Hop Sing’s eyes flew wide when he answered the loud thump at the door late one afternoon and saw the tall Indian standing there.  “Wh—what you want?” the Chinese cook stammered.

“Where Ben Cartwright?” the native asked.  “I speak him.”

    Hop Sing raised a trembling finger and pointed behind the Indian.  “In b—barn.”

    When the Indian grunted, turned and walked away, Hop Sing slammed the door shut and ran screaming up the stairs.  “Missy!  Missy!  Many Indians come!  You run, hide.”

    Marie, who had been lying down in her room, nursing a headache, rose with alarm.  “The children——where are they?”

    “In barn with Mistah Cahtlight,” Hop Sing chattered.  “Oh, they be dead by now, Missy.  You run.”

    Marie ran, but toward the barn, not away from it, her first instinct being the protection of her family.  She stopped abruptly when she saw the single Indian conversing with Ben.  Hoss was beyond them, milking the cow, with Little Joe and Klamath lying in the straw next to him.  “Oh,” Marie cried sharply.  “Hop Sing said——”

“Don’t repeat it,” Ben cautioned.  “I can just imagine what Hop Sing said.”

    Marie forced a smile to her lips as she faced the Paiute Natchez, whom she recognized from the time he had dined with them three years earlier.  Hop Sing, who’d kept as far away from the Paiutes as possible that evening, evidently hadn’t.  “I——I thought there were more of you.  Will——will you be staying to dinner, Monsieur Natchez?” she asked hesitantly.

    Ben answered for the Paiute.  “No, I’ll be going with him.”

    Marie couldn’t hide her concern.  “Oh, Ben.”

    “It’s Captain Truckee,” Ben explained quickly.  “He’s dying and has asked me to come.  There’s no time to lose, Marie.”

    Marie gazed at the ground, afraid her eyes would betray her concern.  Of course, there was no way Ben could refuse such a summons.  The request of a dying friend must be honored, especially when to refuse would insult a people with whom relations were already strained.  “I will have Hop Sing prepare food for your journey,” she said.

    “Thank you,” Ben said, giving her an encouraging smile.  He knew what it was costing her to keep her demeanor calm and wanted her to know he was proud.  “I’ll be in to say good-bye before we leave.”

    “Hoss, Little Joe, come with me, s’il te plait,” Marie said, her hand stretching toward the children.

    “Cow ain’t finished givin’ milk, Mama,” Hoss argued.

    “She’s given enough,” Marie said sharply, then bit her lip and glanced nervously at Natchez.  Had he heard the fear in her voice?

    “It’s all right,” Ben assured her.  “I’ll see they don’t dawdle.”

    Marie wanted desperately to take Little Joe, at least, with her, but she saw Ben’s dark eyes flick a negating message at her.  He was right, she knew.  If Little Joe were forced to leave before his brother, he would be certain to protest the unfairness vociferously, and that would shame Ben before his friend.  “Well, as you say,” Marie said finally, “they must not dawdle.  Hop Sing will need the milk.”

    “Tell him he’ll have it soon,” Ben said, the smile returning to his face.  She’d understood and behaved just as she should.  Oh, what a woman I married, Ben exulted within.

    Long before reaching the Paiute encampment, Ben could see bonfires blazing against the darkness of the distant hills.  Natchez explained that they had been lit to transmit the news of Captain Truckee’s impending death.  The old chief was an important man in the tribe, and many would want to comfort him by their presence in his final hours.  Ben felt honored that he would be there, too, but concerned for what the old man’s passing might mean for relations between red man and white.  Captain Truckee had always been a friend to the men he considered his white brothers, but his views were shared by few other Paiutes.

    Riding into the camp, Ben immediately noticed another white man there, as well, and struggled to remember the man’s name.  Snyder——that was it——a man who, like Ben, had often had the epithet of “Indian-lover” thrown in his face, a man who, like him, was evidently a personal friend of Captain Truckee.

    As Ben dismounted, Snyder came forward and extended his hand.  “Cartwright, isn’t it?  They told me you’d been sent for, too.”

    “Yes,” Ben said quietly.  “A sad occasion.”

    Snyder nodded.  “I take it the old chief’s very weak, so I’ve been waiting for your arrival to see him.”

    “Thank you,” Ben said.  “I don’t know what Captain Truckee wants to say to us, but you were wise not to overtax his strength.  Let him say what he will once and then seek his rest.”

    “Shall we go in now?” Snyder suggested.

    “Yes,” Ben agreed, then turned to the young man who had been his guide to the encampment.  “Natchez, would you see if your grandfather is awake and strong enough to see us now?”

    Natchez nodded and went into Captain Truckee’s karnee.  He emerged moments later and indicated that the two white men were to come in.  They entered together.

    The karnee was dark, as it always was, but they located the old man’s bed by using their noses.  A putrid stench permeated the dwelling, the kind of stench that drew buzzards to a rotting carcass.  It was the smell of death, and Ben felt his gorge rise, though not in mere physical nausea.  He’d been in the presence of death before:  his parents, his wives.  Those deaths had been more painful personal losses, yet there was something awesome about Captain Truckee’s approaching demise. The moment Ben entered the karnee he knew he was there to witness the departure of a truly great man, one this territory, in particular, could ill afford to lose.  It was not the smell that sickened Ben; it was the dread of what might follow this good man’s death.

    As his eyes became accustomed to the darkness, Ben made out the faces of the others gathered near the old chief:  Poito and his wife, along with their children, as well as other family members Ben knew less well.  Poito lifted his father-in-law to a sitting position and supported him as he addressed the white man Snyder.  “I am now going to die,” Truckee stated calmly.  “I have always loved you as if you were my dear son; and one thing I want you to do for me.”

    “Anything,” Snyder promised.  “Anything I can.”

    Captain Truckee glanced to his right, at his two granddaughters, Sarah and Elma.  “You see, there are my two little girls.  I want you to take them to California, to Mr. Bonsal and Mr. Scott.  They will send them to school to the sisters at San Jose.  Tell them this is my last request to them.  Will you promise to do this for me?”

    “I will do this,” Snyder said solemnly.  “I will do all in my power to see these girls have the education you desire for them.”

    “It is good,” Truckee said and took a deep, labored breath.  He stretched his hand toward Ben.  “And you, my friend, you who have given so much to my people, to you I give the Indian name that white men know best, the name they give to Poito and Numaga.”

    “Winnemucca?” Ben asked.

    Truckee nodded.  “To me, you have always been the white Winnemucca.  By this name I speak of you when I speak with my people.  You know what this name means?”

    “The giver,” Ben whispered.  He didn’t know the Paiute language well, but this was one of the words he recognized.

    “More,” Captain Truckee said.  “It mean ‘he who cares for the Numa, the people.’  You have cared for the people:  you have fed them; you have lived among them as a brother.”

    “As all men are brothers,” Ben said.

    “Now I ask you to do for me what a brother would among your people,” Truckee continued after pausing for another long breath.  “Soon I will sleep with those who have gone before.”

    “I pray that will not be for many moons,” Ben said, his voice growing hoarse.

    Truckee shook his head.  “Not many moons, not many journeys of the sun.  Soon.  You will help my people to bury me in the white man’s fashion?”

    Ben cut a sharp glance at Poito, uncertain how the proud Paiute would react.  Then he looked solemnly back at Truckee.  “If that is your wish and the wish of your people.”

    “My wish,” Truckee declared with sudden energy.  “Those who respect me will respect my wish.”  He gave his son-in-law a significant gaze, and Poito nodded almost indiscernibly.  With his remaining strength the dying man told Ben exactly how he wished to be buried, and Ben promised to follow the instructions to the letter.

    “Now, will you both stay with me, as part of my family, until the darkness comes?” Truckee whispered.

    Snyder and Ben exchanged an awestruck glance, then Snyder answered for them both.  “We will stay.”

    Captain Truckee fell asleep while the others kept a virtually silent watch.  Late the next morning the tribe’s medicine man tried to rouse the old chief, but could not.  Truckee slept all that day and into the night.  Finally, shortly before midnight, he twisted on his pallet and his eyes opened.  “Son, where are you?” he called feebly.  “Come and raise me up; let me sit up.”

    Poito, the man the whites called Winnemucca, raised his father-in-law, whose eyes suddenly glowed with a brightness Ben had not seen for many years.  Calling for his daughter Tuboitonie and the children, Captain Truckee murmured, “I am tired, but I will soon be happy.”  He turned to Tuboitonie’s husband, Poito.  “Now, son, I hope you will live to see as much as I have, and to know as much as I do.  And if you live as I have, you will some day come to me.  Do your duty as I have done to your people and to your white brothers.”

    Truckee’s eyes fell on Ben.  “Bury me as you have promised,” he whispered.

    Unable to speak, Ben nodded.

    Truckee’s lips moved again, but no sound emerged.

    “It was his cry as he entered the Spirit land,” his daughter Tuboitonie declared.  “We could not hear it, but he cried out when he saw his mother and father in the Spirit land.”

    Young Sarah Winnemucca crept close to kneel beside her grandfather, taking his weathered face in her slim, supple hands.  She just looked at him, unable to speak, until finally her mother pulled her gently away.

    The white men left the karnee, feeling the family should be alone.  Sarah was the first to emerge.  “A great light has gone out,” she murmured, eyes shimmering.  “The world grows cold and dark.”

    Ben——and probably Snyder, too,——longed to take the girl in his arms.  Had she been a white girl, no doubt he would have, but Ben couldn’t risk offending the Paiute maiden.  What seemed a natural gesture of comfort to him might be perceived as an affront by people of a different culture.

    As soon as the body was prepared and the mourners assembled, Ben conducted the funeral as Captain Truckee had instructed.  The old chief wanted to be buried with his “white rag friend,” the letter given him years before by Charles Frémont, so Ben folded the dead hands upon the man chest with the rolled letter and similar documents from other white men, beneath them.  He placed the Bible Frémont had given the chief over his heart.

    Truckee’s body was lowered into the six-foot trough and earth piled over him.  A cross with the chief’s name carved on it was hammered into the ground at the grave’s head.

    Ben had told Poito that it was customary among white men to have a eulogy at the funeral.  “Words spoken in honor of the deceased,” he explained and asked that a family member do Captain Truckee this honor.

    Ben had expected Poito himself to make the speech, since he was an acknowledged leader among his people.  Perhaps Poito’s dislike of white ways was too great a barrier for him to overcome, however, for the man chosen was Captain John, another of Truckee’s sons-in-law.  “A good man is gone,” Captain John began.  “The white man knows he was good, for he guided him ‘round deserts and led him in paths where there was grass and good water.  His people knew he was good, for he loved them and cared for them and came home to them to die.  All know that Truckee was a good man——Paiute and Americans.  He is dead; the good man is gone.  All of our people cry, for they loved Truckee.”

    Captain John diverged from his eulogy to speak to his people of how he would spread the news of Truckee’s death and how a new leader would be found for the Paiutes.  Then the Indian returned to his discourse on the life of the dead chief.  “Not many are fit to lead in the path where Truckee walked.  Truckee was much with the white men; he liked their way and learned much of them that we don’t understand.  He wished to be buried as the white men bury their dead, and the white Winnemucca and the white men his friends have seen it done.  I thank him and I thank them——I thank all for Truckee and Truckee’s people.”

    Ben thanked Captain John for his good words and announced that the funeral was now ended.  The statement was incorrect, for while the other Paiutes respected Truckee’s wishes and let him be buried in the white man’s fashion, they were determined to follow Indian custom, as well.  Six of their best ponies were led to the side of the grave and killed.  “Grandfather must have good ponies to ride on his journey to the Spirit land,” Sarah explained quietly to Ben and Snyder.

    Ben nodded.  Though he hated to see the waste of good horseflesh, he understood and accepted the Indians’ right to follow their own customs.  Another custom was set in motion immediately after the slaying of the horses.  Truckee’s karnee was burned to the ground, and all his people packed and headed north, leaving Sarah and Elma with the two white men.

    “You’ll be taking the stage to California,” Ben said.  “Come and stay with me at the Ponderosa until it leaves.”

    “I need to return home to settle some affairs before I leave,” Snyder said, “but I would appreciate it if the girls could go with you.  Then I’ll pick them up when it’s time to leave.”

    “That’ll be fine,” Ben said.  “Get your things together, girls.”

    As the two Paiute maidens went to gather their few belongings, Snyder shook Ben’s hand in farewell.  “It’s a terrible loss,” he said, “the last sane voice we could count on among the Paiutes.”  Ben nodded solemnly.  Snyder had put into words the thoughts of his own heart.  Truckee was, indeed, the last sane voice in a world gone mad with fear and distrust.  Where would they find another?

    While Ben thought the last sane voice among the Paiutes had been silenced, there was one more.  Discontent had been rising among the Indians, and from March onwards they had been slowly filtering away from the white settlements.  Now they met in council at the edge of Pyramid Lake, not just the Paiutes with whom Ben was acquainted, but tribesmen from the four directions of the compass.  From the south, near Walker Lake, came Chief Wahe, the brother of Winnemucca, and from the east the Shoshoni chief Qudazoboeat, who was married to a Paiute woman.  Smoke Creek Sam, Winnemucca’s renegade brother-in-law, was there, with chiefs representing tribes from Honey Lake, the Big Bend of the Carson and Antelope Valley, among others.  From the Black Rock Desert of the north came Chief Sequinata and from the northeastern Humboldt Meadows, Chief Moguannoga.  Men from all sections, all in favor of war with the whites, all but one.

    As the council began, Winnemucca called for a spiritual leader to offer prayer to the Great Spirit; then he filled a pipe, tamping the tobacco with his index finger, lit it, smoked and passed the pipe to his right.  Five times the pipe made the circle of chiefs, then five songs were sung, for among the Paiutes the number five was considered to have great power.

    Only when these important rituals had been completed did the talk turn to words of war.  One by one the chiefs listed their grievances against the white men.  They had cut the piñon tree, robbing Paiute children of food.  They had grazed their cattle on grass where Paiute ponies used to feed.  “They accuse us of rustling when it is they who steal grass and ponies,” the chief from Honey Lake complained.

    “They killed one of our elders while he was out hunting rabbits,” Chief Wahe declared, his visage dark as he recounted the tale of an old man bound and dragged until no skin remained on his bones.  “Then, while they laughed and drank whiskey in celebration, one of them scalped the dead man.”  Grunts of outrage rippled from man to man.

    The charges continued.  A chief’s son had been killed, a woman raped, then sent back to her tribe in shame when she became infected with the disease that makes men’s loins burn.  As the accusations piled one on another, Winnemucca listened silently.  His feelings were well known; all men there knew he favored war with the whites, but he spoke no word, either for or against.

    Every man there favored war——with one exception.  Numaga, the one the whites called the Young Winnemucca to distinguish him from his older uncle, was the only one whose voice was raised against war.  But his was an important voice.  The Paiutes did not want to wage war without complete unanimity, especially when the one dissenting voice was that of their war chief, the man they expected to lead them in battle.

“Your skin is red, but your heart is white,” Winnemucca taunted his nephew.  “Go away and live among the palefaces.”  But even this did not dissuade Numaga, and the council broke up late that night with no agreement reached.  Each chief returned to his own encampment about the shores of Pyramid Lake, and Numaga rode from camp to camp, speaking to each chief, pleading with each man to give the white men one more chance.

    Ben, Marie and Hoss were at the breakfast table.  “We’re goin’ to town today, ain’t we, Pa?” Hoss asked between mouthfuls of scrambled egg.

    Ben took a slow sip of coffee.  “Hadn’t planned on it.  There’s a lot of work to be done, boy.”

    Hoss’s brow furrowed.  “Yeah, but, Pa, it’s Pony day!”

    Ben laughed.  “You’ve been keeping up, have you?  Well, I’m glad to see your arithmetic skills are working well, at least.”

    Hoss scowled.  “It don’t take much learnin’ to count to twelve, Pa.  Even Little Joe can do that!  Twelve days since the last Pony, so it’s time again.”

    “It’s time,” Ben acknowledged, “but I guess I’m getting jaded.  I don’t feel the need to watch him ride in this week.”

    “Aw, Pa,” Hoss grumbled.  “Wouldn’t it be a fine thing to see Billy come dashin’ into town with the mail pouch?”  After hours of wheedling, Billy Thomas had managed to talk his reluctant parents into letting him sign on with the Pony Express.

    “I imagine he’d look about the same as Pony Bob,” Ben chuckled.  “They all wear the same uniform.”  Billy’s leg of the Express route stopped at Buckland Station, east of them, and didn’t bring him through Carson City.  The section from Buckland’s through Carson City to Friday’s Station near Lake Tahoe was regularly run by Robert Haslem, a Pony rider so adept and dedicated to his job that he’d already earned the nickname of “Pony Bob.”

    Hoss bit his lip.  “Well, how ‘bout just me, then?” he suggested tentatively.  “Could I go?”

    “To Buckland’s?  By yourself?” Ben snorted.  “Certainly not!”

    “Just to Carson, then?” Hoss amended hopefully.

    “Oh, I guess you’ve earned a day off,” Ben said, giving the boy an indulgent smile.  Since the first of May Hoss had been excused from his lessons and had been working at his father’s side, putting in a full day’s work, as handily as any grown man.

    Hoss’s grin split his face from ear to ear.  “And can I take Little Joe?” he asked eagerly.

    Ben arched an eyebrow.  “What do you think?”

    Hoss’s grin twisted sheepishly.  “I’m guessin’ no.”

    Ben chuckled.  “You’re guessing right.  The last thing I need is for you to put the subject of horses back in that boy’s head.”

    “It ain’t never left,” Hoss laughed.

    “It is true,” Marie giggled.  “Every time he sees you or Hoss ride out, he asks when Pa will get him a horse.”

    Ben wiped his lips with a checked napkin and pushed his chair back.  “In that case, son, let’s get out of here before he wakes up.”  He laid an affectionate arm on Hoss’s shoulder as they walked out.  “Have a good time,” he said, “and bring home all the news.”

    But Hoss brought home no news that night.  The Pony rider hadn’t arrived, though the boy had waited all day.  He wasn’t the only one disappointed, either.  The miners of the region had hoped the rider would shout to them the results of the championship boxing match between British champ Tom Sayers and their own “Benecia Boy” Heenan from San Francisco.  Local pride was at stake, and no news was more important.  No news at all arrived that sixth day of May, though, and the miners were destined to be disappointed again the next day, for still no Pony rider charged down the trail.

    “Do you think anything is wrong?” Marie asked.  “The Pony has not been late before.”

    “It’s only run twice before,” Ben pointed out.  “No, I don’t think there’s reason to assume the worse, although I’m sure that’s what’s going through our friend Nelly’s head.”

    “As it would through yours if Hoss were an Express rider,” Marie countered with a slight smile.

    Ben knew how to silence her teasing.  “Or Little Joe,” he added with a maddening twinkle in his eye.  “Now, there’s an Express rider you’d worry about!”

    Marie laughed lightly.  “So long as his cruel father refuses to give him a horse, I have few worries of his riding for the Pony Express.”

    While the miners of Virginia City were absorbed in waiting for news of a sporting event, at Pyramid Lake a man lay stretched full length on the cold ground, his face to the dust.  Unable with mere words to convince the assembled chiefs of the wisdom of peace, Numaga had begun to fast on the fifth of May.  All through that day and night he lay prostrate before his people, refusing both food and water.  When the sun rose the next morning, he still lay there, shaming the Paiutes with his resolute determination in the face of their pleas to stop this foolishness and take nourishment.  Yet all that day he again lay on the ground and no food or water passed his lips.

    That same day two young Paiute sisters disappeared.  They had gone out to gather roots and not returned, so their parents, searching for them, followed a trail that led to Williams’ Station, some sixty miles northeast of Virginia City.  James Williams, who owned and operated the station in partnership with his two brothers, was not himself at the station, but his brothers Oscar and Calvin, whom he’d left in charge, denied seeing the girls, even inviting the parents into the log house to see for themselves.  The frantic parents returned to Pyramid Lake, where friends comforted them and promised to help them search for their daughters again the next day.

    When the sun rose on the seventh of May, it again revealed the figure of a prostrate man.  For two days and nights Numaga had denied himself food and water in a last desperate attempt to persuade his people that war was not the solution to their problems with the white settlers.  “Stop him,” the people begged his uncle.  “Do not let him die before our faces, in front of our karnees.”

    With determination Winnemucca strode across the camp to stand, legs spread, before the supine man.  He waved his hand toward the white birds nesting on the rocks of Pyramid Lake. “Your skin is colored by the glance of the sun, but your heart is white like the underfeathers of a pelican,” he declared. “Go!  Go away and live with your white friends!”

    Numaga made no response.  Later in the day others walked past him, their taunts turning to threats.  “Get up or we will kill you,” they warned.

    Numaga twisted his head and stared upward, gazing past them.  “Do it if you wish, for I don’t care to live,” he replied, then turned his face to the dust again.

    The other Paiutes mumbled among themselves and finally one said, “Perhaps we should have another council.”  From man to man the suggestion spread, but no council was held that day, and Numaga continued to lie fasting upon the ground.

    The sun had also risen that morning on a small party of Paiutes in search of two young girls.  Though not part of their group, another Paiute, a member of Wahe’s Walker Lake tribe, went out hunting, as well, and stopped that morning at Williams’ Station, as the parents had the day before.  The men there liked the look of his pony and offered to trade a gun, five cans of powder, five boxes of caps and five bars of lead for the animal.  The Indian accepted, but when it came time to make the exchange, the five bars of lead were omitted.

    When the Paiute objected, the men of Williams’ Station set a dog on him.  Yelling in his native tongue as the dog bit and clawed him, the Indian heard muffled cries, also in Paiute, coming from the barn.  He’d heard of the missing girls and was sure it was them, crying for help, his own screams having told them one of their own people was nearby.  Unable to rescue them alone, the Walker Lake Indian sprinted past the laughing white men, flung himself on his pony and rode swiftly toward the Paiute camp.

    Meeting the search party on the way back, he breathlessly described what he had heard.  The girls’ father immediately went to Chief Natchez, who was with Moguannoga, chief of the Humboldt Meadows Paiutes.  The two chiefs listened with granite faces to this latest outrage by the whites.  “It gains nothing to take this to the council,” Moguannoga stated bluntly.  “Numaga has bled the spirit from them.  We must act to save the daughters of our people.”

    Soberly, Natchez nodded.  Numaga was his uncle and he respected him, but so long as the war chief maintained this fast, the council would be unable to move against him.  The lives and virtue of two Paiute maidens were at stake; there was no time for delay.  “I ride with you,” Natchez declared.

    “I go, too,” the girls’ father announced.  The others nodded.  They had expected no less.  Nine men volunteered and, without informing the other leaders, rode toward Williams’ Station.  It was just past noon.

    The sun hovered low on the western horizon when the raiding party reached the eastern end of the Carson River.  Feeling wary, they picketed their ponies among the cottonwoods and walked the half-mile to Williams’ Station.  A wagon stood in the yard, and four white men exited the log house to meet the Indians.

    “We have come for the Paiute maidens,” Natchez announced regally.

    One of the white men evidently recognized the girls’ parents, for he pointed to them.  “Like I told these redskins t’other day, we ain’t seen them girls.  Check the house if you don’t believe me.”

    “The barn,” the Walker Lake Indian who had heard the girls’ cries growled.  “We will search the barn.”

    “You keep your filthy red hide out of our barn,” the white man snarled, then, seeing the Indian’s visage darken, added testily, “Can’t trust your kind among the stock.  We know your thievin’ ways.”

    Chief Moguannoga drew himself haughtily erect.  “You dare to speak of ‘thievin’ ways’ when it is you who steal, no more just Paiute grass and Paiute ponies, but now Paiute maidens.”  The Indians began to close a circle around the whites.

    One of the Williams brothers, whose eyes had been flicking from face to red face, panicked, broke around the circle before it fully formed and began to run in the direction of Buckland’s Station, the nearest help.  Moguannoga dispatched two warriors after him and their lithe limbs quickly overtook the man and dragged him back to stand, eyes wide with terror, beside the other frightened men.

    “Look, it’s all a misunderstanding,” one of them pleaded, while another managed to burst away and run toward a nearby bluff.  Though the Indians pursued him, he jumped before they reached him.  Falling short of the river, he tumbled the rest of the way down to it and fell in.  Unable to swim, he sputtered and coughed, gulping in muddy water while the Paiutes watched his struggle with grim pleasure.  When his body began to float, face down, on the surface, the Paiutes pulled it from the river and, rather than drag it up the bluff, left it to bloat and burst in the sun.

    When the Paiutes returned from the river alone, one of the three remaining whites decided he, too, would try to escape.  He pulled a long-bladed hunting knife from the scabbard at his side and tried to fight his way into the open.  A Paiute warrior grabbed his arm from behind, yanking it so hard that the bone snapped.  The man screamed from the wrenching pain and fell to his knees, vomiting his courage into the dust.  Sobbing, he begged the Indian to spare his life, but the Paiute placed strong hands about the man’s neck and squeezed until the white face turned blue and the pale eyes began to bulge.  Suddenly, the white man’s body went limp and with a satisfied sneer the Paiute let him fall to the ground.

    The last two white men, the Williams brothers, gave each other a final, fearful glance, for they knew they wouldn’t long survive the men who’d gone before.  Their deaths came quickly, as if the Paiutes felt they had wasted enough time exterminating vermin.  The warriors then rushed to the barn, calling the names of the missing Paiute maidens.  From beneath them came cries for help and, locating the door to the cellar, the Indians descended to find the two young girls lying on a narrow cot, their mouths and hands tied with grimy rags.  Blood spattered dresses torn to expose their bronze breasts.  “We were too easy on the accursed whites,” their father fumed.  “They died too quickly.”  Grunts of agreement met his statement.

    The Paiutes dragged the three bodies from the yard into the cabin and set it ablaze. The men were dead, beyond pain, but their carcasses, at least, could be shown disrespect.  Even this was not enough to assuage the Indians’ rage, however.  They camped on the bottom land around the station for hours, discussing further revenge.  Finally, someone reminded the others how badly the stationmaster at Buckland’s had always treated the Paiutes.  The self-appointed Indian vigilance committee decided quickly that Samuel Buckland deserved to die, and dispatching one man to Pyramid Lake to tell the tribe what had occurred, the others rode east about two the next morning in search of other whites upon whom to vent their fury.

    They bypassed the ranch of C. M. Davis, for he had a reputation for never abusing Indians, and as dawn pinked the eastern sky, the Paiutes approached the farm of W. H. Bloomfield.  Since the growing daylight made attack more risky, the Indians settled for driving off Bloomfield’s stock and returning to Pyramid Lake.  Miles away, Sam Buckland slept peacefully, never realizing that only the rising sun had saved his life.

    In the early morning hours of May 8th, even before the sun showed its face, a council, brought on by Numaga’s three-day fast, convened.  Numaga stood before a semi-circle of nine chiefs seated around a fire, only Moguannoga and Natchez being absent.  “While I belonged to the ground, I heard angry voices,” Numaga began, “voices that called for war.  I heard no man speak out for peace.  I heard no man say, ‘Let us try one more time to talk to our white brothers about the wrongs we have felt.’”

    The war chief, who, ironically, was the only man who favored peace, spread his hands in a gesture of appeal.  “I have heard all of you, my brothers, and you speak as young boys at play.  You say you would make war on the whites, that you would drive them from our meadows, that you would send them running back across the tall, western mountains.”  He paused for a moment to give his next words greater impact.  “Have you thought of what this war would mean?  Do you know how many of our people would die in such a way?”

    Numaga turned his back, walked a few paces away, then turned to face the chiefs once more.  “My brothers, you would make war upon the whites.  I ask you to pause and think of what this war would mean to our people.  The white men are like the stars over your head.”  He swept his hand to the still black sky, then toward the western Sierras.  “You have wrongs, great wrongs that rise up like those mountains before you; but can you, from the mountaintops, reach out and blot out those stars?  Your enemies are like the sands in the bed of your rivers; when taken away, they only give place for more to come and settle there.  Could you defeat the whites in our own home, from over the mountains in California would come to help them an army of white men that would cover your country like a blanket.”

    Numaga’s voice dropped and he stepped closer as he reasoned with his people.  “What hope is there for the Paiute?” he asked.  “From where is to come your guns, your powder, your lead, your dried meats to live upon, and grass to feed your ponies while you carry on this war?  Your enemies have all of these things, more than they can use.”  Numaga stooped to gather a handful of dust.  “They will come like the sand in a whirlwind and drive you from your homes,” he said, letting the wind blow the loose dirt from his open palm.  “You will be forced among the barren rocks of the earth, where your ponies will die, where you will see the women and old men starve and listen to the cries of your children for food.”

    Numaga noticed the attention the other chiefs were giving his words and saw several among them begin to nod.  He was beginning to win them over.  Sensing that, he made his plea more personal, his voice almost breaking with emotion.  “I love my people; let them live,” he pleaded poignantly, “and when their spirits shall be called to the Great Camp in the southern sky, let their bones rest where their fathers were buried.”

    As the war chief concluded, the other chiefs began to discuss his arguments.  One after another declared the wisdom of Numaga’s words.  One by one they spoke of waiting, of giving the white men another chance to redress the wrongs that had been committed.  A few remained unconvinced, but the tide was turning.

    Suddenly, into the midst of their deliberations, rode a single warrior.  Raising his rifle triumphantly over his head, the Indian shouted that the whites had had their first taste of Paiute justice.  As the chiefs demanded explanation, the man quickly described the slaughter that had taken place at Williams’ Station.

    Numaga’s heart dropped into his stomach as he heard the news.  The other chiefs began to argue what to do, some still for peace, others burning anew with thoughts of revenge.  The war chief stepped forward and again commanded their attention.  “There is no longer any use for counsel,” he said, his voice grave with foreboding.  “We must prepare for war, for the soldiers will now come here to fight us.”

    The chiefs responded in grim silence, then each rose to return to his respective camp and assemble the warriors of his band.  The war they had at first wanted, then were on the verge of rejecting, was now inevitable.  Numaga sought the solitude of his tent, for upon the man who had pleaded for peace with such moving words now fell the responsibility of devising the strategy for war.

    Robert Haslem whipped the end of his reins against his horse’s foam-flecked neck to urge him on.  The grain-fed mounts of the Pony Express were built and nourished for speed, and the rider had needed all his horse could provide that day as he’d tried to outrun the pursuing Paiutes.  They hadn’t caught him, though their arrows had.  One protruded from his face, having broken his jaw in two places; another pierced his arm, but Pony Bob hadn’t taken time to remove either.  His full attention was focused on getting to the safety of a white settlement.

    The nearest one of any size was Virginia City, so although that wasn’t on his normal express route, Haslem swung off through Gold Canyon and charged down Six-Mile Canyon.  He wasn’t alone.  Behind him rode two other expressmen.  The three arrived almost simultaneously at the Wells Fargo office on C Street and flung themselves off their exhausted mounts.  Haslem grabbed for the hitching rail to support himself.

    Miners and merchants gathered quickly around the three men.  For the Pony rider to come their way at all was unusual, and the arrows jutting out of Haslem’s jaw and arm added urgency to their curiosity.  None of the three men, however, could satisfy that curiosity.  They could barely breathe, much less talk.  Miners began thumping their backs.

    Finally, all three started at once, each man’s words overlapping the others’.  “The Paiutes——the Paiutes are coming!  Yesterday they attacked Williams’ Station . . . killed five men . . . a woman . . . a child . . . burned the station to the ground . . . shot an arrow into the ribs of William’s dog.  Five thousand of ‘em are riding on Six Mile.  Arm yourselves——quick!”

    They were delivering second-hand reports, and several of the details were wrong, but the miners believed every word.  Five thousand Paiutes headed their way!  How could they withstand a force like that?  They had to have help!  No one considered sending word to Salt Lake City.  Even had the territorial government not been hundreds of miles away, that path led through the heart of Paiute country, and they had only to look at Pony Bob to see the folly of expecting a courier to get through that direction.  Instead, they sent one to Carson City, the eastern terminus of the telegraph to California, to request men and arms from Governor Downie of that state.

    The citizens of Carson City were terror-stricken when the courier told them of the massacre at Williams’ Station.  When Nelly Thomas heard the news, she threw her apron over her face and collapsed on the grass of the plaza.  “My boy, my boy,” she wailed, swaying back and forth from the waist.

    Laura Ellis knelt swiftly beside her.  “Now, don’t you fret over Billy,” she urged.  “He knows how to look out for himself.”

    “But he’s at Buckland’s,” Nelly moaned.  “Ain’t enough men there to hold out long, and it’s between here and there they say the Paiutes shot Pony Bob.”

    Laura held her tighter, for she couldn’t think of anything else to say.  She was grateful when Clyde lifted his wife to her feet and helped her back to the house.

    “You gotta settle down, Nelly gal,” he said as he seated her in the rocker.  “I can’t leave ‘til you do.”

    “Leave?  What you mean, ‘leave’?” Nelly demanded, rising from the chair.  “You ain’t goin’ no place, Clyde!”

    Inger, blue eyes anxious, stood at Nelly’s side.  “You ain’t leavin’ us, are you, Pa?”

    Clyde laid a gentle hand on the girl’s strawberry blonde curls.  “Got to, honey girl.  Got to find your brother and bring him safe home.  There’s men enough in town to keep you safe ‘til I get back.  Don’t be afraid, girl.”

    “Clyde, no!” Nelly cried, falling against his shoulder.  “I won’t risk losin’ the both of you.  Ain’t nothin’ you can do to help our boy.  You’ll just get yourself killed!”

    “I’m goin’, Nelly,” he said firmly.  “Now, slap some bacon on a biscuit, okay?  I’ll eat on the run.”

    “I’ll fry you up some fresh bacon, Pa,” Inger offered.  “There’s biscuits left from dinner.”

    Clyde smiled at her.  “That’s my girl.”  He settled Nelly back in the rocker again, giving her weathered cheek a soothing stroke.

    While Inger went to the kitchen, Clyde got his rifle and began loading it with fresh ammunition.  Before the bacon was fried, however, a horse clattered into the yard and Billy stumbled through the front door.

    “Oh, son!” Nelly shrieked, flying from her rocker to engulf him in her arms.  “Are you all right, boy?”

    Billy took his mother’s face in his hands.  “Are you?” he asked nervously, then uttered a short laugh.  “Well, I can see you are.  No Paiutes been here yet, huh?”

    “None here,” his father said.  “You seen any?”

    “Far off,” Billy muttered, lurching toward his father.

    Clyde caught the young man before he collapsed.  “You sure you ain’t hurt?” he asked apprehensively.

    “Just give out,” Billy panted.  “Need to sit down.”

    “You sit right here,” Nelly ordered, pulling him toward the rocker.  Then, seating him, she pressed a kiss to his dust-covered forehead.  “You had us worried, boy.”

    Billy started to respond, but was interrupted by the sound of fists pounding on the door.  Clyde went to answer it and found William Ormsby on the porch with a number of other men flanking him.  “Saw your boy ride in,” Ormsby said.

    “Come on in,” Clyde said, opening the door.  “Boy’s plumb tuckered, so I’d appreciate it if you didn’t question him too hard.”

