The first three months of 1853 were a peaceful interlude between busier times.  While Adam watched Hoss each day, trying to fit in a little study time between his brother’s demands, Ben tended to needed chores, including the building of a corner cabinet for their dishware, and rode out to check on his herd.  It was doing well.  Though the wind could be sharp and the air cold, winter was generally mild on the valley floor; and adult animals, while they didn’t exactly flourish, held their own with the available grasses.  The only cattle at risk were newborn calves, but Ben lost just two to winter kill that year.

    The only noteworthy event of the season occurred in February just before Adam’s tenth birthday.  Their request for status as a separate territory having been rejected, forty-three residents of Carson Valley, Ben among them, petitioned the California legislature to annex the valley for judicial purposes.  Like the previous request, this one, too, was destined to be declined.  Feeling the state of California was too large already, Congress refused to increase its boundaries.

    Beyond that, the only events were family ones:  Sunday dinners with the Thomases, a joint birthday party for Billy and Adam, and a small celebration to commemorate little Inger’s first year of life.  Simple events, unnoted by the world, unrecorded in history, but the kind that make up the fabric of life.  To Ben, however, that fabric was not the plain homespun it might have seemed to outsiders; to him, it was tapestry so beautiful it might have graced the palace of a king.

    The trading season began with a boom.  In earlier years Ben and Clyde had enjoyed the luxury of slow preparation for the supply-depleted emigrant trains that arrived each summer, eager to purchase whatever provisions were available.  There’d been time to plant crops, travel over the mountains to lay in supplies, even harvest some of the produce, before the first customers darkened the door to the trading post.

    This year, however, Ben and Clyde had customers to service almost as soon as they brought their first load of supplies across the Sierra Nevadas.  There’d always been a few prospectors, of course, who traveled eastward with the first thaw, hoping to find in Utah the El Dorado that had evaded them in California.  This spring, Ben estimated, almost two hundred men were searching nearby ravines for traces of color; and while the miners had brought supplies with them, they soon needed more.  Most patronized the trading post at Eagle Station or Spafford Hall’s place at the mouth of the ravine where they were prospecting, but a significant number made the longer trip to give their business to Ben and Clyde.  As Billy had pointed out on his advertising ventures, the miners’ gold dust bought more beans and bacon at their trading post than in the others.

    Billy and Adam didn’t need to advertise to keep their fathers busy this year; and that was just as well, for with the men occupied in almost full-time merchandising, to the boys fell the responsibility of the garden.  Adam accepted it proudly, enjoying the feeling that he was contributing to the family income.  Billy, on the other hand, mourned for the carefree freedom of the previous summer.  “Pa finally gets me a horse,” he grumbled, “and I got too much hoein’ to take time to ride!”

    The hoeing paid off, though, when the boys harvested the first green beans and turnip greens.  Not only did they enjoy the fresh vegetables after a long winter of mostly meat and potatoes, but they had enough to sell.  Once the word spread, miners flocked to the Cartwright-Thomas trading post, as well as to Mormon Station, for the other traders didn’t bother growing produce.

    One afternoon a pair of blond-haired, blue-eyed youths walked in.  “We heard you had fresh garden greens,” the taller of the two said.

    Ben smiled at the ruddy-cheeked Grosch brothers.  “Hosea, Ethan,” he said.  “I hadn’t heard you were back in the territory.”  The Grosch brothers had done some prospecting the spring of 1851, but hadn’t returned the following year.

    “Yes, we’re back,” Ethan Allan replied.

    “Havin’ any luck?” Clyde asked amiably.

    “Enough to buy fresh beans, if you have them,” Hosea Ballou chuckled.

    “Well, you’re in luck,” Clyde said, nodding as Adam and Billy carried a basket of green pods through the door.  “Just got in a fresh shipment.”  He slapped his knee, more tickled by his own joke than anyone else was.

    “A couple of sturdy young freighters you have here,” Ethan grinned.

    “Hi, Mr. Grosch,” Adam smiled back.  He remembered the personable brothers from two summers back.  They’d always spoken kindly to him, and he liked them.

    “The beans look wonderful,” Hosea put in.  “We’ll take three pounds, please.”

    “Forget the beans,” a thick voice slurred from the corner.  “Take my advice and have some of this top notch beer.  Valley Tan don’t hold a candle to it.”

    Ben frowned.  He hadn’t counted on attracting customers like James Finney when he’d brought back two kegs of Stefán Zuebner’s home-brewed beer, but Finney seemed to have a built-in magnet for liquor.  The beer was good, and Ben didn’t mind stocking some for the miners in the community, but he had no intention of running a saloon for the likes of James Finney.  Fortunately, the man was rarely a successful enough miner to afford the price of a drink.

    “The beer is good quality,” Ben said quietly, “if you boys would care to try a glass.  A friend of ours over in Placerville brews it.”

    “Thank you, but no,” Ethan Allan refused graciously.  “Our father, being a minister, didn’t allow us to touch spirits, and we’ve never acquired the taste.”

    Ben nodded, respecting the Grosches even more than before.  He couldn’t help wishing Finney had had a father like theirs.

    Clyde handed the older Grosch brother the beans he’d weighed out.  “Anything else, fellers?” he asked.

    “We are a little low on cornmeal and bacon,” Hosea said.

    “How ‘bout eggs?  We got half a dozen we could spare,” Clyde offered.

    “Ah, yes, that would be a treat,” Ethan said.  “We’ll take them, too.”

