.  The land in that section of the mountains had proven unstable before, and with the sudden snowmelt undermining the ground, he was almost certain what was happening, even before the rumble escalated to a roar.  Rocks tumbled and mud cascaded into the valley below.  He started to whip the team toward the site of the slide, but then he realized that he couldn’t risk taking the buckboard there.  He’d only end up stuck in the mud himself.  Better to get the wagon home, reassure the boys and then take a horse to check out the damage and whether anyone had gotten caught up in it.

            When he rode into the yard, both his sons came charging out of the house.  “Pa!” Little Joe cried.  “We heard a big boom!”

            “Yes, I heard it, too,” Ben said, catching the boy up in his arms, heedless of the muddy little boots soiling his trousers.  “It’s a landslide, son, up north.”

            “Slide Mountain again, Pa?” Hoss asked, worry lines wrinkling his broad forehead.

            “Slide Mountain?”  Not having heard that geographical term before, Ben was confused for a moment.  Then he nodded.  “Probably, Hoss.”  Trust a schoolboy to come up with the perfect name for the site of the previous landslide, and since that land was already undermined, it was likely that it had given way again.

            “Anybody out there?” Hoss asked anxiously, remembering that a man had been buried there before.

            “I don’t know,” his father replied soberly.

            Hoss squared his shoulders.  “Well, we’d best go check it out, huh, just in case?”

            “I’d best go check it out,” Ben said firmly.  “I need you here, son, to take care of things at home.”  He gave Hoss a significant look as he ran his hands through Little Joe’s unruly curls and handed him over to his brother.

            “Aw, Pa,” Hoss grumbled, but his arms closed around his little brother.

            “Hoss, I’m counting on you,” Ben said, the look on his face leaving no room for argument.  “By the way, it’s a girl.”

            “Huh?” Hoss asked.

            “Aunt Kat’s baby,” Ben reminded him, since the excitement of the landslide had obviously driven all else from the boy’s mind.  “She had a little girl, named her Marta Marie.”

            “Oh.”  Hoss grinned.  “That’s good, Pa.  Right nice to give her Ma’s name like that.”

            “I wanna play with her,” Little Joe insisted.

            Ben laughed.  “Let her grow a bit, you cradle robber.”

            When Hoss joined in the laughter, Little Joe frowned.  They were making fun of him; he wasn’t sure how, but he just knew it.  Old people were really bad about that.

* * * * *

            Ben returned late that afternoon, riding double with another man and leading a limping horse.  When they’d dismounted, he said, “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention your companion, Mr. Spurgeon—not in front of the boys, that is.  I’m certainly available if you need to talk later.”

            Spurgeon shook his head.  “No need.  We were acquaintances, traveling together, but that’s all.”

            “Sorry for his loss, nonetheless,” Ben said, “as well as for the interruption of your trip.”

            Spurgeon laughed.  “Interruption’s a mild word for it, Cartwright, but your hospitality makes up for it.”

            Ben chuckled.  “Well, let’s start that hospitality with a hot bath, shall we?”  The suggestion couldn’t be considered an insult, since Spurgeon was covered, head to foot, in the dirt and debris that had rained on him in his mad flight away from the landslide.  His slower traveling companion had been caught up in the avalanche and now, without doubt, lay crushed beneath a mountain of rock.  It was that fact that Ben wished to keep from his children, especially his tender-hearted middle boy.

            “Bath sounds like just what I need,” the other man said.  “Thanks.”

            A hot bath, a hot meal and the chatter of children seemed to revive Spurgeon’s spirits, and when Ben invited him to stay over a day or so, to rest up from his ordeal, the man gladly accepted, knowing that his horse needed the rest even more than he did.  When he mentioned that, Ben suggested, “If you’d prefer, I could buy the animal and you could purchase stage fare into California.  I think that would be wiser, since the horse really needs more than a couple of days’ recruiting.”  Fearing that he’d left the impression that his visitor wasn’t welcome beyond that, he quickly explained, “I’d planned to drive into town on Saturday, if the roads permit, so that would be a good time to take you to the stage, but you’re certainly welcome to stay with us longer.”

            “Saturday will be fine—ideal, even,” Spurgeon said, “so I think I will take you up on that offer to buy my horse.”

* * * * *

            Ben had originally planned to drive into Carson City on Saturday, but an urgent message from the president of the Ophir mine changed his destination.  The boys were excited by the opportunity to visit the larger town, and Mr. Spurgeon had no objection to taking the stage from there, instead.  Ben quietly added enough to make up the difference in the price of the ticket to what he’d planned to pay for Spurgeon’s horse.  The animal wasn’t in good shape now, but it had fine lines, and a few weeks on good Ponderosa grass should bring them out.

            With the coming of spring an influx of new prospectors was arriving daily from California.  Since there were now six stage lines running from the neighboring state, the journey was an easy one and invited even the less intrepid silver-seekers over the mountains.  “The way Virginia City is booming and sprawling down Gold Canyon,” Ben observed to his guest, “it’s hard to tell where the town begins these days.”

            Little Joe, who was standing behind the seat and had been regaling Spurgeon with anything and everything that popped into his fertile mind, pointed ahead.  “There, Pa,” he offered.  “That’s where it starts.”

            “Oh, you’re sure of that, are you?” Ben asked, amused by the certainty in his little boy’s voice.  “What do you say, Hoss?”

            Hoss shrugged.  “Good a guess as any.  Some of them shacks look like they’re about to fall down, though, so I ain’t so sure Virginia City’ll claim ‘em.”

            Spurgeon laughed.  “Snowmelt’ll do that, unless a place is built solid.  Might be good for your business, Cartwright.”  Ben had told him about the Ponderosa’s timber operations, which were just starting up again after the winter break.

            “Maybe,” Ben conceded.  He didn’t relish profiting at others’ expense, so he’d give a generous price to anyone who’d lost his home in the inevitable flooding, but the mine owners could afford to pay full price and he’d let them.  The mines using Deidescheimer’s square sets would have survived, but those who had not installed the more costly timbering would no doubt pay for their stringency when falling debris, rocks and clay forced the closing of their mines.  Those who gave heed to the warning and decided to put in square sets could well bring their business to the Ponderosa.  In fact, he was almost certain that the flooding had somehow prompted the message from the Ophir’s president.  That mine, he knew, did have the square sets, but they didn’t extend through all the tunnels and slopes as yet.  Maybe James Maynard wanted to renew his timber contract before all those others mines made a bid.  Either way, the Ponderosa was likely to profit.

            Ben pulled up before the Wells, Fargo building, where the Pioneer Stage Company maintained its Virginia City office.  He introduced Mr. Spurgeon to the agent, William Simmons; then he shook the man’s hand and took his leave.  Driving down C Street, he pulled up to Will Cass’s store and got down to tether the team, while Hoss lifted Little Joe from the wagon.   Ben pulled a list from his shirt pocket and handed it to the older boy.  “Give that to Mr. Cass and help him load the supplies,” he instructed.  “Then I want you to walk over to the post office and mail our letters to Adam.  You still have them?”

            Hoss patted his shirt pocket.  “Sure thing, Pa.”  Scanning the list of supplies, he noted a critical omission.  “Pa, can we get us some sweetenin’?”

            “Oh, I guess so,” Ben said indulgently.  “Pennyworth for each of you for now, and you can ask Mr. Cass to make up a bit package to take with us.  Now, once you’ve mailed the letters, just go across the street and have Mr. Flick give you each a haircut.  He knows how I like it.”

            “I don’t want no haircut,” Little Joe declared, lower lip pooching out.

            “Would you prefer to be mistaken for a girl?” his father asked dryly.

            Little Joe grimaced and shook his head vehemently.

            “Well, that’s what’s likely to happen if you don’t get that winter mane of yours shorn.”  As long as they’d all gone since their last shearing, there was danger that even he and Hoss might be taken for the opposite sex, Ben thought with a frown, but Little Joe, with the natural beauty of his features, was at even greater risk.

            “Come on, Joe,” Hoss said, reaching out his hand.  “Let’s go pick us out that sweetenin’ first thing.”

            “Just one more thing, Hoss,” Ben said, resting a hand on each boy’s shoulder.  His face was firm as he looked from one upturned face to the other.  “Don’t let your brother out of your sight.  You know how fast he can get away.”

Hoss sighed elaborately.  “Yeah, Pa, I know.”

Ben squatted down to meet his youngest eye to eye.  “And you hear me good, little boy: when Hoss tells you to stay put”—he tapped his finger against the boy’s chest with each of the next three words—“you stay put.  Understood?”  Contradictory orders, if he’d ever heard them, he conceded to himself, since he could scarcely expect Hoss to load a wagon without once in a while taking his eyes off his little brother.  If the boys tried to follow both, though, maybe there was an even chance that one of his orders would get followed.

            His frown declaring that he considered the question unreasonable, Little Joe nonetheless nodded.

            Standing, Ben crossed the street, where he turned back for one more anxious look before continuing down the hill toward the Ophir mine office.  He’d done all he could to avert catastrophe, but a father worried anyway.  He smiled as he saw Hoss take his brother’s hand and lead him inside the store.  He was a good boy, that middle son of his; with the help of God and good angels, no one was better able to keep that little scamp of his in line.  After all, it shouldn’t take more than an hour to transact whatever business the Ophir’s president had in mind.  Even Little Joe could stay out of trouble for a single hour, couldn’t he?

* * * * *

            “Come on, Little Joe,” Hoss directed, taking his brother’s hand.  He led his brother inside, directly to the row of apothecary jars that held a treasure trove of penny candy of every type.  “Whatcha want?”

            “I want jelly beans—every color there is,” Little Joe readily replied.

            Hoss laughed.  “Yeah, that sounds good.  I reckon I’ll have the same for now.”  He grinned up at the storekeeper.  “We’ll have two pennyworth of jellybeans, Mr. Cass, and then could you please make up a mix of everything in a separate package for about a bit?”

            “Sure, sure,” Will Cass said with an indulgent beam at two of his favorite young customers.  “Your Pa ain’t with you today?  You didn’t ride into town on your own, did you, boys?”

            “Naw,” Hoss said, “but Pa’s got business down to the Ophir.”  He handed over the list his father had given him.  “Here’s what we need, Mr. Cass, and I’d be obliged if’n you could help me load ‘em.”

            “Well now, Hoss,” Mr. Cass said, stroking his chin as he read down the list, “I reckon it’s me that’s obliged to you for help with the loading.  Let me get it all together, and then we’ll start toting it out.”

            The two boys ambled over to watch a game of checkers, in progress over a cracker barrel at one end of the store, until Mr. Cass called that he was ready to load.  Then they both scurried over, and Hoss thrust the bag of jellybeans that they’d been nibbling into his little brother’s hands.  “Don’t eat ‘em all,” he warned.

            “You eat twice as many as me,” Little Joe accused.

            “Well, I’m twice as big,” Hoss returned.  It was a poor excuse and he knew it.  Pa expected him to share the candy fairly, but it was hard when Joe ate so little and so slowly that the brightly colored candies just seemed to beg for more attention.  Hoss hefted a crate up and walked toward the door, with Little Joe right at his heels.

            The youngster, in fact, weaved in and out between Hoss’s and Mr. Cass’s legs until the storekeeper stopped dead still and said, “This ain’t gonna work, Hoss.  You gotta plant that youngun somewheres.”

            Hoss scowled.  He recognized the need, but he didn’t know how he was supposed to plant his brother somewhere and still keep him in sight, like Pa’d said.  He set the crate down and grabbed Joe up.

            “Hey!” Joe protested.

            Hoss plopped him on the seat of the buckboard.  “You stay put,” he said, tapping his finger on the boy’s chest, just as his father had.

            The memory clicked, and Little Joe frowned, as he had when his father had done it.  “Okay,” he groused.

            “Now, it ain’t so bad,” Hoss soothed.  “You got the jellybeans, and I’m a right fast loader.”

            “Okay.”  Sounding less discontent this time, Little Joe opened the bag of candy and with a grin held one out to his brother.

            “Naw, I’ve had my share,” Hoss said, though his mouth watered.

            “I don’t mind,” Little Joe insisted and popped a jellybean right in his brother’s mouth.

            “That’s a sweet boy,” Hoss said, patting Joe’s head and grinning as he returned for another load.  From then on, every time he came out to the wagon with another load of supplies, Little Joe fed him another jellybean, which sweetened the chore for Hoss and made the time pass faster for his little brother.

            In no time the wagon was loaded, and the two brothers were headed for the post office.  Little Joe demanded that he be the one to carry the letters to Adam.  Though he looked concerned, Hoss conceded.  “Just don’t drop ‘em,” he cautioned.

            “I won’t,” Little Joe promised, clenching the envelopes in his midget fist.

            “Don’t scrunch ‘em, neither,” Hoss said sharply, and Little Joe eased his grip.  “Okay, now.  Soon as we get ‘em posted, we’re going right across the street to Mr. Flick’s,” he reminded his little brother.

            The small face wrinkled in a grimace of distaste.  “I don’t want no haircut!”

            “Well, you’re gettin’ one,” Hoss stated flatly.  “Pa said so.”

            “What’s that?” Little Joe asked, head cocked and eyes suddenly alert.

            “What’s what?” Hoss asked.

            “That!  Don’t you hear it?  Drums!”  Little Joe started to jump up and down.  “I know: it’s a parade!  Bet there’s fire engines in it.  Come on!”  He took off at a run, the opposite direction from the post office.

            “Joe, you come back here!” Hoss yelled, but he might as well have been yelling at the wind.  “Doggone you!” he hollered, charging after his brother.  Suddenly, he saw scraps of paper floating back toward him and knew instinctively that they were the precious letters to Adam.  He had to rescue those, so he stopped to scoop them up and counted—one, two, three—good, all there.  He looked up and groaned when he realized Little Joe had disappeared.  Well, if he followed his ears, he was likely to come across the parade, and that was where the kid was headed, so he stowed the letters inside his shirt and headed in the direction of the drums.

* * * * *

            Hearing raised voices, Ben paused outside the office door.  Then he shrugged.  He’d been summoned, after all.  He’d better, at least, make his presence known.  He rapped loudly on the closed door.

            The door flew open, thankfully inward or Ben would have had his nose knocked flat.  James Maynard, president of the Ophir mine, stood there, face florid.  “Well, what do you want?” he demanded.

            “You sent for me, remember?” Ben said sharply.  “If this is a poor time, set another, but I’ll remind you that it’s a long way in from the Ponderosa.”

            The president caught his breath.  “Oh, it’s you, Cartwright.  Yes, yes, come in.”  He stepped aside and gestured for Ben to enter.

            “You appear to be busy,” Ben said hesitantly.  He was reluctant to do business with a man already in a temper.

            “No, please come in,” Maynard urged.  “Deidescheimer here and I’ve been knocking heads for an hour.  Maybe what we need is a cooler point of view, eh?”

            “Jah,” Deidescheimer declared.  “Come and help me make this fool see sense, Ben.”

            Holding his hands up, palms outward, Ben walked in.  “A neutral third party, that’s all I am,” he insisted.  “If a fresh perspective can help, I’m content to give it, but you’re both more knowledgeable about mining than I am.”

            “You’re a stockholder,” Maynard insisted.  “That, in itself, gives you the right to an opinion.”

            “One among many,” Ben pointed out.  “If this is a stockholders’ matter, call a meeting.”

            “Ha!” Deidescheimer exclaimed.  “You see?  This is just what we need, someone with common sense.  Cartwright, you know the melting snows have caused much flooding?”

            “Yes,” Ben admitted.  “In fact, I assumed that was the purpose of my invitation here, to discuss the need for further shoring material?”

            “Yes, yes, we’ll get to that,” Maynard sputtered.  “What this fool is trying to sell me, though, is a pump.”

            “The mines are still flooded, then?” Ben asked.

            “Jah,” Deidescheimer said firmly.  “Now, what I propose is a 45-horsepower engine to drive an eight-inch pump and strong hoisting machinery.  It is needed.”

            “It is expensive,” Maynard countered.

            “Do not be—what is the English phrase?—penny wise and pound foolish,” Deidescheimer snorted.

            Maynard waved a negating hand.  “We’ve been all through this—over and over.  What we need from you, Cartwright, is that fresh perspective you mentioned.  So, what do you say?”

            Ben exhaled slowly.  They wanted him to make the decision?  Ridiculous, on the face of it, but as Maynard had said, he was a stockholder and tied by timber to the welfare of this mine.  Maybe he was entitled to an opinion.  “So long as you don’t take this as the final word,” he began hesitantly, “I have to say that a proven track record is a man’s best recommendation.”

            Both miners frowned in thought.  “What does that mean?” Maynard finally asked.

            “Was Deidescheimer right about the square sets?” Ben asked.

            Though he saw the direction this was going, Maynard had to admit that his opponent had been right that time.

            “That was expensive, too,” Ben said, “but worth the cost, I think you’d agree.  As I said, I don’t know much about mining or engineering, but Mr. Deidescheimer here has proven that he does.  I think I’d follow his advice.”

            “Ah!”  Deidescheimer beamed in triumphant.

            Maynard’s mouth slid one way and then the other, as if it were full of something he was reluctant to swallow.  Finally, he drew a long sigh and said, “Oh, all right.”  He looked at Ben.  “Now, as to that timber contract I asked you here to negotiate, I’m afraid I may need you to cut me a better deal, due to certain impending expenses.”

            Phillip Deidescheimer apparently felt that Ben should not lose any profit for siding with him.  “Remember,” he said as he left the office, “a proven track record is a man’s best recommendation—in timber as much as mining—and deserving of reward.”

            “Out!” Maynard ordered, though he was choking back a chuckle.  “Between the two of you, I’m likely to go bankrupt!”

* * * * *

            Hoss ran down C Street, dodging the crowd that was beginning to form in response to the advancing drums.  As he darted in and out, he kept his eyes peeled for Little Joe, but he couldn’t spot his brother amongst all the taller folks lining the main street of Virginia City.  “There they come!” someone yelled, and Hoss instinctively turned to see what sort of parade was headed their way.  He saw two young drummer boys marching down the street with a flag bearer about two paces behind.  Kind of a small parade, he thought, wondering what it was about.

            Suddenly a man rushed from the onlookers lining the street, savagely tore a drum from one of the boys and smashed his fist through it.  Tossing it aside, he moved toward the other boy.  Then, as Hoss gaped at the commotion, the flag bearer knocked down the assailant and a man as big as Hoss one day hoped to become rushed out of the Sazerac Saloon to help him.  Recognizing Tom Peasley, Hoss began to yell his support, and some other men, probably firemen like Peasley, helped him wrestle the assailant up against a wall and invited him and anyone who sympathized with him to make themselves scarce.

            “Yeah, all right for now,” the man said, and calling to a few of his friends, he slunk off down an alley.

            The crowd had grown when it appeared that a good fight was in order.  While some were obviously disappointed that it had ended so quickly, they all fell in behind the single remaining drummer and the flag bearer, and the small parade became a grand procession down the center of C Street.

            Hoss suddenly remembered his responsibilities.  Doggone it, where was that kid?  Little Joe had to be somewhere in the crowd, so Hoss joined the procession, again moving through the crowd in search of one small face.  Pa’s gonna kill me, he moaned to himself, and he’d have cause.  Greater than his concern for his own backside, however, was his growing anxiety about his little brother.  Little Joe was just plumb too little to get caught up in a crowd like this.  They might trample him . . . or worse, ‘cause some of these folks were still hankering for a fight, Hoss could tell.  More determined than ever, he began moving through the crowd again.

* * * * *

            Ben normally hated the long, steep climb up to B Street from the mining district, but today there was a spring in his step.  Not only had his opinion been sought and accepted, but he’d concluded a very favorable agreement for his timber operation.  They hadn’t signed a contract yet, but they’d shaken hands to seal the terms.  Now Maynard would have his attorney draw up the legal papers, but Ben anticipated no changes.  He’d worked with the man before; and since Maynard obviously wanted their relationship to continue, Ben felt he could trust him.  Still, it was wise to verify things, to avoid misunderstanding, so he would have his own lawyer look over the contract before he signed it.

            When he reached C Street, the militaristic cadence of a drum caught his ear; and about a block beyond him, he saw a crowd moving toward City Hall.  Curious, he started to follow, but then he remembered that he was supposed to meet the boys at the barber shop.  He shook his head, mouth curling ruefully.  Who was he kidding?  If the boys had been anywhere around when those drums started, they wouldn’t have been able to resist the pull, any more than the others in the crowd.  He could be wrong, of course.  They might actually be waiting for him up at Flick’s like good little boys, but the odds were against it.  He’d be wiser to check here first than to climb up another block and then back down again.  Besides, this way he could find out for himself what was going on.

* * * * *

            Once the crowd reached City Hall, they stopped moving, and Hoss was able to search more systematically for his straying brother.  Speeches started up—something about the war—but the boy had no interest in those.  He just kept winding his way through the sea of legs until he spotted an especially short pair.  That set turned out to be another youngster, though, so Hoss moved on, until he finally caught sight of a curly head, right in the front row.  He grabbed an arm and hauled his howling brother to the edge of the crowd.  “You ornery scalawag,” Hoss sputtered.  “You was s’posed to stay put.”

            “Let me go!” Little Joe yelled.

            “I’ll let you go all right,” Hoss snorted.  “Straight to the post office.”  He began dragging his brother back down C Street, so intent on his task that he plowed right into a man.  “Sorry, mister,” he said.  Then, looking up, he swallowed hard.  “Hey, Pa,” he mumbled weakly.  “I can explain.”

            “No need,” Ben grunted.  “I can figure this one out all by myself.”  He snatched Little Joe up into his arms and shook his head in the child’s face.  “You didn’t mind brother, did you?”

            “It was a parade,” Little Joe said, puppy eyes pleading for understanding.  “A parade, Pa.”

            Ben chuckled.  “Yes, I guess it was.”  He lifted his head.  “And a political speech, unless my ears deceive me.  I guess we might as well stay and hear it.”

            Little Joe’s nose crinkled.  He’d been hoping to hear the drum again, but if all that was happening was some grownup speech, he saw no point in staying.  “We gotta go to the post office, Pa,” he said.

            “It’s not going anywhere,” Ben snorted.  He moved closer and listened to several rousing speeches that led up to a call for recruits.  A rumble of boos met that suggestion, for Virginia City was a town of divided loyalties, but a large number of men stepped up to sign enlistment papers for a California regiment, since Nevada had not yet been given permission to raise military companies of its own.

            Ben shook his head as he walked away with the boys, heading up the hill toward B Street.  It was easy to get caught up in war fervor, but most of those new bluecoats would never see the gray uniforms of the Confederates.  Most of them would find themselves guarding the mail routes and posted at forts throughout their own territory.  Not that that was unimportant.  Goodness only knew he wanted the mails to get through safely; they were, after all, his only link with Adam.  For those young men who enlisted with visions of the glories of war, however, it would come as a rude awakening to find themselves doing little but eating sand on desert roads.  They wouldn’t stop to think that they just might be the lucky ones.

            “Post office, Pa,” Little Joe insisted, pointing across the street from his father’s apparent destination.

            “Haircut, son,” Ben said firmly, walking into the barber shop.  “You first, Hoss.  Your brother and I are going to have a little talk.”

            Little Joe paled, but Pa hadn’t said a “very necessary little talk,” and Joe breathed a sigh of relief when his father sat down, setting him on his knee.  What followed was a lecture on the importance of following instructions, but the words were spoken calmly and patiently, and Little Joe deemed it wise to sit quietly and nod his head in apparent agreement.

            As soon as Hoss left the barber’s chair, Ben tossed him a coin.  “Post those letters first,” he instructed, “and then buy me a copy of the Territorial Enterprise—and get back here fast.”

            Hoss grinned.  He knew exactly what Pa meant.  He wanted a haircut himself and wasn’t about to get in that chair until Hoss got back to keep Joe from trotting off.

            Little Joe whined when his father placed him in Mr. Flick’s black leather-covered chair, but Ben glowered at him and he sank back into it to face the ordeal with nothing more than puckered lips.

            Finally, all three Cartwrights had their winter manes sheared and were ready to turn their attention to dinner.  “Four good choices close at hand,” Ben said, “so what shall it be: the Chop House, the New World, the Young American or Winn’s?”

            “Young, like me,” Little Joe declared with a bounce that emphasized his youth as much as his choice.

            “I’m sorry, Little Joe,” his father said soberly, “but you gave up your right to a choice when you decided not to mind your brother.  He’s done all I asked of him to the best of his ability—without a speck of cooperation, I might add—so Hoss has earned the right to pick the restaurant.”

            “No fair!” Little Joe protested.

            “Eminently fair,” his father retorted, “and if you care to argue the point, little boy, we can just step into the alley for a very necessary little talk on the subject.”

            Little Joe shook his head violently.  No meal was worth that.

            “Well,” Hoss drawled, “to be fair, Joe cooperated just fine until that parade came along, but . . . well . . .”

            “Go ahead, Hoss,” Ben said with an encouraging pat to the boy’s shoulder.  “I can tell you have a preference, so don’t be reluctant to voice it.  As I said, you’ve earned the right.”

            Hoss grinned broadly and said, “I been smelling the Chop House grub, Pa, and it’s plumb tempting me.”

            “Good choice, son.  That aroma’s been tempting me, too,” his father agreed, turning toward the establishment next door to Flick’s Barber Shop.

            Little Joe’s tongue fluttered out from his lips, but he quickly drew it back in, lest Pa see and suggest another talk in the alley.

            Fare at a chop house tended to be hearty, and this one was no exception.  Ben told Hoss to order whatever he liked, but decided that he would share a plate with Little Joe.  The five-year-old certainly couldn’t manage a full meal on his own, but he complained nonetheless that he wasn’t being treated fairly.  “I wadn’t that bad,” he pouted.

            “I’m not punishing you,” Ben soothed, “just being practical.  Now, what looks good to you?”  If it were anything reasonable, he’d let his youngest decide what they would share, and in the unlikely event that the boy ate so much that the father was still hungry, he could always pick up some cheese and crackers back at Cass’s Mercantile.

            “What you havin’, Hoss?” Little Joe demanded.

            “Chop and taters,” Hoss said at once.

            Coming up to the table, the proprietor overheard him and said, “Excellent choice, young man.  And what for you, Mr. Cartwright?  We’ve got some fine Pismo clams, fresh in from California.”

            Ben looked tempted.  “Well, I was planning to share a plate with my youngest here, Mr. Chapman, and I doubt that would be his choice.”

            Face puckered as if he’d eaten a sour lemon, Little Joe shook his head.

            “Tell you what I’ll do,” Mr. Chapman offered.  “You order the clams, if that’s what you want, Mr. Cartwright, and I’ll fix up a small plate of whatever the lad would like at a fair price.”

            “I appreciate that,” Ben said, knowing that it was a concession from the usual one-size-fits-all menu.

            “I want taters, like Hoss, but I ain’t sure about the chop,” Little Joe said.  “It’s big, ain’t it?”

            “Isn’t it,” Ben corrected.  “And, yes, it’s quite thick.  I think you’d be happier with a beef plate, son.”

            “It usually comes with mashed turnips and roasted potatoes, like the chop,” Chapman explained.  “You want all that, little fellow?”

            “Yes, please,” Little Joe replied politely, making his father proud.

            “Small portions,” Ben reminded the proprietor.  “Now, how are the clams prepared?”

            “You can have them roasted with bacon and onions,” Chapman said, “or we have a fine chowder, too.”

            “Chowder!” Hoss exclaimed.  “Get that, Pa.”  He grinned sheepishly.  “And give me a taste or two?”

            Ben laughed.  “Once you dip your spoon into my bowl, son, that’s the last bit of soup I’ll get!”  He reached over to ruffle the boy’s sandy hair indulgently.  “Two bowls of chowder, Mr. Chapman, and I’ll have a plate of the roasted clams, as well.”

            “Very good, sir.  Be right out.”

            “Thanks, Pa,” Hoss said as the man walked away to fill their order.  “I was wantin’ a whole bowl, but didn’t like to ask for two things.”

            “Hoss, I told you to order whatever you wanted,” Ben reminded him, “and in your case, there’s not much chance you won’t finish what you ask for.”  He only hoped the same could be said for his youngest.

            Soon Mr. Chapman brought out the bowls of chowder, along with Little Joe’s pint-sized portion of sliced beef and vegetables.  Ben willingly shared a few spoonfuls of the chowder with his youngest, who agreed that it was good, but seemed more interested in his own plate, to Ben’s gratification.  The clam chowder was delicious, and he was pleased to have his bowl mostly to himself.

            “Can I have some of that bacon?” Little Joe asked when his father received his plate of roasted Pismo clams.

            Seeing that his son had already eaten more than half of his beef plate, Ben agreed.  “How’s your chop, son?” he asked his other boy.

            “Thick, like you said,” Hoss replied with a grin as he cut through a piece of tenderloin more than an inch thick.  “Juicy, too.”  Between bites, he shared what had transpired before Ben joined them.  “Tom Peasley and the rest of the fire boys showed that drum buster what for,” Hoss concluded.

            “Umm,” Ben murmured in response.  Like Peasley, he favored the Union, but preferred to keep the conflict back East, where it belonged.  With the contract he’d concluded this morning and the others almost certain to follow, he was likely to find himself spending his days in town, rather than on the ranch, and that would give him an opportunity to keep up with the war news.  If today’s fracas was any example, though, he wouldn’t have to wait for telegrams from the East to hear of battles between North and South.  They could just as easily happen right on C St., for Nevada was still a divided territory.

            Dinner finished, the Cartwrights walked down to Cass’s to pick up their wagon and were soon headed home.  Ben asked Hoss to read the newspaper to him as he drove, and, as usual, war news filled the columns of the Territorial Enterprise.  The Army of the Potomac had advanced toward Yorktown, on the peninsula between the James and York rivers; the South had suffered a crushing defeat at Shiloh, in Tennessee, with appalling casualties on both sides; and Fort Pulaski, commanding the approach to Atlanta, Georgia, had fallen just days before.  “Sounds like the Union’s gonna win, huh, Pa?” Hoss asked.

            “I don’t know, Hoss,” his father admitted.  “War has its ups and downs, and I imagine we’ll see more of both before this business is finished.”  He wanted to see it finished, of course—the sooner, the better—but men were always slow to admit that they might have charted a wrong course, and that was probably even more true of sovereign nations.  That was what they were fighting about, after all—whether one set of states had the right to declare themselves a sovereign nation—and a dream like that would be hard to relinquish.  For the sake of all the young men’s lives hanging in the balance, Ben could only hope and pray that the Union victories would continue and the South would give up that dream of sovereignty, but the winds of war could be as wayward and unpredictable as any Washoe zephyr.

~ ~ Notes ~ ~

            On April 10, 1862, a Mr. Spurgeon and his companion were caught up in a landslide.  It may or may not have been the same one that occurred at Slide Mountain on the same date, but this account presumes that.   

            Both William H. Simmons, agent for the Pioneer Stage Company, and C. L. Flick, barber opposite the post office on B Street, are listed in the 1862 Directory of Virginia City.

            All the restaurants mentioned here actually existed in Virginia City, and Chapman’s Chop House specialized in Pismo clams.  The rest of the Cartwrights’ meal is based on typical fare at a chop house.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

A Party and a Parley

            As Ben walked into the second story parlor of the International Hotel one evening in late April, he scanned the room uncomfortably.  Though he was dressed in his best suit, silk cravat and brocade vest, he felt dowdy, compared to the roomful of millionaires.  The Comstock’s silver kings spared no expense on their apparel or their homes, many of them being rebuilt of brick after the recent flooding.  Since even brick buildings used wood, that meant profit for him, of course, and if business kept thriving as it had the last few weeks, he just might indulge in a fancy new suit himself, something befitting the circles in which he was beginning to move.

            Tonight’s invitation, on the other hand, had nothing to do with new circles and everything to do with old ones.  He’d known the Bowers since before they were married, long before they’d harvested a fortune in silver from their adjoining mine claims; he’d known them back when Sandy was a teamster and Eilley made her living by washing laundry and baking the best batter biscuits in the territory.  Old friends they remained, even if they were starting to put on airs, and it was only fitting to bid them farewell as they prepared for a momentous journey.

            “Airs” might be putting it mildly, Ben decided as he walked through the crowded parlor, greeting men he’d dealt with in business transactions and meeting their wives or companions for the evening.  The Bowers had obviously spared no expense on this send-off.  It looked as though the entire town had been invited, which took a bit of the wind from Ben’s sails at being included, and apparently every luxury imaginable had been imported from San Francisco.  Waiters in black-and-white livery, almost as elegant as the guests’ suits, circulated the room with trays of oysters on ice and chilled glasses of champagne.  As if that weren’t lavish display enough, at one end of the hall, scarcely guarded, sat an oak chest filled with silver bars the Bowers planned to carry with them on their trip.

            The banquet proper began with steaming bowls of terrapin soup, followed by fricassee of chicken, sole cooked with tomato sauce and roast loin of beef from the Ponderosa itself, with side dishes by the score.  Dessert was a dish of brandied fruit atop ice cream.  When everyone had eaten to the point of bursting, Sandy Bowers ordered champagne all around again and raised a glass to toast himself.  “I’ve been in this yer country among the first that came here,” he announced.  “I’ve had powerful good luck.  I’ve got money to throw at the birds.  Thar ain’t no chance for a gentleman to spend his coin in this yer country and thar ain’t nothing much to see, so me and Mrs. Bowers is agoin’ to Yoorop to take in the sights.  One of the great men of this country was in this region a while back.  That was Horace Greeley.  I saw him and he didn’t look like no great shakes.  Outside of him the only great men I’ve seen in this country is Governor Nye and Old Winnemucca.  Now me and Mrs. Bowers is goin’ to Yoorop to see the Queen of England and the other great men of their countries and I hope you’ll all jine in and drink Mrs. Bowers’ health.  I have planty of champagne and money ain’t no object.”

