Feeling it essential to be on his best behavior, Hoss was up and dressed early the next morning.  After giving careful attention to his morning chores, he slid into his chair at the breakfast table.  “Little Joe not up yet?” he asked, glancing across at the vacant place between his father and mother.

    “No, he was very tired last night,” Marie replied, “and I thought it best to let him sleep.”

    “Yeah, I guess,” Hoss said, guilt stabbing him as he reached for the platter of bacon.  “I was just thinkin’ maybe it’d be better if I saw him before I went to school or he might think I was lost for sure and set off cryin’ again.”

    “You’ll have plenty of time,” Ben said, lifting his coffee cup.  “You’re not going to school this morning.”

    Both Marie and Hoss turned startled eyes toward the head of the table.

    Ben took a sip of coffee and lowered the cup.  “Don’t look pleased with yourself, boy; what you will be doing is far less pleasant than a morning in the classroom.”

    Hoss smiled sheepishly.  While he didn’t think he’d been looking pleased with himself, he had to admit the thought of skipping school, even one day, had a definite appeal.  Not, however, if Pa had something worse planned.  “Uh, you gonna tell me what I’ll be doing,” he queried hesitantly, “or have I got to wait?”

    Seeing his wife’s head also tilted with curiosity, Ben chuckled.  “No, neither of you has to wait.  You and I are going to ride over to the Hanson ranch this morning, Hoss, and you are going to apologize to young Pete for starting the fight and for injuring him.”

    Hoss’s face fell, but almost instantly he realized that he really was sorry about what had happened and that he’d feel better once he’d said that to Pete.  “Thanks, Pa,” he whispered.  “It’ll make it easier with you bein’ there.”

    Ben gave his son a smile warm with pride.  “I’m happy to help, son.  Now, I have a few duties to tend to before we can leave, so I would like you to make good use of the time by starting to clean up the tack room.  You won’t be able to finish by the time I return, but you can complete the job after school.  Miss Appleton will be expecting you directly after lunch.”

    Figuring he was getting off lightly with a single extra chore, Hoss at once agreed, finished his breakfast without delay and headed immediately for the tack room.  He had been working diligently for about an hour when a shadow fell across the open door.  Noticing the change in light, Hoss turned and saw his mother, holding his tearful little brother by the hand.

    “There, you see,” Marie cooed soothingly.  “Hoss is home safe.”

    Little Joe pulled free and ran across the room, screaming his brother’s name.  Hoss grabbed him up and held him close.  “It’s okay, little punkin,” he said.  “Don’t cry, baby.”

    Little Joe wiped the back of his hand across his eyes.  “I thought you was losted,” he rebuked, lower lip puckered.

    “Yeah, I know; I’m sorry I worried you,” Hoss said, giving the little boy another squeeze.

    “Little Joe, you have seen your brother, and now you must leave him to his work,” Marie admonished with a beckoning stretch of her arm.

    “Me help,” Little Joe declared.

    “No, you have not had your breakfast,” his mother insisted.  “Come, mon petit .”

    “Mon petit” stamped his petite foot.  “No want bweakfast.  Want help Hoss.”

    Color rose in Marie’s face and then vanished just as quickly.  “Oh, I suppose it will do no harm,” she conceded.  “Hoss will be leaving soon, so you may spend a little time with him and eat afterwards.  Is that acceptable with you, mon chéri?”

    “Sure, Ma,” Hoss agreed.  When she left, he set Little Joe down.  “Okay, punkin, why don’t you bring me that bridle over there, so I can hang it up?”

    Little Joe scurried over to get the bridle and bring it back to Hoss.  “See, me help,” he declared.

    Hoss laughed.  “Yeah, you’re a big help.”

    Little Joe grinned; then the smile faded.  “Where was you, Hoss?”

    As he hung up the bridle, Hoss began to explain the trouble he’d been having at school to his little brother, telling in detail what had happened the day before.

    “Bad boys,” Little Joe sputtered when he heard how the trio of bullies had been making fun of Hoss.  Doubling his tiny fists, he declared vehemently, “Me punch ‘em good, Hoss.”

    Hoss threw back his head and guffawed.  The idea of those little knuckles flying to his defense seemed so ludicrous he couldn’t hold back the laughter.  Seeing that Little Joe looked hurt, however, he stopped, and gathering the little boy into his arms, he leaned against a saddle stand.  “That’s real sweet of you, punkin pie, to want to help brother, but it ain’t the right way.  Pa talked to me last night about tryin’ to stop mean words with my fists, and it just ain’t right.  And if it’s wrong for me, it’s wrong for you, too, understand?”

    Little Joe’s face was totally devoid of understanding, but he nodded and said, “Okay,” just to please Hoss.

    “Okay,” Hoss said.  “Now, let’s see how much we can get done before Pa gets here.  I wanna stay on his good side today.”

    Staying on Pa’s good side was a concept completely comprehensible to the youngest Cartwright, so he hurried to bring his brother whatever piece of equipment Hoss pointed out.  As they worked, Hoss found his heart feeling lighter and realized it was the laughter he had shared with his younger brother that had brought the relaxation of his tension.  Laughter didn’t have to be hurtful, Hoss realized.  Maybe it could even be a way of turning things around.

    How would it be, he asked himself, if I just laughed right along with the other kids when they laugh at me?  Maybe if I act like it ain’t botherin’ me none, it’ll plumb take the fun out of it for them.  Most of ‘em ain’t mean-spirited—not really; they’re just goin’ along with what them three troublemakers start without givin’ it much thought, I bet.

    Before Hoss could give his new theory much consideration, however, his father returned and told him it was time to saddle his horse.  Little Joe puckered up in protest of Hoss’s imminent departure, but a quick hug and a promise that he could help Hoss again after school sent him scurrying into the house in search of his postponed breakfast.

    Fighting back an urge to wheel his horse around and run, Hoss trailed into the Hanson ranch yard slightly behind his father.

    Ben seemed to understand his son’s reluctance.  “It’ll be over soon, boy,” he said, “and you’ll feel better for it.”

    “Yes, sir,” Hoss returned quietly.  He dismounted and tethered his mare to the hitching rail beside his father’s bay.

    “Howdy!”

    Father and son spun to see a lanky, wheat-haired man emerging from the barn.  From the resemblance to the boy with whom he’d recently done battle, Hoss knew that the man could be no one but Pete’s pa, and he wondered, as he often had before, why some boys looked so much like their fathers, while he looked so little like his.

    Ben walked across the yard to extend his hand, and Hanson took firm hold of it.  “How is your boy this morning?” Ben asked after exchanging pleasantries with the other man.

    Hanson scratched the back of his neck.  “‘Bout like the doc said he’d be, I reckon.  Got a powerful headache, but seems pert enough beyond that.”

    “Hopefully, time will take care of that,” Ben observed.  He pulled Hoss forward.  “This is my son.  He feels badly about the injury done to your boy and would like a chance to apologize for his actions, if you think Pete is feeling up to a visitor.”

      Hanson hitched a drooping suspender back over his left shoulder.  “Don’t see why not.  Come on up to the house.”  He led the way to the dingy brown frame house, the Cartwrights following him up the three steps to the porch.

    Before they could enter, the door opened and a woman with straggly straw-colored hair stormed onto the porch.  “That the one done it?” she demanded fiercely, poking at Hoss’s chest with a flour-dusted finger.  “You the over-sized ox that half-killed my boy?”

    “Hush, woman,” Hanson said sharply.  “I won’t have guests in our house spoke to like that.  Like as not, the boy got no more than he asked for, and all this youngun is askin’ is the chance to say he’s sorry.”  Holding the door open, he turned to Hoss.  “You go right on in, boy, and say your piece.  Me and your pa is gonna set in the kitchen a spell and have a cup of coffee.”

    “I’d be obliged,” Ben said.  “A cup of hot coffee will hit the spot perfectly on a chilly morning like this.”

    Mrs. Hanson scowled, but preceded the men into the kitchen to brew a fresh pot of coffee.  Ben paused only long enough to give his son an encouraging smile before following her.

    By instinct, Hoss made his way down the short hall to Pete’s room.  Swallowing hard, he stepped inside the open doorway.  “Hey, Pete,” he said shyly.  “How you doin’?”

    Pete propped himself up on his elbows.  “You’re ‘bout the last person I expected to see,” he muttered.

    “Yeah, I—uh—yeah, I guess I’m ‘bout the last person you want to see,” Hoss said, scuffing his right foot back and forth over the plank floor.

    Pete cocked his head and gave the other boy an appraising squint.  “Maybe, maybe not.”

    As he lay back against the pillow with a hand held to his head, Hoss hurried forward.  “Let me fix that for you,” he offered.  “You wanna sit up or lie down.”

    “Better lie down, I guess,” Pete said.  “Hurts less that way.”

    Hoss gulped as he frantically fluffed the pillow.  “Hey, Pete, I’m real sorry ‘bout hittin’ you that hard,” he said as he eased the other boy’s head onto the pillow.  “I sure never meant to knock you out.”

    Pete shrugged off the apology.  “Wasn’t all your doin’.  Doc thinks maybe I hit something when I went down—rock or tree root or maybe just hard ground.  Pa says you’re the one that got me home and brought the doc out here to tend me.”

    “Miss Appleton and Mr. Frey did most of the ‘gettin’ you home,’” Hoss insisted, “but I brung the doc.  Least I could do after causin’ the hurt.”  He felt a little better, now that he knew it wasn’t his punch alone that had hurt Pete so badly, but he couldn’t totally set aside his responsibility, either.  Without his punch, no rock or tree root would have had opportunity to slam into the boy’s head.

    “Well, I’m obliged,” Pete said, “especially seein’ as how my so-called friends just run off and left me.  Some friends, huh?”

    “They was scared,” Hoss said, sensing how that abandonment had hurt Pete and wanting to ease the pain.

    “Yeah, but real friends would’ve stuck, scared or not,” Pete insisted.

    “Yeah,” Hoss conceded, perching companionably on Pete’s bed.  “Seems like they would.”

    Pete rubbed the thin coverlet between his fingers.  “Seems like you was more a friend to me than them two.”

    Hoss flushed, feeling himself unworthy of any praise.  “Aw, shucks,” he muttered.  “Least I could do.”

    Pete grinned.  “You said that once already.  You’ll have me thinkin’ you ain’t just dumb, but crazy to boot, if you start sayin’ everything twice over.”

    Hoss grinned back.  “Well, I sure don’t want that!” he snickered and was rewarded with a good-natured laugh from Pete.  Hoss made note of the response.  Every time he’d been called ‘dumb’ before, he’d gotten angry, and the taunts had just kept coming; this time he’d laughed along, and now he and Pete both felt better.  “Look, Pete,” he said when they’d both quieted down again.  “I know we ain’t been friends before this, but is that any reason we can’t be now?”

    “Boy, no wonder you have trouble in school, if you don’t listen to Miss Appleton any better than you listen to me,” Pete chuckled.  “I already said we was friends, didn’t I?’

    Hoss tilted his head in thoughtful consideration; then a wide grin split his face.  “Yeah, I reckon you did.”
 

    Hoss mounted the steps to the schoolhouse with only slight apprehension.  His visit to Pete had turned out better than he’d hoped, and the talk he’d had with Pa over sandwiches and fried pie down by the creek had also had a calming effect.  Miss Appleton knew where he’d been, so he wasn’t worried about having to explain his absence in front of the other kids.  However, he knew by experience that there were few secrets among the population of a small school, and he couldn’t help feeling a little concerned about how the other children would react to him.  Would they be mad at him for hurting Pete or, worse, maybe scared he’d do it to them?

    He opened the door and closed it quietly behind him.  Though he would have liked to simply slip into his seat unnoticed, Miss Appleton spoiled that by calling his name as soon as she saw him.  “Eric, I’m glad you could join us this afternoon.  Please take your seat and open your arithmetic book to page twelve.  Do all the exercises on that page and be ready to recite with the others after I finish helping the younger students.”

    Grateful that she’d stuck to school business, Hoss murmured a quick “Yes, ma’am,” and took his seat, immediately burying his nose in his Ray’s Arithmetic .  He worked the first row of sums diligently and then sneaked a peek toward the back of the classroom.  Walter Grogan’s desk was empty, but Calvin Hulbert, sporting a black ring around his left eye, was in his regular seat.  When he looked up and caught Hoss looking at him, he promptly averted his eyes.  Everyone else seemed intent on his or her lessons, and Hoss turned his attention back to his own.  Today of all days, he didn’t want to fail at his schoolwork.  In fact, he wanted to do absolutely nothing to call attention to himself.

    Never a superior scholar, however, Hoss found it harder than usual to concentrate that afternoon.  Occasionally he would notice one of his classmates glancing his way.  In some of their eyes, he could read questions; in others, he saw anxiety or even outright fear.  Desperately wanting a chance to answer those questions, he found his attention wandering from the ones on the page before him, and when Miss Appleton called his class to recite, he was still three problems shy of completing the assignment.

    “I-I’m sorry, ma’am,” he apologized.  “I ain’t got ‘em all done yet.”

    “Slow as molasses,” came a low rumble from the back of the schoolroom, and though the tones had been too soft to be identifiable, Hoss knew the words could have come from no one but Cal Hulbert.  A few others tittered softly, but nervously.

    As good a time as any to try using humor as a defense, Hoss concluded.  He turned to give the class a sheepish grin.  “Slow as molasses,” he admitted, “but who’d want to chase molasses ‘round his plate?”  The titters were louder this time and more relaxed.  Not sure what to make of Hoss’s apparently unbothered response, Calvin merely stared back.

    “You’re sweet as ‘lasses, too,” Mary Emma O’Neill called out loyally.

    “Now, that’s enough,” Miss Appleton said, but she didn’t sound angry.  “Slowness resulting from deliberation is not necessarily a poor quality.  However, Eric, I believe your failure to complete the assignment has less to do with deliberation than with distraction.”

    His face void of understanding, Hoss blinked.  “Huh?”

    Miss Appleton merely smiled.  “Distraction, not paying attention where you ought because other things are filling your mind,” she explained.  The warmth of the smile she directed toward Hoss told him she understood what those “other things” were and why they were filling his mind more than his lessons today.  “Since you’re evidently a bit distracted this afternoon, Eric,” she continued calmly, “I believe you should return to your seat and finish your work, instead of reciting with the rest of the class.  You may show it to me before going out to recess.”

    “Yes, ma’am,” Hoss said gratefully.  “I’ll do my best.”

    Miss Appleton laid her slender hand on his well-built shoulder, and her eyes swept the watching students as she spoke.  “Yes, Eric, I believe you always do.”

    Hoss returned to his seat, noticing that smiles and friendly nods had replaced most of the nervous looks sent his direction earlier.  Feeling his own tension ease, Hoss settled into his seat and made himself focus intently on the remaining arithmetic problems.

    For Hoss, the first week following the fight that was supposed to end all his problems was one of ups and downs.  Monday and Tuesday had gone fairly well.  Although Calvin Hulbert aimed an occasional barb at him, Hoss was able, at least most of the time, to deflect the jibes.  He tried to think of clever comebacks for the other boy’s stinging words, but not being a natural-born wit, sometimes he couldn’t think of anything to say.  Then he’d just shrug his shoulders and grin and pretend he wasn’t hurt, but the words still cut and sometimes, despite his best efforts to disguise it, the pain showed on his open face.  It always eased, though, when he talked his troubles out with Pa, who questioned him each night about how things were going, offering comfort and counsel, along with words of encouragement and praise for Hoss’s honest efforts to keep the peace.

    Wednesday brought a new challenge with the return of Walter Grogan to the classroom.  Hoss decided to simply ignore Walter and hope Walter ignored him in return, but Cal Hulbert seemed determined to enlist the older boy’s help in once more taunting their favorite prey.  Walter finally brushed him off like a bothersome fly.  “Look, maybe you don’t keep your bargains,” he grunted, “but I do.”

    Having overheard the exchange, Hoss took courage and walked up to Walter.  “Hey, Walter,” he said, holding out his hand.  “No hard feelin’s?”

    Walter scowled back.  “You beat me fair and square,” he said, “so I’ll keep to what I promised, but that don’t make us buddies, Cartwright.  Just keep your distance, and I’ll keep mine.”

    Crestfallen, Hoss watched him turn his back and walk away.  He’d hoped that he might make amends with Walter, the way he had with Pete, but the prospects didn’t look promising.  Still, if Walter kept his bargain, that left only Cal to deal with, and Hoss figured he could handle one loudmouth.

    Hulbert tried to bait Hoss several times over the next two days, and Hoss almost yielded to the temptation to stuff the ugly words back in his mouth with a well-placed fist.  Thoughts of Pete lying unconscious beside the creek were always enough, though, to quiet the angry thoughts—that and a desire to keep his father’s approval.

    On Friday Hoss came home wearing a wide grin.  With his father’s permission he had been visiting the Hanson ranch every day after school to take Pete his lessons, and the two boys had been working together, building a bond that Hoss hoped would continue.  Pete wasn’t a top student, but he did catch on to things more quickly than Hoss, who found it even easier to ask Pete questions than Miss Appleton.

    Doc Martin had stopped by that afternoon and had declared Pete fit enough to go back to school on Monday.  Pete had given the obligatory groan at the thought of schoolwork, and Hoss had commiserated, as any decent friend would.  Both boys really considered it good news, though—Pete because even school was better than staying home in bed and Hoss because he now knew that Pete was going to be all right.

    He couldn’t wait to tell Pa, who’d left to deliver another load of lumber to Fort Churchill the morning before and was due back tonight.  His impatience for his father’s return, however, was nothing compared to that of their Chinese cook.  Hop Sing ranted rebukes in Cantonese that everyone in the family understood, even though they couldn’t translate the words.  Finally, Marie had enough and began shouting back in French, while Hoss and Little Joe looked on speechless at the battle of foreign tongues.

    “Well, isn’t this a pretty scene!” Ben chuckled as he walked through the front door to the music of unintelligible shouting.

    “Oh, mon mari,” Marie cried, her quarrel with Hop Sing forgotten in joy over her husband’s return.

    Hop Sing was less forgiving.  “You late,” he scolded.  “Loast beef all dly up!”

    “I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Ben cajoled.

    “No,” Hop Sing insisted petulantly.  “Cook too long.  All dly up.”

    “Just serve it up and we’ll eat it, dry or . . . otherwise,” Ben replied, unable to think of the culinary opposite of dry.

    As the little cook stomped out to the kitchen to dish up the evening meal, Ben took his wife in his arms and kissed her tenderly.  “Miss me?” he asked.

    Marie nuzzled against his broad chest.  “Umm, you know I did.  I hate it when you are away, even a single night.”

    “We’ll make up for lost time tonight,” Ben promised in her ear.

    A little hand was slapping his leg, demanding attention.  “Pa!  Hold me,” Little Joe ordered.

    In a military frame of mind after his trip to the fort, Ben saluted his youngest son smartly.  “Yes, sir,” he declared.  Then he laughed as he swooped the little boy into his arms.  “I missed you, too, little nuisance, yes I did!”  He walked to the sofa and sat down.  “Have you been a good boy, Little Joe?”

    “Always good,” Little Joe announced with a sturdy bob of his diminutive head.

    Ben rolled his eyes.  “Oh, that good, eh?  Good as always isn’t such a high recommendation in your case, Joseph.”

    “I been good,” Joe affirmed, nodding and smiling.

    Ben laughed again and cradled the curly head on his shoulder.  Turning toward Hoss, he asked the question with which he’d greeted his son every evening that week except the one he’d been away.  “How did things go at school today, Hoss?”

    Hoss snuggled close to his father’s side.  “Real good, Pa,” he said and, his voice rising with excitement, told the news he’d longed to share.

    “That is good news,” Ben agreed.  “You think Pete will continue to be your friend after he comes back or will the Hulbert boy be too strong an influence on him?”

    “I think we’ll stay friends,” Hoss replied.  “Me and Pete talked about that before I left today, and he says I treat him nicer than Cal ever did, so I think he’ll stick with me.”

    “I’m glad to hear that, son,” Ben said, easing Little Joe down to his knee, “and I’m proud of how you’ve been handling yourself this week.  As a matter of fact, I think you’ve earned a little reward.”

    A disgruntled Hop Sing shuffled to the edge of the dining room just then.  “Suppah leady; you eat—now,” he commanded, arms folded across his chest.

    Ben’s brows came together in a straight line, and he almost gave voice to the opinion that he would not be ordered about in his own home.  Then, considering the likely consequences, he simply stood up and made his way submissively to the table, carrying Little Joe to his chair.

    After saying grace over a roast beef that looked tender and succulent, rather than dry, Ben smiled at his middle son.  “Now, about that reward I mentioned . . .”

    Hoss grinned and took a guess.  “Candy, I bet.  You stopped in Carson City and bought me some candy, didn’t you?”

    “Me, too!” Little Joe shouted.

    “Yes, yes, candy for both of you,” Ben chuckled, “but that isn’t the reward.  This is something you will really enjoy, Hoss, and so will your mother.”

    “Oh, have I, too, earned a reward?” Marie tittered.

    “You will—later,” Ben said with a naughty grin.

    Marie blushed and shook her head in gentle rebuke.  Little Joe was too young to understand the thinly veiled allusion, but Hoss was a different matter.  She would have to speak to Ben about making suggestive comments in front of their sons, however welcome to her ears.  “What is this reward we shall both enjoy?” she asked, pointedly directing Ben’s attention elsewhere than the bedroom.

    “You and Hoss and I are going to attend the opening of Virginia City’s very first theater!” Ben announced, eyes darting from one surprised face to the other.  “I heard about it at the fort and decided we shouldn’t miss a historic event like that.”

    “Truly, Ben?  A theater here?” Marie squealed.  “Que magnifique! ”

    “Yeah,” Hoss agreed, face beaming.  He’d heard that phrase enough to know what it meant, even if it was in French.  “When, Pa?”

    “Tomorrow night,” Ben answered.

    “Me, too!” Little Joe screamed.  He had noticed the omission of his name, and he never liked feeling left out.

    “Shh, hush now,” Ben soothed, stroking the child’s soft cheek with the back of his fingers.  “Pa has other plans for you, baby.”  Seeing the concern in Marie’s eyes, he hurriedly explained.  “We’ll be staying over at a hotel, so I’ve arranged for Little Joe to spend the night with Katerina.  That’s why I was late getting home.”

    “Wanna go wif you,” Little Joe sobbed, twisting tiny knuckles into his eye sockets.

    “There, there, mon petit,” his mother urged, gathering him into her lap.  “You will like it better at Katerina’s than in a dark theater, I am sure.  She will probably make you some of her special cookies.”

    Little Joe peeked out through his fingers.  “All for me?”

    Marie laughed.  “Oui, all for you.  I suppose it would be late to drive back after the play,” she mused as the toddler began to settle down.  “You are right, Ben; it would be best to spend the night in town.”

    “And you can go to church the next morning,” Ben offered, “and we’ll have dinner in town—make a grand day of it!”

    Marie pressed slender fingers to her lips.  “Oh, Ben, we cannot,” she murmured.  “We were to take dinner with Clyde and Nelly this Sunday.  They are expecting us.”

    “Not anymore, they’re not,” Ben assured her.  “That’s another reason I’m late.  I stopped by their place, too, and though Nelly was disappointed at the delay, I assured her we’d dine with them next Sunday without fail.”

    “For the next two Sundays,” Marie announced exuberantly.  “They will dine here the next week.”

    “They’ll like that,” Ben said, smiling.  Though Marie had been less than enthusiastic when he first proposed the compromise of alternating weeks at church with weeks with their friends, she had agreed, and seeing her attempt to be scrupulously fair, he began to think maybe the contrived solution might work out.

    Ben halted the buckboard before the building on the southeast corner of B and Sutton streets.  Vaulting down, he quickly tied the reins to a hitching rail and held Marie’s hand as she stepped down from the wagon.  “I’ll get us registered,” Ben announced.  “Then you and Hoss can get freshened up while I drive the wagon to the livery and purchase the tickets for this evening’s performance.”

    Marie nodded as she brushed dust from her forest green merino skirt.  “ Oui, you should do that promptly.  As it is the first night in Virginia City’s first theater, tickets may sell out early.”

    Seeing Hoss’s anxious eyes, Ben laughed.  “We can’t have that, can we, son?”

    “No, sir, sure can’t.”  Hoss shook his head vehemently.  “Better get them tickets first thing, Pa!”

    Ben clucked his tongue as he took Hoss’s chunky chin in his hand.  “Say ‘those tickets’ and I will.”

    Hoss grinned, his nose scrunching up sheepishly.  “‘Those tickets,’” he repeated dutifully.  Ben tousled the boy’s windblown hair and, wrapping an arm around his broad shoulders, directed him up the steps to the Virginia Hotel, the leading hostelry in the city.

    Since his father had left as soon as the register was signed, Hoss carried both carpetbags upstairs to the room the Cartwrights had rented for the night.  He set the plumper one at the foot of one double bed and his own beside the other.

    “Take your suit out right away, Hoss,” his mother directed as she opened her own bag.  “The wrinkles need a chance to smooth out before we dress for supper.”

    “Do I got to wear that suit?” Hoss complained.  “It pinches my shoulders.”

    “Oui , I know,” Marie sighed.  “You grow so fast, mon chéri .  I am sure the other patrons of the theater will be well-dressed, though, and we do not wish to bring shame upon your father.”

    “No, ma’am,” Hoss sighed.  With obvious reluctance he pulled his suit from the carpetbag and laid it out on the bed while, with equally obvious anticipation, Marie did the same for her own and Ben’s evening clothes.  Then she set about scrubbing the road dust from Hoss’s face before attending to her own toilette.

    Both Marie and Hoss were clean and dressed in their evening attire when Ben returned, somewhat later than expected.  Hoss jumped up from the bed on which he’d been sitting.  “You get there in time to get the tickets, Pa?” he asked eagerly.

    Ben blew out an exasperated gust of air.  “In time, yes, but I didn’t get any tickets, son.”

    Hoss’s face plummeted.  “Why, Pa?”

    “Were they expensive, Ben?” Marie queried, resting a consoling hand on Hoss’s shoulder.

    Ben tossed his hat onto the bureau.  “Not more than I expected.  They ranged from two bits to a dollar, depending on the location of the seats.”

    Marie looked puzzled.  “Then, what happened, Ben?”

    Ben raked his right hand through the graying hair at his temple.  “While I was requesting the tickets, I mentioned that I needed three, one for myself, my wife and my son, and I was politely, but firmly, told that ladies were not to be admitted to the theater.”

    “Ma ain’t welcome?” Hoss asked, lips pressing into a thin line.

    “That’s right, son,” Ben explained.  “I talked to the manager, tried to find out the reason, but nothing he said made much sense.  I couldn’t seem to convince him that there were any real ladies in Virginia City, just the ‘other kind.’”

    Hoss cocked his head.  “What other kind?”