    Finney stumbled across the room to slap Ethan on the back.  “You fellers must be makin’ out good to buy such fancy grub,” he sputtered.

    “We just came well prepared,” Hosea said calmly.  “We intend to prospect in a scientific manner, and that takes time.”

    “Hosea!” his brother interrupted sharply.  “There is no need to bore these gentlemen with our plans.”

    Adam’s ears had pricked up at the word ‘scientific.’  “Could I come see you sometime?” he asked eagerly.

    “Adam,” Ben chided softly.

    “That’s all right, Mr. Cartwright,” Ethan said quickly.  “Of course, Adam, you will be welcome any time.”

    “Don’t you boys have more beans to pick?” Clyde asked pointedly.

    “Yes, sir,” Billy moaned, “and corn to hoe.”  Shuffling outside, Billy grabbed Adam’s elbow.  “What you aim to do at the Grosches?” he demanded.

    “I just want to find out what they meant by scientific mining,” Adam explained.

    Billy groaned.  “I might’ve known.  Always playin’ the smarty britches.”

    “Well, I’d rather have smart britches than be a dumb donkey,” Adam snapped.

    “Oh, go grab a hoe,” Billy grumbled.  “I ain’t fixin’ to fuss today and chance missin’ that peach cobbler Ma’s makin’ for supper.”

    Adam grinned, in total agreement with Billy on that point, if on no other.

    “And they have all this equipment to test the ore with,” Adam mumbled.  Having been given time off from his chores, he had been to visit the Grosch brothers that Saturday afternoon and could hardly contain his enthusiasm for the information about mining he’d gleaned.

    “Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Ben chided gently.

    Adam chewed his current mouthful carefully and swallowed before speaking again.  “They tested some while I was there, too, Pa.”

    “Well, was it high quality ore?” Ben asked, amused, but proud of his son’s perpetual quest for new knowledge.

    Adam shook his head knowingly.  “It showed some color,” he stated, “but not enough to rate it a bonanza.”

    “Bonanza?” Ben queried.

    “That’s what Old Frank said,” Adam explained.  Old Frank Antonio was a Mexican who, some said, knew more about mining than all the other prospectors thrown together.  “He said a bonanza is what they call a really fine strike, the kind that’ll make men rich.”

    “I see,” Ben said, reaching over the wipe Hoss’s messy face.  “You through, baby?”

    “Mo’ peas, Pa,” Hoss demanded.  “Taters, too.”  Now that he was almost three, Hoss’s vocabulary was growing rapidly, especially in words that designated foods.

    “Pa, you speak Spanish, don’t you?” Adam asked as his father dished the requested items into Hoss’s plate.

    “Some,” Ben replied, then chuckled.  “I didn’t know ‘bonanza,’ and that’s Spanish, isn’t it?”

    Adam grinned.  “Yeah.  I was just wondering ‘cause Old Frank said something else I didn’t understand, but Mr. Ethan wouldn’t let him explain.  You know what ‘mucha plata’ means?”

    Ben’s brow wrinkled in thought; then he shook his head.  “Sorry, Adam, but I don’t.  I think ‘mucha’ means ‘much,’ but I don’t recognize the other word.”

    “Gold, maybe?” Adam suggested.

    “Ben laughed.  “Mercy, no!  The word for gold is ‘oro;’ that much I know.”

    Adam shrugged.  “I just couldn’t figure out why Mr. Ethan didn’t want me to know, unless it had to do with gold they’d found.”

    Ben tweaked Adam’s classic Roman nose.  “Maybe he thought a certain little boy was sticking this too far into his business.”

    “Oh, Pa,” Adam snorted.  “That’s not it.  He showed me all his mining books and everything.  They got a whole shelf full, Pa!”

    “All on mining?” Ben asked.

    “Yeah,” Adam said, his eyes wide with wonder at the memory of the rough plank sagging beneath the weight of all those books.  “I asked if I could borrow one, but—”

    “Adam,” Ben scolded.  “I thought I’d taught you better manners than that.”

    Adam gulped.  “I guess I got a little excited, Pa, but it doesn’t matter.  Mr. Hosea said the books would be too techni——well, hard——for me, anyway.  I looked at one, and he was right.”

    “You help me get these dishes cleaned up and I’ll read you some Shakespeare,” Ben offered.  “I dare say, you’ll enjoy that more than any dry mining text, my boy.”

    Adam stood at once and began to clear the table.  The night before his father had left off reading Macbeth at an exciting part, and he was eager to see how the play ended.

    The population of western Utah increased in early June with the arrival of several settlers from Salt Lake City.  “Brigham Young’s scared spitless us gentiles is gonna have some say in our own government,” Clyde groused.  “So scared he’s got to send in fresh recruits.”

    Ben turned from the shelf where he was busily arranging tins of oysters and salmon.  He’d brought back a few on his last trip west to test the market among the miners, who seemed to relish such things as an occasional treat.  “He didn’t send enough to make much difference, my friend,” Ben said, his lips twitching

    But there was no appeasing Clyde Thomas.  “There’ll be more,” he prophesied morosely and went back to studying Ben’s last move on the chessboard they kept set up in the trading post.  He and Ben had been taking turns handling the supplies and moving their chess pieces; but so far Ben, with his annoying habit of quickly countering Clyde’s long-pondered moves, was doing more of the actual work of the trading post.