            It was somewhat of a graceless toast, having basically punctured the pretensions to greatness of any man there, but Sandy was well enough liked to get away with it.  Ben wished him well, and he was certainly happy to drink to Eilley’s good health.  She’d need it for the long ocean voyage and the likely disappointment at its end, for he couldn’t see the Queen of England lowering herself to receive the Queen of the Comstock, as Eilley liked to style herself now.  He raised his glass and enthusiastically cheered the lady.

            After several more rounds of champagne and some coffee to guard against the chill of the night, the tables were pushed back for dancing, but Ben didn’t plan to stay for that.  To hold another woman in his arms only reminded him of the woman he longed to embrace, so he made his way over to the hosts.  Sandy was, unfortunately, holding court with his opinions of the current national administration.  “I think the rights of the Southern people ought to be pertected,” he was saying as Ben walked up.  “I’m a Northern man, with a Northern man’s rights, and I got a right to say so.  What you say, Ben?”

            The one topic Ben had absolutely no intention of getting into.  Instead, he smiled.  “I say that I’m a rancher, with a rancher’s right—make that duty—to get up early in the morning, so I’ve come to bid you and your dear wife good night.  It’s been a wonderful evening, Sandy, and I hope this trip will be all that you and Eilley hope for.”

            “Good of you, Ben; good of you,” Sandy said, shaking his hand warmly.  “Don’t be so quick to go, though; is plenty champagne left.”

            “Enough to leave me tipsy in the saddle,” Ben chuckled, eliciting the same response from the others gathered around the Bowers.  He lifted Eilley’s hand and kissed it suavely in the European style he knew would delight her.  “Have a wonderful journey, Eilley.  Are you taking Theresa with you or will she be staying with someone?”

            “Oh, she’ll be with us, of course,” Eilley replied enthusiastically.  “I couldn’t possibly be away from my baby that long.”

            “Yes, that’s always difficult,” Ben agreed, remembering the times he’d had to leave his boys behind when traveling on business, the longest separation having been that trip to New Orleans, where he’d met—the memories rushed close, and he hastily said his final farewells and walked out the B street exit from the hotel.  He stood in the crisp evening air and blinked back the tears that sprang uninvited to his eyes.  Would the pain never end?  It hadn’t been a year yet, of course, so he knew he should expect moments like this from time to time, but somehow they still caught him off guard as easily as if he hadn’t gone through this grieving process twice before.  Each grief was fresh and new, charting its own unique path, he was beginning to understand, but for the sake of his sons, he’d find his way down this one, too.

* * * * *

            As always, Hoss rode slowly into the yard, eyes watchful, and as always, his little brother bounced up from the porch step, where he sat waiting.  Hoss held up a hand and ordered, “Stay put.”  Wonder of wonders, Little Joe did just that, like he had ever since their last trip to town with Pa, which must have somehow taught him something about minding.  Hoss grinned as he dismounted.  “Okay, come on,” he called.

            Little Joe ran over and held up his arms to be boosted up onto Charcoal’s back.  “Milk and cookies inside,” he reported.  That wasn’t particularly news, since Hop Sing had that snack waiting for Hoss most days when he came home from school, but Hoss liked to hear it nonetheless.

            “Soon as we get Charcoal settled,” he said with a smack of his lips.  It seemed like an eternity since he’d emptied the contents of his lunch pail.

            When the horse was thoroughly groomed, watered and fed, the two boys went to the kitchen.  A plate of cookies already sat on Hop Sing’s work table, but the cook waited until they appeared to pour two glasses of milk.  “You have good day at school?” he asked.

            “It was all right,” Hoss said, taking an oatmeal cookie, one of his favorite’s.  He never actually enjoyed school, except for the time he spent in the schoolyard with his friends, but today had been one of his better days: no problems with his lessons and no mean-spirited taunts from bullies during break times.

            “You home early,” Hop Sing said, busily chopping root vegetables for the stew he was preparing for supper.

            “Always am, nowadays,” Hoss said between bites.  “They opened up a post office in Franktown a week or so back, remember?  So I don’t have to ride over to Washoe City to fetch the mail no more.”

            “That good,” Hop Sing said.  “More time for work in garden.”

            “Yeah, I reckon,” Hoss muttered, brushing the cookie crumbs from his shirt.  He’d a heap rather work up at the timber camp than putter around Hop Sing’s truck garden, but he didn’t really mind the work, especially at planting time.  Hoeing weeds was another matter, but he wouldn’t have to face that for a while yet.  “Is it ready to plant?”

            “Is-a ready,” Hop Sing reported.  “Mr. Enos have man plow and—what word?”

            “Harrow,” Hoss said.  “It’s ready, then.  What we plantin’ today?  Onions and taters first, then turnips and carrots tomorrow, maybe?”

            “That right,” Hop Sing said, grateful that he didn’t have to say those difficult “r” English words.  “I start cabbage and tomato in window box.”  He pointed at the kitchen window.

            “Yeah, that’s good,” Hoss said.  “Lots of good eatin’ soon, huh?”

            “Good eatin’ all-a time,” Hop Sing insisted, bristling at the perceived affront to his cooking abilities.

            “Yeah,” Hoss agreed quickly.  “Everything you fix is good, Hop Sing, but fresh things taste even better, ‘cause you got better stuff to work with.”

            The cook beamed then.  “Fresh better, yes.  You plant garden chop-chop, so can have fresh things again.”

            “You gonna help, Little Joe?” Hoss asked, ignoring the sudden scowl with which Hop Sing favored him.

            “Yeah!” Little Joe crowed.

            Hop Sing harrumphed and pointedly took away the plate of cookies.  “Little boys need get work now.  More cookie when done”—his eyes pierced into those of the older child—“if garden look right.”

            Hoss got the message.  If he let Little Joe make a mess of something as important as the Ponderosa’s food supply, there’d be no cookies for him—no taters or turnips, either, for that matter, he realized.  “We’ll do good, won’t we, Little Joe?”

            Lowering his glass of milk, Little Joe wiped off his milky mustache and gazed at his brother with cherubic innocence.  “Always do good,” he alleged.

            Hoss rolled his eyes.  He was in for it, all right, but at breakfast Pa had clearly said that “you boys” were to help Hop Sing plant the garden that afternoon and every afternoon until it was done.  “Boys” meant at least two; he’d learned that much in school, and they were the only two boys on the Ponderosa, so Pa must be expecting him to teach Little Joe to do a good job.  The day’d come, Hoss mused, when he wouldn’t be a school kid anymore; he’d be a man and he’d be working the timber this time of year, like he wanted.  He smiled at the prospect as he took his brother’s hand and led him out to the garden plot.  Once all that happened, Little Joe would have to take over the planting, and now, while he was too little to be much use, was the time to teach him.  And Pa was trusting him to teach Joe right.  Hoss’s smile broadened into a grin.

            He expected nothing but trouble from his little brother, who he’d always thought was blessed with too much energy to do anything slow and careful.  Little Joe surprised him, though.  Slow and careful still wasn’t in his nature, but he evidently was proud to be chosen for some “big boy” work, and so he listened to everything Hoss taught him about how to plant each seed so it would grow right.  Minding better about not running at horses and now trying his best to help out with a chore—Hoss thought those might be signs that his baby brother was growing up, and he bragged all over him in Joe’s hearing and later in Pa’s.

            Little Joe basked in the sunshine of praise, and the good behavior continued.  He still needed to be reminded about the horses from time to time, and there were days he whined to go fishing, instead of planting, but Hoss reminded him of all the good things that would be on the table this summer, even if the cold of the recent snow had given them a later start than usual.  Guided by his brother’s calm, gentle instructions and corrections, Little Joe learned a lot about how things grow that spring, as they planted beets and parsnips and finally lettuce in the garden.  When May came, they helped Hop Sing move the seedlings of cabbage and tomatoes to the garden and then planted cucumbers, melons, corn, beans and herbs.

            Often Hoss arrived home from school to find the porch step vacant and his little brother, Klamath at his heels, racing around the side of the house from his latest trip out to the garden to see how their plants were doing.  Those were the days he needed the reminders about the horses, but Joe always stopped when Hoss yelled, “Stay put,” and as the little boy took his daily ride into the barn on Charcoal’s back, he’d report to Hoss on how many fingers high each plant was.

            Little Joe was less enthusiastic when Hoss started him out pulling weeds.  He wasn’t trusted with a hoe yet, so he had to do his weeding by hand, a slow and tedious task that only emphasized that he was still a little boy.

“Clearin’ weeds ain’t no fun, no matter which way you do it,” Hoss told him as he chopped his way down the row next to his brother, “but it’s gotta be done or the weeds’ll choke out the good things.  Ain’t no use in you fussin’ about it, nor me, neither, cause we want them good things on the table, right?”

            “Right,” Little Joe said.  His ready agreement and the way he always took every word Hoss said as gospel brought a warmth the older boy basked in as much as the younger one did words of praise.  And the times Little Joe said, “You’re the smartest man I know” took all the sting out of every schoolyard taunt Hoss had ever endured.

* * * * *

            Little Joe’s eyes lighted with joy as Nelly Thomas presented the cake with five lighted candles after dinner on Sunday.  “I’m five now,” he announced to everyone seated at the table, which included all the Thomases, including Billy and Marta, as well as the Montgomerys, along with the newest member of the family and her doting German grandmother.

            “Not quite,” Ben reminded him.  Little Joe’s birthday was actually tomorrow, and he’d saved his son’s gifts back for then, but he was grateful to Nelly for planning this get-together today.  Last year Marie had invited practically the entire community to Little Joe’s birthday party, but Ben hadn’t felt up to anything that grandiose this year.  A quieter celebration with family and close friends seemed more fitting and less likely to inundate them all with memories of the mother who had planned such gatherings to perfection.

            “Five now,” Little Joe insisted.

            “All right,” Ben conceded, not willing to let the technicality of a few hours spoil the boy’s enjoyment of his special moment.  “Make a wish and blow out those candles before they melt.”  He had a good idea what that wish would be and knew that it was destined for disappointment.  Little Joe had made no secret that what he wanted most for his birthday was a horse, but Ben still couldn’t bear the thought of seeing his boy alone on a mount.  It brought the memories much too close.  He’d have to get over that fear sometime, he knew, but not yet.  He couldn’t risk losing Marie’s boy this soon after losing her.

            Little Joe took a deep breath and blew out three of the candles, with Hoss quickly leaning in to finish off the other two.  Everyone applauded, Little Joe with the greatest enthusiasm of all.  Nelly cut the cake and passed plates around to everyone and refilled coffee cups for anyone who wanted more.

            “We’re all set now,” Ben said.  “Sit down and enjoy this marvelous cake with us, Nelly.”

            “Mav’lous,” Little Joe echoed, crumbs tumbling from his mouth.  Ben didn’t have the heart to correct him today; after all, it was his birthday they were celebrating.  Instruction in table manners could wait until tomorrow—well, day after tomorrow, he supposed, since the same argument would hold on the following day.

            After every crumb had been consumed, for the cake was that tasty, the women and Inger trooped upstairs to put little Marta Marie down for her nap, and Billy took the boys outside to play a game of chase.  The rest of the men gathered in the parlor with still more coffee to digest their dinner and the news of the day.  They touched on the war news first.  After a month’s siege the Army of the Potomac had occupied Yorktown and also Williamsburg in Virginia and planned to press on to the Confederate capital at Richmond.  Though everyone hoped that might signal an end to the conflict, they spent more time discussing the implications of another recent landslide near Genoa.  A number of men had been injured or buried, as well as horses, oxen and everything else in the rockslide’s path.

            “Certainly been a lot of that sort of instability this year,” Ben commented.

            “Nature of the territory, I reckon,” Clyde observed.  “Hated to hear that the new sawmill at the mouth of the canyon got caught up in it, though.  Cost seven thousand to build and gone, just like that.”  He snapped his fingers to emphasize the swiftness with which that investment had been swept away.

            “Yeah, we could use another sawmill,” Ben agreed.  “The one I’ve been using is filling my orders slower all the time, simply due to the amount of business they’re having to handle.”

            “Ought to build your own,” Clyde advised, “much timber as you have.”

            “Oh, I don’t know,” Ben said, trying and failing to disguise how much the idea tempted him.  “Sometimes it feels like my business is so far-flung now that I can’t keep up with it.  Maybe if Adam were home. . . .”  He shook his head in self-chiding.  Adam was entitled to his own dreams.

            “Yeah, but a mill fits in with your timber operation, don’t it?” Clyde pressed.  “Might be that havin’ your own mill would bring things closer, not fling ‘em further apart.”

            “We could do it, Mr. Ben,” Enos said.  “Like Clyde says, milling our own timber could end up saving us time and money in the long run.”

            Ben nodded slowly.  “Yeah, that it could.  It would mean some investment up front, though, in supplies and more men.  Let me think about it a few days, assess where I’m at and what I can afford to risk and then . . . maybe.”  He stood and stretched.  “Wish I could stay longer, Clyde,” he said, “but we’ve got a full day ahead tomorrow.”  Spring always brought full days, work having piled up during the long hiatus of winter, and he wanted to spend some extra time the next day with Little Joe.  Most of the time Joseph seemed like a happy little boy, untouched by tragedy, but Ben saw occasional signs of lingering distress.  Sometimes he caught the boy looking wistfully at the chair where his mother used to sit and sometimes at the one Adam had regularly occupied with the same longing.  Other times, Little Joe would cling to him so tightly that Ben would wonder if the boy were remembering those dark days when his pa had seemed lost to him, as well as his mother.  Tomorrow was a chance to heal some of that, and he planned to take it, work be hanged.

            “Wants a chance to get away and start thinkin’ about the mill, he means,” Clyde cackled.

            “Better stay here, then,” Enos joshed along with him, “‘cause you know those boys won’t give him a minute’s peace for thinkin’.”

            Ben favored them with a sour smile.  “I’m hoping that Billy has worn them out enough that they’ll want to sleep in the back all the way home.”

            The others hooted, and Ben admitted ruefully to himself that all that romping around outside would probably do nothing but work the boys up to a frenzy that could only be settled by chattering all the way back to the Ponderosa.

* * * * *

            Celebrating a birthday with a visit to a grave might seem wrong to most people, but Ben had instinctively felt that it was right.  He wanted Little Joe to realize that his mother was still part of their family, so as he stopped there after their just-for-two noontime picnic at the lake, he emphasized how very proud the boy’s mother would have been to see him reach his fifth birthday.  A few tears were shed by both father and son, followed by fierce hugs, and Ben sensed that these few moments together meant more to Little Joe than the toys he’d received that morning.

            The boy’s birthday happiness increased even more when Hoss rode in after school with a present from Adam, which was, predictably, a book.  Little Joe flipped hastily through the pages, relieved to see that there were lots of pictures.  “Rollo Learning to Talk,” Hoss read from the title page.  He looked up at his father.  “I don’t think Joe much needs a book about learning to talk,” he said.  “He jabbers too much now.”

            Ben laughed.  “Adam’s note says that it’s the first in a series, and if Little Joe likes it, the next volume would be Rollo Learning to Read.”

            “Yeah, he needs that one,” Hoss said, “but I guess it’s better to start with the first and get to know ole Rollo.”

            “I have a feeling I’ll be the one reading both volumes,” Ben chuckled.

            Little Joe thrust the book at him.  “Right now, Pa,” he dictated.

            Ben shook his head, for he was trying to draw together enough facts to decide about building a new mill.  When he saw the boy’s eyes cloud over, though, he immediately caved in.  “Well, since it’s your birthday,” he said slowly, “but it’s for bedtime after today, understood?”

            “Yes, Pa,” Little Joe chirped, hopping up into his father’s lap.  “Read now and read more for bedtime.”  It wasn’t exactly what Ben had said, but he had a feeling things would turn out precisely as the birthday tyrant dictated.

* * * * *

            Ben decided to build the mill, but before he could put his plans into operation, his attention was distracted by disturbing news from the Walker River Reservation: Wahe had returned.  After Ben and Warren Wasson had broken up his plot against Fort Churchill last year, he’d headed back to Bannock territory in Oregon and had, as far as Ben knew, been there ever since.  No doubt he had meant to stir up trouble here again, and enough Paiutes still feared Winnemucca’s ruthless brother to reawaken fear in every white heart. 

            The trouble never materialized, however, at least in the manner expected.  Two of the Paiute chiefs had been convinced by the events of the previous spring that Wahe was not a true spirit chief, but an ordinary man who could be killed; and so, to protect the tribe, they took his life.  Still, Wahe’s reputation remained so strong that some of the Indians feared even death could not defeat him.  To dispel their suspicions that he might somehow resurrect himself, the murderers cut his body into minute pieces and scattered them so far apart that not even the most superstitious believed they could ever reunite.

            That should have dissipated any concern, but there’d been an unrelated uprising just across the California border, near Owens River, and Nevada’s Paiutes seemed to fear that they’d suffer reprisals for the actions of those Indians.  As Governor, James Nye also held the office of Superintendent of Indian Affairs, and in that capacity he sent a message to Ben Cartwright within a week of Wahe’s death.

            While Ben packed his saddlebags late one night, Hoss slipped into his room and hugged one of the bedposts.  “Do you gotta go, Pa?” he asked quietly.

            “The Governor’s asked, Hoss,” Ben said, “and if he needs my help, I think I should give it.”  He turned to see the boy’s lips press tightly together.  “Something wrong, son?” he asked gently.

             “Just wish you wouldn’t, is all.”  He kept his eyes on his big toe as it scuffed the carpet beneath his bare foot.  “You know how Little Joe gets when you’re gone someplace.”

            Ben nodded.  He did know that; he also knew that Little Joe wasn’t the only boy who worried when Pa disappeared for a day or so.  That was why he didn’t seek out opportunities for community service that would keep him away from home; this one, however, had sought him out, and he didn’t feel he should refuse.  He pushed the saddlebags aside and, sitting down, patted the edge of the bed beside him.  “Sit down, son,” he urged.

            Hoss hopped onto the bed and snuggled close to his father’s side.

Ben wrapped an arm around him.  “Now, what exactly is Little Joe worried about?” he asked, maintaining the pretense that only the younger boy was concerned.

            Hoss gave his lips a nervous lick.  “He’s sort of worried about you goin’ around all them injuns . . . after what happened to Wahe.”

            Ben sobered.  “What do you know about that?”

            Hoss gulped, fearing he’d said too much.  “Well, I heard some talk at school . . . ‘bout him bein’ killed and . . . well . . . cut up and . . . uh . . . sent ever which way.”

            Ben groaned.  “Please tell me Little Joe doesn’t know that part.”

            Hoss looked appalled.  “‘Course not, Pa!  I wouldn’t let such as that get to his little ears.  I got me some sense, Pa.”

            Ben squeezed him tighter.  “Of course, you do, Hoss.  You’ve told me before, and I should remember that.  So, then, it really isn’t Little Joe who’s worried, is it?”

            “Yeah, it is,” Hoss said.  “He’s always worried when you go off anywheres, Pa.”  His fingers twisted the tail of his nightshirt.  “But . . . well . . . it ain’t him about that Wahe business.  I reckon that’s sort of . . . me.”

            “You don’t need to worry about that, Hoss,” Ben said gently.  “Wahe is gone; he can’t do anyone any harm now, and I’m convinced that the other Paiutes don’t want trouble.”

            “Even his kin?” Hoss asked.  “He was Chief Winnemucca’s brother, wasn’t he?  I sure don’t think it’d go down easy if anyone was to do Adam or Little Joe like they done his brother.”

            “I’m sure it doesn’t go down easy,” Ben said gravely, “but in the first place it wasn’t white men who killed Wahe; it was their own people.  In the second place, there’ll be a hundred cavalry men escorting us to this meeting.  Winnemucca is too wise to go against a force like that.”

            The worry lines in Hoss’s forehead smoothed out.  “A hundred?”

“That’s what Governor Nye’s message said,” Ben confirmed, “so you see, son, your pa will be perfectly safe.  I don’t expect trouble anyway, but I’d have that many trained troopers backing me up if it came.  Feel better now?”

            “Yeah,” Hoss said with relief, “and I’ll keep Little Joe from frettin’ the best I can.  Can I tell him ‘bout the soldiers?”

            “Sure,” Ben said, tousling the boy’s hair, “if you think it’ll help.  I’m sure glad I have a boy like you I can count on.”  He paused thoughtfully for a moment.  “Now, like I said, I don’t expect trouble, but do you know what to do if . . . well, if the worst happened and I didn’t make it home?”

            “Don’t say that, Pa,” Hoss whimpered.

            “Shh,” Ben soothed.  “Nothing’s going to happen, but the best way to ward off trouble is to be prepared for it.  If anything should ever happen to me, Hoss, the first thing you should do is send a telegram to your brother Adam.”

            “All the way to New Haven?” Hoss asked, eyes wide and jaw dropping.

            Ben nodded.  “Yes, all the way to New Haven.  It might take him as much as a month to settle his affairs back East and get home, but he’ll come to you as soon as he can.  He’s a good boy.”  Much as he would hate to take his eldest away from his dream of an education, he couldn’t expect a boy as young as Hoss to run the ranch and look after his brother.  And he knew that Adam would never shirk the responsibility, whatever personal sacrifice was involved.  “If you need any help before he can get here, you go to Uncle Clyde.  All right?”

            “All right,” Hoss said slowly, “but I sure hope it don’t never come to that, Pa.”

            “I don’t think it will,” Ben assured him.  “Just thought it might give you some peace to know how to handle things if you ever needed to.”

            “Yeah.”  Hoss looked up and smiled into his father’s face.  “Yeah, I reckon it does, Pa, but I don’t think I’ll be telling Little Joe that, neither.”

            “You got you some sense,” Ben chuckled with another squeeze.  “Now, off to bed with you.  I’ll be leaving early, so I probably won’t see you in the morning.”

            Hoss scooted off the bed and headed for the door, but his father’s voice stopped him.

            “I hate to even put this idea in your head,” Ben said with a conspiratorial grin, “but if your brother seems too upset in the morning, you might want to skip school and stay home with him.”

            Hoss returned the grin.  He could almost guarantee that he’d feel the need to stay home tomorrow to tend to Little Joe.

* * * * *

            Ben rode at ease at the Governor’s side.  They weren’t intimate friends, but they’d worked together more than once and held a mutual respect that came close to friendship.  “We’re only going as far as the lower bend of the Truckee,” Nye confided.  “Winnemucca refused to allow us past that point . . . and has the warriors to back him up.”

            “How do you know this?” Ben asked.

            “Warren Wasson,” Nye replied.  “He’ll be bringing them in to the conference, and he said Winnemucca plans to bring along two hundred mounted warriors and that many on foot, too.”

            Ben whistled softly.  Suddenly, those one hundred cavalrymen didn’t seem like much of an escort, after all.  “You don’t expect trouble, though.”

            “I do not,” Nye said firmly, “but don’t tell Captain Pierce about the possible odds.”

            “He doesn’t know?”  It scarcely seemed like the sort of information one would keep from the man in charge of the cavalry troops.

            “Never sure whether I can trust troops from California,” Nye admitted, looking a bit sheepish.  “Nevada men, like you and Wasson, I trust, but a man who doesn’t know the background of the situation . . . well, he might overreact, make demands, provoke a clash.  I know nothing against Pierce, mind you; let’s just say I don’t want to give him time to plan a confrontation.”

            Ben was feeling more and more glad that he’d had that talk with Hoss the night before.  Until now he’d had no real concern for his safety.  He trusted Winnemucca not to make trouble, but a military man who didn’t understand the old chief might read his ceremonial show of force as genuine animosity.   And it would only take a spark of that sort of misunderstanding to light a conflagration that could burn through the territory.  Yes, he was very glad he had told Hoss what to do if things went wrong.

            They made camp that afternoon at the lower bend of the Truckee and waited, for there was not a Paiute in sight.  Late that evening Warren Wasson and Winnemucca appeared at the head of a large procession.  Captain Pierce hurried over to the Governor.  “Sir, would you like me to arrange safe conduct home for you?”

            “Why on earth would I want that?” Nye demanded.  “I came here for a conference with these men.”

            “All of them?” Pierce asked scornfully.  “Surely, you didn’t expect. . . .”

            “I am neither surprised nor alarmed by the size of Winnemucca’s entourage,” the Governor stated with lifted head, his eyes drilling into those of the cavalryman.

            “It’s for show, Captain Pierce,” Ben suggested.  “We’ve seen this sort of demonstration before, and I assure you that the Governor is in no danger.”

            “Perhaps,” Pierce said stiffly, “but I will be posting extra guards, especially around your person, sir.”  He saluted sharply, turned on his heel and marched off.

            Ben looked at the Governor and shrugged.  “Could have been worse.”

            James Nye gave him a wry smile.  “As overreactions go, that one wasn’t too dangerous.  My hope for a successful conference is restored.”

            Over the next two days, however, the white men began to wonder if the conference would even take place.  The Paiute warriors kept up a round-the-clock war dance, demonstrating their bravery and endurance by dancing on live coals, while Winnemucca sulked in his tent, to use Warren Wasson’s description.  “Will he talk to us or not?” Governor Nye finally demanded.

            “In his time,” Wasson sighed.  “In his time.”

            “What’s he waiting for?” Ben asked; then his eyebrow raised as an idea struck him.  “Numaga?”  In the day and a half that they’d camped by the Truckee, he hadn’t seen the tribe’s war chief.

            “I was told that he’s away in the north,” Wasson reported.

            Ben’s lips set in an uneasy line.  “With Wahe’s people?”

            Wasson gave a noncommittal shrug.  “Possibly.  No one in Winnemucca’s lodge mentions that name.”

            Closing his eyes, Ben shook his head.  He had always considered Numaga the most reasonable man among the Paiutes, the man he’d most want included in any conference.  Wahe, however, had been his uncle, and any man could lose his sensibility when blinded by a grievance that personal.  While Ben had tried to console Hoss with the reminder that Wahe had been killed by his own people, fear of white reprisals had probably motivated the swift action those Paiute chiefs had taken against the rebel.  In fact, for Wahe’s death to have fed any residual bitterness toward the white man that the Paiutes camped here by the Truckee felt was more than probable: it was likely.  The tension on both sides of the Truckee was almost palpable.

            Finally, at dusk that evening of May 25^th, a shout rang out from across the river, where the Paiutes were camped, and the war dance abruptly ceased.  Captain Pierce came running over.  “What’s up?” he demanded anxiously.  “Do we brace ourselves for attack or—”

            “Conference,” Nye said, standing up.  “We brace ourselves for the conference, Captain.”

Thank you, President Lincoln, Ben thought, as he had a number of times before, for appointing this caliber of man to be our governor.  Political appointments tended to be rewards for services rendered during a campaign, and it was no different with James Nye.  Nevada had been blessed, however, to be sent a man who governed well and genuinely cared about its people, regardless of the color of their skin.  He’d faced down an angry mob in Carson City; and now, outnumbered four to one, he was facing war-chanting Paiutes with single-minded determination and courage.  They were here to parley; they’d waited patiently for the right moment and this appeared to be it.

            Later that night, as the ceremonial pipe passed around the circle of conference, Ben recognized Numaga seated across from him at the side of Winnemucca, who had finally come out of his tent.  He should have known: no one was as likely to advise talk as that clear-headed Paiute, but would he offer the same sane advice he had before or would personal bitterness, still etched on his face and that of his uncle, direct his thoughts toward war this time?  Numaga’s headgear disturbed Ben, though he thought it unlikely that the other white men, with the exception of experienced Indian Agent Warren Wasson, realized the significance of that cap made from an entire otter skin and decorated with large, sweeping eagle plumes: it was his war bonnet.

            The conference that night achieved nothing but the acceptance of an invitation to continue their parley the next day.  Finding it hard to settle in his bedroll, Ben lay there for hours, looking at the stars.  He wasn’t concerned about an attack, like the skittish Captain Pierce, who had men patrolling the perimeter of the camp throughout the night; Winnemucca had too much honor to violate a parley of peace, though his heart was clearly not in idle talk with white men.  Numaga, too, had been stoical and noncommittal throughout the evening, so Ben had no idea what his state of mind might be.

            He tried to assess that again the next morning, as the pipe made its five ceremonial circles through the group, but the war chief’s countenance revealed nothing. There was a traditional presentation of gifts, and then Governor Nye brought up the touchy matter of Wahe’s death, emphasizing that white men had neither sought it nor perpetrated it.  As the government’s final gift, Warren Wasson presented such personal effects of Winnemucca’s brother as they had been able to find, including a photograph.

            As the Indian Agent tried to hand the picture to him, Winnemucca waved it away in obvious alarm.  “No want it,” he declared firmly.  “Me see him too much all the time.”

            That, Ben suddenly realized, was what lay behind Winnemucca’s apparent sulking in his tent.  Not sulking, but the brooding of an overwhelmed heart.  What had happened to Wahe was the stuff of nightmares, and the superstitious old chief would, no doubt, view those nighttime visitations as a haunting by the man who had claimed to be the spirit chief of the Paiutes, although his blood was mixed with that of the Bannocks.  “We grieve with you, my friend,” Ben said quietly.  “The death of a brother brings special pain.”  Thank God, he hadn’t learned that by personal experience, but even his young son had instantly understood what it would mean to lose a brother.  There were few relationships on earth as close.

            Winnemucca looked across at him and nodded slowly.  This was one white man whose heart he knew and could trust.  “What does the White Winnemucca seek?” he asked.

            “Peace,” Ben said plainly.  “We want only peace from you and your people, for you and your people.”

            “We have not broken the peace,” Numaga said bluntly, a harsh edge to his voice.

            “No,” Governor Nye broke in, “you have not and that is good.  Let us continue the good beginning we have made by making a new treaty, promising peace between your people and mine.”

            “What is the need?” Numaga demanded.  “We have kept our promises of peace.  What has changed to bring need for new promises?”

            The white men exchanged glances, and Ben shrugged at the Governor.  He couldn’t deny Numaga’s logic.  If the original treaty remained unbroken, there was nothing to gain by making a new one—nothing, that is, except insulting the Paiute’s integrity, probably the worst thing they could do.  Governor Nye squared his shoulders and faced the Paiute leader.  “You speak wisdom, Numaga,” he said.  “I offer, then, only my pledge that our promises to the Paiute will be kept and my personal gratitude for the way in which your people have kept theirs.”

            Numaga stood.  “In token of our pledge, I make this gift.”  He removed from his head his war bonnet and handed it to the Governor.  Then he signaled to another brave, who brought forward a tomahawk, a magnificent bow and a quiver with arrows.  “These I have used in all my battles,” he said.  “I need them no more.”

            There could have been no more eloquent manner of saying that he would keep the peace than to relinquish his symbols and weapons of war.  Governor Nye was wise enough to comprehend the message and to graciously accept the gifts.  While nothing would be written down, he’d successfully reestablished the treaty with the Paiutes, and as they rode away from the Truckee that afternoon, he told Ben that he couldn’t have done it without him.

            “I did nothing,” Ben protested.  He considered his contribution small, no more than a few words spoken in the council.

            “To have the White Winnemucca at my side is never nothing,” Governor Nye insisted.  “As always, you have served your country well.”

            When their paths parted, Ben mulled those words.  He still considered the praise undeserved, but he felt gratified nonetheless.  To serve his country well—that was always a worthy task, and when he could achieve it without neglecting higher responsibilities, he would.  To raise his sons to be good, strong and courageous men, though: that was the task that stirred the most fervor in his heart.  Too many days had passed since he’d seen those precious faces; it was time to go home.  He touched his heels lightly to his horse’s flanks and urged him on to the Ponderosa.

~ ~ Notes ~ ~

            The Bowers’ hosted a lavish farewell party at the International House on April 24, 1862.  Almost everyone in Virginia City was invited and offered every luxury San Francisco could supply, including terrapin and champagne that flowed as freely as water.  Sandy’s speech, including phonetics and misspellings, is a verbatim quote from a historical source.

            Franktown’s post office opened on April 22, 1862.

            Yet another landslide occurred near Genoa in early May, 1862.

            Rollo Holliday, the creation of Jacob Abbott, was one of the most popular and educational characters in antebellum children’s books.  Rollo Learning to Talk, the first in the series, was actually intended for children just learning to speak, but even a child of Little Joe’s age would enjoy having the stories read to him.  If Adam ever sends him Rollo Learning to Read, he’ll probably like that less, since it has no pictures.