    “Never mind,” Marie inserted quickly.  “Well, I am disappointed, of course, but perhaps you and Hoss will enjoy an evening with only men.”

    Ben drew both eyebrows up haughtily.  “Do you honestly think I would leave you here in a lonely hotel room while I pranced off to take pleasure elsewhere?”

    Marie moved to his side, kissing his cheek tenderly.  “Mais non, not for your own pleasure, but this was to be a reward for Hoss, non?   And does he not still deserve it?”

    Ben took a step away.  “Yes, of course, but I’ll have to find some other way to reward his good behavior.”

    The hopeful light that had flickered in Hoss’s alpine eyes at his mother’s words faded again when he heard his father’s.

    “No,” Marie insisted, her emerald eyes flashing.  “There is no need to find another when this is what he wants.”

    “I will not leave you alone!” Ben declared stoutly, folding his arms across his chest.

    “Mais oui, you will,” Marie replied, her firmness matching his own.  Smiling, she stroked his stubbly cheek.  “There is no danger, Ben.  The door has a sturdy lock, and I will not perish of loneliness in the few hours you will be away.  You are sacrificing your wishes to mine tomorrow; let me be equally generous tonight, mon amour.”

    Seeing that Ben was at a loss for words, she moved authoritatively to the bureau and handed him his hat.  “Now you must go at once and get two tickets before they are sold out, and then you must visit a barber and get a fresh shave.  I expect you to look your best and to take me to the finest restaurant in town for supper.  That, monsieur, is my fee for letting you leave my sight for an evening.”

    “Your fee?  You know what kind of woman charges a fee,” Ben chuckled, chocolate eyes twinkling.

    “Ben!” Marie protested with a quick, protective glance toward Hoss.

    “Must be the angelic kind,” Ben laughed, giving her a quick kiss of repentance.  “Wouldn’t you agree, Hoss?”

    Hoss beamed with cherubic rapture befitting the offspring of a member of the heavenly host.  “That Ma’s an angel?  Oh, yeah, Pa.  I always knew that!”

    Her laughter light as a tinkling silver bell, Marie bent to kiss him.  Rising, she looked at her husband.  “Hurry, please, Ben.  There is no time for delay—and buy the best tickets available for this best of sons.”

    Ben bowed elegantly.  “Oui, madame; your wish is my command.”
 

    As she leaned back against propped pillows, Marie curled her bare toes beneath the hem of her dressing gown.  Though the day had been relatively warm, now that the sun had set, the temperature had dropped abruptly.  She shifted slightly, searching for a more comfortable position.  Though the Virginia House was the best Virginia City had to offer, there was little of which to boast in its accommodations.  The choice of seating in the room consisted of one straight-backed chair, so she had chosen to recline on the bed, instead.  Unfortunately, the lumpy mattress bore scarcely more resemblance to a comfortable lounge than the wooden chair, and Marie had spent a restless evening and predicted a restless night ahead.

    She turned the final page of the Territorial Enterprise, which Ben had picked up on the way back to the hotel after buying the tickets for himself and Hoss.  “I had to settle for gallery seats,” he had apologized to his son, “and lucky to get those.”  Hoss, however, had seemed completely unperturbed by having to watch the stage from the cheapest seats in the house.  Just being there was clearly enough for him.

    Marie smiled as she remembered the eager anticipation that had Hoss picking distractedly at his supper in a manner more reminiscent of his baby brother’s mealtime behavior than his own.  Sometimes she worried about his appetite, so much larger than that of other boys his age, but at just over one hundred pounds, Hoss loomed larger than any other ten-year-old in the territory in every other way, as well.  Dr. Martin called his appetite normal and healthy and told her not to worry, but it was hard advice for a mother to follow.  Tonight, though, she’d found it easy to be unconcerned about his leaving half his meal on the plate; she viewed it as a good tonic for his stomach to have a lighter load to digest once in awhile.

    She, on the other hand, had eaten her own meal with relish.  The Café de Paris had served surprisingly good French cuisine, and she had stuffed herself to capacity on salad and escargot, leaving not so much as a leaf of lettuce or a crumb of delicious baguette.  Walking back to the Virginia Hotel on Ben’s arm under a clear, star-studded sky had provided the perfect end to the evening for Marie.  Certainly, she was disappointed not to be with her family, but she knew that one look at Hoss’s bright face when he returned would content her as much as hearing every line of the drama at the Howard Street Theater.  Besides, she thought with an amused smile, I am quite sure to hear every line six or seven times before we reach the Ponderosa tomorrow afternoon.

    It hadn’t been a bad evening, even though she was alone and less than perfectly comfortable.  She’d taken a long, luxurious soak in the tub down the hall and had read her Bible for a while before turning to the newspaper.  Now, having finished that, there was really nothing more to do to pass the time, but she didn’t want to go to sleep until Ben and Hoss returned.  Hoss—and probably Ben, too, who could be astonishingly childlike at times—would be too excited to sleep until they’d described every scene to her.

    Despite Marie’s best intentions, however, her eyelids were drooping with heaviness when the grating of the key in the lock made her sit up and rub the sleepiness from her eyes.  As the door opened, she spread her arms in welcome.  “Ah, there are my boys,” she said brightly, “and I can see by the look on your faces that you have had a wonderful time.  Come tell me all about The Toodles.  That is the play you saw, oui?”

    Hoss bounced down on the bed next to her, wrapping long arms around her waist.  “Oh, Ma!  It was the best ever—except for Pocahontas.”

    Ben and Marie exchanged an amused glance above the boy’s head.  For Hoss, nothing would ever surpass the memory of the first play he’d ever seen—at least, not until he grew beyond boyhood into the more earthy interests of adolescence.

    “It had everything, Ma,” Hoss gushed on.

    “Oh, yes,” Ben chuckled.  “Double-crossing, lies, a hanging—”

    Marie stiffened.  “Oh, Ben, I didn’t think.  Perhaps the theater was closed to women because of the subject matter of this play.  We should have inquired before permitting Hoss to view it.”

    “Aw, I could tell it was fake,” Hoss assured her, “like the fightin’ in Pocahontas .  Wasn’t nothin’ to it, Ma.”

    Ben’s face was a canvas on which concern for his wife’s parental sensitivities warred with offense that his own had been called into question.  “No, of course not.  I’d have taken him straight out if I’d seen anything inappropriate,” he demurred defensively, hurrying on to say, “Tell her about Mrs. Toodles, son.”

    Hoss guffawed.  “She was somethin’, Ma!  If you was like her, Pa’d have to sell the Ponderosa to pay the bill for this here hotel.”

    The lines in Marie’s face relaxed.  “She spent money a bit too freely, I take it?”

    Ben chuckled.  “A bit?  Oh, you are severely understating the case, my love.  Hoss has Mrs. Toodles pegged precisely right; the woman could not pass up an auction sale to save her life—or her husband’s pocketbook.”

    Marie tilted her head and gave him a teasing smile.  “I trust I have given you no cause for such complaint.”

    “How could you,” Ben teased back, “when I keep you at least twenty miles from the nearest auction sale?”  He sat down on the bed beside her and kissed her cheek gently.  “No, my love, you give me no cause whatsoever to complain, in that or any other area.”

    “Tell about that souse she had for a husband,” Hoss said, leaning around his mother to speak to his father on her opposite side.

    Ben laughed and his eyes twinkled as he repeated his wife’s earlier comment.  “I trust I have given you no cause for such complaint.”

    Marie giggled and shook her head, but Hoss frowned severely at his father.  “Aw, quit foolin’ around, Pa.  Ma wants to hear about the Toodles.”

    “Indeed, I do,” Marie declared, her slender fingers gently massaging the boy’s back, “and I think you are the best one to tell me.  There is too much foolishment, as Hop Sing would say, in this other child.”

    Hoss beamed and launched into a recital of the woes of the Toodles family, including the virtuous daughter Mary, who suffered most by her parents’ lack of self-control.  Ben interrupted a few times to add a detail or comment on the caliber of the performance.  When Hoss finally finished, Marie smiled.  “I can almost see the stage myself, you describe it so well, mon chéri, but it is now very late, and it is time you were in bed.”

    “But I ain’t told about the afterpiece yet,” Hoss protested, trying to blink the sand from his eyes.

    “The Swiss Swains can wait ‘til morning.  Do as your mother says, boy,” Ben stated firmly.  “Into your nightshirt and under the covers, quick as a wink.”  He ended with an exaggerated wink that made Hoss grin.

    “It wasn’t exactly Shakespeare or grand opera, but you would have enjoyed the play,” Ben told his wife while Hoss changed into his nightclothes. “Philip Westwood and the others are all seasoned actors, even his daughter Mercy, who played the part of Mary.  I’ve seen better, of course, and you’ve seen much better in New Orleans, but not bad at all for a troupe out of Salt Lake City.  An orchestra opened the performance, and I thought they were quite good, especially by local standards.”

    Marie giggled.  “Local standards being so high, of course!”  She reached for the copy of the Territorial Enterprise.  “Still, Virginia City is gathering all the accoutrements of a major city: its first theater and now this.”

    Ben took the paper and scanned the article she pointed out.  “Well, I’d consider it better news if having the newspaper move here to Virginia City didn’t mean that Carson City would be losing it.  Made it kind of convenient, having it so close to home.”

    Marie fell back against the pillows, laughing.  “Close to home?  Oh, Ben, Carson City is not ‘close to home,’ either.  Nothing is!”

    Ben reached over and tweaked her nose.  “And that’s the way I like it, madame, far distant from the enticing temptation of all auction sales!”

    “Ah! and the, no doubt, more enticing temptation of purveyors of John Barleycorn,” Marie tittered in response.

    Hoss grinned and snuggled into his pillow, soon drifting to sleep to the lullaby of his parents’ soft laughter in the bed next to his.

    To the accompaniment of Hoss’s rendition of The Swiss Swains, the Cartwrights ate breakfast at Barnum’s Restaurant the next morning.  Marie smiled at her son as he finished recounting the story of Dame Glib’s attempt to marry off her daughter Rosalie to a no-account named Swig and Rosalie’s timely rescue by the unexpected return of her true love from war. “A most romantic afterpiece, and again you have made it come alive for me, mon chéri , but now you must finish your breakfast.  It will soon be time for chapel.”

    Ben’s eyes narrowed for a moment as he wondered whether Marie would hold to their agreement that Hoss would not have to attend the service more than once a month.  “Yes, son, finish your meal at once,” he said, carefully watching his wife’s reaction, “and after we escort your mother to the chapel, we’ll explore the changing sights of Virginia City, shall we?”

    Hoss’s cheeks turned slightly rosy.  “Uh, Pa, I was—uh—thinkin’ maybe I’d—uh—go along with Ma this mornin’, if you don’t mind.”

    It was Marie’s turn to check out Ben’s reaction.  She said nothing, but waited quietly for his response.

    Caught off guard, Ben simply stared in silence for a moment and then murmured, “Why, of course, son, whatever you prefer.”

    Hoss’s flush deepened.  “Well, it’s just that I got some thank you’s to say—’bout Pete, I mean—and I kinda thought that’d be a good place to say ‘em.”  Keeping his eyes on his plate, he twiddled his fork through his scrambled eggs.

    Ben’s hand closed gently over his son’s restless one.  “You don’t need a special reason, Hoss.  Anytime you want to accompany your mother to church, you feel free.”

    Head rising slowly, Hoss sent a shy smile toward his father and then his mother.  He saw the light in his mother’s eyes and knew she hoped his choice would be a permanent one, but Hoss felt in his own heart that it would not be.  It was just as he’d said: he wanted to say thanks to God for saving him from the horror of killing another boy.  And though that was his only reason for wanting to attend church when he left the Ponderosa, Hoss also felt another motivation as he polished off the rest of his ham and eggs.  He knew his mother had done him a good turn by letting him and Pa go to that theater where she wasn’t welcome and he wanted to make it up to her.  Right now, sitting next to her at church seemed like the best way.

    After leaving the restaurant, Ben watched as Hoss proudly took his mother’s arm and guided her toward the chapel on the divide between Gold Hill and Virginia City.  He felt a slight sense of abandonment as he turned to walk down C Street.  Probably the way she felt that day we all walked off and left her, he mused.  That boy has a good heart, though, and he’ll make the choice that’s right for him, probably better than if we made it for him.  As for Joseph—Ben shook his head—no, he didn’t want to deal with that, or any other, problem this morning.

    He walked along the street, noticing all the new businesses springing up.  The Territorial Enterprise had good reason for its upcoming move to Virginia City, he decided, as the town on the hillside was rapidly becoming the population center of western Utah.  By the time he’d concluded his tour of the town, Ben had counted more than one hundred and fifty businesses, including the new theater and a music hall and four butcher shops—probably ought to look into selling some of our beef to them.  Eight lawyers had hung out their shingles—hope I never need to consult one of those—and six doctors were vying to provide medical care for the miners—shouldn’t need them; already got the best doctor in the territory a lot closer to home .

    Turning back toward the chapel as the time to meet his wife and son drew near, Ben’s steps took on a new buoyancy.  It was happening, just as he’d envisioned it long before.  He’d come west with dreams of building a new community, and although he hadn’t expected a silver strike to be the means to that end, that community was being built.  He’d wanted to build a ranch, a solid heritage to pass on to his sons, and the Ponderosa was developing beyond his expectations.  Most of all, he’d wanted to build a home and Ben knew he could ask for no better than the one he now enjoyed.  Three healthy, energetic, sound-hearted sons any man would be proud of and, finally, in Marie, a woman to share his dreams through all the years to come.  While the journey toward his dreams had been long and costly, particularly in the loss of the women he’d loved, Ben could see nothing on his horizon but clear skies and fluffy clouds.  Beneath them, in his mind’s eye, he walked arm in arm with his beautiful wife through verdant pastures into a future that glowed still brighter than this brilliant noonday in Virginia City.

    On September 29, 1860, Virginia City’s first theater, the Howard, opened.  The plays described in this chapter were the ones presented that first night.
 
 

    Ladle in hand, Hop Sing paused beside Marie’s seat at the table one evening in early October and looked with frustration in the direction of the front door.  As another knock sounded sharply, his brow wrinkled yet more.  Clearly torn between two self-imposed duties, that of serving the soup and of greeting all callers, he muttered irritably, “Why anyone come when family eat?”  Though it went against his opinion of proper serving etiquette, he started to set the bowl down on the table so he could respond to the summons at the door.

    Marie touched his arm gently.  “No, you are busy, Hop Sing.”  She looked across the table.  “Hoss, would you please answer the door?”

    Hoss took the napkin from his lap and laid it on the table.  “Sure thing, Ma.”  He walked to the front door and opened it.  “Howdy,” he said to the broad-shouldered man dressed in a matching gray frock coat, vest and trousers with a charcoal bowler perched over a fringe of straight black hair.

    The man smiled broadly, “Howdy, young fellow.  Would your father be Ben Cartwright?”

    Hoss grinned.  “Sure would.  You wanna see him, mister?”

    “I surely do, if it’s convenient.”

    “Ask the gentleman in, Hoss,” Ben said as he rose from his chair.  Moving behind his youngest son and his wife, he walked toward the unexpected caller.

    “Come on in,” Hoss repeated dutifully and closed the door behind the man when he stepped into the great room; then, eager to get on with the meal, Hoss headed back to his place at the table.

    Ben extended his hand.  “Welcome to the Ponderosa, Mr. . . .”

    “Maynard, James Maynard,” the man replied.  “I apologize for arriving so late in the day, sir, but”—his eyes, following Hoss, suddenly took in the table and those gathered around it.  “Oh, dear, I am intruding, aren’t I?”

    “Not at all, not at all,” Ben assured him courteously.  “How may I help you, sir?”

    Mr. Maynard removed his hat.  “I had hoped to speak to you of a business opportunity, Mr. Cartwright, but I have no wish to disturb your meal.”

    Marie stepped quietly to her husband’s side.  “Have you eaten, Monsieur Maynard?”

    “Well, no, ma’am, I haven’t,” the man replied, the words leaking out awkwardly one by one.  He hastened to add, “I certainly didn’t come seeking a meal, ma’am.  I—”

    “But you’ll join us, won’t you?” Ben urged, clapping the man’s arm.  “I assure you there’s plenty.”

    “ Mais oui, please dine with us, monsieur,” Marie added with a gracious smile.  “I will not allow you to refuse.”

    Maynard laughed lightly.  “Ma’am, refusing is the furthest thing from my mind.  Thank you very much.”

    Marie breezed back to the table.  “Hop Sing, please bring another plate and silverware.  Hoss, if you would please move to my place, Monsieur Maynard will be better able to converse with your father.”

    “Okay,” Hoss agreed readily and moved quickly to the chair beside his baby brother, while Marie sat at the foot of the table, opposite her husband.

    Hop Sing, on the other hand, didn’t move.  “Humph,” he declared with open disdain.  “Why Missy Cahtlight not tell Hop Sing man come fo’ suppah?   How many mo’ come?”

    Marie stood and glared at the cook, arms akimbo.  “Monsieur Maynard is our guest,” she declared, face reddening and eyes snapping, “and will be treated with respect.  Now, do as I asked!”

    “Allight, allight,” Hop Sing sputtered, clearly aware that he’d crossed the line in the eyes of the mistress of the house.  “I bling.”

    “I apologize Mr. Maynard,” Ben said as he gestured toward the seat his guest was to take.  “Sometimes Hop Sing gets a little confused about who owns the Ponderosa.”

    Maynard laughed huskily.  “I have a few workers like that myself, men who act like they own the Ophir, when it’s—but, again, I apologize for the untimeliness of my visit.  I assure you I did not plan to arrive in the midst of your meal.  I simply hadn’t realized how long the ride would be from Virginia City to your ranch or how caught up I would become in examining your fine stand of timber.”

    Hop Sing returned with a full place setting, which he meekly laid before Marie.  She smiled and asked him to continue serving.  Then she turned to the gentleman on her right.  “You mentioned the Ophir, monsieur.  Are you the owner of that mine?”

    “No, ma’am, not the owner,” James Maynard responded quickly, “but I am the president of that enterprise, and it is in that capacity that I’ve come to speak with your husband.”

    Ben spread his napkin in his lap.  “About timber?”

    Hop Sing ladled the guest’s bowl to the brim with the rich gumbo Marie had early taught him to prepare.  After appraising the unfamiliar dish with a wary eye, Maynard plunged his spoon in with determination.  “Precisely, Mr. Cartwright.  I wish to speak with you about the purchase of timber as shoring for the mine.”  He drew the spicy broth into his mouth and, eyes alight, immediately dipped into the bowl for a second spoonful.

    “I’ll be very pleased to discuss that with you, sir, but why don’t we enjoy the meal first and discuss business later, perhaps over dessert?”

    “An excellent idea,” the Ophir president said at once, as he set about draining every drop of gumbo from the bowl.

    When everyone had finished the soup course, Hop Sing removed the bowls and returned with a platter barely big enough to hold the large beef round, into which incisions had been cut and stuffed with a dressing of onions, butter and bread crumbs.  “What a beautiful piece of meat!” Mr. Maynard exclaimed.  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything quite like it.  My compliments, ma’am.”

    “It is Hop Sing who deserves the praise,” Marie said, nodding toward the cook as he turned to bring in the side dishes.  “He does all the cooking here, although, in this case, he is using my receipt for beef a la mode.”

    “Beef a la mode,” the man repeated.  “Well, if sight and smell are any indication, I’m going to enjoy every bite.”

    As Ben carved the roast and served a slice to each person at the table, Hop Sing bustled back and forth, bringing baked beets, potato pudding and creamed peas to round out the meal.  In respect to Ben’s wishes, the Ophir president did not again mention the business that had brought him to the Ponderosa.  Instead, he discussed the growth of Virginia City, including several new businesses he had heard would be opening there soon.

    After cleaning his plate, Mr. Maynard leaned back with a contented sigh.  “I couldn’t eat another bite.”

    Marie laughed lightly.  “But you must.  We are having Peach Charlotte for dessert.”

    “And that, I assure you, is not to be missed,” Ben added with a significant nod.

    Maynard groaned.  “I’m sure you’re right, but I can’t; I just can’t.”

    Marie smiled.  “Perhaps a short wait would restore your appetite.  Ben, why do you and Monsieur Maynard not adjourn to your office and discuss your business?  Then, afterwards, you may feel ready for dessert.”

    “That’s an excellent suggestion, my dear.”  Ben stood and pushed his chair beneath the table.  “Shall we, Mr. Maynard?”

    “To be sure, to be sure.”  James Maynard, too, rose from his chair and followed Ben to the alcove where he handled the business affairs of the Ponderosa.  Marie remained at the table to share dessert with the two boys before taking them upstairs to prepare for bed.

    Ben pulled a mate’s chair around to the side of his desk, offering it to the mine president just before sitting in his own padded green leather one.  “Now, you said you were interested in buying timber, I believe?”

    Maynard leaned forward, his calloused hands gripping his knees.  “Very interested.  I hope you don’t mind, but I did some scouting before I came tonight, and I was most impressed with what I saw.  I like what I’ve heard about your business dealings, and the Ophir can use all the timber you can supply, Mr. Cartwright.”

    Ben stroked his chin thoughtfully.  “May I ask what you’ve heard—and from whom?”

    The mining president laughed.  “Why, Mr. Cartwright, I believe you’re fishing for compliments!  Nothing mysterious about it, though.  I heard about your supplying timber for Ft. Churchill, and I figure what’s good enough for the United States Army is good enough for Ophir Mining.  I made a few inquiries and heard nothing but descriptions of a man who could be trusted to be fair and honest and to fulfill any agreement he’d ever made.”

    Ben could feel warmth creeping up his neck at the glowing words.  “Well, that’s gratifying to hear,” he murmured, “but surely you realize, Mr. Maynard, that my timber contract with the Army was the first I’ve ever transacted.  I am hoping to expand in that area, but this is still a very small operation, of only a few months’ experience.  You also need to understand that I believe in a very judicious cutting program, one that preserves the beauty and utility of the woodlands as a heritage for future generations.”

    “A lofty ideal,” Mr. Maynard observed, “but if you can give me free access to your timber, I can offer you tremendous profit as a heritage for the next generation of Cartwrights.”

    Ben pulled upright in his chair.  “I have a different kind of heritage planned for the next generation of Cartwrights, Mr. Maynard, one that is measured in values of far greater worth than monetary profit.”

    “But you possess such vast resources, Mr. Cartwright,” the Ophir president argued.  “Why, you could sell me all I want and never notice what was taken!”

    Ben smiled.  “Exactly my intention, sir, to use my resources in such a way that no one ever notices the slightest difference in the Ponderosa, and that is precisely why I cannot promise to provide everything any buyer might want.”

    Maynard laughed.  “Well, I see you cling to your ideals, Mr. Cartwright.  I think you’ll regret it in time to come, but while I’m disappointed not to get all the timber I want from you, I would still like to have your Ponderosa supply whatever timber you are willing to sell.  Shall we discuss the price, sir?”

    After some spirited negotiation, the two businessmen came to an agreement and sealed it with a handshake.  “I’ll have everything put into writing and ready to sign by tomorrow afternoon,” Maynard stated.

    “I’ll meet you in your office at—say, three o’clock?” Ben suggested.

    “Three is fine.”

    Ben stood, laying a comradely hand on his guest’s shoulder.  “Now, how about sealing our bargain over Peach Charlotte and coffee?”

    Though he still felt full to the seams, Maynard didn’t feel he could courteously refuse.  Marie had just carried a well-scrubbed and nightshirt-clad Little Joe downstairs, and the toddler demanded his usual after-dinner perch in Pa’s lap.  Hoss had also donned his nightshirt and come back downstairs to beg a second helping of dessert.

    Ben shook his head in mock dismay.  “Mr. Maynard, I may yet have to sell you that extra timber you want, just to afford enough food to fill this boy’s hollow leg!”

    “Aw, Pa,” Hoss protested.  “I don’t eat that much.”

    “Well, no,” Ben admitted, “except by comparison, maybe.”  He tweaked his youngest son’s diminutive nose.  “I don’t suppose you could be persuaded to eat a second helping of Peach Charlotte, now could you?”  Little Joe just smiled and shook his head.

    “There is no need to urge him when he ate such a good supper,” Marie said lightly as she brought into the great room a tray with two cups of coffee and three dessert plates of sponge cake, topped with peach halves and sweetened cream.  One look was sufficient to assure James Maynard that his courtesy was about to be rewarded beyond measure.

    Her golden curls fanned out across Ben’s bare chest, Marie blew gently across his abdomen, but the familiar enticement did not bring forth the familiar response.  Rolling back onto her own pillow, she stroked slender fingers along his breastbone.  “Where are your thoughts tonight, mon mari ?” she chided gently.

    “Hmm?”  For a moment Ben looked at her blankly; then he smiled and caressed her cheek with his thumb.  “Sorry, my love, just thinking about the future—and how ill-prepared I am to meet it.”

    Marie rose up, concern reflected in her iridescent emerald eyes.  “Surely nothing is wrong, Ben?”

    Ben took her face between his palms.  “No, no, of course not, my love.  Everything is right.”  He again pulled her down to his chest and began the brush his fingers through her unbound hair.  “Maybe a little too right,” he murmured.  Feeling her head move against his flesh, he brushed a quick kiss on her forehead.  “It’s just that I can see a lot of possibilities opening up before me and a lot of work I need to do so I can walk through those open doors.”

    “You mean your business with Monsieur Maynard, don’t you?” Marie asked, moving back to her pillow so she could see his face.

    Ben nodded.  “I can’t keep hauling timber in our buckboard, not if the business is going to expand.  I need a proper freight wagon, so I won’t have to make so many trips back and forth to Virginia City.  I think I can find what I need in Placerville; might even get lucky enough to locate one of the wagons John Studebaker used to make before he went back east again.  I also want to hire some lumbermen, and the hill country might be the best place to look for them.”

    Marie rose up on one elbow.  “When will you leave?  Soon, I presume.”

    “Yes, right away,” Ben agreed.  “I have to sign that contract tomorrow afternoon, but I’d like to leave the next morning, if you think that’s feasible.”

    Marie smiled.  “I’ll pack your bag while you’re in town tomorrow.”

    Ben pressed her shoulder tenderly.  “I’m sorry you can’t come along.  We wouldn’t have time to go beyond Placerville, but I know you’d like to see the Zuebners again.”

    Marie sighed as she sank into the pillow.  “I understand, Ben.  You need to travel quickly and be free to move about, but I don’t think it would be wise for me to go, anyway.  The weather is so unpredictable this time of year that I would worry about taking Joseph up into the mountains, and I hesitate to leave Hoss here alone, in case there is more trouble at school.”

    “Now, don’t fret,” Ben urged, comforting her with gentle strokes of his fingers.  “Everything’s been going well in that department, and there’s no need to borrow trouble.”

    “No, I will not,” she conceded, “and you must not borrow trouble, either, worrying about the future and whether you are ready to meet it.”  She twined her fingers through the salt-and-pepper hair curling on his chest and smiled provocatively.  “There are better things to think of, non?”