    “Maybe,” Ben mused, turning back to his task, “but from what the Ellises said, the governor didn’t want to send too many, lest they be corrupted by the lust for gold.”

    “Ain’t workin’ too well with them, is it?” Clyde taunted.

    Ben chuckled.  Laura and James Ellis had taken up land less than two miles from the canyon where most of the mining activity was taking place.  Like Clyde, Ben suspected the temptation to neglect the needs of their farm to go prospecting might prove too strong.  The Ellises seemed like sound folk, however, as witnessed by the sturdy log cabin they were building——a far cry from the huts of canvas and sagebrush the miners generally erected.  Maybe, if they did succumb to gold fever, they’d get over it quickly and settle down to become good neighbors.

    Absorbed in their own thoughts, neither Ben nor Clyde noticed the entrance of a third man until his long shadow fell across the chessboard.  Clyde looked up to see Paul Martin, one of the valley’s newer residents, staring at the game pieces.  “Got a customer, Ben,” Clyde drawled dourly and bent over once more to study the board.

    Ben smiled as he recognized the smooth-featured man, whose weary, shuffling walk made him seem so much older than Ben knew he could be.  Though probably only a few years older than Ben, the miner’s dark brown hair was already touched with silver at the temples.  “What can I help you with, Mr. Martin?” he asked.

    “Coffee,” Martin replied laconically.  His words, like his soundless step, always seemed calculated to draw the least possible attention to himself.

    “How much?” Ben queried.

    Martin seemed lost in his appraisal of the chessboard.  “Huh?” he said, his attention jerking back to Ben.

    “How much coffee did you want?” Ben repeated patiently.

    “Oh—uh—about three pounds, I guess,” Martin mumbled, frowning as he saw Clyde move his rook with a satisfied grin and stand up.  Martin shook his head in evident disapproval of Clyde’s decision.

    Ben caught the gesture at once.  It was the first time he’d seen the tall miner show interest in anything.  Usually, Martin’s gray eyes seemed sad, almost haunted, but a spark of life had flickered in them while he watched the board.  Scooping out three pounds of coffee beans, Ben asked.  “Do you play chess, Mr. Martin?”

    Martin shrugged as he took the small paper cone of coffee beans.  “Used to.”

    “Like to play you sometime,” Ben suggested.

    “I ain’t givin’ you enough competition, am I?” Clyde snorted.

    “Not with moves like that one,” Ben laughed as he walked from the behind the counter, moved one piece and announced, “Checkmate, my friend.”  A trace of a smile touched Martin’s lips and he gave Ben an almost imperceptible nod of approval.

    “Doggone!” Clyde sputtered.  “Now, why didn’t I see that comin’?”

    “Martin did,” Ben replied with a maddening grin.  He softened his expression as he addressed the miner.  “Board’s available, if you’d like a match,” he offered.

    “Uh—no—uh—got to be going,” Martin stammered.  “Work to do.”

    Ben’s smile faded.  Of all the men who’d come east this spring, Paul Martin seemed the least likely to succeed as a miner.  The newly-formed blisters on his hands revealed that he wasn’t used to handling a pick and pan, and he never spoke about making a big strike the way most miners did.  Martin seemed satisfied to pan just enough to keep himself fed, though from the way his clothes hung on him, not as well as he’d been accustomed to.  Ben knew the fumbled statement of having work to do was simply an excuse to avoid human contact.

    “Why not come by my place this Saturday evening then?” Ben suggested quietly.  “Have a bite to eat and a good game?  A man deserves a little entertainment after a hard week’s work.”

    Martin started to shake his head, but Ben continued before he had a chance to decline the invitation.  “You’d be doing me a favor,” Ben said.  “I’d relish a good, challenging game for a change.”

    “Humph!” Clyde snorted.  “Guess I know when I ain’t appreciated.”

    Ben frowned, but ignored the comment.  He’d deal with Clyde’s ruffled feathers later.  “How about it?” he pressed the miner.

    “Yeah, okay,” Martin muttered, clutching his package of coffee with tense fingers and exiting quickly.

    “Reckon I ought to be grateful to you for puttin’ up with my poor play long as you did,” Clyde grumbled when the miner had left.

    Ben laid a firm hand on his friend’s shoulder.  “It’s got nothing to do with the way you play, Clyde,” he said.  “For a beginner you do real well, but that man’s in need of company.  A miner’s lot is a lonely one, but he carries it to extremes.”

    Clyde grinned.  “Them two boys ain’t handful enough, huh?  You got to play mother hen to every lost soul comes along?”

    Ben shrugged.  “Someone has to.  Now, seeing as how the sun’s directly overhead, I suggest we see what your good wife has prepared for us.”

    “I already know,” Clyde groaned.  “She’s over to Eliza Ann’s this morning.  Beans, bah!”

    “Put your books away and set the table, Adam,” Ben dictated Saturday evening just as the sun was setting.

    “I’m almost done, Pa,” Adam murmured, not looking up from his arithmetic book.

    “Adam, put it away,” Ben ordered more sharply.

    There was no missing what that tone meant, so Adam promptly closed the book and slid it back onto the lowest bookshelf.  Taking four tin plates from the cupboard, he set them on two sides of the table.  “Sure smells good, Pa,” he said approvingly.  “You must really want to impress Mr. Martin.”

    Ben chuckled.  “Mostly, Adam, I just want to give him a good meal.  I fancy he doesn’t pan enough gold to buy more than beans and bacon.  In fact, I know he doesn’t unless he’s been buying them from someone else.”