            Wahe returned in May of 1862 and was killed and his body mutilated in the manner described.  The conference with the Paiutes occurred, virtually as written, on May 23.  Winnemucca’s reaction to seeing his dead brother’s photograph is a direct quote.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Making a Move

            Ben glanced across his youngest’s curly head to grin at his middle son.  “Is it just me or are we starting spring roundup later every year?” 
            Hoss guffawed.  “Why, Pa, I thought June was when we did it every year.”
            Ben gave him a mock scowl to belie the pinch of truth.  Paiutes kicking up a ruckus had delayed roundup the previous two years, and fear of the same had kept him occupied with an all-but-pointless conference this spring.  Here it was the second of June, and they were only now gathering supplies for the roundup.  “I’m shooting for July next year,” he joshed, and that set Hoss laughing all the harder.
            The humor was lost on Little Joe, who was simply excited about a trip to town, even if it was just Washoe City and not the bigger and more exciting Virginia City.  He’d be spending the whole day with Pa and Hoss, and they’d be eating in the best restaurant in town and visiting the general store and the post office.  And then something happened that upped the excitement beyond what even Virginia City could have offered.  “What’s that?” he cried, bouncing to his feet and pointing.
            Ben didn’t even have time to look at what had caught his son’s animated attention, for the team, normally a slow and plodding pair, suddenly reared up in their harness and took off down the main street of town.  “Hoss, grab your brother!” he hollered as he strained on the reins with both hands.
            “Whee!” Little Joe exulted, arms spread wide, the sheer joy of his expression dampened only slightly when his brother pulled him down and held on tight.  “Go, Pa, go!”
            “Shush, Joe,” Hoss ordered sharply, wondering—if it came to that—whether he could hold onto Joe and jump without landing on his little brother—or any of the other folks scrambling to get off the street, away from the careening wagon.  He wasn’t about to leave the smaller boy behind, so he wrapped Joe close with one arm and held onto the buckboard seat with the other hand.
            Ben sawed frantically on the reins, but that made little difference, so he pulled back with both reins, repeatedly yelling, “Whoa!”  The horses kept running.  What had gotten into them, anyway?  They weren’t the sort to stampede like this.  Something must have really spooked them.  No time to think about that now, though.  Suddenly, he thought to put on the brake, to make the wagon harder to pull.  It slowed the horses down some, but on they ran, all the way through town and out into the open land beyond.  With more room to maneuver now, he pulled the reins hard to one side, to make the horses circle.
            The boys screamed as the wheels on their side of the wagon left the ground, but Ben quickly widened his circle, and they hit ground again with a jolt.  “Whoa!” Hoss hollered in concert with his father, while Little Joe all the while yelled, “Giddyup!”  Fortunately, Ben later thought, he and Hoss had enough lungpower to drown out the opposing command.  He kept the horses circling, kept yelling at them to stop until the exhausted animals slowed to a trot, then a jog and finally a walk before standing still and panting.
            Panting for breath himself, Ben slumped over for a full minute and then rose up to stare at his youngest.  “Giddyup?” he croaked.
            “It was fun, Pa,” Little Joe insisted, though his eyes clouded a bit with concern.
            “Fun,” Ben muttered, mouth swirling as if he didn’t quite know how to get the taste of that out of his mouth.  “Well, keep it up, boy, and we might just see how much fun you get from a trip across my knee.”  He sighed in self-reproach when he saw Little Joe shrink back against his brother’s chest and Hoss’s arms close protectively around him.  He was upset, of course, but he needed to choose his words better than that.  After all, it wasn’t Joe’s fault that the horses had run; they were quite used to him standing up and hollering out his excitement over some sight or other.  It had to have been something else.
            “Saying ‘giddyup’ is not the way to stop a runaway team,” Ben instructed, gentling his voice.  “Now, what do you think made them run away?  What was it you saw back there in town, son?”  He’d been too busy trading jests with Hoss to notice whatever had caught Little Joe’s eye, but the horses clearly had seen it, too, and been terrified.
            “I don’t know, Pa,” Little Joe whispered, lower lip still trembling from his father’s rebuke.  “That’s why I asked.”
            With a weary exhale Ben rested his head in his hand.  Well, he could sit here, playing a game of twenty questions with a five-year-old or he could just drive back into town and find out for himself.  Reluctant as he was to do that, they still needed those supplies.  Straightening up, he turned the team around and, eyes peeled for any hint of danger, walked them back toward Washoe City.
            He managed to get the team to Mears’ and Kinkead’s general store without problem.  Isaac Mears stepped outside to welcome his customer with a bit of good-natured ribbing.  “Glad you thought better of your decision to pass us by,” he chuckled.
            “Believe me, passing you by—especially at that pace—wasn’t my idea,” Ben grunted as he tied the horses’ reins to the hitching rail.  He checked their mouths, hoping he hadn’t damaged them by the way he’d sawed on the reins during those first moments of panic.  Stupid thing to do, anyway, and he knew better.  Not only was it rough on the poor horses’ mouths, but with a team harness, it didn’t work the way it did with a single mount.  “Sorry, boys,” he whispered to the animals.
            Mears just kept grinning at him.  “Yours ain’t the first team to make a trip through town at that clip, you know.  Sorry to say, some of ‘em don’t never make it back.  Them vile, tobacco-spittin’ brutes sure is a drain on business.”
            “Tobacco-spitting brutes?” Ben asked.  “Then you know what spooked my horses?”
            “Oh, sure,” Mears said.  “Them beasts they brought in to haul salt and such.”
            “Beasts to haul salt and such,” Ben repeated blankly.  No mule or pack horse had ever spooked his team before, and he doubted that such a common creature could have spooked them now.  Nor, to his knowledge, had any mule or pack horse ever spat tobacco.  “They—uh—have two heads, these mules, the better to spit tobacco?” he asked wryly, wondering if the storekeeper was spinning one of Dan DeQuille’s latest quaints.
            Mears bent double, slapping both legs.  “That’s a good one, Cartwright.”  He got control of himself and straightened up.  “They ain’t mules, and it ain’t really tobacco they’s spittin’.  Wish it was, ‘cause they spray their foul spittle further than any man ever chewed and spewed tobacco.”
            Little Joe tugged urgently on his father’s pant leg.  “They’re big, Pa,” he advised, holding his hand as far over his head as he could reach, “and they got a whole mountain on their backs.”
Ben rolled his eyes as he snorted.  “A mountain of salt and such, I suppose.”
            Gasping for breath between cackles, Mears leaned against the upright post outside his store.  “Cartwright, you’re gonna do me in with them wise cracks of yourn.”
            “I’m not wisecracking!”  Ben threw his hands up.  “If you’re not going to tell me what these ten-foot, mountain-toting, tobacco-spitting salt haulers actually are, maybe I’d better take my business elsewhere.”
            “Now, no need to get your hackles up,” Mears said, suddenly sober at the thought of lost business.  “Fact is, the boy was close to right.  I reckon that hump on the critter’s back does sort of look like a mountain.”
            “Told you,” Little Joe declared with obvious pride.
            Ben pondered the description for a minute and then slowly asked, “A camel?  Are you telling me there’s a camel here in town?”  In all his travels over land and sea, he’d never encountered one, although he’d heard of some on exhibition back East.
            “More than one.  Whole corral of ‘em at the edge of town,” Mears snorted, “and the sooner we get shed of ‘em, the better.  Horses can’t stand the sight or smell of ‘em, and I can’t blame ‘em one bit.  Ought to give the boys a chance to look ‘em over, though; it’s quite a sight.”
            “A real camel?” Hoss, who’d read about the animal in school, asked.  “I’d sure like to see that, Pa!”    
            Little Joe jumped up and down.  “Can we, Pa?  Can we, huh?”
            Ben was finally able to laugh.  “Well, in the interest of education, I guess we’d better.”  He pulled out his list of supplies and handed it to Mr. Mears.  “If you could get those things together, we’ll be back to help with the loading after dinner.”
            “Fine, fine,” Mears said.
            Ben stroked the back of the horse nearest him.  “Well, fellow, you’ve had yourself a rough morning, haven’t you?  Not every day a horse meets his first camel.”  He glanced at Hoss, who was tenderly stroking the other draft horse and whispering soothing words in his ear.  “I think we’d better take these fellows down to the livery and get them some oats and some rest.”
            “Yeah, Pa,” Hoss agreed, quickly starting to unharness the team.
            “I’d recommend Miller’s,” Mears offered dryly.
            Ben chuckled and said he’d take that advice.  Miller’s Livery was as good as any, and being at the opposite end of town from the camels’ corral gave it an unrivaled attraction today.  He and the boys could more safely investigate what had frightened them on foot.  As soon as he had the horses situated, Ben pulled Little Joe up for a piggyback ride.
            “Giddyup,” Little Joe ordered, giving his father’s ribs a light kick.
            “I am not your horse,” Ben said huffily, “and the word you need to practice, little boy, is ‘whoa.’”
            “‘Whoa’ won’t get you nowhere, Pa,” Hoss teased, falling into step beside Ben.
            “Better that than a runaway,” Ben tossed back, and he wasn’t teasing.  He’d put his youngest on his back precisely to prevent him from running straight toward the fascinating new creatures at the edge of town.  He’d seen pictures, of course, but when he actually saw the herd of camels across the corral rails, he was almost as awestruck as the boys.
            “They’re big,” Hoss said in wonder.
            “Told you,” Little Joe said, again raising his arms to the sky.  “Big as a house.”
            “Almost,” his father admitted.  The animals had to be at least six to seven feet tall at the shoulder, and their heads, of course, went up from that.
            “See the mountain?” Little Joe asked, pointing.  He seemed to take special pride in having been the first in the family to spot the camel and to require validation of his description.
            “That’s a whole mountain range over there,” Hoss laughed, reaching up to give his brother’s leg a playful tug.
            “It’s called a hump, Little Joe,” Ben explained, since this was supposed to be an educational expedition.  He went on to tell the boys everything he knew about the “ship of the desert.”
            Hoss filled in what he’d heard in school, his nose wrinkling as he finished.  “Miss Appleton sure never told us how bad they smell.”
            “Probably never smelled one,” Ben grunted.  “Nevada isn’t exactly their natural habitat.”
            “Huh?” Hoss asked.
            “Where they normally live,” Ben amended.
            “Oh, yeah, that’d be the desert, way across the sea,” the boy said.  “How’d they get here, you reckon?”
            “Let’s talk about that over lunch,” Ben suggested.  “I’m starving, and if I get one more whiff of that odor, it’s likely to take my appetite.”
            “Plumb away,” Hoss added, nodding in agreement.
            “Can I ride the camel first?” Little Joe pleaded.
            “No, absolutely not,” his father said firmly, and to remove that particular temptation from his son’s sight, headed back into town, almost at a trot.  “Let’s stop by the post office and see if there’s a letter from Adam.”
            “Mail goes to Franktown now, Pa,” Hoss reminded him.  “I been bringin’ it from there a week now.”
            Ben rested a hand on the boy’s shoulder.  “I know that, son, but any letter from Adam was probably posted before I wrote him of our change of address; it might have come here, instead.”  It was probably a futile hope, but he was so hungry for news from his boy that he had to check.  As he’d feared, however, there was no mail for the Ponderosa at all, much less anything from far-off New Haven.  That boy, Ben groused inwardly, he’s all but quit writing the last few weeks.  Hope he’s not in some sort of trouble.  He smiled wryly.  Truth was, he strongly suspected that Adam was in trouble—of a sort.  The last letters Ben had received from his son had repeatedly mentioned a certain feminine charmer.  Hope she’s not causing him to neglect his schoolwork as much as he is us, he mused, wondering whether he should put a fatherly word of advice into his next letter to Adam.
            “Pa?  Wasn’t we gonna eat at the Antelope?”
            “Hmm?”  Ben looked down at Hoss.  “Yes, son, that’s where we’re headed.”
            “That’s what we just walked past,” Hoss said.
            “Oh, sorry,” Ben said.  He turned around and lifted Little Joe from his shoulders, so they could walk into the restaurant.  “Order whatever you want,” he said, and while they waited for their food to arrive, he told all he knew about the Army’s experiment in bringing camels to the southwest part of America.  “Didn’t work out too well,” he concluded, “so that’s why they sold to camels to private businessmen.”
            “For hauling salt and such,” Hoss said.
            “Yeah,” his father muttered, thankful that the food arrived just then and he could do something besides think about camels.  He thought of them again when he hitched up his team after loading the supplies, and just to be safe, he guided them out the opposite end of town from where he’d originally entered.  It might take a little longer by this circuitous route, but today he was in no mood for speed.  “And if I hear a single ‘giddyup’ the rest of this trip,” he said, eyes locked with those of his youngest son, “I promise you that I’ll be having a very necessary little talk with whoever utters it . . . as soon as I can get the horses stopped.”

* * * * *

            Pout on his face, Little Joe pushed fried potatoes in and out of the pool of egg yolk on his plate.
            “Joseph, would you please stop playing with your food and eat it?” Ben suggested with an edge to his voice.
            “That’s what kids do—play,” Little Joe argued, taking another cube of potato in for a swim.
            Ben blotted his lips and set his napkin aside.  “I have had just about enough of your sulkiness.  You are not going out to the roundup camp and that is that!”
            “But I’m a wrangler, Pa,” the boy whined.  “Remember?  You said so.”
            Ben sighed.  He’d had ample opportunity to regret that foolish designation, but who could have dreamed that the boy would take it so literally—or so persistently?  “Yes, Joseph, I remember,” he said, “but you are a wrangler who is going to stay home and help Hop Sing with the garden this time.”
            Hop Sing, who was clearing away the empty plates, scowled at his employer and stalked off, chattering in Cantonese.  Though Ben couldn’t speak a word of Chinese, not even enough to know Cantonese from Mandarin, he felt certain he could have interpreted that message, word for word.  Hop Sing neither needed nor wanted such help in his garden.  Well, he’d just have to learn, as would the youngest Cartwright, that anyone who worked on this ranch was expected to work where he was told and with whom.
            “I don’t know how,” Little Joe whimpered.  A crafty gleam glittered in his eye.  “Unless Hoss stays and shows me.”
            “Nuh-uh,” Hoss protested.  “Hop Sing can show you ever’thing you need to know.  And don’t make them puppy eyes at me.  I’m goin’ and you’re stayin’ and that’s that, right, Pa?”
            “Right,” Ben said firmly.  Tempting as it was to use his peaceable middle boy to assuage the younger, it wasn’t fair to Hoss.  He’d done his duty at school and deserved his reward.  Besides, he really was becoming a good enough wrangler to be a big help at roundup.
            “But, Pa,” Little Joe pleaded, pulling out his best and most time-proven tactic, “we needs us.”
            Ben only laughed.  “Not this time.”  Giving up on the boy finishing his breakfast, he picked up his son and carried him to the chair by the fire for a final cuddle.  “Now, I know it’s hard,” he soothed, “but we’re not leaving the ranch, just camping out with the men until the job’s done.  We’ll be close at hand, and if you really need us, Hop Sing will get word to us.”  He wiped away the tears that were trickling from the corners of Joe’s eyes.  “Shh, now.  Tell you what, Little Joe, there is one job you could do better than any other.”
            Little Joe perked up.  “At roundup?”
            “No,” Ben said drawing out the word, “here at home.  We need to send another letter to Adam, and—”
            “He don’t write us,” Little Joe countered with outthrust lip.
            “He will,” Ben said.  Or he’ll answer to me, he added to himself.  “So, I want you to work on a special picture for Adam while we’re away.  Draw him a picture story of our trip to Washoe City, camel and all.”
            The green eyes were sparkling with interest now.  “Has Adam ever seen a camel?” Little Joe asked.
            “No, you’re one up on him there, Little Joe,” the father answered, certain that would please his youngest.
            It did.  Little Joe fairly beamed with excitement now.  “I’ll get started right away!” he declared, sliding off his father’s lap.  He trotted over toward the alcove to get paper, but turned back.  “Can I sit at your desk, Pa?  You won’t need it.”
            “You may sit at my desk,” Ben said, “but don’t touch anything you don’t need.”
            “Okay.”  Little Joe moved another step or two toward the desk and stopped again.  “I gotta do a good job for Adam, Pa,” he said, “especially since he ain’t never seen a camel.”
            “That’s right,” Ben called, pleased with himself for choosing the perfect distraction.
            “Probably won’t have much time for working in the garden,” Little Joe suggested slyly.
            Ben coughed into his hand and turned toward the fire, lest his son see his response.  “Perhaps not,” he said once he got control of his countenance.  And so much the better to keep me in Hop Sing’s good graces if you don’t, he thought.  He motioned to Hoss for them both to get out while the getting was good.

* * * * *

            Whatever outrage Little Joe felt at being left behind was forgotten as he rushed into his father’s arms when the older Cartwrights returned near suppertime a few days later. 
            “Were you a good boy?” Ben asked, tossing his reins to Hoss and catching the child up in his arms.
            “Always good,” Little Joe typically responded.
            Ben chuckled.  Why did he ask?  As if this one would ever report wrongdoing!  “Maybe I’d better check with Hop Sing about that, hmm?”
            Little Joe frowned for a moment and then favored his father with a dazzling smile.  “I drew pictures for Adam, just like you said.”  The bob of his head was unmistakably intended to emphasize what a good, obedient boy he’d been.
            “Glad to hear it,” Ben said.  He’d need to get a letter of his own written tonight, so they could post them on their trip to town tomorrow.  He’d promised that trip to Hoss, as a chance to spend some of the wages now burning a hole in his pocket, and unless Hop Sing said that Little Joe had been an unholy terror the last few days, he’d take him along, too.  They’d only been apart four days, but he’d missed his little boy and wouldn’t want to leave him behind again this soon, even if only for a few hours.  He set Joe down and suggested he welcome his brother home, too.
Joe did, with a hug that was just as exuberant as the one he’d given Pa.  His playmate was back, even if their “play” was sometimes otherwise known as working in the garden.  They were together, and that, to Little Joe, was what mattered.  “We needs us” might not work on Pa anymore, but the boy still felt the urgency of having everyone he loved, Adam excepted, close at hand.  As Hoss unsaddled his horse and his father’s, Little Joe chattered about how tall the plants in the garden were now and asked question after question about what Hoss had done on roundup.
            “Mostly brought in strays,” Hoss said with a grin.
            Little Joe’s lip curled.  “Don’t sound like fun.”
            Hoss laughed.  “It ain’t fun, punkin; it’s work.”
The younger boy cocked his head and gave him a dubious look.  “How come you wanna do it, then?”
            “I like workin’,” Hoss said.  “It’s what a man does.”  He didn’t like the branding part, of course, but Pa hadn’t made him actually burn any of the young calves.  He decided that Joe was too young to be told such as that, so he just talked about riding in the saddle all day and roping calves and what he’d had to eat from the chuck wagon.
            “I had better food than that,” Little Joe boasted.  “Hop Sing fixed me anything I wanted.”
            “Yeah, you got the best deal there,” Hoss said.  He was still glad he’d gone on roundup with Pa, but he sure had missed Hop Sing’s cooking.  “What you reckon he’s fixin’ for supper?” he asked.
            “I already know,” Little Joe bragged.  “‘cause I got to pick.”
            “Doggone,” Hoss groused, wishing they’d gotten home early enough for him to put in a vote.  “What’d you pick?”
            With his index finger Little Joe gestured for Hoss to come closer and then conspiratorially whispered, “Chicken and dumplin’s.”
            “Chicken and dumplin’s!” Hoss cried.  “That’s my favorite.”
            Little Joe shushed him with a finger to his lips.  “I know; that’s why I picked it . . . but don’t tell Pa; he likes beef better.”
            “Aw, you’re the best little brother there ever was,” Hoss declared, tossing the boy toward the rafters and catching him as he dropped down, squealing.  “Let’s get in there and give them dumplin’s a good home.”  Hefting Little Joe on his right hip, he patted his tummy with his left hand.  Joe gave a happy chortle and copied the gesture as they left the barn together.

* * * * *

            “Least you could’ve done was sent word you were all right,” Nelly Thomas scolded as she sat at the Ponderosa dinner table the next Sunday.  “Lands, Ben, when are you gonna stop traipsin’ off to palaver with hostile injuns?”
            “When there cease to be hostilities between white men and Indians, I suppose,” he said as he carved the roast beef.
            “That’s like sayin’ ‘never,’” Clyde opined.
            “I think we’re making progress,” Ben asserted.
            “Least you could’ve done was sent word,” Nelly reiterated.  “I fret over you every time you take it on yourself to treat with them Paiutes.”
            Ben might have pointed out that he never took it upon himself to attend treaty conferences with the Paiutes, but Nelly wouldn’t have appreciated the subtle difference between that and going only at the Governor’s request.  “I apologize,” he said, passing her a plate of beef, “but I don’t know who I could have sent.  All my men were working roundup.”
            “Even me,” Hoss inserted proudly, passing the bowl of peas on to Inger.
            “Not me; I coulda gone.”  Cutting a significant glance at his father, Little Joe added with a discernable pout in his voice, “If I had a horse.”
            “I can just see me using you as a messenger,” Ben chuckled.
            “Yeah, probably couldn’t even find your way to Carson,” Hoss teased and Inger snickered in agreement.
            “Could, too, good as you,” Little Joe snapped.
            “That’s enough, boys,” Ben said firmly.
            “Might have to find your way a whole lot further before long,” Clyde observed, reaching over to tousle Little Joe’s errant curls.
            “Now, don’t bring up that nonsense, Clyde,” Nelly chided.  “With Ben sportin’ around with injuns and you sportin’ around with fool notions, I’m just betwixt and between the whole time.”
            Ben sliced his own portion of beef and sat down.  “Oh?  What sort of fool notions is Clyde entertaining now?”
            “Nary a one,” Clyde snorted.  “All my notions make good sense.  Nelly’s just got her hackles up ‘cause she don’t fancy movin’.”
            “Movin’?”  Hoss looked alarmed.  “Why would you wanna do that, Uncle Clyde?  You got a real fine place in Carson.”
            “My feelings exactly,” Nelly said with an emphatic nod and a glower at her husband.
            “Mine, too,” Inger hesitantly put in and then turned her attention to her plate at sight of her father’s stern glower.
            Little Joe dropped his fork with a clatter.  “I don’t want you to move!” he cried.  “Everybody goes away!”  His lower lip began to tremble.
            “Now, see what you done,” Clyde scolded his wife.
            Nelly was out of her chair in an instant and hurried to fold the youngster in her arms.  “There now, Sugarfoot,” she cooed.  “It ain’t a settled thing—and even if we was to move, it wouldn’t be far.  We’d still see you right regular.”
            Little Joe peered up hopefully.  “Like now?”
            “Every bit as often,” Clyde promised.  “Maybe more, seein’ as how your pa spends more time up to Virginia City these days than in Carson.”
            “That where you’re goin’—Virginia City?” Hoss asked.
            “It ain’t settled,” Nelly said sharply, giving Clyde another glare.
            “Ain’t settled,” Clyde admitted, “but I’m leanin’ that way.”
            Standing up beside Little Joe, Nelly planted her hands on her hips.  “Well, I’m not!”
            “Now, see here, woman!”
            As they traded hot words, another voice entered the fray.  His posture an exact duplicate of Nelly’s, Hop Sing cried out, “Why you let food go cold?  Sit down, eat now or I thlow away!”
            Whether they took the threat seriously or suddenly realized that they were being ill-mannered guests, both of the Thomases shut up and took their seats.
            “So, how’s the war going?”  Ben asked, roguishly adding, “The one back East, that is.”  He still hadn’t learned why Clyde was considering a move to Virginia City, but prudently decided that question could wait until after dinner—and dessert.

* * * * *

            Now that Hoss was out of school and roundup was over, he spent every day with his little brother.  They worked in the garden at least a part of each day, but when those light chores were finished, they roamed the Ponderosa, having adventures together in the woods and streams that only boys can.  Some days they fished and brought home their bounty to a grateful Hop Sing; others, they pulled off their shoes and waded in the creek among the fish.  As the weather grew warmer, they shed their clothes altogether and skinny-dipped in some secluded pond or rivulet.  Occasionally, on a Sunday afternoon, Ben would join them, but most of the time the boys romped alone, Ben implicitly trusting his older son to watch over the younger, even in the water.  Hoss seemed to have overcome his earlier fear of drowning, and Ben was amused when he recalled that he had once feared that his baby son, who had taken to the water like a fish, would someday have to rescue his hefty brother.  Hoss not only swam well enough now to care for himself, but to be a protector of his little brother, who had plenty of swimming skill, but little sense about where and when to plunge in.
            Around the summer solstice the garden work increased, for it was time to cultivate and hill the corn, as well as replant vegetables such as beans, whose bounty they were already enjoying at the table.  Hoss seemed to have a knack for making the work seem like play to his little brother or perhaps it was just being with Hoss that made everything seem fun to Little Joe because he certainly pitched a fit whenever Hoss got called away for more manly work around the ranch.
            There had been a string of such days prior to the 28th of June, so Little Joe decided to pitch a preemptive fit.  “I need to go, too,” he insisted at a very early breakfast.  “They need lots of help to get moved.”  Nelly had finally caved in to Clyde’s insistence that they move to Virginia City, where he could find more lucrative work as a blacksmith for the Gould and Curry.
            “Oh, is that so?” Ben inquired with a puckish curl of his mouth, for he knew full well that he intended to take his youngest, along with the more helpful Hoss.  What other reason could he possibly have had for waking the little rascal this early?  “And what exactly do you think a little fellow like you can tote for Aunt Nelly?”
            Little Joe frowned in thought and then he brightened.  “Her big mixing spoon!  She needs it for baking cookies.”
            “Can’t afford to lose that, Pa,” Hoss, who recognized that his little brother was being teased, impishly put in between bites of sausage and egg.  “I reckon we better take ‘im along for just such as that.”
            Ben chuckled.  “I don’t know, Hoss.  I have a feeling you might give that spoon more loving care.”
            “No, Pa, me!” Little Joe insisted, his face reddening.
            Recognizing the signs of an impending tantrum, Ben warned, “You watch your tone, little boy.”  Then, feeling that he’d contributed to his son’s bad mood, he reached over to pat the smooth cheek.  “Joseph, Joseph, of course, you’re coming, too; I always intended that, son.”  No doubt the boy who was now rewarding him with such a radiant smile would be underfoot all day, but it was a family occasion, after all.  Little Joe was as much a part of the Thomas family as he and Hoss—and, sadly, still more a part of the family than Marta, who now shared their name.
When Nelly had volunteered her new daughter-in-law to look after Little Joe and Marta Marie, “since she ain’t fit for nothin’ else in her condition,” she’d referred to the older Marta as “that Zuebner girl.”  Ben wasn’t sure whether that indicated that Billy had finally told his parents the truth or that Nelly still thought “that Zuebner girl” had led her innocent boy astray.  He suspected the latter, but wasn’t sure that it would make much difference to Nelly.  If she were this recalcitrant about accepting the mother of her own grandchild, how would she react when she discovered that the baby wasn’t Billy’s at all?  Probably even Little Joe couldn’t pitch a fit that furious.  He certainly hoped Billy wouldn’t pick today for that particular revelation; moving a household was challenging enough without that!

* * * * *

            Both boys ran up the familiar porch steps, yelling, “Aunt Nelly!”
            Nelly came out the door and immediately dropped to her knees to welcome Hoss and Little Joe with hugs and kisses.
            Folding his arms, Ben leaned against a porch post and surveyed the scene with twinkling eyes.  “Since you wouldn’t visit the Paiutes with me, I thought I’d bring a couple of wild Indians to you.”
            Nelly laughed.  “Don’t have a thing against this tribe, just grateful for the help.”
            “I’m gonna carry your mixin’ spoon,” Little Joe announced.
            Nelly kissed his forehead.  “You know, Sugarfoot, I was just thinkin’ that you’d be the best one for that.”
            “And very little else,” Ben observed dryly.  “Is Marta keeping the young ones here or down at her place?”
            “Hers, of course,” Nelly said.  “Lands, Ben, you know all the commotion would keep that baby squalling the whole time.”  She shooed the boys inside.  “Clyde and Billy’s takin’ the beds apart upstairs.”
            “And Enos?” Ben asked as he followed her through the door.
            “Not here yet,” she called over her shoulder.
            “Hard to get an early start with a baby,” Ben suggested.
            “Sure you’re right,” Nelly said, turning at the kitchen door.  “Once they get here, you reckon we’d best send Little Joe down to that girl’s place, too?  Inger’s gonna take the baby then, so he can go with her.”  She chuckled.  “After he loads in my spoon, of course.”
            “Of course,” Ben intoned slowly and solemnly.  With a grin he added, “Yes, I think he’d better go on over to Marta’s.”  Noting that Nelly still wasn’t using her new daughter-in-law’s name, he made a point of emphasizing it, but Nelly gave no indication that she’d caught the hint.

* * * * *

            When Ben saw the house in Virginia City to which his friends were moving, he immediately understood why Nelly had been so upset.  Oh, it was a decent enough building, unlike many of the ramshackle places about town, but its construction showed none of the careful attention to detail that Clyde had built into their home in Carson City.  He couldn’t imagine that his adopted sister would be as happy here as she had been there, but knowing Nelly, she’d make do.  And if she couldn’t, she could always take her exasperation out on Clyde’s ornery hide.  Serve him right, Ben concluded, for putting a few paltry coins above contentment.  He was all for a man bettering himself and had personally moved across the continent to do it, but he wasn’t sure that living in Virginia City could be considered bettering oneself.  With the mines and mills running round the clock, it was noisy, dirty and crowded, and the water was terrible.  There were some cultural advantages in the larger city, he supposed, but had he been contemplating a move to any town, he’d have chosen the peace and quiet of Carson over the rowdy excitement of Virginia City.
            Ben pulled out of his reverie just in time to keep Little Joe from clambering over the seat into the back of the buckboard.  “What do you think you’re doing, boy?”
            “Gettin’ the spoon,” Little Joe announced.  “It’s my job.”
            “It’s not in this load, and right now your job is to stay put until I find a safe place to put you,” Ben snorted.  He had no idea where that might be.  At Marta’s house young Inger, the new baby and a next-door neighbor boy, had proven to be attractive distractions from the fascination of moving, but Marta hadn’t made the trip from Carson City and Katerina had remained behind to keep her company and spare the baby the long drive.
            “It’s little,” Little Joe advised as his father lifted him down.
            “So much the less to clean,” Ben said brightly, knowing that Nelly had overheard the child’s remark, for she’d just walked out to meet them.  Billy had driven her up with the first wagonload, while Clyde, Enos and Hoss remained behind to load the other two.  Inger, who wanted to stay with the baby as long as possible, would ride up on the final wagon with her brother-in-law.
            “We don’t need a big house now,” Nelly admitted, reaching for Little Joe, “with just the three of us.”
            “Oh, I’m sure you’ll have company,” Ben suggested, resting a consoling hand on her bony shoulder.
            “Now, you know you’re always welcome,” Nelly scolded.  “We still got a spare room, thank goodness, though I do have to pack the three of you into it like sardines.”
            “Much appreciated,” Ben said, “but I wasn’t talking about myself.  I was thinking of the patter of little feet running all through these rooms.”  Nelly’s scowl told him that wasn’t the best encouragement he could have offered.
            “Hey, Uncle Ben.”  Billy came outside to drape his lanky frame over the wagon’s sideboard.  “Whew!  You bring all the heavy stuff with you?”
            Ben grimaced.  “Felt that way, coming up the Geiger Grade.  Must say, you did a good job of unloading your wagon all by yourself.”
            Billy grinned broadly.  “Helped that it was the light stuff.”  Except for the kitchen table and chairs, his wagon had been filled with crates that one man could easily carry.
            “Stuff,” Nelly snorted.  “Is that what you call my kitchen goods?”
            “Kitchen?”  Little Joe looked alarmed.  “Not my spoon!”
            “Hush now,” Ben scolded.  “It’s Aunt Nelly’s spoon, and if she wants to carry it into her own house, she can.”
            “Tell you what, Sugarfoot,” Nelly soothed.  “I haven’t unpacked that spoon yet; let’s you and me go on in and figure out the best place to store it.”  She sighed wearily.  “And then I guess I’d best think up some sort of supper.”
            “Now, I won’t hear of it,” Ben said.  “You just concentrate on getting things put away the way you want them, and I’ll take us all out for supper this evening.  Least I can do for you putting us up tonight.”
            “Oh, I couldn’t,” Nelly protested, but weakly.
            “You can and will.  I insist.”
            Billy patted his lean stomach.  “Not sure I’ll want much supper, either way.  That was some dinner we had.”
            Ben smiled his agreement and his approval of Billy’s subtle way of bragging on his wife.  Marta had kindly prepared the noon meal for everyone, although that had to be a strain on the newlyweds’ budget.  Ben had slipped her a five-dollar gold half eagle when he’d picked up Little Joe, and though she had protested, he had insisted, calling it a late wedding present.  “As if you haven’t done enough already,” Marta had scolded, but she’d taken the gift gratefully.
            Nelly, who had eaten as much of the savory pork potpie, greens and apple strudel as anyone, nonetheless had offered only cursory thanks and not a single compliment to Billy’s wife.  Maybe it was only cook’s jealousy, since not even Nelly could bake a crust as flaky as someone trained by Ludmilla, but Ben had a feeling it was an emotion even sourer than that.
            “Well, least I can do is pour you a cup of coffee before you start unloading.”  As if to demonstrate that she wouldn’t take no for an answer, Nelly turned and carried Little Joe inside.
            “Never occurred to me to turn it down,” Ben grunted to Billy.  “It was a long drive up here.”
            “I’ve already had two or I’d join you,” the young man chuckled.
            “You’ll join me anyway,” Ben ordered tersely.  “You’re not leaving me alone with a woman on moving day.”
            “You don’t figure Little Joe is protection enough?” Billy teased, to which Ben responded by snaring an elbow and dragging the young man inside.