    “There are better things to think of, yes,” Ben whispered and pulled her into his arms.

    Ben returned to the Ponderosa nine days later with mixed feelings about his trip to California.  He’d been successful in the business that took him there, having purchased the used Studebaker wagon he was now driving home and ordered a second freight wagon of a different make, something he would need if his new enterprise thrived as he hoped it would.  He wouldn’t pick that one up until spring, when he should be able to pay for it with his profits from the Ophir deal, and he thought there was a good chance that word-of-mouth might have brought in business from other mines by then, as well.  He’d hired a number of experienced loggers, who would be arriving within the week, and had spent his evening hours catching up with his old friends in Placerville.  In all those ways, the trip had been both profitable and pleasurable.

    There had also been disturbing developments, however, and uneasy feelings had begun to wrestle in his breast even before he left Virginia City.  He’d heard talk on the street and in the saloon about the upcoming national election, and almost every word had been divisive.  Southern supporters had been adamant that the election of Abraham Lincoln would mean immediate secession, while northerners just as hotly declared that no state had the right to leave the Union.  Ben had kept his opinions to himself, knowing that his more moderate view that the conflict back east did not concern the citizens of western Utah would only be interpreted as riding the fence.

    In California, whose citizens, unlike those of a mere territory, actually had a vote in the election, the streets had only rung more loudly with angry words shouted back and forth.  Ben was concerned that the situation might be even more volatile in the state capitol of Sacramento, and he wished he could have found the time to go there for a talk with Adam, to warn him to stay out of such discussions.  It was just the kind of debate that bull-headed boy might recklessly join without thought of the consequences.

    Ben hadn’t forgotten what his friend Josiah Edwards, back in St. Joseph, had told him about the dangers there of not being “sound on the goose.”  Most Californians might take the opposite view, but from the talk Ben had heard, he judged that the state of California and the territory of Utah were split about 60-40, in favor of the Union.  Such nearly equal odds, Ben feared, might lead to real violence in the streets come November, no matter how the election turned out.

    “Sixty-two miles—a third of it by train, at that,” he chided himself as he made the final approach toward the ranch, “and I couldn’t find the time!”  He shook his head.  What was the point of reproaching himself?  He honestly hadn’t had a day to spare.  He had a contract to fulfill and a new lumber camp to set up as quickly as possible, so he’d done the only thing he thought he could by writing Adam a strongly worded letter and posting it from Placerville.

    Dusk was just beginning to fall when Ben drove into the Ponderosa ranch yard.  Sitting on the wagon seat, he inhaled deeply.  “Beef stew, unless my nose deceives me,” he observed with mild disappointment.  Obviously, neither Marie nor Hop Sing had expected him today or there would have been something more lavish on the table.  Well, it didn’t matter:  Hop Sing made terrific stew, and anything warm and filling would beat his own trail cooking.

    A curly head peeked around the barn door, and immediately afterward short legs came hurtling through the opening, accompanied by a wild scream of “Pa!”  Alarmed, Ben jumped from the wagon, for Little Joe was headed straight for the horses, as he always did whenever a new one entered the yard.  A brawny arm caught the toddler before he’d gone five steps, however, and Ben grinned with gratitude at his middle son.

    Hoss gladly relinquished Little Joe to his father’s arms and went over to examine the new draft horses.  “They sure look strong, Pa,” he said, patting the broad side of the nearest animal.

    “Have to be,” Ben said, hoisting his baby on one arm so he would have a hand free to tousle Hoss’s straight, sandy hair.  “That’s a heavy wagon they’re pulling.”

    Hoss ran admiring eyes down the length of the wagon.  “Yeah, we sure ain’t never had nothin’ that size ‘round here, Pa.”

    Ben clapped the boy’s sturdy shoulder.  “Nope, never have.  Get a good look at it, son; then stable the horses for me, all right?”

    “Sure, Pa, glad to.”

    “Me, too,” Little Joe insisted, stretching toward the wagon seat.  “Me look, too.”

    “All right, all right,” Ben laughed as he lifted the child into the bed of the wagon.  “Keep an eye on him,” he told Hoss.  Seeing his wife exit from the house, Ben left the boys and hurried toward her.  “I suppose you want to climb all over the new wagon, too,” he teased.

    Marie stood on tiptoe to press her smooth cheek against his sand-papery one.  “I would rather climb all over you,” she whispered naughtily.

    Ben chuckled and, putting his arm around her waist, headed into the house.  Inside, Marie took his hat and helped him off with his coat, and the couple exchanged a long, lingering kiss.  “I’ve missed you,” Ben said as they came up for air.

    Marie laid her head on his shoulder.  “And I, you.”  Taking his hand, she led him toward the seating area near the fire.  “I see you found the wagon you wanted.  Did everything else go as you hoped?”

    “Everything and more,” Ben said as he fell wearily into the mauve armchair by the fire.  As Marie perched on the arm of the chair, he told her about ordering the second wagon and added, “I figure by spring we may need to have two crews working, and Adam can take charge of the second.”

    “But he’s still so young, Ben,” Marie mused.  “Will the men listen to a boy of seventeen?”

    “That’s no ordinary boy of seventeen, and besides, he’ll be eighteen by then,” Ben proudly pointed out. “That’s still mighty young to run a timber operation, of course, but I’ll make it clear to the men that he’s working under my authority, and I’ll make it clear to young Adam that he is to give good heed to what those experienced lumbermen advise, as well.”

    “Hmm, perhaps,” Marie murmured, though doubt still tinged her voice.  “I think you should give more thought to this before you decide, Ben.”

    “It’s already decided,” Ben grunted with displeasure.  “In fact, I’ve already written Adam about it, so it’s settled, Marie.”

    Sparks flared in his wife’s eyes.  “At times like this, Ben, you don’t make me feel much like Adam’s mother, as you have always said I am!”  She flew to her feet and stormed up the stairs.

    “Well, you handled that real well,” Ben muttered to himself with chagrin as he reached for his pipe.  “So much for the sweet dreams you had of the perfect homecoming!”  Marie would forgive him eventually; of that he had no doubt, but no man could be expected to predict when.  That fiery Creole temper of hers could blaze up out of nowhere and fade away just as quickly or, contrariwise, its embers might smolder for days after he’d committed some marital offense.  Having yearned for the warmth of her body all those nights on the trail, Ben fervently hoped the fire would fizzle out quickly tonight.

    Adam spread the two letters side by side on his desk, glowering at the one on the left.  He’d been tempted to wad it into a ball and toss it into the rubbish bin, but there had been some interesting news from home in it, along with all the sage advice on keeping himself out of political quarrels.  As if he’d needed that instruction!  What did Pa think he was, some kid the age of Hoss or Little Joe?  Didn’t Pa credit him with a lick of common sense?  Well, obviously he did or he wouldn’t have written about my taking charge of one of the timber crews next spring, Adam conceded. And as long as I’m being honest, I might as well admit that’s what really rankles me, Pa just assuming he can plan my life without giving a thought to what I want.  Jamie, at least, understands I need to make my own decision.

    He picked up the second letter.  Odd that the two had arrived the same day, each of them with a different plan for Adam’s future.  Jamie Edwards had written excitedly about going to college next year.  “I know we’ve talked about several schools,” he’d said, “but I’ve decided Yale is the right choice for me, and I do so hope you will see your way clear to join me there, Adam.”  Jamie had gone on to explain that he felt called to the ministry and believed that Yale, with its ties to the Congregational Church, would be the best place to train for that vocation.  “It is a forward-thinking institution, Adam, often ready to advance new ideas where other schools hesitate,” Jamie had added persuasively.  “I feel certain you could achieve your goals there as well as anywhere, and you know how I would treasure being with you again.  I will understand, though, if you feel you must make another choice.”

    Attending college with his old friend had long been a cherished dream for the eldest Cartwright son, icing on the academic cake, so to speak.   He had only to glance at his father’s letter, however, to be reminded that his dream for himself was totally different from the future his father conceived for him.  Pa saw him throwing himself into building the finest ranch in western Utah, and there was nothing wrong with that future.  In fact, it was the future Adam eventually envisioned for himself, but he wanted to broaden himself first, to learn more about the world and all it had to offer before he shut himself up in the confines of even so large a ranch as the Ponderosa was becoming.

    Pa ought to know, he chafed.  He ought to know his own son well enough not to just take it for granted that I want what he wants.  He ought to ask.  Adam’s innate sense of fairness added another thought, though: I ought to tell him, and I would if we could just sit down face to face.  Doggone it, why couldn’t he have taken one more day to come down here?

    Feeling the anger surge inside again, Adam consciously focused his mind on the other letter.  Yale.  He had no objection to that school, but only Jamie’s company there to recommend it.  He really didn’t know too much about the school, except that it was located in New Haven, Connecticut, and considered one of the top two or three colleges in the country.  Maybe some of my professors went there or can, at least, give me their opinion, he mused.  I’ll ask tomorrow.  He deliberately placed Jamie’s letter on top of the one from his father.  First things first: make the decision; then get Pa to agree to it.

    Fortunately, Marie’s passion for a night of love proved as strong as Ben’s, and her anger quickly cooled with his first overtures in bed that night.  Afterwards, they lay entwined in each other’s arms, flesh against bare flesh, in mellow mood.  Ben tenderly kissed her responsive lips.  “Thank you,” he whispered.

    “Mmm, my pleasure,” she murmured.  She rolled her head back on his arm and smiled with just a hint of mischief.  “Are you in a good mood now, mon mari?”

    Ben stroked the line of her chin with his thumb.  “The best you could imagine, young lady, so if you have misdeeds to confess, now would be the time.”

    Marie’s laugh tinkled softly in his ear.  “Not misdeeds, exactly, but I have committed you to something, and I hope I have not overstepped your wishes.”

    Ben feigned a look of horror.  “Oh, my, that does sound dangerous!”

    Marie slapped his chest with a flat palm.  “Be still and listen, you infuriating man.”

    “Yes, ma’am, whatever you say, ma’am,” Ben replied with a maddening grin.  Then he chuckled.  “All right, out with it, what have you committed me to, my love?”

    “Nothing so terrible as all that,” she chided, sounding a trifle peeved.  “ Monsieur Maynard came to call again two nights ago, and he has invited us to a ball being held in Virginia City on Saturday night.  He was most insistent, and I thought it proper to accept, as he is a new business associate, whose good will you no doubt wish to cultivate.”

    Ben smiled, again stroking her soft face.  “I’d have been glad of a chance to escort you to a ball, my love, with or without business interests at stake.”

    “Good,” Marie said, snuggling into the curve of his arm.  “I think Hoss is old enough to watch over his little brother, with Hop Sing here in case of problems, don’t you?”

    “Umm hmm,” Ben agreed, his hand sliding down her neck, and as it continued its descent, he bent over to trace with his lips the trail blazed by his fingers.

    Ben pulled the buckboard to a stop in front of the frame building at the northeast corner of B and Union streets and looked askance at his wife.  “Are you absolutely certain you want to stay here?”

    Marie dipped her chin demurely.  “Oui.  If the proprietor of the International Hotel is to be our host tonight, we should reward him with our business, non?”

    Ben arched an eyebrow.  “I’m sure that was his intent, but I don’t feel obligated to stay in an inferior hotel, just because someone holds a dance there.  Look at the place, Marie—nothing but whipsawed lumber!  You know you’d be more comfortable at the Virginia.”

    Marie gave him a smile of concession.  “Oui, we both would, but if the owner is trying to expand his business, should we not encourage that?  After all, mon amour, he would then need to add more rooms, and that would mean a purchase of lumber and . . .”

    Ben threw his head back and laughed.  “Is that what you’re doing, drumming up more business for me?  You schemer, you!”  Despite his teasing, he was secretly pleased with her interest in promoting his business affairs.  He jumped down from the wagon and came around the other side to help her down.  “Far be it from me to discourage a fellow entrepreneur, but let me warn you, my love, that the International Hotel is not likely to live up to its lofty name anytime soon.”

    He took her arm and, together, they strolled between the wooden posts supporting the cover of the porch and through the narrow door into the lobby of the single-story hotel.  A bar stood on one side of the room, but Ben steered his wife to the opposite wall, where the clerk behind the counter presented him with the register to sign.

    Taking their bag, Ben led the way down the hall.  Although he’d seen advertisements in the Territorial Enterprise boasting that the International could accommodate one hundred and fifty guests, he counted only twelve rooms.  He unlocked number seven, and his eyes swept the room as he entered.  It was smaller than the one in which they’d stayed at the Virginia Hotel, but otherwise the furnishings were comparable.  “Well, it shouldn’t be too bad for one night,” he conceded.

    “Of course not,” Marie replied.  “Ben, I think we should eat a light supper as soon as possible, then come back here to change for the ball.  There is likely to be a midnight supper, but we will be famished by then.”

    Ben took her hand and kissed it in continental fashion.  “Whatever you want, my love.  I’ll tend to the horses and we can leave as soon as I return.”

    Marie looked into the small mirror above the washstand in room seven, holding a necklace of magnificent rubies in ornate gold settings around her neck.  “Ben, could you fasten this for me?” she called.

    Ben finished buttoning his burgundy brocade waistcoat and stepped behind her, taking the two ends of the necklace in his hands.  “Someday I hope to give you jewels as rich as these,” he murmured as he hooked the clasp.

    Marie turned and kissed his lips lightly.  “You have given me much more than these baubles from a man who wanted only to use me to entice men for his own profit.  They carry bad memories, but they do set off the gown well.”

    “You set off the gown,” Ben said, his eyes scanning with approval how well she filled out the off-the-shoulder, rose-coral satin.  “This is my favorite, and you wear it so rarely.”

    Marie smiled as she touched the bare flesh above the gold filigree braid edging the plunging neckline.  “There is little call for such attire here, but if it pleases you, I am glad I chose it tonight.”

    “It pleases me,” Ben whispered, brushing his lips against her soft shoulder.  “I’ll be the envy of every man downstairs tonight.”

    Marie laughed, her cheeks rosy at the compliment.  “Then put on your frock coat, Monsieur Cartwright, so we may give you that pleasure.”

    As they left, another couple came out of room six.  “Bon jour,” Marie said pleasantly as she and Ben waited for the other couple to precede them. The other woman, dressed in a gray silk frock with leg-of-mutton sleeves and wide cuffs of white lace, nodded coolly and turned her back with almost abrupt haste.

    “Well, evidently you’ll be the envy of every woman tonight, as well,” Ben whispered in his wife’s ear.

    Marie glowered at him, breaking into tinkling laughter at the persistent twinkle in his eyes.  “You are très gauche,” she chided.  “I knew I should have made you study that dance manual more diligently.”

    “Heaven forbid!” Ben cringed in mock horror.  Though he had skipped most of the sections on etiquette, the book which his wife had brought from New Orleans had been quite helpful in brushing up on some of the popular ballroom dance steps, as had her practice session with him, to the accompaniment of Hoss’s off-key humming, last night.  Not since his days of courting Elizabeth had he attended any gathering even approaching the formality of tonight’s affair.  With Inger, there had been nothing grander than a trailside square dance when they passed in proximity to another wagon train, and even the dances he and Marie had attended here in western Utah had been simple community affairs.

    They went down the stairs to the basement, which housed the hotel kitchen and dining room.  The tables had been moved to one side, to make room for dancing, and Ben noted that they were covered with white tablecloths.  “Evidently, they’ve read the book,” Ben muttered, although he doubted that the International Hotel would be serving the tongue sandwiches or other fancy fare the dance manual had recommended for a late supper at a ball.

    Ben was suddenly aware that most of the conversation in the room had died to a hush as they entered.  The men were openly staring at his wife.  Nothing surprising about that, of course.  Marie turned heads wherever she went, and she looked exquisite tonight, a vision of elegance the miners and businessmen of Virginia City had likely never seen before.  He was completely unaware of the approving glances the few women there sent his direction, but Marie saw them and smiled with pride.

    “Marie!”  A rustle of taffeta rushed toward them, followed by a man rubbing the inside of his stiffly starched high collar.

    “Oh, Eilley, how good to see you,” Marie cried as she touched cheeks with the plumpish Scotswoman.  “I haven’t seen you since those dreadful days at Ft. O’Riley.”

    “I’ll thank you not to be reminding me of that horrid old stone hotel,” Eilley laughed.  “If I’d had to stay in that dark place one more day, I’d’ve been marching off after those Paiutes myself.  We have a nice two-story house in Gold Hill now—nearer to the mine, you know.”

    Ben was shaking her husband Sandy’s hand.  “I understand that mine of yours is doing very well,” he commented.

    “Yah, sure is,” Bowers returned jovially.  “Ten thousand dollars a month it’s bringin’ in.”

    Eilley rapped the back of his hand with her fan; then she opened it to shield her face as she whispered conspiratorially to Marie, “Men!  No sense of appropriate conversation whatsoever.”

    Marie clucked her tongue playfully in Ben’s direction.  “You are so correct.  I tried to interest Ben in the etiquette section of my dance manual, but—”

    “Oh, do you have one?”  Eilley almost shrieked her excitement.  “I would so like to read it.”

    “You may borrow it any time,” Marie said, ignoring the men, who were both rolling their eyes toward the ceiling.

    As a trio of violins began to play a lively tune, Ben extended his hand to his wife.  “It would be a quadrille,” he moaned, “but I’d best stake my claim for a dance before the rest of the men come out of that stupor you’ve cast them in and start a new rush.”

    “You’ll do fine,” Marie assured him as they joined a set of dancers for the lively series of steps she’d coached him on the night before.

    True to Ben’s prediction, the men overcame their temporary shyness after the first dance, and only rarely did Ben partner with his own wife the rest of the evening.  In fact, most of the time, he found himself without a partner, for there were only twelve women present, and he felt foolish dancing with another man in a dress suit, although that was standard practice in a territory perennially short of female partners.  “The dance manual definitely wouldn’t approve,” he excused himself.

    He spent the dances he sat out in polite conversation with other similarly deprived gentlemen, including James Maynard and Isaac Bateman, one of the proprietors of the International Hotel, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to avoid discussions on the one subject he wished above all others to avoid.  With the national election less than a month away, the thoughts of many were centered on political divisions.  When asked his opinion, Ben merely stated that he was more interested in the establishment of effective local government for western Utah.  That being a popular topic, as well, in most cases he successfully steered the conversation to safer ground.

    “Take your places for the Virginia reel!”  The loud announcement made Ben spin quickly to see if his wife were close enough to snare for the traditional dance, one with which he felt immeasurably more confident than the quadrille.  Spotting her at the opposite side of the room, he immediately abandoned hope, but Eilley Bowers was just a few steps away, so Ben appropriated her from her heavily panting husband, who seemed grateful for a chance to sit out the set.  With Eilley on his arm, Ben moved to the end of the line of dancers.

    Suddenly, another voice rang out.  “We don’t wanna dance no reel from the slave-holdin’ state of Virginny that’s threatenin’ to leave the Union when our man Lincoln is elected!” came the belligerent cry.  Southern sympathizers bellowed back in irate response, and northerners, with equal fervor and increasing volume, supported the sentiments of the man standing in front of the musicians.  The two factions began moving toward each other.

    Ben rushed forward, waving his hands for their attention.  “Gentlemen, gentlemen,” he reproved.  “We’re here to dance, not to debate eastern issues that don’t affect us out here.”

    “Who says they don’t?” demanded a man with a strong southern accent.

    “Ain’t a Union man here will dance to that secesh Virginny reel,” cried the man to Ben’s left, who had started it all.  Loud shouts and pumping arms expressed the agreement of half the men in the room.

    “Then let’s dance the Virginia City reel!” Ben shouted enthusiastically at the top of his lungs, thrusting both arms toward the ceiling for emphasis.

    “That’s right,” yelled Eilley Orrum Bowers, who had followed her partner to the front of the room.  “We’ll just jump the claim of that eastern state and make the dance our own, and any man who refuses to dance the Virginia City reel won’t get another turn around the floor with me—or any other woman here.  Are you with me, ladies?”

    “We’re with you!” shouted a local laundress with the brawn to make good any pronouncement she made.  The other ladies were too refined to make a verbal response, but all ten of them applauded their support of Eilley and the laundress.

    The man who had originally opposed the dance caved quickly.  “All right, then, I’ll dance the Virginia City reel,” he announced, extending a hand toward Mrs. Bowers, “if this lady will do me the honor.”

    Eilley shot an apologetic glance at Ben, and when he nodded, she smiled back at the other man and took his hand.  “My pleasure, sir.”  With a gaping grin, the man led her to the head of the line.

    Marie, who had been slowly making her way to the front during the heated exchange, reached for Ben’s hand.  “Will you share this dance with me, monsieur?” she requested with a demure curtsey.

    Ben took her hand, but as he escorted her into the second position in the line, he whispered in her ear, “The manual would not approve of a lady asking a gentleman to dance, you know.”

    Marie giggled.  “No, nor does the dance manual give instructions on how to avoid a ballroom brawl.  You were inspired, mon mari.”

    “By your grace and beauty, my love.”  He smiled suavely and bowed as the violins struck the first chords of the newly christened Virginia City reel.  As first one couple and then another sashayed through the steps of the reel, Ben congratulated himself on the quick thinking that had avoided a seemingly unavoidable altercation.

    When the couple at the foot of the line made their final slide under the arched arms of the other dancers to conclude the dance, the southerner partnered with Eilley Bowers returned her to Ben and bowed to Marie.  “Would you do me the favor, ma’am?” he asked.  “Ain’t had a chance to dance with you all night.”

    “ Mais oui,” Marie replied pleasantly, taking the hand he extended.

    The man positively glowed.  “Yes, ma’am, we sure may.”

    Marie laughed softly, but did not correct the man’s misinterpretation of what she’d actually said.

    Ben smiled at Eilley.  “Well, it appears I’ll get to dance with my charming—and crafty—neighbor after all.”

    Eilley beamed with pleasure at the compliment, but shook her head.  “I’m winded, Ben.  Could we take a cup of punch, instead?”

    Ben hooked her arm through his elbow.  “As it happens, madam, I’m feeling winded myself.  By all means, let’s have a cup of punch.”

    As Ben and Eilley headed for the refreshment table, the violins struck up the slower music of a waltz, giving the dancers more opportunity for conversation.  “You sure got a musical way of talkin’,” Marie’s partner commented after they had exchanged a few pleasantries.

    “Ah, you mean my French accent,” Marie said with a smile.

    “That where you’re from, ma’am, Paree, France?” the man asked.

    “Oh, no,” Marie explained.  “I am of French ancestry, but born in New Orleans.”

    The man dropped her hand as if her flesh had scorched his palm.  “New Orleans, Louisiana?” he snorted.  “That slave-holdin’ abomination!  No wonder your man was so quick to defend that secesh dance.  Got hisself a secesh wife!”

    “ Monsieur, please,” Marie hissed.  “There is no need to bring politics into a social occasion.”

    The man’s nostrils flared, and Marie almost visualized smoke pouring from them.  “And no need for me to stay in the company of a secesh hussy, neither,” he bellowed.

    A man who had been on the verge of cutting in grasped the man’s shoulder.  “You dare insult a flower of Southern womanhood, sir?  Not while there is a Southern gentleman at hand to defend her honor!”  Marie’s self-appointed defender drew back his fist and slammed it into the nose of the man who had insulted her.  Couples dancing nearby broke apart as the men surrounded the brawlers, and several, overhearing the shouted accusations being exchanged, determined the fight was drawn along sectional lines and added their own voices and fists to the controversy.

    Marie stepped back, horrified.  “Gentlemen, please,” she begged, but no one heeded her pleas.  Suddenly, Ben was at her side, pulling her away from the fray.  “Oh, Ben, stop them,” she implored.  “I cannot be the cause of this.”

    “You aren’t,” Ben protested, but one look at her distraught face was enough to send him plunging into the mêlée.  At first he tried to pull the combatants apart, but soon found himself the target for a hail of fists from all directions, as the fighters lost track of which side each was on.  Men who had no idea what had started the fracas joined in for the sheer excitement of battle, and what had been a sectional conflict degenerated into an all-out brawl.

    The women gravitated toward each other and stood in huddled horror, the bolder ones shouting at the men to stop.  Their voices went unheard above the general hubbub, as did that of the hotel’s two proprietors, pleading that the quarrel be taken outside to spare the china and crystal in process of being set out for the midnight supper.  Nothing stopped the men wrestling on the floor until the explosion of a pistol made everyone freeze in place.

    “Are you fools?” demanded the man in the doorway.  “Didn’t you hear the disaster bell?”

    Spotting Jim Maynard, the grim-faced miner bolted toward him.  “It’s a cave-in, Mr. Maynard—in the Ophir—seventeen men trapped.”

    Differences forgotten, every man in the room rushed out behind the president of the Ophir Mining Company.  Whether they worked in that mine themselves or whether they even knew someone who did, they felt a communal interest in saving the lives of the trapped men.  The only men left in the room were the proprietors of the International Hotel, one of them holding the pieces of a broken platter in his hands.  “A disaster, a total disaster,” Andrew Paul moaned, and he wasn’t referring to the cave-in at the mine.

    “Indeed!” declared the woman in gray silk as she shot a disdainful look at Marie.  “Do you take pleasure in inciting men to fight over you, ma’am?  Is it as exciting as enticing men for profit?”

    Marie gasped, suddenly understanding the scorn she’d seen in the woman’s eyes when they met in the hall.  Obviously, her private conversation with Ben had carried through the paper-thin walls separating their rooms.  “No, you have misunderstood,” she began.

    “Oh, I think not!” the woman asserted with an arrogant lift of her chin.  “Your attire reveals your intent quite clearly.”  She slowly lowered her gaze to Marie’s deep décolletage.

    Marie’s cheeks flamed with embarrassment and outrage.  She started to protest her innocence, but seeing the haughty expressions of every woman except Eilley Bowers, she knew the titillating gossip had already been spread—and believed.  Furious, she drew back her hand and slapped the other woman across the cheek.  “How dare you?” she demanded hotly.

    Hands flew to the faces of the other women, and this time even Eilley looked shocked by the breach of conduct.  Andrew Paul flew between Marie and the woman in gray.  “Ladies, please—the china,” he pleaded.

    “Oh, bother your precious china!” Eilley snorted.  “Nothing’s going to happen to it.  Now, I suggest we use our energy to better purpose than quarreling, ladies.  Those men digging out the trapped miners are going to be exhausted and starving by the time the job is done, and there will be wives and mothers at the mine entrance, waiting for word of their loved ones.  Let’s package up this fine supper our hosts have prepared, if they agree, and take it down to the Ophir!”

    “Yes, yes, anything that will help,” Paul babbled and his partner concurred.  Though inwardly bemoaning the waste of refreshments intended to demonstrate the quality of fare at their hotel, they viewed Eilley’s plan as the best way to prevent further destruction of their property.  Besides, both recognized the woman making it as the wife of a wealthy mine owner, just the type of clientele to which they wished to cater, and for the sake of future business, would have acquiesced to any suggestion she made.