    Hoss tugged on his father’s pants leg.  “Eat soon?” he queried.  Like Adam, he found the aroma of roasting sage grouse so appealing he couldn’t wait to sink his teeth into it.

    Ben had gotten precise instructions from Nelly Thomas on how to make the dressing, and she’d even measured out the spices he’d need and wrapped them in a bit of cloth.  That made the preparation even easier, and Ben felt confident the result would taste better than anything Paul Martin had eaten in months.

    Hoss yanked harder on his father’s trousers.  “Eat soon?” he repeated more urgently.

    “As soon as our company comes,” Ben said, giving the boy’s tawny hair a kindly ruffle.  Almost immediately a rap sounded on the cabin’s door.  “Get that, would you, Adam?” Ben asked.

    “Sure,” Adam said.  He trotted to the door and opened it.  “Come in, Mr. Martin,” he said politely.

    Paul Martin doffed his black felt hat and stepped inside, nodding a wordless greeting at the boy.

    “Welcome, Martin,” Ben said heartily.  “Excuse my not meeting you at the door, but this gravy needed a good stirring.”

    “We’re having a great meal,” Adam said sociably.  “Roast grouse with dressing, mashed potatoes and gravy, green beans and turnips.  Aunt Nelly even sent a chocolate cake for dessert.”

    “Yes, and I’m afraid my bachelor cooking will be hard put to live up to that,” Ben laughed.

    A smile flitted across the miner’s lips.  “From the smell, it’s better than mine,” Martin said appreciatively.

    Hoss toddled over to the stranger and held his pudgy arms up.  Ben caught his breath, unsure how his reclusive guest would respond, but Hoss’s sunny smile proved irresistible.  Martin instinctively bent over and lifted the boy up in his arms.  “Eat soon,” Hoss promised cheerily.

    “And if you’re an example, the eating’s pretty good around here,” Martin teased, giving Hoss’s plump body a squeeze.  Hoss immediately wrapped his arms around the miner’s neck, and Martin laid his stubbled cheek tenderly against the youngster’s soft, smooth one.  “Quite a hefty lad you have here, Cartwright,” he said.

    “He’s a real armload all right,” Ben said.  “Hard to believe he won’t be three ‘til the end of next month, and he’s close to his older brother’s weight already.  Worries me a little, his growing so fast.”

    “No need,” Martin said with a knowledgeable air.  “He’s large for his age, but—”  As if suddenly wary of revealing more than he intended, Martin broke off.

    “You sound like a man with some experience of children,” Ben probed gently.

    “Some,” Martin said, but offered no explanation.

    Ben thought it better not to push.  “Well, take a chair,” he suggested.  “Dinner’ll be on the table right away.”  He had intended the two boys to sit on one side of the table, so Adam could help Hoss while the two men enjoyed undisturbed conversation; however, Martin intuitively placed Hoss in the longer-legged chair that helped him reach the table, then sat next to him, seeming to want to remain close to the little one.  Not so surprising, Ben realized.  Most of the miners cherished the rare glimpse of a small child, and Hoss’s openness could be absolutely disarming.

    “You might want to reconsider where you’re sitting,” Ben suggested softly.  “He’s a pretty messy eater.”

    Martin gave the child’s hand a little pat.  “We’ll get along, won’t we—”

    “Hoss,” Ben inserted, realizing Martin had faltered, not knowing the child’s name.

    Martin laughed for the first time that Ben had ever heard him.  “Fits him like a glove.”

    Ben smiled.  “Yeah.  His real name’s Eric, but his brother Adam here insisted we call him Hoss, and it’s sort of stuck.”

    “It was Uncle Gunnar’s idea,” Adam corrected.

    “Yeah, I know, son,” Ben said, setting the grouse on the table.  “My wife’s brother,” he explained for Martin’s benefit.

    Soon the other foods filled the table and after saying a brief grace, Ben told his guest to help himself.  Adam politely let company go first, but Hoss hungrily reached toward the dish of roast fowl.  Martin smiled and forked a small piece into the boy’s plate.  “Does he need that cut?” he asked Ben.

    Ben shook his head.  “He’ll just use his fingers anyway, I’m afraid.  Hoss handles a spoon well enough, but forks seem beyond him.”

    “Perfectly natural,” Martin said, that informed tone in his voice once more.

    “What did you do in the States?” Ben asked.

    “Minded my own business,” Martin said gruffly, then blushed at the rudeness he heard in his own voice.

    Ben had been shocked by the response, for his question was one of the most common ways to open a conversation with a new acquaintance.  All the miners had followed some other vocation before coming west, and most waxed nostalgic at the mention of their former lives.  Only men with shady pasts tended to be evasive in the free and easy mining country, but Paul Martin didn’t look like the kind of man who should have had something to hide.  “Sorry, didn’t mean to pry,” Ben said quickly.  “I just thought, with your understanding of youngsters, you might have been a schoolteacher.”  Then Ben laughed.  “Though I guess that wouldn’t give you much experience with lads Hoss’s age, after all.”

    Martin smiled slightly.  “No, he’s not quite school age.”

    “I am,” Adam announced, “but there’s no teacher, so I have to study by myself.  I wish you were a teacher, Mr. Martin; I’d sure have questions to ask if you were.”