    Ormsby motioned for the others to wait outside and walked over to Billy.  “You got any news, son?” he asked, looking worried.

    Billy gave him a lopsided grin.  “Disremember who won that prize fight, if that’s what you mean.”

    “Billy!” Inger, who’d run in from the kitchen as soon as she heard Billy’s voice, scolded.  “You know that ain’t what he means.”

    “I know, little sis,” Billy smiled, reaching out to squeeze her hand.  He looked up at William Ormsby.  “I can’t add to what you already know,” he said.  “I didn’t have any trouble gettin’ to Buckland’s.  Heard there about what happened at Williams’ Station and some other places between there and Buckland’s.  Would have come on right then, but my pony was wore down.  Pony Bob took the fresh one and came on with the mail.  He make it?”

    “Not here,” Ormsby said.  “Rode up to Virginia City.  Took a couple of arrows, I heard, but got through all right.”

    Billy shook his head, concerned.  “Like I was tellin’ my folks, I saw some Indians at a distance, but they didn’t give chase.  Probably realized I had too long a lead on ‘em.  Don’t think they were headed here.”

    “But you’re not sure?” Ormsby pressed.

    Billy shrugged, as if to say he couldn’t read Indian minds.

    “How many?” Ormsby demanded then.

    “Four, I think.  Not more than half a dozen.”  Then Billy flashed that lopsided grin of his again.  “I didn’t take time to count.  Not enough to attack the town, Mr. Ormsby, but that ain’t to say they won’t round up some others and try it later.”

    Ormsby laid a hand on the young Pony rider’s shoulder.  “Thanks for the information, son.”  He looked at Clyde.  “We’ll be getting some men together, in case of trouble.  Can we count on you and your boy?”

    “You know you can,” Clyde assured him.  “We got womenfolk to protect, same as you.”

    Ormsby nodded. “Some of us may ride up to Virginia City and meet with the men there later this evening.”

    “Let me know,” Clyde said.  “I might go along.”

    “I’ll see myself out,” Ormsby said.

    When he left, Inger headed back for the kitchen. “Guess I best finish fryin’ that bacon,” she said.  “Billy looks half famished.”

    “Lands, it’s a wonder the place ain’t afire by now,” her mother fretted.

    Inger turned to give her mother a reproachful look.  “I got sense enough to set a pan off the stove before I leave it, Ma,” she chided.

    “‘Course you do, gal,” Clyde soothed.  “You’re a mighty grown up young lady.  Bring your brother some of that grub.  Bet his stomach’s a rumblin’.”

    “I ate at Buckland’s, while I was waitin’ on my horse to rest a mite,” Billy said, “but even Inger’s cookin’ beats that stationmaster’s.”

    “Thanks a lot!” Inger laughed, turned and flounced out of the room.

    “Wish I had me a turkey,” Nelly smiled, pausing on her way to the kitchen.  “I’m so glad to see you here safe, son, that it feels like Thanksgiving to me.”

    “I can’t stay long,” Billy told his father once his mother and sister were out of earshot.

    “You ain’t goin’ back to Buckland’s,” his father said bluntly.  “Let the Pony Express go hang.”

    “No, not Buckland’s,” Billy explained quickly, “but someone’s got to get word to Uncle Ben, Pa.  He may not have heard anything yet.”

    “Probably ain’t,” Clyde agreed with a scowl, “and ain’t likely to believe it when he does.  Your Uncle Ben’s powerful fond of them Paiutes, won’t never stand to hear a word said agin ‘em.”

    “I know all that,” Billy argued, “but he needs to know, all the same, Pa, for the sake of Marie and them younguns, if nothin’ else.”

    “I reckon,” Clyde conceded, “but you’re tired.  I’ll ride up to the Ponderosa.”

    “No, Pa,” Billy insisted.  “I ride faster, and I make a smaller target, if there are Paiutes out that way.  It’s better if I go.  Saddle my roan for me, huh?”

    Clyde rubbed the back of his son’s neck to express the pride he found hard to put in words.  “Yeah, get yourself some bacon and biscuits and I’ll saddle your horse.  Tell your Ma I said no argument.”

    Billy grinned.  “I got better sense than to say that to Ma, but I’ll make her understand.”

    “Do you see your father?” Ben yelled.

    Billy stretched tall in his stirrups and craned his neck, trying to see over the mass of men swarming B Street in Virginia City.  “Not yet,” he called, cupping his hands around his mouth.  The demands for vengeance against the marauding Paiutes and verbalized fear of the five thousand said to be marching on them were so loud he had to shout to be heard.

    Ben shook his head in amazement.  He knew the new town had been growing at a prodigious rate, but he still hadn’t expected this many men when he and Billy had ridden here directly from the Ponderosa.  Considering the hour, they had assumed that Clyde would have already left for Virginia City, so there’d been no point in taking extra time to go to Carson City first.  Of course, more than just the residents of Virginia City and Carson crowded the streets tonight.  Ben recognized men he knew from Genoa, among them Snowshoe Thompson, and figured other nearby settlements like Gold Hill and Silver City were also represented.

    Finally, he spotted William Ormsby and pointed him out to Billy.  “If your father came, we’ll probably find him there, too,” he shouted as he moved his horse in that direction.  Billy didn’t try to respond verbally.  He just nodded and fell in behind Ben.

    Though the distance to be covered was relatively short, it took them several minutes to make their way to Ormsby.  Clyde Thomas saw them coming and gave a shout.  Ben waved to let his friend know he’d seen him and kept moving his horse slowly through the crowd.  As he dismounted, Clyde took the reins of his bay and wrapped them around the hitching rail.  “Glad you made it, Ben.  Wasn’t sure you’d come.”

    “I need to know what’s being planned, Clyde,” Ben said soberly.  “I’m not promising to be part of it.”

    “What’s that, Cartwright?” William Ormsby demanded, blue eyes narrowing.  “Are you saying you’re unwilling to help defend this territory in time of war?”

    “Hold on, Ormsby,” John Cradlebaugh, a judge appointed by the territorial government, interrupted.  “I don’t believe Mr. Cartwright is expressing anything different than what I’ve been saying.  I’ll say it again:  I believe our first responsibility is to ascertain the reliability of the reports we’ve received.”

    Ben nodded.  “I absolutely concur, your honor.  There’s no clear evidence the Paiutes were involved, and even if they were, I believe the reports are greatly exaggerated.  Why, there aren’t five thousand Paiutes within two hundred miles!”

    Ormsby pointed to Billy Thomas.  “This boy was out there.  Ask him if it wasn’t Paiutes he saw.  And those were Paiute arrows in Pony Bob’s jaw!”

    “They were Paiutes, for sure, Uncle Ben,” Billy stated earnestly.  “I ain’t been around ‘em as much as you, but I know Paiutes when I see ‘em.”

    “I’m sure you do, son,” Ben conceded, “but what you saw may have been nothing more than a hunting party.  You weren’t close enough to tell.”

    “Hunting party!” a nearby miner scoffed.  “Yeah, they was out huntin’, all right——huntin’ for scalps!”

    Ben ignored the man and faced Ormsby.  “What are your plans?  Surely you agree with Judge Cradlebaugh that we must be certain the Paiutes are guilty.”

    “A party of men left for Williams’ Station within an hour of the first report,” Ormsby replied.  “We’ll soon have proof of the Paiutes' guilt.”

    “Or innocence,” Ben suggested, his voice soft, but firm.

    “If the Paiutes are guilty or if they’re planning all-out war,” Cradlebaugh inserted, “I’ll gladly march with the other Carson City Rangers, but if the killings were justified or if it is an isolated incident, I feel the matter should be put to a vote before we take action.”

    Ben’s heart sank.  Guilty or not, the Paiutes would be the losers in an election like that.  There had to be at least two thousand angry men in the street, and only a handful among them who even considered the possibility that the Indians might be innocent victims of false reports.  Ben tried to argue against an immediate attack, but his voice was in the minority.  The men of Virginia City were determined to fight and confident of victory.

    “The Paiutes won’t fight,” yelled one man, voicing the general consensus.  “We’ll get plenty of hair.”

    “An Indian for breakfast and a pony to ride,” another hollered back and the crowd roared its approval.

    Ben finally quit debating the issue.  No one was listening anyway.  He watched in silence as three companies of Virginia City volunteers were formed and saw the leaders appointed, most of them mere names to Ben, men new to the territory, men without hope of understanding the delicate diplomacy needed to deal with the Paiutes.

    He did know the man appointed captain of the Silver City Guards, one-legged R. G. Watkins, who at first refused the appointment, citing his handicap.  The miners refused to listen.  They’d heard he lost that leg while serving with William Walker’s filibustering expedition to Nicaragua and, therefore, considered him an experienced soldier.  It wasn’t true.  Watkins had actually lost his leg in a street brawl in San Diego some nine years earlier and had sent the amputated limb to his opponent as a trophy of war.

    William Ormsby, on the other hand, really had fought with Walker in Nicaragua, although when men called him Major Ormsby, the title was largely honorary.  He would serve as leader of the Carson City contingent, while the Genoa Rangers would be led by Captain Thomas F. Condon, Jr.  They were by far the smallest group, but Ben knew most of them and knew what stalwart men they were.  However, although Ormsby argued for a commander-in-chief to be appointed, none was.

    “Well, Cartwright, are you with us or not?” Ormsby demanded as the meeting broke up.

    “I’ll go as far as Williams’ Station,” Ben said.  “I’ll decide there, based on what I see, whether to continue with you.”

    “My intentions, too,” Judge Cradlebaugh announced.  “Until the day after tomorrow, gentlemen.”  Though the men would have liked to ride out the next morning, they knew that wasn’t practical.

    “The hour’s late now,” Ormsby had pointed out.  “We’ll need most of tomorrow to assemble our men, gather supplies and provide for the safety of our wives and children.”

    Henry Meredith, a young lawyer who had been appointed a captain of the Virginia City volunteers, had agreed.  “We don’t have many women, even less children, but we’ll need to make provision for them.  Yes, a day’s delay is for the best.”

    Clyde clapped Ben on the back as the younger man prepared to return to the Ponderosa.  “Glad you’re ridin’ with us——well, part-way, anyhow.  You bring Marie and the boys down to stay with Nelly, you hear?  Safer that way.  There’ll be some stayin’ behind to guard the womenfolk there, same as here in Virginia City.”

    “Yeah, I guess so,” Ben admitted.  “I’d better get back and let Marie know what’s happening.  I’m sure she’s worried.”

    “Nelly, too,” Clyde agreed.  “A woman’s right, I guess.”

    Ben gave a short laugh.  A woman’s right?  Then, why did he and Clyde look so concerned?  Worry, Ben concluded, knew no gender.

    Hoping Marie had gone to bed, Ben took his time.  He couldn’t ride fast, anyway.  Darkness had fallen, and he wouldn’t risk galloping his horse down the steep trail from Virginia City to the valley floor.  Once on the flatlands he could have ridden faster, at least until he started to climb the foothills that led to the Ponderosa, but he chose to trot the horse easily, enjoying the fragrance of sage as it drifted in the cool breeze.

    It was unusually cool for this time of year, but then the weather had been no friend to man this year.  Ben remembered the hard winter, the long days huddled near the kitchen fire.  The winter had been harder, though, on the miners of Virginia City, shivering in their tents and coyote holes, cut off from fresh supplies.  Harder still on the Indians after the white men virtually wiped out their usual sources of winter food.

    Was it possible, Ben wondered, that the strain had proven too much, that the Paiutes had finally decided their only chance for survival was to wipe out the pale-faced intruders?  Had they ridden on Williams’ Station to announce the beginning of war?  Unanswerable questions, at least for now.  Ben pulled the collar of his coat up to shield his neck from the stiffening wind and pushed his mount a little harder.  Suddenly, he wanted to be home.

    The house was dark when he walked from the barn after stabling his horse.  Ben opened the door and stepped inside, unbuckling his gunbelt to lay it on the cabinet to his left.  His hand froze on the buckle, however, as he saw the epee-wielding figure silhouetted against the flickering flames of the fire.  Ben smiled.  “I’d feel more welcome if you’d put that down,” he said.

    The fencing blade clattered to the floor and Marie rushed toward him, ruffled muslin nightgown rustling against her legs as she moved.  "Oh, Ben!” she cried, casting herself into his arms.

    Ben held her trembling figure close to his breast, then lifted her face to his, stroking back a strand of golden hair that trailed across her forehead.  “Defending the ranch, are you?” he asked lightly to disarm her fears.

    “If I had to,” Marie whispered.  “They will not take our children, Ben——not without taking me first.”

    Ben pressed her closer.  “My love,” he whispered and brushed the golden strands with a kiss.

    Marie looked intently into his face.  “Is it war?” she murmured.  “Was it the Paiutes?”

    “I don’t know yet,” Ben said.  “I’m gonna ride out to Williams’ Station with the others on Thursday and see what I can learn.  I’ll take you and the boys in to stay with Nelly, maybe tomorrow night, so you won’t have to get them up so early.”

    “And Katerina,” Marie suggested.  “We will take her, as well, oui?”

    “Oui, ” Ben whispered.  “I’ll speak to Enos tomorrow.  Come on to bed now, my love, and I’ll tell you what I know so far.”

    Marie nodded and, laying her head on his shoulder, ascended the stairs at his side.

    Adam leaned his chair back on two legs and perused the ceiling while he conjugated Latin verbs in his head.  Bringing the chair down, he checked the open text on his desk and smiled.  Perfect.  Final exams for the term were scheduled to begin on Monday, and perfection was his goal.  His roommate, whom Adam had self-righteously reproved for lack of attention to his own studies, had scoffed at Adam’s diligence.  “You’re at the head of practically every class you’re in,” Harold Lissome had argued.  “Why keep studying?  Get out and enjoy the sunshine and fresh air, boy.  It’ll clear your head of those old Romans.”

    But Adam didn’t want his head clear of the Romans or their language.  He wanted it packed full of verbs and nouns and every other part of speech that might appear on the exam.  The Latin professor was noted for making his tests hard, and Adam didn’t want to lose his standing in that class.  He wanted to carry home a report that would make his father proud.

    Harold, on the other hand, hadn’t felt he could better the average marks he already had, no matter how hard he studied, so he’d volunteered to run a few errands for Mrs. Maguire.  Just to get out in that sunshine and fresh air, Adam suspected, fighting down the temptation to join his friend.  He secretly planned to invite Harold to an evening at the theater his final night in Sacramento, to celebrate the successful completion of their exams.  What Adam wanted to celebrate, though, was ranking first in every class, and if he didn’t study, he might not achieve that goal.  Let Harold roam the streets of Sacramento, if he really felt he had nothing better to do.  Adam knew his duty, if his roommate did not.  Feeling decidedly superior, he leaned back to conjugate the next verb.

    “Adam!  Adam!”

    The chair hit the floor with a thud and Adam sprang from it, for the cry reverberating up the stairs had been one of alarm.  Dashing out, Adam collided with Harold at the head of the stairs.  “What is it?” he asked, grabbing his panting friend by the shoulders.

    Too out of breath to speak plainly, Harold slapped the newspaper he was carrying against Adam’s chest.  Adam took the paper.  Concerned for his friend, he hooked an elbow under Harold’s arm and helped him into their bedroom.  “What is it?” he asked again as he pushed the other boy into a chair.

    “Indians,” Harold croaked.  “East of the Sierras.”

    Adam snapped the paper open and his eyes raced to the headline.  “ MASSACRE AT WASHOE”the bold print declared.  Face white as the paper he held, Adam scanned the article quickly.  “Last night a most horrid massacre was perpetrated by the Indians below the Great Bend of the Carson.  J. Williams arrived at Buckland’s near the bend, and gave information of the murder of his two brothers and five other men, at the same hour, and the burning of the house after or during the perpetration of this shocking butchery.  On his way up, Williams called at two other houses on the opposite side of the river, and the doors were open, but loud calling at a short distance failed to induce any signs of life about the premises.  He supposes all are murdered; they number some twelve or thirteen others.  The Indians are about five hundred strong, and all mounted.  They pursued him to within six miles of Buckland’s and gave up the chase.”

    The report was highly inaccurate.  The reporter had not even interviewed so-called survivor James Williams, but he evidently had a flare for invention, creating a harrowing tale of how the stationmaster had found one brother dead, the other only living long enough to accuse the Pah-Utes.  According to the newspaper account, Williams had then ridden down one horse and jumped on another in his mad flight toward Buckland’s Station.  The tale was almost pure fiction, but everyone who read it believed it for gospel, none with greater concern than the two boys in Molly Maguire’s boardinghouse.

    “That’s near your folks, isn’t it?” Harold asked anxiously, having caught his breath.

    Adam nodded grimly.  “Buckland’s is east of them.  Williams’ Station, too, but it’s too close for comfort.”  He stood abruptly and, walking to his bureau, pulled a carpetbag from the bottom drawer.

    “What do you think you’re doing?” Harold asked as Adam tossed the bag onto the bed and began pulling shirts and socks from the top drawer.

    Adam didn’t bother to look up as he responded.  “What do you think I’m doing?  My family’s in danger.  I’m going to them.”

    Harold lunged across the room to grab his friend’s arm.  “Adam, you can’t!” he protested.  “What about your exams?”

    Adam shook his arm free and fixed a look of scorn on the older boy.  “What about them?” he asked airily.

    Harold bit his lip.  He understood what Adam had left unsaid and knew the boy well enough to realize he couldn’t outargue Adam once his mind was made up.  “You can’t go tonight,” he pointed out logically.

    Adam sighed and flopped onto the bed.  “No, not tonight,” he admitted.  “No need to rush packing, I guess, but don’t try to talk me out of going.  What would you do if it were your family?”

    “Same as you, probably,” Harold said, “but maybe you should wire your father and ask if he needs you to come home.  The telegraph’s through to Carson City now, you said.”

    Adam blew out a disdainful blast of air.  “That’s the one thing I won’t do!”  He leaned on one elbow to stare at his friend.  “I already know what Pa’d say:  ‘Stay safe in Sacramento.’  He’d treat me just like a little kid, which I’m not!  I know how to fire a gun, and I’m man enough to do it when my family’s under attack.”

“Look, you ought to see the headmaster in the morning, though,” Harold reasoned.  “Once this trouble’s settled, you’ll want to come back and finish your work, won’t you?  That’ll be easier if you get permission to leave.”

    Adam raked a nervous hand through his straight, black hair.  “Yeah, I guess.  Hardly seems important now, but maybe things aren’t as bad as they sound.  I’ll get permission to put off my exams, then head for Carson on the earliest stage.”

    Mark Wentworth read the article in the Daily Evening Bulletin, jaw muscles tightening with each sentence.  The description of the massacre at Williams’ Station was gruesome and more personally alarming to Mark than to most readers of the San Francisco newspaper.  He not only had a better understanding of the geography of the region than most Californians, including how short the distances were from Williams’ Station to Carson City or the Ponderosa; he also had someone over the Sierras whose life meant more to him than his own.

    Sally!  Why on earth had he not gone to claim her as his bride as soon as the passes were open?  Mark knew the answer, of course.  It had been a point of pride with him to remain away the full year he’d promised Dr. Martin.  More than just pride, really.  The young man hadn’t wanted to give the doctor the slightest pretext for withholding consent for the wedding.

    Mark had done well the previous nine months.  The same period of time it takes a woman to give birth, Mark mused, feeling he was participating in a new birth of his own.  He’d made peace with his father, found a good job and held it faithfully.  Not once had he visited the Barbary Coast, unless he was accompanying the Reverend Wentworth on one of his charitable missions.  With the help of his brother Matthew, who had secretly been saving funds for the same purpose, he’d purchased property and lumber and built a solid little cottage away from the wind and dampness of the bay, and the change had made a world of difference in their sister’s health.  Though the house had taken most of his money, Mark had started to set aside funds for his own future, and while his nest egg wasn’t large yet, three more months’ salary would augment it.  That had seemed a short time to wait, but now he chided himself for the delay.  If he’d gone earlier, he’d be in Washoe now, where he could protect the woman he loved.

    Mark folded the paper and, thrusting it under his arm, hastened home.  Flinging open the front door of the yellow house, painted to match the one in Carson City Mary had so admired,  Mark called out, “Father!”

    “He’s not here,” Mary called from the dining room, where she was setting the table for supper.

    Mark charged through the doorway into the next room.  “Where is he?” he demanded.  “I have to talk to him.”

    “Visiting some sick parishioners,” Mary replied, her blue eyes lighting with sudden concern.  “What is it, Mark?  What’s wrong?”

    Mark started to hand her the paper, then drew it back.  “No, it’s too cruel for your eyes, dear heart, but I must speak with Father at once.  Do you know who he’s visiting?”

    Mary set the plates and silverware down and moved quickly to her brother.  Her slender hand reached up to stroke the curly beard he’d sported since Christmas.  “I don’t know,” she answered softly.  “He only said he had several stops to make, but would be home by supper.  Please, Mark, tell me what troubles you.”

    Mark took her hand and led her into the small, simply furnished parlor.  “It’s Sally,” he said hoarsely as he sat on the worn sofa.

    Seeing the newspaper in his hand, Mary tilted her head in bemusement.  “There’s something about Sally in the newspaper?” she teased, sitting beside her brother.

    “Yes.  No, not about her, but it concerns her,” Mark sputtered.  “She may even be dead, Mary.”

    “Mark!” Mary cried, grasping his hand and pulling it to her lips to kiss his fingertips.  “What has happened?”

    “Indians,” Mark explained hurriedly.  “They attacked a station near Carson City.”

    The bloom fled from Mary’s cheeks, and she suddenly looked as pale as in the old days of fragile health.  “The Cartwrights!” she cried.  “Are they in danger, too?”

    “They could be,” Mark said.  “Look, I don’t want you worrying, Mary.”

    “But you are,” she murmured, almost sobbing.

    Mark took her in his arms.  “I’m a brute to worry you so,” he said.  “It happened at Williams’ Station, Mary.  That’s probably a hundred miles from the Ponderosa.  Most likely, the Cartwrights——and everyone in Carson City, too——are just fine.  But I have to go there, to make sure.  You understand, don’t you?”

    Mary took his face in her hands.  “Oh, of course, I do, and Father will, too, Mark.”

    “I hope so,” Mark whispered.  He didn’t want to ruin the relationship he’d rebuilt with his father by leaving without his consent; however, he would if he had to, for he felt his duty to Sally was clear.

    Ebenezer Wentworth walked in moments later to find two of his children taking comfort in each other’s arms.  Mark handed his father the Daily Evening Bulletin , so he could read for himself the danger threatening their friends.  “This seems very serious,” Ebenezer said.  “We will certainly remember the people of western Utah in our prayers.”

    “Prayers!  Oh, Father,” Mark protested bitterly.  “You can’t expect me to just pray about this and do nothing else.”

    Ebenezer looked sorrowfully at his son.  As much improvement as the boy had made in other ways, he hadn’t reestablished his commitment to God, and that troubled the minister more than the drinking and carousing ever had.  “I can’t imagine any action that would do more good,” he said quietly, then added quickly, “but, no, son, I don’t expect you to do nothing else.  You want to go to her, don’t you?”

    “Father, I must!” Mark pleaded.  “I know you don’t approve of violence——”

    “I approve even less of leaving women and children defenseless,” Ebenezer said soberly.  “There are times when violence merits a violent response.  Remember, the Scripture says, ‘The Kingdom of God suffers violence, and the violent take it by force.’”

    Mark gulped hard.  “Then, I have your permission to go, to stand by Sally in this time of need?”

    “Not yet,” Ebenezer said.  Seeing Mark about to raise an argument, he lifted a silencing hand.  “I only ask that you not go alone.  Others will respond to the appeal for help.  Wait and go with them.”

    “Oh, yes,” Mary beseeched.  “There is safety in numbers, dear brother.”

    Mark looked from one to the other.  “All right,” he agreed.  “I’ll wait.”  They were the hardest words he’d ever said.  His whole heart yearned to hold Sally safe in his arms, and even a moment’s delay seemed unbearable.  If there was one thing he’d learned in these long months apart, however, it was to trust his father’s wisdom.  He wouldn’t go against it now, however much his youthful ardor chafed under its yoke.

    Headmaster Sydney Thompson listened without comment until Adam had explained his reasons for leaving school prior to the completion of his final exams.  “I’m sorry, Adam,” he said when the boy had finished, “but I cannot accede to your request.  I, too, have read the newspaper reports and I understand your concern for your family.  I’m certain, however, that your parents would prefer you remain here in California until all danger from the savages is past.  If lodging after the term ends is a problem, I will gladly open my home to you, my boy.”

    Adam took a deep breath.  “I appreciate that, sir, but I will be going home, with or without your permission.  I only wanted to be certain I could return and complete my exams later, but if you refuse, I’m willing to take a failing grade rather than leave my family to handle this situation without my help.”

    The headmaster leaned forward, hands folded on the desk before him.  “How much help do you realistically think you can be, Adam?”

    Adam sat up straighter.  “I may look young to you, sir, but I learned to use a rifle at an early age, and I’m an excellent shot.”

    “Of men?” the educator asked with a rueful smile.  “I’m not skilled with firearms personally, but I would imagine a target that shoots back is considerably harder to face than a squirrel or a deer.  Have you ever fired at another man, Adam?”

    Adam flushed.  “No, sir, and I don’t look forward to it, but I know I’d rather do that than see that man shoot my father or my stepmother or those two innocent little brothers of mine.”

    The headmaster nodded.  “You are determined, then, to make the attempt to cross the mountains?”

    Adam sat forward.  “Not just attempt, sir; I’ll make it.  I plan to leave on the stage this morning.”

    Thompson laughed.  “My boy, you show your youth and inexperience.  No stage is likely to travel past Placerville, conditions being what they are, and I certainly can’t countenance your traveling alone into hostile territory.  That involves great risk to you and provides no assistance to your family.”

    For the first time Adam’s iron resolve showed signs of cracking.  He hadn’t taken other people’s reaction to the massacre into consideration.  The headmaster was right:  he was showing a kid’s thoughtlessness about practical matters.  Adam quickly thought through the new problem, however.  “I’ll buy a horse here then.  My father left me sufficient funds to do that.”

    Thompson shook his head.  “No, no, my boy.  You’d still be alone, and therein lies great danger.  There’s a better way.”

    “Yes, sir?”

    “The people of Washoe have telegraphed Governor Downie, requesting military aid,” the educator began.

    “I read that in the paper,” Adam said.

    “I’m certain that request will be honored,” Thompson continued, ignoring Adam’s interruption.  “Most of the miners of your territory were Californians, after all.  A rescue party will surely be sent, but it may require several days to assemble the men and arms.  I know it’s difficult to wait when you feel your family needs your immediate help, Adam, but you can do more as part of an organized relief effort than you can alone.  You’re an intelligent young man; surely you see that.”

    Adam nodded slowly.  The headmaster was right, on two counts:  it was better if he waited and went with other men, and it did stick in his craw to admit it.  But Adam was too sensible not to face such plain facts.  “Yes, sir, I’ll do as you suggest,” he said quietly.

    Thompson stood and walked around the desk to lay a supportive hand on the young man’s shoulder.  “In the meantime, I suggest you continue preparing for your exams.  In fact, the rescue party may be delayed long enough to permit you to complete them.”

    The resolve returned to Adam’s countenance.  “Yes, that would be better, to leave with nothing hanging over my head.”

    The headmaster coughed into his fist to cover the smile fluttering at his mouth.  The boy had misconstrued his intent, but no matter.  Hopefully, continuing his studies would take young Adam’s mind off the threat to his family.

    Suddenly, Adam looked up eagerly.  “Could I take them early?”

    “Now, there’s no need of that,” Thompson said, patting the boy’s shoulder before returning to his desk.  He hadn’t intended for Adam to actually take the exams while so concerned for his family’s welfare.  It wouldn’t be fair to the lad or to the fine record he’d built for himself thus far this term.

    “No, I’d like to,” Adam pressed.  “I’ve been studying hard, and I’m sure I’m ready.  I could take them today.”

    The educator smiled, openly this time.  “I doubt your instructors have compiled the questions as yet, my boy, but I’ll speak with them.  You may begin by taking the exam for my class tomorrow morning at nine.”

    “Yes, sir,” Adam said, his countenance bright for the first time since he’d read the fatal news from Washoe.  He left, determined to set aside his anxieties for the night and concentrate on his text in ancient history.

    At eight o’clock on the morning of May 10th, Ben left Eagle Valley with the rest of the Carson City Rangers, including Clyde and Billy Thomas.  Ben had suggested leaving the boy at home to protect the women, but Clyde had spit a disdainful stream of tobacco and said, “It’s his decision; he’s a man now.”

    Billy’s decision had been predictable.  Anxious to prove his manhood, he wasn’t about to hide at home behind a woman’s skirts.  Let men like Dr. Martin, who wasn’t handy with a rifle anyway, and Enos Montgomery, still so newly married he didn’t dare cross his wife, stay behind.  Billy didn’t figure his mother and the other women and children were in much danger, so they didn’t need real men to protect them.  His pa, on the other hand, was heading into Paiute country, and that’s where Billy planned to be, right at his pa’s side.

    Like most of the other young fellows riding with the expedition, Billy was light-hearted as a lark, his spirits not even dampened by the depressing weather.  The wind had blown violently all night long and was still whipping at upturned coat collars and hat brims tied snug with bandannas under the chin.  It was a miserable day to be out riding, and Ben could tell by the ache in his bones that he wasn’t young enough to consider this an adventure, like Billy and his contemporaries.  To him, the long ride to Williams’ Station was an unsought necessity and, on this cold, bitter morning, an unpleasant one, as well.

    Although their destination lay northeast, the riders headed south first to get around the mountains that separated Carson City from Williams’ Station.  Skirting the edge of the cottonwood-lined Carson River, they kept a constant eye out for Indian signs, but saw none.  The only indication of trouble came from a rider headed west.  He claimed to have come from the edge of the Forty-Mile Desert, where Indians were said to be forting up at Ragtown.

    Some of the younger men hollered that they should immediately ride to Ragtown and roust out the murdering Paiutes, but Major Ormsby insisted they continue to Williams’ Station first.  “We know the Indians attacked there,” he declared, “and that’s where the men of Virginia City will meet us.  We can’t afford to split up and chase wild reports at this point.”

    Still moving along the river, the Rangers came to Buckland’s Station, where they decided to refresh themselves and rest the animals, letting them feed on the newly sprouted meadow grass.  Nelly had packed provisions for her two men and Ben that morning, including a jug of cider, so they didn’t bother visiting the log store and saloon.  Billy wanted to, as most of his friends were doing, but Clyde put his foot down.  “It ain’t a time to get liquored up,” he lectured.  “Man needs his wits about him for a business like this.”

    Catching the somber mood of both Ben and his father, Billy nodded in acquiescence.  They were right.  The time to drink was when the job was done.  “I’ll buy you both a beer when we get back to Carson City,” he announced, and even Ben smiled at the boy’s enthusiasm, although he saw little to celebrate in the likely conclusion on this journey’s business.

    After an hour’s rest and the fortification of liquid courage, the riders pressed on the final ten miles and were the first contingent of volunteers to reach the Big Bend of the Carson and inspect what remained of Williams’ Station.  The sun hung low on the horizon, but the shrouding shadows only heightened the men’s horror as they viewed the grisly scene.  Silhouetted starkly against the purple and auburn sky were the blackened logs of the trading post.  In front of it stood a charred wagon, probably that of a visitor to the station.  “Might be Sam Sullivan’s,” one man offered.  “He traded here a lot, and he ain’t been seen since this fracas took place.”

    Ormsby appointed W. F. Mason as coroner and a few men to set up camp while others set out to scour the area for bodies.  They found three bodies in the remains of the trading post:  two obviously male, the other burned so badly no identification was possible.

    “Not many Indian signs,” Ben commented as he walked beside Clyde Thomas to examine the surrounding area.

    Clyde stooped and pointed to hoofprints in the bare, hard dirt.  “Looks like they run off the stock,” he said.

    “Yeah, but that could be anyone’s work,” Ben argued.

    “Hey, Pa!” Billy, who had ranged ahead of them, called.  He ran back, holding out a sharp knife.  “Paiute, ain’t it, Uncle Ben?”

    “Looks Paiute to me,” Clyde grunted, his eyes daring Ben to say otherwise.

    Ben nodded reluctantly.  “Could still be white men masquerading as Indians, though.”

    Clyde scoffed.  “You don’t believe that, do you, Ben?”

    Ben took off his hat and wiped his forehead.  Though the weather wasn’t warm, he was sweating as if a midsummer sun were basting his brains.  “I don’t know, Clyde,” he admitted, putting the hat back on.  “We’ve seen it before, more than once, and it is odd for Indians to leave a full stockroom untouched, especially one stocked with liquor.”

    “There’s blood all over where I found the knife,” Billy offered.

    “We’d better check it out,” Ben said.  Billy guided them to a spot about half a mile from the station, where traces of blood spattered the ground.  Not as much as Ben had pictured from Billy’s description, but then Billy was a young, excitable boy.  Older heads than his had given exaggerated reports concerning this crisis.  Young or not, excitable or not, Billy came closer to the truth than those who reported five thousand Paiutes on the march.

    Shadows were growing long when the volunteers from Virginia City arrived, far fewer in number than had enlisted in the excitement of that first night.  Most of the miners had suddenly remembered pressing concerns in California and slipped out in the covering darkness.  Captain Archie McDonald, the designated over-all leader of those who remained, met with William Ormsby to discuss what evidence had been found of Indian warfare.  While the leaders talked, however, the men in the ranks held discussions of their own, less formal, but perhaps more significant since the leaders could do nothing to oppose the will of more than a hundred men.

    Around the several campfires men retold old horror stories of Indian outrages.  Ben heard them repeated again and again as he made his way from campfire to campfire to plead for further investigation before any action was taken against the Paiutes.  A few men appeared to be listening, but most simply used Ben’s interruption as an opportunity to clear their throats before launching back into more terrifying tales of the depredations of the savages on white emigrants.

    Ben finally found himself squatting next to Judge Cradlebaugh.  “What do you think?” he asked.

    Cradlebaugh shook his head.  “I see no signs of a general uprising.  From what I hear of these Williams brothers, they probably deserved killing.”

    “No one deserves to die that way,” Ben said with a shudder, “although I agree they probably brought it on themselves.”  He’d also heard the rumors of the traders’ shady dealings with both white and Indian customers and considered it likely a trade disagreement had sparked reprisals.

    “At any rate,” the judge concluded, “I see no need to pursue the Indians, but I’ll leave the decision up to each man.”

    “You’re an influential man, your honor,” Ben began.  “Perhaps if you spoke strongly against this action, the men would listen.”

    The judge gave a short laugh.  “I’ve expressed myself as strongly as I dare, Cartwright, and I’ve been about as effective as if I’d been yelling into this accursed wind that’s been lashing us all day.”

    Ben coughed and pulled his collar tighter in involuntary reaction to the reminder of that wind, which had finally died down.  “Yeah, that’s about how I feel,” he admitted, standing to return to his own place in camp.