* * * * *

            Despite the hefty portions of potpie that everyone had consumed at noon, they were all starving again by the time they sat down to supper at the New World Restaurant.  Including the tough haul up the Geiger Grade, it had been a daylong task, and the men, in particular, were tired.  They hadn’t allowed Nelly to do much lifting, of course, but she’d run her legs off, telling them where to place each item as they brought it in, as well as trying to get her kitchen in order for cooking the next day.
            Over Nelly’s protests against driving after dark, Enos and Billy headed back to Carson City as soon as they’d finished eating.  They both had wives waiting; besides, there weren’t enough beds at the Thomas place for everyone, and neither of the young men cared to waste money on a hotel room.  For lack of space, one bed had been left behind at the old Thomas home, so Enos and Katerina would spend the night there before heading home the next morning.
            “I think this one has had just about all the excitement he can tolerate for one day,” Ben commented as the rest of the party made their way back to the house on B Street.  He patted the back of the child drooping on his shoulder.
            “Well, he should be tired,” Nelly said fondly.  “He was a big help to me today.”
            Ben chortled.  “I’ll just bet.”
            “Fetched and carried everything I asked for,” Nelly insisted.  “Don’t know what more you could ask of a child of five.”  Arriving at the house, she reached for Little Joe.  “Go on in the parlor and jaw with Clyde for a while; I’ll put the boy to bed.”
            “I’ll help, Ma,” Inger offered, although Little Joe didn’t quite stir the same mothering instincts as little Marta Marie had all day.
            Ben handed him over to Nelly.  “I’ll be up soon, son,” he promised.
            “Okay,” Little Joe yawned.  “Night, Pa.”
            “Good night, sweet boy.”  Ben turned toward Hoss.  “You going to bed now, too?”
            “I ain’t tired yet, Pa,” Hoss insisted.  It wasn’t exactly the truth.  Hoss just didn’t want to be sent to bed with his baby brother, even though he was worn out and it was almost his bedtime anyway.  Staying up would prove that he belonged more with men than with children, happy as he was to romp with his brother any other day of the week.
            “All right, but just a bit longer,” Ben said.  “Being Sunday, we can sleep in, but we don’t want to be late to church.”
            “‘Spect we’ll all want to turn in early tonight,” Clyde said.  “I’m ‘bout done in.”
            “No more than the rest of us, old man,” Nelly said, coming back in.  “The boy’s tucked in snug, Ben, and your pallet is spread, anytime you’re ready, Hoss.”
            “Yes’m,” Hoss said.  He hid his mouth behind his hand, stifling a yawn and hoping his father wouldn’t see.
            The adults fared no better in their attempts to stay awake.  At length, they all gave up and headed to bed, falling asleep as quickly and as soundly as Little Joe.

* * * * *

            Though Ben begged her not to, Nelly bustled around the kitchen early the next morning to prepare a full and hearty breakfast.  “No one stays under my roof without a decent breakfast,” she declared.  “Check on those biscuits, would you, Inger?”
            “Just did, Ma,” the girl said.  “They need about five more minutes, I’d say.”
            “You’re getting to be just as fine a cook as your mother, young lady,” Ben told her between sips of coffee.  He wasn’t certain that Inger had actually cooked any of the food at noon yesterday, but she had helped Marta serve the table and clear it afterwards.
            “She’s a big help around the house,” Nelly said with obvious pride.
            Ben bestowed the same fond look on his boys.  “We’ve certainly been blessed in our children.”
            “I ain’t a child, Pa,” Hoss protested.
            Ben just chuckled.  “Always my child, son.”
            Hoss gave him a sheepish grin.  “I reckon that’s so.”
            Little Joe surfaced from his cup of milk.  “What’s so?”
            “That you’re my child,” Ben said.
            Little Joe shook his head.  “Nuh-uh.  I’m a big boy, Pa.”
            Ben wiped the milky mustache from the boy’s upper lip.  “Are you?  I wonder why I can’t seem to remember that.”
            “Must be old age,” Clyde snorted.  “Me, I got no problem rememberin’ exactly what size this little feller is—sort of spoon-sized, wouldn’t you say?”
            Hoss hooted, and though he didn’t get the joke, Little Joe knew when he was being laughed at and turned to glare at his brother.
            Breakfast over, Nelly and Inger quickly cleaned up the kitchen, while Ben struggled with the harder task of untangling Little Joe’s sleep-tousled curls.  Then they all walked to church, the adults in the lead with the three youngsters skipping along behind them.  Though it was two streets down the hill, it was still easier and just as fast to walk, rather than hitch up a team and wagon.
            As they crossed C Street, Clyde pointed out the banner stretched across the street.  “Looks like they’re plannin’ quite a celebration for the Fourth.”
            “Fancy dress ball,” Ben said, forcing enthusiasm.  “They’re putting on a party to welcome you to Virginia City, Nelly.”
            “Hush your nonsense,” she muttered.  “What do I care about their fancy dress ball?”
            “Ought to, ‘cause you’re goin’,” her husband announced.
            “Why, I won’t know a soul there,” Nelly protested.
            “Good way to meet the neighbors,” Clyde insisted.  “Besides, you know Ben.”
            Ben wagged his index finger in the other man’s face.  “Don’t drag me into your schemes.  I have no intention of attending a ball on the Fourth or any other time.”  The thought of attending such a function without Marie at his side still pierced like a hot poker.
            “Do you good,” Nelly exhorted, knowing exactly what was holding him back.  “You’re the best dancer I know, Ben Cartwright, and I just can’t see goin’ to the fool thing myself if’n you ain’t around to spare my toes some of Clyde’s trompin’.”
            “Well, I’ll be,” Clyde snorted.  “That’s the thanks I get, is it?”
            She squeezed his hand and gestured toward Ben with her head.  Clyde took the hint and began plying Ben with pleas to help him “handle this woman.”  Ben tried to protest that they could all have a better celebration at the Ponderosa, but it was two against one—actually, five against one, since the children added their two cents, as well—and just as they reached the little wooden church at the corner of D and Taylor, he caved in.  He entered the unpretentious building, hoping that the sermon would supply at least a spoonful of the courage he’d need to face the coming ordeal.  Not a teaspoon, either, he groaned to himself.  What I need is that big mixing spoon that Little Joe’s taken such a shine to.

~ ~ Notes ~ ~

            In May of 1862 a small herd of camels was cared for in Washoe City corrals.  Isaac Mears and J. H. Kinkead were among the first to open a mercantile in the town.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Birthday Celebrations

            Little Joe frowned up at his father.  “When we gonna get there, Pa?”

            “Now, Little Joe, you can see as well as I where we are,” Ben scolded gently.  “We haven’t even started up the Geiger Grade, so you know it’s going to take awhile.”

            “Yeah, but how long, Pa?” the boy persisted.  “We won’t miss the picnic, will we?”

            Ben gave the boy’s knee a consoling pat.  “Certainly not.  We’ll be there long before noon.”  When they’d attended church with the Thomases the previous Sunday, they’d learned that there was to be a church picnic in honor of the Fourth of July, and the boys had begged to come.  Since he considered that a more attractive proposition than the dance he’d been finagled into later, Ben had readily agreed.

            “Even if we’re late, we got plenty of grub for our own picnic,” Hoss offered with a fond glance at the back of the buckboard.

            “Don’t be late,” Little Joe pleaded.  “I want Aunt Nelly’s pie.”

            “As do we, boy, as do we,” Ben chuckled.

            “Oh, yeah,” Hoss said, smacking his lips in anticipation.  “She’s makin’ blackberry and apple, Pa.”  It was obvious from his expression that he was describing double bliss.

            “Yes, and it’s not all for you,” his father teased.

            “Pa, I wouldn’t,” Hoss protested.

            “I know, son,” Ben soothed.  “Just joshin’ you.”

            Little Joe looked puzzled.  “Pa, what is this Fourth of July thing?”

            “You mean the reason for the celebration, son?” Ben asked.

            “Yeah.”

            “It’s when the Declaration was signed,” Hoss put in.

            “That’s right,” Ben agreed, proud that his boy had been paying attention in school.  For his youngest, however, he felt he needed to simplify the lesson.  “It’s the day we honor of the birth of our country, Little Joe.”

            Little Joe’s eyes opened wide.  “A birthday party?  Like mine?”

            “Yes, but bigger,” Ben explained, “because July 4^th is a birthday that belongs to all of us, for everyone from Adam back East to our friends in San Francisco.”

            “Oh, boy!”  Little Joe bounced on the seat.  “Is Adam gonna be there?”

            “Joseph, sit down!” Ben ordered sharply, adding when the boy complied, “No, your brother can’t come home yet, but I’m sure there’ll be a big birthday party back there for him, just as there is here for us.”  He was so wrapped up in keeping his youngest in the wagon and soothing his disappointment that he completely missed the troubled frown that settled on Hoss’s face.  Even if he’d seen it, he would have assumed that Hoss, too, was just sad that his older brother couldn’t be with them today.

* * * * *

            Ben dropped his hands, letting the ends of his crimson cravat dangle down his shirt, and frowned in exasperation at the image in the small mirror Nelly had placed in her spare room.  He’d tried three times to get that rope cinched around his neck, and if anything, it looked worse with each attempt.  Why on earth wouldn’t his hands work tonight?  He scowled sourly.  Because he didn’t want them to, obviously.  He had not the slightest interest in attending this fancy dress ball; he was only going for Nelly’s sake and already regretting the sacrifice.

            Why couldn’t she—or more accurately, Clyde—have been satisfied with the simple church picnic?  The boys certainly had been.  The ladies had set out a veritable banquet, and the men had organized traditional games, like the three-legged race, that reminded Ben of the Fourth of July the Larrimore train had celebrated along the trail.  He smiled as he recalled Little Joe’s fascination with the firecrackers exploding at odd moments throughout the day.  He’d finally indulged his own sons by letting Hoss purchase a few, cautioning him that he alone was allowed to handle them.  Although he hadn’t seen it happen, he was pretty sure that at some point that afternoon his youngest had managed to get hold of a firecracker or two of his own.  He hadn’t spotted any burns, though, so he’d decided not to investigate.  Let the little rascal think he’d gotten away with something, just this once.

            “Want me to do it for you, Pa?”

            Ben spun around and grinned sheepishly.  “Thanks for the offer, Hoss, but I’m determined to conquer this.”  And with that statement there arose within him the same determination to conquer the entire evening.  So what if his heart didn’t feel like dancing?  Couldn’t he force a little gaiety for the sake of someone else’s pleasure?  Especially when that someone else was a dear and deserving friend?  He faced the mirror again, tackled the challenge and then turned to accept the appreciative applause of his audience of two.  Maybe the applause was merited, he decided.  After all, his performance tonight on the dance floor would be the first ever mounted at the unfinished Topliffe Theater.  Some fellow named McKean Buchanan and his daughter Virginia were scheduled to appear tomorrow night, and the Thomases had urged him to stay over and attend.  Though the boys had pleaded, too, Ben had insisted that he couldn’t afford two straight days of idleness; he had work to do and needed to get home.  True enough, although he probably had declined out of an instinct that he’d need the peace of the Ponderosa to recover from the ordeal of tonight’s Independence Ball.

            “Now, are you sure you’re all right with being in charge here?” he asked his older son.  One of the disadvantages of Virginia City was that there were no close friends with whom to leave the children while he and the Thomases attended the ball, but they’d all decided there was no real need.  Hoss, even though he wasn’t quite twelve yet, was a responsible boy.  He took charge of his little brother all the time at the ranch, and certainly Inger would give him no problems.  In fact, she seemed to be viewing this evening as a glorified opportunity to play house, complete with husband and child. 

            “Sure, Pa,” Hoss replied.  “We’ll be right as rain, so you just have yourself a good time.”

            “Yeah,” Ben muttered bleakly and then schooled his face to look more pleased with the prospect.  “Yeah, I’ll do that.”  He squatted down to give his youngest a hug.  “You be a good boy, Little Joe, and don’t give Hoss any problems—and go to bed when he tells you.”

            “Alone?”  Little Joe’s lip started to pooch out.

            “Yes, if that’s what Hoss tells you,” Ben said firmly.  He stood and looked significantly at Hoss, although still addressing Little Joe.  “I’m sure you won’t be alone in that bed for too long.”

            “No, sir, not too long,” Hoss promised.  Like his father, he’d foreseen that his friend Inger wanted to play house, and he figured he’d get his fill of that pretty fast.  After all, he was practically a man now.  “Thanks for lettin’ me use the bed, Pa,” he said.

            “You might as well,” his father said.  “It’s likely to be a late night for me.”  To avoid disturbing his sons when he came in early the next morning, Ben planned to finish the night on the settee.  He buttoned his gray brocade vest and reached for his coat.  “Sure you’ll be all right?” he asked again.  Much as he trusted Hoss, it was the first time he’d left the boys without any adult supervision.

            “Pa, we’ll be fine,” Hoss insisted, looking a little put out.  “Besides, that neighbor lady’s close by.”

            The neighbor lady, a widow who had lost her husband in a mining accident, had offered to keep an eye on the house and be available if anything arose that Hoss couldn’t handle.  One of the benefits of town life, Ben conceded, was having neighbors that close; of course, it was also one of the detractions, always someone close at hand to meddle in your business.  The boys trotting after him, he joined Clyde and Nelly in the parlor, and after another round of good-byes and admonitions, they walked out and headed down the mountain to C Street.

            Nelly pulled her cloak around her, for even though it was summer, evenings tended to be cool on Sun Mountain.  “Hate to think what winter’ll be like up here,” she muttered.

            “You, huddled up in your thickest quilt, sitting by the stove,” Ben chuckled.

            “The whole winter long,” Nelly agreed.

            “No point in crossing bridges we ain’t got to yet,” Clyde sagely suggested.

            Nelly laughed then.  “Right enough, especially on a night for pure fun, like this one.”

            Pure fun.  Walking behind them, Ben scowled.  He wished he could see it that way, but hard as he tried to work up a positive attitude toward this ball, he found himself more reluctant with each step.  Clyde was right, though: there was absolutely no point in crossing bridges he hadn’t reached as yet and, maybe, never would.  The evening might turn out to be enjoyable, might even be pure fun, as Nelly’d said.  If it wasn’t, well, then he’d cross that bridge somehow, but at least not until he got to it.  He squared his shoulders, like a soldier preparing for battle, and marched into Topliffe’s Theatre.

            While Clyde took Nelly’s cloak, Ben looked around the hall.  It was easy to see why the ball was being held here: the room was large.  Without the theater seats the floor could accommodate any number of dancers, certainly more than had danced in the basement of the International, the night he’d taken Marie.  He winced, pushing the memory away.  People were here to celebrate, not to watch a grown man cry over his lost love.  He breathed easier when the band struck up.  Music would help, the livelier the better, although the first dance was a waltz.  Clyde escorted his wife to the dance floor, with Ben claiming his “sister” for the next dance.  After that, he had no idea what he’d do.

            “Havin’ a good time?” Nelly asked when Ben partnered her.

            “I am now,” he said, smiling into her face.  “The real question is: are you?”

            “Oh, yes,” she said, eyes shining.

            “So, you’re feeling better about living in Virginia City now?”  He spun her around so quickly that she couldn’t answer for a moment.

            “Guess I’m resigned to it,” Nelly said when she caught her breath.  “It’s not the place Carson was, and I miss friends like the Martins and the folks I knew at church, but there’s decent folks here, too.”

            Ben gave her an encouraging smile.  “I thought the people at the church picnic were real friendly, and Mrs. Parker was certainly accommodating.”

            “Yes, I think she’ll be a good neighbor,” Nelly agreed.  “Brought me over a jar of jam to welcome us to town, and I know she could ill afford it, especially with two little ones to feed.”

            Ben nodded soberly.  A widow always had a hard row to hoe.  “What does she do for a living?” he asked.

            “Takes in laundry and does some plain sewing,” Nelly told him.  “Hoss is shootin’ right out of his britches, Ben.”

            Ben cocked his head at her.  “Is that a hint?”

            She slapped his arm as the music ended.  “Like you needed one.  I remember how you used to help Laura Ellis that way.”

            “Laura Dettenrieder now,” he reminded her as he handed her back to Clyde.  He scanned the room, hoping against hope that his old friends were there.  They weren’t, of course.  He rarely saw them since their move to Dayton, which probably had its own Independence Day festivities to offer.  He spotted a few ladies seated at the side of the room and was tempted to run the opposite direction.  Then, reminding himself that the ones his age might very well be widows like Mrs. Parker, seeking a few minutes of companionship in a life of solitary struggle, the gentleman within him rose up, and he walked across the room and asked the first one if he could have the next dance.

            Flustered hands flew to her cheeks, and for a moment Ben thought she would refuse.  Then she smiled, rose and took his hand.  A trill of envious sighs rippled down the row of single women as they watched the handsome man lead the lady to the dance floor.  “I suppose I should be more reticent,” the woman twittered.  “I don’t even know your name.”

            “Ben Cartwright,” he said.  “And yours?”

            She gave it, and as they moved to the music, she peppered Ben with questions about himself.  By the time that dance ended, she knew all the most important facts: he was recently widowed, he had three sons and a prosperous ranch, and he was frequently in Virginia City to conduct timber business with the mines.  He was, in sum, an eminently eligible bachelor, and that information rippled down the row even faster than that original sigh of envy.

            It didn’t take long for Ben to realize that he had become a target, and with each dance he grew more miserable.  He wasn’t ready for this sort of thing, and none of these women held a candle to his Marie.  Still, he didn’t have the heart to disappoint them, so he gritted his teeth and literally faced the music with each one of them.  When he returned the final one to her seat, however, he made as gracious and as fast an exit as he could.

            His mouth dry as cotton, he made his way to the punch bowl, where he found a group of men discussing the news of the day and with a sigh of relief, joined them.  Everyone was excited that President Lincoln had signed the Pacific Railroad Act.  Like the other men, Ben viewed with approval the idea of a railroad to link the eastern and western parts of the country.  If only it were already built!  Then Adam truly could have come home once a year to see his family.  How he wished the boy could be here right now, sharing the fun of the picnic and the misery of this—no, Ben corrected himself with a smile, Adam wouldn’t be miserable at a dance.  He’d enjoy every minute of it, even if—perhaps especially if—every woman in the place were chasing him.  It wasn’t likely the newly approved transcontinental railroad would be built in time to personally benefit his boy, but even so, Ben viewed it as a good thing.

            The same day that Congress had passed the Pacific Railroad Act, it had also outlawed polygamy, and that was a topic of more heated debate among the men around the punch bowl.  Though few, if any, openly practiced polygamy now, Mormons had played a huge role in the settlement of this territory, and even those who didn’t follow the church’s custom still felt sympathy for it and argued that the Federal Government had no business in what went on in a man’s bed chamber.

            The discussion of the end of the Peninsular Campaign, just two days before, was even more contentious.  Union hopes had been high at its beginning, when it appeared that the Army of the Potomac might take the Confederate capital at Richmond, but it had ended in defeat.  “McClellan’s too blame cautious,” one commentator complained about the Union commander, and though Ben always and deliberately avoided discussions about the war, he nodded his agreement.  So long as he was opposed by the equally cautious Joseph Johnston, McClellan’s superior forces had been poised for success, raising hopes that the war might soon end.  Then Johnston had been wounded and replaced by Robert E. Lee.  “Now, that’s a man with sand; he’ll be hard to beat,” the commentator holding court opined to the general agreement of his audience, though there was wide variance in their conclusion of whether that was good or bad.  To Ben, anything that prolonged the killing was bad, so he could only view with dismay the arrival of a gifted and determined commander for the South.

            “What do you think about this fellow Josh’s letters to the Enterprise?” he asked, mainly to change the subject to one he hoped would be lighter.  Grins and guffaws met the question.  Nobody knew who Josh might be, but everyone agreed that he had a right laughable way with words.  Like his description of the sound made by Washoe crickets as “half coyote and half California lion, with a sprinkling of coffee mill and buzz saw.”  Ben still thought the writer’s first piece about a man he dubbed Professor Personal Pronoun was the best, but everyone had a favorite.  Soon the men were swapping Josh-isms, instead of divided opinions about the progress of the war, and Ben finally found his hoped-for refuge from the pursuit of Virginia City’s eligible women.

* * * * *

            In some ways visiting the Thomases was easier, now that they lived in Virginia City; in other ways, harder.  Certainly, it was a longer, harder drive up Sun Mountain than to Carson Valley, but business often took Ben to the larger town these days.  If he had time, he usually stopped by; but Nelly and Clyde, and especially Inger, were always disappointed when the boys weren’t along.  For that reason they’d decided to continue their long-time practice of visiting each other’s homes on alternating weekends, unless something else intervened.  The first weekend after the move, the Thomases had come to the Ponderosa, arriving for the noon meal, but Nelly was so disturbed by missing church that Ben had suggested they come the night before next time.  “Not sure we can,” Clyde had said.  “With me workin’ Saturday, we couldn’t get here ‘til near bedtime, but we’ll try it once and see how it works.”

            The next weekend it was the Cartwrights’ turn to travel, and Ben elected to drive in on Saturday and spend the night with his friends, as they had invited him to do.  “Just as long a drive for you,” Nelly had pointed out, “and then you can go to church with us, just like we used to do in Carson.”  Ben had liked the plan, although it meant stopping work early on Saturday.  To add purpose to the trip, he came in early enough to stop at the mercantile and pick up some supplies, including a lengthy list from Hop Sing.

            As his father lifted him down from the buckboard, Little Joe asked, just as he’d been coached by Hoss, “Candy, Pa?”

            “Five cents’ worth each,” Ben replied, “and choose the same amount of something you think Inger will enjoy.”

            “What’s that?” Little Joe asked his brother in a stage whisper that turned heads on the boardwalk.  Fortunately, most of them smiled fondly at the boy, especially those who had left their own little ones back in the States to seek their fortunes in the mines.

            “Anything but horehound,” Hoss instructed.  “Come on!”  The two boys hustled inside.

            Ben was about to follow when a raised voice caught his ear.  Turning toward it, he spotted a man haranguing a crowd about half a block away and at first assumed that it was just another man spouting his political opinions.  He normally avoided such gatherings like the plague, but when he saw people beginning to sign some sort of document, he decided to investigate.  Probably just another recruitment drive, but he did like to stay abreast of anything that concerned his local territory.  Trusting the boys to stay occupied with their candy selection long enough for him to determine what was going on, he moved toward the crowd, though careful to stay on its outskirts.

            “Can’t let them get away with it!” he heard one man shout, with others echoing, “That’s right.”  Another hollered, “Only burned out 150 this time.  Give ‘em another chance and it might be the whole town!”

            Ben instantly realized what the agitation was about.  He’d received a message, requesting the postponement of a business meeting on Thursday, because of a fire raging between C and D streets.  It was obvious that someone had discovered who had caused it—or perhaps just a convenient scapegoat.  Wanting to know who was being blamed, he edged closer.  At first, the accusations were so general that they could have applied to anyone, but as he listened more closely, he began to pick out a phrase here and there that told him exactly who was being targeted: filthy heathens, yellow terrors, slant-eyed menace.  Finally, having tolerated all the bigoted finger pointing he could handle, he called out, “What proof do you have that the Chinese started this fire?”

            The man who appeared to be the chief spokesman pushed through the crowd and faced Ben, nose to nose.  “Who wants to know?”

            “Ben Cartwright,” Ben said.  “What proof do you have?” he asked again.

            “Proof?  Who needs proof?” someone in the crowd hollered, and half a dozen others echoed the cry.

            “Any law-abiding citizen!” Ben yelled back, keeping his eyes fixed on the spokesman.

            “Everybody knows the yellers live like rats, down there in Chinatown,” the spokesman alleged.

            Ben folded his arms and glared at the man.  “Hasn’t been my experience.  If that were true, I doubt that so many of our fine citizens would hire them as cooks and laundrymen.”  He sensed the crowd quieting and hoped that some of the men and women behind him were thinking about what he was saying, although his words were obviously making no impression on the man he was addressing directly.

            “You can take my word for it,” the man growled.

            “And that’s your proof, your word?” Ben pressed.

            The man’s nostrils flared.  “You calling me a liar, mister?”

            Expression rigid, Ben shook his head.  “No.  Just saying I wouldn’t convict any man on that sort of evidence . . . unless you were there when it happened, and then I’d be asking why you didn’t put that fire out yourself before it spread.”

            “He didn’t see nothin’,” another voice called out.  “He came runnin’ out of the Bucket of Blood, same as me, when that fire started up.”

            The man’s eyes flitted nervously from Ben’s face to those of others in the crowd, but he didn’t back down.  “Fire bugs or not, we don’t need their kind,” he alleged.  “Now, I’m circulatin’ a petition to get rid of the yeller scum, and you’re gonna sign it, mister.”

            “I don’t think so.”  Ben turned his back on the man and started to walk away.  For a moment he thought he’d be allowed to leave in peace, but then he felt a hand roughly grab his shoulder and spin him around.

            “Sign it, Cartwright!” the man bellowed, flapping the petition in his face.

            “No,” Ben said tersely.  The fist that came flying at him was not unexpected, and Ben easily deflected it and landed a solid return punch to his assailant’s jaw.  The man jumped to his feet, and came after Ben again as the crowd circled around them, yelling, “Fight!”  The petition flew into the air and someone scooped it up.

            It wasn’t much of a fight.  Though the other man was strong enough, he obviously didn’t have the fighting skill Ben had honed in a score of rough ports during his sailing days.  He landed a few good blows to Ben’s face, but never knocked him down, while Ben sent him sprawling three times and finally left him panting in the dirt.  Then, seeing the petition, Ben grabbed it, intending to tear it in two.  Then he stopped.  Much as he decried its contents, America still guaranteed freedom of speech to all its citizens, those who spoke wisely and those who spouted trash like this.  He thrust the petition back at the man he’d taken it from.  He saw a look of shame cross that man’s face and watched as he took a pen from someone in the crowd and scratched out his name.

            As the roar of blood in his ears died down, Ben finally defined a sound he recalled hearing earlier, but hadn’t had time to process:  “Yay, Pa!”  The boys—how could he have forgotten the boys?  He looked up and there they both were, Hoss looking on with pride, while Little Joe jumped up and down, whooping at the top of his lungs.  Ben strode forcefully toward them and pressed down on his youngest’s shoulders.  “Stop that,” he ordered.

            “You whupped him good, Pa!” Little Joe proclaimed.

            “You done good, Pa,” Hoss said more quietly.

            “And how do you know I was the one in the right?” Ben demanded.

            Hoss looked up at him with wide-eyed innocence and trust.  “‘Cause you’re Pa.  You wouldn’t hit a man for no reason.  Like you taught me, though, there’s times a man’s just gotta fight.”

            How did a man argue when his own teaching was thrust back in his face?  “But most times, he doesn’t,” he said.  “You remember that, boy.”

            Hoss gulped.  “Yes, sir.”

            Ben caught a glimpse of Little Joe’s still excited little face.  “And that goes for you, too!”

            Hoss snickered.  “Little Joe fight?  Now you’re bein’ plumb silly, Pa.  He couldn’t flatten a good-sized rabbit.”

            Ben gave up all attempts to portray the stern parent and joined Hoss in the laughter.

            Little Joe’s face puffed up and reddened, and he demonstrated how little attention he’d paid to his father’s admonition by plowing his diminutive fist into his brother’s belly.

            Hoss doubled over, holding his stomach, and fell to the ground, groaning so convincingly that for a moment Ben almost believed the boy was hurt, although he knew that wasn’t possible.  Little Joe, however, took it all seriously and dropped to his knees beside his brother, touching his belly gingerly.  “I’m sorry, Hoss!  I didn’t mean it.”  Then Hoss grabbed him and started to tickle him, making the younger boy squeal and kick to get away.

            Ben came to his aid, lifting the boy out of his brother’s reach.  “All right now,” he said gruffly.  “I think Virginia City’s seen just about enough of the Cartwrights for one afternoon.”  As he glanced back at the crowd behind them, though, he saw that the petition was being circulated again, but this time man after man was scratching through his signature.  Ben didn’t kid himself that he’d single-handedly won a lasting victory over bigotry.  No doubt the man he’d fought today would try again, and he’d probably find plenty of folks to join his attempt to oust the Chinese from town.  Maybe not today, but quite likely tomorrow.   Still, for today Ben had stopped him, and he’d given some of these people time to think about what they were doing and let their better judgment override their fears.  As Hoss had reminded him, there were some causes worth fighting for, and this was one battle Ben felt a great deal of satisfaction in having entered.  “Come on, boys,” he said, moving toward Cass’s Mercantile.  “Let’s get our supplies and head over to Aunt Nelly’s.”

* * * * *

            As Nelly’s head rose after her husband had said grace, she was still shaking it and her lips were still set in a disapproving frown.

            “I’ve heard it all before,” Ben said, his own mouth twitching wryly.  “Quite recently, in fact.”  Nelly had given him an earful when he’d showed up at her door with a face bearing obvious, though only superficial, marks of a fight.

            “I’ve said it all before,” she retorted, “but I ain’t so sure you heard it.”

            “Some battles have to be fought,” he reiterated with a wink at Hoss, who grinned at the notion of sharing a secret with Pa.

            “Well, it’s not battles I want to discuss over my supper table, anyway,” Nelly said as she passed him the bowl of mashed potatoes.  “I want to talk about a party.”

            Little Joe clapped his hands in delight.  His memory of the Fourth of July celebration was fresh, and even his birthday party recent enough that he connected parties with good food and friends and fun.  To his left, Inger, who knew exactly what party her mother meant, beamed a smile at Hoss, though it wasn’t returned, and beyond her, Clyde smacked his lips in anticipation of tasty things to come.

            Ben, on the other hand, expressed an eloquent, albeit contrived, groan.  “It can’t be time for another party already!”

            Nelly, in the midst of handing him the gravy, pulled it back.  “It most certainly is!  Don’t tell me you’ve forgot your own boy’s birthday,” she scolded.

            Little Joe’s brow wrinkled in perplexity.  He’d just had his birthday, hadn’t he?  Could it be time for another one already?  He didn’t think so, but if Aunt Nelly’s mistake meant another party, he wouldn’t be the one to correct her!

            “You know, I almost had,” Ben teased, “but in his honor, I’ll take ‘lots of gavvy,’ please.”

            She set the bowl on her other side.  “You’ll get none if you don’t start talkin’ sense.  Now, it would be our turn to come to the Ponderosa next weekend, so what I want to know is if you’re plannin’ to celebrate then or wait ‘til the next and have it here.  I know Thursday’s his actual birthday, but there’s no way we can make it in the middle of the week, and I do want to bake him a cake, like I did for Little Joe, so when’s it to be?”

            The wrinkles smoothed out as light dawned in the youngest boy’s eyes.  Not his birthday, then, but Hoss’s.  Just as good.  He turned excitedly toward his brother, but when Hoss didn’t grin back, the wrinkles returned.

            “Well, we haven’t actually discussed it,” Ben said, “but I was thinking we might have a picnic out by Washoe Lake, as we’ve done before.  Now, as to next weekend or the one following, I—”

            No one but the other two children had noticed Hoss’s darkening visage until he interrupted the discussion with a loud and determined, “No!” that set them all back in their chairs.

            Ben turned to stare at Hoss, seated on his right hand.  “Hoss?  What on earth?”

            “I said, ‘No,’” Hoss barked.  “I don’t want no party.”

            “Why, Sunshine,” said Nelly, shocked, as was everyone at the table.  “Whatever’s wrong?”

            “You got no right to be plannin’ things without askin’ me,” the boy sputtered.  “It’s my birthday, and I don’t want no party!”

            “Lower your voice right now, young man,” Ben ordered sharply.  He was still stunned by the boy’s behavior, but stunned or not, he wouldn’t put up with rudeness.  He was used to this sort of tantrum from Little Joe, but it was completely out of character for his gentle-hearted middle boy.  And for the offer of a birthday party to bring it on was . . . well, completely inexplicable.

            “Done said all I need to,” Hoss muttered, jabbing a fork into his pile of green beans.

            Ben ripped the napkin from his lap and tossed it onto the table.  “Come with me, boy.”

            “Oh, Ben, no,” Nelly protested, raising a restraining hand.  “I didn’t mean to make trouble.”

            “Don’t mix in, gal,” her husband, a firm believer in a man ruling his own younguns, ordered.

            “You did nothing wrong,” Ben assured Nelly as he stood to his feet.  “This young man and I just need to have a little talk.”

            “No!” Little Joe cried frantically.  “Not a nessary talk, Pa . . . please!”

            “No, no,” Ben soothed.  “I didn’t say ‘necessary talk,’ did I?  I just said, ‘Talk.’”  Why Little Joe always seemed so distressed over that simple phrase was beyond Ben.  No child enjoyed the prospect of a spanking, of course; that’s what made its threat effective, but so far Ben wasn’t even considering one for Hoss, much less for his innocent (for once) youngest son.  He stiffened when he saw that Hoss had yet to move.  “Come with me, son,” he said again, this time keeping his voice firm, but calm.  A raised voice would only set Little Joe off again, and dealing with one intractable child at a time was challenge enough.

            Hoss reluctantly pushed back from the table and stood up.  He almost flinched when his father pressed an encouraging palm to his back to speed him along to the spare bedroom.

            Glancing back through the kitchen door as he left, Ben noticed that Nelly had gathered Little Joe into her lap to comfort his fears about what was about to happen to his brother.  Ben wasn’t sure anything was, but he knew that Nelly’s first question was the right one.  Hoss’s behavior was a clear indication that something was wrong, and his father urgently needed to find out what.  He opened the bedroom door and ushered Hoss inside.  Sitting on the bed, he patted a place beside him and when Hoss shook his head, breathed a prayer for patience, smiled and patted it again.  Hoss sat down beside him, keeping his eyes fixed on the floor.

            “Now, what’s this all about?” Ben asked.

            Scuffing his boot across the floor, Hoss shrugged.  “Just what I said.  I don’t want no birthday party.”

            “Why?” Ben pressed.  “You always enjoyed them before.”

            “Not last year,” Hoss grunted and then, obviously fearing he’d said too much, clamped his mouth shut.