    “Adam, I invited Mr. Martin here as my guest, not your instructor,” Ben chided softly, then chuckled.  “My boy here has an insatiable appetite for learning and no hesitance about asking anyone he meets to satisfy it.  He’s even been pestering the Grosch brothers to read their technical books on mining.”

    “And chemistry.  You know anything about chemistry, Mr. Martin?” Adam added, completely ignoring his father’s admonition about pumping their guest for new knowledge.

    “Some,” Martin said, “but mostly the organic variety.”

    “Huh?”

    Martin smiled.  “The kind that has to do with living things, son.  Inorganic chemistry deals with minerals, like the books you were looking at.”

    “Oh,” Adam said.  “I didn’t know there were two kinds.  I’ll remember that.”

    Ben shook his head.  “He will, too,” then with a pointed look at his son, “just as I’m sure he’ll remember his manners, if he tries hard enough.”

    Adam gulped and turned his attention to his plate.

    “Mighty fine meal,” Martin said.  “Best I’ve had in some time.”

    “Pa said it would be,” Adam offered.

    Ben groaned and rolled his eyes toward the ceiling, but Paul Martin just laughed.  “You never know what they’ll say at that age, do you?” he said, clearly bemused by Ben’s embarrassed expression.  “I—uh—figured it was something like that.  You needn’t feel sorry for me, though, Cartwright.”

    Ben coughed once to cover his discomposure.  “I’m just afraid you’ll end up feeling sorry for me at the end of our chess match.   I haven’t had a challenging opponent since I left St. Joseph; I’m probably rusty as nails left in the rain.”

    “I’m looking forward to it,” Martin said, helping Hoss to a second helping of potatoes and gravy after wiping most of the boy’s first off his face.

    “Well, I’m ready,” Ben announced, “so we’ll leave Adam to clear the table while I set up the board.”

    Adam frowned.  Washing dishes was not his idea of the best way to spend an evening, but he knew better than to argue.  “Hurry up and finish,” he hissed to Hoss as he gathered the other plates from the table.

    “Shouldn’t rush him,” Martin mumbled.  “Bad for digestion.”

    Adam sighed and sat down to watch Hoss’s slow mastication of his food.  Mr. Martin was probably right, but he didn’t know how poky Hoss could be.

    The chess match had barely begun before Ben found himself as badly outclassed as Clyde Thomas was when he played with Ben.  Ben lost the first game quickly, but managed to hold his own longer before succumbing to Martin’s superior gamesmanship in the second.  “Well, that’s enough for tonight,” Ben said.  “You’re a better player than the man who taught me, Martin.”

    Martin smiled, both in satisfaction at the compliment and in encouragement to Ben.  “He taught you well, whoever he was.  I—uh—enjoyed the evening, Cartwright.”

    “Enough to come back, I hope,” Ben urged.  “You owe me a rematch, my friend.  Next Saturday?”

    Martin hesitated for only a moment.  “All right,” he said quietly.  “Next Saturday.”

    As he lay in bed that night, arms folded under his neck, Ben congratulated himself on the success of the evening, but he found himself more puzzled than ever about his new friend.  The man had opened up a little tonight, but then he’d closed shut again, as though a curtain had dropped on a play moments after its beginning.  Behind that curtain loomed some secret Martin seemed determined to hide, but Ben didn’t think it was a sinister one.  What, then, could make this urbane, well-spoken, intelligent man build such a wall of silence and solitude?  His love of chess had opened a crack in his defenses, and Ben had managed to wedge a toe in that crack.   Hopefully, weekly visits in his home would widen it.
 

“Whoopee!” Billy yelled, tossing his hoe out of the garden.  As Adam finished hilling the final stalk of corn on his row, he grinned at his friend.  He, too, was glad the time had come to let the corn lay by ‘til harvest.  Both Ben and Clyde had promised their boys the day off as soon as they finished, and Billy had sweet-talked his mother into packing them a picnic lunch.

    Billy was already charging up to the cabin to claim the sandwiches, so Adam dutifully picked up the hoe the impulsive redhead had abandoned and took it to the blacksmith shop where all tools were stored.  “Done, are you?” Clyde asked when Adam entered.  “And that ornery scamp of mine left you to put things up, did he?”

    Adam shrugged, not wanting to get Billy in trouble.  “He’s fetching our picnic lunch,” he offered as explanation.

    “All right,” Clyde said.  “Best let your Pa know before you take off.”

    “I will,” Adam said and walked over to the trading post.  “Me and Billy’s headin’ out, Pa,” he called from the doorway.

    Ben looked up from the table where he was trying to calculate a fair price for the latest supplies they’d brought in from California.  “Where you headed?”

    “Just downriver, I reckon,” Adam said.  “We don’t have any real plan, Pa.”

    Ben smiled.  “Well, sometimes it’s more relaxing when you don’t plan too hard.  Think you might do some fishing?”

    “Maybe,” Adam said.

    “Nothing doing!” Billy snickered from behind Adam.  “Sounds too much like work.”

    Ben guffawed.  “Fishing?  Oh, come on now, Billy.”

    “I like to fish,” Adam argued.

    “I don’t want to sit still and concentrate on bringin’ home supper,” Billy declared.  “I want to ride like the wind and put that fool garden miles behind me.”  He punched Adam’s arm and leaned over to whisper in his ear.  “Come on; let’s get out of here before the pest wakes up and bawls to go along.”