    Clyde Thomas poured him a cup of coffee.  “You look half-froze,” he said.  “This’ll warm you up.”

    Ben took the cup.  “Thanks.”  His lips curled.  The coffee was stronger than he liked, although Marie would have declared it too weak for her taste.  Remembering his wife, Ben stared dreamy-eyed into the flickering firelight.

    “Made your decision yet?” Clyde asked.

    “Yeah,” Ben said, taking another sip of the hot brew.  “I told Ormsby I’d stay if we went under a flag of truce to talk with Winnemucca, even volunteered to be the man to carry it, but no one’s interested in settling our differences peaceably.  All I hear around these campfires is talk of war, so I’m heading home in the morning.”

    Clyde sighed and shook his head.  It was what he’d expected, but it still bothered him, as it likely bothered Ben, too, that they didn’t see eye to eye.  Billy looked from one to the other.  “What about us, Pa?” he finally asked.

    “You’re a man; make your own decision,” Clyde said, tossing out the rest of the coffee in his cup.  “I think clearin’ the territory of them murderin’ savages is long overdue.”

    Feeling torn, Billy bit his lip.  He knew his pa had a long-held grudge against the Paiutes, blaming them for the poisoned arrow that had left him with a game leg he’d limp on the rest of his life.  Billy didn’t share that animosity.  What relations he’d had with the Paiutes had been friendly enough.  Of course, the only ones he’d had much contact with had been the Winnemucca girls, and, being females, they were no threat.  Secretly, Billy sort of sided with his “uncle” Ben on this, but he said nothing to contradict his father.  That lame leg could cause problems, Billy feared, so if it came to choices, Billy would stand by his pa, if only to see that the older man came out of the battle alive.

    In the meager light of early dawn, Ben fumbled at the cinch on his saddle, then slapped his gloved hands against his leg to bring some feeling back into them.  The air, as he breathed in, felt like pieces of ice stabbing at his throat. The middle of May and cold as winter, Ben thought, glad that he, at least, was headed toward the warmth of home.

    Clyde came up behind him, brown gunny sack in hand.  “You’ll be needin’ some grub for the trip back,” he said, extending the sack.

    “Keep it,” Ben said as he pulled the cinch snug.  “You’ll be needing it more than me.”

    Clyde didn’t argue, realizing that the expedition was already running low on supplies.  Most of the men hadn’t really come prepared for an extended march, and while the Thomases had, they couldn’t refuse to share with hungry men.  What they’d brought, however, wouldn’t go far, especially if they couldn’t track down and deal with the Paiutes swiftly.

    Ben turned and reached out to shake Clyde’s hand.  “You watch yourself,” he muttered, a lump rising in his throat.

    “Yeah, you, too,” Clyde said.  “And, Ben, if worse should come to worst——”

    “Don’t say it,” Ben pleaded.  “I don’t know what I’d do without you, old friend.”

    “Got to say it,” Clyde insisted.  “You’ll look after my girls?”

    Ben blinked back the moisture in his eyes.  “You know I will.  I figured to take them back to the Ponderosa with me, until this is all settled, unless you’d feel better having them stay in town, where there are more men to protect them.”

    “I’d rather they was with you,” Clyde said, “but I’ll leave it up to Nelly.  Whatever she feels most comfortable with.  Gotta give the women their way in times like these, I reckon.”

    Ben gave a perfunctory chuckle.  “Yeah, I reckon.  I may leave them in town ‘til I get back tomorrow, though.”

    Clyde rubbed his auburn beard, a puzzled expression in his blue eyes.  “Tomorrow?  Won’t take you that long to ride back to Carson, Ben.”

    “No,” Ben conceded, “but I promised Ormsby I’d meet you at the Big Bend of the Truckee with fresh supplies.  It’ll save time if I go straight to the Ponderosa from here.”

    “Mighty good of you, considerin’ how you feel about what we’re doin’,” Clyde said wryly.

    “What you’re doing doesn’t change how I feel about you——or other friends,” Ben said quietly.  “I won’t stand by and see men I care about go hungry.”

    “Hey, Pa!”

    Ben and Clyde looked up to see Billy racing toward them.  “What lit a fire under you, boy?” Clyde asked, his face wrinkling with concern he tried to belie with the rough tone.

    “There’s some horses gone missin’,” Billy explained hurriedly, “and Mr. Ormsby wants me and Charles Forman to go look for ‘em.”

    “Which way you headed, son?”

    “Back down the Carson,” Billy replied, jerking his head southward.  “That’s the way the tracks lead.”

    Ben noticed the breath of relief Clyde puffed out.  No Paiutes back the way they’d come.  Clyde knew that and was clearly pleased to know his boy was riding away from danger, at least for awhile.

“We’ll be camping at the Big Bend of the Truckee,” Clyde said.

“Yeah, Pa, I know,” Billy said.  “Mr. Ormsby said you’d all wait for us there.”

    “See you there then,” Clyde muttered gruffly.  “Say good-bye to your Uncle Ben and be on your way.”

    “Yes, sir,” Billy grinned, thrusting out an energetic hand.  “See you——well, sometime.”

    Ben gave the boy’s hand a firm shake, praying his words would prove true.

    For a time, Ben’s path would parallel that of the rest of the riders, but he left before they did and traveled more quickly, since he was alone.  He needed to.  It was a long ride to the Ponderosa and back again with a load of supplies.  He’d have to push hard to make it to the Big Bend of the Truckee by the next morning.

    The weather didn’t see fit to cooperate.  As Ben rode, snow began to dust the crown of his hat.  Snow!  In the middle of May!  What kind of year was this?  If I were as superstitious as my Paiute friends, I’d sure consider this an ill omen, Ben thought, then shivered.  A man didn’t need to be superstitious to know that snow boded no good for men facing a battle.

    “Sure hope we find them horses quick.”  Billy grinned at his companion, a young man just older than himself, as they trotted their horses back toward the Carson River.

    “Yeah, we wouldn’t want to miss the action,” Forman chuckled back,  “though it looks like there may not be any ‘til tomorrow.  Maybe we ought to go downstream a ways first, you think?”

    “Might as well,” Billy agreed.  “Won’t take long to check that direction.  Grass gives out pretty quick.  I’m bettin’ they’re upstream, though.”

    “Probably,” Forman conceded.  “I’m just hoping for a shorter ride.  Cold as it is, I’d like to get back to a warm fire quick as we can.”

    “Well, ‘if wishes was horses, beggars would ride,’ Uncle Ben——Mr. Cartwright——always says,” Billy laughed.  “Reckon it holds true for hopes, too.”

    Forman scowled.  “Cartwright?  That turnback?  He your kin?”

    “Not real kin,” Billy explained, “but near close as.  I won’t hear ill spoke of him.  He’s doin’ what he thinks is right, and I ain’t so sure but what he is.”

    “Yeah, maybe,” Forman conceded.  “Best get our minds back to the job at hand, I guess.”

    Billy cackled.  “Don’t take no mind, old buddy, just a good set of eyes.”

    Neither mental nor visual acuity, however, revealed the lost horses downstream, so the two young men turned back to the west and began following the river upstream.  Here luck favored them with better success, for they didn’t have to search far in that direction before they spotted the missing animals, feeding in a meadow near the river’s edge.  They roped the horses and, dividing the animals between them, started leading them back toward the campsite of the previous night.  No one was there except the owner of the horses, who took them without a word of thanks and hightailed down the trail back toward the Carson.

    “Now, why did we need to chase down his horses, if he was headed back that way anyhow?” Billy chafed.

    “Lazy and a coward to boot.  Got no use for a man like that,” Forman grunted.  “At least, men like Cartwright are following their principles, not their own self-interest.”

    “Yeah, well, we’d best push on to the rendezvous on the Truckee,” Billy said.  Forman nodded and they rode out after the other volunteers.

    At first the trail was easy to follow, altogether too easy, in fact.  Strewn along the path were articles that must have come from the trading post at Williams’ Station.  “Almost like trail markers,” Forman muttered.

    “Like the Indians wanted us to follow, you mean?” Billy asked, feeling a shiver run up his spine that wasn’t entirely due to the continuing drop in temperature.

    “Yeah, that’s what I mean,” Forman said, hunching his shoulders as if he felt the same shuddering in his own flesh.

    “Maybe some of our own men took ‘em,” Billy suggested hopefully.

    “Yeah, maybe,” Forman agreed, but he didn’t sound convinced.

    Once the snow began, the trail was harder to follow.  No longer able to see the tracks of the riders ahead of them, the two young men were glad to see an occasional household item by the side of the road to point the way.  Because they’d been able to find the horses so quickly, however, not even the ever-increasing snow kept them from reaching the camp at the Big Bend of the Truckee by mid-afternoon.

    Clyde greeted his son warmly.  “I’ll tend to your horse,” he said.  “Get over by the fire and help yourself to some coffee.”

    “Thanks, Pa,” Billy said.  He took Forman’s elbow and steered him toward the fire.  “Pa makes his coffee pretty strong,” he advised his companion.

    “Just so it’s hot,” Forman grinned, hugging his arms to his chest.

    By nightfall, scouts who’d been sent out to check neighboring ranches had returned to report that no more settlers had been raided, while several had, like Ben, promised to bring supplies to the volunteer companies by morning.  The news was met with a shout of approval, for many of the men had had no supper, and coffee only warmed them and filled their bellies temporarily.

    The men bedded down for the night, pulling their blankets over their heads, as the snow continued to fall.  Throughout the night the storm grew worse, wind blowing fiercer by the hour, snow coming down faster, harder.  By morning, three inches covered the ground, and each man found himself sleeping under a blanket of snow.

    Clyde was frying up a skillet of bacon for breakfast when Charles Forman walked up.  “Sure smells good,” the young man hinted.

    “Take my plate,” Clyde offered.  “I’ll make more.”

    “Won’t turn you down,” Forman grinned.  “Can’t stay long, though.  Wanted to see if Billy here’d like to join the scouting party.”

    “What scouting party?” Billy asked, holding out his tin plate for his father to fill with bacon.

    “Major Ormsby wants some of us to go ahead, find out where those Paiutes are lurking.  You’d make the fifth man,” Charles explained.

    “Yeah, I’ll go,” Billy said at once, then hesitated.  “If that’s okay with you, Pa,” he added.

    Slicing more sowbelly into the pan, Clyde shook his head.  “You ain’t been listening, boy.  I keep tellin’ you a man has to make his own decisions.  Don’t much like you puttin’ yourself at risk, but maybe there ain’t gonna be no safe ground today.”

    Billy reached over to touch his father’s hand.  “I’ll be careful, Pa,” he promised, “and you do the same.”  He ate the bacon quickly, then sopped up the rest of the grease in his plate with one of the flapjacks Clyde had fried up for bread and stood.  “I’m ready.  Who else is going?” he asked.

    Forman stood and handed Clyde back his empty plate.  “Ormsby asked William Marley to be in charge, but I don’t know the other two fellows.  Friends of Marley’s, maybe.”

    “Well, five’s a good number,” Billy commented as they went to saddle their horses.  “Small enough to keep out of sight, and large enough for protection if we do get spotted.”

    Billy was beginning to think of Charles Forman as a friend, although they hadn’t been well acquainted before.  Danger faced together had a way of drawing men close, Billy figured, but he didn’t think any amount of shared experience would make him consider the other members of the scouting party friends.  The jokes they kept tossing out about finding some good-looking Paiute women bothered him.  Mostly due to Ben Cartwright’s influence, Billy saw Indian women as deserving respect, just like white ones, and he was glad that the Winnemucca girls, at least,  were safe at school in San Jose, so they wouldn’t be there for the white men to take in the heat of passion.

    It was approaching noon on Saturday, May 12th, when Ben Cartwright pulled his wagonload of supplies into the camp by the Truckee River.  Major Ormsby greeted him warmly, thanking him for the flour and beans.

    “Sorry it took so long,” Ben apologized, “but the roads are pure muck with this melting snow.

    Ormsby lifted his boot to show mud up to his ankle.  “Don’t worry about it,” he said.  “We’re still waiting on other settlers to bring more supplies.  Guess the weather’s holding them up, too.”

    “I put everything in small packages,” Ben said, “so you can carry it on mule or horseback.”

    “Good thinking,” Ormsby replied.  “I’ll get some men to unload.  Thanks again for your help.”

    Ordinarily, Ben would have offered to help unload the supplies, but he was anxious to have a word with Clyde Thomas.  Leaving Ormsby to superintend the job, Ben made his way from campfire to campfire until he found Clyde.  “I want to talk to you,” he said.

    Seeing the sober look on his friend’s face, Clyde frowned.  “Got a feelin’ I ain’t gonna like what you got to say.”

    “You may not,” Ben agreed, “but let me say it, Clyde.  Won’t you rethink being a party to this attack?  Look around you, man.  These are terrible conditions for a forced march.”

    “If you mean the mud, I couldn’t agree more,” Clyde muttered.  “It’ll be hard on the horses.”

    “More than hard,” Ben said grimly.  “Have you taken a good look at some of the horses these men are riding?  They’re bone-thin and exhausted, and that’s after a couple of days of relatively easy riding.”

    Clyde scowled.  “Ain’t in good shape, that’s for sure.  Hay was in short supply in Virginia City this winter, and the cold weather we’ve had this spring delayed the start of spring grass.  You know that, Ben.  My mount’s good, though, fed all winter on good Ponderosa hay.”

    Ben nodded his acknowledgement.  “And Billy’s, too, but most of these other mounts aren’t fit for battle.  It comes close to suicide to ride with a group like this, Clyde.”

    “You sayin’ I should turn tail and run ‘cause the goin’ gets rough?” Clyde grunted.

    “Not run, just leave,” Ben pleaded.  “It won’t make you any less a man.  Plenty of men from Carson went back with Judge Cradlebaugh yesterday.”

    “I know, but I can’t do it, Ben,” Clyde said, his voice edged with concern.  “I got a boy out there.”  He jerked his head toward the nearby plateau, up which Billy and the scouting party had ridden.

    Ben’s face grew grave.  “Billy’s gone ahead?”

    Clyde nodded, face taut.  “Ormsby sent him and four others out as scouts.  I can’t leave without my boy, Ben.  What would you do if it was Adam?”

    Ben caught his breath.  “Thank God, that’s one worry I don’t have!  At least, Adam’s safe in Sacramento.”  His brow furrowed.  Why on earth hadn’t he realized before, since they now had telegraph connection to California, that Adam would have heard reports of what was happening here and was probably frantic with worry, perhaps to the point of doing something foolish?  Ben decided he’d send a wire as soon as he reached Carson City to let Adam know that they were all right and that he should stay put until he got word that it was safe to come home.

    Ben reached for Clyde’s hand, and there was a new softness in his voice as he said, “You bring yourself and that young rapscallion of yours home safe, you hear?”

    Clyde clasped his friend’s hand firmly.  “You hack us off some good thick beefsteaks and have ‘em waitin’, Ben.  We’ll be by to collect them and the girls soon as we”——he’d started to say “teach those Paiutes a lesson,” but quickly revised the sentence, not wanting to offend Ben——“soon as we get back.”

    A hard knot tightened in Ben’s throat, making it hard to talk, but he forced a light tone into his voice.  “We’ll roast you a whole side of beef, old trailmate.”

    Clyde laughed.  “Got a feelin’ we’ll be hungry enough to eat one before this is finished.  Thanks for bringin’ the supplies.”

    Ben shrugged.  “Least I could do.  I’ll, uh, see you back at the Ponderosa.”

    “Keep us in your prayers,” Clyde murmured.

    Not trusting himself to respond verbally, Ben gave his friend a clap on the back and walked back to his wagon.  Just before he pulled out, he looked at the high plateau up which Billy had ridden.  Ben knew that old Paiute trail well.  He’d traveled it many times, always as a friend.  The men who rode that trail today, though, would come as enemies, and Ben couldn’t help fearing the welcome they’d receive.

    The sun stood directly overhead when the combined forces of the Comstock headed north up the narrow ridge overlooking the Truckee River.  The melting snow made the steep trail slippery, and the men had to pay close attention to each footstep of their mounts.  Clyde Thomas couldn’t resist a frequent glance up the trail ahead, however.  Straining his eyeballs for sight of his son, he was one of the first to sight the five scouts and give a whoop.

    Billy waved back and galloped to meet his father, leaving William Marley to report to Major Ormsby.  “Seen any Paiutes?” Clyde asked anxiously.

    Billy shook his head.  “Not a one, but there’s pony tracks all over.”

    “Fresh?”

    “Yeah, Pa,” Billy replied quietly.  “They’re up there somewhere, maybe close now.”  Seeing Ormsby motion them on, the young man wheeled his roan to ride beside his father as the trail threaded up a sagebrush-covered slope slicing through the plateau.

    They were still about ten miles south of Pyramid Lake when Ormsby ordered six men, under command of C. T. Lake, to stay behind, to be a rear guard in case sudden retreat became necessary.  Both Billy and his father rode on, moving down toward the wider part of the river gorge.

    Another hour brought them near bottomland, where open meadows stretched on both sides of the river beyond the strip of large cottonwoods and thick underbrush that edged its entire length.  In common with most of the men marching along the trail, Clyde had never been as far as Pyramid Lake, but he reasoned from descriptions he’d heard from Ben that they must be within five miles of it.

    Seeing Charles Forman wave to him, Billy rode forward.  “Ormsby wants us to scout ahead again,” Forman explained.

    “Let’s go,” Billy said.  He and Forman fell in behind William Marley and the other scouts and soon left the main body a good distance behind.

    Marley dismounted abruptly, and the younger men flung themselves to the ground, too, inching up to peer over the ridge.  “Paiutes!” Forman hissed as he saw two mounted Indians on the trail ahead.

    Billy swallowed hard as he felt his stomach lurch.  This was no time to get queasy.  Just two Paiutes.  The five scouts could handle them, if it came to a fight.  For now, though, their job was to stay out of sight.

    “Thomas,” Marley hissed.  “Ride back and report to Ormsby what we’ve seen.  Keep low ‘til you’re sure those Paiutes can’t see you.”

    “Yes, sir,” Billy said.  That was one order he’d be sure to follow——to the letter!  Snaking his way back to his roan, Billy mounted and rode with the speed he usually reserved for carrying the mail.  “Major Ormsby!” he yelled as he reached the main body.

    Ormsby rode ahead to meet him, with only one question on his mind.  “Did you spot the Paiutes?” he demanded.

    “Yes, sir.  Just two, though,” Billy reported.

    “Ride back up there,” Ormsby ordered.  “Tell Marley to capture them!  They can tell us where the rest are.”

    “Yes, sir!” Billy replied, turned and raced back up the hill.

    The scouts had pulled back slightly, to avoid being seen.  As Billy galloped swiftly toward them, they all mounted, to be ready for whatever action Ormsby had ordered.  “The Major says to take ‘em,” Billy told Marley.  “He wants ‘em alive——for questioning.”

    “Let’s get them, men,” Marley ordered and the riders took off.  The Paiutes saw them and turned to flee northward, toward the lake.  Although the scouts whipped their mounts with their reins, the spent animals didn’t respond to the urging.  The Indian ponies had suffered the same disadvantage of poor winter feed and late spring grass, but they, at least, had not been marching three days through miserable weather.  They easily outran the exhausted mounts of the white men.  Billy’s roan, while in good condition, had just burned the road to the main force and back, so he couldn’t keep up either.

    The scouts rode on, determined to overtake the two Paiutes.  Then, suddenly, Marley yelled for them to stop.  From out of nowhere a band of warriors closed around the two being chased.  With a high-pitched cry they descended on the five scouts.  “Retreat!  Retreat!” Marley screamed, for his men were badly outnumbered.

    The men needed no urging.  The intimidating yells behind them were incentive enough.  Again they pushed their horses down the trail, racing for their lives this time.

    From the main body’s vantage point, five hundred feet above the river, Clyde had a good view of the riders coming in and determined that this time he wouldn’t miss the chance to hear straight from Billy’s mouth what lay ahead.  He wove his mare through the ranks, close to Ormsby’s side.  From where he waited, he had a beautiful view of both the river and the lake, but Clyde had eyes only for one of the five riders tearing down the road toward safety.

    Billy pulled up beside his father.  “Paiutes!” he croaked.  “Dozens of ‘em.”  William Marley was making a similar report to Major Ormsby, while the other scouts chattered to whatever men were nearby, as if they needed to release their tension in talk.

    Rifles in hand, everyone looked nervously down the trail the scouts had just covered.  For long minutes they stood at attention, but no Paiutes rode into sight.  Finally, Ormsby ordered the men to mount and move forward as a body.  The men obeyed, but there was no more light-hearted talk of “getting plenty of hair” or “an Indian for breakfast and a pony to ride.”  Now, feeling the battle could begin at any moment, the men marched in silence.

    As they moved down into the valley, Clyde found himself examining the terrain with a critical eye.  To the west high bluffs bordered the wide curve of the Truckee.  There could be no escape that direction, nor directly south, for the river was high from the spring thaw and its swift waters impossible to ford.  To the east high tableland hemmed the valley in.  No exit that way.  Ahead, of course, the riding was easy, for the valley widened as the river snaked toward the lake.  An open invitation——too open, perhaps.  The trail they’d just ridden from the southeast was steep and narrow.  It would be a hard climb for battle-weary horses, but, once the militia reached the flatlands, there would be no other way out.  They’d had one last chance to turn back, and Ormsby hadn’t taken it.

    Clyde glanced toward his son, wishing now he’d urged the boy to stay behind and protect the women, for he wasn’t sure either of them would make it out of this corral alive.  Clyde frowned as that image took root in his brain.  What if this was a corral, and the Paiutes were herding them into it like a band of wild mustangs?  He shook the idea from his head.  There weren’t any Indians behind them.  Couldn’t be.  They could always retreat.

    From the thick underbrush just east of the river came the cry of a sea gull as the Comstock men rode past.  It was no bird that made that sound, however.  Positioned over the next ridge, Numaga heard the signal and it told him exactly where the white men were.  They had just passed the place where Chief Sequinata and his rugged men from the Black Rock Desert lay waiting, watching.

    Numaga pinched the nostrils of his horse, and the one hundred warriors with him on the ridge did the same.  The horses of the white men would soon be close enough to smell, and the Paiutes had been instructed to keep their own mounts from neighing in response.  A pelican’s cry rang through the air, not an unusual sound around the shores of Pyramid Lake, but this pelican wore war paint and lay crouched in the sagebrush along the trail the white men were riding.  Numaga knew his enemy was close now, just at the bottom of the hill.

    “We must make the white men climb to us now, before they can rest,” Numaga dictated to the warriors gathered around him.  He knew the white men’s horses would be tired already, and climbing that long slope through loose, slippery soil would ensure they entered the battle too weak to move effectively.  “We will show ourselves, but stay too far for their rifles to reach,” he ordered.  “Do not fire on the whites or remain to be fired on.  Ride into the draw behind us and wait until you hear the rest of our warriors in battle.”

    Just before riding into the open, Numaga looked at the ridge to the south.  The white men had seen no Indians there, but Numaga had them in position to close the trail behind the enemy.  These warriors had been ordered to remain out of sight until the whites charged the war chief.  Now was the time to incite that attack.

    Below, in the valley, Ormsby ordered his men to dismount and tighten the girths of their horses in preparation for the climb to the plateau.

    Numaga rode to the edge of the ridge, where the white men could not fail to see him.  The Paiutes on the other ridge saw him even before the whites and began to curve around the southern end of the trap.

    “Look!” a man from Virginia City yelled, pointing at the ridge to their right.  All eyes looked up and hearts sank as the white men saw a long line of Paiutes watching them from above.  In front of the Indians rode an impressive figure on a jet black horse.

    “That’s Numaga, ain’t it?” Billy whispered to his father.

    “Think so,” his father grunted, squinting. It was about four o’clock now, and the fading light made it hard to pick out facial features.  “Sure looks to be rigged out fancier than when he come to Genoa that time we had trouble with the Washos.  Maybe he ain’t expectin’ a fight.”

    “Maybe he wants to parley,” Billy suggested, for the chief really was clothed magnificently for a man about to enter battle, with a red and white sash over his broad shoulders and a white cap with a long, trailing plume.

    Captain McDonald noticed the attire, too, but he was more concerned with what the war chief held in his hand.  “Is that a battle-ax or a flag?” he demanded of those nearest him.  No one could answer with certainty.  Then McDonald spotted an acquaintance from Clear Lake, California, who was riding with Virginia City Company No. 1.  “Elliott,” he called.  “Use that telescopic sight on your rifle and tell me what that chief’s carrying.  Battle-ax or flag of truce?”

    A. K. Elliott raised the sight to his eye and peered intently through it.  “Looks like a battle-ax to me,” he cried.

    “Fire on him!” McDonald ordered.

    Elliott obeyed the order instantly, but even aimed by telescopic sight, the shot missed.  It was the signal the Indians had been waiting for.  Numaga turned and galloped back to his men, leading them to the brow of the hill, where they dismounted and began to fire on the men below.

    Ormsby ordered the men to charge.

    “No, wait!” McDonald shouted.  Riding over to Ormsby, he argued that they should retreat to a better position.  “In that grove of cottonwoods we’d be protected on one side by the river and by open plain on the other,” he suggested, pointing.

    Ormsby, who’d felt all along that he should have had supreme command, looked scornfully at the Virginia City leader.  “Charge!” he yelled, and started up the slope.  Thirty to forty men followed, Billy Thomas among them.

    “Billy!” Clyde yelled, but there was already too much gunfire for his son to hear.  “Consarned fool kid,” Clyde growled and began to climb up the same way.  His horse struggled for footing in the damp, sandy soil of the slope up to the ridge, but other men found themselves headed against their will in the opposite direction, their mounts terrified by the explosive sounds of battle.  The panicking horses ran toward the timber along the river.  “Showin’ more sense than us,” Clyde muttered to himself and kicked his heels against his horse’s flanks.  She responded with a lurch upwards.

    Billy crossed the crest of the hill right behind Major Ormsby, heart in his throat at the thought of encountering the Paiutes, but the Indians had completely vanished.  Billy stretched tall in his saddle, trying to figure out where the Indians had gone.  Then, suddenly, they were all around him, firing from all directions, but they weren’t the mounted Indians he’d seen before.  These Indians were on foot, and Billy realized they must have been hiding in the sagebrush, just waiting for the white men to come to them.

    Like the rest of the volunteers, Billy kept trying to move forward, but it was hard to make progress through the rain of bullets and arrows.  As near as Billy could tell in the smoke and dust of that battlefield, no man had yet been lost, but on every side he heard the strident screams of horses as bullets pierced their flesh.  As animals went down, their riders were forced into hand-to-hand combat with the Indians.  Animals that were only nicked became more unmanageable than before, bucking so hard that their riders’ revolvers were thrown out of their holsters, while many of those who had guns in hand were forced to drop them to try to bring their mounts under control.  Steadying his roan, Billy took tight grip on his gun, then looked back, hoping to see his father.  He couldn’t spot him, and he couldn’t take more than a moment to look.  He had problems of his own.

    Farther down the hill, Clyde kept trying to climb through the slippery soil.  He couldn’t see his son, but he knew the boy was ahead of him, and he felt a terror he hadn’t known since those days long ago when Billy had cut himself playing Indian, and had lain delirious with fever and in danger of losing his leg.  With horses falling all around him, Clyde couldn’t figure how his mount managed to escape, but he sent a swift prayer heavenwards——two prayers, actually:  one of thanks for the fact that he was still mounted and one of petition that Billy was, too.  The odds of getting out of this Indian corral alive were sharply reduced for a man on foot, and would have been still worse for a man like Clyde, whose game leg would prevent his outrunning the enemy.

    Major Ormsby came streaking past him.  “Retreat!  Fall back!” he cried over and over as he rode.  Some men responded; others seemed too confused by the general commotion to make an orderly retreat.  The ones on foot ran from rock to rock.  Clyde knew retreat was the only wise course, but he didn’t want to leave that slope without his son, so he kept moving upward.

    A man who’d lost his horse grabbed Clyde’s bridle. “Help!  Help me!” he cried.

    In his urgent desire to get to Billy, Clyde tried to jerk free, but the young man held on tenaciously.  “Help me, please!” he screamed.

    Looking into that intent, pleading face, Clyde felt genuine shame.  This young fellow wasn’t more than five years older than his own boy, and Clyde had come close to abandoning him to certain death.  What kind of man would that make him?  Not liking the answer, Clyde thrust out an arm and helped the man swing up behind him, hoping, praying that someone would do as much for his own boy.  He turned and urged his horse into a stumbling gallop downhill, riding through a gauntlet of armed Paiutes.

    Like most of the volunteers, Clyde raced toward the grove of cottonwoods where McDonald had wanted to make a stand.  About three hundred yards short of that goal, however, he saw Major Ormsby dismount and drop into a deep gulch formed by some previous course of the Truckee.  Ormsby yelled for the others to join him.  The place he’d taken shelter looked defensible, so Clyde headed for it.

    A cry of pain pierced his ear and the young man seated on his horse’s rump slid off.  Clyde dismounted immediately and dragged the wounded boy into the fortunately nearby gulch.  “Th—thanks, mister,” the boy murmured.

    Clyde ripped the tail off his shirt and pressed it against the hole in the boy’s shoulder.  He took the young man’s hand and pushed it down hard on the cloth.  “Hold it tight ‘til the bleedin’ stops,” he said.  He doubted the instruction would be followed, but there was no time to do more.  The Paiutes were coming straight at them, shooting rifles and muskets they’d obtained from white traders.  Most of the Virginia City men had nothing but pistols and shotguns, weapons that didn’t have the range of the Indians’ firearms.  “Ain’t enough they outnumber us and outsmart us.  They got to outgun us, too?” Clyde demanded of the heavens, then took careful aim.  He was one of the few men with a rifle, so his shot reached the target.  “Well, that’s one less,” he grunted.

    But what was one among so many?  They just kept coming.  The volunteers managed to hold the Indians back for about ten minutes, then a bad situation suddenly became worse.  Bullets and arrows now flew, not only from in front of them, but from the rear, as well.  The Paiutes had circled around and now were firing from the shelter of the cottonwoods by the river.  Others had moved south on the tableland to the east began shooting down on the survivors, as well.  With bullets coming from three directions, the gulch had become a trap, a far narrower one than the corral into which they’d earlier marched so naively.

    Henry Meredith, the young lawyer who was one of the captains of the Virginia City volunteers, had reached the river and tied his horse to one of the cottonwoods.  When Ormsby had called everyone back to the gulch, though, he’d left the animal and run for what seemed to promise better shelter.  Now, seeing nothing but certain death for those who remained in that gulch, he ran toward the timber and reached his horse.  Before he could untie it, however, a Paiute arrow struck him down.

    Despite his lack of success, most of the men trapped in the gulch started to follow Meredith’s example.  “Stay where you are!” the wounded Ormsby yelled.  “We’ll make our stand in the gulch.”

    Some of the men obeyed; most ran for the river, just as the Paiutes charged.  Clyde stayed where he was, mostly because he didn’t feel right about leaving that wounded young man he’d taken under his wing.  Although Clyde couldn’t see him, Billy was in that gulch, too, at that moment clinging with iron fingers to the arm of Charles Forman, who was trying to climb out.

    “Let me go,” Forman shouted.  “Meredith’s still alive; I’m sure he is.”

    “It’s suicide,” Billy yelled.  “Nobody could get through that!”

    “I mean to try,” Forman snapped.  “Either help me or get out of the way!”

    “Aw, doggone it!” Billy sputtered, tossing his hat to the ground.  “If we’re gonna do this fool thing, let’s get at it.  Better clear it with Major Ormsby first, though.”

    “All right,” Forman said and, keeping low, ran down the gulch to the major.

    Ormsby did more than grant permission for the rescue attempt.  He, along with two other men, agreed to help retrieve Meredith’s body, in hopes the young lawyer was still alive.  The five men made a quick dash into the open ground between the gulch and the river, and for the first time since the boy had charged up the plateau, Clyde spotted his son.  There was no missing that red hair.  “Consarned fool kid,” he grunted, as he had earlier, but he was proud of his boy, too.  It took a brave man to rush through that hailstorm of bullets and arrows to save another man’s life.

    The rescue attempt was doomed from the start, though.  The rescuers never reached Henry Meredith.  Too many Indians, too much unprotected ground to be covered.  Ormsby took an arrow through the cheek.  Thinking quickly, he pushed the arrowhead out his open mouth and broke it off, then jerked the shaft out, a fountain of red showering his shoulder and side.  Charles Forman and Billy supported the wounded leader back into the gulch, and Clyde sent another prayer heavenward as his boy regained that marginal safety without injury.  “Either you’re mighty lucky, boy, or the angels is watchin’ over you,” he scolded beneath his breath, practicing the irate parental lecture he hoped he’d get a chance to deliver in person.

    “Headly,” Ormsby cried, clutching at one of the Carson City Rangers bending over him.  “Take over.  See if they can cut their way through and get away.”  William Headly nodded and gave the order, and the men in the gulch grabbed the nearest horse or mule for a wild ride to the Truckee River.

    Clyde helped his wounded companion out of the gulch and onto a gray gelding with white socks on three feet.  It wasn’t his own horse; that one had either wandered out of reach or been taken by some fortunate miner for his own escape.  The gray was a poor animal, but better than nothing.  Clyde kicked the horse’s flanks to urge him to a run, pitying the men still on foot.  He’d seen Billy mounted on his own roan and breathed a sigh of relief.  At least, his son would have a good chance of running the gauntlet.  The fact that the sun was sinking would help, too, making it harder for the Paiutes to see their targets.

    As the white men began to retreat, Numaga circled around the southeast side, where the trail was blocked by Chief Sequinata’s Black River band.  Other warriors, thinking he intended to finish off the accursed intruders, fell in behind, but Numaga waved them back and galloped straight for Sequinata.  “Let them go,” he commanded.  “It is senseless slaughter; it is not good; their deaths will haunt the warriors who kill them now that they run from us.”

    Chief Sequinata, however, lifted his nose in arrogance and galloped past the war chief to kill as many whites as he could before darkness or the brush near the river hid them from his sight.

    Under William Headly’s command, the white men fought through to the river and headed upstream along the east bank, but many died as they fought hand-to-hand with the Paiutes blocking their way.  Amazingly, William Ormsby, supported by friends who wouldn’t obey his orders to leave him behind, made it to the river and disappeared inside a grove of cottonwoods.  So did Clyde and Billy Thomas, although neither knew exactly where the other was.

    Headly himself did not survive the run for the river.  When he ran out of ammunition, he turned to face Sequinata’s braves, holding his empty pistol by the barrel, so he could use the butt to club his attackers.  It was a brave gesture, one the Indians admired, but a futile one.  While Sequinata at first appeared to flee from the white man, he was actually luring Headly through the enemy lines, where another Indian shot him through the head from behind.  He died quickly, and the wounded Ormsby once again was in command.

    Feeling their only chance for escape was that trail over the plateau to the southeast through which they’d originally marched, Ormsby called Thomas Condon of the Genoa Rangers and Richard Watkins of his own Carson City Rangers to his side.  “That trail head must be held open,” he ordered.  “It’s our only way of escape.  I left Lake and six men to guard it, so it should still be open.”