    “An excellent proposal,” the woman in gray announced, “just what one would expect from a refined lady, such as yourself.”  As the other women moved toward the kitchen to lend their aid to the project, she turned a haughty gaze on Marie.  “We won’t require your help; the men aren’t in need of your particular services tonight.”

    Marie felt a sudden urge to jerk the woman’s teeth from her mouth, but for the sake of the other women and the work they had to do, she controlled herself and, still seething, drew herself to her full, though petite, height and strode briskly from the room.  Climbing the stairs, she headed first for her room.  Then, remembering that Ben had their key, she went to the desk clerk and demanded he unlock the door for her.  Taking only her cloak from the room, she immediately left the hotel and walked toward the mine.  Though her help was evidently not welcome, she also had a man in that mine tonight, and she would not allow any woman’s scorn or any amount of gossip to keep her from being at the mouth of that mine when Ben emerged.

    The hours passed slowly and anxiously for every woman with a man below ground, and as the ebony of night gave way to the gray haze of pre-dawn, Marie grew increasingly concerned.  She was shivering from cold and aching from hunger, for pride had kept her from eating any of the food brought by the women who had disdained her help in preparing it.  She had offered what words of comfort she could to the other women with loved ones in the mine, but even to her ears the words sounded hollow, without force of conviction.

    The crowd of onlookers gradually drifted away, leaving only those with personal concern for those below ground.  The hours gave Marie ample opportunity to think about everything that had happened that night, and her sense of shame grew with the passing minutes.  What that insufferable woman in room six believed about her was untrue, at least in the sense it had been meant.  Marie could not, however, help looking back on her past through the eyes of those women of Virginia City.  Was the truth so much more virtuous than the lie?

    She had been young and foolish when she allowed her cousin Edward to use her beauty to attract men to his gambling salon, where they were encouraged to risk beyond their means, but she had known it was happening and never once questioned the morality of her participation.  Now she feared the foolishness of her youth would destroy her reputation, and while she cared little for her own sake, having endured such scorn before, she dreaded it for that of her husband and their sons.  “And I had hoped to be such a help to him,” she moaned, hiding her face in her hands.  She had seen herself using her charm to attract new business for her husband, but was that so different from what she had done for Edward?  She closed her eyes and her mind to the disturbing question.

    Still the minutes dragged past, and it was a short journey from regretting how her past might affect Ben’s future to dreading a future without him.  How would she raise his sons?  How could she fulfill his vision for the Ponderosa?  Impossible without him, impossible even to imagine life without him.  Shame gave way to anger at the man who had needlessly risked their future by recklessly racing into the bowels of the earth.  That, at least, was a gamble she had played no part in encouraging!

    When the hoisting bell rang, the women rushed forward, each desiring to see one particular face.  Glad cries greeted each man who surfaced, and those with wives or mothers were immediately engulfed in embraces almost strong enough to choke them.  As face after face appeared, without revealing the one she most longed to see, Marie bit down on the knuckles of her right hand.

    Two final faces eventually emerged, black with grime, sweat paving paths down their cheeks, but Marie recognized the features she loved beneath the dirt and ran to throw her arms around her man.  The mine owner, who had come out last with Ben at his side, moved quickly toward two women still waiting, and as he did, the hope died in their eyes.

    Marie pulled back from the embrace and pounded Ben’s chest with her fists.  “How could you?” she demanded, unleashing her pent-up emotions.  “You could have been killed!”

    Momentarily taken aback, Ben stared at her fierce countenance.  “Marie, I had to,” he protested.  “There were lives at stake.”

    “Your life,” she fumed.  “Your life was at stake.  I am so angry with you!”  Bursting into tears, she fell against his chest.  “Oh, Ben!”

    Ben’s arms tightened around her.  “My love,” he whispered.  “It’s all over now, and I’m fine, Marie.”  He felt her head move up and down against his chest, and as she sobbed out her fear and frustration, he simply held her.  “It’s all right, my love,” he whispered over and over, stroking her straggling hair with his blackened hands.     Growing quiet, Marie pulled back and looked inquiringly into Ben’s face, although she was certain she already knew the answer to her unspoken question.

    Ben took her face in his hand.  “We saved all but two,” he croaked hoarsely, dust clogging his throat.  “That’s considered a light loss in a situation like this, I understand.”

    “But scarcely light to those who suffer it,” Marie murmured with a sympathetic glance at the stricken women.  Only moments before she had feared what they now faced, and the memory intensified her empathy.

    “No.”  Ben took her face in his hands and gazed at her reproachfully.  “Have you been out here in this cold air all night?”

    “Where else would I be?” she asked softly.

    Ben tenderly kissed her forehead, leaving behind a soiled imprint of his lips.  “You make me so proud.”

    “Oh, Ben,” she sighed, fearing his opinion would change when she told him all that had transpired after he left the ballroom.  Now was not the time, however.  Ben was exhausted and probably hungry, and none of the food brought from the party remained.  “You must be starving,” she whispered.  “Shall we get some breakfast?”

    Ben chuckled.  “Let’s clean up a bit first, shall we?”

    Marie smiled softly as she looked down at the stains his embrace had left on her gown.  “Oui, I think we both need a bit of cleaning.”  Slipping her arm into his, she turned toward the International Hotel.

    An hour or so later, the freshly scrubbed Mr. and Mrs. Cartwright were seated, at Marie’s suggestion, at a table in Barnum’s Restaurant.  Though she had not yet shared anything with Ben, she had no desire to encounter in the hotel dining room any of the women who had witnessed her disgrace the night before.

    Halfway through a tasty meal of antelope steak and eggs, the president of Ophir Mining came in.  Spotting Ben, he made his way to their table.  “I’m glad I ran into you, Cartwright.  I wanted to say again how much I appreciated your help last night.”

    Ben stood to shake his hand.  “Not necessary, I assure you.  Won’t you join us?”

    “Why, thank you, I will,” Maynard said.  Eyeing Ben’s platter with interest, he ordered the same thing.

    Marie, who had almost finished her smaller plate of ham and eggs, laid her fork down and leaned toward the man at her left.  “Do accidents such as the one last night happen often, Monsieur Maynard?”

    “Far too often, ma’am,” the mine president admitted sadly.  “As your husband had a chance to see last night, we have a unique engineering problem in the mines here on the Comstock, unlike any encountered before.  You see, the deeper we go, the wider the silver veins become, and the harder it is to provide adequate shoring for the roof of the tunnels.”

    “Surely, there must be a solution,” Marie observed.

    Maynard nodded firmly.  “There must be, and I’m going to see to it that solution is found as soon as possible.  One of the partners in the Ophir has been talking to an engineer in California named Deidesheimer, and I intend to send a wire this morning asking that he be sent here right away.”

    “And you think this man can find the solution?” Ben queried, cutting another slice of his antelope steak.

    Maynard shrugged.  “He studied at the Freiburg School of Mines in Germany, the finest in the world.  If there is a solution, he seems like the best candidate for finding it.”

    “Let us pray that he shall,” Marie whispered earnestly, remembering the drawn faces of the women with whom she had shared so many anxious hours the night before.

    “Amen to that, ma’am,” Maynard agreed firmly.  “Amen to that.”

    While there was an Ophir mine on the Comstock, its president in this chapter, James Maynard, is a fictional character.
    The description of this first of three incarnations of the International Hotel and the names of the proprietors come from Elegance on C Street by Richard C. Datin.  A dance, with twelve ladies in attendance and music by violins, was held there in October, 1860.
 
 

    Seeing Mt. Davidson looming ahead, Ben reached for the reins of the draft team.  “Better let me take them now, son.”

    Hoss, whose wide grin had seemed to cover half his face as he handled the lines, looked suddenly crestfallen.  “Why, Pa?  Ain’t I doin’ a good job?”  Today was the first time Pa had let him handle the new team, and he was relishing the grown-up feeling it gave him.

    Ben clapped the boy heartily on the back.  “You’re doing a wonderful job, Hoss, but the grade gets pretty steep up ahead, and you don’t have the experience to handle a load this heavy on that kind of ground.”

    “Oh, okay.”  With only slight reluctance, Hoss turned the reins over to his father.  Proud as he’d been to drive that wagon full of timber across Washoe Valley, he knew his father was right.  Going up and down hills was a whole heap different from guiding a team over flat ground.  “Someday I’ll be good enough, though, right, Pa?”

    “Right,” Ben said, beaming a proud smile toward his boy.  “You still have some growing to do before you’re strong enough to control a team if it tries to run on you, but you’ll get there sooner than most.”

    Hoss laughed.  “‘Cause I’m so big, you mean!”

    Ben shook his head.  “No, you’re a strong, sturdy boy, but size isn’t enough.  It takes skill with animals, too, and that’s a trait I think you were born with, Hoss.  Probably get it from your mother.  She was always good with the stock.  Why, I remember when Jonathan Payne’s new colt was born on the trail, he wouldn’t let anyone but your mother near his special mare.”

    “What made her special, Pa?” Hoss asked with interest, and Ben launched into the tale, sharing with his son another cherished memory of the boy’s mother.

    It was often the way they passed the miles on trips to Virginia City, at least when it was just the two of them, as it had been with every delivery of timber Ben had made to the Ophir mine.  Three weeks had passed since the night he and Marie had attended the ball, and only once had she been willing to go into town with him.  After early mass the next morning, they had left at once, Marie insisting that she preferred a late lunch at home to another meal in town.  Not until they reached the valley that he and Hoss were now leaving had she told him why she was so anxious to put Virginia City behind her.

    Ben had been furious, not at her, but at those who had cast aspersions on her character.  Yet, though he had assured her that she had no cause for shame or embarrassment and shouldn’t let the foolishness of a few gossips influence her, she refused to return, other than once, driving in early last Sunday to attend church and leaving immediately afterwards.  Ben had spent that morning wondering why God would bless him with a wife as stubborn and sensitive as Marie without also granting him the wisdom to deal with her.

    He hadn’t really had much time to think about her problems, however, for the last three weeks had been unusually busy ones.  He’d had to set up a new lumber camp, acquaint the new men with his conservative timber policies, fire one man who wouldn’t follow orders and another who’d gotten drunk on the job, all in addition to preparing the herd and his home for the winter months just ahead.  Many a night he’d come in late, eating a warmed-over dinner to a cacophony of cantankerous Cantonese blasting in his weary ears.

    “Pa, you ever gonna let Little Joe come along?”

    Hoss’s question interrupted Ben’s reverie and made him laugh.  “Not unless your mother comes, too, son,” he chuckled.  “I am not going to try to manage that feisty bundle of untamed energy and a freight wagon at the same time!”

    “Aw, I could handle him, Pa,” Hoss argued.

    Ben put his head back and let loose a throaty chortle.  “You can’t miss your brother that much!  I would think you’d welcome a day without him tagging after you.”

    Hoss shrugged.  “Yeah, I do, but I sure hate to hear him cry.”

    Ben also remembered his youngest son’s tear-streaked face when, once again, Little Joe had been denied permission to ride to town on the fascinating freight wagon.  As his hands were occupied with the reins, Ben leaned over to touch his dark head to Hoss’s light-haired one.  “You have a tender heart, son; that’s like your mother, too.”

    Pulling into Virginia City, Ben turned the wagon downhill toward the Ophir Mine.  He left the wagon at the appointed place, where employees of the mine would unload it, a provision of the contract Ben had felt necessary, in view of his almost constant shortage of available workers.  As he and Hoss entered the Ophir office to receive a receipt for delivery of the shipment, James Maynard rose from behind his desk to greet Ben.  “There’s someone I want you to meet,” the mine president said.

    One hand resting on Hoss’s shoulder, Ben followed the man back to his desk.  Another man, sporting a short, slightly pointed beard, stood as introductions were made.  “Ben, I’d like you to meet Philip Deidesheimer, the German engineer I mentioned a few weeks back,” Maynard said.  “Philip, this is Ben Cartwright, owner of the finest stand of timber this side of the Sierras.”

    “Ah, the man who is going solve your shoring problems,” Ben said, grasping the engineer’s hand warmly.

    “Ah, and you hope that solution will enable you to sell more timber,” Deidesheimer returned, a twinkle in his eye.

    Ben smiled, but answered seriously.  “I hope your solution will save lives, Herr Deidesheimer, regardless of profit.”

    While Deidesheimer looked surprised and flattered by the use of the proper German title, his eyes shone with respect as he commented, “I, too, am more interested in lives than in profit.”  Ben felt an instant liking for the man.

    “Your arrival is quite timely,” Maynard told Ben.  “We were just about to walk up to the Sazerac.  You’ll join us?”

    “My pleasure, sir,” Ben agreed at once.

    The three men, with Hoss tagging in their wake the way his little brother usually tagged in his, walked up the hill to the C Street saloon.  Just as they were about to enter, a body came hurtling through the swinging doors.  “Trouble, Tom?” Maynard asked the strapping man who had just tossed the other into the street.

    “Just a fool with no more sense than to insult Abe Lincoln to my face—and in my own place, too!” the saloon owner said, dusting his hands.  He held the door wide.  “Come on in, Mr. Maynard.  I know you wouldn’t bring any secesh riffraff with you.”

    “Staunch Union man,” Maynard whispered aside to Ben.

    “So I see,” Ben observed with an arched eyebrow.  He took an anxious look at Hoss, not wanting him to be caught up in a political “discussion” of the type becoming more and more prevalent in Virginia City.  Not that he could avoid that by staying outside, Ben sighed inwardly.  The political friction in town seemed hotter every time he came.  The election had taken place four days ago, but no one out here knew the results, as yet, so the quarrels just kept escalating.

    Maynard led them to a round green table, ordering three whiskeys “and a sarsaparilla for the boy,” but Ben said he would prefer a cold beer.  The drinks were brought to their table by the saloon owner, a tall, powerfully built man several years younger than Ben.  “Good man, Tom Peasley,” Maynard told the others.  “Doesn’t hold with watering down the whiskey.”

    Ben laughed.  “I’ve heard that in Virginia City it’s more a case of whiskeying down the water!”

    Maynard guffawed loudly.  “The water’s bad here, all right,” he explained to Deidesheimer.  “You just about have to dilute it with whiskey to make it tolerable.  Just another problem to be solved.”

    “And what of the problem that brought you here, Herr Deidesheimer?”  Ben inquired.  “Have you come to any conclusions as yet?”

    “I only arrived yesterday and had my first look at the mine this morning,” Deidesheimer replied.  “No, I am afraid I am not such a genius that I have fathomed the solution so quickly.”

    “Pa, could I look at the store next door?” Hoss asked when he finished his drink.

    “Yes, but only there,” Ben said, realizing that the conversation must be boring to his young son.  Too bad that other son of mine isn’t here , he thought.  Adam would thrive on conversation with a man like Deidesheimer.  And how I’d thrive on a glimpse of his face!

    “Gentlemen, as much as I’m enjoying the company and the conversation,” Ben said after a lengthy discussion of mining and other problems facing Virginia City, “it’s a long drive home.  I’ll have to push to get there in time for supper, as it is.”

    “Wouldn’t want to deprive you of that!” Maynard exclaimed exuberantly.  “I tell you, Deidesheimer, a meal at the Ponderosa is not to be missed.”

    “I hope you’ll favor us with a visit and see for yourself,” Ben said graciously as he shook the German engineer’s hand.

    “It would be my pleasure, Mr. Cartwright,” the man replied suavely.

    Ben walked into the adjoining mercantile, where he found Hoss studiously examining the jars of candy.  “What’s it to be this week, son?” he asked, laying a hand on the boy’s shoulder.

    Hoss grinned up at his father.  “I’d favor some of them lemon sours this time, Pa, but could we get a few gumdrops for Little Joe?  He likes soft candy better than hard.”

    “Sure,” Ben agreed readily and told the clerk how much he wanted of each variety.  “A dime’s worth of peppermints, as well,” he added.

    “For you or Ma?” Hoss snickered, knowing both his parents liked that type.

    “We’ll share,” Ben chuckled.  After selecting a few more items that Marie had requested, he headed down the street toward the new offices of the Territorial Enterprise.  “I want to get a paper,” he explained to Hoss.

    “Always do,” Hoss said, popping a lemon sour into his mouth.

    Reaching the newspaper office involved another climb, this time up two streets to the corner of A and Sutton.  Entering the rickety, one-story frame headquarters, Ben greeted the editor in residence by name.  “Any idea when election results will come in, Mr. Williams?” he inquired as he took a paper from a stack near the door.

    Jonathan Williams, one of the two men whose names appeared on the masthead of the Enterprise, shook his head.  “Can’t tell you how many times I’ve answered that today,” he moaned.  “Pony Express is making an extra effort for the election run, but no news expected ‘til the twelfth, and the whole town’s on edge, wanting to know if it’s war or peace.”

    “The whole territory,” Ben corrected soberly.  He decided right then that he would be in Virginia City on the twelfth, even though that was only two days away and he would scarcely have any real need of returning that soon.  No need except learning the fate of the nation, he told himself.  If that’s not a reason for putting off chores, I don’t know what is!

    Ben dabbed a wet cloth to his puffy lip and winced, both at the pain and at his swollen reflection in the mirror in his room at the Virginia Hotel.  He realized with chagrin that the fight that had blackened his eye and bloodied his lip could have been avoided entirely had he stayed at the International, instead.  Yet, living in the country as he did, how could he have been expected to know that, among residents of Virginia City, the Virginia Hotel was known as a hotbed of secessionist activity?  He had no more than mentioned where he was staying to a man in a bar where he’d gone for an after-supper drink before the man shouted out accusations that Ben was “secesh through and through” and expressed his opposite viewpoint by plowing a fist into Ben’s nose.

    Ben had assured Marie that he would not allow himself to be caught up in any of the sectional turmoil raging in the streets, but he had just effectively proven that the only way to do that was to stay off the street.  However prudent that policy might have been, the main street of Virginia City drew him like a magnet, for, like every other man in town, he was desperate to hear the election results the minute the pony rider came in.  Besides, it just plain went against his grain to hide in a hotel room.  After cleaning his cuts Ben walked down to C Street again, steering clear of the saloons, where whiskey and political differences made a belligerent combination.  Along with hundreds of other men, he simply milled the streets until long past midnight, when exhaustion drove him back to the hotel.

    Assuming the pony rider might be late, he had warned Marie not to expect him that night.  In fact, he had told her that it might be a couple of days before he came home, depending on how long it took the news to arrive.  Marie clearly hadn’t been happy about his extended absence, but she hadn’t lodged any real objection, either.  Probably as anxious to know as I am , Ben realized.  Finally, the noise on the streets died down and Ben drifted into an uneasy sleep.

    Surprised at how brightly the sun was shining, Ben pulled the covers back the next morning and stumbled toward the window.  Though the street below was fairly quiet, it was an ominous quiet, like the lull before a storm.  Ben shaved and dressed and, disdaining to eat in the hotel dining room, walked to Barnum’s Restaurant for breakfast.  He’d had his fill at dinner the night before of listening to men advocate states’ rights and secession.

    The talk at Barnum’s was all about the election, too, but at least there both sides were represented.  One side argued that the election of Abraham Lincoln would lead to immediate war; the other advocated, just as strongly, that to elect the Democratic candidate, Breckinridge, would mean slaves on Sun Mountain and the notorious Judge David Terry of California as governor of Washoe.  Two other men were running for president, as well, but since no one thought either Douglas or Bell had a chance, there wasn’t much talk about them.  Ben shook his head ruefully.  Probably be better off in a place that did take just one side, but then they’d insist I declare my allegiance, one way or the other.

    After an uneventful and solitary breakfast Ben went back to roaming the streets, chiding himself for the foolishness of that behavior.  Work piling up at home and here I am, wasting precious hours.  With a wry grin he conceded that he was only wasting his time with thoughts like that, as well, for he felt an absolute compulsion to stay right where he was, and judging by the number of people on the street, that made him pretty normal.

    All day Ben waited, and still the pony rider did not come.  He perused every business in the burgeoning town thrice over and even wandered down to the Ophir to watch the mine’s operation, just to pass the hours.  But fascinating as that exploration was, he couldn’t for long stay away from C Street.  He had to be there to hear the first clatter of hooves that heralded the announcement of the news every ear strained to hear.

    Night fell, and still the pony rider did not come.  Ben grew weary, but felt too tense to sleep, and, evidently, his insomnia was shared by the hundreds thronging the streets, even at midnight.  Another hour slipped past and then another, and still Ben could not persuade himself to give up and go to the hotel.  There was a sense of expectancy on the street; everyone felt sure that the news would come before morning, and everyone wanted to hear it as soon as it did.

    It was 2:30 on the morning of November 14th when hooves finally thundered down C Street.  They didn’t belong to the official Pony Express rider.  That man had continued on the regular route, but another man had been stationed at Ft. Churchill to bring the news to Virginia City the minute the Pony rider came in.  As he charged into town, the rider flapped his hat, yelling the same words he’d heard Pony Bob scream as he entered Ft. Churchill: “Lincoln’s elected!”

    Guns were fired, and both shouts of victory and explosive curses filled the air.  Ben participated in neither.  Leaving C Street as quickly as he could, considering the press of bodies, he climbed up to B and Sutton and mounted the stairs to his room, sad at heart.  Though he had tried to remain neutral, he had to admit that he considered Abraham Lincoln the best man running for the office, but he could scarcely count the man’s election a victory when he knew, to almost certainty, that it meant war.

    Having not fallen asleep until past three o’clock, Ben was late to rise the next morning.  Anxious as he was to get back to the Ponderosa and his family, he dallied over his grooming.  Not much up to a day’s work today, anyway, he justified.  As he didn’t want Marie to worry, however, he planned to eat an early lunch, in lieu of having breakfast at all, and head for home.

    He went out briefly, for a copy of the extra put out by the Territorial Enterprise , and read the full report of the election returns.  Lincoln’s one hundred and eighty electoral votes had easily outstripped the seventy-two gained by Breckinridge, and he had led in the popular vote, as well, by almost five hundred thousand votes.  As expected, Bell with thirty-nine electoral votes and Douglas with only twelve hadn’t figured into the picture at all.

    Ben was still perusing the editorial comments on the election when a knock came at the door.  Responding to it, he accepted the folded note the messenger extended and opened it at once.

Mr. Benjamin Cartwright, Esq.
Dear Sir:

I am in hopes that this message will reach you prior to your departure this morning.  Please come by the offices of Ophir Mining Company at your earliest convenience.  New developments require renegotiation of your contract.

James Maynard,
President

    Carrying his bag down the hill to the Ophir did nothing to improve Ben’s mood, and by the time he reached the mine office, lack of sleep, political tension and financial anxiety had combined to put his temper on short fuse.  “What’s this about, Maynard?” he demanded, dropping the carpetbag on the floor with a loud clunk.  “I thought we had a solid contract.”

    Maynard froze, his extended hand hanging in mid-air.  “Why, we do, of course, Mr. Cartwright.  I—I believe you’ve misunderstood my message, sir.”

    “‘New developments require renegotiation of your contract,’ your message read, sir,” Ben asserted, still ignoring the outstretched hand.

    Philip Deidesheimer rose from behind the mine president’s desk.  “But Mr. Cartwright, this is good news!” he cried.  “I have found the answer.”

    Ben gave him a blank look.  “The answer?”  His sleep-deprived wits slowly caught up with what the man meant.  “Oh, the shoring problem, you mean.  I’m pleased to hear that, of course, but why would that affect my contract?”

    “In my excitement I’ve handled this poorly,” James Maynard said.  “Please, Mr. Cartwright—Ben—have a seat and let me explain myself better.”

    Already embarrassed by his display of ill temper toward a man who had shown him only generosity and good will thus far in their relationship, Ben took the chair toward which the businessman gestured.

    “Perhaps I should begin?” Deidesheimer suggested.

    “Yes, do that,” the flustered Maynard agreed readily.  “Once Ben hears what you propose, I’m sure he’ll understand why I need more of his timber.”

    “More?” Ben babbled.  “You’re not trying to cancel the contract?”

    “Heavens, no!” Maynard exclaimed.  “Is that what you thought?  I assure you, my dear friend, this new proposal of Philip’s will take every board-foot you’re willing to sell this mine!”

    Feeling more relaxed, Ben turned with interest toward the German engineer.  “I take it your solution involves additional shoring in the tunnels?”

    Philip Deidesheimer smiled.  “Not just more shoring, Mr. Cartwright—an entirely new concept.  It came to me as I was resting outside the mine entrance.  A bee flew past my nose and, like that”—he struck his forehead with his palm—”I knew.”

    Ben stared at the enthusiastic engineer, unable to decide whether the man were simply drunk or positively pixilated.  “A bee showed you how to shore up the mine?”

    His face earnest, Deidesheimer leaned forward.  “Precisely!  As if the creature were a messenger from God.”

    Maynard laughed heartily.  “Ben, you look exactly the way I must have when Philip shared this idea with me this morning.  Show him the drawings, you crazed engineer, or he’ll never see what you mean.”

    Philip Deidesheimer quickly apologized and indicated a set of drawings spread on the mine president’s desk.  “You see, it is a new system of shoring, based on the honeycomb principle—a series of interlocking square sets to equalize pressure from all sides.”

    “I see,” Ben said, and the drawings were so clear that he really did understand the principle almost at once.  “It does look like a honeycomb.”

    “Yes,” Deidesheimer declared, his hand sweeping with a flourish over the drawings, “and like a honeycomb, new cells can be added in any direction as the need arises.”

    “As you can see, though, Ben, this new system of shoring uses far more timber than our old method,” Maynard put in, “and that’s where you come in.  You’ve just got to agree to sell me more timber.”

    “I don’t see how I can,” Ben protested.

    “But think of the savings in lives, Mr. Cartwright!” Deidesheimer cried.  “How can you refuse?”

    Ben spread his hands helplessly.  “You don’t understand.  Certainly, I favor anything that would save lives, but I don’t have the men and equipment to take on a larger contract.  I’m barely able to keep up with the delivery schedule as it is.”

    “I’m willing to advance the monies needed for more men and equipment,” Maynard insisted.

    Ben considered the offer, but then he shook his head.  “You know my views on careful cutting, Mr. Maynard.”

    Maynard brushed the concern aside.  “All the more reason to take the lead in this venture, Ben.  If I—and other mine owners, too, once they learn of this new system—can’t get the timber we need from you, we’ll turn to your neighbors, anyone with a patch of forestland to sell in the Sierras.  Do you think they’ll follow your conservative policies?  And if they don’t, how would that affect your own property?”

    Ben’s face grew grim.  The answer to Maynard’s questions was all too obvious.  Men interested only in profit would denude the eastern slopes of the range, destroying the watershed in thoughtless pursuit of wealth and power.  To preserve the Ponderosa, he genuinely needed to expand his infant timber enterprise, but to do so meant overextending himself, and the financial risks of that were daunting.  “I see the validity of your point, but I can’t give you an immediate answer,” he said quietly.  “I need to go home, discuss the matter with my wife and see if it is even possible for me to obtain the men and equipment I would need.  If I find I’m able to accede to your wishes, I’ll return within the week to negotiate a new contract.”