    Adam nodded.  He didn’t want Hoss along any more than Billy did.  Watching the baby was far more likely to turn the afternoon’s fun into work than fishing!  He turned and trotted after Billy.

    “You boys ride careful,” Ben called.  Both boys waved back an assurance that they would.

    Had Ben seen the races the two boys ran up and down and across the river, he probably would not have considered their horsemanship careful.  Each, however, had too much respect and affection for his horse to run reckless risks.  With the exuberance of youth, Billy and Adam galloped in spirited competitions, with the victories split almost half and half, and by the time they stopped for lunch, Billy’s wildly tousled hair testified that he had stirred up as much wind as even he could desire.  Adam’s didn’t look much better, but neither boy cared.  They dropped, exhausted, by the banks of the Carson, letting the horses crop the lush meadow grass while their owners grazed through a succession of roast beef and cheese sandwiches, topping the meal off with a fried peach pie apiece.

    “You wanna race some more?” Billy asked, licking the last traces of pastry from his lips.

    Adam sprawled flat on his stomach.  “Nope.”

    Billy poked a freckled finger in Adam’s ribs.  “You gotta give me a chance to catch up, boy.”  Adam was one race ahead.

    Adam lifted his head to grin triumphantly at his friend.  “I like the score the way it is,” he snickered.  “Besides, I’m tired of riding.”

    “How can you be,” Billy whined, “when we ain’t had a day off ‘til now to do none?”

    “I ride every day,” Adam yawned.

    Billy frowned.  “Just to our place,” he argued.  “That’s not much of a ride.”

    “I satisfy easy,” Adam yawned again and rolled over onto his back.  “And what would satisfy me best right now is a nap.”

    “Nap!” Billy hollered.  “You gotta be kidding!  I knew I should’ve brought Hoss instead.”

    “Welcome to ride back and get him,” Adam offered, pulling his brown felt hat over his eyes.  He knew an empty threat when he heard one.

    “Hey!  What’s that?” Billy yelled.

    Adam lifted the hat from his face and looked in the direction of Billy’s pointing finger.  “Dust,” he said, lowering the hat.

    Billy grabbed the hat and tossed it aside.  “Kind of a lot of dust, wouldn’t you say?”

    Adam sat up.  “Yeah, I guess so.”

    “You don’t reckon the first emigrant train has got here this early, do you?” Billy puzzled.

    “It’s not even July yet,” Adam scoffed.  “Might be more of them Mormon colonists, though.  They don’t have so far to come.”

    “If that’s Mormons, it’s a passel of ‘em,” Billy declared.  Suddenly, his face lighted.  “Hey!  I know what it is!”

    “Yeah, what?” Adam asked dubiously.

    Billy stood over his friend, arms akimbo.  “When’s the last time you seen dust clouds that big?” he demanded.

    Adam frowned and shook his head.

    “When that Wootton feller brought that herd of sheep through last spring!” Billy announced exultantly.  “I’ll bet he’s back!”

    Adam sat up, looking more intently at the clouds of dust swirling in the distance across the river.  “Might be,” he said.  “Yeah, that just might be a flock of woollies.”

    “Let’s go see,” Billy ordered.  “Our folks’ll want to know about something that size, whatever it is.”

    “Okay,” Adam agreed, his curiosity now burning almost as intensely as the other boy’s.

    They mounted quickly and walked their horses across the river before breaking into a gallop.  Billy evidently intended to make a race of it, and having a head start, he reached the destination before Adam.  “Howdy, mister,” he called out to the stranger riding at the head of the herd of sheep.

    The man doffed his hat, revealing a head of hair that was thinning on top, but fuller below, reaching almost to his broad shoulders.  “Howdy, son,” he yelled back.  “Where you from?”

    Billy pointed in a vaguely westward direction.  “You workin’ for Wootton?” he asked sociably.

    “Uncle Dick Wootton?” the man asked.  “You know him, boy?”

    Billy pulled his horse alongside the man’s just as Adam rode up.  “Sure, we know Uncle Dick,” Billy said.  “Guess you do, too.”

    The man laughed.  “Yeah, real well, from the time he was a young whippersnapper back at Bent’s Fort.  Me and Uncle Dick was huntin’ partners for a time.  So, how is it you younguns know him?”

     “We met him last spring when he brought a flock of sheep through here,” Adam explained.

    “Yeah, I knew about that,” the man said.  “Fact is, it was Uncle Dick convinced me to bring a herd over myself.  Well, boys, seein’ as how you’re friends of a friend, so to speak, I reckon we ought to make our introductions.”

    “I’m Billy Thomas,” Billy announced, “and he’s Adam Cartwright.”

    “Pleased to make your acquaintance,” the stranger said, a twinkle in his clear blue eyes.  “Name’s Christopher Carson.”

    Adam’s black eyes all but popped out of his head.  “Not K—Kit Carson?” he stammered, awestruck.

    “Guilty as charged,” Carson chuckled, “though I hope I’ve not been charged with anything too serious.”

    “No, sir!” Adam exclaimed.

    “Not the one they named this whole blamed valley after,” Billy babbled.  “Not that Kit Carson.”

    “I’m afraid so, son,” Carson said, “and it’s right honored I am to have my name fixed to so fine a place.”

    “Well, you were one of the first to see it, along with Captain Frémont,” Adam declared.  “It’s only right and proper.”

    Carson gazed nostalgically toward the Sierras looming over the valley floor.  “Those were fine days, when I was with Frémont,” he said.  “Wish I had time to tell you boys about them, but I’ve got a herd to tend.”