    “We’ll get through,” Condon assured him.  Using the cottonwoods for cover, he and Watkins led a small group of volunteers, Billy Thomas among them, to the spot where there was the least open ground to cover between them and the trail head.  Mounting, the riders made a mad dash across the meadow, but they hadn’t gone a quarter of a mile before every rifle or bow within range was aiming straight for them.  The Indians, too, realized the importance of that pass and were determined no white man should reach it.

    Amazingly, none of those riding with Condon and Watkins were hit, but almost all of them failed to stop at the trail head, choosing instead to continue up the steep grade and over the plateau without regard for the men still trapped below.  There was no sign of C. T. Lake and the six men under his command, either.  They, too, must have put personal safety above the responsibility delegated to them.  Left virtually alone, Condon pointed to the top of the slope.  “Get up there and hold the pass,” he ordered Watkins.  “I’ll go back to tell Ormsby to come ahead.”

    Billy scrambled up the steep, fifty-foot grade behind Watkins.  On reaching the top, he dismounted and threw himself behind the biggest boulder he could see.  He loaded fresh ammunition into his Sharps rifle, noting with dismay how few shells he had left.  He’d have to make every shot count.

    The guardian angels of Thomas Condon did their job effectively once more, for he made it back across the meadow without injury.  “The pass is open,” he told Ormsby hurriedly.

    “Let’s get these men out of here!” Ormsby exclaimed.  Condon helped him stand.  “To your horses, men!” Ormsby shouted.  “Ride for the pass!”

    No more welcome command could have been issued.  The volunteers poured out of the grove of cottonwoods, once again grabbing whatever horse or mule was closest.  Clyde’s wounded companion was no longer conscious, so the older man hefted the younger across the saddle of a frazzled brown mare.  As he started to mount, however, he felt a knife slice into his shoulder and spun around to see the weapon raised for a second blow.  Clyde grabbed the Indian’s arm and they wrestled for control of the knife.  Clyde was no match for the young buck, and he thought his luck had finally run out, when the Indian uttered a sharp cry and dropped at Clyde’s feet.

    Clyde didn’t take time to determine the identity of the man who’d fired the shot that saved his life.  He just threw himself up on the mare and rode as fast as the tired animal could run.  Indians were everywhere.  Knowing himself to be low on ammunition and having his hands full just keeping himself and the wounded boy on the horse, Clyde didn’t shoot at any of them.  He just lowered his head and prayed that God would be with him and help him run the gauntlet one more time.

    William Ormsby was hit twice more, but managed to hang on to his mule as he rode through the burst of bullets and arrows.  He reached the plateau safely, but others were not so fortunate.  The narrow pass was a bottleneck, which the retreating men had to scale virtually single-file.  Men and horses piled up at the trailhead, waiting their chance to climb.  But the Indians didn’t wait.  They swooped down on the beleaguered men, who fought them off in fierce hand-to-hand combat.  One horse, fatally wounded, charged west, carrying the rider to certain death in the timber beside the river.  Two other men, hoping to avoid the bottleneck, tried to climb a more gradual ascent to the right of the pass.  Their horses shot from under them, they rolled down to the Paiutes’ fierce welcome.

    Amazingly, only eight men had died thus far.  From his position behind the boulder, Billy saw his father racing toward the pass and raised his rifle.  Determined to spend his last bullet to ensure his father’s safety, he rained fire on every Indian close enough to take a shot at Clyde.  He wasn’t close enough for the bullets to inflict the damage he’d hoped, but, at least, his fire kept the Paiutes’ attention off his father.

    Billy gave a whoop as he saw his father scramble past him.  Clyde had been moving too fast to see his son, but Billy, at least, had the satisfaction of knowing that his father was still alive and had a good chance of escaping.  Bullets were flying his direction now, though, so the young man turned his attention back to saving his own skin.

    Almost all the survivors were through the pass now.  Major Ormsby was still there, for his mule had been wounded and could not possibly live much longer.  One-legged R. G. Watkins of Silver City, who’d had himself strapped onto his horse to prevent his falling off in the mad flight, refused to leave the commander and tried to rally the remaining volunteers for a final stand.  The volunteers refused to listen and continued to retreat over the plateau.  Feeling relatively safe behind the shelter of that boulder, Billy stayed, though he counted himself a fool for doing it.  He was out of ammunition now, so he couldn’t make much contribution to a “final stand.”

    “Don’t be fools,” Ormsby said to those still with him.  “Get yourselves to safety, and that’s an order!  I’ll be right behind you.”  The others knew he no real chance of keeping up on that dying mule, but none of their chances looked good in that moment.  Although no one wanted to abandon their leader, they mounted and began to gallop across the plateau.

    Those who, through the weakness of their mounts or the lack of one, fell behind were picked off one by one.  They were such easy prey, in fact, that the Paiutes began to make a sport of killing them.  Rather than shooting from afar, the Indians drew alongside the white victims, grabbed them by their necks and jerked them out of their saddles before finally finishing the game with a rifle shot to the head or the slash of an obsidian knife across the throat.  In order to kill even more white men, the Indians in the lead would hit their horses over the head, leaving the dismounted riders for trailing Paiutes to finish off while they rode ahead in search of still more prey.

    Ormsby followed the retreating volunteers for a short distance, reaching a small valley alongside the river, and started up a short grade.  Halfway up the trail, however, the cinch on his mule’s saddle came loose, the saddle slid sideways and Ormsby tumbled to the ground.  The leader pulled himself painfully to his feet and began walking up the hill, but each step seemed more futile than the last.  Weakened by his wounds, he had no chance of outrunning the Paiutes.  His only hope lay in surrender.  Abruptly, he turned and started walking back toward the oncoming charge.  He waved his hands wildly, trying to communicate that he wanted to talk.

    Seeing him, Numaga rushed forward to intercept him.  The white man called Ormsby had not always been wise, but he had treated the Paiutes more fairly than most, and Numaga wanted to spare his life.

    Eyes frantic, Ormsby pleaded with the Paiute not to kill him.  “We will leave your people in peace, I promise.  Let there be no more killing.”

    Numaga notched an arrow on his bow string.

    “No, please!” Ormsby cried.

    “Drop down as if dead when I shoot,” Numaga ordered, “and I will fire over you.”

    But Ormsby, overcome by the shock of his wounds, failed to understand the war chief’s intention.  He stared, vacant-eyed, tears streaming down his face, and when Numaga loosed his bow string, the white man stood rigid.  Another warrior, dashing past Numaga, shot Ormsby, first in the stomach, then riddled his face with arrows.  Jumping off his pony, the Paiute rolled the white man’s body off the ridge and watched it roll to the bottom of the ravine.

    From a distance Billy Thomas saw the leader die.  His own horse had finally been shot from under him, and he knew if the Paiutes caught up to him, he’d suffer the same fate.  It was growing darker by the minute now, though, and that gave Billy hope.  If he could just find a place where the sagebrush grew thick enough to hide him, he might yet get out of this alive.  He turned and ran along the plateau.  Hearing the clatter of horses behind him, he stopped at the edge of a cliff overlooking the Truckee River and looked back.

    Within moments the Paiutes would be on him, and he had no means to defend himself.  Tossing aside his now useless rifle, Billy made a desperate leap off the cliff toward the river below.  If he missed the water, he’d die, maybe instantly, but Billy figured that was preferable to what he’d seen happen to Major Ormsby.  He’d checked the distance before jumping, feet first, off the cliff, however, and knew he had a chance of striking water, rather than land.

    He landed just offshore from the sandy bank, sank, then surfaced and swam, arms pumping powerfully, for a thicket of willows near the river’s edge.  Dark as it was, he knew he could hide there unseen, if he could get there before the Indians spotted him.  He swam swiftly, grateful for all the muscle-hardening practice he’d gotten up at Lake Tahoe.  He reached cover just in time.

    Four or five Indians stopped at the top of the cliff and peered over, searching for him, but, seeing nothing, they turned their horses and rode away.  Perhaps the young white had died in the fall or drowned in the river.  It was too dark to tell, and there were other targets easier to chase down and kill.

    Billy didn’t dare stray from that thicket of willows until the sun was completely down.  Even then he waited, for the moon was half full, and the Paiutes would be able to see him, if any were around.  Billy didn’t intend to budge until he felt certain the Indians had given up the chase, so he crouched beneath the willows until the night grew quiet.  It was after midnight when he ventured forth and slowly made his way from willow to cottonwood to sagebrush, step by furtive step, taking two looks behind for every one ahead.

    Nelly Thomas came downstairs to find all the other adults in the Ponderosa dining room.  “Sorry I’m late,” she apologized.  “I hope you didn’t wait breakfast on me.”

    From his seat at the head of the table, Ben laughed.  “You’re not late, Nelly.  Even the sun hasn’t shown his face yet.  Did you sleep well?”

    “Not very,” Nelly admitted.  With both her husband and son marching into Paiute territory, she’d tossed and turned all night.  Those terrifying silhouettes jumping up and down in front of distant signal fires last night hadn’t been conducive to restful sleep, either.  Along with Ben, Marie and the Montgomerys, she’d stood in the yard, watching in fearful fascination.  To her, the shadows looked like men celebrating a victory, but it was the kind of celebration Indians, not white men, were reputed to conduct.  The others had tried to discount her fears, but she’d read the same apprehension in their own eyes.

    “At least the children are sleeping soundly,” Marie commented with a smile across the table at Katerina, seated beside her husband.  Wrapped up in their own worries, both Nelly and Marie had let the children’s normal bedtime slip by unnoticed, and had berated themselves for this neglect when they finally realized how late it was.  It had been childless Katerina who’d pointed out that the late bedtime meant the children would undoubtedly sleep late the next morning, which might prove more convenient for everyone.

    “Yes, that’s one less worry,” Nelly agreed, taking the seat next to Marie.

    “Is bad Mistah Clyde and Billy not back yet,” Hop Sing observed ominously as he poured coffee into Nelly’s cup.

    “You’ve expressed your opinions quite sufficiently, Hop Sing!” Ben snapped.  “We don’t want to hear them again.  Is that clear?”

    “Why you alla time gotta yell?” Hop Sing demanded.  His grasp of English was still too tenuous to recognize words like “sufficiently,” but he knew an attack when he heard one, and, as always, assumed the best defense was a counterattack.

    “Ben,” Marie chided softly as the cook stomped back to the kitchen, mumbling beneath his breath.  “He is only trying to show his concern.”

    Ben rubbed the back of his stiff neck.  He hadn’t slept well, either.  “Yeah, I know,” he muttered.  “I’m sorry, Nelly.  It doesn’t help you much for us all to be showing our own anxieties, does it?”

    “Don’t help nor hurt, either one,” Nelly said softly.  “It’s not knowin’ and havin’ nothin’ to do but wait that gets to us, I reckon.”

    “Yeah, well, I’ve had my fill of it,” Ben said with quick decisiveness.  “I’m gonna find out what’s going on.”

    “Oh, Ben, what do you mean?” Marie asked, fingers tightening on the edge of the tablecloth.  “Surely, you do not mean to go to the Paiutes.  I will not allow it this time!”

    “It’d be a fool’s mission, Mr. Cartwright,” Enos Montgomery added softly.

    “Do I strike everyone as a fool?” Ben asked, perturbed.  “What I intend to do is ride into Virginia City.  Since most of the volunteers are from there, that’s undoubtedly where any couriers would be sent.”

    “Yeah, that’s a good idea,” Enos agreed.  “The best place to get what news there is.  I’ll stay here to look after the women and children.”

    “There’ll be one less woman to look after,” Nelly declared, scooting her chair back.  “I’m goin’ with you, Ben.”

    “Oh, Nelly, do not be foolish,” Marie scolded.  “Ben will bring you word, as soon as he hears anything, mais oui?”  She cocked her head inquiringly at her husband.

    “Yes, of course,” Ben assured both her and Nelly.

    “I know that,” Nelly pleaded, “but it’ll settle my mind sooner if I go with you.  Please, Ben.  I know I ain’t the horsewoman Marie is, but I can sit a saddle, and I promise I won’t hold you back.”

    Ben knew she couldn’t possibly keep that promise, but he couldn’t say no when he thought of how he’d feel if it were his boy out there in danger.  “Sure, I’ll saddle Marie’s horse for you,” he said gently.  “Do you want the side saddle?”

    Nelly chuckled.  “Wouldn’t have the slightest notion how to sit one.  I’ll ride astraddle, Ben, if you think you can stand the sight of my ugly old legs.”

    “Adam’s saddle would probably be the best fit,” Enos suggested and Ben nodded just before wiping his mouth on a napkin and standing.

    By the time Nelly had bundled into the warmest clothes she’d brought with her, the horses were saddled, and she and Ben set out for Virginia City, just as the sun began to tint the sky in shades of lavender and rose.  Ben could have made the trip in a couple of hours, but having Nelly along added an extra thirty minutes.  Even so, it was still early when they arrived in Virginia City.

    Early as it was, however, the streets were teeming, and everyone was talking about one thing, those awful signal fires.  The people of Virginia City had had an even better view than those at the Ponderosa, for they were closer.  “Did you see the way them flames flared up, then died down, flared up and died down, over and over?” was a favorite comment.

“Like fresh fuel was being put on,” one man suggested.

    “Yeah, body fuel,” another surmised.

Ben pulled Nelly close to his side and felt her shivering flesh against his.  “It’s just talk,” he said.  “No one knows anything.”

    “I know,” she murmured back, but her shuddering body denied what her tongue declared.

    They hadn’t been in town fifteen minutes before seven men came racing up Six-Mile Canyon on foam-flecked horses.  “Hey, it’s Lake!” someone shouted.  “He was with the volunteers!”

    The entire populace surged toward the riders, who dismounted on C Street.

    “Hey, Lake!” the miner who had first recognized him called.  “What’s the word?”

    “You ain’t all that’s alive, are you?” another hollered.

    Ben took firm hold of Nelly’s waist and steered her through the crowd.  They were not the only ones straining for a front position, however.  A young man just ahead of them was almost brazen in the way he pushed men aside.  “Make way!” he shouted at length.  “Reporter for the Territorial Enterprise here.”  Surprisingly, the miners parted to let the young reporter through.  Not such a bad idea, Ben decided, as he heard the man begin to interview C. T. Lake.  A reporter was trained to ask questions, and this young fellow seemed to be asking all the right ones to get the story out of Lake quickly and concisely.  Lake, of course, had been left with the rear guard and had seen almost nothing, but that didn’t prevent his answering readily each question put to him.

    Notepad in hand, the reporter asked, “How many Indians?”

    Lake scratched his head, as if in thought.  “I’d say about two thousand strong.”

“What happened?” the reporter asked.

“Major Ormsby gave orders to charge,” Lake said, getting this detail, at least, correct as he related his largely fictitious account of the battle.

“And then?”

    “The Indians filed to the right and the left,” Lake went on, “surrounding the troops and commenced to fire.”

    “What happened to our troops?”

    “The ammunition of the forces soon became exhausted, and the Indians, seeing this, closed in and poured volley after volley upon them,” Lake replied.

    “What about the others?” a miner yelled.  “What about Henry Meredith or Little Joe Baldwin?  They alive?”

    “Probably dead.  Almost all dead,” Lake said, burying his alkali-caked face in his hands.  If the gesture was not a result of shame, it should have been, for Lake and his six companions had deserted their post and his analysis of the battle was based more on fear than fact.  They’d heard the continuing discharge of firearms, however, and guessed correctly that casualties would be high in such a fight.

    “Are you sure there are no more survivors?” Ben called.  “Just seven men left out of more than a hundred?”

    One of the other survivors spoke up this time.  “Look, there might be another one or two out there somewhere,” he said, to cover himself if anyone else did survive, “but we can’t say.  It was every man for himself, and I’ll tell you what:  instead of worrying about the dead and dying, you ought to be thinkin’ of your own lives.  Them redskins was riding hard and fast after us.  They could be here any time!”  That statement was enough to make most of the crowd scatter, either to make tracks for California or to assemble their available arms and ammunition.

    “Oh, Ben,” Nelly wept, hiding her face in his vest.  “They just can’t be gone, not the both of them.”

    Ben held her close.  “I can’t believe it,” he croaked.  “I won’t believe it!  Look, I’m gonna ride on to Buckland’s Station.  If anyone else got through, I should run into them by the time I get that far.”

    Nelly looked up, hope sparking in her brown eyes.  “Oh, Ben, that’s good thinking.  You think there’s still a chance, then?”

    “Yeah,” Ben said, with more conviction than he felt.  “Look, Nelly, you’re tired, and the risks are higher from here on.  They’ve got the women forted up at O’Riley’s unfinished stone hotel.  You’d be safe there, if——”

    “I’m going with you,” Nelly said with a stubborn jut of her chin.

    Ben nodded.  “Yeah, I thought you’d say that.  Do you need some time to rest first?”

    “No, let’s get goin’.”

    Perched on a corral rail at Buckland’s Station, Clyde rubbed his hand across his eyes.  They felt like they were full of sand.  Not surprising.  They probably were.  Add to that the fact that Clyde hadn’t slept in better than thirty hours, and the only wonder was that he could keep them open at all.  He had to, though——had to keep peeling his tired eyeballs toward the northwest, in hopes that one more man would make it in and that that man would be his son.

    Hope was waning, however. It had been close to two hours since the last survivor reached Buckland’s.  It was noon now, and Clyde knew he’d soon have to admit that Billy was one of the seventy-five or so who hadn’t made it.  Fool kid, he’d probably risked his life in some heroic, but hopeless effort like the one to rescue Henry Meredith.  Still, Clyde would rather his boy die that way than to survive the way that Sam Brown fellow had, by hoisting himself up on the rump of Little Joe Baldwin’s mule and tossing the wounded man off to save his own hide.

    It was the wrong thought to let past the barrier he’d fought hard to keep up.  His eyes began to water, sending dust-laden rivulets down his alkali-coated face.  Clyde didn’t bother trying to stop the tears.  There wasn’t anyone around to see the unmanly loss of his emotions, and, at least, his weary eyes would get a good washing.  “Face could probably use it, too,” he muttered as he climbed down from the rail and walked slowly toward the log cabin.  Although he’d had plenty of time, he hadn’t bothered cleaning up before.  His time had been taken up, either as a lookout for incoming men or helping the wounded when they did arrive, for most of those who’d shown up had bullet or arrow wounds that needed tending.

    As Clyde splashed water on his cheeks at the single wash basin in the station, he knew he was fast running out of reasons to stay here at Buckland’s, but he dreaded the thought of facing Nelly and telling her their boy was dead.  He’d hoped against hope all through the long night after he dragged into the station himself, one of the first survivors to reach it.  That worn-out brown mare had been wounded during the retreat, but Clyde had kept pushing her, knowing his life and that of the young man he carried depended on getting as far as they could before they were left on foot.  It was an unkind way to treat an animal, but he didn’t have a bullet left to put her out of her misery anyway.  The horse had finally collapsed under him, and Clyde had hefted the boy up on his shoulders and carried him in to safety.  Too late, though.  The young man had died within an hour of their reaching Buckland’s.

    Clyde wandered outside for one last look.  No sign of Billy.  Time to face the truth.  Even if he’d been on foot, he’d had time to walk here by now.  The boy wasn’t going to make it.  Hearing horses riding in from the opposite direction, Clyde turned and his face fell.  Not Nelly, not here!  He needed time to find the right words, time to deal with his own grief before he had to deal with hers.  He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw Ben Cartwright.  Ben was always good with words.  He’d know how to comfort Nelly, if Clyde couldn’t.

    Nelly saw her husband and literally fell out of the saddle.  Picking herself up, she stumbled into his arms.  “Oh, Clyde!” she cried.  “You’re all right!”

    “I’m fine, gal,” he soothed, wincing a little from the knife wound in his back as he pulled her close to his chest.  “What are you doin’ here?”

    “Fool question,” Nelly sputtered, coughing up her emotion, along with a throat full of dust.  “If you ain’t got sense enough to come home, what’s a woman to do but come fetch you?”

    Ben had dismounted slowly, standing back to let them have a moment alone.  He couldn’t help noticing, however, that Billy was nowhere in sight.  That could mean only one of two things, neither of them good:   either Billy was badly wounded or he was dead.  If he’d been able to stand, he’d have been outside the minute he heard his mother’s voice.

    Nelly finally looked into her husband’s face, her eyes searching his, her lips trembling as she asked, “Billy inside?”

    Closing his eyes, Clyde shook his head.  “He didn’t make it, Nelly gal.”

    Nelly started backing away, shaking her head in disbelief.  Ben stepped swiftly behind her, fearful she was going to swoon.  Nelly was pioneer stock, however, and had never been given to the fashionable vapors.  She kept her feet, tired as she was from the long ride.  Backing into Ben, she turned and stared at him, in shock.  Ben instinctively reached out to take her in his arms and once she was secure, stretched a hand toward Clyde.  His friend walked to him and unashamedly clasped that supportive hand.  It was all Clyde could do not to weep himself dry on Ben’s shoulder, like Nelly was doing, but that was a comfort reserved for women.

    “He was a gallant young man,” Ben said softly.  “We’ll miss him.”  Simple words, but they were the right ones.  They told Clyde and Nelly that their boy hadn’t lived in vain.  He’d made a good name for himself and had earned the love of those who knew him.

    “We’d best get back to the Ponderosa,” Nelly said, wiping her eyes.

    “That’s such a long ride,” Ben said.  “Why don’t we just take you home.  I can bring Inger to Carson tomorrow.”

    Nelly shook her head vigorously.  “I want my girl in my arms,” she cried.  Ben looked to Clyde for guidance, and the older man slowly nodded.  Like Nelly, he wanted to ease his grief over the death of one child by holding the surviving one close to his heart.

    While the sorrowful trio was riding toward the Ponderosa, Adam Cartwright was pacing the street in front of the Orleans Hotel, where his family usually stayed when they were in Sacramento.

    “Quit fidgeting,” Harold chided.

    “Why don’t they get this meeting started?” Adam demanded.

    “Because we’re early,” Harold stated flatly.  “You couldn’t be persuaded to wait, remember?”

    “I was persuaded to wait!  That’s the whole problem,” Adam fumed.  The contradictory telegram he’d received from his father had alleviated his fears only slightly.  On the one hand, the wire assured him his loved ones were all well and safe; on the other, it ordered him to remain in Sacramento until all danger was past.  If Carson Valley was dangerous for him, it was dangerous for the others, too, so Adam felt justified in disobeying his father’s order.  His family needed him.

    The message had made it easier to do as his headmaster suggested, though, to wait for a rescue party to be organized and to use the intervening time to study for his final exams.  He’d even had time to take them all, finishing the final one the evening before, and still no rescue force had formed.  Here it was Sunday afternoon, and word had just come over the wire that the Virginia City militia had suffered a devastating defeat.  The Paiutes were said to be riding on the town, and Adam’s fears for his family and others he loved had intensified.  In fact, it would be just like Pa to ride straight into Winnemucca’s camp for a parley!  Adam had had all the waiting he could tolerate.  “If they don’t do something soon, I’ll go by myself, no matter what anyone says!” he’d told Harold shortly before leaving the boardinghouse for this meeting.

    So he paced, unable to release his nervous energy in any other way.  Closer to the hour appointed for the meeting, other men began to gather in the street, and finally Senator James Wood Coffroth came out on an upstairs balcony to address the crowd.  To Adam’s dismay, the proceedings seemed like a club meeting with nominations and election of officers and the appointment of a committee on finance.  “When are they gonna get to it?” Adam hissed to Harold.

    “They passed a resolution to send supplies and ammunition,” Harold pointed out.

    “Men, they need to send men,” Adam ranted.

    “Shh.  Maybe they’re getting to that,” Harold replied.

    Senator Coffroth stood to make a final address.  “Mr. Chairman and fellow citizens:  It was once said by a most distinguished citizen that there was no Sunday in the Revolutionary times.  So it is now.  There is no Sunday in Sacramento today.  That tyrant who a short time since was arrayed in traitorous rebellion against our Government, has again united with fifteen hundred Indians to murder our citizens.  Today is the time for energetic action.  One man has stated what he will give.  He is one of our merchant princes.  How many are there, like me, who will give their five dollars?  We do not want men, but arms and ammunition.  Remember, this is not only a war against savages, but against that despot Brigham Young.  I ask, then, that every man here give something, no matter how small; but give us the widow’s mite.  Contribute something to avenge the blood and murder on the Great Bend of the Truckee.”

    “What do you mean, ‘we do not want men’?” Adam screamed.  “Who’s supposed to use those arms you’re sending?”

    Harold grabbed his friend’s arm and dragged him back through the crowd.  “You are losing control, boy,” he said when Adam protested.  “I’m getting you out of here before you make a complete fool of yourself.”

    “You heard them!” Adam stormed, shaking Harold’s hand off his elbow and, planting both palms on his hips, faced him with irate visage.

    “Adam, there will be men,” Harold argued, “you know there will.  I heard the Sutter Rifles are going, and the Independent City Guards, too.”

    “You think that’s enough?” Adam railed.

    “With what’s coming from San Francisco, it should be,” Harold declared.  “They’re supposed to be here day after tomorrow, Adam.”

    “Day after tomorrow!  More waiting,” Adam groaned.  Wait, wait, wait——when his family could be dying!

    Harold laid a calming hand on his friend’s shoulder.  “Remember that line from Milton?” he said.  “‘They also serve who only stand and wait.’”

    Adam gave him a rueful smile and began walking toward the boardinghouse.

    “What was all that about Brigham Young?” Harold queried.  “You think he has anything to do with this?”

    “No,” Adam scoffed.  “Reminding folks of the Mountain Meadows Massacre is just a way of stirring them up, but I doubt the Mormons had anything to do with what happened at Williams’ Station.  The Paiutes have enough grievances of their own without taking up someone else’s.”

    Harold nodded, satisfied that he’d found something to take Adam’s mind, at least temporarily, off the frustration of waiting.

    The ride back to the Ponderosa was agonizingly slow.  Clyde was feeling weak from loss of blood, and they were all exhausted, including the horses.  Clyde was riding double with Nelly and didn’t want to push Marie’s mare.  No sense in being cruel to the animal.  Nobody’s life was at stake this time.  They’d stopped in Carson City long enough for Dr. Martin to tend Clyde’s wound and, with the doctor’s grudging permission, had ridden on.

    The sun had already set when the sorrowful party finally reached the Ponderosa and tied their horses to the hitching rail out front.  “I’ll ask Enos to stable our mounts,” Ben told his friends, knowing they’d want to get inside to Inger as quickly as they could.

    Clyde took a moment to thank Ben, but Nelly rushed for the door and flung it open without knocking.  Her face lit up as she saw Inger sitting beside Hoss on the floor at Katerina’s feet.  A very sleepy Little Joe was in the German girl’s lap.

    “Inger, sugar!” Nelly cried, kneeling to take the girl in her arms and cover her face with kisses.

    “Pa!” Hoss shouted and scrambled up from the floor.  “Hey, Uncle Clyde!”

    Little Joe’s drowsy head jerked and he squirmed out of Katerina’s lap to run to his father, crying “Pa!” in imitation of his big brother.

    Ben swooped the little boy up and held him close.  “My baby,” he whispered, choked with emotion, as he reached out to tousle Hoss’s sandy hair with an affectionate hand.  His friends’ loss made him all the more appreciative of his own blessings, and how blessed he was to have three sons, alive and well, when the Thomases had lost both of theirs!

    Marie came to kiss him, but after that quick greeting her attention was focussed on their emotional friends.  “Ben?” she queried softly.

    “Billy’s gone,” he whispered, not wanting the youngsters to hear yet.

    Marie shook her head.  “Mais non.  Billy is here.”

    Nelly’s head came up at once.  “What did you say, girl?”

    Marie glided across the floor toward Nelly.  “I said, ‘Billy is here.’”

    “Here?” Clyde croaked, disbelief in his eyes.  “Our boy’s here?”

    “Mais oui,” Marie smiled.  “He has been here for hours.”

    Nelly fell to the floor and, if she hadn’t come from pioneer stock, would surely have swooned this time from the sudden rush of blood to her head.

    “What on earth possessed him to come here?” Clyde pondered, still having trouble taking in the good news.

    “Please sit down,” Marie urged.  “You are all so tired.”

    “Where is that scamp of mine?” Nelly asked.  “I don’t think I’ll know for sure he’s all right ‘til I lay eyes on him.”

    “He’s in Adam’s room——asleep,” Marie replied.  “He has been asleep almost since he arrived.  That is why we’ve kept the children downstairs, so their noise would not disturb him.  Please sit, rest.  You look as tired as Billy.”

    Clyde lifted Nelly to her feet and helped her to the sofa.  Marie sat on the table before it, chafing her friend’s hands, while Ben settled into the blue armchair across from Katerina with both boys in his lap.  As Enos went outside to tend to the horses, Hop Sing scurried in from the kitchen and, seeing there were more mouths to feed, hustled back to lay more places at the table.

    “I never thought of the boy comin’ here,” Clyde muttered, pushing back a lock of auburn hair so dusty it looked drab brown.  “Orders was to fall back to Buckland’s.  Might be he didn’t hear ‘em, though.”

    “Billy said that he had seen you come through the pass safely,” Marie explained, “so his first thought was for his mother.  He wanted you to know that he was safe, Nelly, and that, to the best of his knowledge, Clyde was, too.”

    “The dear!” Nelly cooed.  “Always so thoughtful.”

    Ben stifled a smile.  “Thoughtful” was not a word he’d ever heard used to describe scapegrace Billy Thomas before, but it was obvious the boy could do no wrong in his mother’s eyes, at least not this night.

    “Billy wanted to ride to Buckland’s when he heard you’d left,” Marie continued, “but I insisted he go to bed, instead, and with Enos’s help, we saw that he did.  The poor boy is exhausted, as you can see by how long he has slept.”

    “My poor lamb,” Nelly murmured.

    “Is the boy hurt?” Clyde asked anxiously.  “He was all right when I last saw him, but I lost him in the retreat.”

    “He is not wounded,” Marie assured the concerned parents.  “He did twist his ankle, and it was, of course, difficult for him to walk.”

    “But he’s all right, beyond that?” Nelly asked.  When Marie nodded, she stood.  “I—I think I’ll just look in on him for a minute.  I won’t wake him, if he’s still sleepin’.”

    “Mais oui,” Marie said.  She understood a mother’s need to see her child, especially one she had feared lost.

    Inger edged close to Katerina’s chair.  “Will you finish that story now, before that Chinaman makes us come to the table?”

    Ben laughed.  “He won’t have to make me!  Suddenly, I’m famished.”

    Clyde, who’d had no appetite all day, chuckled.  “You know, I am, too.  How about that side of beef you promised me?”
 

    Pale glimmers of starlight filtered through the dense fog hanging over the river.  On the dock, waiting for the last call to board the steamship Eclipse, stood Mark Wentworth, making his final farewells to his family.

    “You look so handsome in your uniform,” Mary said, standing on tiptoe to give her brother a kiss.  She fingered the blue cord and tassels of his coat and her voice quavered as she added, “Try to bring it home looking just as grand.”

    Mark saw her glistening face and, not sure whether the dampness came from tears or the prevailing mist, he kissed her cheek tenderly.  “I’ll try, little sister.  I assure you, I’ll try.”  In order to join the expedition, Mark had enlisted with Company H of the Sixth Infantry from Benecia Barracks under 2nd Lieutenant John McCleary and now wore the short blue frock coat and light blue trousers of that unit.

    Their older brother Matthew had always been a man of few words, and he had little to say now.  Mark, however, understood that the firm handclasp meant he had his brother’s approval and support.  Even more importantly, he had his father’s.  Though it was an unfamiliar gesture for Mark, he put his arms around his father and rested for a moment in the strength of that embrace.  Then he set his black Kossuth hat on his head at a jaunty angle and thrust his hand out for his father to shake.

    “Aren’t you forgetting something?” Ebenezer smiled.

    “I don’t think so,” Mark said.  “I have the Bible you gave me and the sandwiches Mary made.”

    Ebenezer took a small, sealed white envelope from his coat pocket.  “You’ll want this, as well, my boy,” he said.  “It’s my report to your sweetheart’s father on your behavior this last year.  You said he would require one.”

    It had been almost a year since Mark had told his father of the doctor’s requirements for marrying Sally, and the boy felt deeply touched that his father had remembered.  He himself hadn’t given a thought to the promised letter of evaluation.  His mind had been taken up with finding a way to get to Sally.  It was her life he was concerned with at that point, not their future together.

    Seeing his son’s trembling lips, Ebenezer put the envelope in Mark’s hand and squeezed the young man’s arm.  “It’s a fair report, son.”

    “Of course it is,” Mark stammered.  “You couldn’t be any other way.”

    As a whistle blew, Matthew clapped his younger brother on the back.  “You’d better get on board, if you don’t want them to think you’ve deserted.”

    “Not this soon after enlisting,” Mark laughed.  He gave his father one more quick embrace and ran for the gangplank, the fog soon hiding him from sight.

    Adam slipped out of bed as soundlessly as he could, to avoid waking Harold in the next bed.  He’d laid out his clothes the night before, so he had no trouble finding them, even in the dark of the pre-dawn.  He picked up the gear he’d left on his desk and started to tiptoe out, but Harold had left his desk chair jutting out and Adam stumbled into it.

    Beneath a thick, patchwork quilt, Harold stirred and asked groggily, “What is it?”

    “Nothing,” Adam whispered.  “Well, nothing but me.”

    Harold sat up.  “You leaving now, without telling me good-bye?”  He yawned expansively.

    “I didn’t want to wake you,” Adam said.  “You’ve got exams this morning.”  He sat on the end of Harold’s bed.

    Harold yawned.  “Yeah, well if you can pass yours with flying colors with all you’ve had on your mind, I guess I can pass mine, even if I do lose a little sleep.”

    “I’ve got my things all packed up for Miss Molly to store,” Adam said, “except my guitar.  I was hoping you’d keep that for me.”  He’d taught his roommate a few basic chords and, since he couldn’t pack the instrument on a military expedition, he thought the other boy would have more use for it in the near future than he was likely to find himself.    “I’ll keep it for you,” Harold promised, “but you have to remember it’s only a loan.  I’ll be expecting you to pick it up before school starts next term.”  Beneath the casual meaning of those words was a prayer that Adam would come through the next few months alive.

    Adam understood and responded, “Yeah, I’ll do that, and I’ll be expecting you to put on a grand performance for me.”

    Harold laughed under his breath.  “Oh, sure.  You could put on a better performance, even after a summer without touching that guitar.”  He swallowed hard and quickly thrust out his hand.  “Take care, Adam.”

    Adam clasped his roommate’s hand firmly.  “You, too,” he whispered.  “Indians aren’t the only dangers in this world.”  He stood and shoved Harold back onto his pillow.  “Now, back to sleep.  You want to do well your final term, don’t you?”