    James Maynard beamed.  “Capital!  I’ll expect to hear from you within the week with a favorable response.”  He extended his hand, and this time Ben shook it warmly.

    As Marie edged her strawberry roan out of the shelter of the pines lining the foothills and moved into the valley, she finally admitted to herself the real reason she was taking this late afternoon ride.  She’d told herself it was just for relaxation, but she knew better now.  Mere relaxation wouldn’t have brought her all the way to Washoe Valley, not at this time of day.  Normally, about now, she would have been awaiting the return of her son Hoss from school, seeing to it that cookies and milk were waiting for him on the table.  Well, Hop Sing could tend to Hoss’s appetite as easily as she; worry over another wayward “boy” filled all her attention today.  Three days Ben had been gone now, and not a word!  While she understood his concern about the election and even shared it, she felt a more personal apprehension for his safety, especially after all his talk of the volatile political situation in Virginia City.

    “Mama, go fast!” a small voice begged.

    Marie leaned forward to kiss her baby’s golden-brown curls.  Lying to herself about her real intent had left her no reason to refuse his puckered-lip pleas to go with her, but now giving in to that demand meant she would be unable to ride into Virginia City after her husband.  It would be much too long a trip for a three-year-old.  Not that I’m dressed for town, anyway , she admitted with a glance down at the divided skirt her friend Laura Ellis had constructed for her after seeing the spirited new horse.  “Can’t have you riding that one side-saddle,” Laura had laughed, and Marie had smiled her gratitude at the freedom of movement the garment gave her when she tried it on.

    “Mama, please,” Little Joe whined, that pathetic pucker once again forming on his lips.  “Go fast!”

    Marie tittered.  “Oui, mon petit Napoleon.  What a dictator you have become!  Mamá will have to break you of that—someday.”  As she let the horse have his head, however, she wondered if that “someday” would ever come.  It was easy, far too easy, for her to give in to the slightest frown of this adored child.  I spoil him, as Ben says, she admitted; then she laughed as the wind whipped her loose hair about her shoulders in unfettered freedom.  Ah, but how can I say no to him when he only asks what I want for myself!  She looked down into his small face, as he sat perched before her in the saddle, and her glowing smile reflected the rapture she saw in his eyes.

    Little Joe chortled with glee as the big roan galloped across the rolling valley.  Like his mother, he loved to feel the wind rushing over his face and blowing the hair off his forehead.  “Faster, Mama, faster!” he screamed.

    “No, mon petit,” his mother laughed.  “This is fast enough for one your size, I think, but what a horseman you will be!”

    Recognizing the rider coming down the road toward her, Marie slowed the roan to a trot and continued toward him.  Ben scowled at her as they met and each pulled to a stop.  “No need to act so innocent, young lady,” he scolded.  “I saw that wild gallop you were doing.”

    “Pa!” Little Joe cried before his mother had opportunity to answer.  He stretched his arms toward his father, and Ben couldn’t resist taking the child into his arms.  “Pa, we ride fast!” the toddler announced happily.

    “Yes, I know,” Ben said as he settled the boy into the saddle before him.  “Honestly, Marie, how could you?” he chided.

    “How could you?” Marie retorted, feeling a forceful offense was her best defense.  “Three days I have waited and worried about you.”

    “You knew where I was,” Ben argued, “and you knew why I was there.”

    “Three days, Ben!” she charged angrily.

    Ben lifted his left hand in a calming gesture, while the right circled around the waist of his youngest son.  “All right.  I admit I’m later than I expected to be, but there’s a reason for that, and it’s something we need to talk over.”

    Marie moved her horse to the side of Ben’s, and they started toward home at a leisurely pace.  “Who is the president?” she asked casually, although her interest was keen.

    “It’s Lincoln,” Ben said gravely.

    Her eyes shimmered with concern.  “Is it war, then?”

    “I pray not,” Ben whispered.  “I pray not.”

    “Go fast, Pa,” Little Joe demanded.

    “Not on your life!” Ben chuckled.  “Someone has to teach you safe horsemanship, and it is obviously not going to be your mother.”

    “I was not riding that fast,” Marie insisted.

    Ben arched an eyebrow.  “You were.”

    “I am a good rider; I know how to handle myself.”

    “Yes, but”—he broke off, not wanting to argue when there were more important matters to discuss.  “We need to talk, Marie,” he said bluntly.

    Anxiety flew into her eyes.  “Trouble?” she asked.

    “No, no,” he quickly assured her, and as he began to explain about the business challenge that had been presented to him that forenoon, both his horse and Marie’s slowed to a walk.

    After one final, fruitless plea for Pa to ride fast, Little Joe sulked in silence the rest of the way home, resolving that when he got big, he would ride just like Mama, no matter what Pa said.

    As is often the case, historical sources differ on the exact date of Philip Deidesheimer’s development of square sets.  Some cite November 14, 1860, the date used here, while others place the event two weeks later.  Most, if not all, historians, however, agree that the new method changed the shoring of mines worldwide.

    Tom Peasley, owner of the Sazerac Saloon, is a historical character, a staunch supporter of Abraham Lincoln in the 1860 election.
 
 

    “You sure been to town a lot lately, huh, Pa?” Hoss asked with a grin as he perched beside his father on the freight wagon the next Saturday.

    Tousling the boy’s straight, sandy hair, Ben laughed.  “Hoss, I sure have—and not home much of the time I wasn’t in town!”

    “Yeah, I been missin’ you, Pa.”

    Ben’s hand slid down to rest for a moment on his son’s broad neck.  “I’ve missed you, too, son, and I’m mighty glad to have you with me today.”  Although he made excuses to Marie that he needed Hoss’s help with the team, in his own heart Ben knew that simple desire for time alone with his boy was the real reason he tried to make his timber deliveries on Saturdays.  He had a feeling Marie knew that, too, though she never indicated her suspicions by word or facial expression.

    “Can I drive the team again, Pa?” Hoss queried, his blue eyes alight with longing.

    “When we get to the valley,” Ben promised.

    Satisfied, Hoss settled back, watching his father’s driving technique carefully as they wound their way down out of the hill country.  Someday, Pa had promised, he could drive the team in the mountains, as well as the flatlands, and Hoss wanted to be ready for that day.

    As soon as he reached the flatlands, Ben kept his promise and handed the reins to Hoss.  Then he ease back and let his mind drift, smiling as he relished a luxury he hadn’t had much time for the last half week.  Only three days had elapsed since his previous visit to Virginia City, but each had been packed.  The first evening had been spent in earnest discussion with Marie as the two of them tried to determine what risks they were willing to take.  At first, Marie had insisted that the decision was his alone, but he had just as adamantly affirmed that he considered her his partner in business, as well as in life, and valued her opinions above all others.  “It’s a lesson I learned a long time ago—with Elizabeth, and Inger, as well,” he had told her.  “Women often see things men overlook, and the man who doesn’t listen to the cautions or suggestions of his wife is a fool.”

    It had been Marie’s idea, indeed, that had shown Ben how he could expand the timber operation with the least risk possible, to both the land and his financial resources. Her proposal that he lease the timber rights of his neighbors for a portion of the profit had been, in Ben’s view, inspired, and he had spent the next two days in negotiations with his closest neighbors, those whose watersheds most significantly impacted the preservation of the Ponderosa.  Three of them had accepted his offer and sealed the agreement with a handshake, and a fourth wanted more time to think it over, but appeared to be leaning toward granting the lease.

    Ben smiled as he glanced at the small packet of letters lying on the seat beside him, among them one to Adam, detailing the recent developments.  Ben could almost envision the excitement in his son’s eyes as he read the news.  He’d included a rough sketch of Deidesheimer’s new square sets, and he could see Adam poring over them with avid scientific interest.  He’d described in detail the part the Ponderosa would play in meeting the mines’ increased need for timber and had praised Marie profusely for her helpful suggestion about the leases.  “I’ll be needing your help more than ever, too, son.  I’ll harvest as much timber as I can before winter sets in, but the real work begins this spring, just about the time you get home.  I know you’re looking forward to being part of the growth of our territory as much as I look forward to having you at my side again on a daily basis,” the letter had concluded.  Ben smiled with satisfaction as he drove into Washoe Valley and handed the reins to Hoss.  Yes, Adam would surely be thrilled to see how the ranch was expanding and branching out in new directions.  No doubt the boy would be chomping at the bit to set aside his books and sink his teeth into new challenges.

    “Pa!  Look at that!” Hoss screeched, pointing to the southeast.

    “Hoss, for mercy’s sake, boy,” Ben scolded, making a dive for the reins his excited son had dropped.

     “Oh, sorry, Pa.”  For a moment Hoss looked abashed, but the animation almost at once reignited in his dancing eyes.  “But look at that!  What are they, Pa?”

    Ben stared in disbelief at the long line of birds marching toward them.  “Turkeys,” he replied in a daze.  “Hundreds and hundreds of turkeys.”

    Hoss almost bounced with enthusiasm.  “Like Billy shot that time?  That was good eatin’, Pa!”

    Ben smiled in fond remembrance.  “Yeah, it was.”  He snapped his fingers.  “That’s it, Hoss!  Someone’s had the bright idea to drive a herd of turkeys here from California to sell for Thanksgiving—and a handy profit they’ll make, too!”

    “Can we get one, Pa?  Can we?”  Hoss’s tongue slid unconsciously over his lips.  “For Thanksgiving?”

    “Hoss, we’re not having Thanksgiving at home,” Ben reminded him.  “We’ll be sharing the meal with the Thomases, and they’ll be providing the meat.  They may already have their plans made.”

    “Yeah, but I bet they’d be glad if we was to bring ‘em a turkey,” Hoss argued.  “Pa, please.”

    Hoss rarely whined for what he wanted, so the fact that he was doing so now indicated the strength of his desire.  Ben hadn’t the heart to say no, but he didn’t want to offend his friends, either.  “Tell you what, Hoss,” he suggested diplomatically, “we’ll pick up one of those turkeys and take it home with us.  Then I’ll talk to Uncle Clyde and see whether we eat it for Thanksgiving or fatten it up for our Christmas dinner.”

    “Sure hope he says now,” Hoss declared.  Then he looked shyly at his father.  “Can I drive again now, Pa?  I won’t drop the reins again.”

    Ben started to hand the team back over to Hoss, but suddenly realizing how that line of turkeys would clog the narrow road up to Virginia City, he kept the reins and urged the horses forward at a sprightly pace.  “Another time, son,” he cried.  “We’ve got to beat those birds to market!”

    Marie grabbed the small hand turning the front door handle and clasped it firmly in her own.

    “I hear horse, Mama!” Little Joe protested, struggling to pull away.

    “So do I,” his mother laughed.  “That is why your hand stays in mine, mon petit.  I cannot trust you not to run to the horse, can I?”

    The toddler thrust out his lower lip as he continued to tug on her arm.  “Wanna go!  It be Pa maybe!”

    “Let’s see if it is,” his mother suggested, opening the door a bit awkwardly with her left hand while her right continued to firmly grip her child.

    “Pa!  Pa!” Little Joe hollered, dragging his mother across the yard.

    Ben quickly tied the horses’ reins to the hitching post and scooped the baby up to give him a kiss.  Little Joe grinned down in triumph at his mother until a loud squawking drew his attention to the back of the wagon.  “What that?” he asked, eyes wide.

    “What have you there?” Marie asked at almost the same moment, gazing with interest at the big bird.

    “Don’t tell me you’ve never seen a turkey, either, woman,” Ben chuckled.

    Marie tilted her head and favored him with a coy smile.  “Mais oui , I have,” she giggled, “plucked and hanging in the butcher’s shop.”

    Ben clucked his tongue in apparent dismay.  “Your education has been as neglected as these boys’, I see.”

    Marie wagged a finger beneath his nose.  “Ah, but that is your responsibility, to teach such things, mon mari, and you have been most negligent in your duty, it appears.”

    “So it appears,” Ben conceded with a smile.

    “Hop Sing has already started supper,” she teased. “If you want him to cook this, instead, you will be the one to tell him.”

    Hoss peered around the back of the wagon.  “It’s not for tonight, Ma,” he explained quickly.  “It’s for Thanksgiving.”

    “Or Christmas,” his father reminded him.  Seeing Hoss tugging on the rudely constructed crate they’d thrown together from scrap lumber in town, Ben said sharply, “Leave it be, Hoss.  That’s too big a load for you to handle alone.”  He handed the toddler back to Marie.  “See if Hop Sing can hold dinner half an hour, would you?  We need to fix up at least a temporary place in the barn for this monstrous bird.”

    “I wanna help,” Little Joe protested as he was carried back inside.

    Marie laughed and kissed his curly head.  “Do not be ridiculous, mon petit .  The turkey is bigger than you are!”

    Together, Ben and Hoss lifted the crate out of the wagon and carried it into the barn.  With his chin Ben indicated the far back stall.  “We’ll put this noisy creature in there.  Set him down gently, son.”

    “Sure, Pa, I’m always gentle with animals.”

    Ben smiled at the boy’s earnestness as he stretched the kinks from his back.  “I know that, Hoss, but everybody can use a reminder now and then.”

    Hoss shrugged.  “I reckon.  You think the horses’ll like havin’ a turkey gobblin’ at ‘em, Pa.”

    “I doubt it,” Ben muttered wryly.  Patting Hoss’s shoulder, he said, “This is only temporary, remember?  If it turns out we have to keep this bird ‘til Christmas, we’ll build it a coop like the chickens have.”

    “Only lots bigger.”  Hoss laughed at his own joke; then that earnest look came across his face again.  “If it does turn out we keep the bird ‘til Christmas, can I take care of it, Pa?”  He broke into a broad smile.  “After all, I am the best around at fattenin’ things up.  Just look at me!”

    Ben pulled the chunky boy into a one-armed embrace.  “You’re not fat, son, just built on a large scale.  Sure, you can have charge of the bird as long as it’s here, and that being the case, I guess it’s up to you to talk to Aunt Nelly about whether she wants to serve him up next week.  You can ride over to Carson City tomorrow morning while I take your mother into town for church.”

    Hoss’s face screwed up in doubt.  “Uh, it was my week to go to church with her, Pa.  Not that I mind skippin’ it, but—”

    “Someone’s got to contact them,” Ben said firmly.  “Good as you are with horses, I don’t want you driving up to Virginia City without me, and I’m too busy to take a trip to Carson later this week.”  He patted the boy’s shoulder.  “Don’t worry, son; I’ll settle things with your mother.  You can make up your absence the next time.  Now, let’s fix up this stall so we don’t lose the main course of our Thanksgiving—or Christmas—meal.”

    “We better hurry,” Hoss urged, “or Hop Sing’ll be threatenin’ to go back to China.”

    “Point taken,” Ben said.  Seeing the horses shy at the strident gobble of the turkey, he dug his fingers into Hoss’s shoulder.  “Tell Aunt Nelly just how much you want turkey for Thanksgiving, all right, son?  Lay it on real thick.”

    “Here, Pa.”  The sound of the sweet, high-pitched voice made Ben turn his head just as he sent the hammer toward the head of a nail.  With an angelic smile Little Joe held another nail toward his father, but the smile fled at the sound of his father’s yelp of pain.  “You gots a hurt, Pa?” the toddler asked, head tilted, expressive eyes full of sympathy.

    Ben pulled his injured thumb from his mouth.  “Yes, Joseph, I ‘gots a hurt,’” he grunted.

    “Oh,” Little Joe murmured with obvious compassion; then the bright smile returned as he again held out the nail.  “You need nuther nail, Pa?”

    Ben took a deep breath and counted to ten as he took the gift his youngest offered.  “Yes, baby,” he said with measured softness, “Pa needs another nail.  Now go help Hoss for a while.”

    “I don’t need none of that kind of help,” Hoss snickered.

    “Oh, yes, you do,” Ben growled.  Since he and Hoss were occupied with building the turkey coop and Little Joe had been settled down for a nap, Marie had decided to take a ride on her roan gelding after they returned from church.  Naturally, the toddler had awakened early and been booted outside almost immediately by Hop Sing.  Ever since, Little Joe had been skittering around, underfoot and into everything in sight.

    Hoss took the hint.  “Here, punkin,” he called.  “You can hand brother some nails.”

    Little Joe ran eagerly to the other side of the turkey coop under construction, stopping only long enough to dig his hand into the keg of nails.

    “That’s right,” Hoss said.  “Bring a whole fistful so you don’t gotta be runnin’ around so much.”

    “I like runnin’ ‘round,” Little Joe declared, cherubic countenance beaming beatifically.

    “Truer words were never spoken,” Ben muttered.  Shaking his aching thumb, he positioned the nail, double-checked for distractions and hit it, squarely this time.  Declaring himself ten times a fool, Ben placed another handful of nails in his mouth, pulling them out one by one, as needed. Should have known Clyde wouldn’t need the bird, he grumbled inwardly. I couldn’t get that lucky.  Never even crossed my mind that those turkey drivers might have made a stop in Carson first, though, fool that I am.  Now here I am, bigger fool, putting out good money for a coop I’ll never need again and extra feed, not to mention extra work I can’t spare the time for.  All in all, the most expensive, troublesome Christmas dinner ever to grace our table.

    Still, the happy expressions on the faces of his two sons, Ben had to admit, were priceless treasures, worth all the expense and effort.  Joseph, of course, had never eaten turkey, but at supper the night before Hoss had begun a campaign to convince his little brother that there was no meat to compare with that of this particular fowl.  As usual, especially where food was concerned, Little Joe took every word that spilled from his big brother’s mouth as absolute gospel and had followed with fascination the preparations for the new home of the all-important turkey.

    As for Hoss himself, his excitement had virtually doubled when he learned that there would be turkey for Thanksgiving and Christmas, too.  He had stood tall, shoulders squared with pride, when he promised his father that he’d personally see to it the turkey they put on the table come Christmas was the fattest, tastiest ever seen in western Utah.  Ben chuckled as he pounded in another nail to hold the wire mesh to the frame of the coop.  Not that there was much competition, the population of turkeys in the territory being limited to the five hundred brought in yesterday, most of which would be roasted and eaten within a week.  Good experience for the boy, though, he conceded.  Teach him responsibility and show him the pride a man takes in providing for his family.  All things considered, not such an expensive bird, after all.

    Ben flinched at the sound of hooves coming up the road.  Little Joe, whose ears always seemed tuned to the sound of horse hooves, jumped up.  “Hoss, grab him!” Ben yelled.

    The admonishment was unnecessary.  Hoss, more accustomed than his father to the toddler’s habitual response to an incoming horse, already had tight grip on the little lad.

    The strawberry roan pranced into the yard, and Marie quickly dismounted to take her baby in her arms.  Ben dropped the hammer and stormed around the corner of the coop to confront his wife.  “Marie, when are you going to learn not to gallop in like that?”

    A spark ignited in her emerald eyes.  “I was not galloping,” she retorted crisply.  “I slowed the horse down as I approached the house.”

    “Oh, that was slower?” Ben snapped.  “I’d hate to see the pace you set when you think you’re riding fast!”

    “Mama ride fast,” Little Joe added, smiling in admiration.

    “Yes, I know,” Ben grunted.  He ran his hand over the gelding’s flank and held it, palm up, to show his wife the sweat.

    Marie tossed her head, flipping her golden tresses back from her neck.  “I was in perfect control; I am always in perfect control.  This horse could run all day, and I, of course, did not expect to find this child outside. I left him napping.”

    “It’s not just his safety or the horse’s I’m concerned about,” Ben sputtered through taut lips, “but while we’re on that subject, I might as well tell you that I didn’t much approve of your speed with him in the saddle when we met in the valley last week.”

    “So you said then!” Marie declared hotly. “I am neither deaf, nor do I have problems with my memory, but since you are so convinced that you can give our son better care than I, I shall leave him to you!”  She thrust Little Joe into his father’s arms, snatched up the reins of her roan and headed for the barn to cool down both the horse and herself.

    Ben started after her, but the repeated pats of a small hand on his cheek stopped him in mid-stride.

    “Pa, you need nuther nail?” the child in his arms asked eagerly.

    Ben rolled his eyes.  Got to learn to time my battles better than this .  “Yes, precious,” he said with strained gentleness.  “Pa needs another nail.”  And a hammer to hit himself on the head!

    When Nelly Thomas opened the oven door to baste the turkey, she saw, as usual, two necks craning past her to peek inside.  “You younguns better keep back,” she said, repeating a warning the two boys had already heard several times that morning.

    “Yeah, don’t be crowdin’ so close, Little Joe,” Hoss ordered as he pulled his brother back.

    “You had best follow your own advice, young man,” Marie observed, looking up from the bowl of potatoes she was peeling.

    “Lands, yes,” Nelly laughed.  “It’s that tawny head of hair I see pokin’ in first every time I open this door.”

    Hoss grinned, knowing from experience that the woman he considered a second mother wasn’t really upset with him.  “Aw, Aunt Nelly, I just wanna see how crisp he’s gettin’.”  He turned to his younger brother and commented, as if imparting the wisdom of the ages, “The skin is practically the tastiest part of the turkey, Little Joe.”

    Freckled-faced Inger Thomas snickered.  “You’re just sayin’ that so he won’t eat the parts you favor.”

    “No such thing!” Hoss protested.  “I wouldn’t take food out of my baby brother’s belly, and I really do like crispy skin.”

    “And breast and thigh and wing—and just about every other piece there is,” Nelly teased, squeezing his shoulder affectionately.

    All the women in the kitchen, which included Dr. Martin’s daughter Sally, laughed at the joke, and Hoss joined in good-naturedly.  “Well, I ain’t overly fond of giblets,” he said, crinkling his nose sheepishly.

    “Except in gravy!” Inger hooted.

    “Well, yeah,” Hoss admitted, setting off another round of merry laughter among the cooks.

    Hearing a loud thump, Hoss raced to the front door, for he had been detailed to answer all such summons.  Little Joe, naturally, charged right after him, and gave a squeal of delight when he saw who was at the door.  “Aunt Kat!” he cried, raising his arms.

    The flaxen-haired beauty immediately lifted the little boy and held him close.  “Hello, sweet baby,” she cooed.

    Little Joe wrapped his arms around her neck.  “You bring me cookies?” he whispered in fond remembrance of the ones she had baked for him when he stayed with her.

    “No, but something just as good,” she assured him.  “You will like my gingerbread, little one.”

    “Okay,” Little Joe, easily appeased when it came to food, agreed.

    “Hey, now, don’t I get a hug?” Katerina’s lanky husband chuckled.  “Come here, youngun.”

    Little Joe willingly went to the arms of the ranch foreman and gave him an obliging squeeze, but then he started wriggling to get down.

    “Okay, off you go,” Enos said, planting a light swat on the toddler’s soft behind.

    “Well, come on in,” Hoss said.  “Ladies in the kitchen and gents in the parlor.”

    “As it should be,” Enos observed with a wink at his wife.  “Women belong in the kitchen, don’t you agree, Hoss?”

    Hoss grinned.  “Sure do, ‘cause good things come out when they go in.”

    Enos gave the boy a solid clap on the shoulder and, depositing the pan of gingerbread in Hoss’s welcoming hands, took off for the parlor to join the other “gents.”

    “Aunt Kat here,” Little Joe announced as he scooted into the kitchen.

    “Oh, good,” Nelly said, looking up from the stove to smile at the latest arrival.  “That’s everyone except Billy, and he said he’d be pushing to get here by dinnertime.”  Since her son was rarely home, due to his duties with the Pony Express, Nelly had insisted that the Cartwrights spend the previous night with them, the two boys taking Billy’s bed, while Ben and Marie slept in the guest room.

    Marie had welcomed the invitation as it spared them the chore of rousing the family sleepyhead at an early hour and enabled her to help with dinner preparations.  Ever since the religious friction had developed between them, Nelly and Marie had been cordial, but not really friendly.  Working together in the kitchen, however, had seemed to restore some of the old warmth, and both ladies were glad of it.

    The front door opened about forty-five minutes later, but no one in either kitchen or parlor noticed because there had been no knock.  Their first warning came when a red head poked in through the kitchen doorway and called, “You got room for one more, Ma?”

    Nelly wiped her hands on her apron and advanced on her tall son, arms wide.  “Land sakes, boy, you know you’re expected.”

    Billy cackled.  “Yeah, but you got room for one more besides me?”

    Holding his cheeks between her hands, Nelly laughed.  “Why, you know there is!  Did you bring a friend from the Pony?”

    “Naw, just some homeless wretch I picked up at Ft. Churchill.”  Billy grinned broadly as he winked at Sally.  “Couldn’t leave the poor fellow to Army fare for Thanksgiving, could I?  Wouldn’t’ve been the Christian thing to do, now would it?”

    “Oh, get out of the way!” Sally laughed, pushing past him into the hall, where Mark Wentworth had remained until Billy had his joke.  Sally threw her arms around her fiancé and kissed him soundly.

    “Hey, what about me!” Billy chortled.  “Don’t I get some reward for bringing him?”

    “Oh, get in here and help me get the food on the table,” his mother scolded.  “After the measly meals that Pony Express feeds you, the feast you’re about to sit down to ought to be reward enough!  You’re getting plumb skinny, boy.”

    Billy grabbed his mother around the waist.  “Well, if that Sally won’t kiss me, I bet my best girl will,” he said as he smacked his lips against his mother’s cheek.  Blushing, Nelly herded him toward the stove, where the meal was being kept warm for his arrival.

    Billy and Mark joined forces with the ladies, and soon the main table almost sagged with tempting dishes.  The turkey graced one end of the table, while baked ham reigned at its opposite end, and in between marched a line of Boston baked beans with Boston brown bread, sweet potatoes and mashed potatoes, boiled turnips and colorful baked beets, green beans and stewed carrots.  The sideboard held a vast array of sweets with which to end the meal:  Katerina’s gingerbread, Sally’s rice pudding, Nelly’s mince and pumpkin pies and golden pound cake, along with two apple pies, which Hop Sing had insisted on contributing.

Clyde had put together a makeshift second table “for the young folks,” and after a few light-hearted complaints about “eating with the kids,” Billy took his seat, along with Mark and Sally, who didn’t care where they sat, as long as they were together.  Once grace was said, the rowdy redhead decided the second table was the best place to be, after all, for he and the others were permitted to take whatever they wanted from the main table before the food was passed around.

    Soon everyone’s plate was full, and the tables rang with laughter and lively chatter as the food was consumed.  While Marie and Sally served each person at her particular table with his or her requested dessert, Ben called across the room, “Any news from the east, Billy?”

    “Just the usual,” Billy called back as Sally handed him a plate with a slice each of pumpkin and mince pie.

    “Secession?” Dr. Martin asked, recalling the main topic of discussion in the parlor before dinner.

    “Plenty of talk about it,” Billy agreed, “but nobody bolting yet.”