    “Come to supper to our place,” Billy said impulsively, “and tell us all about it.”

    Carson laughed loud.  “Now, don’t tempt me, boy.  I’ve been eating trail grub so long, I’m an easy mark for the offer of a home-cooked meal.”

    “You wouldn’t turn it down if you’d ever tasted my ma’s dried apple pie,” Billy grinned.

    “Dried apple pie,” Carson mused, licking his lips.  “Anybody ever tell you you got natural talent as a tempter, boy?  Sure your folks won’t mind?”

    “No, sir.”  It was Adam who answered this time.  He figured all the meals he’d shared at the Thomas table made him an expert on Nelly Thomas’s hospitality.

    “Well, I’ll take you up on it,” Carson smiled, “if you’ll give me directions.”

    Billy quickly told the famous explorer where to find the cabin; then he and Adam rode home to give Nelly warning that she’d have extra guests for dinner.  “Us, too,” Adam told Billy.  “She’ll ask, and Pa won’t turn down a chance to meet Kit Carson!”

    “Reckon not!” Billy agreed.  “Come on; first one back gets to spread the news.”  Kicking his roan colt’s flanks, he charged ahead.  Adam grinned and gave chase.

    “Just help yourself, Mr. Carson,” Nelly babbled, clearly flustered by serving such a famous guest.  “I know the food’s not fancy, but there’s plenty of it.”

    Kit Carson flashed the frazzled woman a friendly grin as he filled his blue crockery plate, Nelly having set out her Sunday dishes in his honor.  “Ma’am, I believe you’ve gone to entirely too much trouble, but I surely plan to enjoy every bite.  I can’t even remember when I last had chicken and dumplings.”

    Nelly blushed.  “Well, it’s easy to make on short notice.”

    “But it’s the best, Ma,” Billy declared loyally.

    “Oh, shush now,” his mother ordered, her face flaming redder.

    “Truth should be spoken, ma’am,” Carson said.  “This is every bit as good as my ma used to make, and nobody cooks like a boy’s ma, you know.”

    “You promised to tell us about your expedition with Captain Frémont,” Adam said, helping himself to chicken and dumplings.

    “Now, Adam, let Mr. Carson enjoy his dinner,” Ben chided.

    “Oh, I can eat and talk, too,” Carson laughed, “and I’ve got to earn a dinner this good.  Well, first off, son, he wasn’t Captain Frémont when I first met him.  He was a lieutenant with the United States Topographical Corps in those days and a man with a big dream.”

    “Like you, Pa,” Adam declared.

    “Hush, Adam,” Ben said, as eager as the boys to hear the explorer’s reminiscences.  “Please go on, Mr. Carson.”

    Carson winked at Adam.  “I went on three expeditions with Lieutenant Frémont,” he said, “and I don’t reckon there’s time to tell all that tonight.  I figure you folks would be most interested in the time we spent here in your part of the country.”

    “Yeah!” Billy said.

    “That was our second expedition,” Carson continued, “the first being a short trip with orders to map South Pass.”

    “We know where that is!” Billy announced proudly.

    “‘Course you do, son; all the emigrant trains pass through there,” Carson agreed amiably.  “Easiest way across the Rockies.  We were hoping to find a shorter, quicker route, but didn’t have enough time to do a proper job of it and follow orders, too.  That’s one reason Frémont was so determined to go back.”

    “That was the summer of 1843, I believe,” Ben commented.

    Carson looked impressed.  “That it was, Mr. Cartwright.  Lieutenant Frémont had hired me and Broken Hand Fitzpatrick as guides.  Now, both of us were experienced mountain men, but neither of us knew a short way across the Rockies.  It was all new territory to us.  The lieutenant sent Broken Hand north over the emigrant route you folks must have traveled coming west; then he and I, with twelve others, turned west, looking for a pass.”

    “Did you find it?” Adam asked eagerly.

    “We traveled five days through some of the finest country God ever created,” Carson said.  “Tall mountains dark with pine, but full of sheer drops that made it an impractical route for wagons.  We had a hard time ourselves, but finally came out to find a grassy river bottom covered with wildflowers.  Prettiest sight I ever saw, saving my lovely wife’s face.”

    “Oh, you’re married,” Nelly said, her brown eyes sparking with interest.

    “Now, Nelly, you’re interruptin’,” Clyde rebuked.  He didn’t want Carson distracted from his story to answer any of Nelly’s typically female questions.

    Carson smiled.  “Tell you about her later, ma’am.  These boys look to be on the edge of their chairs.”

    “We sure are,” Billy said, “and we don’t want to hear about no wives.”

    “Mind your manners, boy,” Clyde said sharply.  It was one thing to feel the way he did, another to blurt it out before company.  Billy slunk down in his seat, determined not to say another word.  Tonight was no time to get banished from the table.

    “We met up with Fitzpatrick’s party,” Carson continued, “and went on west.  Just two days after Christmas we came to a point of decision.  We had reached the southern border of Oregon, which fulfilled all our orders, so we could have just turned around and gone home.”

    “But you didn’t,” Adam said triumphantly, “else how would you have discovered—”

    “Adam,” Ben said, more sharply than before.  “Quit interrupting.”

    Hoss, seated to Ben’s left, reached up to tap his father’s arm.  “Shh!” he demanded.  “Wanna hear story.”  Everyone laughed, Carson loudest of all.