    Harold grinned.  “Be a lot easier if you’d take my tests for me.”  He yawned.  “Of course, then I’d have to fight the Paiutes for you.  Not a good idea, since I’ve never fired a gun.”  He yawned again, turned onto his side and closed his eyes, primarily for Adam’s sake.  He didn’t sleep for awhile, though.  After Adam left, he lay awake, wondering whether he’d ever see his friend again.  Compared to that, of what importance were a schoolboy’s exams?

    Adam tiptoed down the stairs and through the hall to the front door.  Once he was outside, he ran through the dark streets.  The report he’d heard yesterday said the Eclipse, carrying rescue forces bound for Washoe, would sail the night before and arrive early this morning.  Adam was determined to be there when the ship steamed in.  He failed in that resolve, however, for when he arrived at the dock, he saw the steamer anchored just off the levee.

    The question now was how to get to the ship.  Adam was a good swimmer and the distance wasn’t far, but he couldn’t swim carrying the rifle he’d purchased the day before.  Adam winced slightly as he thought of that gun.  His father probably wouldn’t view that as the kind of purchase he’d intended Adam to make with the funds left at his disposal, but Adam’s rifle was at home and the boy feared he might need one before arriving there.  Spotting a small rowboat nearby, he decided to borrow it.  Another act his father would frown on, but Adam felt desperate.  He had to get to the commanding officer and secure permission to travel with the rescue expedition.  If he waited until the soldiers disembarked, they’d likely be too busy to talk to him, so Adam made up his mind to board that ship any way he could.

    “Permission to come aboard,” he shouted when a sentry on the Eclipse asked his business.  “I have a message for the commanding officer.”  He tried to make his voice sound official, and the ruse worked.  He was permitted to board the steamer and Captain Joseph Stewart of the Third U.S. Artillery, overall commander of the Carson Valley Expedition, was called.

    Captain Stewart came from the opposite side of the ship.  “You bring a message from the rescue forces at Sacramento?” he asked.

    “Not exactly,” Adam murmured, feeling suddenly cowed when he saw the official-looking uniform.  Then he looked up defiantly.  “I’m my own message.”  He popped a shaky salute at the officer.  “Adam Cartwright, reporting for duty, sir,” he stated loudly.

    Stewart laughed.  “Looking for adventure, are you, lad?”

    “No, sir!” Adam declared, offended at being taken for a boy playing soldier.  “I’m going to Washoe, one way or another.  I was told the best way was to sign up with you.”

    “Adam?  Adam!”  a voice called out, and a figure ran toward the officer and the boy.

    Adam turned and his face lighted as he saw Mark Wentworth rushing forward.

    Mark saluted the captain.  “Sir, may I be of help?” he asked.  “I know this boy.”

    “Boy!” Adam protested.  Mark motioned for him to be still.

    “The lad’s offering himself as a recruit,” Stewart said, a tinge of mirth in his tone.  “In fact, he says he’s going to Washoe, with or without my permission.”

    “He means it, sir,” Mark said quickly.  “Adam’s family lives there, and, of course, he’s concerned for their safety.”

    Stewart’s face took on a kinder appearance.  “Ah, I see.  Commendable, my boy, but we’re not looking for new recruits, especially not lads your age.”

    “Then I’ll go alone,” Adam said and turned to leave.

    “No,” Mark said sharply.  He turned to Captain Stewart.  “Sir, please let him travel with us.  I’ll be responsible for him, and, to tell the truth, sir, he’s a greater asset to the party than I am.  He’s a better marksman, and he knows every inch of the country we’ll be traveling through.”

    Stewart stroked his beard in thought.  “That would be an advantage.”  He looked at Adam.  “You know the territory well?”

    “Like the back of my hand,” Adam boasted.  “I’ve lived there since I was seven.”

    Stewart nodded.  “Very well, then.  You may travel with us, not as an official recruit, but we’ll make you a sort of scout.”

    “Yes, sir!” Adam cried and popped another salute.

    Stewart shook his head, chuckling.  “If you’re going to do it that poorly, I’d just as soon you didn’t salute, son.  And you are a civilian, after all.”  Still chuckling, he walked away.

    Mark grabbed the younger boy’s hand and pumped it.  “Good to see you, Adam.”

    “You, too,” Adam said.  “Thanks for putting in a word for me.”

    “Sure.”

    “I’ve got to return a boat I borrowed to row out here,” Adam explained.

    “You’ve got plenty of time,” Mark said.  “I heard we’re not leaving the boat ‘til around eight-thirty.  That’s when we board the train for Folsom.  Why don’t you return the boat, get yourself some breakfast and meet us at the station.”

    “Yeah, good idea.  I’m starving,” Adam admitted.  “See you there, then.”  As he left the steamer and began rowing for shore, Mark stood at the boat’s rail to watch him until he was out of sight.

    Adam ate a hurried breakfast, then jogged to the train station.  He didn’t intend to be left behind, and the safest way to ensure that was to arrive early.  He heard the troops coming before he saw them, marching in double file down the street.  The Artillery came first, impressive in their blue frock coats and dark pants.  Captain Stewart and the other officers looked even flashier, with a red stripe running down each pants leg.  The Infantry, all in blue except for their black Kossuth hats with the left brim turned up, marched behind them.  Adam spotted Mark and waved.  Mark nodded, but gave no further sign of recognition.  As a new soldier, determined to prove himself a good one, he kept marching steadily.  Adam fell in behind the Infantry, boarding the train last, but counting himself lucky to be included in the expedition.

    The ride to Folsom, which Adam had made many times, took an hour and ten minutes.  Adam and Mark found seats together, and each shared what he’d heard about the situation east of the Sierras.  “I appreciate your coming,” Adam commented.

“It’s for Sally,” Mark said softly.

“Well, I figured that,” Adam chuckled, “but I’m glad you’re with us, anyway.”

    At Folsom, stagecoaches and wagons were waiting to transport the forces to Placerville.  Again, Mark and Adam finagled seats together.  “Do you think we’ll be in Placerville long enough to see the Zuebners?” Adam asked.

    “We’ll have to eat somewhere in Placerville,” Mark said.  “I don’t know what arrangements have been made for the military, but you’re not under orders.”

    “Don’t let them leave without me,” Adam said and Mark assured him he would not.

    Not certain how much time he had, Adam hustled down to Mama Zuebner’s Café.  Marta was serving in the dining hall when Adam entered and immediately enwrapped him in an embrace.  “Oh, Adam,” the flaxen-haired girl cried.  “Have you heard?  Isn’t it awful?”

    “Just what’s come over the wire,” Adam replied.  “You know anything specific about our people?”

    Marta shook her head.  “No, and Mama is frantic with worry about Katerina.”

    “I’m sure she’s all right,” Adam assured the girl.  “Pa telegraphed after the first attack that everyone was fine.  I’m sure he meant her, too.”

    “You haven’t heard anything since the big battle, then?”

    Adam took Marta’s hand.  “No, but Pyramid Lake is a long way from Katerina’s place, and there’s been no word of female casualties.”

    “Well, I’d care about Enos, too!” Marta declared fiercely, then with lowered head and softer voice, “and even that ornery Billy, for that matter.”

    Adam bit his lip, knowing his fiery-headed friend was impetuous enough to get caught up in an Indian battle.  “Billy’s too ornery, even for Indians,” he quipped to alleviate Marta’s fears and disguise his own.

    Marta laughed.  “That’s the truth!  Are you hungry, Adam?  Can I bring you something?”

    “Whatever you can fix quickly,” Adam replied, taking the seat she pointed out.  “I’m with the Carson Valley Expedition, and I don’t know how long I have.”

    “Oxtail stew, bubbling hot,” Marta promised and hurried to the kitchen.

    It was her mother, however, who brought the stew to Adam.  “You go help my girl?” Ludmilla asked, her German accent still thick even after all her years in America.

    Adam nodded.  “My family, and her, too, Mama Zuebner, but you know my Pa wouldn’t let anything happen to your girl.  I’m sure she’s fine.”

“Yah, Ben protect, I know,” Ludmilla sighed, “and Enos good man, too.  You eat up now, need warm food for go to Washoe, yah?”

    “I sure do, and yours is the best,” Adam said and turned his attention to the stew.  Before he finished it, however, another Zuebner had rushed in to sit at his table.

    “You are going with the rescue party?” Stefán asked.  “I, too, wish to go.”

    “Well, I don’t mind asking Captain Stewart,” Adam replied, “but I don’t have any influence with him.  I’m kind of unofficial myself.”

    “I will go unofficial, too,” Stefán insisted.

    “Better grab some of this good grub first,” Adam suggested.  “Who knows when you’ll see its like again.”

    “Yah, you speak truth,” Stefán said.  He hurried to the kitchen and dished up his own stew to save time.

While he was eating, Marta came back in, carrying a bedroll, rifle and canteen.  “There’s a change of clothes in the bedroll,” she explained.  “I think that’s all you’ll need.”

    “Thank you, my sister,” Stefán said, giving her soft cheek a tender stroke.  “It is for you, now, to look after our mother.  Be a comfort to her.”

    Marta kissed him on the forehead.  “I will, of course.  Keep yourself safe.”  She moved close to Adam and gave him an identical kiss.  “You, too, Adam,” she whispered, “and keep that fool Billy out of trouble, if you can.”

    “That’s a big job,” Adam jibed, “but I’ll try.”

    Stefán polished off his stew, and both boys ran to find Captain Stewart.  Adam started to salute, then remembering the officer’s opinion of his technique, let his hand drop to his side.  “Captain Stewart,” he said, rushing his words, “This is Stefán Zuebner, a long time friend.  He wants to go with the rescue forces, too.”

    “Ah, young Cartwright,” Stewart chuckled.  “I thought I told you we weren’t looking for new recruits.”  He gave a Stefán a closer perusal.  “Well, at least, this one is a man.”

    Adam felt his teeth clinch at the slur on his own age, but determined to put his pride aside.  “He’s a good man,” Adam said, “and he has family in the valley, too——a sister.”

    “Ah, a point in his favor, to be sure,” Captain Stewart mused.  “Less likely to desert when there’s a personal interest.  You’d be willing to obey orders, young man?”

    “Yes, sir,” Stefán promised immediately.

    “As it happens, we’ve had two men desert already, somewhere between Folsom and here, so I have two mules available.  One I’d already designated for young Cartwright.  You may use the other, young man, provided you remember that it is the property of the United States Army.”

    “I do not take what is not mine,” Stefán declared with upraised chin.

    “Yes, I think you’re a man worth having,” the captain said, shaking Stefán’s hand.  He pointed down the street.  “See that officer and have him assign you an animal.  You, too, Cartwright.”

    “Yes, sir,” Adam said.  He couldn’t help frowning a bit as he walked down the street beside Stefán.  He’d never ridden a mule in his life, had, in fact, been contemptuous of the lesser steed.  Mules were supposed to be sure-footed on mountain passes, though, and that was undoubtedly why they’d been chosen.

    The wisdom of using mules quickly became apparent as the Carson Valley Expedition began to climb the Sierras.  The trail was muddy from thawing snow and the footing for the animals treacherously slippery.  By the time the party made camp that evening, Adam had developed a new appreciation for the lowly mule.

    The second day was worse.  As they moved further into the mountains, where the temperature was colder, the mud mingled with still-melting snow.  No one had time to enjoy the scenic view of the sugar pine and ponderosa forest or, far below, the swift waters of the South Fork of the American River.  Each man’s attention was on the mud beneath his mule’s feet as they slid and slithered down the canyon to the river.

    After a brief rest, the party crossed the river on the recently built Brockliss’ Bridge, then headed back up.  Mark told Adam he’d overheard the officers saying that they would try to reach the Strawberry Valley House before nightfall.

    “I wish we could,” Adam said.  “It’s a good place to stop, but fighting this mud, we’ll never get that far before sundown.”

“Think you should tell Captain Stewart?” Mark suggested.

    Adam shrugged.  “No point, really.  He’ll see it soon enough for himself.”

    Adam was right.  When the sun started to set, Captain Stewart needed no one to tell him it was time to make camp, even though they were still four miles from Strawberry Valley.  The terrain didn’t invite night travel, especially when, to everyone’s dismay, it began to snow.

    The snow continued the next day, the sharp wind blowing it in the faces of the men as they passed the southeast end of Lake Tahoe and turned east to begin their descent of the Kingsbury Grade.  The road now turned away from the Ponderosa, so Adam rode forward to request permission for him and Stefán to leave the party and go directly to his home.

    “We’ll get the mules back to you,” Adam promised.

    “Very well,” Captain Stewart agreed.  “We’ll be going to Genoa, then on to Carson City.”  He extended his hand and, counting himself privileged, Adam shook it.  “Your knowledge of the back country has been very helpful, young man.  I trust you’ll find your family unharmed.”

    “Yes, sir,” Adam said, fighting down the sudden lump in his throat.  Now that he was so close to knowing how his family was, the emotions he’d struggled to control threatened to surge past the protective barriers he’d erected.  He wanted——no, needed——to get home as soon as possible.  He and Stefán said good-bye to Mark, assuring him they’d see him in Carson City, and headed northeast as the rest of the party rode away.

    “Where is the Montgomery cabin?” Stefán asked once they were alone.

    “It’s toward Genoa,” Adam said, “but the Ponderosa is closer.”

    “I must go to Katerina,” Stefán declared.

    “No, it’s getting late,” Adam insisted.  “Pa will know if Enos and Katerina are all right, so you’ll know sooner if we go to our ranch first.  Then I’ll show you the way tomorrow.”

    “It is a good plan,” Stefán admitted, although he was disappointed to have to put off seeing his sister another day.  Although they had left Placerville only three days earlier, the trip had seemed interminable.

    Adam understood.  To him, as well, the journey had lasted an eternity.  He kicked his heels against the mule’s flanks to urge the animal on.  Stefán smiled and followed suit.  If only they could have changed the plodding mules for swift steeds!

    Even before they reached the house, Adam felt relieved, for he saw smoke wafting above the pines and smelled the aroma of roasting meat. It was almost supper time, and there were obviously people in the house to eat the meal.  That didn’t prove everything was all right, that no one was hurt or worse, but it was a good indication.

    Riding into the Ponderosa yard, Adam slid off the mule, wrapped the reins quickly around the hitching rail and ran for the front door.  He didn’t knock, for this was his home.  Flinging open the door, he rushed inside and all his questions, all his fears evaporated.  Sitting before the fireplace, as he’d seen them so many times, were all the people he loved best.

    “Pa!” he cried, rushing forward.

    Ben stood at once.  “Adam?”  Then he moved swiftly to embrace his son.  “Adam, what are you doing here?” he asked.  “I told you to stay in Sacramento.”

    “And leave you to face a Paiute war?” Adam demanded hotly.  “Did you really think I’d obey an order like that?”

    “Son——”

    “You gonna give him ‘a very necessary little talk,’ Pa?” Hoss queried, looking up from the hearth, where he was playing Noah’s Ark with Little Joe.

    Ben laughed.  “I just might.  He’s been a naughty boy, disobeying his pa this way, but I’m so glad to see him, I may just let him get away with it.”

    “Excuse me.  I do not like to interrupt,” Stefán said from the doorway, “but I must know if Katerina and her husband are well.”

    Ben moved toward him and clasped his hand warmly.  “Stefán, forgive me!  Here I stand making jokes while you’re worrying about your family.  They’re fine.  None of us were involved in the hostilities, and I assure you, your sister is safe and in good health.”

    Stefán breathed a sigh of relief.  “Ah!  That is good news.  If only Mama could know.”

    “We’ll wire her from Carson City tomorrow,” Ben promised, closing the front door.

    Hop Sing bustled in from the kitchen.  “Mr. Adam!” he cried.  “Why you not come sooner?”

    Adam laughed.  “You mean soon enough so you’d know how many to cook for?”

    “That what I mean,” Hop Sing grumbled.  “How I s’posed make dinnah for four feed six, huh?”

    “We have every confidence in you, Hop Sing,” Ben said.  “Surely, you’re glad to see Adam, aren’t you?”

    “Velly glad,” Hop Sing said, “but must return to kitchen now, make more food.  More mouths make more work.”  He departed, mumbling to himself.

    “Don’t worry,” Adam told Stefán.  “He really thrives on this kind of challenge.”

    “That he does,” Ben laughed, then clapped Stefán on the back.  “Come sit down by the fire and tell us all the news of your family.”

    Little Joe toddled over to his oldest brother and stared up at the tall young man.  Adam, chuckling, picked him up.  “You don’t remember me, do you?” he teased.

    Little Joe nodded seriously.  “I ‘member, Adam,” he said.

    “Do you?” Adam asked, pleased.  “That’s the boy!”  He looked over at Hoss.  “As for you, I may just disown you for putting that ‘very necessary little talk’ idea into Pa’s head!”

    “Sorry,” Hoss said, looking sheepish.  Adam just laughed and came close enough to tousle his chunky brother’s straight, sandy hair.  It was good to be home.

    Mark took a moment to steady his hand, then raised it to rap sharply on the door to Dr. Martin’s office.  “Come in,” a voice called, and Mark entered.

    “Be with you in a minute,” the doctor said from behind the curtain that separated the waiting area from the examining room.

    Within minutes Dr. Martin pulled the curtain aside and escorted his previous patient out.  His eyes widened with surprise as he recognized his next visitor.  He smiled.  “Sally’s at home, young man.”

    “I thought she would be,” Mark replied, reaching to shake the doctor’s hand, “but I wanted to see you first, to ask your permission to see her.”

    “You can see her, of course,” the doctor said.  “Or did you have something more in mind?”

    “Just to see her for now,” Mark said, reaching into his uniform pocket.  “This is the letter from my father you requested.  I don’t know what it says, but I believe it’s a favorable report.  I’m hoping that after you read it, you’ll consent to my courting Sally.”

    “Just courting?”  A smile lifted one corner of the doctor’s mouth.

    Mark nodded soberly.  “For now.  I’m not free to marry her yet, sir.  I was concerned for her safety——and yours——so I joined the army to come here.”

    Dr. Martin nodded.  “I noticed the uniform.”

    “You understand I have a commitment to fulfill, then, before I’m free to marry Sally?”  Mark asked anxiously.  “It won’t influence your decision?”

    “That you’re a man who honors his commitments?” the doctor laughed.  “Oh, yes, that will influence my decision, young man.  I would scarcely commit my daughter to your care if you weren’t a man who honors commitments.”

    Mark smiled, relieved.

    “Go on, off with you,” the doctor ordered, flinging his hand toward the door.  “This office is for sick people, and while lovesick boys may qualify for medical help, the only prescription that seems to give much relief is better filled elsewhere.  Sally has the tonic you need, my boy; go to her.”

    Mark’s smile widened to a grin and he shook the doctor’s hand firmly in farewell.  Then he hurried down the street and knocked on the door to the Martin home.

    In the kitchen, Sally laid down the spoon with which she’d been stirring the pot of soup and came to answer the door.  At first she was surprised to see an uniformed officer standing outside, but when he removed his black Kossuth hat, she uttered a cry of joy and threw her arms around the young private.  “Oh, Mark!” she cried.  “You’ve come.  I knew you would; I just knew you would!”  She pulled him into the house and, once safe from prying eyes, pressed an impassioned kiss to his lips.

    Adam threw up his hands and walked away from the rest of the family, gathered around the fire after a filling dinner.  “I just don’t understand you, Pa!” he flared.

    Ben strode past the sofa and, grabbing Adam’s shoulder, spun him around.  “Well, if you’d try listening, young man, you just might have a better chance of understanding!”

    “Ben, please!” Marie pleaded, turning to face them from the mauve armchair.  “Please do not quarrel.”

    Ben gave her a curt nod.  “I’m not trying to quarrel.  I’m trying to explain my position to our hard-headed son.”

    Color flamed into Adam’s cheeks.  “You’d have a better chance if you didn’t keep changing it!  You said you didn’t think the Paiutes wanted war.  You refused to ride against them the first time, but now you’re planning to fight.”  Adam, of course, had been prepared to fight, too, when he first came home, but now that he understood the situation more fully and knew his own family was in no immediate danger, he saw no reason to march against the Paiutes.  His father, however, in what seemed to Adam a complete turnabout from the principles by which he’d been raised, was planning to join the volunteer forces assembling in Carson City.

    “I have to, Adam,” Ben argued.

    Adam folded his arms across his chest and demanded, “Why?”

    Ben faced his son, palms planted on his hips.  “Have you been listening at all, boy?”

    Adam bristled at being called “boy,” a sure sign of his father’s displeasure.  “Yes, I have,” he said hotly.  “You said you thought the Paiutes had every right to defend themselves when the settlers attacked them.”

    “I do believe that,” Ben said.  “I think all those killings could have been avoided if our people had simply gone searching for truth instead of vengeance.”

    “So it was their own fault they died.”

    “Yes, that’s tragically true.”  Feeling something brush against his leg, Ben looked down and patted Little Joe’s curly head absently, his attention on his oldest son.

    “And now you’re making the same mistake,” Adam fumed, “by going out to avenge them.”

    “Vengeance?  No!” Ben protested, his face fiery.  “I fight for the safety of my family, boy!  Don’t you understand that we’re at war now?”

    “Other people, not us,” Adam insisted.  “We’ve always gotten along with the Paiutes.”

    “Ugh!” Ben sputtered and stormed a few paces away.  “What difference does that make now?  You expect the Paiutes to pick and choose their targets?”  Little Joe pattered after him, pulling his father’s pants leg demandingly.  He was used to being picked up and held whenever he wanted and didn’t understand why tonight should be any different.

    Again Ben touched the soft, brown curls.  “Later, baby,” he said, but, determined to get what he wanted, Little Joe didn’t move.  Ben turned to his oldest son.  “Don’t you see, Adam, in a war people lose sight of past friendships, even of right and wrong.  It’s a matter of survival.”

    “But if a thing’s wrong on principle——” Adam argued.

    “Principle!” Ben shouted, then hearing the insistent whimper at his feet, finally picked up his youngest.  He didn’t, however, give the boy the cuddles he craved.  Instead, he held him out to his older brother.  “Look into this innocent little face, and explain to him why he has to die for your principles, you idealistic schoolboy!”

    “Ben!” Marie shrieked, rushing to snatch her child away.  “Oh, Ben, how could you?  How could you use our baby as a pawn in your quarrel?  How could you speak of death in front of him?”  She hurried back to her chair to soothe the unhappy little boy.

    Ben took a deep breath.  “I’m sorry, Marie,” he said.  “I got carried away.”

    “It is inexcusable!” she declared hotly, cradling the brown curls against her breast.

    “Now you’re fighting, too!” Hoss protested.  “I hate war!  It makes everyone fight!”

    Ben stepped back to the fire and pulled Hoss close.  “Yeah, that’s what I was trying to say, son.  You hate war; I hate war; I’m sure Winnemucca hates war, too.  No one except a few fools wants this war, but it’s come to us, against our wills, and if we don’t get this issue settled, it’s the innocent, on both sides, who will suffer.”

    “But fighting, Pa?  Do you really think that’s the only way?” Adam pressed.

    Ben looked across at the boy, who no longer seemed angry, but genuinely asking.  “I do now,” he said quietly.  “It became too late to parley when the Indians had their first taste of victory.  Now there are fools among them, too, who believe they really can drive the white men from this territory, and they’ll fight until they’re soundly defeated.  It really is them or us at this point.”

    Marie’s face paled to the color of freshly laundered linen, and she clutched her youngster even closer.  Seeing her distress, Ben moved swiftly toward her and knelt at her feet.  “Don’t worry,” he soothed.  “I won’t let anyone harm our baby.”  When Marie turned her face away, he reached out to stroke her golden hair.

    Lower lip outthrust, Little Joe looked up at his father.  Ben smiled contritely, patting the little back.  “Everything’s all right, baby,” he soothed, then glanced at Adam.  “Would you take your little brother to bed, son?”

    Marie roused quickly.  “No, I will take him.”

    “We need to talk,” Ben said.  “Adam, please?”

    “Yeah, sure.”  Adam took Little Joe from his mother and started toward the stairs.

    “What about me?” Hoss demanded.  “You wanna talk to me, too, Pa?  I listen better than Adam.”

    Ben shook his head.  “No, I need to talk to Mama alone, son.  You go on to bed.”

    “It ain’t my bedtime!” Hoss protested.

    “Then read in your room!” Ben hollered.  “I’ve had enough argument for one night, boy.”

    Hoss took one look at his father’s irate face and beat Adam to the stairs.

    Adam entered the nursery through the hall door and, carrying Little Joe to the bureau, set him on top.  “Which drawer is your nightshirt in?” he asked.

    “That one,” Little Joe said, leaning over to pat the top drawer.

    “Sit still,” Adam ordered, pushing him back.  He opened the drawer and pulled out a tiny, pale green garment.  Laying it aside temporarily, he began to unbutton his little brother’s dress.

    “Adam, why you make Mama cry?” Little Joe asked, his face puzzled.

    “I didn’t,” Adam replied, drawing a sleeve from the boy’s arm.

    Little Joe’s head bobbed emphatically.  “Unh huh, Adam.  Mama did cry.”

    “But I didn’t make her,” Adam insisted.  “That was Pa’s doing.”

    “Pa’s mad,” Little Joe murmured, lower lip trembling.

    Adam slipped the nightshirt over the small head.  “Not really.  We were arguing, but that doesn’t mean Pa’s mad.”

    “Why you argue?”

    Adam tweaked his brother’s nose.  “You ask too many questions.”  He started untying Little Joe’s sturdy, brown shoes.  Then, pulling off the Lilliputian socks, he tickled the tiny toes.  Little Joe squealed and jerked his feet back so abruptly he almost toppled from his high perch.  “I’d better get you down from there,” Adam said, lifting the child into his crib.  “I forgot what a little wiggleworm you are.”

    “No, no,” Little Joe protested, clinging to the rail of his bed.  “Story first.”  He pointed to the rocking chair by the window.

    “Used to getting your own way, aren’t you?” Adam muttered, but he carried the boy to the rocker, as ordered, and settled him comfortably in his lap.  Seeing the book on the small table by the rocker, he smiled.  “Aesop’s Fables.  I used to read this to Hoss when he was small like you.”

    “Hoss never small,” Little Joe said, green eyes wide and incredulous.  “Always big.”

    Adam laughed.  “You’re right; he was big from the start.”  He began to read, and the very action brought back memories of those early days when he’d been chief caretaker to motherless Hoss.  He’d taken that responsibility seriously, although on most days the most critical decision he’d faced was which fable to read.  Adam had been ready, though, to stand between his younger brother and any danger that threatened back then, and he found that same protectiveness welling up within him now, toward the child in his arms.

    Looking into Little Joe’s placid face, free from the concerns of his elders, Adam knew he couldn’t ask a baby to pay the price for a man’s principles.  Little ones like this were meant to live carefree and lighthearted.  It was what Adam had come home to ensure——for Little Joe and the rest of his family——but the peacefulness of the two days he’d been here had made him forget the impulse that had driven him across the Sierras.

    The situation hadn’t changed, though; the threat to his family still existed.  The Paiutes weren’t to blame, and it was wrong to ride against them, wrong except for one thing:  the little innocent, now sleeping in his lap, wouldn’t be safe in his home until the matter was settled.  That was what his father had tried to explain, but holding the baby had persuaded Adam in a way no amount of argument could.  As he placed his brother in the crib and gently covered him, he knew, when the time came, he’d be riding at his father’s side.

    Downstairs, Ben kissed his wife’s slender fingers.  “We need to discuss how best to provide for your safety while I’m gone,” he said softly.

    “Oh, Ben,” Marie cried, then forced her trembling lips to smile bravely.  “Oui, we must talk of this.”

    Ben rose from his knees and sat on the low table, facing her.  “You’d probably be safe enough here at the Ponderosa,” he said.  “I doubt the Paiutes would come this far, unless things go very badly for us, but with only Adam here to protect you, I’d feel better if you forted up with the other women at the Penrod House in Carson City.  I’ve spoken to Enos, and that’s where Katerina will be, and, of course, Nelly and Laura.”

    “No,” Marie said firmly.

    Ben reached for her hand.  “Marie, I really must insist.”

    She pulled back.  “No, it is I who will insist.  I will not stay here or go to Carson City.  I will take our children to Virginia City.”

    Ben drew back and stared at her, puzzled.  “But why?  There’d be men to protect you in Carson, men you know and trust, and it would be more enjoyable for you to stay with friends.”

    “Enjoyable!”  Marie erupted from her chair.  “Do you think I am concerned with my enjoyment, mon mari?”

    Ben stood and tried to take her in his arms, but, thrusting him away, she walked toward the fire and turned to face him.  “Virginia City is on a mountain,” she said, “harder for the Indians to reach.”

    “Well, perhaps,” Ben conceded.  “I really don’t think they’ll come either place, my love.  I don’t think the Paiutes have a chance of withstanding the forces we’re mounting against them.”

    Marie glared at him, arms akimbo.  “So thought the men who rode to Pyramid Lake.  And they were wrong!”

    Ben couldn’t deny it.  “Yes, but these are trained, military personnel,” he insisted, “not a ragtag bunch of volunteers.”  Seeing Marie cock her head dubiously, Ben shrugged.  “Well, all right, some of us are untrained volunteers, but this really is a more organized campaign, my love.  I’m sure you’ll be perfectly safe in Carson.”

    “I will be perfectly safe in Virginia City!” Marie declared with a flounce of her head.  “You have made your decision, and I will not argue with it.  But I have decided where I feel safest, and that is where I will take our children!”

    There was a knock at the door, and Ben went to answer it.  “Ah, Stefán,” he said.  “I thought that might be you.  Come in, my boy.”

    Marie composed herself quickly.  “I thought you might have decided to stay the night with Katerina.”

    “No, I am sorry to be late,” Stefán apologized, “but there was much to discuss.”

    Ben glanced over his shoulder at his wife.  “Yes, much.”

    “I offered to take Katerina home, until this trouble is past,” Stefán said, “but she will not leave, so I feel I, too, must fight these savages.”

    “We’ll be glad to have you, Stefán.  Katerina is still planning to stay in Carson City?”  When Stefán said she was, Ben looked at Marie.  Seeing her still adamant, he turned back to their guest and said, “My family will be forting up at Virginia City.  We have a couple of days to gather supplies and get the ladies situated.”

    “They will be busy ones,” Stefán commented.  “Please tell me how I can help.”

    Ben extended his hand in appreciation, and Stefán clasped it resolutely.

    The next two days were, as Stefán had predicted, busy ones at the Ponderosa.  While Marie packed for the children and herself and gathered supplies to be taken to Virginia City, the men, Hoss helping, moved the herd down to the better grass of Washoe Valley.  There’d be no one left to watch the stock while they were gone, and Ben had already reconciled himself to the loss of a few head.  Captain Joe of the Washo tribe had surrendered nine guns to the authorities at Carson City to demonstrate his people’s peaceful intent.  Since then the Washos had kept to the hills, perhaps afraid of being mistaken by people new to the territory for the hostile Paiutes, but, scavengers by heritage, they certainly weren’t above appropriating any stray cattle they found.  Ben hoped by moving the cattle further away to suffer fewer losses.

    On the twenty-fourth of May, Ben and his sons hitched the buckboard and loaded it with pillows, sheets, blankets and carpetbags, as well as staple foods.  “Adam, tie that steer and the milk cow to the back,” he ordered as he headed toward the house.

“Sure, Pa,” Adam called, then laid a hand on Hoss’s shoulder.  “Give me a hand?”  He didn’t really need help, but decided to keep Hoss with him in case his father wanted a private word with Marie.

“Yeah, sure,” Hoss said.  As he walked with his brother toward the corral, his face screwed with worry.  “What about Hop Sing, Adam?  How come he ain’t goin’ with us?”

    “He’s gonna stay with some of his own people, over at Chinatown,” Adam explained.  “He’ll be all right.”

    Ben entered the front room, where Marie sat by the cold hearth with Little Joe in her lap.  “You ready?” he asked.

    “As soon as I get his shoes on,” Marie sighed.  “You know how he fights wearing shoes.”

    Ben cupped his youngest son’s chin in his broad palm.  “Sit still, Little Joe, and let Mama put your shoes on.  It’s too cold to go barefoot.”

    “Always too cold,” Little Joe grumbled.

    Ben chuckled.  “This spring it is.”  He shook his head.  The overcast sky outside certainly didn’t look like spring, more like the gray haze of a winter day.  Ben found himself remembering the horrible weather that had attended the first assault on the Paiutes and prayed this expedition would see nothing like it.  The task before them was daunting enough without fighting through mud.

    “There, done,” Marie announced, patting the sole of her son’s small shoe.  Standing, she cast sorrowful eyes around the huge front room.  “I feel as if I were abandoning a child,” she murmured.

    Ben quickly put his arm around her shoulders.  “The Ponderosa will be here waiting when we return,” he promised.

    “Are you sure?” she asked, emerald eyes misty.

    Ben gave her an encouraging squeeze.  “No one’s ever a hundred percent sure of the future,” he admitted, “but I don’t think the Indians will bother the house.  Most of the raids were east of Virginia City.”

    “The Washo?”

    Ben shook his head.  “It’s food they’d want.  They may take a steer or two, and I even set some flour and cornmeal outside the kitchen door.  I think they’re awed enough of the army that they won’t loot our home, Marie, but if we have to, we can start from scratch——as long as we have each other——and the boys.”

    Marie gave him a brave, though not totally relieved, smile.  “We should leave now.”  Nodding, Ben took the little boy and carried him outside.

    As they entered the yard, Marie looked up at the sky and frowned.  “Do you think it will rain?”

    “Might, but I’m hoping we’ll reach Virginia City before it does,” Ben said.

    Hoss was already in the buckboard, seated among the supplies, the dog Klamath between his legs.

“Hoss, I told you you couldn’t take that dog,” Ben said sternly.

“But we can’t leave him, Pa,” Hoss pleaded.  “He’ll starve.”

“Now, Hoss,” Ben comforted.  “Klamath knows how to scavenge for himself.  He’ll probably get fat on rabbits.”

“If them Washos don’t eat him,” Hoss grumbled.  “They’ll eat anything.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Ben scoffed.  “No self-respecting Washo is going to eat dog when he can have beef.”  He lifted Little Joe into the back of the buckboard.  “Here, I’ll make you a trade,” he chuckled, picking up the dog and setting it on the ground.

“Some trade,” Hoss grumbled, scowling at his little brother.

“Hang onto him,” Ben ordered the older boy, “and keep his shoes on.”

“Yes, sir, I’ll try,” Hoss said and shook his finger firmly at Little Joe.  “You be good, you hear?”

    “Always good,” Little Joe assured him, plopping down between his brother’s legs and favoring the world with his characteristically angelic smile.

    Knowing the mischief that could hide behind that innocent countenance, Ben chuckled as he helped Marie to the buckboard’s seat and climbed up beside her.  “All set?” he called.

    “All set,” Adam, already mounted on his sorrel with Ben’s bay on a lead rope, replied.  “I’ll follow, so I can keep an eye on the boys.”

    “You do that.”  Ben looked across the yard, where Stefán was tying a steer by a lead rope to his saddle horn.  “God speed, boy,” he called.