    “Pray God nobody does,” Sally murmured with an anxious look at Mark, who gave her hand a reassuring squeeze.

    “Yes,” Ben agreed solemnly.  “That we are all still one people, united under one flag, is the greatest blessing for which I give thanks this year.”

    Mark stood and raised his glass.  “To the Union,” he proposed, and everyone except the children returned the words, “To the Union,” and drank the toast to peace.

    Brushing a tear from her eye, Sally turned to Ben.  “And what do you hear from Adam, Mr. Cartwright.  He hasn’t written to me as often as usual this year.”

    Ben coughed.  “Nor to me, my dear, and the letters I do get are uncommonly short.”

    Sally smiled.  “I suppose his final year at the academy must be very full.”

    “I suppose,” Ben conceded.  “I’m expecting a nice long letter next time, though.”  He began to share with those who didn’t already know the new developments at the Ponderosa and how excited he knew Adam would be when he read the latest letter from home.  Yes, he assured himself, Adam’s next letter will be a long one, probably packed full of ideas about how we can meet the challenges ahead of us next spring.
 

    Maybe that’s the way to handle it, Adam thought sourly, just keep quiet ‘til he gets so worried he comes charging over the Sierras to see what’s wrong with his little boy.  At least, then we could have it out, face to face.  He scowled as he jerked the chair back and began to pace the floor.  “Of all the craven notions,” he muttered, “that takes the prize.”  He stalked to the window and threw up the sash.  Leaning out, he let the chilly wind sting his cheeks, hoping that reminder of reality would restore his power to reason.  Even in Sacramento it was cold that last Sunday in November, but Adam knew that up in the mountains snow already covered the ground.  That his father would risk his life to come to him if he thought something was wrong, Adam had no doubt, but only a child would put a parent in that position, whatever the provocation.  Child, nothing, Adam chided himself.  Only a baby like Little Joe would pull such a stunt!

    He forced himself back to the desk and lifted the pen once more.  Slowly the page filled with words, none of them the ones he wanted most to say, just drivel about his daily life: how he was doing in school, how he’d spent the holiday.  And just to let his father know he’d actually received the letter from home, a few words expressing appreciation for the drawings of Philip Deidesheimer’s square sets.  That, at least, he could be honest about, for he had truly found the engineering principles fascinating.  Everything else in his father’s letter had been a source of pure frustration, but he couldn’t bring himself to write that, so he just wrote . . . drivel.

    In November of 1860, five hundred turkeys were driven from California to Virginia City, to be sold for the Thanksgiving market.
 
 

    “Little Joe, you get down from there!” Hoss scolded from inside the turkey coop.

    Skirt flapping in the breeze, Little Joe curled his fingers through the tight wire mesh as he sought a firmer foothold.  “Why?”

    Hoss came to the fence to glare at his little brother.  “‘Cause Fred would just as soon nibble your fingers as this chicken feed, that’s why!”  Hoss pried the tiny fingers loose and Little Joe dropped to the ground like a sack of potatoes.

    “Who Fred?” Joe demanded.

    “The turkey.”  Hoss looked anxiously at the boy sprawled on the ground.  “You ain’t hurt, are you, punkin?”

    “Fred funny name,” Little Joe giggled.

    The infectious sound reassured Hoss that the toddler hadn’t injured himself in his plummet from the fence and he grinned.  “Yeah, I guess it is, but he looks like a Fred to me.  Don’t know why.”  His nose crinkled as he saw the dirt on his baby brother’s clothes.  “Now, look what you gone and done.  Ma’s gonna have a fit when she sees that dress.”

    Little Joe brushed his skirt, dusty hands leaving still more smudges on the light blue fabric.  “Don’t like dress,” he grumbled.  “Need britches.”

    “Yeah, I’m of a mind to think you do,” Hoss agreed.  “Maybe ole Santa Claus’ll bring you some if you’re real good ‘til Christmas.”

    Little Joe favored his beloved big brother with his cherub’s smile.  “Always good.”

    “Uh-huh, yeah,” Hoss chuckled.  “You run on in the house now.  I got to finish feedin’ Fred.”

    “Me—I wanna feed Fred,” Little Joe insisted.

    “No sirree,” Hoss snorted.  “He’ll think you’re a piece of corn and gobble you up.  Now, scat!”

    Red-faced, Little Joe turned and ran for the house, charging straight into his father’s leg just outside the front door.  “Pa, Hoss bein’ mean,” he whined.

    Ben picked the child up and snuggled him close.  “Which means that he wouldn’t let you do precisely as you pleased, I presume?”

    Little Joe looked blankly into his father’s face and Ben laughed.  “Time you went in to Mama, baby.  You can tell her all about your troubles.  Hoss and I have to get to town.”

    “I wanna go town!” Little Joe pleaded.  “Hoss go all the time, never me.”

    “I know, I know,” Ben soothed, “but that’s because it’s a working trip.”  He kissed the child’s soft cheek.  “Be a good boy and Pa will bring you back something sweet from town.  How’s that?”

    Little Joe shook his head, clearly not happy, but when Ben set him down with a soft pat on the bottom, he trotted inside as he’d been told.  That went better than usual, Ben congratulated himself.

    He ambled over to the turkey coop, where Hoss was still scattering corn for his turkey.  “Haven’t you finished feeding that bird yet?” Ben grumbled.

    “Almost done,” Hoss said quickly.  “He eats a lot, Pa, and Little Joe’s pesterin’ slowed me down.

    “That I can believe,” Ben chuckled, “especially the first part.  That bird eats more than all the chickens on the place put together.”

    Hoss came through the gate, shutting it carefully behind him.  “Aw, he don’t neither, Pa.”

    Ben ruffled the boy’s soft, sandy hair.  “Just teasing, son.  You’re doing a fine job of fattening that bird up for Christmas dinner.”

    “Yes, sir, I’m tryin’,” Hoss said, with a proud look at his turkey.

    “Time we got started, boy.  Climb up and I’ll let you drive ‘til the road gets steep.”

    Excitement brightening his eyes like sunlight does a summer sky, Hoss climbed quickly aboard the loaded freight wagon and reached for the reins.

    Wide grin splitting his face, Hoss trotted up the steep hill toward C Street with the unexpected short-bit bonus burning in his pocket.  Ten whole cents to spend any way he chose, although Pa had added one condition when he put the coin in Hoss’s palm.  “If you’re going to spend it on candy, boy, not more than one piece before dinner,” Pa had said with an amused quirk of his lips.  Hoss figured that would be an easy rule to keep.  Since Pa had promised they could eat at Barnum’s Restaurant, Hoss’s personal favorite, he didn’t want to spoil his appetite for the big bowl of chicken and dumplings and slice of apple pie that he planned to order.

    He had one errand to tend to for Pa first, an easy one.  All he had to do was hand the list of supplies to Mr. Cass at the store, and he’d be free to ogle the candy as long as he wanted before making the all-important choice. Gotta pick just right, Hoss told himself, this bein’ our last trip to town for a while.  The load of lumber they’d brought in to the Ophir would be the last one ‘til spring, and with winter coming on, chances to go to town wouldn’t come as often.  Can’t dawdle too long makin’ up my mind, though, Hoss reminded himself.  Won’t take Pa all that long to wind up his business with the mining folks, and he’ll be expectin’ me down to Barnum’s by the time he’s through.

    Winded by the pace with which he’d climbed the hill, Hoss paused to catch his breath as he reached the main business street of Virginia City.  Cass’s store was directly across from him, but he quickly realized there was no way to reach his destination.  As far as he could see, a parade of Paiutes was filling the road, and there was no way to get across, short of plowing through their midst, a course of action Hoss was certain his father would consider rude, if not dangerous.  So he waited, blowing warm breath on his reddened knuckles.  No longer warmed by exercise, he started to feel the chill in the air typical of the first week in December, and he hoped the Paiutes would hurry on about their business, whatever it was.

    Citizens of Virginia City also lined the sides of the road, staring at the Indians.  Not since the Pyramid Lake War had any of them seen so many red-skinned visitors to their town.  A few had drifted back to scavenge for a meager subsistence wherever they could find it, but never before in such numbers.  But for the fact that not a single native carried a weapon and that they all walked down the main street in absolute silence, looking neither left nor right, the white men would have feared an invasion.  In a sense that’s what it was, an invasion of gaunt-faced, hungry men, women and children, returning to the mountain they had once called their own in hopes of avoiding starvation in the lean winter months ahead.

    Hoss took a step into the street as he finally caught sight of the end of the line. Cocking his head to one side, he stared, like everyone else, at the figure bringing up the rear.  Though dressed in a calico skirt made from cornmeal bags, the Indian was too tall and walked with too wide a stride to be a squaw.  A calico bandana hid the face, but the red blouse couldn’t hide the fact that it covered a chest too flat to be that of a woman.  “It’s a man!” a teenage boy across the street yelled.  “Whatcha doin’ in them skirts, huh, injun?”

    The Paiute lifted his head, revealing a thin visage and a solemn expression, but he made no response before lowering his gaze again to the dust beneath his feet.

    “Hey, injun!  I’m talkin’ to you,” the boy shouted, but this time the Indian did not even raise his head.  The boy scooped up a handful of pebbles from the street and threw them at the man in women’s clothes.  The Paiute grunted as the stones struck, but he kept moving forward, eyes on the ground.

    Emboldened by the actions of the first heckler, other children on the street began to run up behind the Paiute, peppering him with pebbles and hooting in derision.  When a larger rock hit the Indian on the side of the head and blood began to trickle down the copper cheek, Hoss could hold himself back no longer.  Running forward, he pushed the closest attackers aside.  “Leave him be!” he yelled.  “He ain’t doin’ you no harm.”

    The teenage boy who had started the trouble ran toward him.  “Mind your own business,” he ordered, punctuating the command with an index finger driven into Hoss’s sternum, “or I’ll give you cause to wish you had.”

    “You ain’t got no right to rock him,” Hoss declared, planting his hands on his hips.  “He ain’t no different than you or me.”

    “You’re gonna eat that lie, injun lover!” the other boy hollered and plowed a fist into Hoss’s jaw.

    Unprepared for the blow, Hoss went down, hitting the ground hard, but he scrambled up quickly and rammed his attacker in the stomach.

    “Fight, fight!” the cry rang out, and men and children made a circle to watch the battle, most shouting encouragement to the older boy, while the few women on the street turned away in disgust at the display of violence.  The Paiutes stopped in the middle of the street, most looking concerned about the possible consequences if they were perceived as the cause behind this brawl.  The one in skirts looked from one boy to the other, shaking his head.

    Blow after blow was exchanged, with Hoss getting somewhat the worst of it, for while he was strong and well-built, even large for a boy of his age, his opponent was quick and wiry and his fists surprisingly solid, considering they were smaller than Hoss’s.  Fueled by his anger at the injustice of the other boy’s attack on a defenseless foe, however, Hoss fought hard and saw his adversary begin to fade under his telling jabs.

    As quickly as it had begun, though, the fight was over.  Hoss felt himself pulled back, his arms pinioned.  “Hoss, stop it; stop it!” Ben Cartwright yelled, struggling to hold the thrashing arms, as across the way another man did the same to Hoss’s antagonist in the fight.

    Recognizing his father’s voice, Hoss slumped forward, as shame surged through him.  After all Pa’s talk about holding his temper, not letting others taunt him into a fight, he’d let it happen again.  “I-I’m sorry, Pa,” he sputtered, feeling himself an utter failure and a disgrace to his father’s teaching.  Then indignation erupted once again.  “But he shouldn’t’ve been hurtin’ that man.  It weren’t right.”

    Ben turned Hoss around and, kneeling, engulfed him in an embrace.  “No, son.  He shouldn’t have.  Remember what I said to you that day in the barn, that there would be times when you had to fight?”

    Hoss looked up, his eyes lighting with tentative hope that he hadn’t lost his father’s respect.  “You think, maybe, this was one of those times?”

    “You were defending a man under attack for no reason, a man who for some reason felt unable to defend himself,” Ben said.  “I may question your wisdom in flinging yourself into this fracas, Hoss, but your motive was beyond reproach.  Now, let’s get you cleaned up and get down to the restaurant for that meal I promised you.”

    As Ben stood, he found himself looking into the eyes of the Paiute Hoss had defended, solemn eyes which warmed with respect as the Indian’s gaze dropped to the face of his young champion.  Ben shook his head, puzzled by the Indian’s apparel and his apparent willingness to accept abuse.  Spotting a Paiute he knew slightly, Ben moved forward to greet him and then asked about what had just transpired in the street.  “Why is that man dressed like a squaw?” he inquired.  “And why do the rest of your people turn their backs on him when he is attacked by white men?”

    The Paiute’s nostrils flared with disdain as he inclined his head toward the man in woman’s clothing. “Him’s Charley.  Charley heap scared battle down Pyramid Lake.  Charley no want fight—got no gun, he say, throw um away.  Charley all time run, run; all time cry, cry—all same papoose.  Charley squaw now.  Paiutes call um Squaw Charley.”

    Ben glanced at Squaw Charley and nodded in sober comprehension.  No matter to what society a man belonged, cowardice lowered him in the eyes of his peers.  White men, too, had ways of ostracizing those who failed to live up to the standards set by the majority.  The Paiutes were just more graphic in their handling of craven behavior.  A man too weak to stand with his brothers in battle was, in their eyes, a woman, and to compel him to dress the part he had played seemed to them a punishment that fit the crime.  While Ben felt sorry for Squaw Charley, he couldn’t deny the raw justice of the sentence imposed by his people.  However cowardly, though, no man deserved to be subjected to harassment and unprovoked attack, and Ben felt proud of his stalwart young son’s defense of the man shunned by his own people.

    Face washed and cuts cleaned, Hoss frowned as he waited for his bowl of chicken and dumplings to arrive.  Seeing the expression, Ben queried, “Something wrong, son?”

    Hoss lifted his head from the elbow on which he’d had it propped.  “I was just wonderin’, Pa.”

    Ben smiled encouragingly.  “About what?”

    Hoss shifted in his chair.  “You been sayin’ there was a right and a wrong time to fight.”

    “Yes?”

    “Well, I been hearin’ all this talk ‘bout war maybe comin’, and I was wonderin’ if war was a right or wrong reason to fight,” Hoss explained, nose crinkled in thought.

    Ben sighed.  “That’s a hard question, son.  There are defenseless people involved, even more in need of protection than Squaw Charley, and some feel they must fight to give those people the right to live free.  Others, both north and south of the Mason-Dixon Line, talk of war for more selfish reasons.”

    The wrinkles deepened in Hoss’s forehead.  “So how do you know when it’s a right fight or a wrong one, Pa?”

    Ben reached across the table to smooth his son’s puckered lips.  “You look in your heart, Hoss.  You ask yourself why you’re doing it, and if you find good reasons there, then you stand and fight.  If it’s just to ease your pride or bend someone to your will, it’s not reason enough.  You think you understand the difference?”

    Hoss nodded soberly.  “I think so, Pa.”  He paused a moment, then asked quietly, “You think there is gonna be a war?”

    Shaking his head sadly, Ben shrugged.  “I don’t know, son.  It’s looking more and more that way, but I’m going to keep holding onto hope as long as I can.”

    “Me, too,” Hoss declared.  The waitress arrived with their food, and, for Hoss, at least, thoughts of war were quickly forgotten in enjoyment of a good, hot meal.  Ben, however, couldn’t set aside his concerns so lightly. Less than three weeks ‘til Christmas, he mused, and peace on earth seems like a distant dream, but, dear God, keep me dreaming.  Keep us all dreaming—and working—to make it happen.

    As snowflakes dusted his hat, Ben pulled the collar of his coat close to his ears and moved briskly toward the front door, barely making it through before Marie was at his side.  “I have been concerned, mon mari; you are so late,” she said.

    “Sorry, my love,” Ben murmured, punctuating his apology with a kiss to her temple.  “The weather hit sooner than I expected, and the roads are slick.”

    “ Oui, I thought that was it,” Marie said, “but it is almost suppertime, Ben, and you know how Hop Sing gets when—”

    She was cut off abruptly by a volatile demonstration of exactly how Hop Sing could get when any member of the family was late to a meal.  Ranting in his native Cantonese, the diminutive cook loudly castigated the head of the house.  “Believe it or not, Hop Sing,” Ben exploded, “I do not control the weather.  That lies solely within the province of Almighty God!”

    “Whom you resemble not at all at this moment,” Marie suggested sharply.

    Ben turned crimson at the pointed reminder that a fit of temper scarcely reflected divine patience.  “All right,” he said tersely, self-control returning slowly.  “My apologies for being late, Hop Sing.”

    “You wash up chop-chop,” Hop Sing dictated with a firm bob of his head for emphasis.  “Dinnah on table plenty quick, now you fin’ly come home.”

    Ben exhaled gustily as the cook returned to the kitchen.  “That man would try the patience of the Almighty Himself,” he declared.

    “As do we all, mon amour,” Marie laughed lightly.

    Ben returned the laughter.  “Yes, I suppose we do.”  He took his wife’s hand.  “However, much as you might profit from a good sermon tomorrow, my sweet little sinner, I’m afraid the snow is likely to be too deep for me to drive you to chapel.  I’m sorry.”

    Marie nodded.  “I had thought it would be.”  She added, with a mischievous smile, “Perhaps I should pray that God will only let it snow on the Sundays when your plans will be spoiled.”

    Ben tweaked her petite nose.  “See, just as I said, a sinner in need of repentance.”

    “But you will find yourself the one doing penance if you do not wash up for supper at once,” Marie warned with a significant tilt of her head toward the kitchen.

    “Yes, ma’am,” Ben chuckled.  “I repent.  No priest could exact severer penance than that irascible cook of ours.”  Giving her another swift kiss, he trotted up the stairs at a lively pace in search of a washbasin and a bar of soap.  After a fast, but thorough, scrub at his hands and face, he headed back down the hall.  About halfway to the stairs, however, he found his forward progress impeded as one pair of arms engulfed him about the hips and another set latched onto his knees.  “Here now, unhand me, you varlets,” Ben roared with mock ferocity, “or I’ll have you tossed overboard.”  He snatched the smaller boy under the arms and gave him a gentle toss toward the ceiling.

    Little Joe squealed in exhilaration.  “Do it ‘gain, Pa,” he cried.

    “Shh, shh, you’ll get me in trouble with Mama,” Ben warned as he brought the child into his chest.

    Little Joe’s emerald eyes sparkled saucily.  “I gonna tell,” he declared with a naughty grin.

    “Oh, threatening your father, are you?” Ben chuckled.  “That’s supposed to be Papa’s prerogative, baby boy.”

    Ignoring the vocabulary beyond his comprehension, Little Joe just grinned bigger and repeated the threat.  “Do it ‘gain or I gonna tell.  Hoss, too.”

    Hoss pulled his little brother’s earlobe.  “Unh-uh, not me.  I know enough to steer clear of trouble, not go makin’ more.”

    “A wise adage to live by, my boy,” Ben said, dropping his right hand to squeeze Hoss’s shoulder.  “And dinnertime is definitely not the time to be making trouble.”

    “That’s for sure!” Hoss guffawed as he clomped down the stairs ahead of his father.

    Marie stood waiting at the foot to take her baby from Ben.  “Pa been throwin’ me,” Little Joe informed her gleefully.

    “Tattletale,” Hoss scolded.

    “ Oui, I know,” Marie tittered, giving the child’s tiny nose the same treatment Ben had earlier accorded her own.  “Papá is being naughty, but so are you, mon petit.  As Hoss says, it is not nice to tell tales.”

    The light-hearted rebuke washing over him with no visible effect, Little Joe donned his most angelic expression and presented his mother with a hug and kiss.  The tender scene was interrupted by a strident pronouncement:  “You come table now or I thlow ev’lyt’ing ‘way!” the dictator of the domestic domain pronounced with a stamp of his foot.

    Hoss looked genuinely worried.  “No, don’t do that, Hop Sing.  I’m starvin’!”  With an impatient gesture for the rest of his family to follow suit, he hustled to the table.

    The blessing said, platters and serving bowls began to be passed from person to person, and soon everyone, even the smallest Cartwright, was eating with enough relish to appease the Chinese cook.  Hop Sing nodded with satisfaction and returned to the kitchen to cut slices of raisin pie for those whose clean plates might merit dessert.

    “Were you able to find all the things I requested?” Marie asked after filling Little Joe’s plate and ascertaining that he was eating.  Though it was still ten days ‘til Christmas, Marie had been concerned that some of the special ingredients she considered essential to her holiday cooking might sell out and had added them to the list of supplies Ben had ridden into Carson City to buy that afternoon.

    “Almonds and rosewater, brandy and essence of lemon,” Ben reported, adding with a wink, “and all those items of lesser importance, like flour, soda and salt.”

    “Did you see Aunt Nelly and Uncle Clyde?” Hoss mumbled through a mouthful of mashed potatoes.  “They gonna make it to the party? And Doc and Sally and—”

    Marie interrupted with a quick correction of Hoss’s manners, after which Ben said, “Sure did, and they’ll all be here, weather permitting.”  With a smile at his wife, he added, “I stopped by the Pioneer Bakery, too, and extended an invitation to Laura, along with her son and her beau.”

    “Ah, good,” Marie murmured.  “I am glad you did.  I have seen so little of Laura these last several weeks.  It seems whenever I am in Carson City, she is away somewhere with Monsieur Dettenrieder.  Did she accept or does she already have plans with him?”

    “Nothing definite,” Ben said.  “Apparently, there’s going to be a ball in Virginia City the same night, and George had mentioned taking Laura.  I think she’s going to try to persuade him to come here, instead.”

    “Sure hope she can,” Hoss offered.  “I know Jimmy’d like comin’ here better than any fancy ball up the mountain.”

    Ben chuckled.  “Yes, I got the impression Jimmy was going to make it a personal quest, and if he’s as persuasive as the knee-grabbers around here, I doubt that Mr. George Dettenrieder has a chance of reaching Virginia City on Christmas Eve.”

    “That when Fred come dinner?” Little Joe piped up.

    Ben turned to his youngest with a blank stare.  “Fred?  I don’t think we have a friend named Fred, precious.”

    Hoss glared at Little Joe across the table, but the baby simply smiled sweetly and informed his father, “Fred my friend.  He come dinner?”

    Ben’s lips twitched merrily.  “Oh, you have a friend named Fred, do you?  And just where might your friend Fred live, if I may ask?”

    “Outside,” Little Joe replied with guileless forthrightness.

    Marie touched her fingers to her lips in a vain attempt to hide her amusement, while Hoss slid down in his chair in an equally vain attempt to disappear.  Neither behavior escaped Ben’s notice.  “And do either of you have the slightest idea what this child is talking about?” he demanded with an arch of his eyebrow.

    Marie struggled to control herself.  “I know of no person named Fred among our neighbors,” she demurred, keeping her eyes on her plate.

    Ben’s brows came together in a straight, suspicious line, and he turned his gaze upon his middle son.  “Hoss,” he uttered firmly.  “Do you know a person named Fred hereabouts?”

    “A person?” Hoss babbled.  “Uh, no, Pa; I don’t know no person named Fred.”

    The emphasis on the word was a dead giveaway.  “And what, may I ask, is Fred, if not a person?” Ben demanded in a tone that brooked no further evasion.

    Hoss jumped a little and then grinned sheepishly.  “A turkey,” he muttered with a feeble laugh.

    Ben’s jaw dropped.  “A turkey?  Our turkey?  Oh, for the love of mercy, boy, please tell me you haven’t gone and named that bird!”

    “Fred,” Little Joe inserted helpfully.  “His name Fred.”

    Ben rolled his eyes; then he jerked back toward his crimson-faced other son.  “Well?” he demanded.

    “Uh, yeah, Pa,” Hoss quavered.  “I guess I did go and name him Fred, now you mention it.  He—he just looked like a Fred to me.”

    “Me, too,” Little Joe announced.

    Ben snapped his fingers toward the baby’s startled face.  “You stay out of this,” he ordered.

    “Yeah,” Hoss grunted, with a condemning glare at the source of his current dilemma.  Little Joe, confused, cowered back in his chair.

    Ben’s finger jabbed in Hoss’s direction.  “And you fix your eyes on me, boy,” he thundered.  “Didn’t you have better sense than to make a pet out of fowl meant for the table?”

    Hoss bit his lip.  “Y-yes, sir.  I know we planned to eat Fred, but—”

    “Eat Fred!” Little Joe screamed.  “Who gonna eat Fred?”

    “We are!” Ben shouted.

    “No!” the baby wailed.

    “Yes!” Ben hollered back, fist pounding the table so hard the dishes rattled.  “We are going to stuff that bird full of dressing, roast him to a turn and carve him up for Christmas dinner!”

    “Ben!” Marie cried, gathering her shrieking child into her arms.  “You will not scream at this little one, do you hear me?  It is not his fault.”

    Ben took a deep breath that didn’t calm him nearly as much as he’d hoped it would.  “Of course not,” he sputtered.  “Joseph is as innocent in this affair as—as Fred!  But you, madame,” he added, index finger thrust toward his wife, “knew about this, didn’t you?”

    “I guessed,” Marie admitted, stroking the baby’s curls with slow, soothing strokes.

    “Knew and said nothing,” Ben accused.

    “Guessed,” Marie reaffirmed hotly, “but did not know for certain until tonight.  I remind you of our earlier conversation, monsieur.  You remind me even less of the Almighty now than when you first came home!”

    Ben laced his fingers together tightly.  “All right,” he muttered through a tight throat.  “I stand corrected.  However, there is another misconception that needs to be corrected, as well, and I can’t promise I’ll exhibit the longsuffering of God while I do it.  So, if you think it will upset Joseph to hear what I have to say to his brother, please take him upstairs.”

    “On that point, at least, we do agree,” Marie retorted.  Standing, she carried Little Joe across the great room, where she paused at the foot of the stairs.  “Remember, Ben,” she said with soft-voiced concern, “Hoss, too, is a child.”

    Ben leaned his head against the back of his chair, giving her time to take their youngest out of earshot and himself time to gain some semblance of self-control.  Blowing out a loud gust of air, he sat upright and faced Hoss, who was nervously pulling on his lower lip.  He’s afraid, Ben realized with chagrin, and Marie’s right; he’s a child, too.  A child in a man’s body, but a child, nonetheless.  “Hoss, what were you thinking, boy?” he asked, carefully modulating his voice to conceal whatever anger he still felt.  “I remember having a talk with you two or three years back, when you wanted to name one of the newborn calves.  I told you then that we couldn’t afford to get attached to something we planned to eat.”

    Hoss rubbed his hand across the tablecloth.  “Yeah, I know, Pa, but this seemed different.”

    “How?”

    Hoss shrugged.  “I don’t know.  Fred—I mean, the turkey—was mine, and I guess I figured I could handle him like I thought best.”

    Ben groaned.  “And you thought it was best to treat him like a pet, to let your baby brother make a friend of him?”