            “Last year.”  Ben barely breathed the words, his eyes closing against the pain as images of this time last year surged to the front of his mind.  Hoss’s birthday had come at a difficult time last year, less than two weeks after his mother’s death, so they’d cancelled the plans that Marie had made and settled for something with just the four of them.  A fishing trip, wasn’t it?  “Well, yes, last year was hard for all of us,” he said cautiously.  “I’m sorry I didn’t feel up to hosting a big picnic then, but you had a nice time, fishing at Franktown Creek, didn’t you?”  To be honest, he’d been in such a daze that day that he couldn’t remember how the boys had responded to that feeble effort at a celebration, and now, looking at Hoss’s reddening face, he feared it hadn’t gone as well as he’d assumed.  “Hoss, what is it?” he asked gently.  “Tell me, boy.”

            “You hurt Joe!” Hoss cried.  “You made him cry.”

            “What?  What did I do?”  Though he racked his brain, Ben couldn’t remember what he’d said or done, what he could possibly have said or done, to hurt his youngest son.  He hadn’t been a good father to any of his sons, especially the youngest, during that season of deep grief, so he didn’t deny the accusation, but he couldn’t recall any specific   injury he’d caused that day.  His sensitive middle boy obviously did and apparently felt it even more strongly than his brother.  “How did I make Little Joe cry?” he asked soberly.

            Hoss forced the words out between heaving breaths.  “All he wanted was to show you that fish he thought he caught and you—you—”

            “I-I don’t remember,” Ben said feebly.

            “You paid him no mind!” Hoss sobbed.  “You acted like he weren’t there, like you didn’t want him to be there.”

            Ben’s arms encircled the shaking boy and pulled him close.  “Hoss, son, I’m so sorry.”

            “It’s him you oughta tell,” Hoss mumbled into his father’s vest.

            Ben ran his fingers through the tawny hair with soothing strokes.  “Well, Hoss, I would, if I thought he remembered that hurt, but to bring it up if he doesn’t would just hurt him all over again, wouldn’t it?”

            Hoss pulled up, looked into his father’s face and sighed.  “I reckon.  Anyway, that’s why I promised myself that night that I wouldn’t never have a birthday party again: they only make folks sad.”

            “Oh, Hoss!”  Ben pulled him tighter.  He couldn’t remember ever feeling worse in his entire life.  Even the grief of losing Marie wasn’t as razor-edged as the guilt of robbing his own son of such a simple childhood pleasure.  “Oh, Hoss, they don’t make folks sad; they’re times of joy, son.”

            Hoss shook his head in wild negation.  “No, Pa, they ain’t.  Not always.”

            Ben stilled the boy’s head between his strong hands.  “Always,” he insisted, his heart making the word a vow, “and I want that joy for you.  I understand now that you have bad memories of your birthday last year—and I take full blame for that—but the only way I know how to make amends is to make better memories for you this year—and every year.  Will you let me, son?  Will you let me plan a party for you this year?”

            “I-I don’t want Little Joe to cry again,” Hoss whimpered.  “It wasn’t just at the creek, Pa; he woke up screamin’ that night, too.”

            “I think he did that most nights back then, Hoss,” Ben said softly.

            “Yeah, but I was the cause of it that night, don’t you see?” Hoss persisted.

            Ben shook his head.  “No.  I was the cause of it, that night and many others, but I promise you that nothing will make him cry on your birthday this year.”  He lifted the boy’s chin and looked into his eyes.  “Hoss, did you see your little brother’s face when we brought up the subject tonight?”

            Hoss shook his head.

            “Well, then, let me tell you, young man, that he was so excited he could barely sit still,” Ben began.

            “He can’t never sit still,” Hoss muttered.

            Ben laughed.  “Well, that’s true, but his little face was just shining at the idea of a party for his big brother.”  He pulled Hoss close again.  “I understand that I hurt him last summer, more times than I can count, but I’ve tried to mend my fences with him and I think I have.  At his age I’m not sure how much he remembers of the bad times—some, I’m sure—but I think he’s forgiven me and put them behind him.  I know it’s harder for you, because you can remember things better and, maybe, feel them stronger, but can you try to do the same?  Can you forgive me and give me a second chance?

            Hoss was clearly uncomfortable with the notion of forgiving his father.  Forgiving was something fathers did for sons, when they’d been bad, not something sons did for fathers.  Or was it?  Pa had done a bad thing, even though he hadn’t meant to.  Did he need forgiving as much as Hoss did, when he messed up at school or forgot to do his chores or broke something without meaning to?  He looked up into his father’s eyes and saw the same need there that he’d often felt himself.  “Yeah, Pa,” he said slowly.  “I forgive you, but I still ain’t sure about a party.  I mean, you didn’t give Little Joe one, so he might think—”

            “No,” Ben interrupted firmly.  “I know we kept things quiet for Little Joe this year, but he was perfectly happy with what we did.  And he’ll share a party with his big brother without one trace of hard feelings.  You know that, Hoss, so don’t use him as an excuse.”  He smiled as he ruffled the boy’s hair.  “It’s time we made room for joy in our lives again, son.  I know it’s what your mother would want.”  He could almost feel Marie’s kiss of approval brush his cheek.

            Maybe Hoss felt it, too, for his features softened, and his customary peaceful countenance returned.  “Yeah, I reckon it’s time,” he said, “but I’d just as soon keep it quiet, like Joe had.  Can we save the picnic for next year, Pa?”

            “We can,” Ben agreed.  “So, a quiet party.  Here or at home?”

            “Home,” Hoss decided, “but I want everybody there, all right?”

            “All right,” his father said.  Just who “everybody” included was something they could work out later.  “You ready for dinner now, son?”

            Hoss grinned with relief.  “Yes, sir, I sure am.”  Food wasn’t the main thing on his mind when they returned to the kitchen, however.  He went straight to Nelly Thomas and hugged her tight.  “I’m sorry I pitched such a fit, Aunt Nelly,” he said, “and I’d be much obliged if’n you’d bake me a cake—chocolate with boiled white icing, please—and bring it to the Ponderosa next weekend.”

            “I’d be pleasured,” Nelly said simply, and the sparkle returned to young Inger’s eyes.  Clyde just nodded in silent satisfaction.  Like he’d always felt, correcting children was best left to men, and watching Ben Cartwright handle his boys over the years had only strengthened that opinion.

            “Hurray!” Little Joe shouted, almost bouncing out of his seat.  “We get a party!”

            Hoss wrapped his arms around the younger boy.  “Yeah, I reckon we do.”

* * * * *

            The rest of the evening passed in a haze for Ben, not the sort he’d walked through a year ago, but thick enough that he hated to think what he must have been like back then.  Tonight he made conversation, discussed current events with his friends, and their reactions indicated they noticed nothing different from usual.  But it felt different to Ben; it felt . . . unimportant.  When he finally lay silent in bed that night, he understood why: he had much to think over and must have been drifting toward this quiet moment alone all evening.  His conversation with Hoss had been hovering at the back of his mind all through supper and the chit-chat afterwards, and now it surged forward with demanding questions.

            How could he have been so blind?  All this time he’d thought his boys were doing just fine—feeling their grief from time to time, of course; that was natural, but coping, moving on, putting the sorrow behind them, as boys—and men—had to, if they were to go on living.  He’d thought they were happy, but now he wondered how many of the smiles were genuine, how many put on, perhaps for his sake, as he often put them on for theirs.

            Hoss, his most even-keeled son, had seemed so strong, so settled into the new situation, but deep within this intense agony and anger had sunk its talons into his sensitive soul.  And his ignorant father had just lumbered on, like nothing was amiss with his middle boy.  Ben shook his head in self-disgust, and his eyes came to rest on the curly pate of his youngest son, sharing the bed with him.  Had his youngest also been hiding hurts deep in his little heart?  Hurts put there by a negligent father?  As poor a father as he’d been to Adam last year, forcing responsibilities rightfully his own onto the young man’s slim shoulders, and as insensitive as he’d been to Hoss’s needs, he knew he’d been worse with Little Joe, barely able to look at his sweet, sad face a year ago, when the boy had needed him most.

            He’d put fear in his boy’s heart during those awful days, and he still saw it, from time to time, when he had to rebuke some childish misdeed.  “It’s why you get away with so much, you scamp,” he whispered to the cherubic face on the pillow beside him.  He’d been a much tougher disciplinarian with Adam and—no, not with Hoss, so good-natured a boy that he’d rarely needed correction.  Ben knew that he should take a firmer hand with his youngest, but when correction brought that flicker of fear to the emerald eyes, so like hers, he just couldn’t.  “I love you, little one,” he murmured.  “I hope you know that.”

            As if in answer, Little Joe, smiling in sweet contentment, burrowed into his father’s side.

            With a chuckle Ben cuddled him closer, and as he settled into his pillow, his gaze fell again on his middle son, sleeping on a pallet nearby.  Hoss’s sense of justice wouldn’t let him take more than his baby brother had received, but at least Joe had had a nice celebration the year before.  It wasn’t right, letting his own grief deprive Hoss of his birthday party last year and now letting the boy deprive himself a second time in misguided sacrifice.  He’d given Hoss the choice, and he’d honor it, but Ben felt that he had to find some way to make that day special for his son.  As special a boy as Hoss deserved no less.

* * * * *

            When Hoss insisted that the only people he wanted at his birthday celebration were the Thomases and the Montgomerys, “just like Little Joe had,” Ben became more determined than ever to mount a better celebration.  Even pointing out that Little Joe had had one more guest, since Ludmilla was still with them then, wouldn’t budge Hoss into inviting a friend.  “I guess he got a streak of the Cartwright stubbornness, after all,” Ben grunted to himself.  He’d never have thought it of his placid middle boy.

            He wracked his brain for a couple of days, trying to think of something different enough not to seem like a party, but festive enough to inject some childhood joy into the occasion.  Then he remembered a poster he’d seen in town and decided that nothing could be more perfect than what it advertised, the sort of activity no youngster could turn down.  If Hoss did put up any argument, he’d soon learn from whom he’d inherited that streak of Cartwright stubbornness.

            When he announced at breakfast on Wednesday morning that they would all be attending Bartholomew’s Circus the next evening, Little Joe whooped with delight.  Adam had taken them to their first circus last summer, and he remembered how much fun it had been.  And this time Pa would go with them—perfect!  He clapped his hands and bounced up and down until his father told him to settle down and eat his breakfast.

            At first Hoss’s eyes shone, too, but then they narrowed.  “Tomorrow?” he asked.  “But that’s my birthday.”

            “So what?” Ben said.  “We had your celebration on Sunday, remember?”

            Hoss’s forehead wrinkled.  “Yeah, but . . . I mean, Thursday?  It’s the middle of the week, Pa.  Most times, you say we can’t get away for such as that in the middle of the week, ‘cause of work.”

            “Well, this time we’re splurging,” Ben insisted.  “Work can just wait.”  When he saw a smile slowly spread across Hoss’s face, he ventured his next surprise.  “Well, that’s settled, then.  As soon as you finish your chores, you can ride over to the Hanson’s.”

            “The Hanson’s?  What for?” Hoss asked.

            “Why, to ask if Pete can accompany us tomorrow evening,” Ben said as if the reason should have been obvious.  “He can spend the night, of course, since we’ll be late getting back.”

            Hoss frowned slightly.  “This is beginning to sound like a party, Pa.”

            “Now, Hoss, we already had your party, just the way you wanted it,” Ben reiterarted.  “You can’t be changing your mind now, son.”

            “I wasn’t!” Hoss protested.  “But this sounds like another party.”

            “It doesn’t sound like a party to me,” Ben observed, schooling his face to look innocent.  “Does it sound like a party to you, Little Joe?”

            “Yes!” the younger boy cried jubilantly.

            Ben rolled his eyes.  He should have known better than to expect help from that direction.  “It’s a night at the circus . . . which just happens to be the night of your birthday,” he finished lamely.  Then he straightened up.  “It’s not like you to be selfish, Hoss.”

            Hoss’s blue eyes flared open in shock.  “Selfish, Pa?”

            “Near as I can tell, the Hansons don’t have much cash to spare for things like circuses; the boy probably has never been to one,” Ben said, “so I thought it would be nice to invite Pete along, but if you don’t want to share . . .”

            “I do,” Hoss insisted.  “I do want to share, and—and Pete’s my best buddy, Pa.  It’d be extra fun with him along.”

            “Well, good, then.  That sounds more like my Hoss,” Ben said.  “So . . . we’ll ride in early and pick up Inger.”

            “Her, too?”

            Ben clucked his tongue.  “Now, son, surely you wouldn’t deprive the girl of a good time.”

            “Well, no, but she lives in Virginia City,” Hoss argued.  “She can go any time she wants.”  Seeing his father’s arched eyebrow, he stammered, “But—but I reckon she’d enjoy it more with other kids, huh?”

            “I would think so,” Ben said.

            “I like Inger,” Little Joe put in.  “She’s nice.”  He frowned.  “‘Cept when she plays house and makes me the baby!” 

            “She won’t do that at the circus,” Ben inserted quickly.  He glanced at Hoss.  “So, Pete for you and Inger for Little Joe?”

            “Yeah,” Hoss agreed.  “And popcorn for everybody, right, Pa?”

            “Right!” Ben said enthusiastically.  Popcorn, hot nuts, anything it took to keep that toothy grin on his boy’s face.

* * * * *

            Pete’s eyes all but popped out of his head when he was handed a menu at the restaurant Thursday evening.  While such treats weren’t unheard of for the other children, they were rare, especially when accompanied by the invitation to “order anything you want.”  Hoss’s choice of eatery was, as predicted, the reasonably priced Chapman’s Chop House, so Ben had no concern that the resulting bill would be high, especially since neither Inger nor Little Joe ever had particularly large appetites.  Hoss was the only one who did, for that matter, but having evidently taken his father’s lecture about selfishness more to heart than had been intended, he urged his friend to order both a plate of chops and a bowl of chowder, saying he’d be happy to polish off whatever Pete couldn’t finish.  Surprisingly, crawny Pete proved up to the challenge.

            However, it wasn’t only Pete who stared, wide-eyed, at the attractions of the side show.  All four of the children did, as they gazed at one wonder after another, from the fattest hog they’d ever seen to the man swallowing a rusty old army cutlass.  They were enthralled as they gathered around an iron tank, where the recent battle between the Monitor and the Merrimac was being reenacted.  When both miniature ships burst, Ben rolled his eyes.  So much for historical accuracy, he thought, but the children didn’t mind; to them, it was all the more exciting to see two ships sink.

            All the other exhibits paled in comparison to the three-headed chicken, however.  So much for biological accuracy, Ben groaned inwardly.  He had no intention of pointing that out to the children, at least not tonight, but the chicken took that duty upon itself when, as it ran around its wire enclosure, one of the heads dropped off into the dirt, to the accompaniment of shrieks from every woman and child there and loud guffaws from all the men.  Ben quickly gathered his four chicks and hurried them into the main circus tent.  Telling Hoss to locate the vender and purchase popcorn and nuts for everyone, he put an arm around each of the younger two children and tried to quiet them with assurances that it had all been a hoax, not a living chicken head falling off.  Inger was still sniffling when Hoss and Pete returned with the treats, but before long all four youngsters were happily munching as they waited for the circus acts to start.

            And what acts they were!  Acrobats and gymnasts and clowns cavorted around the ring to cries of delight, but the stars of Bartholmew’s circus were, without doubt, Wonder and Young America, horses that could not only perform equestrian feats, but were able to kneel and to count with their dainty hooves.  Oohs and ahs circled the ring as often as the ponies went around, and Little Joe, in particular, stared with gape-mouthed wonder and obvious adoration.  After leaving Inger with her parents, Ben bedded the three boys in the back of his buckboard, but they were all so excited that they chattered halfway back to the Ponderosa before yawns finally began to separate their words and they settled under the blankets.  Even then occasional whispers were exchanged until, at last, the air was punctuated only by soft snores.  To Ben, elated with the success of the evening, no orchestra could have produced a sweeter symphony.

~ ~ Notes ~ ~

            Robert E. Lee took command of the Confederate Armies of Northern Virginia on June 2, 1862, only accentuating Abraham Lincoln’s dissatisfaction with his own commander of the Army of the Potomac, George McClellan, a man convinced that his own troops were never quite as prepared or as large as the force opposing him.

            Lincoln signed the Pacific Railroad Act, and the Congress passed a bill outlawing polygamy on July 1, 1862.

            Samuel Clemens signed his earliest contributions to the Territorial Enterprise with the pseudonym, “Josh.”  His article on Professor Personal Pronoun was one of the selections that led to his being hired by the Virginia City newspaper.

            Sometime in the summer of 1862, a fire burned out 150 people between C and D streets.  The Chinese were blamed and a petition circulated to get rid of them.  Ben’s intervention and its immediate aftermath are, of course, fiction.

            Chocolate cake with boiled white icing was my favorite as a child, so I have donated it to Hoss for his birthday.  J

            Bartholomew’s Circus, with all the acts described here, played on the Comstock during the summer of 1862.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

A Matter of Loyalty

            To Hoss, it seemed that his birthday celebration just went on and on.  Oh, it was back to chores, as usual, the day after, but then on Saturday afternoon Pa took time off work to give Hoss instruction in how to use his new gift, a Sharps Model 1853 rifle.  The boy paid close attention as his father loaded the .52 caliber paper cartridge into the breech, took aim and knocked a tin can off the corral fence on the first try.

            Then Ben handed the gun to his son.  “Now, it’s a little heavy, but I think you’re strong enough to handle it.”

            “Yes, sir,” Hoss said as he hefted the rifle to his shoulder.  “Aw, Pa, this ain’t nothin’.  Little Joe weighs more’n this, and it don’t squiggle like he does.”

            Ben laughed.  “No, but it does have just about as hard a kick.  Line up the sight and squeeze the trigger, son.”

            Hoss tried to do exactly as he’d been taught, but excitement made him jerk the trigger.  Though the gun’s kick caught him off guard, he had his feet planted solidly enough that he didn’t fall over.

            “Keep that up and you’ll have a real bruised shoulder by morning,” Ben said wryly.

            “Sorry, Pa.  I forgot.”

            “It’s all right, son.  Rome wasn’t built in a day,” Ben observed.

            “Huh?”

            Ben patted the boy’s back.  “Just a saying.  It means it takes time to build important things like a city—or a skill.”

            “Oh, yeah, I reckon,” Hoss said, squinting his eyes as he sighted the gun again and this time squeezed the trigger.  He exhaled in puffy exasperation at sight of the tin can still perched on the corral rail, untouched.  “Doggone it!  At this rate, we ain’t never gonna get Rome built,” he muttered.

            “It takes practice.”  Ben ruffled the boy’s hair.  “Hoss, you’re always so patient with your little brother when you’re teaching him something new; you need to be patient with yourself, too.”

            Hoss grinned shyly at the compliment and nodded.  He continued to fire the weapon, careful to follow his father’s corrections and was soon rewarded with the sight of a tin can flying off the rail.  “Whoo—ee!  I did it, Pa!”

            “You sure did, son!” Ben enthused right along with his boy.  “Let’s see if you can do it again.”

            Hoss missed the next shot, but gradually he started to have more hits than misses, and Ben declared himself well satisfied with the boy’s progress.  Over the next few days he tried to give Hoss some practice time each evening, and after Friday’s session, he announced that he thought it was time to try shooting at a live target.

            Hoss gulped.  Much as he hated to hurt any living thing, he knew that this was a lot like branding: something that had to be done.  Unless he lived in town, a man had to provide meat for his table by hunting it or slaughtering the animals he raised.  Either one involved killing, and Hoss knew he’d have to brace himself to it, just like he had the branding.  “I’ll do my best, Pa,” he promised.  “We gonna go after a deer, like Adam did?”

            “Let’s try something smaller first,” Ben suggested.  “Squirrel, maybe?”

            Hoss’s nose crinkled.  “They’s awful little—harder to hit.”

            Ben massaged the boy’s shoulder with his strong fingers.  “Yeah, you’ll either hit one or miss it altogether, and I think at this stage, that’s what we want.  You wouldn’t want to merely wound an animal, would you, son?”  He didn’t think the boy’s tender heart could bear having to track down a wounded animal and put it out of its misery.

            “No, sir!” Hoss declared.  His nose again crinkled in thought.  “Does Hop Sing know how to cook squirrel?” he asked, for he couldn’t remember seeing that meat come out of the Chinaman’s kitchen.

            Ben chuckled.  “We’ll just tell him to treat it like chicken and fry it crisp.”

            Over supper that evening they planned their trip for the next day.  Little Joe bubbled with excitement.  “What time we gonna leave?” he asked.  “Real early?”

            Ben arched an eyebrow.  “Hoss and I will leave before sunup.  You, however, may sleep in as late as you like, since you’re not coming.”

            “Why?” Little Joe demanded, face reddening.  “Why can’t I go, too?”

            “Too little,” Hoss stated flatly.  “Doggone it, Joe.  I ain’t even been hunting before, and you’re a heap younger’n me.”

            “That’s right,” Ben said firmly.  “Now, I’ll hear no more argument, Joseph.”  He did, of course.  Little Joe’s protests continued, rising in intensity and volume until Ben finally advised him that one more word would lead to a “very necessary little talk.”  Little Joe clamped his mouth shut after that, but as he sulked through the rest of the meal, his eyes declared the unfairness of life in general for the youngest in the family.

* * * * *

            The banging of pots and loud Cantonese ejaculations that emerged from the kitchen the next night made Ben wince apologetically at his guests.  “Sorry,” he told the Thomases.  “It’s me he’s upset with, but the whole ranch has to listen to the tirade.”

            Clyde cackled.  “What you done to rile the feller this time?”

            Ben’s mouth skewed ruefully to one side.  “Made him serve fried squirrel to honored guests.  Apparently, it risks loss of face.”

            “Not a thing wrong with squirrel,” Nelly declared stoutly, “so long as it ain’t overcooked.  Reckon I ought to mention that to him?”

            “Not if you value your life,” Ben muttered dryly.

            She chuckled.  “Well, so happens I do, so I reckon I’ll just sit here and hope for the best.”

            “I shot the squirrels,” Hoss bragged.

            Nelly smiled proudly at him.  “Well, now, that’ll make ‘em taste all the better, I just know.”

            “That blackberry cobbler you brought is what will make the meal,” Ben said, a sentiment quickly echoed by both his sons.

            “If we’d known, we could’ve churned some ice cream,” Hoss opined with a smack of his lips.

            Ben snorted.  “Goodness, boy, we barely made it home in time to give Hop Sing those squirrels.  Where would we have found the time to churn a batch of ice cream?”

            “Should’ve set your other boy to that,” Clyde snickered.

            “Oh, yeah, that would work real well,” Ben scoffed, though he smiled at the image of those pint-sized arms turning the churn, especially when the custard started to freeze and the handle got harder to move.

            “I can do it!” Little Joe, who hated being laughed at, announced through puffed-out cheeks.

            “We’ll try you at it sometime,” Ben said.  About ten or twelve years from now! he added mentally.  To change the subject, he quickly asked Clyde, “Any important news from town?”

            “Hear tell that Josh feller is gonna come to work full time at the Enterprise,” Clyde replied.

            “Well, we can use a few good laughs,” Ben opined, “to offset all the war news.”

            “Needs offsettin’, for a fact,” Clyde agreed.  The Seven Days’ Battles of late June and early July had taken thousands of lives, and while the Union hadn’t lost every battle, neither had McClellan been able to take Richmond and thereby end the war.

            A disgruntled Hop Sing called them to dinner.  As they all rose to answer the summons, Ben whispered, “Please brag on that squirrel, whatever it tastes like, and I promise we’ll do better by you tomorrow.”

            Nelly laughed and flapped a disdaining hand.  By meal’s end, though, no one had to brag falsely.  In Hop Sing’s hands even squirrel tasted like banquet fare.  Ben promised himself, though, that the next time he took Hoss out hunting, it would be for better game.  The boy had proved himself ready, but Ben wasn’t sure they could work in a longer hunting trip before fall roundup.

            After the others headed for bed that night, he took a few minutes to peruse the back newspapers that Clyde had obligingly brought from Virginia City.  The biggest news was a proclamation from Colonel P. Edward Conner, Commander of the 3^rd Regiment of California Volunteers, reported to be headed for Fort Churchill.  The proclamation made it a crime to express any sentiment against the Federal Government and prohibited any purchases from any person who had, by word or act, ever manifested disloyalty.  Ben didn’t foresee any problem for him personally.  No one had ever questioned his loyalty, and if he should have the opportunity to sell something to the Government, he’d willingly take the oath of allegiance.  While he bore no ill will to anyone on either side of the conflict, the United States was his country; and if pushed to choose, he’d always stand for the preservation of the Union.

* * * * *

            Colonel Conner’s edict affected Ben more quickly than he could possibly have guessed.  Only a few days after reading that item in the Territorial Enterprise, he learned of bids being accepted for a contract to supply Fort Churchill with beef.  What a boon that would be, if he could market his cattle so close to home!  If he didn’t have to trail them all the way to California, he could charge less and still make more profit.  Ben sat up late into the night, calculating and recalculating his bid on the evening before the deadline of noon Saturday, but he was still nervous as he sealed it early the next morning.

            “Little Joe, quit dawdling over your breakfast,” he scolded as he pulled on his jacket.

            “I don’t dawdle,” Little Joe protested.  “That’s Hoss.”

            “I do not!” Hoss sputtered.  “You’re the one always playin’ with your vittles, instead of eatin’ ‘em.”

            “We don’t have time to argue, boys,” Ben insisted.  “Eat what you’re going to eat, and let’s get on the road.  I cannot be late.”

            “Yes, sir,” Hoss said, leaning across the table to whisper, “Eat up ‘fore he decides to just leave us behind.”

            Taking that threat seriously, Little Joe stuffed the final bites of his breakfast into chipmunk cheeks and left the table, still munching.

            Ben rolled his eyes, but decided not to waste time with a lecture on table manners this morning.  They mounted up, Little Joe riding in front of Hoss, and stayed together until they reached the Virginia City road.  “Sure you can manage him up the Geiger Grade, Hoss?” he asked.

            “Sure thing, Pa.”  Hoss leaned over to look Little Joe in the face.  “You ain’t gonna squirm none, are you, punkin?”

            “‘Course not,” Little Joe declared.

            “All right.  You mind your brother, then,” Ben advised as he gathered the reins of his own horse.

            Little Joe’s head bobbed.  “And Aunt Nelly and Uncle Clyde.”

            “That’s right.”  Ben smiled his approval.  “Tell Aunt Nelly I’ll try to be there for dinner, but not to hold it on my account.”  Though it was his turn to act as host at the Ponderosa, the trip to Fort Churchill made it more convenient for everyone to meet in Virginia City again this weekend.

            “Yes, sir, Pa—and good luck!” Hoss called as he started up the steep and winding Geiger Grade.

* * * * *

            Ben paced the dusty compound of Fort Churchill, his feet keeping almost as steady a beat as the soldiers drilling nearby.  He’d gotten his bid in well before noon, but though he’d been offered a meal in one of the company mess halls, he couldn’t eat.  Ridiculous to be this nervous, he told himself.  If I don’t get the contract, I’ll still have a market in California.  There was no denying, though, that winning it would simplify his life and give him more time with his boys.  The growing ranch, with its diversified interests, demanded more and more of that precious commodity these days, and this was an opportunity to buy back some of it.

            He glanced at his competition.  He knew neither of them well, although Samuel Nevers had settled in Carson Valley some five years ago.  He hadn’t even met Rufus Pike before this morning, although he understood that the man had a sizeable spread south of Genoa.  Being closer to Fort Churchill might give Pike an advantage, since he could probably transport his cattle at less cost.  Certainly, he didn’t look worried as his long, lean body lounged bonelessly against a post outside the officers’ quarters.  He was even whistling, carefree as a bird.  Straining his ears to catch the tune, Ben arched an eyebrow when he recognized “Dixie.”  Scarcely the song to select within these gates!

            Finally, the headquarters door opened, and the commanding officer stepped out.  All three potential contractors stepped toward him, Nevers hanging back slightly behind the other two ranchers.  “Gentlemen, we have carefully examined all your bids,” the colonel announced, “and have decided to award the contract to Mr. Pike.”

            Turning away slightly, lest his disappointment show, Ben saw Samuel Nevers nod as if he’d expected the outcome.  After directing Pike to enter the office to finalize the contract, the commander stepped down from the porch and walked toward the men whose bids had not been accepted.  “My apologies, gentlemen,” he said, “for your long and, unfortunately, unrewarded ride.”

            Nevers shook the man’s hand.  “Can’t say as I’m surprised.  My spread bein’ smaller than either of these other gents, I’d’ve been stretched to meet your quotas.”

            “Precisely,” the colonel said.  He turned toward Ben.  “I do wish we could have done business with you, Cartwright.  Your previous dealings with the fort have shown you to be dependable, and I understand that Ponderosa beef is the best in the territory.”

            “I’d like to think so, Colonel Conner,” Ben said, shaking the man’s hand with a smile.

            “Unfortunately, I was required to accept the lowest bid,” Conner explained, “and Pike’s offer was a dollar a head lower than yours.”

            “That’s a significant savings for the government,” Ben admitted.  “Well, I trust Mr. Pike will do a good job for you.  However, if you should discover that you need more beef than he can supply, I hope you’ll grant me the privilege of serving you.”

            “Hey, you can count me in on that, too,” Nevers put in with a grin, “so long as you don’t want too many beeves.”

            “Certainly,” Colonel Conners said.  “If you’ll excuse me now, I need to finish my business with Mr. Pike.”

            Nevers blew out a long, slow exhale.  “Well, a long, hot ride for nothin’ but the chance to do it again t’other direction.  Longer for you, though, Cartwright.”

            “That it is,” Ben chuckled, “although not quite as far as you’re figuring.  I’m spending the night with friends in Virginia City.”

            “Might even make it for supper, if you leave pronto,” Nevers suggested.  “I know that’s my aim!”

            “Yeah, mine, too,” Ben admitted.  “I’m gonna take time to eat that sandwich my cook sent with me, though.  Had no appetite for it earlier.”

            “Know what you mean,” Nevers agreed.  “Wish I’d thought to bring one.”

            “Happy to share what I’ve got,” Ben offered.  “Knowing Hop Sing, there’s a good chance there’s more than one in my pack.”

            The other rancher slapped him companionably on the back.  “I’ll take you up on that, Cartwright!”

            However, the two men had no sooner found a shady spot and divied up the contents of Hop Sing’s packet than the door to the headquarters office was flung open with such force that it hit the wall behind it.  Rufus Pike stormed outside, shouting, “It’s tyranny, pure and simple!  Government’s got no right to tell a man what to believe!”

            Colonel Conner appeared in the doorway and shouted, “Confine that man to the guard house!  And instruct Lieutenant Saunders to follow the prescribed procedure for traitors.”  A sergeant crossing the compound quickly motioned a couple of foot soldiers forward to obey the order.

            “Freedom of speech is dead in this country!” Pike yelled as he was dragged away.

            Ben and Sam Nevers both jumped to their feet and stared at the confrontation.  “What on earth?” Nevers asked, jaw dropping in consternation.

            Evidently, Conners heard him, for he turned that direction and then quickly walked over to them.  “You haven’t left, then, Mr. Cartwright.”

            Ben held up his sandwich.  “Just taking time enough for a bite to eat, if that’s all right, Colonel.”

            “I’m gratified you did,” Conners said.  “As it turns out, Mr. Cartwright, the Army will be pleased to contract with you for that fine Ponderosa beef.”

            Ben cast a quick glance at the guard house, into which Rufus Pike was being roughly shoved.  “I don’t understand,” he said slowly.  “Was there a problem with Mr. Pike’s bid?”

            “Not with the bid,” the colonel said tersely.  “With the man making it.  He refused to take the oath of allegiance and went so far as to insult President Lincoln while he was at it.”

            “Oh, boy,” Nevers muttered.

            “The Army will not transact business with a disloyal citizen,” Colonel Conners stated sharply.  “You have no problem with the oath of allegiance, Mr. Cartwright?”

            “No, of course not,” Ben replied soberly.  “I support my country, but I’d be much more comfortable if I’d won the contract outright, sir.  Hate to get it this way.”

            Conners’ face softened.  “Yes, I understand, and I apologize for the unpleasantness, but I hope you won’t consider withdrawing your bid.  The Army needs that beef, Mr. Cartwright.”

            “And it will be my honor to supply it,” Ben said.  Beyond the honor, it was, of course, good business, and he could scarcely afford to pass it up.  He handed his sandwich to Sam Nevers.  “Be my guest,” he said with a grin.

            With a grin even wider, Nevers took it.  “Thanks,” he said, “and congratulations!”

            Ben followed Colonel Conners into headquarters, took the oath and signed the appropriate papers.  As he came out, he noticed a man carrying a heavy bag over his shoulder, as he walked around the flagpole at the end of a twenty-foot chain attached to his ankle.  When the man circled back toward him, Ben gasped in recognition.  It was his former competitor, Rufus Pike.  “Is that necessary?” he asked the sergeant who had escorted him out of the office.

            “Traitors deserve no better, sir,” the soldier said before turning briskly on his heel and returning to headquarters.

            Ben pursed his lips and walked toward the stables, unable to tear his eyes away from the man under punishment.  Pike had been a fool, of course, to voice anti-administration sentiment inside a fort full of Union soldiers, but he had been right about one thing: if it had come to this, freedom of speech was no longer a fundamental right in the United States of America.  There was nothing Ben could do to help the man, but the thought of profiting by the denial of another’s rights turned his stomach so sour that he was glad he’d given his sandwich to Samuel Nevers.  And as he walked his horse toward the stockade gate, Pike threw him a glare of such piercing hatred that not even the blazing August sun could stop the shiver up Ben’s spine.