    Stefán acknowledged the farewell with a wave and mounted.  For a while he rode beside Adam, but when the Cartwrights turned toward Virginia City, he headed for Carson, towing the steer Ben was donating to the women and children there.  Better them than the Washos, Ben had said, so Stefán willingly pulled the animal behind him, satisfied that, along with the load of supplies Enos was bringing, his sister and the others barricaded in the Penrod Hotel would have plenty to eat.

    It was past noon when Ben pulled up before Peter O’Riley’s unfinished hotel, one of the few stone buildings in town.  He noted that the windows had been bricked up since he’d last visited Virginia City.  That would make the fortress safer in case of attack, but it would also make the interior very dark.  “The boys won’t like that,” he muttered under his breath.

    “What?” Marie asked.

    “Uh, nothing,” Ben said.  “This is where the women and children are staying, Marie.”

    “A good, solid building,” Marie remarked.  “Yes, we will be safe here.”

    “Of course, you will,” Ben said, mostly to encourage her.  “Well, we’d better get these supplies unloaded.”  He lifted his wife to the ground, then reached for Little Joe.

    “I want down, Pa,” Little Joe said, wrestling against his father’s hold.  He’d never been to Virginia City and it looked like a fine place to explore.

    “Oh, no,” Ben chuckled.  “You’ll take off if I set you down.  You go to Mama.”  He plunked the youngster into his mother’s outstretched arms.

    “Why, Mrs. Cartwright!” a voice called from the open doorway.  “I didnae expect to see you here.”

    Marie turned and smiled to see a familiar face.  “Ah, Madame Bowers. Oui, I convinced Ben this was the safest place for us.”

    “To be sure, to be sure,” Mrs. Bowers cooed, “but it’s just Eilley, dearie.”  She reached for Little Joe.  “May I hold the baby?” she asked, her voice almost pleading.

    Little Joe went to her willingly, for he was the kind of child who never met a stranger.

    “Ooh, what a fine, big boy,” Eilley gushed.

Little Joe beamed, liking his new friend better by the minute.  No one had ever called him big before, and it sounded good.

Looking at Marie, Eilley giggled.  “I know I take on over bairns, but I’ve always loved them and wished I had some of me ain.”

    “Perhaps you will, now that you and Monsieur Bowers have married,” Marie said sympathetically.

    “God willing,” Eilley said.  “Well, come in, dearie, and let me show you around Ft. O’Riley.”

    Seeing that his wife was in good hands, Ben turned his attention to unloading the wagon.  Adam, having already dismounted and tied the horses up, was ready to help him.  Hoss, strong enough to lift all but the 100-lb. sack of flour, stayed to help, too.

    “I know it’s dark in here,” Eilley was explaining to Marie inside the hotel, “but I, for one, welcome solid walls between me and those murdering savages.”

    “Oui,” Marie murmured, shivering.

    A thin woman with sharp, angular features, came forward.  “Howdy doo,” she said.  “I’m Mrs. Tilton, Mrs. J. H. Tilton,” she added with a proud uptilting of her chin.

    “Madame Tilton?  It is a pleasure to meet you,” Marie smiled.  “I am Madame Cartwright.”

    “Madame?” Mrs. Tilton repeated, obviously unfamiliar with that term of address.

    Eilley laughed.  “You’ll have to get used to Marie’s French ways, Mrs. Tilton.  She’s from New Orleans.”

    Even in the dim light, Marie could see Mrs. Tilton stiffen.

    “I see,” Mrs. Tilton murmured.  “Another one of them.”  An infant’s cry resounded through the room.  “Excuse me,” Mrs. Tilton said pointedly.  “I must see to my daughter.”

    “Oh, you have a——” Marie began, but the woman was gone, drawing her skirts close to her body.  Marie turned puzzled eyes on Eilley Orrum Bowers.  “Did I offend in some way?”

    Eilley set Little Joe down and took Marie’s arm.  “You didn’t do a thing, dearie.  That Tilton woman is a little high on herself, is all.”  She leaned close to Marie’s ear.  “There’s another Frenchwoman here.  I fear Mrs. High-and-Mighty Tilton takes a dim view of French folk, thanks to her.  She’s a——well, a woman men visit of an evening.  Name’s Julia Bulette.”

    “Oh,” Marie said, her voice gentle, uncondemning.

    Meanwhile, Little Joe, freed of the restraint of watchful women, had ambled across the room in search of whatever was making that crying sound.  He came up to the cradle and peeked inside.  “It’s little,” he murmured in wonderment, having never before seen a child smaller than himself.

    “Of course, she’s little, child.  She’s a baby, just seven and a half weeks old,” Mrs. Tilton said, lifting her daughter from the small bed.

    “Oh.  I’m three,” Little Joe said sociably.

    “I’m sure you are.  Go back to your mother now, child,” Mrs. Tilton said brusquely.  “I have to feed my daughter.”

    “We brought food,” Little Joe offered.

    “Not the kind she eats.  Run along, child.”

    Seeing nothing more to explore in this corner, Little Joe decided to comply.  He spotted Hoss, carrying a sack of dried beans, and trotted up to him.  “There’s a baby here, Hoss——a real baby,” he informed his brother earnestly.

    “Well, that’s good,” Hoss said, dumping the beans in the corner with all the other supplies.  “You’ll have someone to play with.”

    Little Joe shook his head.  “Too little.  You want me help you?”

    Hoss just laughed and tousled Little Joe’s curly hair before heading outside for another load.

    After a few minutes Ben came up to Marie.  “The supplies are unloaded.  If you’ll tell me where you plan to bed down, I’ll have the boys bring the bedding.”

    “You can have your pick of rooms,” Eilley Bowers laughed.  “No doors on ‘em and no beds, either, but there’s plenty of rooms for each family to have their own.  You dinnae have to sleep on the bare floor, though.  Some of the miners that hightailed it for California left their mattresses behind, and we confiscated them.”

    Ben chuckled.  “I hear it’s done in time of war, ladies, and I’m sure those miners wouldn’t begrudge you the use of them.”

    Eilley giggled back.  “Well, they looked pretty disreputable when we first got them, but we’ve aired them out good and stuffed them full of fresh straw.  You shouldn’t find any lice, at least.”

    Marie shuddered.  Seeing that, Ben leaned close to her ear.  “I can still take you to Carson; just say the word.”

    Marie shook her head.  “I’ll take the first empty room I find, if you wish to follow me with the sheets and blankets.”  Suddenly, she spun around.  “Where is Little Joe?” she cried sharply.

    “Getting under Hoss’s feet,” Ben responded dryly.  “Don’t worry; Hoss will watch him.”  He turned to Mrs. Bowers.  “I haven’t officially volunteered yet.  Do you know who I need to see, Eilley?”

    “Jack Hays, who used to be with the Texas Rangers, is overall leader,” Eilley replied, “but the Virginia Rifles report to Captain Storey.”

    “That’s probably who I should see,” Ben said.

    “Oh, you will be back, won’t you?” Marie asked shakily.

    “I won’t leave without saying good-bye,” he promised, placing a light kiss on her cheek.

    As he went to get the bedding, Eilley gave the younger woman a reassuring smile.  “Dinnae fret, dearie.  I dinnae think anyone’s marching out until tomorrow.”

    “Oui, it would make no sense to leave so late in the day,” Marie conceded.  “I am being foolish.”

    “Easy to do when you’re worried,” Eilley offered generously.  “Let’s get you and these youngsters settled in.”  She took a lantern and headed down the dark hallway.  “This room do?” she asked, holding the light so Marie could see inside.  “It’s right next to mine.”

    “Oui, it will be good to be near a friend,” Marie smiled.  “Oh, but there are only two mattresses.”

    “No problem,” Eilley laughed.  “We can haul another one or two in.”  She smiled at Hoss, who was coming up the hall with a pillow under each arm and a small boy at his heels.  “Maybe this hefty lad would help me do that.”

    “Sure,” Hoss said.  “How many you want, Mama?”

    “Just one, I suppose,” Marie mused.  “Only——are there any men here, Madame Bowers?”

    “Eilley, dearie,” the older woman reminded, handing her the lantern.  “Sandy’s staying the night with me.  I’m sure it’s fine if your menfolk do the same.  Just Ben and the oldest boy, right, besides these two?”  When Marie nodded, Eilley held her hand toward Hoss.  “Let’s see what we can find, shall we, boy?”

    “Yes’m,” Hoss agreed readily.

    “I cannae quite recall your name,” she said as they went down the hall to another room, “but I remember it being something unusual.”

    “It’s Hoss,” her companion replied, “and my baby brother is Little Joe.”

    “I’m not a baby,” a petulant voice right behind Hoss declared.

    Hoss spun around.  “What you doin’ here?  You should stay with Mama.”

    “I wanna help,” Little Joe pouted.

    “You aren’t big enough to help,” Hoss said emphatically.

    “It’s all right,” Eilley said.  “He’ll not be any trouble.”

    “‘Course, he will,” Hoss grumbled.  “He always is.”

    “Well, not to me,” Eilley laughed.  “Come here, sweetie.”

    Little Joe gave his brother a triumphant grin and sidled up to Mrs. Bowers.

    The trio returned, Hoss and Eilley each dragging a narrow mattress, while Little Joe wove in and out between their legs.  “I told you he’d be trouble,” Hoss observed dourly.

    When they reached the Cartwright chamber, Ben and Adam quickly moved to take the bulky load from the smaller bearers.  As soon as the mattresses were laid on the floor, Little Joe pounced on one.  “Mine,” he declared.

    “Little Joe, get up from there,” Ben scolded.

    Eilley laughed.  “In a mining community it pays to stake your claim early.  You know that, Ben.”

    “I’m not raising miners,” Ben stated bluntly.  “Move, Little Joe.”

    Little Joe cocked his head in a beseeching attitude.  “I’m sleepy, Pa.”

    “Oh, by all means, put him to bed,” Adam chuckled.  “He’ll get into less mischief that way.”

    “It’s a point,” Ben admitted.  “Let Mama put the sheets on first, son.”  Little Joe obligingly rolled off into the floor.

    “I’d better get our horses down to the livery,” Adam suggested.  “You tell Captain Storey I’m joining up, too, okay, Pa?”

    “Yeah, okay,” Ben mumbled.  He still felt disgruntled about Adam’s decision to ride with the volunteer militia.  Ben had assumed his son would stay behind to protect Marie and the boys, but Adam had countered that he’d do a better job of that by keeping the Paiutes away from town.  It was an argument Ben found hard to dispute, since it was the reason he himself was volunteering.  He could, of course, have ordered Adam to remain in town, where he’d be safer, but that would have been treating him like a child when Adam, like his friend Billy, obviously considered himself a man.

    Ben yawned and rolled to his side, then after a few moments sat up and began to pull on his boots.  In the windowless hotel room, he couldn’t tell whether it was still night or if morning had finally come, but it was pointless to try to sleep.  Not only were the straw mattresses lumpy, but that baby down the hall was crying again, as she had, off and on, throughout the night.  As a result, his own baby boy had wakened repeatedly and made his dissatisfaction known with pitiable whimpers.  Little Joe was sleeping soundly between his parents now, however, so Ben moved cautiously, not wanting to disturb him or anyone else.

    “Ben?  Ben, is it morning?” a groggy voice whispered.

    Ben leaned across the little boy and kissed his wife’s forehead.  “I don’t know.  Can’t tell in here.  I’m gonna step outside and get my bearings.”

    “All right,” Marie murmured and sank sleepily into her pillow.

    Suspecting he could have seen his own breath, had the light been better, Ben shivered as he felt his way down the dark hall.  It had been an unseasonably cold spring, and the only heat in the hotel came from the cookstove installed in the lobby.  Ben didn’t envy Marie her stay in these accommodations.  Dark, cold, poor bedding and noisy youngsters.  Those were the kind of conditions that could grow old fast.

    Ben quickly forgot his wife’s problems as he stepped outside and felt the frosty air bite his cheeks.  The sun was just beginning to come up, and against the pale golden glow in the east he could see flutters of white crystal floating earthward.  He groaned and cast suppliant eyes heavenward, wondering if God was so opposed to what the white men were planning that He’d once again sent intolerable weather to hinder them.

    Alone on the street, Ben prayed.  Dear God, punish me if You must, but not my wife, not my boys.  If it was a mistake to settle here, the mistake was mine, not theirs.  They only followed where I led.  If there’s a price to be paid, let me pay it——not Adam, even though he marches with me, and, dear God, especially not these innocents who stay behind.

    Ben sighed deeply and felt peace settle in his bosom.  Confident his prayer had been heard and would be answered as a loving God saw fit, he turned and walked back to the room where his family slept.

    Adam stirred as he came in.  “Pa, is it time?” he asked anxiously.

    “Just about,” Ben said softly.  “You might as well get up——and dress warm, son; it’s snowing.”

    Understanding the problems bad weather could create, Adam moaned.  “Bad?” he asked, throwing the covers back.

    “Not yet,” Ben replied.  “Just enough to muddy things up.”

    After an early breakfast Adam hurried down to the livery and sloshed back through the mud, leading the two horses.  The rest of the family stepped outside just as he arrived to say their good-byes.  Ben had scooped Little Joe up at the last minute, hopeful of keeping him, at least, out of the mud.  “Good-bye, little son,” Ben whispered, poi-gnantly hugging the child close.  “Be a good boy; mind Mama and brother Hoss.”

    “I wanna go with you, Pa,” Little Joe lisped.

    “No, you’re too small for a soldier,” Ben said and kissed the boy’s cheek before handing him to his oldest brother.

    “Bye, Adam,” Little Joe said, pouting.  It seemed to him that Adam always got to ride off with Pa, while he never did.

    “Bye, baby.”  Adam stroked the little one’s soft curls, wondering if he’d ever see him again.

    “I’m not a baby,” Little Joe declared, kicking Adam’s ribs.  He’d seen what a real baby looked like——and sounded like——and didn’t appreciate being put in the same category with noisy little Miss Tilton.

    “Ouch!” Adam said.  “You behave yourself or I’ll drop you in the mud.”

    “Okay,” Little Joe said, all smiles again, and Adam had to laugh at himself for threatening a little boy with a mud puddle.  Mud puddles, he remembered from his years of tending Hoss, were the natural habitat of youngsters this size.

    Ben had turned next to his second son, giving him a hearty hug.  “I’m counting on you to watch over Mama and your little brother, Hoss.”

    Hoss squared his shoulders.  “Yes, sir, Pa.  I’ll look after ‘em real good.  Ain’t no Paiutes gonna touch ‘em.”

    “Or you, either,” Ben said.  “You’re safe here, son, but it’ll be hard to stay cooped up in that hotel.  Not much to do, so you help keep Little Joe amused, all right?  That’ll be the biggest help you could be.”

    “I brung my Noah’s Ark for him,” Hoss said.

    Ben smiled.  “Yeah, I know.  That was a good idea.  Say good-bye to your brother now, while I have a word with Mama.”

    Marie came at once into his outstretched arms.  “Oh, mon mari, I wish you did not have to go,” she murmured, leaning against his breast.

    “I wish that, too, my love, but you know I must.”

    Marie blinked back the mist in her eyes.  “Oui.  If it were not for the children, I would ride at your side.”

“You would not,” Ben stated firmly.  “I wouldn’t allow it.”

    Marie lowered her eyes in demure submission, but when she looked up again, a spark of mischief glittered in the emerald orbs.  “Well, this, at least, you shall take to remember me by.”  She circled his chest with her arms, lifted her lips and kissed him with lingering fervor.

    A few feet away, Mrs. Tilton saw the kiss and sniffed haughtily.  “Of all the unladylike displays,” she ranted, “exhibiting her lust like that on a public street.  She’s no better than that Bulette woman!”

    J. H. Tilton nodded, for he knew better than to argue with his strongly opinioned wife.  As he watched the Cartwrights’ farewell, however, he couldn’t help wishing his own wife’s cold kiss on the cheek had held a little more of the passion he saw expressed between Ben and Marie.

    Standing apart from the others was Julia Bulette, oblivious to the snowflakes, laughing and waving as the miners marched past.  The civilian soldiers, many of whom had sampled the entertainment she provided for a price, blew back kisses in return and promised to defend her to the last man.  When the last one passed, however, Julia walked back toward the hotel, knowing that no man could defend her from the hostility within those walls.  Among men, she was in her element, but there were no men at Ft. O’Riley. God preserve me from the righteous indignation of decent women, she thought, then laughed bitterly.  Since when had God taken note of the likes of her?

    Little Joe made the final pair of animals climb the ramp into Noah’s Ark, then frowned.  It seemed to him that everyone at Ft. O’Riley was paired off like the animals——everyone except him.  Mama and the ladies were in one corner of the lobby talking recipes and dress patterns.  Hoss had found a boy nearer his own age to play with, and that left Little Joe with no one but that squalling Tilton baby, who let loose her annoying bellows at any time of the day or night she chose.  Little Joe considered playing by himself better than keeping company with her, but he was not a child who liked being alone.

    For a moment he considered plopping himself in Miss Eilley’s lap.  Miss Eilley liked children and always seemed ready to pet and pat him, but she was busy talking lady talk now, so he probably couldn’t get a story out of her.  Scanning the room for possibilities, the little boy’s sharp eyes fell on the one other person not paired off.  Being alone wasn’t good, he concluded.  Even Noah’s animals knew that, but there were two people sitting by themselves in this room.  Little Joe decided, with his characteristic impulsiveness, to correct the situation.

    The youngster ambled over to the lady seated by herself in one corner of the lobby and, putting on his most charming smile, said, “My name’s Little Joe.  What’s yours?”

    The woman laughed lightly.  “I am Julia, petit garVon.”

    Little Joe’s smile broadened.  “You talk like Mama.  You know any stories?”

    “Perhaps,” Julia said softly, tenderly touching the golden brown curl on the boy’s forehead.

    Little Joe promptly appropriated her lap.  “Tell one,” he demanded and flashed his endearing smile once more.  With a tinkling laugh, Julia complied.

    From across the room Mrs. Tilton saw the little boy climb into the harlot’s lap, and immediately her spine stiffened.  “Well, really!” she declared.  The other ladies in the circle raised questioning eyes to her face.  “Of course, it’s no concern of mine,” Mrs. Tilton observed haughtily, “but I certainly wouldn’t allow a child of mine to consort with that hussy.”

    Though her back was to the open room, Marie knew instinctively whose child was meant.  She turned and saw Little Joe cuddling up to Julia Bulette.  “I am sure she means him no harm,” she said softly.  “The long hours in the dark are hard on the little ones.  It is kind of her to amuse him.”

    “Well, really,” Mrs. Tilton huffed.  “Of course, if you want him to develop a taste for her kind of amusement——”

    Marie flushed deeply, and fire sparked in her eyes as she stood.  “I do not, of course, wish him to disturb Mademoiselle Bulette.”  With a flounce of her skirt in Mrs. Tilton’s direction, she headed across the room.

    Little Joe smiled happily when he saw his mother.  “Miss Julie’s telling me a story, Mama.  Wanna hear it?”

    Marie touched the top of his head lovingly, but her eyes turned with concern to Julia Bulette.  “Is my little boy bothering you?”

    “No!” Little Joe protested indignantly.

    “Little Joe, do not interrupt when your elders are speaking,” his mother admonished.

    Little Joe stuck out his lower lip.  He’d heard that instruction before, and it seemed to him a most unfair one.  Everybody was his elder, and if he couldn’t ever interrupt one, he might as well give up talking altogether.

    “No, he is no bother,” Julia said quickly.  “I am glad of his company, Madame.”

    “But you need not sit here alone.  Come join us nearer the fire,” Marie suggested.

    Julia gave her a bittersweet smile.  “Merci, Madame, but I do not think I would find a warm welcome there.”

    Marie nodded.  “May I join you then?”  When Julia did not respond, she sat on the floor beside her.  “Parlez-vous franVais?” Marie asked, tilting her head to examine the other woman’s face.

    “ Oui.  Je suis de New Orleans, Madame.”

    Marie’s silvery laugh rang out.  “You are not French, Mademoiselle Bulette——at least, not by birth.”

    Julia raised questioning eyes to her companion’s face.  “But why do you say this, Madame?”

     “Because I am French, Mademoiselle Julie.  Vous parlez trés bien, mais l’accent”——lifting fingers to her lips, Marie giggled.  “I have heard worse,” she said, thinking of Camilla Larrimore’s appalling accent, “but it is not that of a true Frenchwoman.”

    Julia laughed, too, then.  “I see there’s no fooling the genuine article.  No, I’m English by birth, a Londoner, but I did live a long time in New Orleans, and using the language adds allure to my——uh, my——”

    “Profession?” Marie suggested.

    “I am sorry, Madame,” Julia said with genuine contrition.  “I should not speak of that to a woman of your class——and certainly not before an innocent child.”

    The “innocent child” had refrained from interrupting as long as he could.  Now he pulled urgently at Julia’s sleeve.  “Finish the story, please,” he urged, alternating his pleading looks between his mother and his new friend.

    Marie laughed.  “Perhaps you should.  Then we will be able to speak in peace.”

    “But, Madame,” Julia protested.  “You should give thought to your reputation.”

    Marie laid a gentle hand on Julia’s arm.  “I, too, know what it is to feel the scorn of women, and those whose respect I value will not think less of me because I speak with you.  Please finish your story.”

    “Please,” Little Joe begged.  Both women laughed and, giving the little boy a squeeze, Julia launched back into her tale.

    Across the room Mrs. Tilton sniffed.  “Gone back to her own kind, I see.”

    “No, she’s a good woman, to my knowledge, and her husband is quite prominent, one of our oldest settlers,” Eilley defended.  “But she’s young and evidently doesn’t understand the value of proper social connections.”

    “Indeed not!” Mrs. Tilton affirmed.

    Adam filled two tin cups with coffee and handed one to his father.

    “Thanks, son,” Ben said.  He took a sip and his lip curled.  “Well, I’ve had better, but it’s hot.”

    Squatting beside him, Adam grinned.  “You could say the same for the food, Pa.”

    Ben laughed.  “Lost your taste for trail food, have you?”

    Adam sneered eloquently.  “Lost that back in ’50, coming across the plains.  Too bad we couldn’t bring Hop Sing along, huh?  Now, that would be good trail grub!”

    Ben nodded, smiling.  “We’re camped close to him tonight.”  The volunteers had marched all day, cheered by citizens lining the road down Gold Canyon, and finally had set up camp at Miller’s Ranch.  “Why don’t you trot over to Chinatown and suggest he sign on as cook?”

    Adam took a long draught of coffee.  “Not anxious to end up in the stewpot for meat, that’s why.”  Tired of squatting, he finally gave up and sat down in the chilly mud.  “You think this rotten weather will ever end, Pa?”  All day, as they’d marched down the steep slope from Virginia City, a light snow had fallen, melting into slick, slippery mud as soon as it touched the ground.

    Ben shook his head ruefully.  “I’d bet against it.”

    Adam looked west.  “Make it hard for the others to catch up, I guess.”

    “Yeah,” Ben admitted, then smiled.  “Don’t worry.  Billy’ll be here in time for the action.  That’s a surer bet than the weather.”

    Adam laughed.  “Yeah, I was thinking of him.  Stefán and Mark, too.  They’ll all come together, don’t you think?”

    “It’d make for safer travel,” Ben said, “but I’m not sure.”

    “Slower travel, that’s for sure,” Adam sighed.  Both with the Carson Valley Expedition and with the militia today, he’d seen how much more slowly a body of men moved than a man alone.  Why, an Express rider like Billy could cover the ground they’d crossed today in a couple of hours, but with more than five hundred men marching, the twelve miles had taken the entire day.

    Hearing commotion somewhere down the camp, Adam’s head jerked up.  “Wonder what that is.”

    Ben’s brow furrowed.  “Sounds like someone’s angry.”

    “I’m gonna check it out,” Adam said.

    “You be careful,” Ben cautioned.  “Don’t get caught in the middle of someone else’s quarrel.”

    Adam stood and slapped the mud from his britches.  “Sort of why we’re here, isn’t it?”  He hadn’t been able to resist the jab, but the hard look his father gave him made him wish he’d kept the thought to himself.  Though Adam had finally decided to join the militia, he still couldn’t help thinking that he and his father were mixing in with other men’s quarrels with the Paiutes.

    He walked toward the sound of the angry voices and before long saw Colonel Hays standing between a group of settlers on one side and a company of volunteers from Sacramento on the other.  “Bring it back,” Hays shouted to the volunteers.  “Every last blanket, gun and animal.  We’re here to protect these people, not steal from them!”

    “What’s up?” Adam whispered to a man maybe three years older than himself.

    “That Sacramento company’s been gatherin’ up supplies from the settlers all along the road,” the youth replied.  “Settlers showed up and raised a huff about it.”

    “Can’t blame them,” Adam grunted.  “You don’t take a man’s goods without leave in these parts.  Vigilantes have been called out for less.”

    The other fellow nodded.  “True enough.  We might need more supplies before this is over, but most of us brought our own gear.”

    Piece by piece, the Sacramento company brought rifles, pistols, food and blankets and piled them at Hays’ feet.  Horses and mules, too, were led up and ropes and reins handed to the citizens of the territory.  “Is that all?” Hays demanded.

    “Some of the food was et already,” a Sacramento man admitted, “but what’s left is all there.”

    Hays turned to the citizens’ representatives.  “My apologies, gentlemen.  If you’ll tell me the value of the missing food, I’ll pay for it.”

    “No need,” one of the leaders replied.  “We won’t begrudge them a little food.  Could have had that for the asking, but when you start taking a man’s livestock and the weapons he needs to protect his family, it’s another story.”

    “Yes, sir,” Hays said.  “Again, you have my apologies.”  He turned to the men from Sacramento.  “You, sirs, have my contempt.  We don’t need volunteers of your caliber.  Your company is dismissed.  I suggest you start back to Sacramento at first light.”  The men from Sacramento erupted with loud protests.

    Shaking his head, Adam walked back toward his bedroll.  It seemed incongruous to him to be marching against Indians when the white men couldn’t keep peace among themselves for even one day.  He agreed with Hays’ decision to dismiss the pillagers, but if the militia kept losing men at this rate, there’d be no one left to fight by the time they reached Pyramid Lake.

    Ben scoffed at the concern when Adam expressed it.  “We have fifteen separate companies of volunteers,” he said, “not to mention the regular army.  Spy Company, Sierra Guards, Nevada Rifles, Truckee Rangers, Carson Rifles and more, not to mention our own Virginia Rifles.  Oh, there’s plenty of men for an outright massacre, but I pray God that’s not what it turns out to be.”

    Marie stepped through the front door of the hotel and took a deep breath.  After the close confinement all day, the evening air was refreshingly cool on her cheeks.

    “Excuse me, ma’am,” a man’s voice called from across the street, “but you folks are supposed to stay inside.”

    “ Monsieur, s’il vous plait,” Marie implored.

    A slender hand rested lightly on her shoulder.  “Let me handle him,” Julia Bulette offered.  Sauntering across the street, she spoke cajolingly to the miner, then motioned Marie forward.  “I promised him we’d stay in sight,” she told Marie, “but we’ll stretch our legs a bit.”

    “ Merci,” Marie whispered.  “I could not tolerate those four walls a moment longer.  I do not think there is danger, do you?  The Paiutes would not attack at night, would they?”

    Julia laughed.  “I wouldn’t know, but I figure there’s enough men between them and us that we’d get a little warning.  Enough to risk a moonlight stroll, I think.”  She hooked her arm through the crook of Marie’s elbow.

    Marie smiled.  “There is not much moon to light our path tonight.”

    Julia laughed again.  “Oui, that is true.  Still, it’s more light than we’ve seen all day.”

    Thinking of the dark hotel, Marie shook her head.  “I should have listened to my husband.  He wanted us to go to Carson City, where we would be among friends, but I let my fears rule my head.”  She looked quickly up at Julia.  “Oh, I did not mean to say you are not a friend.”

    “Madame, you need not apologize,” Julia replied.  “I’m not the right kind of friend for a woman like you.  Surely, you’ve seen the way the others are looking at you since you started talking to me.”

    Marie shrugged.  “I have seen such looks before.  They hurt, of course, but not so much as when I faced them alone.”

    “You said something about knowing the scorn of women before,” Julia said. “In New Orleans?”

    Marie nodded and began to relate the history of her first marriage to Jean D’Marigny, his mother’s plot to brand her, without justification, an adulteress and Ben’s defense of her honor in a duel beneath the oaks outside New Orleans.  She was surprised to find herself speaking so freely of those painful days.  Even to her closest friends, she had not disclosed the full story, sensing that it lay too far outside their experience for them to understand.  With this woman, however, who had also known the contempt of decent women, she found herself opening at once.

    “Ah,” Julia sighed as Marie described Ben’s proposal and their subsequent marriage, “it is the kind of fairy tale ending all women such as I yearn for.”

    Marie touched her new friend’s arm gently.  “There are not many like my Ben,” she said, “but perhaps for you, too, there is somewhere a handsome prince out of a fairy tale.”

    Julia’s laugh was bitter.  “I have met no princes in Virginia City——or elsewhere.  No, Madame, I suspect my life will have a far less romantic ending.”

    “Well, I shall pray you do find such a prince,” Marie vowed sincerely.  “I do not know what brought you to the kind of life you now live, but I think you deserve better, mon amie.  You have a kind and loving heart.”

    Julia flushed with an emotion she had felt certain could no longer touch her hardened defenses.  “You are too generous, Madame,” she murmured, then tossed her head as if to shake loose unwelcome thoughts.  “We should return.  We are straying a bit far.”

    “ Oui,” Marie agreed with a sigh.  She and Julia turned and began retracing their steps.  Neither was eager to rejoin the polite society of Ft. O’Riley.  To those under its judgement, that society felt as much like a battleground as any to which the men were marching.

    Friday was spent in camp receiving commissary stores and complaining about their quality.  The next morning Ben, Adam and the other volunteers woke at daybreak and before they’d traveled a mile felt their faces pelted with a mixture of rain and sleet that slowed their progress even more than their first day’s march.  After going only eight miles, they made camp near Reed’s Station.  Hays refused to waste the remaining daylight, however.  He sent one man, Michael Bushy, out as scout to see if there were any sign of Paiutes between there and Williams’ Station, then began to drill the other “soldiers” of the Washoe Regiment on the sagebrush flat near the Carson River.

Though he hated marching in the mud, Ben welcomed the training, both for himself and for Adam.  Ben had done some fighting against other men in his years at sea, but none like what they’d face soon; Adam, of course, had no experience whatever; and while some of the other men boasted loudly, Ben suspected they were as untried as he and his son.  “Frankly, I’ll rest easier when the regular army joins us,” he whispered to Adam when they broke ranks for the evening meal at the camp the men had affectionately dubbed Fort Hays after their commander-in-chief.

    Adam nodded.  He’d had a chance to watch the Carson Valley Expedition on their march across the mountains and hadn’t been able to ignore the difference between them and the volunteers struggling to act like soldiers here.  The sooner they had trained men among them to lead the way, the better.

    Sitting on her straw mattress in their cubicle at the hotel, Marie rocked Little Joe to soothe him back to sleep.  The drumming of raindrops and pellets of sleet on the roof had kept everyone on edge throughout the day and made impossible the youngster’s regular nap.  As she crooned a soft lullaby, Marie found her thoughts straying to Ben and Adam, who had no shelter from this icy downpour.  “God keep them,” she prayed in her heart, “from the Paiutes and from catching their deaths of cold in this dampness.”

    Adam dragged his hand across his nose.  The rain had finally stopped sometime during the night, but the wind was still so cold, so laden with moisture, that it made his eyes water and his nose drip.  Looking across at his father, he saw Ben, too, bring his hand to his nose.  To pass the time and keep his mind off other worries, Adam began to count men wiping their noses.  He and Pa weren’t alone; in fact, most of the men seemed to be suffering the same symptoms.

    A dripping nose was nothing to complain about, however, not when one considered the likely fate of Michael Bushy.  The scout hadn’t returned to Camp Hays and the further the volunteers rode, the less likely it seemed that they’d run across anything but a dead body.  Hays had sent out Warren Wasson as their new scout, and Adam didn’t envy the man his job.  Riding alone into hostile country was a good way to demonstrate your bravery; it was also a good way to get yourself killed, as Michael Bushy evidently had.  By the time they made camp that evening, they’d still seen no trace of the scout.

    The Washoe Regiment broke camp before dawn the next morning.  It wasn’t raining, but the air was cold and damp.  Eyes still watered, noses still ran, and misery prevailed as the men marched through Carson Canyon, barren bluffs above them and stands of cottonwood, aspen and willow at their sides.

    The forces kept up a steady march throughout the day, pressing on even after the sun began to set.  As they moved past Buckland’s Station, Ben remembered watching Clyde and Nelly sadly embrace each other there, grieving over the son they were sure they’d lost.  Fear gripped his heart as he thought that he might be the one straining his eyes for sight of a son this time.  He’d have to keep an eye out for Billy, too, since Clyde was still too hampered by his shoulder injury to ride with the Carson Rifles this time.  Then there were Stefán and Mark, sons of dear friends.  All in all, there were just too many people to fear for on this expedition, and in the midst of a battle a man had little control over any of their fates.  As they crossed Big Meadows and forded the Carson River, Ben did the only thing he knew that would help:  he commended the lives of all his friends and loved ones into the hands of God.

Thinking of the young men made Ben’s turn in the saddle almost automatic, but he hadn’t expected to see anything.  In the distance, however, another group of men was moving toward them.  “Looks like we’ll have company by nightfall,” he commented to Adam, riding at his side.

Adam immediately swiveled in his saddle.  “Yeah, if they push they can catch us,” he said with satisfaction.

    Within an hour Billy Thomas, riding ahead, loped up to his friend’s side.  “Howdy,” he drawled.  “Bet you thought we’d never get here.”

    “No, I’ve never been that lucky,” Adam quipped, then laughed at the look on Billy’s face.  “I’m glad to see you, you know that.  Where’s the rest and who gave you permission to break ranks?”

    “Aw, they’ll be comin’ along——Carson Rifles, that is,” Billy said.  “Regular military’s movin’ too slow to catch up today.  Tomorrow, maybe.  Stefán stayed with them, and Mark, of course.  I’m supposed to talk to your commander, see where you aim to make camp.”

    “I’m pretty sure we’ll be camping at Williams’ Station,” Ben said, “but you’d better check with Colonel Hays.  He’s up ahead.”

    “See you later then,” Billy said and urged his horse forward.

    The Washoe Regiment, with the Carson Rifles constantly gaining ground, climbed a plateau and saw there the remains of Williams’ Station, the blackened buildings and the grave dug by Major Ormsby’s men before that first battle at Pyramid Lake.  At the grave’s head someone had carved a rough pine board with these words:  “Sacred to the remains of the persons murdered on the night of May 7th, 1860, at Williams’ Station, on the Carson River.  It being the partial remains of three bodies.”

    As camp was being made, Colonel Hays called the names of two trusted men.  He ordered Captain Fleeson of Spy Company to select ten of the best men and ride two or three miles ahead to establish a camp to serve as a warning base.  Then he sent a message back to Captain Blackburn of the Carson Rifles to take two men, locate the Paiutes and try to lure them to the main camp in the morning.