    Hoss scrunched up his nose.  “I didn’t figure on that happenin’, honest, Pa!  That kid gets the funniest ideas.”

    Ben scowled.  “He’s not the only one, boy!  You do understand that bird’s going on the table Tuesday after next, don’t you?”

    Hoss shifted uncomfortably.  “I—I been meanin’ to talk to you ‘bout that, Pa.  I’m thinkin’, maybe, we ought to wait ‘til New Year’s, so’s he can get real good and plump.”  Eyes wide with hope, he grinned broadly and bobbed his head a couple of times.

    “Good gracious, boy,” Ben exploded, “that bird practically outweighs everything else on the ranch now!”

    “Aw, Pa, he don’t, neither,” Hoss argued.

    “Well, if it’s an exaggeration, son, it’s a mighty small one,” Ben insisted curtly.  “Now, I have invested a goodly sum in feed for that turkey, and he is going on the table Christmas Day.  Do I make myself clear?”

    “But, Pa—”

    “Don’t you ‘but, Pa,’ me, boy!” Ben growled.  “Nothing is going to change my mind on this subject, and if you really know how to steer clear of trouble, as you claimed before, you won’t say another word.”

    “Little Joe’s gonna be awful upset,” Hoss whispered, pulling out what he considered his last round of ammunition in the battle to save Fred from the ax.

    For a moment Ben almost relented; then his face hardened.  “He might as well learn early that we do not make pets out of meat for the table.”  With that, Ben tossed his napkin down and strode from the room into the cool night air.

    When the shouting stopped, Hop Sing peered furtively around the corner from the kitchen and frowned to see only Hoss remaining at the table.  “You like piece laisin pie, maybe-so?” he asked tentatively.

    Hoss shook his head and, swiping tears from his cheeks with the back of his hand, ran up the stairs and down the hall to his room.  Shaking his head, Hop Sing walked back into the kitchen.  Sometimes his Cartwrights could be most inscrutable.

    Grain trickling from his fingers, Hoss looked up at the sound of footsteps running toward him.  “No climbin’ on the fence,” he warned as Little Joe ran up to the turkey coop.

    “Okay,” Little Joe said, squatting just outside the fence and leaning far to the right to catch the eye of the bird pecking at the feed.  “Hi, Fred.  That taste good?”

    Hoss frowned as he scattered another handful of feed.  “I don’t think you oughta keep callin’ him Fred, punkin.  You know what Pa said.”

    Little Joe’s lower lip pushed out petulantly.  “Don’t like what Pa said.  Don’t wanna eat my friend.”

    Hoss nodded grimly.  He shared the sentiment, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that Fred did, too.  As much as he tried to convince himself that it was all his imagination, Hoss couldn’t look into the turkey’s piercing eyes without seeing a mute appeal for salvation.

    Ben came out of the barn, leading his saddled horse.  He paused at the turkey coop to say good-bye to his sons before heading out.  “Don’t dawdle half the morning in there,” he grumbled.  “You have other chores waiting, Hoss.”

    “Yes, sir.  I’ll get ‘em done, Pa,” Hoss promised.  Diligent by nature, he had tried extra hard to please his father since the night Pa first learned Fred’s identity.

    Ben turned away and then spun back, deciding he might as well perform the most unpleasant chore on his list first.  “With all that Hop Sing has to do to get ready for the party day after tomorrow, he wants to get a head start on plucking this bird.  I’ll be taking you boys and your mother into chapel in the morning, to make up for missing last week, and while we’re gone, Hop Sing will, uh”—he cut a quick glance toward Little Joe—”do what needs to be done, understood?”

    “Yes, sir,” Hoss muttered glumly.

    “Pa?”  The small voice was accompanied by a pull on Ben’s pants just above the knee.

    Ben pried the fabric free from the toddler’s fingers.  “Yes, baby?”

    “Don’t wanna eat Fred, Pa,” Little Joe pleaded.  “He my friend.”

    Ben inhaled slowly, counting to ten, but the words still came out laced with frustration.  “Pa has tried to be patient with you, precious, but you need to understand that Fred is not your friend; he is your dinner.  Now, if I hear any more on the subject, you and I may just have ourselves a very necessary little talk.  Is that clear?”

    Little Joe stared at his father through narrowed eyes, but said nothing.

    “It had better be,” Ben said firmly and swung into the saddle.  As he rode out of the yard, however, he could still see the accusation in those small emerald orbs, could still feel their fire burning into his back.  He’s got to learn, he told himself as he urged the horse forward.

    “Pa mean,” Little Joe declared, curling his fingers through the wire fence.

    “Naw, he ain’t mean,” Hoss corrected quickly.  “He’s right.  I know he’s right”—he cast a guilty glance at the turkey—”but it just feels wrong, doggone it!”

    Little Joe sidled up to his brother as Hoss shut the gate to the pen.  “Gotta help Fred, Hoss, just gotta.”

    Hoss looked back at the turkey, which once again appeared to be gazing upon him in earnest petition.  “Yeah,” he murmured, “but how?”

    Hoss tiptoed in stocking feet down the dark upper hall to the stairs.  Clinging to the rail, he felt his way down to the ground floor.  The light from the waxing moon, pouring through the horizontal window behind Pa’s desk, helped him see to cross the great room to the front door.  Pausing only to slip into his heavy coat, he inched the door open and slid through.  One step was all it took to remind Hoss that he should be wearing boots outside.  A light layer of snow covered the ground, and its cold dampness soaked through the thick woolen socks as if they were light as linen.  He’d been too afraid of making noise if he wore his boots upstairs, though, and of dropping them if he tried to carry them downstairs in the dark, so Hoss just ran across the yard, nightshirt slapping against his bare calves in the brisk wind off the mountains.

    Quickly unlatching the gate to the turkey coop, Hoss trotted over to the shelter beneath which the big bird spent each night and hissed, “Fred.  Hey, Fred, wake up.”  When he got no response, Hoss moved over to the turkey and shook him.  “Come on, Fred; you gotta get out of here—now!”

    The bird awakened with a strangled gobble, and Hoss put a finger to his lips as he peered anxiously back toward the house.  “Shh, be quiet, Fred.  We can’t be wakin’ Pa up, not unless you wanna be stuffed and roasted.  You don’t want that, do you?”

    Something that sounded to Hoss like vocalized agreement rattled in the turkey’s throat.  “Okay, then, let’s get moving.”  Taking out a handful of grain, which he had slipped into the pocket of his coat that afternoon, Hoss held his hand toward the bird and took two steps backward.  “Come on, Fred, this way,” he urged, backing up.

    Fred craned forward, reaching for the grain, but Hoss carefully kept it just out of range of the greedy beak.  Step by step, Fred following with interest, Hoss made his way to the gate of the coop and walked through.  The turkey, unaccustomed to being outside the fence, balked for just a minute.  “Get a move on, will you, Fred?” Hoss urged through chattering teeth.  “My socks are soaked plumb through.”

    Responding to the familiar voice, Fred moved forward and Hoss continued to lead him into the dark pine forest.  “This is as far as I can go, Fred,” the shivering boy said at last.  He pointed up toward the summit as he backed away.  “Head that way, okay, Fred?”

    Fred cocked his head and stepped toward the boy.

    “No, doggone it!” Hoss yelled.  “You can’t come with me.  Terrible things are gonna happen to you, Fred, if you do.  Now run!”  Tears running down his cheeks, he scooped up a couple of pine cones and pelted the turkey with them, though his heart ached at inflicting even that slight hurt on a helpless creature who trusted him.  “Run, you silly bird, run!” he hollered.

    Startled, Fred flapped his wings a couple of times and headed for the hills, while Hoss gasped in relief.  Then the boy raced toward the shelter of his home, anxious to be back in bed by the time the rest of his family awakened.  Retracing his steps, he made his way to his bed, pulled off the clammy socks and, throwing them in a corner, slipped beneath the covers.  Sleep didn’t come quickly, though, not even after he finally warmed up.  Hoss knew in his heart that he’d done the right thing.  Still, he couldn’t help thinking as he lay there waiting for dawn to paint the sky rosy that once “Santa” found out what he’d done, he’d likely get nothing in his stocking but a bundle of sticks, come Christmas morning.  I don’t care , Hoss decided.  At least, Fred’ll have a nice Christmas, instead of the one Pa planned for him!

    Beneath their heavy winter wraps and lap robes, the Cartwrights were dressed in their Sunday best.  Marie snuggled close to Ben as the buckboard pulled away from the house.  “Thank you for coming with me this morning,” she whispered.  “It is a special gift to me to have you all in church with me.”

    “Well, it just seems right to be in church at this time of year,” Ben said with a smile, “and since there still isn’t one of my persuasion in the area, I might as well visit yours, though I doubt I’ll understand much of what is said.”  He drew in the reins abruptly and stared with displeasure at the swinging gate of the turkey coop.  Jerking his head over his shoulder, he glared at the older boy seated in the back of the buckboard.  “Did you leave that gate open last night?”

    Hoss tried to look surprised.  “I—I thought I closed it, Pa, but it sure is open, all right.”

    “Hoss,” Ben chided as he jumped down from the wagon.  “You’ve got to be more careful, boy.  If that bird has wandered out . . .”  It was already obvious that the turkey, who was normally out scratching around, hoping for breakfast, by this time in the morning, was not in the enclosed pen.  Ben had told Hoss not to bother feeding the turkey that morning, so no one had noticed that irregularity until now.  One glance inside the empty shed told Ben that his Christmas dinner had taken flight.  Snatching his hat from his head, he slammed it against his thigh as he stalked sullenly back to the wagon.  “I’m sorry, Marie,” he said, “but I can’t take you to church this morning after all; I’m going to have to track down that bird.”

    “You want me to drive Ma in to church, Pa?” Hoss offered with a trace too much eagerness.

    “No, son.  I appreciate the offer,” Ben replied, “but the grade into Virginia City is still too steep for you, even with this lighter rig.”

    Hoss was disappointed, mostly because he thought Virginia City just might be a safe enough distance away if Pa ever did figure out that the open gate to the turkey coop was more than just an act of childish carelessness.

    There was, unfortunately for Hoss, no distance whatsoever between father and son when Ben made that discovery.  Hop Sing came storming out the kitchen door, waving a wet, muddy sock in each hand.  “Bad boy, velly bad boy,” he ranted, thrusting the socks beneath Hoss’s nose.  “Alla time makee mo’ work for Hop Sing.  Bad boy!”

    Ben grabbed the socks, feeling their moistness and examining the grime on the soles with a critical eye, an eye that narrowed as he looked at Hoss.  “You didn’t leave that gate open accidentally, did you, boy?” he roared.  “You got up sometime during the night and deliberately let that turkey loose, didn’t you?”

    “Oh, Ben, he would not,” Marie protested.

    Ben threw the socks into her lap.  “The evidence says otherwise.”

    One look at Hoss’s guilty face told Marie that Ben was right.  “Oh, Hoss,” she sighed with commiseration, understanding at once the boy’s reason.

    “You help Fred?” Little Joe asked, eyes shining with admiration.  He started to throw his arms around Hoss, but Ben plucked him out of the wagon and plunked him into his mother’s lap, instead.

    That distraction out of the way, Ben focused his attention on the guilty countenance remaining in the back of the buckboard.  “Now, answer me, boy; you let that turkey out, didn’t you?”

    Hoss nodded glumly.  “Yes, sir.  I’m sorry, Pa, but I just had to.  Fred needed my help even more than Squaw Charlie.”

    “Don’t throw my own words back at me, boy,” Ben growled.  “It’s scarcely the same thing.”

    “It is to Fred,” Hoss insisted through quivering lips.  “It—it’s worse, even; them boys weren’t aimin’ to eat Charley.”

    “Get out of that wagon and up to your room!” Ben bellowed.  “Maybe a little firm ‘conversation’ will help you see the difference.”

    “Ben, please,” Marie remonstrated.  “He is—”

    “A child,” Ben finished.  “Yes, I remember, but he is a child who is about to learn the consequences of disobedience and dishonesty!”  He stalked after Hoss, planting a hard palm against the boy’s posterior to hurry him forward.

    “Nes’ry talk?” Little Joe whimpered sympathetically, looking to his mother for confirmation.

    “ Oui, I fear so, mon petit,” she sighed.  Settling him on the wagon seat, she climbed down, then reached back to lift the child down and carry him inside.

    Ben leaned his rifle against the broad trunk of a sugar pine and took a long swig of water from his canteen.  Capping the container, he lifted the gun and again started tracking “that fool turkey,” as he had begun calling the object of his search.  He’d been scouring the woods for hours, and although he’d once come across tracks that could only belong to the big bird, he’d lost them again in a part of the forest strewn thickly with pine needles.  Ben was beginning to wonder if he’d ever succeed in what seemed more and more like a hopeless quest; he was also beginning to wonder if he truly wanted to succeed.  He didn’t have an ally left in his entire household.  Though Hoss had freely admitted that he was wrong to turn the turkey loose, he had also boldly declared that he was glad he’d done it, “tannin’ and all.”  And when Ben had come downstairs after changing from his suit into something more appropriate for a hunt, he had met the cold stare of his wife and the tears of his youngest son.  Even Hop Sing, who had been anticipating the challenge of roasting his first turkey, looked more upset with Ben than with the guilty party upstairs who’d robbed him of the opportunity.  Ought to be some special word, Ben growled at himself—glum monger, grumble bear, gripy grinch . . . something coined just for a man who’d steal Christmas from the hearts of his loved ones.

    Bad as he was feeling, though, Ben wouldn’t—couldn’t—give up the hunt.  He’d put his foot down so firmly that pride kept him from admitting that where he’d actually put it was square in his mouth.  I can’t afford to back down now, he told himself, or those boys will think they can flout my orders anytime they please, then put on a sad face and count on me to let them off.  Joseph already had a strong leaning in that direction and while Hoss rarely indulged in willfulness, it was better to prevent the first seed of that kind being sown than to weed out a whole crop of it later on.  That, at least, was the reasoning Ben used for refusing to simply let the turkey make good his escape.  Still, I was too hard on the boy, he admitted.  Confining him to his room on bread and water ‘til Christmas Day for what was basically an act of misguided kindness was simply going too far.  It was that edict that had brought the ice to his wife’s eyes and had sent tears streaming down Joseph’s cheeks at the thought of a hungry Hoss.  That much, at least, Ben realized, he was going to have to admit, to all of them, had been a mistake, no matter what battering his pride took in the telling.  After all, he couldn’t expect his sons to grow up honest unless he set the example himself.

    Confound that boy’s tender heart, though; I wouldn’t be freezing my boots off out here now if he’d just be a little harder—Ben shook his head.  No, he didn’t really want that.  As cold and frustrated as he felt at the moment, he loved that sweet, sensitive son of his just the way he was.

    Suddenly, his head jolted up from his careful examination of the ground.  There was no mistaking that sound!  He’d heard it, day in and day out, for better than a month now.  With a triumphant gleam in his eye, he turned left, listened again and again heard the welcome sound of a turkey’s gobble.  Step by stealthy step, he crept up on the unsuspecting bird until finally he had Christmas dinner in the sights of his rifle.  He cocked the gun, steadied his finger on the trigger and prepared to shoot.

    The turkey lifted its head and looked directly at him, making no sound now nor moving one inch.  Ben aimed between the bird’s eyes, and it was as though they held him in a trance.  As unmoving as the bird, Ben stood, waiting . . . for what, he wasn’t sure.  He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to block out the image of the turkey pleading for his life.  When he looked again through the sights of his gun, however, the eyes he aimed between seemed to change color—first icy emerald, then almond brown, then shimmering green and, finally, sad, mournful cornflower.  Addle-pated by sentiment, that’s what you are, Ben Cartwright, the patriarch of the family chided himself.

    Then with a smile he lowered the gun.  He hadn’t exactly heard the angels sing, but the message rang through his heart as clearly as the one that had filled the sky centuries before, with only slightly altered words.  “Peace on earth goodwill toward men,” the angels had sung the night of Christ’s birth, but, this Christmas the message was evidently intended to be goodwill toward turkeys.  “Merry Christmas, Fred,” Ben called, “and if you want it to be a happy New Year, you’d best get on over the summit into sunny California.”  As his loud laugh echoed through the trees, he shouldered his gun and walked away.  Now, if I can just find a steer that boy hasn’t named, he chuckled to himself.

    It wasn’t precisely the merriest Christmas the Cartwrights ever spent.  Though Ben apologized for the excessive punishment and released Hoss from confinement, the boy still spent Christmas Eve, Christmas itself and several days thereafter in his room—in his bed, in fact, laid up with a nasty cold earned by his ill-clad, nighttime excursion to liberate Fred.  The rest of the family banded together, though, to make his Christmas as merry as it could be, sore throat and hacking cough considered.

    The New Year, however, was not to be a happy one.  Ben persuaded Marie to attend the New Year’s Eve ball, but the atmosphere as they drove into Virginia City was far from festive.  Though it would be five days before the ugly headline would be blazoned across the front page of the next edition of the Territorial Enterprise, the entire town was abuzz with the latest news brought by the Pony Express.   What everyone had dreaded since the election of Abraham Lincoln had come to pass: South Carolina had seceded, the nation was divided, and the horrors of civil war loomed on the horizon.

    Viewers of Bonanza may recognize the title character of “The Saga of Squaw Charlie” by Warren Douglas.  It is my belief, although unverified, that the character is loosely based on the historical figure presented in this chapter, spurned by his tribe for alleged cowardice at Pyramid Lake.  The Paiute parade into town happened as described, and the explanation given for Charlie’s humiliation is an exact quote from a historical text.
    South Carolina passed a resolution of secession on December 20, 1860, the first of the southern states to leave the Union.  As with many historical events in this story, the date the news arrived in Virginia City is an approximation, based on the average time the Pony Express required to cover the distance.
 
 

    “Come on!”  Little Joe tugged at the basket in his brother’s plump hand.  “You too slow, Hoss.”

    Hoss just grinned without accelerating his steps even a fraction faster.  “And you’re a heap too feisty, if’n you ask me.  We’ll get there when we get there, Little Joe.”

    “Wanna get there now,” the three-year-old insisted, turning loose of the basket and prancing ahead on the path through the woods.

    “You get back here,” Hoss scolded.  “You know you ain’t s’posed to go off on your own.”

    Little Joe tossed an impish grin over his shoulder.  “Catch me!” he challenged and trotted off.

    “You little scamp, you come back here right now!” Hoss yelled, jogging after the flying feet.  Freed by his new Christmas pants from the flapping skirt that had inhibited his speed in the past, Little Joe could scamper away quicker than ever.  Fast as his legs could pump, though, they were still too short to escape a determined pursuit, and Hoss quickly overtook the laughing youngster and grabbed tight hold of his hand.  “You stay by me,” he demanded, “or there ain’t gonna be no picnic for you, you hear?”

    “Okay,” Little Joe agreed, swinging Hoss’s hand cheerily as they walked along, side by side.  “Why no picnic for Mama and Pa, Hoss?”

    “‘Cause they’s fastin’, that’s why,” Hoss said.

    “What’s fastin’?” Joe asked.  “Like me?  I run fast.”  He started to demonstrate his claim, but was restrained by Hoss’s tight grip on his hand.

    Hoss guffawed.  “Naw, not like that.  Fastin’ means not eatin’ nothin’.  The President of the whole country done asked everybody to fast and pray today so’s there won’t be no fightin’ back east.  It’s why Ma and Pa want us out of the house today, too, so’s God won’t have to strain His ears over our noise to hear their prayers.”  It was an explanation he had concocted on his own, but however hard he tried, Hoss couldn’t explain, to either himself or his little brother, why not eating was supposed to make folks feel less like fighting.  “Don’t make no sense to me,” the chunky boy observed to the youngster at his side, not because he expected any enlightenment from that source, but simply because he’d fallen into the habit of sharing everything with his most constant companion.  “Always makes me feel more like fightin’ when I’m hungry.”

    Little Joe’s brow wrinkled with uncharacteristic worry.  If Hoss got into another fight, Pa would give him another necessary little talk, and the boy hated that happening to Hoss almost more than when he himself was on the receiving end of such a conversation.  He tugged imperatively at his big brother’s hand.  “Hurry, Hoss.  Eat so you not fight,” he urged.

    Hoss, knowing that Little Joe had totally misunderstood him, nonetheless laughed and picked up his pace.  “Yeah, you’re right, punkin.  Eatin’ is a heap better than fightin’, so let’s get to it.”

    Hop Sing shook his head in disgruntled confusion as he added chopped carrots and potatoes to the stew simmering on the stove.  Like Hoss, he saw no point in anyone’s missing a good meal because people far away were unhappy with each other, and this was the third meal the adults in his family would be missing.  He consoled himself with thinking that the little boys, at least, would welcome a bowl of hot, hearty stew when they came in from their afternoon of picnicking and playing in the cool January air. Strange time for picnic, Hop Sing mused, but no snow on ground and not too cold for little boys to play outside.  Picnic keep them from foolishment of parents, so good thing, maybe-so.  Though he had packed their picnic hamper full, he knew that it would be empty when the boys returned, and that Hoss, in particular, would be eager for more of Hop Sing’s good cooking as soon as he came through the door.

    Now, if only Missy Cartwright and Mr. Ben show good sense like number two son, he reflected.  He shook his head.  It wouldn’t happen.  Missy had been very firm when she told him about the fast, and though he considered the kitchen his personal kingdom, he knew he did not rule there unchallenged.  Mr. Ben he could handle, but Missy had a temper to rival his own, and Hop Sing had clearly seen signs this morning that she would brook no defiance of her edict.  Maybe she couldn’t, if it really came from the boss man of Yin Shan, land of the Silver Mountain.  Still, Hop Sing thought with a sly smile, there was nothing defiant about preparing a particularly aromatic stew.  It would not be his fault if the aroma were so enticing that Mr. Ben and Missy decided to show good sense and ignore the boss man in Washington.

    Upstairs, there was unity, rather than confusion.  No longer Catholic and Protestant, nor New England Yankee and woman from the Deep South, Ben and Marie knelt side by side, each earnestly petitioning God, as outgoing President Buchanan had requested, for the gift of peace.  Ben’s stomach growled demandingly, and Marie paused, beads in hand, to smile in sympathy.

    “The man’s trying to torture us,” Ben groaned as the scent of savory stew wafted through the open door to their bedroom.

    Marie giggled and her rosary fell to her lap.  “Be strong, mon amour ,” she said, laying a hand on his arm.

    “I’m trying, my love; I really am,” Ben said.

    “There is power in hungry prayer,” she affirmed, picking up the beads again after giving his arm a parting pat.

    Ben nodded.  “And in united appeal,” he whispered as he again bowed his head.  Dear God, let it be enough, he prayed, all of us, all across this divided land, lifting our hearts in joint supplication for Your mercy.  Let it be enough.

    Arms draped loosely over the top rail, Adam stood outside the corral at Rancho Hermoso, his eyes following the horse he’d ridden throughout his holiday stay with the Paynes, old family friends from the trail west.  The sun was just beginning to set, and he was hungry, having eaten nothing all day.  Rachel Payne had offered to have the cook prepare him something, but he hadn’t felt right about taking food when everyone else in the household—except, of course, for little Susan and Samuel—was fasting.  Rachel and her husband Jonathan had done a lot of praying that day, and not just because the President had called the nation to prayer.  The Paynes still had family back east, and they were naturally concerned about their safety if the divided nation actually came to war.

    Adam had even done a little praying himself earlier that day, but he didn’t see much point in repeating the same words over and over.  He couldn’t, however, help worrying about how the news of South Carolina’s secession, which had arrived in California just after Christmas, would affect him personally.  He sighed deeply.  It looked as though fate or God or just plain bad luck kept throwing barriers between him and that college education he yearned for.  After long discussions with professors at the academy and letters back and forth to Jamie, he’d made his decision to attend Yale College, but now he wondered whether there would even be a Yale by the time he finished his work at the academy.  Would all the young men who would normally have enrolled in the freshman class next year be signing up with the Army, instead?  That would crush his dreams, naturally, but at least it would save him from ever bringing the subject up with Pa, a prospect he still found himself unable to face.  He’d have to write his friend soon and see what he thought about the situation.  Being closer to the strife, Jamie and his father might have a clearer view of its likely effect on educational opportunities.

    On the other hand, Adam mused, maybe Connecticut will be just as much a foreign country to me as to anybody in South Carolina if that judge in Sacramento gets his way.  The local newspaper had that very morning carried an open letter from the judge advocating the formation of a Pacific Republic made up of California, Oregon, New Mexico, Washington and his home territory of Utah.  He found himself wondering what his father, who had tried so hard to stay neutral in the escalating conflict between North and South, would think of that idea.  What would we call ourselves if we weren’t Americans anymore?  Pacificans, maybe?

    Lost in thought, he didn’t notice the gelding’s approach until he felt a nuzzle on his arm.  “Hi, fella,” he whispered, stroking the sorrel’s white blaze.  “You gonna miss me when I head back for school tomorrow?  I’ll sure miss you, you beauty.  Someday I’d like to have a horse just like you.”  The young man smiled slightly.  Maybe, if he couldn’t get back east to college, it might even be this very animal.  As well as Pa’s new lumber business had prospered, he might be persuaded to buy the sleek sorrel for his son.  Might have to do some fancy talking to explain why I should have this horse after insisting I wanted the black , but it would be worth it.  The faint smile widened into a grin as a possible solution struck his fancy.  The way Hoss keeps growing, maybe he’ll be ready to move up to the black by spring, and we can let Little Joe have Charcoal.  Adam laughed aloud as he pictured his tiny brother astraddle the gray mare.  The baby of the family would be quite awhile growing into even as small a horse as that one.

    The sorrel nudged his arm again.  “Okay,” Adam chuckled.  “One last ride, huh, fella?”  The horse tossed his head, seeming to accept the proposal, and Adam scampered across the yard to the barn to fetch saddle and bridle.

    There are times in the life of every believing man or woman, referred to in sacred literature as the dark night of the soul, when the heavens seem made of brass and prayer as pointless as a bell without a clapper.  As the year of 1861 began, the United States of America went through such a dark night of its national soul.  Throughout January the bad news poured in, as one state after another declared its intention to secede.  Only five days after the President’s proclaimed Day of Prayer on January 4th, Mississippi left the Union, followed the next day by Florida and the day following by Alabama.  Other southern states delayed a little longer, but by the end of the month Georgia and Louisiana had departed, as well.

    The last state to leave the Union that month brought personal grief to Marie.  Louisiana was the place of her birth, and while not all her memories of life there were pleasant, to think that the haunts of her childhood were no longer part of the United States could not fail to disturb her.  “Your home is here now,” Ben said in an attempt to comfort her as they stood together before the great stone fireplace of the Ponderosa’s ranch house.

    “ Oui, I know,” Marie conceded, her eyes misty, “but how would you feel if it were Massachusetts, Ben?”