* * * * *

            Fall roundup took on an unprecedented urgency that year.  Never before had Ben had a specific contract to fulfill, with deadlines to meet and penalties for failure to do so.  He wasn’t too worried about that, though.  He had enough mature steers ready for market and a good crew of men to get them there.  He wanted to drive them to the fort as soon as possible, however, because of a couple of events looming on his horizon.  He had a birthday coming up, and while he never threw himself a party, as he did for the boys, he did like to take that day off to celebrate another year’s accomplishments.  At least, the date for that was fixed, but he wasn’t sure when the other event would take place.  Babies were notorious for showing up when they chose, and that was rarely at the convenience of family or friends.  He felt a special responsibility to be available to welcome this little one into the world, especially now that Billy Thomas had accepted a position with the newly formed Virginia City Pony Express.  The way things still stood with the child’s nearest grandparents, it wasn’t likely Nelly would feel obliged to help when Marta’s time came.  Of course, Dr. Martin was right there in town, if Billy were away on a run, but some family ought to be in attendance, even if it were just an unofficial uncle.

            Hoss had been disappointed at the loss of the trail drive to California, so Ben made a special effort to give the boy added responsibilities during the roundup and bragged on how well he was handling the cattle.  “Can I help drive ‘em to Fort Churchill?” Hoss asked eagerly.

            “Well . . . maybe,” Ben conceded.  School would have started again by the time he’d scheduled that drive, but he was considering letting Hoss take a day or two off.  The boy really was getting to be a good wrangler, and he’d worked hard enough to earn a small reward.  On the other hand, Little Joe would be starting school this year—it didn’t seem possible!—and Ben hesitated to send his youngest off alone with only a few days’ introduction to school routine under his belt.

            By the end of the week, virtually all the four-year-old steers had been gathered in a lush lowland meadow, to rest and put on a little more flesh for the upcoming drive.  Maybe five days of that, and they’d be ready to leave, with plenty of time to deliver the cattle before his birthday.  Things couldn’t have looked better.

            Ben even gave in to the pleas of his youngest on Saturday morning to come to the camp and “help wrangle” the cattle.  The youngster wasn’t doing any actual work, of course, but he sat proudly in front of his father in the saddle, and as they rode around the herd, Ben attempted to explain what the cattle needed and how the hands were providing for them.

            They were riding along easily when the first shot rang out.  Though Ben saw one of the young steers drop to the ground, his first thought, of course, was the safety of his sons.  “Hoss!” he yelled and spurred his horse toward his middle boy as shots continued to rain into the herd and startled cattle began to run.

            Stunned by the gunfire, Hoss hesitated a moment; then he urged his horse forward.  “Who’s shootin’, Pa?” he called as he met his father.

            Putting himself between the shootist and his sons, Ben handed Little Joe over to his brother.  “Don’t know.  Get your brother behind the chuck wagon—and stay there!”

            Hoss nodded.  Instinctively turning his back to shield his little brother from the continuing gunfire, he raced for the wagon, dismounted and pushed Little Joe behind the front wheel before crowding into its scant shelter himself.  Hop Sing, who had been heating stew over a campfire, ran to cringe behind the wagon’s rear wheel.

            “They gonna shoot Pa?” Little Joe cried.

            Hoss hugged the shivering body close to his own.  “No such a thing,” he declared, although the same fear was surging through him.  The more he watched, though, the less worried he felt—at least, about Pa’s safety.  Whoever was doing the shooting wasn’t aiming at Pa—or any other man; the cattle were the targets, and Hoss winced each time he saw one go down.

            The shooting stopped as suddenly as it had started, perhaps because the cattle had scattered too far to make easy targets.  It took the cowhands a few moments to realize that the bullets had stopped flying their way and to run for their horses and give chase.  Before he rode out, Ben stopped at the chuck wagon.  “Stay here,” he ordered, after ascertaining that both boys were unharmed.  Spotting the cook, he said, “If all seems quiet after about fifteen minutes, Hop Sing, drive the wagon home and take the boys with you.”

            “All light, Mistah Cawtlight,” the Chinaman replied.  “You be plenty careful, yes?”

            “Plenty careful,” Ben promised.  Then with an encouraging smile at his sons, he added, “I’ll see you at the house, boys.”

            Hoss nodded, taking it for a promise, but Little Joe only twisted his fists into his eyes, too terrified to even voice the fear gripping his heart.  Hoss snaked an arm around his brother’s shaking shoulders to show Pa that he’d look after the younger boy.

* * * * *

            Squatted down in the dusty roadway, Hank Carlton scowled at the overlapping maze of horseshoe prints.  He stood slowly and, shaking his head, looked up at his boss.  “Sorry, Mr. Cartwright.  No way to pick out the mounts we’re after now.  All mixed in with everybody else headed south.”

            Ben exhaled gusty exasperation.  “Yeah.  Time to bring in the law, I suppose.”

            “If even that’ll help,” Hank said, mouth skewing sideways in a morose grimace.

            Ben conceded the slim odds with a grim nod as he turned toward his foreman.  “Enos, get back to camp,” he ordered.  “Have the men round up the cows that strayed and then set a round-the-clock guard on the remaining herd.”  And pray there’s enough to fill that contract, he groaned inwardly.  Odds were against it.

            “Straight away, Mr. Ben,” Enos said, immediately turning his horse toward the ranch.

            Carlton mounted, intending to follow the foreman, but Ben stopped him.  “Hate to ask this, Hank; it’s no job for a top hand.”

            “Ask anything, boss,” Hank replied earnestly.

            “No point in that beef going to waste,” Ben sighed, “and it’s more than we can use ourselves.  Let our close neighbors know they’re welcome to whatever they can tote off.  I definitely want the Hansons to have some, anyone else you know that’s in real need.  I’m afraid some of them may need help with the butchering.”

            Hank’s nose wrinkled.  Like Mr. Cartwright had said, butchering beef didn’t normally fall into the duties of a top wrangler, but when a man worked a place, he did what was needed, whether it was herding, branding or, on a bad day, slaughtering.  “I’ll take care of it, boss,” he promised.  “Okay to take some to Miz Hunter, too?”

            Ben looked startled for a moment and then replied absently, “Yes, of course, if you think she can use it.”

            “I reckon as how she can, sir,” Hank said, and all the frown lines of the frustrating day seemed to fade from his forehead.  With a tip of his hat, he turned and rode away.

            Ben had just started in the opposite direction when he suddenly looked over his shoulder at the wrangler.  Goodness, but the man was raising dust faster than a devil wind!  No way to call him back now for a few words of admonition, but Ben certainly hoped that Elvira Hunter wouldn’t perceive the gift of beef as meaning more than it did.  Last thing he needed was to encourage that husband-hunting lady, good-hearted as she was.  He had problems enough without that!  Shrugging off the hopefully unwarranted concern, he set his face toward Washoe City to report the attack on his cattle.

* * * * *

            As Ben tied his horse to the rail outside the sheriff’s office, he found himself wishing that he could ask Roy Coffee to investigate this case.  In the short time he’d known the lawman, he’d developed a respect, as well as a genuine liking, for the man.  Didn’t make sense this time, though.  The bulk of the Ponderosa was in Washoe County, and its capital was certainly closer than Storey County’s Virginia City.   T. A. Read was younger than Sheriff Coffee—younger, even, than Ben, for that matter—and certainly less experienced as a lawman, having only taken office that year, but he was a steady man and a farmer himself, which might give him greater understanding of a land-related issue like cattle rustling.

            “Rustlin’, you say?” Read asked when Ben had described the attack at the Ponderosa.  “Doesn’t sound like rustlin’, Mr. Cartwright.  Doesn’t seem like these fellers were much interested in the cattle, more like they just hurt the beeves to strike at you.  You had trouble with anyone recently, anyone holdin’ a grudge against you?”

            Ben stared at him, stunned, for until that moment he hadn’t considered that the assault on his cattle had been directed at him personally.  “Not that I’m aware of,” he said slowly, his spread hands reflecting his bewilderment.

            “Thing like this could be aimed to hit you in the pocketbook,” Read suggested.  “Any business rivals, anyone who might feel cheated out of a deal by you, anything like that?”

            Ben started to deny it, but then broke off abruptly as he remembered the scene at Fort Churchill, when he’d first lost and then won the bid to supply the army.  “Well . . . possibly,” he began hesitantly and then shook his head.  “I wouldn’t want to accuse anyone on nothing more than suspicion.”

            Sheriff Read smiled wryly.  “And I wouldn’t want you doin’ my job for me.  Any accusations need makin’, I’ll make ‘em, but if I’m going to investigate this thing, Cartwright, you got to give me a place to start.  Now, just give me the facts.”

            Lips fluttering, Ben exhaled roughly and described, as accurately as he could remember, what had transpired at the cattle bidding.  “I don’t think it could be Nevers,” he finished.  “He’s been in the territory a long time—built the third house in Carson Valley, in fact—and our relations have always been casual, but cordial.  Besides”—Ben chuckled—“he didn’t seem to expect to win the bid, just sort of hoped.”  Though he didn’t recognize it at the time, the thought planted a seed that would sprout later, as he rode home.

            Read leaned back, balancing on the rear legs of his chair.  “Wouldn’t be the first man to hide malice behind a friendly face,” he observed dryly.  Letting the chair rock forward, he propped his elbows on his desk and rested his chin on his interlaced fingers.  “Still, I know Nevers, too, and he doesn’t seem the type.  I’ll have to talk to him, of course, but this Pike sounds like a more probable prospect.”

            “He was angry, certainly,” Ben agreed, “but enough to do a thing like this?”  He shook his head.  “Hard for me to imagine anyone would sanction such senseless slaughter.”

            The sheriff cocked his head to one side.  “Someone did,” he pointed out, and Ben nodded reluctant agreement.  “Let me look into it,” Read continued.  “In the meantime keep a close watch on your stock, Cartwright—and keep your boys close to home.”

            Ben’s head jerked up.  “Surely, no one would hurt an innocent child!”

            Read stroked his chin.  “Hard to say ‘til we know who we’re dealing with and what his reasons are.  After all, Mr. Cartwright, a cow’s an innocent creature, too.”

            Read’s words haunted Ben all the way home.  Though he tried to concentrate on some way to meet the army’s contract despite the setback and the seed planted in the lawman’s office did sprout into the beginnings of a solution, his mind continually swerved to the sheriff’s warning to protect his sons.  True as it was that cattle were innocent creatures, they were still mere property.  A business rival without integrity might consider them fair game, but surely only a truly depraved soul would attack a helpless child.  Try as he would to dismiss the threat, however, he couldn’t, and it would be easy enough to order both boys to stay home.  School hadn’t started yet, so even the slight danger of a ride to Franktown could be avoided, at least for a few more days.  Hoss would be bitterly disappointed, of course.  He had looked forward to helping on this short cattle drive and had earned the privilege, but Ben wouldn’t take chances with the boy’s life.

            “But, Pa, you promised,” Hoss said when Ben gave him the bad news that evening after his younger son had been put to bed.

            Ben put an arm around the boy, surprised by just how broad those young shoulders were, and pulled him close.  “Now, Hoss, I only said maybe.  Even if I had promised, sometimes circumstances intervene, and a promise has to . . . change.”

            “Get broke, you mean,” Hoss said with an outthrust lower lip.

            “Be delayed,” Ben corrected soberly.

            “It ain’t fair,” Hoss protested stormily.  “First, we ain’t goin’ to California, like we always done before, and now not even Fort Churchill!”

            “No, it’s not fair,” Ben admitted.  “You’re old enough to know that life isn’t always fair, but I will make it up to you, son.  You have my word on that, and you know I’m a man of my word.”

            Hoss crinkled his eyes to keep unmanly tears from seeping out.  He couldn’t keep the whine from his voice, though, as he asked, “But, why, Pa?”

            Ben sighed.  He would have preferred not to answer that question, to keep his boy unaware of any threat, but Hoss was a young man now and mature enough, Ben believed, to hear the truth.  Choosing his words carefully, he explained what the sheriff had suggested might be behind the attack on their cattle and the possibility, although Ben assured his son it was a small one, that someone with as much ill will as that might be just as willing to hurt a boy as a cow.  “The sheriff said that I should keep you and Joseph close to home, and I think it’s best that we follow that instruction,” he concluded.

            “I can shoot, Pa,” Hoss insisted, “and I wanna protect our cattle, same as you.”

            Ben squeezed his shoulder, but answered soberly, “There’s something much more important for you to protect, son.”

            Hoss swallowed hard.  “Little Joe, you mean?”

            Ben smiled tenderly.  “Yes—Little Joe.  Without him—and you and Adam, as well—this ranch means nothing.  I’d rather lose every steer on the Ponderosa than one hair on any of your heads.”

            Hoss flushed shyly.  “Aw, Pa, hair ain’t worth such an almighty much.”

            Ben chuckled as he tousled his son’s sandy head.  “Don’t underrate it, young man.  Time comes in a man’s life when he wishes he could have a few hanks of it back.”  He pulled Hoss in for a one-armed hug.  “You’ll do as I ask, then, and keep close to the house?”

            Hoss nodded in somber acceptance of the commission.  “And look out for Little Joe,” he promised, adding with a grin, “and his thick ole thatch of hair.”

* * * * *

            The following Sunday, after dinner with the Thomases, Ben drove the buckboard west of Carson City.  He’d no sooner made the turn that direction than a small hand tugged on his sleeve.  “Wrong way, Pa,” Little Joe announced with a look of concern.

            Holding the reins in his left hand, Ben gave the boy’s back a consoling pat.  “Not this time, son.  We’re making another call on the way home.”

            “Who we know out this way, Pa?” Hoss asked.

            “We’re going by the Nevers place, Hoss,” his father replied.  “Know who I mean?”

            Hoss’s face screwed in thought.  “I think so.  We ain’t never had naught to do with ‘em, though, have we?”

            Ben chuckled.  “Not much.  Just a passing acquaintance, but I’m hoping to change that today.”

            “Oh,” Hoss said, satisfied.  Making new friends was always a good thing, and Sunday, bein’ a day of rest, was a proper time to go callin’.  “They ain’t got no kids, have they?”

            “Little girl, maybe a year old,” Ben answered and then laughed at the look on both his sons’ faces.  Obviously, neither of them considered a girl of that age a worthy playmate.  As he reined up before the Nevers’ house, he suddenly wondered if having the boys along was such a good idea, after all.  It was purely coincidence that this Sunday had been his turn to visit the Thomases in Virginia City and purely convenient to swing by Nevers’ ranch on the way home.  However, the convergence of those two purities automatically put the boys in the wagon with him, and that could be either blessing or curse, depending on how this afternoon’s business went.  Having them there made this seem more like a social call, but he didn’t want Hoss and, especially, Little Joe to get an earful if Sam Nevers wasn’t in a particularly friendly frame of mind after a visit from Sheriff Read.

            Ben’s knock brought Nevers himself to the door.  “Sam,” Ben said in as amiable a tone as he could muster past the lump in his throat, “we were on our way home from seeing other friends and thought we might stop in to visit with you a few minutes, if you can spare the time.”

            Nevers was caught speechless for a moment by the sight of the two youngsters on either side of Ben Cartwright.  Then he started to say something, but was cut off by the appearance of an amiable woman in her early thirties with a curly-headed child perched on her hip.

            “Ask ‘em in, Sam,” she said.  “We don’t get so much company that I’m like to turn any away.”

            Sam Nevers held the door open and gestured inside with a tilt of his head.

            Ben had experienced warmer welcomes in his time, but he took the invitation at face value, removing his hat as he entered.

            “Make yourself to home,” the woman said.  “I think there might be some coffee left in the pot.”  She started toward the kitchen.

            “Oh, none for me, thanks,” Ben said quickly.  “I just wanted a quick word with Sam, and then we’ll be on our way.  Still a long drive home.”

            “Maybe the younguns would like some of your lemon criss-cross cookies,” her husband suggested.

            Despite the wide slice of cake he’d consumed at Aunt Nelly’s, Hoss’s face lit up in anticipation.  “Yes, ma’am!” he cried.

            “Hoss,” Ben chided, the redness of his face finally bringing a grin to the face of his host.

            “My Mary’s lemon criss-cross ain’t to be missed,” Sam said.  “Let the boys go along with her, and then say what you got to say.”  It was Nevers, however, who spoke first, once the boys had disappeared into the other room.  “I never touched your cattle,” he said soberly, with a tinge of bitterness.

            “I never thought you did, Sam,” Ben said softly, “and I’m sorry the sheriff felt it necessary to bother you about it.  He just felt it was his duty to question anyone involved in that cattle deal with Fort Churchill.”

            Nevers shrugged.  “I reckon it was, but it bothered me considerable to think you had such a low opinion of me.”

            “Not at all,” Ben assured him.  “I told Sheriff Read I didn’t think it could be you, but he . . .”

            “Had to do his duty,” Sam finished.  “Well, I’m glad you came by and straightened that out, Ben.  Always like to be on good terms with my neighbors, even kind of distant ones.”

            “As do I,” Ben agreed, “but I stopped by with a more specific purpose, a matter of business, if you don’t object to discussing it on the Sabbath.”

            “I try to keep the day holy,” Nevers said, “but I reckon the good Lord understands how things are out here.”

            “I’ll make it brief,” Ben said, “and let you get back to your day of rest.”  He leaned forward, his hands dropping between his knees.  “Fact of the matter is, this sorry business has left me short of beef to supply the Army.  Back when we thought Pike had won the bid, you and I both offered to step in if the Army discovered it needed more beef than he could supply.  Now it’s me that can’t supply what’s needed, and I’m wondering if you’d still be willing to step in and help me meet that contract.  You’d have to accept the price per head that I agreed to—less than you originally bid, I presume—but you can have the full price, same as if you’d contracted the beef yourself.”

            “You won’t make any profit on my beeves that way,” Nevers pointed out.

            “No,” Ben admitted, “but I will demonstrate to the Army that they can depend on me to meet my obligations, and that could stand me in good stead in future negotiations.

            “‘He that sweareth to his own hurt, and changeth not,’” Nevers recited.

            Recognizing the quote from Psalm 15, Ben replied, “Exactly.”

            “Feel the same way about my good name,” Nevers said, “and I’ll be pleased to help you save yours”—he grinned—“at a tidy profit to me, I might add.”

            “Glad it can be that way.”  With a warm smile Ben extended his hand.  “We’ll seal the deal with a handshake, then—and a couple of Mary’s famous lemon criss-cross cookies.”

            “There you go, tryin’ to sweeten the deal for yourself again,” Sam chuckled as he took firm hold of Ben’s hand.

* * * * *

            August was almost over by the time Ben had put together a herd large enough to accommodate the Army’s contract.  He’d felt it necessary to make an extra ride over to Fort Churchill and inform Colonel Conner of his recent loss in cattle and make certain that the substitution of Sam Nevers’ animals, as well as a few head from another neighbor, would be acceptable.  Colonel Conner agreed, so long as the cattle were of equal quality to Ben’s own.

            Ben’s smile had been colored with both pride and rue.  “I wouldn’t say equal quality, sir,” he’d said, “since I believe Ponderosa beef to be the best in the territory, but they’re good stock, close to that standard.”

            Thankfully, the colonel had taken the remark as being pure pride and merely laughed in response.  He’d sobered, however, when he asked whether Ben had ascertained the perpetrator of the decimation.

            “Not definitely,” Ben had answered cautiously.  “Sheriff Read of Washoe County questioned a couple of men and definitely suspects one, but has no proof to warrant bringing charges.”

            “Pike?” the colonel suggested.

            Unwilling to accuse any man without solid evidence, Ben had merely shrugged in response.  Sheriff Read had, indeed, said of Pike, “He’s your man.  Can’t prove it, but at least he knows he’s being watched now.  Hopefully, that’ll slack his appetite for further mischief.”  Ben fervently hoped so, too, but he had still insisted on keeping his sons close to home.

            Even that precaution would have to end soon, however, for school was scheduled the begin the first of September.  Ben had, of course, intended to enroll his youngest personally before leaving for Fort Churchill, but with the recent upheaval putting him behind schedule, he felt he couldn’t spare the time.  The night before school was to start, he took Hoss aside and explained the change in plans.  “You think you can manage getting your little brother enrolled and settled in?”

            “Yes, sir, sure I can,” Hoss assured him, “and I’ll make sure no one messes with him.”

            Ben chuckled as he tousled the boy’s sandy hair.  “Now, who would mess with such a small fish, hmm?”

            Hoss pressed his lips together and, when his father turned away, shook his head.  Old as Pa was, it had probably been a powerful long time since he was in school, ‘cause he’d sure forgot how rough a schoolyard could get, especially for small fish.  Pa might not think so, but Hoss figured his little brother might need more protecting from schoolyard bullies than he ever would from that ole Pike feller Pa’d fretted so over.

* * * * *

            Little Joe all but bounced down the stairs the next morning.  “Let’s go, Hoss,” he demanded.

            Hoss scowled at him from the table.  “I ain’t finished my breakfast yet, and you ain’t even started yours.  What you so all-fired eager to get to school for, anyway?”

            Little Joe planted both fists on his waist.  “I been waitin’ just forever, my whole long life!” he declared.  “‘Sides, don’t Pa always tell you to get there on time?”

            “On time!” Hoss sputtered.  “If we take off now, we’ll be there ‘most an hour early!  Now, sit down and eat them eggs.”

            “I ain’t hungry,” Little Joe insisted, although the eggs were starting to look pretty good.

            “Eat ‘em anyway,” Hoss ordered.  “We ain’t startin’ out the day by making Hop Sing mad.”

            “Okay,” Little Joe said, only half as reluctant as he sounded.  He sat down and scooped up a huge spoonful of scrambled egg.

            “And don’t gulp ‘em down in two bites, neither,” Hoss said.  “Chew before you swallow.  Pa always says that, too. ”

            “Okay.”  The younger boy sounded perturbed, but complied with the direction, at least for that first mouthful.  “Pa took off early again, huh?”

            “Joe, you know he’s gotta,” Hoss explained with strained patience, for he’d had this conversation before.  “He’s got a powerful lot of work to catch up on.”

            “Yeah.”  Little Joe gave his eggs a grudging push.  “I don’t like him bein’ gone so much, Hoss.”

            Hoss’s expression softened.  “Yeah, me neither, but it ain’t gonna be much longer, punkin.  By the time you finish your first week of school, or maybe a mite longer, that cattle drive’ll be over and Pa’ll come home.”  Still disappointed about missing the drive himself, he sighed softly and then quickly covered it.  “Better finish up,” he said.  “Reckon we should leave some early, after all, since I gotta enroll you first thing.”

            “Okay,” Little Joe said, brightening again and scooping up a spoonful of eggs exactly the size he’d been admonished against moments before.  He cleaned his plate in record time and announced, “Let’s go, Hoss!”

            “All right, all right; keep your shirt on.”  Hoss grabbed up two biscuits and some bacon to stuff in them and headed toward the door, where his younger brother was already thrusting his arms through his jacket.

            “Wait, wait!”  Hop Sing shuffled quickly toward them and thrust two round tin pails toward the boys.  “You no forget lunch.  Must eat good, for study good.”

            Hoss grinned as he took firm, loving hold of his lunch pail after passing the shiny new one to his brother.  “Can’t forget that!  Your lunches are the best part of goin’ to school, Hop Sing.”

            “That right,” the Chinaman said, head bobbing at this confirmation of his firm belief that a good meal made everything better.  “You be good boys for Hop Sing and honorable father, yes?”

            “Yes, sir, sure will,” Hoss promised.

            He and Joe walked to the barn, where Hoss saddled Charcoal and tied the lunch pails on with leather straps before swinging his little brother into the saddle and leading the horse into the yard.  He mounted behind Joe and walked the horse out toward the road.

            “Can’t you make him go any faster, Hoss?” the younger boy complained.

            Hoss snuffled.  “What’s your hurry?  That school ain’t goin’ noplace.  Maybe I oughta smarten you up some, little brother,” he said.  “School ain’t as much fun as you think.  It’s just plain hard work most of the time.”

            “Adam likes it,” Little Joe argued.  “He likes it so much he’s still goin’ to school.”

            Hoss rolled his eyes.  “That’s ‘cause Adam’s smart.  Learnin’ comes easy to him.”  He suddenly remembered how Mama had hated for him to downmouth school to Little Joe.  “‘Course, you’re a smart little whippersnapper, too,” he said in a quick about-face, “so maybe you will like school.”

            When the Cartwright brothers finally arrived at the Franktown schoolhouse, Little Joe abruptly lost all his eagerness to go to school.  The simple building seemed suddenly overwhelming, and Little Joe hung back behind Hoss, who was amazed by his younger brother’s unexpected and unnatural attack of timidity.  Hoss practically dragged the youngster up to the teacher’s desk to introduce him.  “This here’s my little brother, Miss Appleton,” he said.

            Warm mud-brown eyes shining, Lucinda Appleton smiled at the youngster.  She drew out her register book and asked, “What is your name, young man?”

            “Little Joe,” the new scholar answered, flashing her an endearing grin.

            “I mean your full name,” she explained.

            Little Joe sent a puzzled look toward Hoss, who answered for him.  “It’s Joseph, Miss Appleton.”

            “Joseph Cartwright?” she asked.  “No middle name?”  She expected none, since Hoss’s only formal name was Eric.

            Hoss flushed.  “Uh, no, ma’am, he’s got another handle; it’s—uh—”

            “It’s all right if you don’t remember, Hoss,” his teacher said kindly.

            “I ‘member,” he said.  “It’s just sort of hard to say.  It’s Franswus or somethin’ like that.”

            “Francis?” she asked.

            Close enough, Hoss figured, and not near as likely to cause problems for the little feller as that Frenchified name Ma had stuck him with.  He only hoped she—or Pa, for that matter—would forgive him.  He fretted over it all through the day until Pa got in, just before suppertime and then openly confessed what he’d done.  “I didn’t mean no harm, Pa,” he said.  “I just couldn’t say it the right way, and, well, it does sound more American the way Miss Appleton put it.”

            Ben’s mouth twitched as he leaned back in his desk chair.  “I’m not sure his mother would approve, but I have a feeling it’s all for the best, son.  Joseph Francis Cartwright it is, then.”  As a relieved Hoss ran off, Ben shrugged toward the framed portrait of his third wife.  “Sorry, Marie,” he said with a chuckle, “but this is one battle you’re not going to win.”

* * * * *

            Ben left the next morning, before the boys were even up, and drove the herd to the place he and Sam Nevers had agreed to combine their herds.  He was glad he’d thought to ask his neighbor for help, for Sam brought along his crew, too.  That meant that they had more men than they needed, just to push the cattle down the trail, and could post some further out to watch for anyone who might try a repetition of the previous decimation.  Hopefully, the drive to Fort Churchill would be straightforward and uneventful.

            Back in Franktown, however, a small war was being waged.  The first skirmish, such as it was, started the second day of school.  Hoss was still keeping Little Joe close to him, whenever they weren’t in the classroom, so the younger boy was eating lunch with Hoss’s friends that day.  Joe O’Neill, who always liked to tease, said, “How’d you ever manage to get yourself such a little brother, Hoss?”

            George Winters, catching the jist of the joke, spoke up before Hoss could say anything, “Hoss probably grabs all the food before the little ‘un gets a chance.”  Joe and his brother Robert, along with their other constant companion, Pete Hanson, all snickered, and it bothered Little Joe until he glanced up and saw Hoss grinning good-naturedly.  Feeling no harm had been meant, the younger boy settled back to enjoy his sandwich and apple.

            That afternoon at recess, however, Little Joe ran off to play with youngsters his own age.  He was playing a game of hide-and-seek and thought he’d found a good hiding place, but someone not in the game spotted him and sauntered over.  Towering over the youngster, Walter Grogan taunted, “Your brother sure is fat, ain’t he?”

            Little Joe cocked his head and stared intently at the bigger boy.  He looked serious, but maybe he just hid his teasing better than the younger kids.  “No, he ain’t,” he said slowly.  “He’s just big and strong.”

            Walter snorted.  “He’s fat,” he spat out, “and dumb, too, dumber than an ox.  Reckon the fat all goes to his head and clogs up his brains.”

            Little Joe’s eyes narrowed, and his lips pursed.  “You take that back!” he demanded, doubling both fists.

            “You gonna make me, inchworm?”  Walter threw back his head and roared with laughter.

            That was enough for Little Joe.  Having undauntedly wrestled with both Adam and Hoss at home, he paid no attention to his taunter’s greater size, but began pummelling Walter’s belly with all the power he possessed.  The diminutive fists didn’t make a dent.  Unlike his brothers, however, who generally laughed off Little Joe’s angry assaults, Walter swung back with enough force to knock down a boy twice Joe’s size.  Just then, the boy who’d been “it” in the game of hide-and-seek caught sight of them and hollered, “Fight!  Fight!” loud enough to bring everyone within earshot running.

            At first Hoss didn’t see his brother sprawled on the ground, but he did see Walter Grogan and knew from experience that whoever he was fighting would be someone smaller.  As he had reason to know, Walt was a bully, through and through, and while Hoss tried to restrain himself from fighting, he wasn’t about to let Walt beat up on some little kid, especially when he realized just who that little kid was.  “Lay off him, Walt,” Hoss ordered, running up before the bigger boy could take a second punch.

            “You gonna make me?” Walt snarled.

            “If I gotta,” Hoss said.  Seeing Little Joe scramble to his feet, Hoss stepped between him and Walter.

            Grogan gave Hoss his most menacing scowl, but the determination on Hoss’s face didn’t fade.  Looking the other boy up and down, Grogan realized that the boy he had bullied last year had done some growing over the summer and didn’t look nearly as easy to take as he had the previous fall.  He took a step back.  “Aw, he ain’t worth it, a little runt like that.”

            Little Joe lunged forward, but Hoss hauled him back.  “Settle down,” he ordered, and when he felt the boy still struggling in his arms, he dragged him away to administer a stern scolding in private.  “What you thinkin’, Joe, fightin’ someone that much bigger’n you?”

            “He said you were fat and dumb, and he called me an inchworm!” Little Joe yelled.

            “That ain’t worth fightin’ about,” Hoss said, “so don’t you never let me catch you carryin’ on like that at school.  Pa don’t like it, and he’d probably whup you good if he found out.”

            “You gonna tell?” Little Joe asked, fret lines forming on his forehead.

            “No, of course not,” Hoss said, looking indignant at the suggestion.  Then he gave his little brother a stern look.  “Not unless I have to,” he amended.  “You just keep away from Walt Grogan.  He’s a real troublemaker, so you stay out of his way.”

            “But he said you were dumb,” Little Joe explained with an angry pout.  “You ain’t dumb, Hoss.  You’re smarter’n anyone I know, ‘ceptin’ Pa and, maybe, Adam.”

            “Aw, shucks,” Hoss said, flushing.  He knew, of course, that his little brother’s opinion was highly biased and a long way from accurate, but it made him feel good, anyway.  Just then, the school bell rang, announcing time to come in for the afternoon session, so Hoss took his brother’s hand and led him back inside.

            In spite of Hoss’s warning, Little Joe participated in a couple more small fights that first week of school, always in defense of his brother’s honor.  Hoss, who had waged an arduous inner battle to learn not to defend himself with his fists, felt humiliated by having so small a champion; but in spite of himself, he was pleased by his younger brother’s display of fierce love and loyalty.  For the sake of his own pride and his brother’s safety, however, Hoss continued to try to keep Little Joe from fighting, with a disheartening lack of success.  Little Joe had a fiery temper, easily triggered by any disparagement of the big brother he idolized, and he saw no reason whatsoever to restrain it.  Hoss repeated to Joe all the arguments Ben had successfully used when he had first experienced the taunts of his schoolmates, but they had little effect on his stubborn little brother.

            Little Joe’s attitude encouraged attack, and boys who were afraid to arouse huge Hoss soon learned  how easily they could start a fight with Hoss’s younger brother.  Some who felt no animosity whatsoever toward Hoss teased Little Joe because it struck their funny bones to see such a little boy fly into a rage.  Vigilant Hoss was usually able to stop these skirmishes before Little Joe was actually harmed.  In fact, most of Joe’s mockers, while they enjoyed arousing his temper, were not really interested in hurting him, and so far, not even Miss Appleton was aware of the minor scuffles going on out in the schoolyard.  As for Pa, Hoss could only hope that by the time he got home, any telltale bruises would have faded to nothing noticeable.

* * * * *

            September 10^th—four days past his birthday, but Ben felt like celebrating as he rode into Carson City.  Despite the delay, the drive had gone well.  Maybe Pike, or whoever else had perpetrated the initial attack, felt he’d done enough damage, or perhaps he’d seen the posted guards and considered the risk of a second assault too great.  Either way, he and Nevers had delivered the herd within the deadline, without a single loss, and had reaped a gratifying profit, which Ben deposited with Wells, Fargo as soon as he reached town.

            He was anxious to get home to his sons, of course, but it was growing late and he was tired.  Besides, he wanted to check on Marta, to see how things were coming along and to make sure she had everything she needed.  She might even have already had her baby; if so, he certainly wanted to pay a brief visit and see what blessing the stork had brought.  Hopefully, Paul Martin wasn’t tending the sick, and he’d be able to have a belated birthday beer with his friend and, perhaps, borrow a bed for the night.  If not, he was feeling rich enough to splurge on a room at the reportedly stylish St. Charles Hotel.  It had begun construction on April Fools Day and, hopefully, was now open for business, and if it weren’t, there were older hotels and restaurants that could meet the same need.