    Over hot coffee, Billy boasted to Ben and Adam about being chosen for the mission.  “Blackburn knows I got experience scoutin’,” he bragged, “and bein’ a rider for the Pony Express, I can ride fast if them injuns does come after us.”

    Ben reached over to rumple the boy’s flame-colored hair.  “If he knew you as well as we do, he’d put you at the back, guarding the cattle.”  Not knowing how long they’d be gone, the volunteers had brought their four-footed commissary with them.

    “Naw,” Adam drawled.  “Too much chance of the whole regiment going hungry that way.  It’s safer sending him ahead.  That way he only gets his own fool head blown off.  Must be what Blackburn was thinking.”

    “You’re just jealous,” Billy taunted.

    “No, I’m not,” Adam said, suddenly sober.  “You be careful.  Remember Michael Bushy.”

    “Aw, he probably just high-tailed it,” Billy scoffed, but it was obvious to anyone who saw his face that he didn’t believe his own words.

    When Billy rode out the next morning, huge thunderheads loomed over the Sierras and the wind off the mountains sent chills down his back.  “Doggone weather ain’t no better than last time,” he muttered as he set off with J. L. Blackburn and one other man.  “Least it ain’t rainin’——yet.”

    Little Joe peeked into the cradle and nodded with satisfaction at the sleeping baby.

    “Don’t bother her, child,” Mrs. Tilton said sharply.

    Unperturbed, Little Joe smiled at the woman.  “I wouldn’t wake her up,” he assured Virginia’s mother.  “I like her better when she’s sleepin’.”

    Marie, who was taking the noon meal with the main group of ladies, steeled herself for an icy retort from Mrs. Tilton.  Instead, a smile twitched at the older woman’s mouth.  “Some might say the same of you,” she teased the three-year-old boy.  Even she couldn’t resist Little Joe’s disarming charm.  Marie relaxed as the other ladies tittered.

Hoss, polishing off his second plate of stew, threw back his head and guffawed loudly.  “They do say the same about him,” he announced.  “Uncle Clyde says the only time he’s good is when he’s asleep and not havin’ bad dreams.”

The ladies laughed louder this time.  Across the room Julia Bulette looked up from her solitary plate of stew.  She could hear the laughter, but not the remarks that inspired it.

    “He says it about you, too,” Marie teased.

    “I suppose we all be at our best when we’re dreaming,” Eilley Bowers giggled.

    “My dreams are all nightmares lately,” one of the other ladies sighed, and almost everyone responded with commiserating murmurs.

    “I go to sleep praying,” Marie whispered.  “It helps.”

    “Aye, I do that, too,” Eilley offered.

    “I’ll try that,” the other woman said.  “Can’t hurt.”

    “Indeed not,” Mrs. Tilton said didactically.  “The Lord is an ever-present help in time of trouble.”

    Marie smiled at her.  Truth was truth, from whatever vessel it poured.

    Billy glanced toward the mountains.  Dark clouds still hung over the tops, but they weren’t moving eastward.  In fact, judging by the gray lines slanting earthward, they were dumping their load somewhere near Lake Tahoe. Good, Billy concluded.  If it had to rain, the lake was as good a place as any for the water, definitely better than on the heads of men marching into battle.  He pulled his attention back to the road ahead.  Neither he nor the other two members of Blackburn’s scouting party had seen any sign of Indians so far, but Billy knew from recent experience that Paiutes could pop up when least expected.  It was no time for cloud-gazing.

    He and the other two men took turns in the lead, riding single file to make themselves less visible.  Billy was riding second when Blackburn suddenly reined up.  “Down there,” he hissed, pointing.

    Billy rode up beside the captain, the third man close behind.  “Yeah,” he whispered back.  “Well, if we’re gonna lure ‘em back to the main camp, we might as well let ‘em see us.”

    “Right,” Captain Blackburn said.  “As soon as I give the word, you two head back, fast as you can.  Warn the advance camp and get word to Colonel Hays.”

    The three men moved along the trail, watching the Paiutes’ actions carefully.  The Indians had posted lookouts, so they soon saw the three men and raised the alarm.  As the warriors ran for their horses, Blackburn yelled, “Ride!” and the two younger men spurred their horses back down the trail.  Blackburn held back a few moments to make sure the Paiutes were following, then galloped after the others.

    With a hundred yowling Paiutes close behind, the scouts approached Captain Fleeson’s advance camp.  In the lead, Billy hollered, “Paiutes!” and charged past, determined to be the first to reach Colonel Hays.  Fleeson’s men threw saddles on their horses.  Most barely had time to mount before the Indians were on them.  They galloped across Big Meadows for the cover of cottonwoods and aspens along the river, hoping they could hold off the Paiutes until the main body was alerted.  Each man had but two rounds of cartridges, so they would only be able to resist attack for ten to fifteen minutes.

    Colonel Hays and Major Hungerford, the Washoe Regiment’s two main commanders, were together when Billy charged into camp to report the Paiutes’ position.  Hungerford acted quickly, sending some his Downieville Sierra Guards to relieve the advance party and stop the Indians along the sand ridges beside the river.  In a short, indecisive battle, one white man was wounded, as well as a few Paiutes, and both sides retreated.

    Hays and Hungerford ordered their men to regroup back near the Big Bend of the Carson.  When the forces seemed in order, Hays sent a small party, which included Ben, forward to lure the Paiutes into the open.  The Paiutes evidently had developed the same strategy, for a few of them showed themselves.  Each advance party waited on the other to act, but neither did.  Sensing their opponents were prepared this time, the Indians retreated into the hills, and the white men galloped back to report to Colonel Hays.

    Hays lined the infantry between and behind the cavalry, which included both Cartwrights, as well as Billy Thomas.  Ben lined up in position and anxiously scanned the forces behind him.  When he finally spotted Adam and Billy, he smiled.  Being in two separate companies, they weren’t together, of course, but so close Ben knew they’d planned their positions.  Adam was in the last line of cavalrymen from Company K, and Billy at the head of Company L.  Not that any position was safe in a battle, but Ben was glad his untried son would not, at least, be in the forefront of the conflict.

    Hays was now addressing the men on foot.  “You infantrymen hold your position unless we’re attacked,” the ex-Texas Ranger ordered.  “Then come out at the last minute.”  He rode down the line to Major Hungerford’s position.  “Hungerford, have your men placed where they can move left or right easily.  We’ll count on you to protect our flanks.”

    “They will be protected, sir,” Hungerford replied with authority and dignity.  He still chafed at being compelled to yield command to the other man, but, knowing lives depended on instant obedience to the leader’s orders, he would brook no insubordination——in either himself or the old friends under his command.

    Slowly the assembled troops moved forward.  On the first sand hill overlooking Big Meadows, they encountered the Indians, but fought only a brief skirmish before the Paiutes, having lost seven men, again retreated.  Three white men had been wounded, but the only casualty was one of Captain Blackburn’s horses.

    Late that afternoon Captain Joseph Stewart arrived with two hundred and twelve army regulars and set up camp two miles from the five hundred and ninety volunteers of the Washoe Regiment, three hundred of whom were mounted as cavalry.  After the evening meal Adam and Billy walked over to the army camp to see Mark and Stefán and hurried back to tell Ben that the body of the fourth victim at Williams’ Station had finally been found and identified as James S. Herring of Virginia City.  The name meant nothing to Ben, but he was glad, for the sake of whatever friends and family the man had, that he wouldn’t have to lie in an unmarked grave.

    Little Joe took deliberate aim and struck his brother’s broad forehead with a wooden elephant.

    “Ouch!” Hoss yelped.  “You dad-blamed nuisance!  What’d you do that for?”

    “You’re mean!” Little Joe yelled, tossing the elephant’s mate, which hit Hoss in the ear.

    With a large paw Hoss pushed the little boy’s shoulder, and Little Joe toppled over, screaming.  He came up kicking and clawing, yelling at the top of his lungs.

    Marie came running over to separate the two boys.  “Hoss, what are you doing?” she snapped, pulling him off Little Joe.

    “Me?” Hoss protested, then pointed an accusing finger at his little brother.  “He hit me in the head with two elephants!”

    Marie gave the younger boy a reproachful look.  “That is not a nice way to play, Little Joe.”

    Little Joe’s lower lip pushed out.  “He won’t play with me at all!” he whined.

    “ Oui, I know,” his mother said, brushing his curly hair with a soft touch.  “Go and ask Miss Julia if she will tell you another story, mon petit .”

    When the red-faced three-year-old ambled over to Julia Bulette, Marie turned a stern face on Hoss.  “I am most disappointed in you, mon chéri .”

    “But he’s the one——”

    “No,” Marie interrupted sharply.  “He is not the one who made promises to your father.  You said that you would help to amuse your little brother, Hoss, but once you found an older friend to play with, you left Little Joe to play alone, and there is no one his size here.”

    Hoss hung his head, knowing the accusation was true.  He had made Pa a promise and he hadn’t kept it.  “I’m sorry, Mama,” he said.  “I’ll play with him more.”

    Marie gave him a hug and kiss.  “Thank you, Hoss.  I know it is hard for you, being shut up in this dark place, but you must remember that Little Joe is not a big boy like you.  You can understand why we are here; he does not.”

    “I wish we could go outside,” Hoss muttered.

    Marie smiled weakly.  No one wished more than she and the other mothers that they could let the children play outside.  The rain and snow had transformed the streets into mires of mud, however, and they had no good way to bathe the youngsters if they got that dirty.  Besides, the air was cold, and the one thing calculated to make the children crankier than they already were was a set of stuffed-up noses.  “I’m sorry, Hoss,” she said finally.  “You know that is impossible, but please be kinder to your little brother.  He, too, longs to leave this place.”

    “I’ll be better, Mama,” Hoss assured her and earned another kiss.

    For both the Washoe Regiment and the Carson Valley Expedition Wednesday, May 30, was a day of preparation.  Other than those stationed on guard duty, the enlisted men and volunteers did nothing but make their weapons battle-ready and rest in anticipation of action on the following day.  The leaders, on the other hand, had no time for relaxation as they met in counsel to plan the strategy of the campaign.

    Although representing the United States Army, Captain Joseph Stewart agreed that only one man should be in command and stepped aside to allow Hays, the leader in whom the volunteers had greatest confidence, to take the lead.  After talking over their options, Hays, Hungerford and Stewart determined to move forward the next day in an orderly manner, intended to impress the savages with their strength in number.

    First, Colonel Hays would lead out with fifteen men of Spy Company No. 2 from Virginia City.  The cavalry would form one or two miles behind them, followed by the Washoe Regiment infantry.  In the center, in a protected position would be the drovers with fifty head of cattle and thirty supply wagons.  Behind the supply wagons the main body of the regular army would march and after them the remaining volunteers.  At the end of the line would be a rear guard of fifty men.

    When the news filtered down to the men themselves, Ben found himself impressed by the orderliness of the plan and thanked God again that experienced men were in charge.  Billy and Adam, who’d been over to visit their friends at the army encampment again, told Ben that Stefán would be among the drovers herding the cattle.  “Best place for him,” Ben commented.  “He’s a good hand with cattle, but I’m not sure he’s had much experience with a rifle.”

    “He’ll be safe enough——the rest of us, too,” Billy Thomas commented over a final cup of coffee before retiring.  “Ain’t gonna be like last time.  These fellers know what they’re doin’; they’re not just marchin’ in like they own the place and expectin’ the injuns to say, ‘Why, come on in and set awhile, folks.’”

    Adam laughed.  “Is that what you did last time, Billy?”

    Billy shuddered.  “Ran around like chickens with our heads cut off.  No idea which way to go.  Thank your lucky stars, boy, that you weren’t there.”

    “Quit calling me a boy,” Adam said with a scowl.

    Before Billy could respond, Ben spoke up.  “Both of you boys better turn in or you’ll be so sleepy you’ll still run around like chickens with your heads cut off, in spite of our fine leadership.”

    Both young men laughed and nodded their agreement.  Along with the rest of the troops, they soon rolled up in their blankets and were asleep before the fires died down and stars provided the only light.

    The volunteers woke the next morning to a slate-gray sky with still darker clouds looming to the west.  As they broke camp and began marching in a line that stretched three miles or more, the main topic of conversation was the weather, not the possibility of engaging the Paiutes.  The most frequently expressed opinion was that the weather would slow their progress so much that they wouldn’t have to face that encounter today.

    The rumors proved true, for by four o’clock that afternoon, the column had only reached the Big Bend of the Truckee.  As the sky had grown steadily darker throughout the day, there was no point in going further.  Men scurried around, trying to set up camp before the gray billows loosed the inevitable rain, but no one had managed to start a fire before zigzags of lightning streaked earthward and thunder boomed in their ears.

    For a few minutes the rainfall was light, but it steadily grew heavier amid deafening cracks of thunder.  “It’s gonna be a real blow!” Ben shouted at Adam.

    Beneath a dripping hat, Adam nodded grimly.  Raising his face to the sky, he felt the icy drops pelt his face and quickly turned his gaze downward to the deepening mud.  He shook his head.  The way the camp was filling up with water, they’d be lucky if they didn’t have to stretch their bedrolls in a virtual lake.  Obviously, too, they’d be eating a cold supper and sleeping without benefit of a fire.  The schoolmates who’d envied his opportunity to taste the glories of combat should get a look at this, Adam thought.  It would cure them forever of a romantic outlook on war.

    It rained all night and was still raining Friday morning.  Although there was no point in advancing the entire body, Warren Wasson and a few volunteers headed for the southwest pass to Pyramid Lake to make certain the Paiutes didn’t circle back and approach them from the rear.

    “I wanna go outside!” Little Joe whimpered petulantly.

    “No, mon petit,” his mother sighed wearily, for she’d answered that fretful cry more times than she cared to remember.  “It is still raining.”

    “Come on, Little Joe,” Hoss said, reaching for the younger boy’s hand.  “Let’s play with Noah’s Ark.”

    “No!” Little Joe declared vehemently, pulling away.  “Don’t want any games about rain!”

    “Okay, we’ll play the rain’s all over and the animals can get off the boat and run around,” Hoss said.  “Come on, Punkin.”

    Little Joe was still pouting, but he took his brother’s hand and allowed himself to be led off.  Marie smiled and nodded her appreciation at Hoss.

    Not until three o’clock that afternoon did the rest of the troops start toward Pyramid Lake.  Following the same trail as the earlier expedition against the Paiutes, they moved down from the ridge into the flat land beside the Truckee River.  They moved slowly, though.  No horse could take more than a few steps before bogging down in the slushy ground, and most of the men gave up trying to ride and dismounted to  clomp through the mud, leading their animals.  Icy blasts swooped through the river canyon and storm clouds again darkened the sky.  After going only seven or eight miles toward Pyramid Lake, the order came to make camp.  However, no sooner had the site been chosen, in a boggy meadow beside the river, than the rain began again.

    The foot scouts returned and reported sighting only a few Indians, scouts like themselves, and apparently in retreat.  They also told of finding three more bodies from William Ormsby’s volunteers.  Captain Edward Farris Storey, leader of the Virginia Rifles, agreed to ride out to identify the dead and retrieve their bodies.

“I’ll go with you,” Silas Fletcher, one of the volunteers in Storey’s command, offered.  As he unstacked a load of weapons to get his own rifle, however, his hand slipped on the damp stock of his gun.  Before Fletcher could catch the weapon, it struck a rock and discharged, sending a ball through his throat.

    Waves of shock rippled through the command.  They’d all known death was possible on this mission, but the sudden, unexpected nature of Fletcher’s demise hit hard.  Captain Storey seemed to recover quickest, for he still felt a responsibility to those dead men lying outside the camp.  Not wanting to see the leader go alone, Ben stepped quietly to his side and offered to accompany him.  Storey noted the rifle held steadily in Ben’s hand and nodded.

    Together they rode to the spot described by the scouts and viewed the remains of the three white men, a sight so grisly Ben knew he’d never forget it.  Though none of the three had been scalped, each was stripped naked; each man’s throat was savagely cut and his private parts mutilated.  One man’s body showed still more ghastly desecration, for he was cut open from neck to hips along the spine.  A circular path had been beaten into the earth surrounding the bodies, as if the Paiutes had held a victory dance around them.  Ben suddenly remembered the prancing silhouettes around distant signal fires, visible as far away as the Ponderosa, and felt certain it was the jubilation over these men’s deaths he’d seen that night.

    “Do you recognize any of them, sir?” he asked Storey.

    Storey nodded grimly.  “All of them.”  He pointed first to the most mutilated corpse, then to the others.  “Charles McCloud, James McCarthy, Abe Elliott.  Good, brave men; they deserved better.”

    “Yes, sir,” Ben agreed softly.  “They deserve and shall receive a decent burial.”

    “A burial with honors,” Storey said, head held high.  “That’s why we’re here, Cartwright.  Load their remains carefully.”

    “Yes, sir.”  Ben placed the bodies of McCarthy and Elliott on his bay and led the horse, while Captain Storey, with a touch as tender as a mother’s, held the remains of Charles McCloud in his arms as he rode back to camp.  It was dark when they returned, so there was no time to bury the men that night.  The bodies were laid side by side and covered reverently.  They looked no different from the hundreds lying about them, huddled in their blankets, except that these three blankets didn’t rise and sink with the breath of life.  Nor did the bodies beneath them tremble with fear of the coming day, the day on which a battle whose stakes were nothing less than life or death would finally be joined.

    Marie held the tears back until Hoss and Little Joe’s even breathing told her they were asleep.  Then her cheeks grew damp with descending drops.  The earlier conflict at Pyramid Lake had been over in less than a week, but Ben had been gone eight days now, eight days without word of any kind.  The other ladies insisted that no news was good news, that no matter how the battle had gone, some survivors would have reached town if it were over.  Marie acknowledged the logic of their reasoning, but logic couldn’t still the pounding of her heart.  Lips trembling, she made the sign of the cross over her breast, seeking comfort in the only Power that could.

    Ben glanced at the bedroll to his right and smiled at the steady rise and fall of the blanketed figure of his son.  Adam was sleeping the sleep of youth, seemingly not even disturbed by the steady downpour that had deluged them throughout the night, but Ben was ready to give up the futile attempt at rest.  Though the sky was still obsidian, he threw off his soggy blanket and trudged through mud toward the bank of the river, concern for whose continuing rise had troubled his sleep.

    Staring at the churning current, Ben shook his head glumly.  If the rain didn’t stop soon, the entire camp would float away, for the Truckee was almost ready to overflow its banks.  The sun was just peaking over the mountains to the east when he started back to his campsite to wake Adam and tell him to get his gear together in case the river spilled over.  He never delivered the message, however, for before he reached his son, the heavy rain slackened to a light drizzle, and by the time the sun had risen, stopped.

    While the men, volunteers and military alike, wrung streams of muddy water from their blankets and spread them to dry, the officers met in conference to determine the course of the day.  First on their agenda was the burial of the dead.  Silas Fletcher, they all agreed, should be buried with military honors, for he had died in the line of duty as surely as any who might meet their demise in the attack on the Paiutes planned for later that day.  To facilitate that attack, it was decided that a party would be sent out to determine the location of the Paiutes and the number of their forces.

    An eighty-man detail was formed, forty each from the companies of Captains Van Hagan and Storey.  Billy Thomas chafed because both Ben and Adam were chosen, while he had to stay behind, away from the action.  “Everybody knows the Carson Rifles is the best outfit in this whole blamed militia,” he grumbled, “and we’re left out entire.”

    “You’ve done your share,” Ben pointed out.  “Don’t be so eager to seek out danger, boy.  More than enough to go around this day.”

    “Yeah,” Billy muttered, kicking at the treacherous mud underfoot.  “Just don’t go seekin’ any out yourself.”  He turned to Adam, who was tightening the cinch on his mare.  “Keep an eye on the old man, if you can, boy.”

    “Old man, indeed!” Ben hooted.

    “Boy, indeed!” Adam added, giving Billy a wink as he said it.  The two young friends clasped hands.

    “Take care,” Billy said, just above a whisper.

    “You, too,” Adam returned.  “You’ll be in this before the day’s out——boy.”

    Billy swatted Adam’s backside with his limp felt hat and watched the two Cartwrights ride out before returning to his own unit.  It was just before noon.  Like the others left behind, Billy ate a cold meal of hardtack and jerky, then began to clean his gun, as ordered.  Some of the greener recruits decided to clean their weapons by firing them and earned themselves an extra turn at guard duty for their careless noise-making.  Billy had no sympathy to spare for such foolishness, especially when it might alert the Paiutes and endanger the lives of his friends.

    Ben and Adam rode side by side, but while they had always enjoyed times together under an open sky, there was nothing to enjoy about this grim, body-strewn trail with buzzards circling overhead, swooping to the feast provided by Major Ormsby’s luckless men.  The bodies were unrecognizable, for the carrion creatures had plucked out tender eyeballs and torn the flesh from mutilated faces.

Seeing a buzzard lift a delicate entrail from the stomach cavity of one poor wretch, Adam felt the acidic residue of his breakfast heave into his throat and turned away.  There was no turning from the awful stench of rotting flesh, however, and more than one citizen soldier leaned across his horse’s neck to retch in the dirt.

    As the combined forces of Van Hagen and Storey reached the point where the trail led abruptly into bottomland, they halted.  After a brief consultation, some men were dispatched into the valley, while the remaining force remained on the higher ground.

    Unlike most of the men riding with the valley contingent, Ben and Adam were familiar with this terrain, for they’d traveled it many times on visits to Pyramid Lake.  For Ben, particularly, the journey was painful, for while he did not consider himself the Paiutes’ enemy, he knew he would more than likely kill some of them before the day ended.  And each rotting carcass he passed reminded him that men he counted friends, both white and red, might well provide the next feast for the scavengers of the sage.

    Pyramid Lake came into view just past two o’clock, but the Paiute camp there seemed abandoned and quiet——too quiet, Ben thought, remembering all the times he’d ridden in to the yipping of dogs and the shouts of children at play.  The only sound here was the nervous neighing of their own horses, spooked by buzzards swooping too close for equine comfort——or for that of man.

    As the white men rode closer, they could see about a dozen men squatting in the sand before their karnees.  When the Paiutes stood, however, they had rifles in their hands——and they weren’t alone.  Like a mirage coming to life, warriors appeared from the surrounding sand, and from a deep ravine at the rear of the camp three hundred mounted braves charged forward in a pointed wedge as professional looking as that of any well-drilled cavalry.  Three hundred more were running up the valley on foot to attack the white men.

    “Retreat at trot march,” Storey ordered briskly.  “Keep ranks and do not fire unless ordered.”

    The men wheeled their horses and urged them to a trot, but some, Adam among them, couldn’t resist looking over their shoulders at the oncoming force.  “Watch where you’re going,” Ben hissed, and Adam, embarrassed as a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar, jerked back to the front.  There was no need to look behind anyway; the increasing volume of the Paiutes’ war whoops told him the Indians were gaining ground fast.

    As the civilian soldiers approached the steep, narrow path to the plateau, rifle balls began whistling in their ears.  Taken by surprise, Adam again looked to the rear.  “They aren’t that close yet, are they?” he yelled to his father, puzzlement stamped on his young face.  From years of hunting, he had a good idea of how far a rifle ball could carry.

    “Long-range rifle,” Ben hollered back.  “Probably took it off one of Ormsby’s men.  Ride, boy!”

    At the foot of the pass, Captain Storey turned to face the approaching enemy and provide cover for his men’s withdrawal.  Motioning Adam on, Ben wheeled and raised his rifle to help Storey.  Adam resented being sent ahead like a small child, but years of ready obedience to his father’s orders had formed a habit he didn’t break in that moment of urgency.  He charged up the plateau, one of the first men to reach the upper ground, where he stopped to train a rifle on the force streaming toward his father.  Since Adam didn’t possess a long-range rifle, the Indians were still too far away to hit, but, orders or no orders, he intended to hold that position until he saw his father head for safety.  If worse came to worst, his rifle’s range was likely to be the least of his problems.

    Along with the others who’d remained at Captain Storey’s side, Ben rained rapid rifle fire at the galloping Paiutes, but it soon became obvious that their small force could not hold back the wave of warriors.  “Cease fire!” Storey commanded.  “Get through the pass and back to the regiment.  Retreat!”

    The order was instantly obeyed.  As quickly as the terrain allowed, the men inched up the narrow path, their progress as bottle-necked as that of Ormsby’s men had been——and their trail as dangerous.  From the ledge above them, known as Pinnacle Rock, Paiute gunmen showered the path of retreat with bullets, concentrating their fire on the horses.  Rider after rider spilled to the ground and was picked up to ride double with another man.

    Adam waited until his father had almost reached the top of the pass before mounting himself.  Seeing Ben scowl at him in passing, Adam knew he’d catch an earful when they were finally back in camp, but he didn’t care.  Pa could be as mad as he liked once they were both safe.

    Suddenly, the boy’s horse screamed and reared wildly, her hip pierced by a bullet.  Adam tried to hang on, but he felt himself fly through the air, felt his face scrape the sandy gravel at the side of the trail.  “Pa!” he called instinctively, not really expecting Ben to hear him.

    Whether by auditory acuity or parental instinct, Ben turned and saw Adam’s horse bolt past him.  Acting from a terror he’d never known before, Ben forced his own mount back against the flow of retreating men to where Adam was struggling to regain his feet.  Holding the reins with one hand, Ben reached for Adam with the other.  Adam clasped the outstretched palm and swung up on the rump of Ben’s horse.

    Ben gave his horse’s flanks a fierce kick.  The bay bucked once, then took off, with Adam holding for dear life to his father’s waist.  Along with the rest of Storey’s men, they crossed the rough, gullied land beside the Truckee River and had almost reached the previous night’s camp when they saw Colonel Hays and two hundred cavalrymen coming to their rescue.

    “Halt!” Captain Storey shouted.  “Form a line and prepare to face the enemy.”

    Adam slid off the back of Ben’s horse and Ben dismounted, immediately reaching for his son.  “Adam, you’re hit!” he cried.

    “No,” Adam protested.

    Then Ben laughed abruptly, brushing away the tiny red rivulet trickling down Adam’s smooth cheek.  “It’s just a cut.”

    Adam grinned at his red-tipped fingers as he quickly repeated his father’s motions.  “I hit that gravel pretty hard,” he admitted.  But there was no time for further conversation.  Father and son ran to join the line forming to face the onrushing Paiutes.

    Colonel Hays, who had ridden ahead with the cavalry units to rescue the advance party, arrived, and, taking heart from the reinforcements, Van Hagen’s men and Captain Storey’s Virginia Rifles riddled the Indians with a barrage of bullets.  Seeing themselves outnumbered, the Paiutes disappeared into the scrub cover under the cottonwoods by the river and into a ravine formed by one of its previous courses.

    The commanders took advantage of the brief respite to relay the battle plan they had determined before leaving Ft. Storey that afternoon.  Colonel Hays ordered his men to form a walking line of riflemen, while the infantry under Captain Stewart joined them to form one continuous line a mile long.  Captain Flint of the Sixth Infantry had the challenge of leading the artillery to the high, rocky ridge above the battlefield and positioning the howitzers to fire down upon the Indians.  Major Hungerford was in charge of the rear guard, which would either protect the path of retreat or advance, according to how the battle went.

    The cavalry was ordered to the front and told to dismount and advance on foot, every fifth or sixth man holding the horses.  Adam no longer had a horse, but Ben set out with the other mounted troops, firing as he went.  The Indians returned fire, but now they were the ones forced to retreat, falling back into the next ravine formed by the river’s ever-changing course.

    Bullets continued to pour from Pinnacle Mount, where three-quarters of the way up the mountain a round, rocky butte rose two hundred feet high, a perfect shelter for the Indians firing from above.  “We’ve got to secure that position,” Captain Storey told Colonel Hays.  “Van Hagen and I will accept that responsibility.”  When Colonel Hays nodded crisply, Storey hurried back and began designating men to make the assault on Rocky Butte.  He chose mostly young, agile men, especially those who had lost their mounts in the previous engagement.  Adam’s name was called, and he fell in beside Andrew Hasey, a young volunteer with whom he had become acquainted in camp.

    As they ran up the steep side of that mountain, however, Hasey, previously noted for his fleetness, uncharacteristically began to fall behind.  “What’s wrong?” Adam called back.

    “Go on!” Hasey yelled, waving Adam away.

    Adam rushed back, bending anxiously over his friend of short, but respected, acquaintance.  “What is it?” he asked again.

    “Got shot in the hip back before Hays’ men got here,” Hasey panted.  “Figured I could keep goin’, but I reckon I lost too much blood.”  As a bullet ricocheted off a nearby rock, he pushed Adam away.  “Go on; get the job done.”

    Glancing quickly around, Adam spotted a nearby boulder just large enough to shelter a man.  “Come on,” he ordered, throwing Hasey’s arm over his shoulder and lifting him up.  Practically dragging the wounded man, Adam pushed him behind the rock, then said, “Cover me,” as he ran to rejoin the main assault force.  Hasey pulled himself painfully erect and let loose a barrage of bullets over the boulder at the Indians firing down on the gallant forces of Captains Storey and Van Hagen.

    Amidst harassing fire from above and flank fire from the river, the young men gained the rocky butte and held it while the cavalry and infantry advanced in the valley below.  From his position at the butte, Adam had a perfect view of the battle, but, try as he might, he couldn’t spot his father.  He recognized Ben’s bay at one point, but the man leading it and four other horses was too short to be Ben Cartwright.

    The smoke of firing weapons and the dust thrown into the air when cannonballs hit the sandy soil obscured Adam’s sight as the battle grew fiercer, but the signs of panic were easy to recognize:  men firing recklessly in all directions, running around, as Billy had said, like chickens with their heads cut off.  Others, excited to distraction when one of their bullets felled a Paiute, stopped their advance in the midst of the battle to scalp the Indian.  Adam watched, horrified, as one man tied a hank of black, braided hair to his belt and paid for his trophy with his life.

    For Ben, below, the battle was an inch-by-inch struggle, for the Paiutes were no sooner driven from one ravine than they retreated and reformed in the next water-cut gully to the north.  Ben didn’t have time to count, of course, but he estimated that the Paiutes had lost about seventy warriors.  White losses were fewer, but another of Storey’s privates marching next to Ben fell with a rifle ball through his head.  As Ben bent to help his comrade, he quickly saw that the young man was beyond help, for a clump of his brains the size of a hen’s egg was protruding from the broken fragments of his skull.  Ben left the boy where he lay and marched on.

    The late afternoon sun broke through the clouds, its light so glaring, the troops were momentarily blinded.  When his eyes adjusted, Adam again peered down at the battle below.  He caught a glint of sunshine flashing off a thatch of red hair and grinned.  Billy’d lost his hat, but seemed undamaged otherwise and was progressing steadily forward, ignoring the bodies that fell to concentrate on the danger ahead.  Then, as another volley of rifle fire sent a shower of gravel onto his head, Adam ducked, raised his rifle and turned his attention back to dangers of his own.

    The battle had been going on for three hours when the Paiutes were forced from the last ravine.  The white men gave chase, for the sunlight was fading fast, and darkness would favor the Indians’ retreat as it had that of Ormsby’s men after the previous battle.  The final skirmish proved a costly one, however, for Captain Storey, revered by the men of his command, took a bullet through the lungs and fell back into the arms of some of his men, but refused to leave the field of battle until the fighting ended.

    Several members of the Virginia Rifles vied with one another for the opportunity to serve their fallen leader.  One man rushed to the river to bring back water in his hat.  Another wiped the blood running from Storey’s mouth with a grimy handkerchief, while still another screened the wounded man from the glare of the setting sun.

    Finally, a man rushed forward, triumphantly holding out a bloody scalp.  “Look, Captain, look!” the man announced.  “Here’s the injun that shot you; three of us killed him.”

    Weak from loss of blood, his breathing ragged, Storey looked with revulsion at the dripping hair.  “Take it away,” he murmured.  “Why should I want to see it?  Tell me about the Rifles.  How are my men faring?”

    The Virginia Rifles were at that moment retiring from the field of battle.  The Paiutes had retreated north, under cover of growing darkness, and the white men let them go.  Colonel Hays and Major Hungerford rode to the place where Storey lay, each removing his hat.  Hayes ordered Storey and the other wounded carried back to Ft. Storey.

    One by one the other men returned and began to search the camp for friends or family they’d lost track of in the battle.  Ben was one of the men who carried Captain Storey to the area designated for the wounded, and as soon as he had the commander settled comfortably, he began to search the torn bodies around him.  There was no sign of Adam, but Mark Wentworth was one of the four Army regulars wounded.

“Mark, boy,” Ben said, kneeling beside the young soldier.  “Are you hit bad?”

    Rubbing his bandaged left thigh, Mark grunted.  “Burns like fire, but the surgeon says it’s just a flesh wound.”

    “Have you seen Adam——or Billy or Stefán?”

    Mark shook his head.  “Sorry, Mr. Cartwright.  I haven’t seen any of them since morning.”

    Ben clapped the boy on the shoulder.  “Well, you rest easy, young fellow.  I’m sure your friends are just fine.  We didn’t lose many men.”  As he turned away, however, Ben couldn’t help thinking that it didn’t require the loss of many men for one of them to be someone whose life meant more to him than his own.

  Adam had stayed to help Andrew Hasey down the side of the mountain.  His hip joint shattered, Hasey could barely walk, so they were among the last men to stumble in.  Just as they entered the camp, Adam heard his name called.

    “Looks like you could use a hand, ole buddy,” Billy Thomas drawled, laying Hasey’s free arm across his shoulder.

    “I sure could,” Adam said.  He’d pushed himself to keep going, not wanting Hasey to know how exhausted he was.  “You seen my Pa?” he asked anxiously.

    “Sorry, no,” Billy replied, pulling as much of Hasey’s weight as possible toward himself.  “Saw Stefán.  He was in the rear guard, didn’t see much action at all.”

    Adam grimaced, wishing the same could be said of him.  That one afternoon had shown him enough fighting to last a lifetime——and no knowing yet whether the whole bloody business would have to be repeated the next day.

    As he and Billy reached the area established for the wounded, a hand reached to ease Hasey to the ground.  His attention on his injured friend, Adam didn’t recognize that hand until it grasped his arm, and he looked up into the glowing eyes of his father.  “Pa!” he cried and fell against Ben’s shoulder, more spent by emotion and worry than he’d realized until that moment.

    “I’m here, boy,” Ben said softly, arms circling his son.  “I’m here and so are you, thank God.  That’s all that matters.”

    The next day was Sunday, and it was spent quietly by most of the men.  Adam, along with several others who’d lost their horses in the retreat, walked back to the battlefield to retrieve his saddle and give a farewell stroke to the white mane of his sorrel mare.  Ben stayed in camp, meeting that morning with a group of men who wanted to thank Almighty God for the safe deliverance of almost all who’d gone into battle the day before.  The day wasn’t given entirely to Sabbath rest, however. A detail was formed to raise the previously dug earthworks higher for the protection of the wounded and the supplies.  Neither Ben nor Adam was in that group of laborers, but they both helped move the wounded into the shelter once it was erected to the height Colonel Hays specified.