    “Men of my state fighting men of yours,” Ben muttered with a sad shake of his head.  “I pray it doesn’t come to that, my love.”

    “Cousin Edward would be glad of the chance to take sword against your Massachusetts,” Marie sighed.  “I fear for him, Ben.”

    “How can you?” Ben exploded.  “After all he did to you—destroying your first marriage, blackening your name, conniving with that—that fiend of a mother-in-law—”

    Marie touched a finger to his lips.  “Oui, it is all true, but one cannot hold hate forever, Ben.  He is still my blood.”

    Ben’s jaw hardened.  “In his case, I think I could hold hate forever.”

    Eyes pleading, she took his face in her hands.  “His offense was against me.  If I choose to lay it down, do not pick it up for me, Benjamin.  How else is all the bitterness to end?”

    Ben glanced away, into the flames of the fire.  He understood that she was talking about more than just herself and Edward now.  At some point the nation, too, would have to lay down its offenses and forgive or they would never be one nation again.  The very image of that man who had caused his wife such pain still brought fury to his heart, however, a fire he was, as yet, unwilling to bank.

    Nor was the nation yet ready to bank its fires of contention.  January ended with the admission of Kansas as a free state, an action that scarcely brought back balance.  It was in Bloody Kansas that the slavery question had first erupted into violence, and it was hard not to believe that its statehood foreboded only more widespread violence.  Though Ben and all his neighbors had longed for statehood themselves, he found himself feeling almost glad that western Utah had not yet obtained that status and, thus, did not have to choose sides.  With all his heart he hoped their territory could stay out of the conflict, but every time he visited Carson City or its larger neighbor on Mt. Davidson, the talk in the street indicated that remaining neutral might well prove impossible.

    February snows ordinarily kept the Cartwrights close to home, but because of the unsettled situation of the country, Ben forced himself to make the long ride into town every Saturday to snare a copy of the latest issue of the Territorial Enterprise.  The national news was increasingly bad, although local news provided a welcome respite, at least in the first half of the month.  A new toll road was being built between Washoe and Eagle valleys, which would significantly improve transportation to Carson City for the Cartwrights.  Of course, they might not even have to go that far for goods and services if the new town of Washoe City, now under construction, prospered as it hoped to.

    As February entered its second half, however, it seemed as though the Comstock might be torn apart by a minor-scale civil war all its own, a war between two judges, each claiming jurisdiction over the territory.  It all started as a mining dispute, but because each mine favored the claims of a different judge, no decision acceptable to both sides could be reached.  Two mining companies, represented by two different lawyers, appealing to two different judges—the situation was rife with the potential for violence.  It finally erupted when the miners represented by David Terry took eighty rifles left over from the Pyramid Lake Indian War onto the disputed claim and erected a fort, manned by seventy-five armed men.

    Judge Terry was in San Francisco at the time, and the other claimant’s lawyer, Bill Stewart, fast becoming Virginia City’s most able advocate in cases involving mines, met the opposing judge on the street.  Using the influence of his pistols, he forced the man to send a telegram disavowing his claim to jurisdiction.  By the time Terry returned the following day, the takeover was complete, and he could say nothing except that he had learned a good lesson.  “Never go to war unless you have your General in your own camp,” he declared and left that very night to resume both his law practice and his advocacy of southern sentiments in California.

    The formation of the Confederate States of America was the worst news Ben brought home that bleak, cold February.  The United States was no longer united, but two separate nations with two separate presidents, one praying to leave quietly, the other declaring that the very act of secession was unconstitutional and would not be permitted.  “All it needs is one spark, one dispute as trivial as that mining claim fracas, and we’ll be at war,” Ben more than once predicted mournfully.

    His two younger sons, untouched by the rising national unrest, simply rejoiced that by the end of the month the snows were too deep for Hoss to ride to school each day.  At first, Marie tried to keep him to his lessons, but Little Joe provided typical distraction with repeated pleas for Hoss to play with him until Ben finally told his wife to let the boys play.  “Someone should be happy,” he declared, “and children are the only ones left who can.”

    Judge David Terry appeared in “The War Comes to Washoe” by Alvin Sapinsley and was, in actual fact, as committed to the South as that episode indicates.  Terry’s supposed attempt to stampede the 1864 Nevada statehood convention could not have happened, since he had left the West in 1863 to fight for the Confederacy, in whose service he was wounded at Chickamauga.  However, at an earlier time he did plot with other Southern sympathizers to invade California and Nevada and sever their lines of communication with the East.  His reward, had that attempt been successful, was to be the governorship of Nevada.
 
 

    Ben held the team’s reins with one hand and with the other tugged the collar of his jacket tighter in a vain attempt to keep the brisk March breeze from whistling down his neck.  He was thankful, though, that all he’d had to contend with today was a chilly wind.   Throughout the first half of the month, snow had alternated with rain, keeping the roads in a quagmire and the Cartwrights effectively confined to the Ponderosa.  Not that the roads had been really impassible, of course, just uncomfortable enough to make staying home preferable to a trip to town, especially when all that waited there was, most likely, more bad news.

    Today was Sunday, though, and what awaited Ben and his family in Carson City was a good meal and a pleasant afternoon with friends.  He smiled at his wife as they drove down Main Street.  “Looks like the bunting is still up from the Inauguration Day festivities.”

    “That is a good sign, isn’t it?” Marie suggested from the depths of her rabbit-skin cape.  “Surely, it means there was an inauguration.”

    “Yeah, that much, at least.”  There had been rumors of plots against the life of president-elect Lincoln, but the red, white and blue bunting draped from windows and balconies seemed to indicate that the town was still in a spirit of celebration, as it would not have been had such a tragedy occurred.

    Ben and his family had elected not to attend the celebrations on March fourth in either Carson City or its more populous neighbor on Mount Davidson.  So far, western Utah only had telegraphic communication with California.  If wires had been strung from the east, so that they could read a copy of the new President’s first speech after being sworn in, Ben would have considered that worth a trip to town, no matter how inclement the weather, but the Pony Express was still the swiftest means of communication from that direction and that meant a delay of ten days.  Ben hoped that trouble with renegade Paiutes hadn’t hindered the latest relay riders and that Saturday’s issue of the Territorial Enterprise would have the full text of Lincoln’s Inaugural Address.

    He turned the team onto a side street and drove the short distance to the Thomas’s yellow frame house.  “You and the boys get on inside,” Ben urged his wife.  “Send Clyde out to help stable the horses, if you can roust him out of his cozy chair.”

    Marie cocked her head in mild reproof.  “I will ask him,” she said.

    Ben smiled, knowing she probably wouldn’t even have to ask.

    Hospitable and helpful as always, Clyde was already on his way to help with the team when Marie herded her boys onto the porch.  He held the front door open wide.  “Get on in,” he ordered.  “Wind’s mighty sharp today.”

“Oui, it is,” Marie agreed with a shiver.  “Ben would appreciate your help with the team.”

    “On my way,” Clyde said, pausing only long enough to give both Hoss and Little Joe a pat on the head.  He limped back toward the barn, where Ben was unharnessing the team from his buckboard.  “Need a hand?”

    “Sure do,” Ben agreed.  “The quicker I get inside, the happier my bones will be.”

    Clyde sported a grin that proved that Billy had come by his talent for teasing honestly.  “Bones get that way when they’re old.”

    “You should know,” Ben drawled dryly.  He looked across the team at his friend.  “Pony rider get in?”

    “Nice of you to care about my boy,” Clyde observed, mischievous grin still in residence on his mouth.

    Ben glanced back, perturbed.  “Well, I do, of course, but I’m afraid I had a more selfish reason for asking this time.”

    Clyde took one of the unhitched horses and headed for the barn.  “Yeah, I know.  It’s news you’re after, and you’re in luck, Ben boy, ‘cause there’s a passel of it.”

    “The President’s Inaugural, I hope,” Ben said, following his friend in with the other horse.

    “Full text,” Clyde said, leading the horse into a stall, “but that ain’t the big news of the day.”

    Ben arched an eyebrow.  Bigger news than what the President of their country had to say concerning the impending crisis?  Hard to imagine, unless actual war had broken out.  No, Clyde was looking pleased as punch, so it had to be good news.  “I give up,” he said.  “What’s bigger news than that?”

    Clyde leaned up against the wall of the stall and paused a moment for effect.  “Why, what the outgoing president done for this part of the country, just ‘fore he left office.”

    A smile curved Ben’s lips as he guessed the news his friend was doling out, a hint at a time.  “No,” he murmured, excitement edging his voice.

    Clyde’s grin spread from ear to ear.  “Yup.  You are now livin’ in the official territory of Nevada, Ben Cartwright.  Buchanan signed the bill March second.  Oh, and by the way, that brother of yours is livin’ in a new territory, too.  Colorado beat us to the punch by a couple of days.  Reckon he’ll be braggin’ on it in that letter waitin’ inside.”

    “There’s a letter from John?”  Ben gave his friend a rough clap on the shoulder.  “Well, what are we doing out in the barn, then?”

    Clyde rubbed his shoulder.  “Now, if that’s the way you take good news, I’d better not tell you there’s a letter from that Missouri friend of yours, too.  Not sure my old bones could take much more of your style of thanks.”

    Ben laughed.  “I’ll try to restrain myself if you’ll help me get these horses tended to quickly, so I can sit in your cozy chair and read all this wonderful news.”

    “Guess I better,” Clyde snorted, “just as a matter of self preservation.”

    Ben chided himself later for being such a poor guest that afternoon, but he couldn’t resist the temptation to bury his nose in newspaper and letters from back east.  He read first the article dealing with the government of the new territory and learned that a New Yorker named James Warren Nye was to be the first governor of Nevada.  A mere political appointee, of course, with no ties to this part of the country, probably someone to whom Abraham Lincoln owed a debt of gratitude, but Ben would withhold judgment until he met the man.  At least, Nye, as the police commissioner of New York, had some experience with law and order, and that, in Ben’s view, was a major need of the new territory.

    He next absorbed every word of Lincoln’s Inaugural Address, and as he read, he prayed that the slave-holding states would hear its clear plea to use Constitutional means for redress of their grievances, rather than ripping the Union apart.  One paragraph, especially, seemed to Ben to put forth such sound reasoning that he wondered how anyone could resist it.  “Physically speaking, we can not separate,” Lincoln had argued.  “We can not remove our respective sections from each other nor build an impassable wall between them. A husband and wife may be divorced and go out of the presence and beyond the reach of each other, but the different parts of our country can not do this. They can not but remain face to face, and intercourse, either amicable or hostile, must continue between them. Is it possible, then, to make that intercourse more advantageous or more satisfactory after separation than before? Can aliens make treaties easier than friends can make laws? Can treaties be more faithfully enforced between aliens than laws can among friends? Suppose you go to war, you can not fight always; and when, after much loss on both sides and no gain on either, you cease fighting, the identical old questions, as to terms of intercourse, are again upon you.”

    Yet, even as Ben read, he feared that there would be men who failed to see that the inevitable result of secession would be bloodshed on both sides, which would in no way solve the problems dividing their beleaguered nation.  Lincoln had concluded his speech with a poignant promise: “In your hands, my dissatisfied fellow-countrymen, and not in mine, is the momentous issue of civil war. The Government will not assail you.  You can have no conflict without being yourselves the aggressors.”  Was it enough, this earnest petition for peace, to draw back those states that had already seceded or would pride keep them from returning and sectional loyalty prompt others to leave the Union, as well?

    The letter from Josiah Edwards, which Ben read after setting the Territorial Enterprise aside, hinted that the answer would not be the one Ben hoped for.  Josiah had begun by welcoming Nevada Territory into the United States, but Ben could almost hear the wistful sigh with which his old friend expressed the hope that his own state would still be in the Union by the time this letter arrived.  Missouri was, as Ben recalled from his sojourn there, a slave state, but it was almost surrounded by states holding the opposing view, making its decision regarding secession particularly difficult.  A convention called for the purpose of considering secession had convened just before Josiah wrote, and while a pro-Union slate of delegates had been elected—by coercion, some said—the issue was still unresolved at the time he posted the letter.

    John’s letter, at least, gave no hint of political division in his area.  It was filled, instead, with family news and contained, as Clyde had predicted, light-hearted teasing about Colorado’s making it into the Union sooner than his brother’s longer-settled section of the country.  Nothing at all in the letter to cause concern, but Ben sighed nonetheless, for it was becoming more and more obvious that John was solidly establishing himself a long distance from Carson Valley.

    As he drove his family home that evening, however, Ben finally admitted that it wasn’t the news in the paper or in either of those letters that had left him feeling so glum that he hadn’t enjoyed his visit with his friends.  What bothered him more than anything he’d read was the fact that he’d had nothing whatsoever to read from his oldest son—again.  Times being what they were, he didn’t appreciate the sudden slackness in communicating that Adam had displayed this year.  From his own trips to Virginia City, Ben knew that heated political exchanges were a daily occurrence, even this far from the source of the conflict, and he assumed the same was true in California.  In fact, with Judge Terry back there, fomenting factionalism, California was a potentially more volatile powder keg than Nevada.  Adam’s silence, of course, did not mean that the boy had gotten caught up in sectional violence.  More than likely he was just absorbed in his schoolwork, but it could be something more serious, and that fear made Ben determine to send his eldest son a tersely worded admonition about writing more often.

    Martin Gallagher settled into the padded seat of the family carriage and looked at his sober-faced friend.  “I take it you didn’t enjoy the meeting.”

    Adam Cartwright’s head came up.  “No, it was interesting, especially your father’s speech.  I’m not sorry I went.  I guess it’s like my pa says, though: it’s an eastern conflict, not much to do with us out here.”

    Martin chuckled.  “Now, that’s refreshing—you and your father agreeing on something!”

    Adam responded with a sheepish smile.  “I’m not sure we really agree on this one, either.  Sometimes I think Pa wants to pretend that the Ponderosa is some kind of island, untouchable by anything worse than a winter blizzard.  He even tried to ignore the war with the Paiutes last summer, and you know how close to home that was.”

    “But he did fight when it came down to it, when he realized that the external conflict did concern him,” Martin pointed out.  “That’s the main impression I came away with tonight, Adam, that the ‘eastern conflict,’ as you call it, does concern all of us, because the blight of slavery cannot be allowed to continue.  I can’t believe you feel otherwise.”

    The carriage had pulled up in front of Adam’s boardinghouse, but he made no move to get out.  “I don’t feel otherwise about slavery,” he said.  “You know that, but is abolishing it worth going to war?  Maybe, if there’s no other way, but I’ve seen one war, remember?  I hope I never see another!”

    Martin placed a slender hand on his friend’s broad shoulder.  “I can only imagine how horrible it was for you, Adam, but it was over and done with quickly, with little loss of life.  Everyone seems to think that if the Confederate States do declare war, they’ll be whipped just as easily as those Paiutes.  Isn’t it worth one such battle to bring freedom to an oppressed people?”

    Adam shrugged.  “Maybe, but I want no part of it, and I as good as told Pa my feelings after the Battle of Pinnacle Mount.  That’s why his latest letter rankled so much, I guess, with all his warnings about staying out of political debates—again!  Honestly, sometimes he treats me like such a kid!”

    Martin gave the shoulder on which his hand was resting a smart slap.  “That’s not what rankled you, my friend; it’s the scolding you got for not writing home as often as you should.  You, Adam Cartwright, are suffering from a guilty conscience.”

    Smiling, Adam opened the door of the carriage.  “In that case, I’d better get up to my room and pull out some stationery.  At least, tonight’s meeting gives me something to write about.  Thanks for inviting me.”  He stepped down to the street.

    “Sure.  Happy to have you.”  Martin leaned forward as Adam closed the carriage door.  “Give some thought to writing about something more personal than a political meeting, all right, Adam?”

    “Now you’ve gone to meddling,” Adam chided.

    “Just give it some thought,” his friend admonished once more as he tapped on the roof of the carriage to signal the driver to leave.  “Maybe what you think will be a full-scale war will be just one quick battle, like the others.”

    Watching the carriage drive away, Adam shook his head.  One quick battle, huh?  Anyone who thought that had never tussled with Ben Cartwright.  Convincing his hard-headed father to allow him to attend college, when it went counter to all the man’s hopes and dreams, was probably a clash destined to go down in history right alongside the Peloponnesian War.  That one had lasted twenty-seven years, and if his confrontation with Pa was comparable, Adam figured he was likely to become the oldest freshman ever to matriculate at Yale. 

    On a warm, cloudless Saturday, the final one in March, Little Joe trotted his stick pony in endless circles around the dirt yard before the Ponderosa ranch house.  However hard he tried, however, he couldn’t make his little mount go fast the way he liked, the way Mama rode when he was in the saddle with her and Pa wasn’t around.  As a rider ambled in on a dark brown horse, Little Joe dropped his unsatisfactory pony into the dust and ran toward the visitor.

    The man in the black frock coat and trousers stepped quickly down from his horse and greeted the small boy.  “Ah, I remember this angelic little face!  Not quite the picture of perfect innocence now, though, with this smudge marring the image.”  The man licked his thumb and rubbed it across the soft cheek.  “There, that’s better.  Is your father home, child?”

    With a grin Little Joe shook his head and pointed to his right.  “Pa down there, in the garden, makin’ it bigger.”

    “Well, I guess I’ll pay a visit to the garden then,” the man said pleasantly, standing to his feet.

    “I take you,” Little Joe offered.

    The man smiled.  “Pleased to have your company, child, but you mustn’t leave your pony lying in the yard like that.”

    “Oh, no,” Joe assured him earnestly.  “I ride to garden.”

    “I believe I’ll walk,” the man chuckled, gathering up his reins to lead the brown horse.

    Little Joe frowned in thought for a moment.  Dragging his stick pony by its leather reins didn’t sound like much fun to him, so he straddled the stick and galloped off as fast as his short legs would carry him.  The man in the broad-brimmed black hat had no trouble keeping up, and a short walk or “ride” brought them both to the garden, where Ben Cartwright and his son Hoss were hard at work.

    Hearing his youngest son loudly calling his name, Ben looked up and saw a stranger following the boy charging up on his makeshift mount.  He squinted at the man in the Sunday-go-to-meeting suit.  No, not a stranger, after all.  Ben was certain he’d seen that face before, though he couldn’t put a name to it at first.  Then a broad smile came across his face, and Ben stepped across the clods of upturned earth to welcome his visitor.  “Reverend Bennett!” he cried.  “What a pleasure to see you again.  Are you going to hold another revival service in the area?  I do hope so.”

    Hoss had tossed aside his shovel and come running as soon as his father called the visitor’s name.  “Me, too,” he panted as he came to his father’s side.  “I liked them kind of services!”

    The Reverend Jesse Bennett took Ben’s extended hand and gave it a hearty shake, as he favored the youngster with a warm smile.  “You do gratify my heart, my boy, but, no, I haven’t come to preach a revival.”

    “Aw, shucks,” Hoss said.  “I’d sure rather hear you than that—”

    “Hoss,” Ben cautioned sharply.

    Hoss bit his lip and scuffed his boot through the furrow at the edge of the garden.

    “Now, you didn’t let me finish,” the minister chided gently.  “I’m not here to preach a revival, but to set up a permanent church.”

    “That’s wonderful news, isn’t it, Hoss?” Ben said, placing an arm across his middle son’s hefty shoulders.

    “Yes, sir, it sure is!”

    “I’ve been here a short time, doing some street preaching in Virginia City,” Bennett explained, “but a regular minister has been assigned there now, and I’m pioneering a work in the new town of Washoe City.  Since that would be a shorter distance for your family, I took the liberty of calling to invite you to our special Easter services tomorrow.”

    “Hey, can we, Pa?” Hoss asked eagerly.

    “Of course, we can, son,” Ben replied earnestly.  “It will be a privilege to hear you preach again, Reverend.”

    “I’ll hope to see you regularly then,” Reverend Bennett said as he swung up into the saddle.

    “As regularly as we can,” Ben said hesitantly, for he had just spied a flash of green merino fabric.

    Marie, who had been running down the path to the garden in search of her wayward youngest son, moderated her gait when she saw the stranger talking to Ben.

    Ben stretched an arm toward her.  “Marie, my love, look who’s come to invite us to Easter services tomorrow morning, our own Reverend Bennett.”

    “Ah, oui, I remember you now, Monsieur,” Marie said.

    “Pleased to see you once more, Sister Cartwright,” the minister said and continued in blithe ignorance of the family’s religious division, “I wish I could stay longer, but I have a number of other settlers to call on this morning, so I’ll leave you to your work and be about mine.  I’ll see you tomorrow.”  After exchanging another handshake with Ben and tipping his hat to Marie, he wheeled the horse and rode back the way he had come.

    When the man of God was out of sight, Marie planted both hands on her hips and stared at Ben.  “He will see us tomorrow, will he?  I think he will not see me, mon mari!”

    “Aw, shucks, Ma, don’t you like his preachin’?” Hoss asked.  “I sure do!”

    “That is fine, Hoss,” his mother said, “and you are welcome to attend church with your father in the morning.  He and I, however, need to have a ‘very necessary little talk,’ I believe!”

    Hearing the fire in her voice, Ben patted Hoss on the shoulder.  “Just a little discussion, son, nothing more.  You get back to spading up the garden and—Little Joe, quit galloping that pony through the dirt!”

    Marie giggled at the sight of her son, kicking up clods with every trot of his stick horse through the upturned earth.  “I think a bath will be in order for that one before he attends anyone’s church.”  She smiled up at Ben, her anger dissipating as quickly as it had risen.  “Why did you let this man think I would be coming, Ben?  Surely, you do not expect me to attend church with you when you refuse to attend with me.”

    “No, no, that wouldn’t be fair,” Ben admitted.  He put an arm around his wife.  “I didn’t mean to lead him astray, Marie.  I just didn’t think to tell him of our unique situation.  Perhaps I’d better set him straight tomorrow.”

    “ Mais oui, I think that would be best.”

    “What brought you down here—or can I guess?” Ben asked, with a smile toward the garden.

    “I think you can,” Marie laughed.  She pointed to the thin line etched by the stick pony in the path from the house.  “I had only to follow the tracks.  Shall I take him back or do you wish his help this morning?”

    “No, thank you,” Ben chuckled.  He called Little Joe and then turned back to his wife.  “You won’t pay me back that way, my love; the punishment exceeds the crime.”

    “ Oui, wrestling him in church tomorrow will be punishment enough,” she teased.

    “Sure you wouldn’t rather keep him at home?” Ben suggested.

    “Oh, no, no,” Marie tittered, wagging her finger beneath his nose.  “He must be exposed to both faiths, non?”

    Ben nodded as the child in question trotted up to his side.  Ben planted a light swat on the boy’s backside.  “Back up to the house, you scamp,” he ordered.  “You know you’re not supposed to be down here.”

    Little Joe took off toward home.  Marie started after him, but turned as an idea struck her.  “Ben, perhaps the Thomases would wish to attend the new church, too, especially as they were coming here to dinner tomorrow, anyway.  You should inform them.”

    “That’s a good idea,” Ben called back, “and I know just the Pony rider to send with that message.”

    “Just so long as it is not the one who rides a stick pony,” Marie giggled.  Gathering her skirts, she took off after her youngest son.

    “Lands, you didn’t need to go to the trouble of a full-course meal, just for us,” Nelly said in mild rebuke as Hop Sing served each person at the table a bowl of onion soup with toasted bread and cheese floating on top.

    “Ah, but you are special guests, worth a little extra effort,” Marie responded.

    Nelly sent her sweetest smile across the table.  “But, honey, if you’d just fixed a simple meal, you’d’ve had time to go into town and hear Reverend Bennett.  You sure missed a fine sermon this morning, didn’t she, Ben?”

    “It was meaningful,” Ben agreed, keeping his reply circumspect to avoid giving offense to either of the ladies flanking him at the table, “but the choice is Marie’s.”

    “And you all know my choice,” Marie declared firmly.  In a more moderate voice she added, “Let us not quarrel.  Truly, it is no trouble to offer you a good meal, for Hop Sing does most of the work.”

    “Well, I reckon that’s so,” Nelly admitted.  “Sure makes my meals look like poor man’s feed, though.”

    “That’s as is fittin’ for poor folks like us, Nelly gal,” Clyde cackled beside her.

    “Nelly’s cooking is magnifique,” Marie objected.  “It is fare fit for kings.”

    “It sure is!” Hoss agreed.

    “ Mais oui,” Marie reiterated.  “You must never feel that your meals compare poorly with Hop Sing’s, Nelly.  We all look forward to the Sundays we dine in your home.”

    Nelly blushed, but it was evident that she was pleased by the compliments, especially Hoss’s hearty one.  “Still, if you was to come with Ben, you’d get a chance to see your new town.  It’s shapin’ up to be quite a place.”

    “That it is,” Ben agreed quickly, hoping to forestall any more religious argument.  “I was surprised to see so many businesses sprouting up.  I think Washoe City intends to make a bid to be the main distribution center for all goods coming in from California.”  He winked across the table, fully expecting Clyde to take issue with that evaluation.

    Clyde took the bait.  “Didn’t look like such a much to me.  ‘Course, if you favor those upstarts’ supplies over what you get in Carson City, I reckon that’s your business.”

    Nelly erupted with laughter.  “Oh, don’t get your hackles up, you old rooster.  Can’t you see Ben’s funnin’ with you?”

    Clyde cocked an appraising eye at his friend and shook his head at the twitching lips.  “Cartwrights,” he snorted.  “Critters don’t come any ornerier.”

    “Well, I can think of one,” Ben chuckled, “though I miss seeing that ornery redheaded critter.”

    “So do I,” Nelly added with a wistful smile, “but that Pony Express keeps him mighty busy.”

    “He’s doing an important service,” Ben said, “especially in these troubled times.  Did he bring any news of interest this trip?”

    “Just what’s in the paper I brung you,” Clyde said.  “Louisiana joined up with the Confederacy, but we was expectin’ that after she seceded, no disrespect to you, Marie.”

    “I take none,” she said at once, “though it saddens me to hear such news of my old home.”

    “You’re Nevadan now,” Nelly reminded her.

    “And that’s neither North nor South,” Ben added firmly.

    “That’s right,” Clyde announced.  “No need to argue the slavery question out here, when we got more interestin’ stuff to bicker over.”  When everyone looked questioningly at him, he sported a mischievous grin and asked, “So, which is it to be next Sunday, Catholic chapel or Methodist-Episcopal?”

    Nelly slapped his leg in rebuke, but it was Ben who answered.  “Chapel,” he said.  “We take turns, and you know that, you old troublemaker.”

    Nelly nodded, feeling both embarrassed by her husband’s capers and disappointed in her friends’ decision.  “You take her to an early Mass, then, Ben, so you’ll have time to drive down to Carson for dinner.  We can hold it a mite, if need be.  Ain’t a bit of sense in you eatin’ in some restaurant when there’s good home cookin’ within reach; leastwise, you said you liked it.”

    “And meant it.  We’ll do just that,” Ben said after seeing his wife nod, smiling.