            He stopped by the Martin house first, in hopes of catching them before Sally started supper.  If he were going to invite himself to a night’s lodging, the least he could do was invite the two of them to dinner.  Tie it in to his birthday celebration, and there was no way they could refuse.  However, no one responded to his knock, and there was not a single light within.  Odd, he thought.  While the sun was only beginning to set, he knew that Dr. Martin considered good light important to the examination of any patient.  Paul might easily be making a house call, but Sally, at least, should be home at this hour.  Then he chided himself for the foolish presumption that he was their only friend.  They might easily be having dinner with some other Carson City resident or even at a local restaurant.

            Well, if he hurried, perhaps he could extend the same invitation to Billy and Marta, instead.  Goodness knows, a young couple just starting out weren’t likely to eat out often, and if Billy were gone on a Pony run, a night out might be just the cheering up a lonely wife needed.  Even if she had prepared some dab of food for herself, she could just save it back for the next day and share a bit of her Uncle Ben’s good fortune.  Yes, that’s just how he’d put it to her, if she balked at the invitation.

            As he approached the small house, however, he spotted a young man seated on the porch steps, head in his hands.  “Billy?” he called.  “Hey!  Good to find you at home, son.”

            Billy raised his head, and Ben saw a pair of fear-frozen blue eyes.  “Uncle Ben!” he cried, jumping to his feet.  “Am I glad to see you!”

            “What is it?  What’s wrong?” Ben asked with a father’s instinct for trouble.

            “Wrong?”  Billy gasped out a broken laugh pitched about an octave above his usual range.  “What could possibly be wrong?  Tell me nothing is!”

            Reaching the porch, Ben grasped the young man’s shaking shoulder.  “Buck up, boy,” he ordered, “and tell me what’s—”  Suddenly, a cry of pain shattered the air, and he knew that a new husband’s hardest hour was upon them.  The grip turned into a consoling massage of tense shoulder muscles.  “Easy now, son.  Nothing’s wrong; of course, nothing’s wrong, and bad as it sounds, it’ll be over soon.  Anyone with her?”

            “Doc—and Sally,” Billy sputtered.  “Kicked me out.”

            “Typical,” Ben commisserated.  And in a house as small as the young Thomases’, out, apparently, meant all the way out.  Motioning toward the step, he sat down himself as an example to the younger man.  Billy plopped down beside him, and to Ben, nothing had ever shouted as plainly as the silent finger-raking of his already askew red hair that what Billy felt for Marta was the anxious concern of true love.

            He smiled at the thought, but he was tired, and his mind soon drifted to more practical matters, like the growing growl in his stomach.  So much for his taking even himself out to dinner!  At this rate, he wasn’t likely to taste a single bite tonight, and if this vigil lasted as long as the one for Marta’s older sister had, he might find himself spending the night on this doorstep, instead of in a comfortable bed at a hotel.  So much for his birthday celebration!  Right now, he’d settle for a pallet in the Thomas parlor-kitchen, though the sound of a woman in travail wasn’t likely to induce sleep.

            “Told your folks yet?” Ben asked when the silence grew burdensome.

            “Good glory, no, Uncle Ben!” Billy sputtered.  “I can’t leave Marta long enough to traipse up to Virginia City!”

            Ben rolled his eyes and observed dryly, “Remarkable new device they’ve come up with.”  Then, seeing that Billy hadn’t understood his wry comment, he said plainly, “The telegraph.”

            “Oh, yeah.”  Billy jumped up.  “Reckon I ought to do that.”

            “Sit down,” Ben ordered gruffly.  “This is not the time to desert your ship, captain.”

            “Huh?”

            Ben decided to save nautical metaphors for a less distracted audience.  “If you want a telegram sent, I’ll do it for you, but at this point you might as well wait until you have more news to send.”

            “More news?” Billy babbled.  “Ain’t a baby enough?”

            Ben exhaled his exasperation.  “Boy or girl, maybe?  You can fit that in ten words, surely.”

            “Oh, yeah.”  Billy dropped back to the porch.  “Guess we oughta wait for that . . . if’n it ain’t much longer, I mean.  Hate to get deeper in Ma’s disgraces by puttin’ it off too long.”

            Sighing, Ben shook his head.  “Which means, I presume, that you still haven’t had a very pertinent conversation with your parents.”

            Billy’s finger circled a knothole in the porch step.  “Uh, no, ‘fraid not.  Never seemed like the right time.”

And it never will, Ben realized.  He straightened up and fixed his most paternal frown on Billy.  “No more dawdling, young man.  You’re not likely to find a better time that while she holds your baby in her arms.”

            “My baby.”  Ben could barely hear the wistful, awe-filled whisper.  “Me, a pa.  Never thought I’d ever”—overwhelmed, Billy broke off.

            “Can’t say I ever thought you’d ever, either,” Ben joked and was relieved to see the young man beside him flash a nervous grin.

            Another husband-harrowing cry ripped through the door.  White-knuckled grip on the step tightening, Billy asked, “Over soon, you said?”

            “Well, I can’t promise,” Ben replied, remembering the long siege at the Montgomery cabin.  “They say first babies tend to take longer than later ones, but I never had anything but first babies, so I can’t really say.”  Technically, Little Joe had been Marie’s second child, but Ben didn’t bother to correct the inadvertant misstatement.

            “That ain’t much help, Uncle Ben,” Billy chided.

            Ben shrugged.  “Sorry, son; best I can do.”  What he wouldn’t have given at that moment for Nelly Thomas or Ludmilla or even young Katerina to come riding up!  Of course, knowing women, they’d all have been inside, hovering over Marta, instead of bolstering up the one who really needed their support.

Marta’s strong, he mused.  She can handle a long labor, but he found himself praying that she wouldn’t have to.  She’s already fought more battles for her baby than most, Lord.  Couldn’t You see fit to shorten this siege for her?  He chuckled, so softly that the distracted Billy didn’t notice.  For her?  More like, for Billy; for me, for that matter.

            He didn’t think it likely that the Almighty would honor so selfish a request, so the infant’s first cry took him completely by surprise.  Of course, he had no idea how long Marta had been in labor before he arrived, but he, at least, had not been waiting here as long as he had for little Marta Marie’s arrival.  He clapped Billy on the back and clasped his hand in a hearty handshake.  It was a good thing his grip was strong; otherwise, Billy would have immediately dashed inside.  “Soon,” Ben promised as he held the young father back.  “Soon.”

            And, sure enough, it wasn’t long before Dr. Martin came out onto the porch.  “Ben!  Didn’t know you were here.”  Then, bringing himself back to his duty, he announced with a look of proud satisfaction, “You have a fine, healthy son, Billy.  Congratulations!”

            “Marta?” the new father panted out.

            “Fine, fine,” the doctor assured him.  “Give Sally a few minutes to get everything squared away inside, and you can see both of them.”

            “In the meantime, I’ll go send that telegram for you,” Ben offered.  “Gonna get myself a bite to eat while I’m out.  Can I bring anything back for the rest of you?”

            “Sally’s got a soup simmering for Marta,” the doctor said, “but if you can hold off on that meal until I’m finished here, I’ll join you.”

            “I’d like that,” Ben said.  “How about you, Billy?”

            “Huh?  Oh, no, thanks.  I’ll stay here, have some soup with Marta,” the young man replied.

            The doctor chuckled.  “Good choice.  Best thing for new mothers and nervous fathers.”

            Sally came to the door and told Billy he could come in.  Dr. Martin followed them both back into the house, and Ben walked to the telegraph office at Carson and 3^rd Street to send a wire to the elder Thomases in Virginia City, as well as one to Stefán and Ludmilla in Placerville.  He’d stop by the next morning, on his way home, and give the news to Enos and Katerina, since a telegram couldn’t get it to them any quicker.

            By the time he returned, Dr. Martin felt that he could leave his patient, but he told Ben that Marta wanted to see him before they left.  As he entered the bedroom, Marta uncovered the baby and said, “What do you think, Uncle Ben?”

            “Beautiful, just like his mother,” Ben said.

            She laughed lightly.  “I think he’s beautiful, too, but that’s not what I meant.”  More soberly, she asked, “Will he pass?”

            “As your son and Billy’s?”  Ben cocked his head and tried to scrutinize the infant with the eyes of a gossipy female.  The baby looked nothing like Billy, of course.  The fiery hair of the Thomas clan was missing, and the eyes were dark brown, rather than their typical blue.  The dark fuzz covering the small head was nothing like Marta’s fair hair, either, but there was still something familiar in the features.  “You know, he looks a bit like Fredrich to me,” Ben finally concluded.

            Marta smiled in relief.  “Do you really think so, Uncle Ben?  That would please me so much!”

            “So we could say the youngun takes after his grandpa, if anyone questions us, right?” Billy put in.

            “I think you legitimately could,” Ben said.  Then he arched an eyebrow at the young man, whose natural ebullience had snapped back into place.  “To casual acquaintances,” he added firmly.  “Family should know the truth.”

            “And they will.”  This time the promise came from Marta.  “Now that no one can tear us apart, I’d like to live honest, Billy, except to outsiders.”

            “Who got no right to know.”  Billy nodded his affirmation.  “We’ll live honest—to family and real friends.”

            “Well, then,” Ben said, beaming his satisfaction with their decision.  “Have you thought of what to call this little lad?”

            “I know exactly,” Marta said.  “I’ve known ever since Billy asked me to marry him.”  She looked toward her husband.  “And I will have my way on this.”

            “Your baby, your choice,” Billy was quick to say.

            “Our baby,” she corrected softly.  “Our baby, William Benjamin Thomas, after the two men that have given him the love and acceptance he needs to grow up right.”

            “Oh, wow,” Billy murmured, overcome, while Ben smiled warmly and said, “You do us great honor, my dear.  We’ll try to be worthy of it, won’t we, Billy?”

            “You are worthy of it,” Marta insisted, and this time she had eyes only for the man who had given her child a legitimate name.

            Ben slipped quietly from the room and joined Dr. Martin in the small parlor-kitchen.  “I’m famished,” he announced.  “How about you?  I’m buying.”

            The doctor laughed.  “Normally, I’d settle for the soup, but I can’t afford to miss an opportunity like that!  You do this every time someone names a baby after you?”

            “Reason enough to celebrate,” Ben said, “but I’d already planned this, in honor of my birthday, just past, and I’m inviting you in appreciation for the bed I’m confident you’re going to offer me.”

            Paul Martin called out to Sally that he’d return soon and threw an arm around his friend’s shoulders as they walked out together.  “I think Sally’s planning to stay here tonight, just in case Marta needs anything,” he said, “so you’re welcome to her bed, instead of sharing mine or borrowing one in my sickroom.”

            “Sounds good.”  Since he’d noticed that the St. Charles was dark when he’d gone to the telegraph that stood at the same intersection, Ben directed them toward the Alcove Restaurant, where they had a satisfying supper and that long-awaited birthday toast.

* * * * *

            Ben had originally planned to ride home the next morning, but just before retiring, he concluded that there was no real reason to hurry.  After all, the boys would already be at school by the time he reached the Ponderosa, so he couldn’t see them until that afternoon, anyway.  He hadn’t intended to do anything his first day back except bring the bookwork up to date, and he was always happy to find a reason—well, call it what it was: an excuse—to put that off.  Certainly, a new namesake to dandle on his knee was excuse enough to delay his departure an hour or so.  That decision made, he granted himself the unaccustomed luxury of sleeping in.

            Dr. Martin was already at work by the time he arose and stumbled into the kitchen in hopes of finding a cup of coffee.  He found Sally there, as well, and asked her how the new mother was doing.

            “Better than the new father,” Sally said with a laugh.  “We did finally get him to hold his own child after assuring him for the better part of half an hour this morning that the boy wouldn’t break.”

            Ben chuckled.  “Billy’s still home, then?  I’d thought he might have a Pony run scheduled, since he was, apparently, off yesterday.”

            “He said something about having an understanding with one of the other riders to take his run whenever the baby came,” Sally explained.  “I know Marta’s thrilled to have him with her these first couple of days.”

            “Yes, that’s always best,” Ben said, eyes misting.  He’d had that opportunity with Inger and Marie, but his time with Elizabeth after Adam’s birth had been cut short and he’d always regretted it.  “Thought I might drop by and see the little lad one more time before I head home.”

            “I’m sure they’ll be pleased,” Sally said.  “Remind Billy to check on that roast I put in the oven for them, would you?”

            “I will,” Ben promised.  “I think I’ll just walk around town awhile, see how it’s growing before I head over there.”

            “Let me get you some breakfast first,” Sally offered.

            Ben tried to refuse, saying that he could easily grab a bite at a local eatery, but Sally insisted that she be given a chance to show off her cooking, “even if it doesn’t come up to Mrs. Thomas’s standard.”  Ben gave in graciously and declared her bacon, eggs and biscuits as good as he’d had anywhere.  He kissed her cheek in thanks and, since the doctor’s office was already filled with waiting patients, asked her to thank her father for the night’s lodging before heading out for his leisurely stroll around Carson City.

            Though the town was growing, it still didn’t take long to cover its commercial area.  Passing the site of the St. Charles, Ben noticed that it wasn’t open yet, although the exterior appeared complete.  Probably taking care of finishing touches inside, Ben surmised.  On impulse, he turned into Rosenstock and Price, which carried a full range of boys’ clothing.  Not seeing anything he wanted for his own sons, he was about to leave when he suddenly snapped his fingers.  Of course!  This was just the place for a gift for the new arrival.  Picking something, predictably, took forever, but he finally decided on a pale blue baby dress, with plain tucks instead of frilly lace, to show that it was meant for a boy.

            Beginning to feel guilty about his long delay in getting the news to Enos and Katerina, Ben hurried toward the Thomas house, determined to keep his visit short.  That determination dissipated the moment he saw a familiar buckboard parked outside.  Goodness only knew what was going on inside that house right now, and he wanted no part of it!  Had it not been for the gift tucked under his arm, he might have just slipped away and set off for the Ponderosa.  His lip curled, though, in scorn for such cowardice, so however reluctantly, he knocked on the door.

            Billy opened it and welcomed him in.

            “Well, I wasn’t expecting you’d have other company this early,” Ben said.  “Don’t want to intrude on family.  Just came to leave this.”  He held out the package wrapped in brown paper.

            Ignoring it, Billy stared at him as if he’d taken leave of his senses.  “You are family,” he finally said.  “Come on in, Uncle Ben.”

            With a taut smile of grim determination, Ben entered.  “Clyde, Nelly,” he greeted the couple seated in the small parlor-kitchen.  “Hadn’t expected you down from Virginia City this early.  Surprised you could take off work on such short notice.”

            “Changed shifts with another smith,” Clyde said, adding with a grin, “Can’t say he was much pleased to be roused so early, but he’s a grandpa hisself and understood.  Gotta leave soon, though, so’s I can work his shift this afternoon.”

            Ben nodded his understanding and purposed that he’d be leaving the same time, if not sooner.  Taking grip on his courage, he finally looked Nelly’s direction . . . and relaxed.  She was paying him no mind; she was paying no mind to anyone except the baby in her arms, and she was practically cooing over him.  “Well, I’d hoped to dandle that little man on my own knee, but I can see there’s no hope of that this morning.”

            Nelly chuckled.  “Might be, if’n you stay long enough, but I reckon my grandson is just where he needs to be for a good while to come.”

            “Looks real natural there,” Ben said, at the same time throwing a chiding side glance at Billy.

            The young father correctly interpreted it and, to Ben’s surprise, said quietly, “She knows.”

            Flint flashed from Nelly’s brown eyes.  “Yes, she knows, and no thanks to you, Ben Cartwright!”

            “Oh, thanks to me, more than you know,” Ben snorted back.  “I’ve been counseling these young fools to come clean from the very beginning.”

            “Only young fool here is me,” Billy insisted.  “Marta sided with Uncle Ben from the get-go, Ma.  I told you that.”

            “So you did, son; so you did,” Clyde inserted, eyes fixed on his wife.

            Nelly gave a crisp nod.  “True enough.”  Looking back at Ben, she said, “Still, you should have told us, Ben.”

            “I was sworn to secrecy, and,” he said, frowning at Billy, “I was persuaded this conversation would happen much sooner than it did.”

            “Uh, yeah,” Billy sputtered.  “Well, that’s my fault, too.  I just wanted things peaceful while Marta was carryin’ the child.”

            Nelly’s expression softened.  “That’s the first thing you’ve said that makes any sense.”  She rubbed noses with the baby.  “Wouldn’t want anything bringin’ risk to this little darling, would we?”

            Ben chuckled.  “Someone’s had a sudden change of heart.”

            Nelly blushed and pursed her lips.  “Not as sudden as it looks,” she finally said.  “I-I been thinkin’ on what you said, Ben, after the wedding, about loving the child for himself, no matter what I thought of the mother, and I reckon that idea’s been growin’ in my mind all these weeks and . . . well, the first minute I saw him, I knew the love was there, and even when Billy up and told us this morning that he ain’t really our blood, I just plain couldn’t turn loose of him.  I want this boy to be my grandson . . . even though he ain’t.”

            “Of course, he is,” Ben said, resting his hand on the infant’s dark head.  “It’s love, not blood, that bonds us.  Same as with you and me, Sister Nelly.”

            She smiled at the reminder of their old joke about being kin.  “I reckon it is, Brother Ben.  Well, seein’ as I’m stayin’ on to help out and will have more chances than you, maybe I could turn loose of our wee Willie long enough for you to hold him a minute.”

            “Wee Willie?”  Ben arched his eyebrow in distaste as he took the child into his arms.  “Seems to me Benjy might suit the little lad better.”

            Clyde cackled.  “Reckon you might better do what you done with Hoss: give him both names and see which sticks.”

            “Lands, we’re likely to end up with something like Tadpole at that rate,” Nelly scolded.  “Don’t put up with any such nonsense, Billy.  I’m gonna see if our girl needs anything.”  She stood and walked into the next room.

Our girl.  Ben smiled at the change in phrasing.  Evidently, Nelly’s attitude toward Marta had undergone some softening over the weeks, too.  And how could it not, when she saw the love shining between “that girl”and her son?  As he’d told her only moments before, love made the bond, and once made, true love’s bond was unbreakable, even by death.  As soon as he could politely do so, he left with thoughts of those with whom he held that bond: his three loves in heaven and the three their love had produced.

~ ~ ~ Notes ~ ~ ~

            Samuel Nevers came to Eagle Valley in 1857 and developed a ranch west of Carson City.  While Rufus Pike is a fictional character, the treatment he received at Fort Churchill accurately portrays that prescribed for Southern sympathizers, as someone who refused to sign the loyalty oath would be construed.

            T. A. Read was sheriff of Washoe County from 1862 to 1866.

            The Virginia City Pony Express was inaugurated August 11, 1862 and ran until March 17, 1865.  It had no connection with the original Pony Express, but was entirely a Wells, Fargo service between the mining towns of Nevada and the business centers of Sacramento and San Francisco.

            Rosenstock and Price, merchants of custom-made clothing, mattresses, quilts, blankets and a full stock of boys’ clothing, is listed in the First Nevada Directory, 1862.

            The St. Charles Hotel began construction on April 1, 1862, George W. Remington and Albert Muller being partners in the business with Dan Plitt, who had owned the bakery and restaurant previously on that corner.  Its first newspaper advertisement appeared on October 1, shortly past the time of Ben’s visit.  The building, the second oldest hotel in Nevada, still stands in Carson City today.  The Alcove Restaurant appeared in the First Directory of Nevada in 1862, but is long gone.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The Dream Divides

            Ben returned home that day much later than he had planned, and his hard-working New England heart at first chastised him for the unnecessary delays.  But, then, how could the short time he’d spent cradling his new little namesake be considered unnecessary?  For that matter, how could the time spent in seeing little Benjy’s—Ben refused to call him anything else—family reconciled be considered unnecessary?  He’d waited a long time for that rascal, Billy Thomas, to tell his parents the truth, and it was beyond gratifying to realize that his estimation of Clyde and Nelly had proven out.  They might not like the situation, and Nelly, in particular, might still harbor some feeling that Marta had trapped her innocent son into a marriage of convenience, but no one, seeing the young couple’s happiness could harbor ill feeling for long.

            Stopping by to tell Katerina and Enos of their new niece had been absolutely necessary, of course.  Staying for lunch had probably not been, but Ben hadn’t had the heart to say no.  After all, what was waiting for him at home, except that pile of neglected bookwork?  Well, that and an irate cook, who skewered him over hot coals the minute he returned and basted him thickly in a sauce of Chinese ranting.  For once, Ben took it meekly and apologized for not sending word—by whom, he couldn’t have guessed—that he would not be home for lunch.

            At least, he’d made it home before the boys and even had time, unfortunately, to make a start on the hated books.  He’d no more than sat down to the task, however, than he heard a knock at the door.  “I’ll get it,” he called to Hop Sing, who needed all the placating his boss could offer.  The cook huffed his grudging acceptance and went back into the kitchen.

            Ben’s eyes widened when he saw his caller.  “Why, Hank, I thought you’d be up to Virginia City, spending that big bonus you earned, along with the rest of the hands.  You did remember that you had today off, didn’t you?”

            Hank Carlton grinned.  “I remembered, Mr. Ben, but I got bigger plans for that bonus.”

            “Fine, fine,” Ben said.  “Always knew you were a steady man.”  He opened the door wider.  “Come in; have a cup of coffee; keep me from this accursed bookwork a little longer.”

            “No coffee, thanks,” Hank said, sweeping off his hat as he entered, “and I won’t keep you from your bookwork for long.  Just wanted to tell you about them big plans of mine.”

            Ben ushered the man toward the settee.  “Now, Hank, what you do with your money is your own business.  You owe me no explanation.”  He settled into his comfortably cushioned armchair.

            “In this case I do,” Hank said, “on account of it affecting you.”

            “Oh, well, in that case, of course,” Ben said, although he could imagine no way in which his employee’s finances could affect him.  Since Hank was still standing, fumbling his hat in his hands, he again motioned toward the settee.

            Hank perched on its edge and took a deep breath.  “Well, fact is, I been hopin’ for a long time to have a place of my own.”

            “Oh.”  Ben’s breath caught in his throat for a minute.  “Well, that’s good, Hank.  I always like to see a man try to better himself . . . though I’d hate to lose you as a hand, of course.  You’re saving your bonus toward the purchase of some land, then, I take it?”  He bit back the question he really wanted an answer to: just how close to that goal was the man?  Surely, on a ranch hand’s wages, it would take years to achieve it, years before he’d have to find a replacement for a man whose work and loyalty he valued highly.

            “I was,” Hank said.  “Well, still am, on account of wantin’ to do my share, but, well . . .”  He twisted his hat in a nervous circular motion.  “What I’m tryin’ to tell you, Mr. Ben, is that I’m gonna have to be leavin’ here soon, on account of I’m gettin’ married, and I’ll be runnin’ my wife’s place.”  He hastily added, “Puttin’ what I have into it, of course, but the land’s already there.”

            “Married,” Ben repeated, dumbfounded.  “I didn’t even know you were courting, Hank.  Not that it’s any of my business.”

            Hank chuckled.  “Thought it might be, at first.  Thought you might have some feelin’s for the lady yourself.  Kind of felt like I was goin’ behind your back, boss.  That’s why I’ve kept real quiet about it, but she says you weren’t never interested in her.”

            “I’m not interested in anyone,” Ben assured him.  More than a year past Marie’s death, and the thought of another woman was still unthinkable, but he masked the pain.

            “Yes, sir,” Hank said.  “Know that now.”  He twisted the hat again, as if he still weren’t as sure as he professed.

            “Just who is this fortunate lady?” Ben asked, covering the extent of his curiosity with ebullient encouragement.

            The words came out hesitantly.  “Well, uh, it’s, uh . . . Miz Hunter.”

            Ben’s jaw dropped.  “Miz . . . Mrs. Hunter?  Elvira Hunter?”

            Hank eyes flicked from floor to fire to Ben’s face and back again.  “Yeah,” he said, with a chuckle that staggered out with a catch in his throat between almost every syllable.  “Weren’t expectin’ that, were you?”

            “Well . . . no.”

            “She’s a fine woman,” Hank said in response to his boss’s dumbfounded expression.

            “Yes.”  Ben’s face warmed in recollection of how helpful his neighbor had been when Little Joe had run off at Christmastime.  “Yes, she is,” he said with more strength.  “And you’ve thought this through, Hank?  You’re sure she’s the right woman for you?”

            “Oh, yes, sir,” the ranch hand said.  “She’s all I want in a woman, and I think I’m what she needs in a man.  We’ll make a matched team, I’m thinkin’.”

            “Well . . . congratulations, then!”  Ben’s voice carried more enthusiasm than he felt.  “Will this be happening . . . uh . . . soon?”

            “We ain’t set the date,” Hank admitted.  “Elvira wants some time to . . . well . . . do whatever brides do, I reckon, but we figure to be hitched by Christmas.  That’s as far as we got, but since you’ve always asked me to stay on over the winter, I figured I should let you know now, in case you want to ask someone from the drive to stay, instead.”

            “Like you to stay on until the wedding . . . and beyond, if you like,” Ben said, “but if there’s one of the men you’d care to recommend, I’ll keep him, as well.”

            Looking relieved about his own continued employment, Hank nodded.  “You know that new feller, Dan?”

            “Dan Tolliver?” Ben said.  “Yeah.  Seems to know what he’s about . . . although you’d probably know more about his day-to-day work than I do.”

            “He’s steady,” Hank assured Ben, “which you might figure, him bein’ a mite older than the rest of us.  Knows cattle better than most and he’s honest.  Puts in a full day’s work for a full day’s pay.  I think you’d be pleased with him, Mr. Ben, and I’ve heard him say he wished he could stay on here.”

            “I’ll speak to Enos about him,” Ben said, “and if his opinion matches yours, then we’ll keep Tolliver on.  Don’t say anything to him, though.”

            “No, sir, I won’t.”  Hank started to stand, but Ben waved him back into his seat.

            “Middle of the day or not, Hank,” Ben said as he stood, “this news calls for a toast.  Brandy or sherry?”

            “Uh, brandy, I reckon.”  Hank had never tasted anything finer than rotgut whiskey, but brandy sounded more like a man’s drink than some sissified sherry he pictured a lady sipping.

            “Brandy it is,” Ben said and went to fetch it.  Pouring two small libations, since it was the middle of the day, he raised his glass.  “To the happy couple.  To you, Hank, and to Elvira.  Best wishes for all the happiness a house can hold.”

            After the toast and mutual agreement that Hank would be willing to help out anytime the Ponderosa needed an extra hand and Ben would be pleased to have him, Hank left for the Hunter ranch and Ben stalwartly faced the bookwork once again.  By the time the boys returned from school, he’d made good progress, but willingly set work aside to wrestle with the wild animals barreling through the front door.  Within moments all three were tumbling and tickling all over the entry floor until they spied a pair of soft slippers and looked up to see a scowling face wagging from side to side.  “Too much foolishment,” Hop Sing grunted.  “You want cookies or not?”

            “Yeah!” both boys yelled as they scrambled up and ran for the dining room, where two glasses of milk sat on either side of a platter of sugar cookies, fresh from the oven.

            Propped on one elbow, Ben shook his head.  “Nice to see where I rate,” he called.  Then with a grin he pushed himself up and headed for the table himself.  Snatching up Little Joe, he took his son’s seat, set the boy on his knee and reached for a cookie.  “Now, let’s hear all about school.  Have you been a good boy, Little Joe?”

            “Always good.”  Cookie crumbs spilled from his mouth as the youngster offered his traditional answer.

            His father, however, had not missed the eye-rolling of his other son.  “Anything I should know, Hoss?”

            There was plenty that Little Joe’s father should know, but Hoss wasn’t such a traitor as to tattle on his little brother.  He scrambled for something he could say and finally came up with, “Well, he is havin’ a mite of trouble sittin’ still.”

            Ben guffawed.  “Tell me something I don’t know!”

            Figuring that Pa didn’t really mean him to do that, Hoss just gave him a sheepish grin.  “He’s doin’ all right, Pa.  Picks up things quicker than I ever did.”

            Ben’s eyes were warm with affection as he looked across the table.  “And how about you, Hoss?  How are you getting on this year?”

            “Right good,” Hoss said with enthusiasm.  “I mean, it’s only the first week or so and Miss Appleton is mostly goin’ over stuff we learned last year, but seems like I remember it better than I used to.”

            “Not surprising,” his father said.  “You may take a little longer to settle things in your head than some—Adam, for instance—but once they’re in, they’re in to stay.”

            Hoss flushed in appreciation of the compliment, more welcome than his father knew after hearing what the likes of Walter Grogan had been saying about him.  “I reckon Miss Appleton knows how to make stuff stick, Pa.”

            “Miss Appleton is a good teacher,” Ben said.  “I’ll hate to see her leave.”

            “Leave?”  Hoss’s open face registered alarm.  “Why’s she leavin’, Pa?”

            “Easy, son, easy,” Ben said.  “I didn’t mean anytime soon, but a lady as lovely and sweet-natured as Miss Appleton is likely to marry someday, and if that happens, she’d probably stop teaching to start a family of her own.”

            “I’ll tell her not to,” Little Joe said with a determined frown.

            “You’ll do no such thing,” his father chuckled.  “Miss Appleton tells you what to do, not the other way around, understood?”

            Little Joe quickly ducked his head and grabbed another cookie.  “Sure, Pa.”

            “And speaking of starting families,” Ben said, “guess who has a new baby boy.”

            Hoss guessed first.  “Billy and Marta!”

            “That’s right . . . and they named him William Benjamin Thomas,” Ben added with beaming pride.

            “Aw . . . Billy Ben . . . ain’t that nice?” Hoss said.

            Ben shuddered.  “You are not going to call my namesake that!”

            Hoss favored his father with a big, toothy grin.  “Yeah, I am.”

            “Me, too,” Little Joe chimed in.

            “Oh, another country heard from, is it?”  Ben began to tickle his youngest in retaliation, and soon all three Cartwrights were again tumbling about the floor with Hop Sing scurrying to protect any chairs, table legs or dragging tablecloths that might get in the way.

* * * * *

            The next day’s homecoming could not have been more different.  When the boys rode into the yard, at a noiseless walk, Hoss took Charcoal directly to the barn, as usual; but when he saw his father’s horse in one of the stalls, he deliberately dawdled over the care of his own animal.  Finally, there was no way to put off the inevitable, so just before they left the building, he took his little brother by both shoulders.  “Don’t you say a word,” he cautioned.  “Any talkin’ needs to be done, you let me do it.”  And in complete silence, totally alien to his ebullient nature, Little Joe nodded solemnly.

            Hand in hand, they walked across the yard, and with a finger held to his lips, Hoss eased open the front door, and they all but tiptoed through.  However, as meticulously well oiled as Hop Sing kept the door hinge, it squeaked, and both youngsters bit their lips when they heard, “That you, boys?” coming from the alcove.

            “Uh, yeah, Pa,” Hoss said.

            The quietness, both of entry and reply, made Ben’s brow furrow in suspicion.  Someone didn’t want to be noticed, which meant that a wise father had better take notice.  He rounded the corner, passing the tall grandfather’s clock, before the boys had time for more than four steps.  One look at Hoss’s face explained everything.  “You’ve been fighting,” he said tersely.

            “Just a mite,” Hoss said, hurrying to add, “Sorry, Pa, but it couldn’t be helped.  That Walt Grogan, he was pickin’ on one of the little kids, Pa, and I just couldn’t stand by and let ‘im.”  He saw no reason to mention that the little kid being picked on was his own baby brother.  No need at all to tell Pa that Little Joe had, in fact, thrown the first puny punch.

            Ben sighed, but his facial muscles relaxed.  “Grogan again, hmm?  Well, of course, I hate to hear of any fighting at school, son, but I don’t expect you to stand by and let him bully some little child.”

            “One of the very littlest,” Hoss assured his father.  He started to say that it was a first-year student, but decided that would narrow the possibile victims too close to their own doorstep.

            “And, I suppose, it would have taken too long to summon Miss Appleton?”

            “Oh, yeah, Pa.  She was all the way inside, havin’ her lunch.”  Hoss’s head bobbed in near-frantic affirmation.

            “I see.”  Ben patted his son on the shoulder.  “Well, if it couldn’t be helped . . .”

            Hoss sent a chiding side-glance at his little brother that might have been a dead giveaway, had his father seen it.  It could’ve been helped, all right, that chiding glance said, and next time it better be!

Hop Sing appeared at the edge of the dining table.  “Cookies for boys?” he asked tentatively.

            “Yes, of course,” Ben said.  “You go ahead, boys.  I came in early to finish wrestling with this confounded bookwork, and I think I’d better stick to it.”

            “Yes, sir,” Hoss said.  “We got us some confounded bookwork to do, too, so I reckon we’ll go right upstairs after havin’ them cookies.”

            “Fine, fine,” Ben muttered absently as he headed back toward his desk.  “Best to do your homework early.”  It didn’t occur to him until afterwards that he hadn’t heard a peep from his youngest son, but he shrugged it off as a boy’s natural inclination to stay out of the line of fire when a parental scolding was anticipated.