    Billy had ridden out with two other scouts early that morning, under orders to see if the Paiutes were preparing for another battle.  He returned early that afternoon and sought out his friends immediately.

    “Any sign of trouble?” Adam asked.

    “Not an injun in sight,” Billy reported.  “I think they’ve pulled out.”

    Ben arched an eyebrow.  “A little soon to assume that, I’m afraid, but I pray you’re right.”

    “I’m going down to the river to soak my feet,” Billy said.  “You want to come, Adam?”

    Adam chuckled.  “Thought you rode a horse, Billy.  Ought to be her hooves in need of a soak.”

    Billy grinned.  “Too scared to pull my boots off last night.  Feet are sweatin’ somethin’ fierce.”

    “By all means, wash them,” Ben muttered dryly.  “I’d stay upwind if I were you, Adam.”

    “Good advice,” Adam laughed.

    “Don’t stay long, though,” Ben cautioned.  “You’ve got about half an hour before the funeral.”

    “Who they buryin’?” Billy asked as he and Adam headed for the river.  “Not Captain Storey?”

    “No, he’s still holding on,” Adam said.  “Privates Cameron and Phelps of the Virginia Rifles, and they found Major Ormsby’s body.  They’ll bury him.”

    “Here?” Billy queried, flopping down on the river bank to pull off the boots that felt permanently attached.  “He’s got folks in Carson.”

    Adam squatted beside him.  “Just temporarily,” he said.  “His folks’ll want what’s left of him buried closer to home, I’m sure, but that body’s been exposed too long as it is.”

    “Yeah, must be ripe by now,” Billy said grimly, then plunged his bare feet into the cold waters of the Truckee.  “Ah, that’s better,” he sighed and lay back on the grass.  “Hey, did you get your gear back?”

    “Yeah, the Paiutes didn’t have time to take it, and Stefán said he’d see I got a fresh horse from the remuda,” Adam answered.  “He’s been helping groom the horses in his spare time, so he’s got some sway with the officer in charge.”

    “That’s good,” Billy said.  “Ridin’ beats walkin’ any day of the year.”

    Nearly seven hundred men assembled a short time later to pay their last respects to those who had died in the battle and to Major Ormsby.  Captain Joseph Stewart of the United States Army read the burial service of the Protestant Episcopal Church.  “Beautiful words, sir,” Ben commented, shaking the captain’s hand afterwards.  “A long time since most of us in the valley have had opportunity to hear such a moving reading.”

    “It was my privilege,” Stewart said.  “To honor brave men is always a privilege, although I hope there’ll be no further need of such services during this campaign.”

    “Amen to that, sir,” Ben said quietly, shook the captain’s hand once again and took his leave.

    The next day, the fourth of June, the weather finally displayed the appearance of spring.  Fluffy white clouds billowed in a cornflower sky, and the sun shone with bright warmth.  Leaving ten men behind to guard the wounded and forty to look after the cattle and supply wagons, the rest of the Washoe Regiment marched north, reaching Pyramid Lake, eight miles away, in three hours.

    The Paiute camp there was truly abandoned this time; indeed, not one Indian had been seen all day.  More bodies had been found, however, and most were buried where they’d fallen.  Three of the dead, recognized as residents of California, were carefully wrapped for transport back to their home state.  Then camp was set up for the night one mile south of the lake.

    “Looks like it’s about over,” Billy commented, spreading his bedroll next to Adam’s.  Now that the danger seemed past, discipline was becoming lax, so he no longer felt the need to stay with his company, at least not at night.

    “Hope so,” Adam, already stretched on his bedroll, commented.  “What do you think, Pa?”

    Ben looked soberly at the two young men.  “I think the worst is over,” he said.  “The tribe appears to be in hiding, but that doesn’t mean there won’t be some young bucks out to prove themselves by shooting one last white man. Today was an easy day, but that doesn’t mean tomorrow will be.  Don’t you two let down your guard.”

    Billy flopped onto his bedroll.  “Acts like we’re a couple of blame kids, don’t he?” he mumbled to Adam.

    Ben grinned.  “Well, aren’t you?” he laughed and, turning his back, rolled up in his blankets.

    Irked by the teasing, Billy started to pop back a smart answer.  When he looked across at Ben, however, he saw Adam, between them, give a gape-mouthed yawn and suddenly felt so exhausted himself that he couldn’t remember what he’d intended to say.  It was time to sleep, he decided.  Tomorrow was soon enough to pay Uncle Ben back for mocking their manhood.

    The next morning the men of Washoe again headed north in search of the Paiutes.  The Indians’ tracks led to the Little Truckee and turned northeast into the mountains along the east bank of Pyramid Lake.  The men crossed the narrow mountain chain and continued up its east base, then along the western shore of Mud Lake.

    By noon the regiment had traveled twelve miles, but they halted when the tracks suddenly veered away from the shoreline, heading west into a deep canyon that led up into the rocky mountain range once again.

    When Colonel Hays ordered the scouts to check out the canyon, however, several of them balked.  “Looks like a prime spot for an ambush to me,” one said.  “We’ve risked our lives enough.  Let someone else go first for a change.”  Rumbles of agreement from the other scouts met his words.

    Billy Thomas started to step forward, but Ben Cartwright clenched his shoulder.  “Not alone,” he said sharply.  “That’s too foolhardy a venture even for you.”

    “I won’t have the colonel thinkin’ I’m a coward,” Billy hissed, pulling against Ben’s iron grip.

    “Better a living dog than a dead lion,” Ben growled, quoting from the Bible.  “Keep still!”

    Billy glowered with offense, but he stood still, waiting to see how Colonel Hayes would handle the scout’s rebellion.

Instead of forcing the issue, Colonel Hays faced the entire force.  “Men, we cannot proceed until we know what’s ahead, but our scouts, who have served faithfully to this point, have requested relief from this mission, and I am inclined to grant that request.  I will not order anyone into that canyon, but I am asking for five volunteers.”

    Five men stepped forward:  Lieutenant Robert Lyon of the Highland Rangers, William S. Allen from Virginia City, S. C. Springer of Silver City, Samuel Buckland and, after pushing the Thomas boy aside, Ben Cartwright of the Ponderosa.

    “Scoutin’s my job,” Billy protested, facing his father’s friend with fiery face and arms akimbo after Colonel Hayes had expressed his appreciation to the volunteers.

    “Like the man said, you’ve risked your life enough,” Ben replied.  “Don’t push your chances.”

    “But why you, Pa?” Adam demanded.  “Why push your chances?  It’s dangerous.”

    “Now who’s being treated like a child?” Ben smiled.  “I’m a logical choice, Adam; I know this part of the country better than most, certainly better than Billy here, who’s never seen this side of the mountains before.”

    “Well, I have,” Adam argued, “and I duck faster.”

    Ben laid a consoling hand on his son’s shoulder.  “I’ll duck fast enough if the need arises, never you fear.”

    The five volunteer scouts mounted and, with the designated commander Robert Lyon and William Allen in the lead, rode up into the canyon.  Each man trained his eyes on the high crags on both sides, searching for a telltale flash of sunlight on metal that would tell them a rifleman waited above.  There were no such indications, but at one point Samuel Buckland stopped to point out a set of tracks.  “Them’s fresh,” he said.  “We oughta go back and get the rest of the men.”

    “That’s not reason enough,” William Allen argued.  “We should go on, see more sign before we bring the others up to look at nothing.”

    “We’ll continue on,” Lyon decided and the others fell into line behind him.

    As they neared the summit of the mountain, a massive boulder split the trail into two paths, one leading below, the other above it.  There appeared to be tracks on both, but it was impossible to tell which were freshest.  “Any choice between the two trails, Cartwright?” Lyon asked.

    Ben shook his head.  “Long time since I was up this way, but I think both cross the mountains.  It’s a coin toss as to which the Indians took, though the upper trail is the harder climb.”

  “Allen and I will explore the lower trail,” Lyon ordered.  “The rest of you take the upper one.  Fire one shot if you find signs indicating your trail is the right one.”

    Ben saluted smartly.  “Yes, sir, Lieutenant Lyon.”  He led the way around the boulder and climbed the steep, rocky trail toward the summit.  Before they’d gone half a mile, however, a single rifle shot was heard.

    “There’s the signal!  They’ve found the Paiutes,” Sam Buckland shouted, wheeling his horse at once.  Then the single shot was followed by a rash of others.

    “That’s not a signal!” Ben cried.  “They’re being attacked.  Come on!”  He charged back down the path and had just rounded the boulder when Lieutenant Lyon bolted past him.

    “Allen’s killed!” Lyon screamed over his shoulder.  “Retreat!  Retreat!”

    The other three men, Ben taking the rear position, turned and ran their horses down the canyon with a swarm of Paiutes in close pursuit.  Sam Buckland, just ahead of Ben, gave a loud grunt and glanced down at his leg, but he rode on, seemingly unhurt.  Ben emptied his revolver and saw one Paiute drop from the saddle; then, not wanting to take time to reload, he holstered the gun, whipped the reins across his horse’s neck and yelled for him to run.  The bay responded, careening recklessly down the canyon.

    Suddenly, something slammed into Ben’s shoulder.  He fell forward, clenching a handful of mane in one hand and the reins in the other, and continued to ride.  He could still hear the Indians’ war whoops, but he could tell by their diminishing volume that he was putting distance between himself and the Paiutes.  If his horse could just maintain this pace, Ben knew he had a chance of getting out of that canyon with his scalp intact.

    When the canyon opened into flatland, Ben thought he’d never seen a more beautiful sight than the bleak, sage-sprinkled landscape that skirted Mud Lake.  Moments later, he revised that opinion when he saw the rest of the Washoe Regiment riding toward them.  Now, that was a sight to gladden the eyes!

    Paiute eyes viewed it differently.  Seeing themselves vastly outnumbered, the Indians disappeared back into the mountains as the returning scouts were surrounded by other volunteers.  When Ben slid from his horse, he stumbled into the arms of his son.  “Pa, you’re hit!” Adam cried.

    Ben gave him a lop-sided grin.  “I guess I didn’t duck fast enough.”

    “I knew I should have gone,” Billy Thomas chafed as he helped to support Ben.

    Colonel Hays strode swiftly to Lieutenant Lyon.  “Where is your fifth man, Lyon?” he demanded.

    Lyon saluted.  “Allen took a bullet through the mouth into his brain, sir. I tried to save him, but I was alone and surrounded, so I was forced to abandon him.”

    “While he was still alive?” Hays demanded.

    “No, sir!” Lyon declared indignantly.  “I would not have left a living man behind.  No, I saw his hat fly off; then his head spouted blood like a whale blowing water, and brains and bone fragments spewed out the blowhole——an awful sight.  He was dead, sir.”

    In frustration, Hayes slammed his right fist into his left palm.  “What about you other men?

    “I’m unhurt, sir,” Springer replied, saluting.

    “Felt something hit my leg,” Buckland announced, “but I reckon I must have been shot from far off, ‘cause the bullet didn’t even break the skin.”

    “Cartwright, you obviously need the surgeon’s attention,” Hays said.

    “I’ll see he gets it, sir,” Adam said.

    Appreciating a son’s devotion to his father, Hays gave the young man a slight smile.  “You do that, son,” he said softly.

    As Adam and Billy led Ben away, Lieutenant Lyon asked permission to take his Highland Rangers to recover Allen’s body.

    Furious at losing another man, Hays declared, “We will all go!”

    Every tenth man was ordered to remain behind to hold and guard the horses, and Adam asked permission to be one of those guards.  Knowing the concern that motivated the request, his commanding officer readily agreed.  Later, Adam and Ben, shoulder bandaged and arm in a sling, stood side by side to watch the other volunteers ride out.

“You seem mighty concerned for the safety of our horses,” Ben commented wryly.

    “A wise man I know once said, ‘Why push your chances?’” Adam muttered.

    Ben chuckled.  “Not such a wise one, after all, considering that he pushed himself one chance too far.”

    “Come over here and sit down,” Adam ordered.  “The surgeon said you should rest.  You lost a lot of blood.”

    “Yes, sir,” Ben said, saluting awkwardly with his left hand, and let himself be led meekly away.

    Billy rode out with the rest of the volunteers under Colonel Hays.  When the rescue party reached the huge boulder in the path, Lieutenant Lyon led them around it by the lower path, and they soon came upon William Allen’s naked body.  His horse and gear were gone, as well, but in their haste the Indians had committed no further depredations on the dead man.

    While his men wrapped the body in a blanket and tied it to one of the horses, Colonel Hays walked further up the trail, his boots slipping on the loose shale that covered the trail.  Once he lost his footing and fell against a large, sharp rock, cutting his hand deeply.  “It is pointless to continue,” he announced when he returned.  “It’s not long ‘til nightfall, and we dare not climb such a treacherous trail after dark.”

    “The savages have most likely escaped into the desert by now,” Lieutenant Lyon suggested and Hays nodded.

    No man seemed reluctant to get off that mountain.  By the time they made their way back down the narrow canyon, the sun had set.  The temperature dropped markedly, and the cool breeze just beginning to rise made the night seem even colder.

    As soon as the regiment rejoined those left behind, Billy hustled over to where Ben dozed on his bedroll under the watchful gaze of his son.  “Better get him up and ready to ride,” Billy informed Adam.  “The colonel says we’re goin’ back to Pyramid Lake tonight.”

    “In the dark?” Adam asked.

    “Moon ain’t much past full,” Billy said, “and I reckon we’ll all feel safer once we’ve put these mountains between us and them Paiutes.”

    Adam had to admit that prospect pleased him, too.  He was only reluctant because of the added strain night travel would put on his father.  He knew he could count on Billy to help, though, if Ben grew weak, so he roused his father and helped him mount the horse Billy saddled for him.  Despite Adam’s concern, Ben sat that saddle steadily enough, though he willingly tumbled into his bedroll when the troops finally arrived back at Pyramid Lake at 2 a.m. the next morning.  Exhausted, Ben slept late.  Not until he woke later that day did he learn that Captain Edward F. Storey had passed away in his absence.

    While the commanders met to decide how to proceed, the men of the Washoe Regiment wandered through the abandoned Paiute encampment at Pyramid Lake, collecting souvenirs.  Adam had picked up a beaded knife case and a long, clay pipe in one karnee and was surprised to see his father when he exited——surprised and perturbed.  “What are you doing here?” Adam demanded.

    Ben arched an eyebrow.  “I might ask you the same thing.  I’d have thought you were above this plunder.”  His scornful eyes took in the white men scavenging through the camp for Indian artifacts.

    Adam flushed.  “Maybe I should be.  I thought I’d take something to the boys, but I won’t if you think it’s wrong.”

    Ben sighed.  “No, go ahead.  The Paiutes aren’t likely to come back for anything, and I’d like the boys to have some remembrance of that proud people.”

    Adam’s brow wrinkled.  “You talk like the Paiutes were gone forever.”

    Ben took the pipe, his finger tracing the broken edge that was, no doubt, the reason it had been abandoned.  “Their way of life is, I’m afraid, and it pains me that I helped destroy it.”

    “You did all you could to help them,” Adam said, rubbing his father’s uninjured arm.

    Ben shook his head.  “Not enough.  Not enough.”

    “You shouldn’t be out here,” Adam chided gently.  “You should be resting, getting your strength back.”

    Ben smiled ruefully.  “I think you enjoy ordering me around.”

    Adam shrugged.  “Just following the example that’s been set before me, I suppose.  Come on; I’ll walk you back.”

    Ben handed the pipe to Adam.  “I shouldn’t have come out in the first place.  This isn’t really the way I want to remember this camp.”

    Adam fell into step beside him.  “You don’t think we’ll go out after the Paiutes again, do you?”

    Ben glanced back over his shoulder, then looked at his son.  “I’d say the fight’s gone out of those men.”

    “I know how they feel,” Adam said softly.  “I hope I never see a battlefield again.”

    Ben affectionately clasped his son’s neck with his good hand.  “It was a hard fight, and one your heart——and mine——wasn’t in to begin with, but you’ve acquitted yourself honorably, son.  You’ve done what you had to do to defend your home and family.”

    Adam looked up quickly.  “And I’d do it again——for my home and family——but not for anything else, Pa.”

    “Nor would I, son,” Ben replied.  “Nor would I.”

    Ignoring Adam’s admonitions to rest, Ben stood at attention with the rest of the regiment when they were ordered to assemble later that morning.  Colonel Hays stood before them.  “Men, in conference this morning the other officers and I have determined that we will not pursue the Indians into the desert.  In hopes that they will return to Pyramid Lake, Captain Stewart and his men will remain here at the camp we have named Ft. Haven in honor of General Haven, who, despite his high rank elsewhere, volunteered in our regiment as a private.  The volunteers known as the Washoe Regiment will leave this afternoon for Virginia City, there to be disbanded and return to civilian status.”

    Shouts of triumph rang out, hats flew skyward and backs were patted in congratulation.

    Hays raised his arms to regain the men’s attention.  “We will also be escorting the body of Captain Storey back to Virginia City, where fitting tribute can be paid to this great man.  The funeral will tentatively be held this Sunday afternoon.  As you will all be expected to march in the procession, the troops will not be officially disbanded until after the service.  Those of you who have family in the area, however, may consider yourselves on furlough immediately after our return.”  Hays lifted his right hand to his brow.  “Gentlemen, I salute you for your service to the citizens of Washoe.  Dismissed.”

    Like the others, Ben and Adam milled around awhile, sharing the relief of a task completed and the joy of going home with men they’d come to admire and respect in the last two weeks.  Two weeks!  Just thinking about how long it had been since he’d seen his wife and little boys made Ben homesick.  Anxious to be ready the moment the order came to move out, he started to pack his gear.

    “I’ll do that,” Adam said sharply.  “You’re supposed——”

    “To be resting,” Ben finished.  “I’ve heard it before, boy.”

    Adam said no more.  If his father had taken to calling him ‘boy’ again, that meant he was thoroughly aggravated, and it was time to back off.  He began rolling up his own blankets.

    Billy Thomas came trotting up.  “Hey, good news about the troops disbandin’, huh?  You as ready to see home as me?”

    “Readier,” Ben muttered, wrestling to roll up his blankets one-handed.

    “Yeah, well, Colonel Hays is sendin’ me with a dispatch to the men back at Ft. Storey, so they’ll be ready to march when we get there,” Billy said.  “I thought maybe you’d like to ride out with me, Adam——see how Mark and Stefán are makin’ out——unless you figure your pa needs tendin’.”

    “I don’t need tendin’,” Ben growled.  “You two are worse than any two old biddies I ever met.”

    “Considering how long it’s been since he had chicken,” Adam drawled, “maybe this old biddy should get out of hatchet range.”  He grinned at the characteristic arch of his father’s eyebrow.  “Yeah, I’ll ride with you, Billy.  I like my riding companions easy to get along with.”

    “I’ll show you hard to get along with if you don’t give me a hand with this bedroll and get out of here,” Ben quipped.  Both young men laughed and had Ben’s gear ready to load in record time.

    Feeling he should get the dispatch delivered as quickly as possible, Billy set a harder pace than Adam would have liked, and the two friends covered the eight miles back to Ft. Storey in under ninety minutes.  “Hope you appreciate me slackin’ off for your sake,” Billy boasted as they ambled through the camp in search of Mark and Stefán.  “As a Pony rider, I’m used to burnin’ up the road.”

    Adam hooted.  “You’re not a Pony rider now, remember?  You quit.”

    “Just for the duration of the hostilities,” Billy insisted.  “Pony ain’t been runnin’, anyway, with all this trouble, but now that we got it settled, the Express’ll be startin’ up again, and I reckon they’ll welcome me back with open arms.”

    “If you can get your mother to let you out of hers,” Adam jibed, poking Billy in the ribs.  “Hey!  There’s Mark.”

    “Hey, Mark!” Billy yelled at the young soldier on makeshift crutches.

    “Adam, Billy,” Mark shouted, waving a crutch in greeting.  “Good to see you!  Mr. Cartwright all right, too?”

    “He took a bullet in the shoulder,” Adam said, “but he’s doing all right.  How about you?”

    “Oh, I’m fine,” Mark assured them.  “Leg’s still weak, but the fire’s gone out of it.  Did you find the Paiutes?”

    “Naw, they skedaddled,” Billy said, “and that’s what we’re about to do, too.  Just brought a message tellin’ the officers here to break camp.  The civilian troops are movin’ out for Virginia City.”

    “The Carson Valley Expedition will be staying at Pyramid Lake awhile,” Adam added.

    Billy thumped Mark’s chest with his knuckles.  “That don’t mean you, though.  Wounded is bein’ taken to Carson City, I hear.”

    Mark flushed deeply.  “No place on earth I’d rather be,” he admitted.  “These army surgeons are great, but I’d like Dr. Martin to take a look at my leg.”

    Billy hooted.  “Doc Martin, huh?  Sure it ain’t that pretty nurse of his you want lookin’ you over?”

    Adam gave Billy a playful shove.  “Doc Martin’s the best,” he told Mark, but couldn’t resist concluding his remark with a wink.

    Adam and Billy next sought out Stefán Zuebner, whom they found guarding the stock.  The three young men exchanged greetings and answered the usual questions about how everyone had fared during the campaign.  “I am sorry to hear your father is injured,” Stefán said.  “I came here to protect my sister, but it is men like you and your father who have paid the price for her safety.”

    “Hey, you done your part,” Billy assured him quickly.  “Without this moving commissary, none of us would’ve had strength to fight.”

    “That’s right,” Adam agreed.  “You may not reap the honors some of the others do, Stefán, but without men like you the job couldn’t have been done.  The same goes for those like your brother-in-law Enos and Billy’s pa, who stayed behind to guard the women and children.  They won’t get many pats on the back, either, but you’ve all earned a share in the victory.  My pa always says the important thing in any effort is for each man to pull his own weight by doing the work he’s best suited to.”

    Stefán smiled.  “Yah.  My father used to say something very much like that.  My father would have been proud of my place in this army, I think.  Thank you, my friend, for reminding me of that.”

    The Washoe Regiment reached Ft. Storey, and the troops that had remained there fell in with their original companies.  The four young friends——and Ben, as well——slept together in camp that night, then separated for the next day’s march.  Adam didn’t see Billy again, except at a distance, until they parted at the entrance to Gold Canyon.  “Me and Stefán volunteered to escort the wounded on in to Carson,” Billy said.  “Since we got family there, we was on furlough anyway.”

    Adam nodded.  “See you in Virginia City tomorrow, I guess.”

    “Yeah, I’ll be there,” Billy replied.  “Captain Storey wasn’t my commander, but he was a good man.  I aim to pay my respects.  See you then.”

    The sound of loud shouting brought the women at Ft. O’Riley running to the door.  “What is it?” Eilley Bowers demanded of the first miner she saw.

    “Troops is back!” the man yelled.  “Pushed them Paiutes clean into the northeast desert!”

    “They’re back, ladies!” Eilley screamed.  “The men are back!”  She ran into the street, followed by every woman and child in the hotel.

    “Come on, Little Joe!” Hoss cried, snatching his younger brother under the arms and swinging him in a circle.  “Pa’s back!”  He looked with irritation at Little Joe’s bare feet.  “Where’s your shoes?” he demanded.

    “Don’t know,” Little Joe said, struggling to get down.  “Where’s Pa?”

    Hoss tossed the smaller boy on his back.  “Let’s find him, Punkin.  I’ll carry you, since you’re barefoot; we can find them ornery shoes later.”

    “Yeah!  Find Pa,” Little Joe chortled with glee.

    Marie had run into the street with the other women, then suddenly remembering her children, had turned back to find them.  Seeing Hoss with Little Joe, she called, “Oh, you have him.  Thank you, Hoss.”

    “Yes’m.  You see Pa yet?” Hoss replied.

    “No, not yet,” Marie said, standing on tiptoe and craning her neck.

    “Find Pa, Mama,” Little Joe pleaded.

    “ Oui, mon petit,” his mother said, tenderly smoothing his tousled hair.  “As soon as——”

    “There he is!” Hoss shouted and took off a trot, Little Joe bouncing on his back.  “Pa!”

    Ben stopped his horse the minute he spotted Hoss.  “Help me down,” he ordered Adam urgently.  Adam dismounted quickly and helped his father to the ground.

    Hoss rushed up to him, throwing his arms about his father’s waist, and Little Joe stretched his arms for Ben to take him.  Ben caught the boy as he started to slide down his brother’s back and lifted him, burrowing his face in a head full of brown curls.  Then, looking up, he saw his wife, and his eyes glowed.

    “Oh, Ben!” Marie cried, her eyes on the arm in a sling.

    “I’m all right,” he assured her.

    Little Joe bent over to pluck the white sling, like one he’d once worn himself after a tumble down the stairs.  “You got a hurt, Pa?” he asked, small face sympathetic.

    Ben pressed his cheek against Little Joe’s soft one.  “Yeah, baby, Pa’s got a little hurt, and one of your sweet hugs is just the medicine he needs.”  Little Joe smiled and put his arms around Ben’s neck to provide the requested treatment.

    Seeing the strain on his father’s face, Adam reached for Little Joe.  “Come here, monkey, and I’ll show you what I brought you.”

    “A present?” Little Joe asked, readily releasing his father’s neck and circling Adam’s, instead.

    “Yes, a present,” Adam laughed.  “A present from the Paiutes.”

    “Me, too?” Hoss asked eagerly.

    “Yes, you, too.  Let’s look in my saddlebags.”

    As Adam led the younger boys aside, Ben opened his arms, and Marie immediately came to press her face against his chest.  “Oh, Ben,” she murmured.  “I have been sick with worry; it’s been so long.”

    Ben lifted her chin and kissed her lips.  “That’s the only medicine I have to offer,” he said with a smile.

    She smiled back.  “It is the perfect one.”  She touched his injured arm gently.  “Are you sure you are all right?  The wound is not serious?”

    “No, I’ve had good care,” he assured her.  “The surgeon assures me it’ll heal well.”

    He tilted his head to examine her worn face, then chuckled.  “You look like you’ve fought a fiercer battle than I, my love.”

    Marie laughed.  “It has seemed that way at times.  I cannot wait to see the Ponderosa again.”

    “I’m afraid you’ll have to,” Ben said, but before he could explain, the boys were back.

    “Lookee, Pa,” Little Joe said, holding out the Paiute pipe.  “See what Adam gave me.”

    “Oh, Adam,” Marie chided.  “A pipe?  That is not a proper child’s toy.”

    “Just a keepsake,” Ben said, holding her close.  “We can hang it on his wall——to remember a time gone by.”

    “It is not a wall hanging I would favor,” Marie murmured, “but I can see he does.”

“And see this neat knife case, Mama,” Hoss exulted.  “Ain’t it somethin’?”

    “ Oui, that is most attractive and useful, Hoss.  You must thank your brother.”

    “Already did,” Hoss said, then looked eagerly up at his father.  “You want me to hitch up the wagon, Pa, so we can get started for home right away?”

    “Right away,” Little Joe echoed happily from Adam’s arms.

    Ben groaned.  “We can’t, boys.  I know you’d like to get home, and I would, too, but we’ll have to stay here one more night.”

    “Why?” Hoss whined.  “We got time to get home before dark.”

    Ben explained quickly about the funeral the next day.  “Captain Storey was my commanding officer——and Adam’s.  We owe him this respect.”

    “ Mais oui,” Marie said at once.  “We can survive Ft. O’Riley one more night.  I can endure anything, now that you are at my side.”

    “My love,” Ben whispered and kissed her long and passionately.

    As they walked back to the hotel, Marie noticed Julia Bulette surrounded by miners eager to escort her back to her own house in the red-light district.  Marie sighed, grieved to see her friend return to such a sordid way of life, and pressed closer to the man who had rescued her from a destiny as cruel as the one that surely awaited Julia.

    At 2:00 Sunday afternoon Marie and the two younger boys stood among the throng that lined C Street in Virginia City to watch Captain Storey’s funeral procession pass by.  Though the citizens were quietly respectful, the atmosphere was more charged with celebration than sorrow, for everyone wanted to pay tribute to the brave soldiers of Washoe marching in the cortege.  Leading the procession was Colonel John Hays, followed by Captain Stewart with most of the army regulars, some having remained on guard at Pyramid Lake.

    “How come Mark ain’t with ‘em?” Hoss queried.

    “He has a leg wound, your father said,” Marie whispered.  “He’s in Carson City.”

    A shout went up when Major Hungerford led the volunteers down C Street.  “There’s Pa——and Adam!” Hoss yelled.

    “Pa!” Little Joe screamed, waving his arms wildly.

    “Shh,” Marie cautioned.

    “Aw, Mama, everybody’s yellin’,” Hoss protested.  “Hey, look!  There’s Billy, too.”

    “And Stefán,” Marie said.  “Oh, I am so glad they all came back safely.”

    The crowd quieted as the volunteers passed and Captain Storey’s horse, covered with a pall of black crepe, came into view.  The empty saddle and the boots turned backwards in the stirrups spoke more eloquently than words that the horse’s owner would ride him no more.  Captain Storey had been a member of the Masons, so that society, in blue satin aprons, marched next, immediately before the body of the revered leader himself on a beplumed catafalque drawn by six horses.

    The crowd fell in behind and followed the procession to Cemetery Ridge northeast of Virginia City, where amid Masonic farewells and the throwing of evergreens, Captain Edward F. Storey was laid to rest.  A final salute was fired, and Ben made his way to his family.

    “Where is Adam?” Marie asked at once.

    “Returning the horse he borrowed from the remuda after his was shot,” Ben explained.  “Hoss, is that offer to hitch our wagon still good?”

    “Yes, sir!” Hoss shouted.

    “Then, let’s get loaded and head for home, boy.”

    Hoss grinned ear to ear and took off at a trot, Little Joe stumbling after, yelling for him to wait.  Hoss tossed the little boy on his shoulders and took off.  “We’re goin’ home, Little Joe,” he exclaimed.  “Hurray!”

    “Hurray!” Little Joe yelled, expressing the sentiments of the entire family.

    The sun was beginning to set as the Cartwrights’ wagon approached the Ponderosa.  The foodstuffs they’d carried with them to Virginia City had been eaten, so the wagon was practically empty, and Ben agreed to stretch out on pillows in the back while Hoss drove.  He was supposed to be resting, but that was an impossible feat with feisty Little Joe clambering all over him.  Ben didn’t once rebuke him, though; those little hands and feet pressing him here and there felt wonderful.

    As the road began to climb up into the foothills near their home, Marie looked anxiously back at her husband.  “Oh, I do hope the house is all right.”

    “It had better be!” Ben chuckled.  “I have no desire to spend another night sleeping on hard ground under an open sky.  What about you, Adam?”

    “Second the opinion,” Adam called from behind the wagon, where he was riding Ben’s bay.  Then, seeing gray wisps wafting over the pines on the ridge above him, he stopped abruptly and pointed.  “Pa, look!” he cried.  “Smoke!”

    “Oh, no!” Marie shrieked, throwing her hands to her cheeks.  “The Washo!  They are burning our house!”

    “I doubt they’d wait ‘til now, if they intended that kind of behavior,” Ben said.  “Still, I can’t explain the smoke.  We’d better——”

    “Roast beef!” Hoss announced, sniffing the air appreciatively.

    “Your nose isn’t that good,” Adam scoffed.

    “Is too!” Hoss insisted.  “That’s beef cookin’.”

    “Well, that’s a possibility,” Ben muttered.  “Those Washo might have helped themselves to one of our steers——maybe all of them by now.  Wouldn’t’ve thought they’d cook it right in the yard, though.”

    “I’ll ride ahead,” Adam offered, “and see if there’s trouble.”

    “You be careful,” Ben ordered sharply.

    Adam rolled his eyes.  He’d just come from battling hundreds of Paiutes, but Pa still treated him like a youngster at the first hint of danger.  Feeling he had no time to take offense, however, Adam just said, “Yes, Pa,” and rode on.

    When he reached the front yard, he halted, more puzzled than ever.  There were no Indians in sight, and the house wasn’t on fire.  The smoke was coming from the chimney, and now that he was closer, Adam could definitely recognize the aroma of beef being roasted.  He took another sniff.  Onions, too.  Someone had moved in and made themselves at home in their house!

    Irritated beyond the reach of common sense, Adam burst angrily through the front door.  A warm fire burned on the hearth, but the room was empty.  “Where are you?” he yelled at the top of his lungs.

    Soft slippers pattered in from the kitchen.  “Mistah Adam!” Hop Sing cried.  “You home!”

    Adam’s heart thudded to the floor.  “Hop Sing!” he exclaimed.  “What are you doing here?”

    “Soldier men come Chinatown,” Hop Sing explained hurriedly.  “Say fighting all done, Indians go away; I come home, make dinnah, hope you come.  Where ev’lybody else?”

    Adam laughed out his relief.  “They’re coming, and you’re gonna be the happiest sight they could hope for.  What have you got to go with that roast beef?”

    Hop Sing beamed.  “Oh, velly fine meal.  Potato, carrot, gleen bean, biscuit.  Dlied apple pie.  You like?”

    “Oh, yeah,” Adam said, remembering all the cold meals he’d eaten in rain-soaked camps.  When Hop Sing bustled back into the kitchen, Adam ambled outside to await his family’s arrival.  As the wagon drove into the yard, everyone looked at the smoke rising from the chimney, then at the grinning oldest Cartwright son.  “It’s all right,” Adam chuckled after making them wait a moment for an explanation.  “It’s Hop Sing, cooking up a feast you won’t believe, just in hopes we’d get back tonight.”

    Ben laughed heartily.  “Now I know I’m home!”

    Moments later, as they all climbed down from the wagon, Hoss heard a yipping sound and turned to see a small brown dog charge around the corner of the house and jump up on his leg.  “Klamath!” Hoss cried.  “You’re alive, boy!  Now I know we’re home!  We’re all home.”

    While Adam and Hoss, with Klamath nipping playfully at his heels, stayed outside to unhitch and care for the animals, the others went inside.  Marie ran her fingers across the cabinet beside the door.  “Not even dusty,” she whispered.  “I was just hoping I’d have a house, and it’s just like I left it.”  She turned to kiss Ben’s cheek.  “We really are home, my love.”

    Ben laughed and bounced Little Joe on his good arm.  “Well, it’s your turn now.  Say ‘we’re home,’ baby.”

    “I’m not a baby,” Little Joe declared.

    Ben just laughed again and snuggled him close.

    Later that evening, after they’d all eaten enough to satisfy even Hop Sing and had each had a warm bath, the Cartwrights, dressed in nightclothes and robes, sat around that mammoth fireplace which, to each of them, symbolized home.  Little Joe was asleep on his father’s lap and Hoss was yawning prodigiously, but Ben didn’t have the heart to send them to bed.  He was enjoying too much the picture of his entire family, together again.  To him, it was a beautiful portrait of a dream come to life——a dream almost lost, imperiled by the conflicts of the community.  Like gold refined in a furnace, however, that dream had come forth shining brighter than before——and more precious than all the silver of the Comstock Lode.