* * * * *

            At breakfast on Saturday morning, Ben announced that it was “all hands on deck” for the hay harvest.  From his enthusiasm no one would have guessed that haying was his least favorite occupation of the year—well, excepting bookwork, of course, but that was a year-round hatred.  At this time of year, even that was outedged by haying.  Hoss, however, had heard enough complaints over the years of working at his father’s side that he wasn’t fooled for a moment; nor, thankfully, did he share his father’s sentiments.  To him, any job that kept him outdoors was a good one, and he relished the smell of new-mown hay, even when stray pieces drifted down his collar and set his neck to itching.  The easy solution to that was just to take off his shirt and let the straw blow free.  He wasn’t excited about haying, but he didn’t much mind it, either.

            The only person Ben’s beaming countenance and hearty voice did excite was the one person he had no desire to entice into the hayfield.  “Oh, boy!” Little Joe said, with a bounce in his chair for emphasis.

            “No, no, no,” Ben said, instantly realizing his mistake.  “I think you’re still a little small to swing a scythe, son.  Not that Hoss will be doing any of that, either.  The men have already made a good start on the cutting and should be able to finish without help from either of you.  Hoss, you’ll help rake and turn the hay, and you, Joseph, will help Hop Sing harvest the garden.”

            Little Joe slammed his fork to the table.  “I wanna rake hay!”

            “You wanna play in the hay, you mean,” Hoss scoffed from across the table, to which remark Little Joe responded with an outthrust tongue.

            “Now, Joseph,” Ben soothed.  “There might be a way you can help with the hay later, but today I need you to help bring in the last of the vegetables, so Hop Sing can preserve them.  That’s important, too.”

            “I wanna be with you,” Little Joe whined.  “Hoss always gets to be with you.”

            Ben reached over to tenderly tousle the boy’s curly locks.  “There, there now.  Pa’ll spend some special time with you, once the crops are in.  All right?”

            Little Joe’s face screwed in thought.  “Maybe,” he said slowly, “if it’s real special.”

            Ben chuckled.  “Well, you decide what ‘special’ means, and if it’s not outrageously unreasonable, I’ll try to make it happen.  How’s that?”

            “Okay,” Little Joe finally agreed and went back to his breakfast.

            It was Hoss’s face now that scrunched.  Somehow, it didn’t seem right that he was the one doing the work, while his little brother would be getting the special attention.  He’d be with Pa all day, though, so maybe he’d get a chance to make a bid for some special time of his own.  Little Joe was a doggone crafty little conniver, but two could play at that game.

* * * * *

            By the end of the day, however, Hoss hadn’t thought of anything, and Little Joe had apparently forgotten all about demands for special time.  Probably having a new baby to tickle under the chin was special enough for the easily distracted lad.  Both branches of the Thomas clan showed up Saturday evening, somewhat later than usual as they had awaited Billy’s return from Placerville.  “Don’t have to ride again ‘til Monday morning,” he informed the Cartwrights, “so I figured I might as well let the boys make my new little man’s acquaintance.”

            “So that’s Billy Ben, is it?” Hoss asked with a mischievous grin.

            “No, that is young Benjy,” his father insisted.

            “Wee Willie,” Inger put in, having decided to side with her mother.

            Clyde just tucked a chaw of tobacco into his cheek and opted to stay out of the fray.

            “Well, what do you think, Shortshanks?” Billy asked the youngest Cartwright.

            Ben laughed aloud.  “Don’t ask him!  You’re liable to hear something from the latest fairy tale or Aesop’s fable someone read him.”

            “Just don’t go readin’ him that one about Rumplestiltskin,” Billy joshed back.

            “The one person we haven’t heard from is this baby’s mother,” Ben said as he took the youngest Thomas from his grandmother’s arms and, setting him against his own broad shoulder, patted the small back.

            Marta just smiled.  “I’d vote for Billy, except my husband vows he’ll have no tag of junior added to any son of his.”

            “Yeah, never favored that myself,” Ben admitted.  “Well, Benjy will have to do, then.”  Shouts from all directions met his pronouncement.

            “Wee Willie!”

            “Billy Ben!”

            “Rumple Still Skin!”  The last, syllable by labored syllable, came from Little Joe.

            “Sorry,” Ben chuckled in response to the sour look on Billy’s face, “but you should know better than to put ideas in that one’s head.”

* * * * *

            As always, Ben had felt refreshed by his weekend visit with friends and his visit with the Almighty in church Sunday morning, but by the time the Thomases, old and young, left that afternoon, he had started to feel concerned by the appearance of the sky.  Monday morning’s sky confirmed the concern and, in fact, turned it into downright worry.  Hurrying upstairs, he roused his older son with news he was certain Hoss would welcome.  “Well, son, looks like you’ll be staying home from school today.”

            Hoss rubbed sleep from his eyes.  “Huh?”

            “Storm coming,” his father explained.  “We’ve got to get that hay under cover, and I do mean now.”

            A grin started to form on Hoss’s face, only to be replaced by a look of panic.  “But, Pa, I can’t,” he said.  “I gotta go to school!”

            “You can miss a day,” Ben said.

            Hoss shook his head frantically.  “No, no, I can’t.  I’ll—I’ll get left behind.”  It was a lame excuse, and he knew it, but it was all he could come up with on short notice, and he could not—absolutely could not—leave Little Joe to face the likes of Walter Grogan on his own.  The only reason Pa and even Miss Appleton had missed the signs of the schoolyard scuffles this long was his stepping in to stop things before they went too far.  Without him there. . . .  “Pa, I just gotta go to school,” he insisted again to his flabbergasted father.

            As pressed for time as Ben felt, he sat down on the edge of the bed.  Nothing, not even something as vital to the ranch’s welfare as that hay crop, was more important than a son in trouble.  “Are you having problems keeping up, son?” he asked.

            Hoss instinctively answered honestly.  “Oh, no, sir.  I’m doin’ right well.”  Then he winced.  He’d just blurted away his best excuse for his unaccustomed urgency to go to school.  “It’s just—uh—well, you see, it’s like this, Pa . . .”

            “It’s like what?” Ben probed, adding with some impatience, “I’m waiting, Hoss.”

            “Little Joe,” Hoss muttered mournfully.  But just as he resigned himself to telling the ugly, unadulterated truth, inspiration struck.  “I mean, you ain’t never let him ride by hisself, and if I don’t go to school, he’ll have to do that.  I know Charcoal’s old and gentle and all, but first time, all by hisself?”  Lips pressed tight, Hoss shook his head.  “That’s kind of worrisome, ain’t it, Pa?”

            He’d struck the right chord.  “Worrisome” didn’t begin to describe his father’s feelings on that subject.  Ben blanched as the familiar image of his wife riding up to the house and falling rushed through his mind, and he sputtered,  “Yes, yes, I see what you mean.”  Slapping his knee in sudden decision, he said, “Well, Little Joe will just have to stay home, too.”  His face brightened.  “In fact, those little feet might be just what we need to trample down the hay in the ricks,” he added as he stood.  “Now, hustle into your work clothes, son, and then wake your little brother.  It really will be all hands on deck this morning!”  He breezed out of the room, entirely missing the look of intense relief that flooded his son’s face.

* * * * *

            Inevitably, some of the hay crop was lost when the storm hit, but hard work preserved most of it.  Ben kept the boys out of school one more day, due to the long and exhausting hours they’d worked on Monday.  Besides, it was still raining, and even Ben himself was reluctant to be out in such weather.  By Wednesday, though, the sun was shining again, and he gladly sent the two youngsters off to school.  Being trapped indoors with two rowdy boys was scarcely his concept of heaven, even though he had somehow managed to bring the hated books up to date, despite the distracting noise.

* * * * *

            October blew in on a gale worthy of any Ben had seen at sea, although he’d never witnessed anything to top the description of it that appeared in the Territorial Enterprise.  The article he read in the pile of papers Clyde had saved back for him made him grateful that the only damage the Ponderosa had sustained was some shingles off the barn roof and some fencing blown down.  Both had been easily and quickly repaired, even with the skeleton crew he’d kept on after the fall roundup.  At least, the house hadn’t been picked up off its foundation and set down some ten or twelve feet back of its original location as the paper had reported as fact in Virginia City.  Blatant exaggeration, of course, as he’d confirmed with the Thomases.

            The trouble with that Josh fellow, who’d written the article, was that a man never knew when to take him seriously.  The same issue of the Enterprise had also reported Indian trouble on the Overland Trail, and that article had seemed straightforward and unvarnished, listing names of victims and specific geographical locations, such as the City of Rocks.  Ben remembered that as a place of pleasant fun with the children of the wagon train.  How he’d enjoyed putting that scamp, Billy Thomas, in the “city” jail!  Now, sadly, it was a scene of death, which seemed to have wrapped the nation in an iron grip.  Not content with the loss of life in the war back East, the Grim Reaper apparently needed to fill its greedy maw with fresh meat from the West.

            Ben tossed the paper aside and banked the fire before heading up to bed.  The gloomy thoughts were well justified, considering the massive loss of life in the latest battle at Antietam, but at least, the news of the Presidential proclamation had given greater purpose to the war.  By the first of the year, the slaves in the Confederacy would be declared free, although it would take still more blood to make that proclamation more than mere words on paper.  Did the soldiers see themselves as sacrifices for a greater good or mere fodder for the maw of the Grim Reaper?  Did it even matter to the young men, killed or maimed for life, or to the grieving mothers and fathers back home?

            He shuddered as he slowly climbed the stairs.  Thankfully, his own boy was safely back at Yale, although he hadn’t had a letter from Adam since he’d left New York.  Probably busy with new classes, the flurry of starting a new term.  The last letter his son had sent, however, had mentioned getting an exemption from service to continue his schooling.  That should keep his boy safe another three years, and, hopefully, the war would have ended by then, though no one any longer believed that it would be the three-months’ wonder they had originally envisioned.

* * * * *

            After supper the next night Ben ascertained that both boys had finished their school assignments and offered to reward them with an entertaining story, penned by Josh, from the final issue of the Enterprise that he’d picked up from Clyde.  “A petrified man was found some time ago in the mountains south of Gravelly Ford,” Ben began.

            “I been there, ain’t I, Pa?” Hoss asked.

            “Me, too,” Little Joe inserted.

            “Oh, you ain’t, neither,” Hoss scoffed.

            “Have to!”

            “No, Joseph, you have not,” Ben corrected.  “Hoss has, though how he knows that, I can’t imagine.  He couldn’t even toddle back then.”

            “Adam told me all about us comin’ west and the different places on the trail, Pa,” Hoss explained.  “I sure wish he was headin’ back past them places now.”

            “We all do, Hoss.”

            “Adam comin’ home?” Little Joe asked, sitting up eagerly.

            “No, son, not anytime soon,” his father answered, “though if he doesn’t, at least, write soon, I may have to consider having a very necessary little talk with your older brother.”

            Little Joe’s nose crinkled in consideration.  “How you gonna get that in a letter?”

            Ben chuckled.  “If need be, I’ll find a way.  Now, do you boys want to hear about the petrified man or not?”

            “What’s petrified?” Little Joe asked.

            “Turned to stone.”

            The little boy’s eyes widened, and he urged his father to get on with the story.

            Ben read on, but soon wished he’d never started, for it began to look as though he wouldn’t be able to finish the short article any time before the next morning.  Josh had used far too many words that a youngster of five (or even one of twelve) didn’t understand, and Ben could scarcely get a sentence out without one or the other of his sons asking, “What’s that mean?”

            “Now listen carefully, without interrupting,” Ben finally decreed, “and see if you can show me just how the stone man looked.”

            “Okay,” Hoss said and then added, leaning close to his brother’s ear, “He means no more questions.”  He buttoned his lip with his thumb and forefinger, while Little Joe nodded solemnly and imitated the gesture.

            “Fine,” Ben said, hoping the magic would last long enough for him to get the description read.  “The body was in a sitting posture, and leaning against a huge mass of croppings.”

            The boys promptly sat side by side, leaning back against the massive stone hearth.  Ben gave them a nod of approval and continued, “The attitude was pensive, the right thumb resting against the side of the nose; the left thumb partially supported the chin, the forefinger pressing the inner corner of the left eye and drawing it partly open.”

            “No, Joe, t’other hand,” Hoss said.  Then he whispered, “Sorry, Pa.”

            Ben gave a grave nod this time and went on with his description.  “The right eye was closed and the fingers of the right hand spread apart.”  He looked up to check the boys’ progress and burst out laughing.  “Well, if anyone caught a glimpse of the two of you, he’d never take this story seriously!”

            Hoss, looking at his younger brother’s thumb on his nose, guffawed.  “Is it a joke, then, Pa?”

            “I think so, son,” Ben chuckled, “but according to Josh some three hundred people have visited the hardened creature over the last few weeks.”

            “Can we go visit him?” Little Joe said, bouncing up as if ready to take off right then.

            “No!” both his father and brother declared.

            “I never get to go no place,” Little Joe said, lips puckering.

            “Well, I’m gonna let you go someplace right now,” Ben said, struggling to control his merriment.  “I’m gonna let you go straight up to bed.”

            “No!”  Unfortunately, Little Joe’s wail produced nothing but even louder laughter from his audience of two.

            “Oh, come on now,” Ben said, scooping the boy up and heading for the stairs.  “I’ll read you another story from Rollo Learning to Talk.  I think that’ll be more to your taste, anyway.”

            Not wanting to miss Pa’s reading a story, even one as simple as the Rollo ones, Hoss trailed upstairs after them.  One story turned into three, as first Joe and then Hoss begged for “just one more” and Ben complied.  He finally got the two of them tucked in with reminders that tomorrow was a school day and headed to his own room.  He slept well, not realizing that he’d enjoyed his last merry evening for some time to come, or that it would, in fact, be closer to a year before he’d draw another carefree breath.

* * * * *

            Leaving his little brother in the saddle, Hoss almost tiptoed Charcoal into the barn after walking him cautiously the last hundred or so yards home.  Once inside, he closed the door and lifted Little Joe down.  “You think you can curry her by yourself, if’n I take the gear off?” he asked in a hushed whisper.

            “Course, I can,” Little Joe whispered back, taking his cue for quiet from his older brother.

            Hoss quickly took the saddle and blanket off the gray mare and tied her off in the stall.  “Okay.  Just comb her good.”

            “And water and feed her,” Little Joe added.

            Hoss shook his head wildly.  “No.  No, you gotta stay inside here, not be traipsing over to the water trough or anywheres out in the open, you understand?”  He held up a slim envelope.  “I’m gonna trot this here letter in to Pa.  You ain’t got no better chance of puttin’ him in a good mood than with a letter from Adam, and we doggone sure need Pa to be in a good mood before he gets a look at you.  So, stay here; I’ll come fetch you when it’s safe.”

            “Okay.”  Little Joe winced as he gave his bruised lower lip a nervous nibble.  “Sweeten him good for me, huh, Hoss?”

            Hoss waved the letter in the air as he headed toward the door.  “That’s Adam’s job, punkin.”  He hurried across the yard, but stopped just outside the front door to take a deep, bolstering breath before bursting in and yelling, “Hey, Pa, guess what come!”

            “What’s that, Hoss?” his father called from around the corner.

            Hoss hurried over to lay his trophy on his father’s desk.  “Whatcha think of that?” he asked with an enthusiastic grin.

            Ben’s mouth widened to match that of his son.  “Is that what I hope it is?”

            “Sure is!” Hoss declared.  “A letter from Adam.”

            “Well, that boy certainly took his good, easy time about writing,” Ben scolded his absent eldest, though the smile never left his lips as he picked up the long-desired missive.

            “Yes, sir, he’s been right slow about it,” Hoss agreed.

            “Oh, not really,” Ben admitted.  “This would’ve been sent right after he returned to New Haven.  It just seems long to us when we’re waiting for news.”

            “Reckon you’ll want t’read it right away,” Hoss said, “so I’ll just finish up in the barn.”

            “Nonsense,” Ben said, beginning to move around his desk.  “I’m sure Adam intended this for all of us.”  Suddenly, he realized there was someone missing.  “Where’s your little brother?”

            “Uh, well, uh, he’s . . .”

            “For mercy’s sake, Hoss, stop the hemming and hawing around.  Where is Joseph?”

            “In the barn,” Hoss muttered, mouth skewing to one side sheepishly.

            By the time a man had birthed three sons, he developed a certain instinct for suspicious behavior, and Hoss’s expression made Ben’s ears begin to tingle with it.  “In the barn,” he repeated.  “Is he playing in there . . . or hiding?”

            “Well, uh, he ain’t playin’.”  Realizing how that sounded, Hoss quickly added, “He’s curryin’ Charcoal for me.”

            Ben’s pursed lips worked from side to side.  “Little short for the job, isn’t he?”

            “Well, yeah, I reckon he is.”  Hoss’s titter had a desperate edge to it.  “That’s why I figured to get back out and help him . . . while you read that letter from Adam.”  He nodded toward the envelope in his father’s hand.  “I know how you been lookin’ forward to that, Pa.”

            Ben exhaled a veritable gale of exasperation.  “You are seriously trying my patience, boy.  Now, I’m gonna give you exactly one chance to tell me what’s going on, and I would strongly advise you to take it.”

            Hoss gulped down a sizable lump in his throat and said, “Joe had a mite of trouble at school, Pa.”

            “What sort of trouble?” Ben demanded.

            “Well, uh, he was sort of, uh . . . fightin’.”

            “Fighting!”  Ben exploded.

            “Now, Pa, it ain’t his fault,” Hoss declared in loyal defense.  “That Walt Grogan—”

            “Grogan?  That boy that bullied you last year?”

            “Yes, sir, that’s the one.”

            “He dared start a fight with a boy Joe’s size?”  Ben looked ready to strap on his gun and holster and head for the Grogan place.

            “Well, uh, not exactly.”  Hoss’s face reddened.  “He didn’t exactly throw the first punch.”

            “Then . . . who?”  Ben’s eyes widened in astonishment.  “Joseph?  Little Joe started the fight?”

            “Well . . . yeah,” Hoss drawled out reluctantly.

            “Joseph started a fight with a boy four times his size?”  Ben shook his head in disbelief.

            “Yeah, but it ain’t altogether his fault, Pa,” Hoss insisted.  “That Walt’s been baitin’ him somethin’ fierce ‘most every day, and, well, you know Joe and his temper, Pa.  He flies off the handle and tears into Walt, and I mostly been able to break it up, but today—”

            Ben clamped the boy’s shoulder with iron fingers.  “Wait a minute.  Are you saying this has happened before?”

            “Well . . . yeah . . . a few times.”  Hoss heaved a heavy sigh and decided he might as well tell the whole ugly truth the first time, instead of Pa dragging it out of him.  “Well, lots of times.  Like I said, I been around to stop it ‘til today.  Miss Appleton kept me in at recess to help me with some sums that was bamboozlin’ me, and then all of a sudden that little Devlin boy come runnin’ in and said I better come quick ‘cause Walt was at it again, and me and Miss Appleton run out and I stopped it, and she give ‘em both a good talkin’ to and gave ‘em extra work and said to tell you what happened and—”

            “Get your brother in here!” Ben bellowed.

            “Pa, it truly ain’t his fault.”

            “Now, Hoss!”

            Hoss ran for the door.

            Ben absently laid Adam’s letter on his desk and shook his head in consternation.  How was it even possible?  He could understand Joseph’s having a schoolyard squabble with one of his little friends—not approve, but understand.  Attacking a boy bigger than Hoss, however, made no sense whatsoever.  Grogan had baited his boy, Hoss had said, but why would the bully bother with such a small child?  Well, attacking the defenseless was what bullies did, he supposed, yet Hoss had also said that it was Little Joe doing the actual attacking.  That was utter lunacy, and that he would put a stop to immediately!

            The door creaked slowly open.  “Get in here now,” Ben ordered, trying to avoid shouting.  Talk to the boy first, he lectured himself.  Talk; don’t yell.

            Hoss walked in, pulling behind him a very reluctant younger brother.

            “Oh, my gracious,” Ben said as he caught first sight of the little boy’s face.  “Come here, baby.”  When, with a small push from his brother, Little Joe stumbled forward, Ben lifted him and carried him to the armchair by the fire.  With the boy in his lap, he tenderly touched the bruised face.  “Does it hurt, baby?”

            Little Joe wavered for a moment, quickly seeing the benefit of eliciting his father‘s sympathy, but flinching from the appelation of “baby.”  He finally settled on quavering out, “Little bit,” but trying to look as if he were taking the pain in stride, as a man should.

            “Miss Appleton cleaned him up, Pa,” Hoss said, though he kept a safe distance, just in case Pa was still mad.

            “Yes, that’s good,” Ben said as he continued to examine the injuries.  Nothing but bruises, thank God, but still worse than he had expected.  The bully obviously hadn’t checked the force of his blows much, although the bruised knuckles should more likely be considered self-inflicted.  Ben’s resolve hardened again.  “Now, what’s this I hear about you fighting, Little Joe?”

            “I dunno, Pa,” Little Joe said.

            “You don’t know?”  Ben’s voice raised a half-step.

            Little Joe drew back an inch.  “I don’ know what you heard.”

            The parsing of his words made Ben’s eyes narrow.  “Oh, you don’t.  Well, do you suppose I might have heard that you, little boy, actually started this fight?”

            “Maybe,” the boy conceded, adding with a disgruntled look at his older brother, “if’n someone told you.”

            “I had to, Joe,” Hoss said.

            “Indeed, he did,” Ben said sternly.  “Now, I think you know my feelings on the subject of fighting at school, don’t you, Joseph?”

            Little Joe fixed his gaze on his father’s center vest button.  “Sort of.”

            Ben blew out some of the steam that was building up.  “Well, why don’t you tell me what you do know about my feelings on that subject, Joseph?”

            “Um, I guess you, uh, don’t like it much.”  Little Joe took a quick peek at his father’s face and rattled out with a hint of desperation, “But you think there’s times a fellow’s gotta fight—like when someone’s bein’ picked on and can’t fight back themselves.  I’ve heard you tell Hoss that.”

            Ben’s eyebrows drew ominously together.  “Are you trying to tell me that you were defending someone smaller than you, Little Joe?”  At first he couldn’t credit the utter obsurdity of the idea, but it was remotely possible that there was a child in that schoolyard smaller than Joseph himself.  One of the girls, perhaps?

            “Not smaller, zactly,” Little Joe admitted slowly.  Then, taking courage, he added, “But he needed defendin’, Pa.  He really did.”

            “All right.”  Ben held on to his fragile suspension of disbelief long enough to ask, “Just who is it that needed you to defend him?”

            “Hoss.”

            “Hoss!” Ben exploded.  He threw an inquiring look at his other son, who winced and shook his head with closed eyes.  Turning back to Little Joe, he pressed, “Don’t you think Hoss is big enough to fight his own battles?”

            “Yeah, but he don’t.”

            “Well, good for Hoss!  It comforts me to hear that I have one son who respects and obeys my instructions!”

            “But that Walt says awful things about him, Pa,” Little Joe protested, “and they ain’t true, and I just can’t—”

            “Oh, yes, you can!”  Ben took the child from his lap and planted him in front of him.  “I don’t approve of my boys punching their way through life, especially over so small a matter as name-calling.  There are better ways to solve problems, Little Joe, and I expect you to use them.  Now, do you understand what I’m saying?”

            Little Joe hung his head.  “Yes, sir.”

            “So there won’t be any more fighting at school, will there?”

            Little Joe glanced up.  “No, sir.  Not unless someone says bad things about Hoss.”

            Ben stared back, flabbergasted.  Had the child not heard a single word he’d said?  Unable to restrain himself, he asked the question aloud.

            “Of course, I did, Pa,” his young son replied, “but I can’t let that Walt say them things about Hoss.  They ain’t true, and even if they was, he’s my brother, Pa.”  The boy gazed into his father’s face with such complete conviction that Ben was lost for words.  Finally finding his tongue, he sputtered, “You go up to your room, Joseph, and give some serious thought to what I’ve just said—and to the consequences of disobeying your father!”

            Little Joe gulped and ran for the stairs.  Even before he reached the top, Ben’s angry gaze fell on his other son.  “You knew about this,” he charged, “and didn’t see fit to tell me?”

            The only explanation Hoss could offer was the same one his younger brother had just tried.  “He’s my brother, Pa.”

            It worked just as well as it had for Little Joe.  “You get up to your room, too, young man,” Ben dictated, stabbing his finger toward the stairs, “and give some serious thought to where your real obligation lies!”

            “Yes, sir,” Hoss said and fled.

            Ben sat in the chair, blowing fumes at the fire, in hopes that he could exhaust the fuel within.  He’d almost succeeded in calming down when Hop Sing slipped in and said hesitantly, “Cookies and milk all ready for boys.  You want me take up or bring boys down?”

            “Cookies!” Ben bellowed.  “No cookies for those two today!”

            Just as quickly as the two youngsters, Hop Sing vanished into the relative safety of his kitchen.

            Closing his eyes, Ben leaned his head against the back of the chair and willed himself to calm down, with only moderate success.  How much plainer did he have to make it before they’d understand?  He’d thought he’d succeeded with Hoss, but Joseph—well, his youngest was as hard-headed as his eldest had ever been.  A smile suddenly softened his lips as he recalled the letter lying on his desk.  Just the thing to pour gladness back into his heart, to remind him that he hadn’t entirely failed as a father.

            He moved to the desk and carefully slit the envelope with a letter opener.  The first words he read, however, sent his heart racing into his throat, for Adam had begun by saying, “Dear Pa, Please read this in private before sharing any part with the boys.”  His eyes instinctively gazed upward, as if petitioning for strength to face what he was about to read.  Oh, Adam had sent him private messages before, but they usually came at the close of a letter to the family.  An opening like this almost shouted that the entire contents were serious.  But what could possibly have happened?  Why, the boy was barely back at school.  He should have been bubbling over with excitement about his new classes, his impressions of his new teachers, his pleasure at reuniting with Jamie.  Could that be it?  Had something happened to Adam’s friend?  The lad had never been strong physically.  Or—his throat tightened—was it his own friend, Josiah, to whom something dire had befallen?  The man worked in an arms factory, after all; accidents happened and—unable to bear the pounding questions, Ben lowered his eyes and began to read:

            “I must now share with you news that you will not want to hear.  I have made a decision I fear will not please you—to be honest, I’m sure it will not please you—but I feel that this is an action I must take.  There is a great conflict in this country, a great cause in which I believe, and I can no longer watch others take arms in that cause while I sit idly by.

            President Lincoln has put out a call for men to serve a nine-month term, and I feel that I cannot deny that brief a commitment to my country at this critical time.  I have enlisted in the Union Army, in the new 27^th Connecticut regiment.  It only means delaying my education for one year, Pa; I will return to Yale when the term of enlistment ends.  I know you urged me to stay out of the “eastern conflict;” I know I promised that I would, that I would concentrate on my schooling and prepare myself to rebuild the nation after this terrible war is over.  I honestly thought I could, but I find myself unable to keep that promise.  I hope you will forgive this breach of my word, knowing that conscience requires it.  At any rate, the deed is done; I am a soldier.

            At present, I am still in New Haven, at Camp Terry, but I am not sure where I’ll be by the time you receive this letter.  Our regiment should be filled by then, and I would expect to march out shortly thereafter, so I would suggest that you address any correspondence to Jamie until I can give you a more definite address.  Being closer, I can more readily keep him advised of my movements.”

            The letter fluttered to the desktop as it fell from Ben’s suddenly lifeless fingers.  Adam, a soldier?  Fear and fury waged war in his breast, as surely as it was being fought on the battlefields back East, one feeding the other until he was certain both heart and mind would explode, shattering his soul in a million pieces.  How could Adam do this?  How dare he?  Yet, “the deed is done.”  No way to undo it.  “The deed is done,” and with its doing came mind-numbing danger, fears Ben refused to name for fear they might come true, if spoken aloud or even in the roar of his storm-tossed thoughts.

            He crumpled the letter and threw it from him; then he took out a clean sheet of paper and began to write.  He didn’t stop to choose his words; he just let them gush, and since he could not bear to see his fears in black and white, what spewed forth was the anger, the disappointment, the frustration that his arm was too short to reach across the continent and jerk his little boy back where he belonged, under his father’s guidance and protection.  Finally, exhausted, he stopped, folded the letter and thrust it into an envelope, which he addressed to his son, care of Jamie Edwards at Yale College.

            He sealed the envelope; then, he shouted for Hoss as he came around the desk.  When his middle son didn’t arrive as quickly as he thought he should, he yelled even louder, “Hoss, get down here!”

            Hoss appeared at the head of the stairs.  “You want me, Pa?” he asked timidly.

            “Yes, I want you,” Ben said tersely.  “Now, get down here.”

            With almost palpable reluctance Hoss walked down the stairs.  “I’m awful sorry, Pa,” he said as he reached the landing.

            Eyes glazed, Ben stared at the boy.  “What?”

            “About not tellin’ you,” Hoss started, but Ben waved his words aside.

            “Never mind that now.”  Ben thrust the envelope toward his son.  “I want you to ride into Franktown and post this for me.”

            Hoss’s eyes widened.  “Right now, Pa?”

            “Yes, right now!” Ben ordered.

            Hoss grabbed the letter and ran for the door.

            “Take your coat, for mercy’s sake,” his father grunted.

            “Yes, sir.”  Hoss hurried into the garment, fumbling with the buttons since his fingers suddenly seemed to be all thumbs.

            “Hoss?”  Ben’s voice relaxed a little as he finally noticed his boy’s nervousness.  “This is nothing to do with you, son, so ease up and ride careful.” He raised an admonishing finger.  “But don’t dawdle; I want you home before dark.”

            “Yes, sir.”  The boy’s sigh of relief was audible as he snatched up the letter and left.  On the porch he chanced stopping long enough to check the address.  Like he’d thought, it was to Adam, but that part about Jamie looked odd, not the way Pa had addressed letters to his brother before.  An awful feeling stirred in the pit of Hoss’s stomach as he headed for the barn.  Was Adam sick?  Was that why the letter was going to Jamie, ‘cause Adam was too sick to check his own mail?  No, Pa would’ve looked worried, if that were it, and he didn’t.  He looked mad.  Hoss had a feeling that Adam was in trouble, big enough trouble to take Pa’s mind off what he and Joe had done, at least for now.  He figured he should be grateful for that, but all he felt, as he saddled Charcoal, was plumb scared for his big brother.  Just yesterday they’d joked about Pa sending Adam a “necessary little talk” through the mail, but Hoss was pretty sure that was exactly what he was about to post.  For a minute he considered just losing the letter along the road, but then shook his head.  Trying to be a good brother had already landed him in enough trouble for one day.

            Inside, Ben paced endlessly back and forth before the fire, his thoughts frenetically circling until he couldn’t even follow them; and he finally fell, exhausted, into his armchair.  “Fool boy,” he muttered.  “Thinks he knows better than his father what’s best for him.”  No, that wasn’t fair.  Adam wasn’t a boy anymore; he was a man.  “Conscience requires it,” his eldest son had written, and no man, not even a father, had the right to dictate a man’s conscience.  He’d done his part in forming that conscience, as he was now trying to do with Hoss and Little Joe.  If anything, he’d been all too successful with Adam.  He’d raised his son to form strong convictions, and it was plain hypocrisy to expect anything less of him.  But I never thought we’d stand on opposite sides of any issue.

            Suddenly, Ben remembered crumbling and throwing away his boy’s letter.  With Adam heading into battle, who knew whether they might be the last words he ever heard from his son?  He hurried across the room to pluck the wadded paper from the floor.  Sitting at his desk, he carefully smoothed out the wrinkles, but then added a few more as he crushed the precious words to his heart.  Adam! his mind screamed in torment.  Dear God, what if I never see him again?  What if the last words he hears from me are the angry ones I just spewed at him? What a fool I’ve been.

            He pulled out the pocket watch to check the time and shook his head.  Hoss would have already reached Franktown by now, and by the time he could ride in himself, the post office would be closed.  All he could do now was write a second, more thoughtful letter and send it as quickly as possible.  Chances were, by the time mail caught up with the young soldier, they’d both arrive together.  He took out pen and stationery; then he pushed them aside.  No, not tonight.  His emotions were still roiling.  Better to sleep out his ire with all three of his sons, wake with a fresh perspective and write more considered words, words that a boy might take to his grave and rest in peace, if need be.

            Stifling a groan, Ben came to his feet.  His arms ached to hold his eldest son, to enclose him in the protection of a father’s embrace, but his arms couldn’t span a continent.  There was only one son in the house, and although that little lad was probably the least deserving of a hug right now, Ben had to hold someone.  He moved around the desk and headed for the stairs, praying with all his heart that the dream that now seemed so divided would one day unite him and all his sons once again.

~ ~ Notes ~ ~

            Lincoln signed a preliminary Emancipation Proclamation on September 22, 1862, to take effect on the following New Year’s Day.  Only slaves in the Confederacy were freed by this act; however, those outside the seceding states were accorded the same status by separate legislation.  Though reaction was mixed, the majority of Northerners opposed the proclamation, and in some areas it even resulted in violent attacks on people of color.

            Samuel Clemens, still writing under his penname, Josh, published a report on the Indian attack near the City of Rocks in the October 1, 1862, issue of the Territorial Enterprise.   His hoax of “The Petrified Man” appeared either the 4^th or 5^th of the same month.

            Though only briefly mentioned in this chapter, the characters of Dan Tolliver and “that little Devlin boy” are derived from two episodes of Bonanza, Tolliver from “A Time to Step Down,” written by Frank Chase and Mitch Devlin from “Between Heaven and Earth,” written by Ed Adamson.

            If you’re interested in what Adam Cartwright was doing during the time frame of this novel, you may read about that in the new Heritage Companion series, A Separate Dream, the first volume of which is “A Fresh Beginning.”

The End

© March, 2014

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