    “All right, sonny,” he said.  “Come perch on my knee, and I’ll tell it just for you.”

    With a wide grin Hoss scooted out of his chair and claimed his perch on the former mountain man’s buckskin-clad lap.

    “Now, as young Adam here said, we didn’t turn back,” Carson said.  “We’d been away from home for nine months; we were tired and hungry, and we’d faced more than our share of hard times.  But Lieutenant Frémont had a hunger to map new territory, to find the legendary Buenaventura River that was supposed to flow west through the mountains.  So we headed south into the most God-forsaken desert country I’d ever seen.  For two weeks we struggled through that powdery, alkaline soil, wondering if we’d ever see a green leaf again.”

    “My brother traveled that part of the country when he came west,” Ben commented.

    “Pa!”  “Uncle Ben!”  Both boys had been rebuked so many times for interrupting themselves that they were outraged when one of the adults did it.

    “Now, now,” Carson appeased, “let’s just say whoever feels a need to say something can.  It pleasures me to hear other voices besides my own.”

    Ben chuckled.  “All right, then.  Interruptions being welcomed, I’ll go first.  My brother wrote back to St. Joe and advised me not to take that route.”

    “Good advice,” Carson laughed, “and I’m sure you took it.  There wasn’t anyone to advise us, though, so we just trusted our lives to the care of Almighty God and He didn’t fail us.  Just when we thought we were doomed to starve to death in that desert, we came upon a huge lake and gorged ourselves on salmon trout.”

    “I bet that was Pyramid Lake,” Adam inserted.

    “It was, son,” Carson smiled.  “You seen it?”

    “Yeah, we went up to visit Captain Truckee there,” Adam replied eagerly.

    “We try to visit him each spring,” Ben put in quickly, fearing Adam was about to launch into a full rendition of their own adventures.  “I’ve been taking the Paiutes a few beef ever since I started my herd.”

    “Kind of you, sir,” Carson said.  “The chief did us a good turn, and I’d like to return the favor.  If you have time to make the trip up to Pyramid, I’d be glad to leave a few of my sheep as a gift to my old friend.”

    “I’d be glad to,” Ben agreed.  “Truckee speaks with great warmth of Captain Frémont and is especially proud of the letter he gave him.”

    Hoss pulled on Carson’s chin.  “Story!” he demanded.

    Carson nodded solemnly.  “Yes, sir!” he said.  “Okay if Miss Nelly dishes me up a piece of pie first?”

    “Okay,” Hoss grinned.  “Me, too!”

    Carson paused in his story long enough to take a bite of the dried apple pie.  “Your boy surely spoke the truth about this pie, ma’am,” he said enthusiastically.  “It’s real good.”

    “Real good,” Hoss echoed, his face already sticky with sweet syrup from his portion.

    Carson patted the boy’s protruding belly.  “Yeah, it’s easy to see you’ve had your fair share of Miss Nelly’s fine cooking.”

    “Boy, has he!” Billy declared.

    “Well, back to my story,” Carson said quickly.  “We continued south, finally reaching the river you folks settled by.”

    “The Carson,” Adam said.

    Carson laughed.  “Well, it didn’t have a name then, but, yes, the Carson.  We were low on food again and feeling pretty low down.  Having come this far south, we knew for sure the Buenaventura was nothing but a river folks wished for, one that didn’t exist outside men’s dreams.  We knew now we couldn’t float into California like we’d planned, but Frémont was still set on getting there.  Camped there by the river he told us he planned to cross the Sierras Nevadas on foot.  It wasn’t good news.”

    “Why not?” Billy demanded.

    “Remember what time of year it was, son,” Carson said patiently.  “It was just past the middle of January, and no one had ever tried crossing the Sierras in winter.”

    “Oh,” Billy said.  “Everybody knows that’s crazy.”

    Carson laughed.  “That’s how most of us felt, but I trusted Frémont, so I’d’ve gone anywhere he ordered.  West we went, climbing over the first low mountains, coming into Antelope Valley.  From there we could see the main range, snow-packed and sharp with ice.  We made our way up for two days, leaving more and more of our personal gear behind.  But we still had that infernal cannon.”

    “What cannon?” Billy asked, his blue eyes widening with renewed interest.

    “A twelve-pound howitzer we’d dragged all across the country,” Carson said.  “You see, Frémont and his father-in-law, Senator Benton, had a feeling we’d be at war with Mexico by the time we reached California and thought the cannon might come in handy.”

    “And did it?  In the war, I mean?” Billy asked eagerly.

    Carson shook his head, chuckling.  “No, son, after all our troubles, we finally had to leave it behind in the mountains.  Still there, far as I know.”

    “Whereabouts?” Billy probed.

    “That’s enough, boy,” his father said bluntly.  “We can’t leave Frémont’s whole party to freeze in the mountains while you talk artillery.  Tell how you got out alive, Mr. Carson.”

    “Well, two days into the mountains, our last Indian guide quit on us.  ‘Rock upon rock, snow upon snow,’ he said and warned us we’d never get out of those mountains.  Frémont realized the Indian’s words would prove true unless he found a trail, so he left everyone behind except me and Broken Hand.  It was hard going, but we made it through.  We came to a large snowless valley, and beyond it I could see a low range of mountains I knew were the ones bordering the coast of California.  Though it had been fifteen years since I’d been there, I recognized Mount Diablo.  We went back for the other men, taking about twenty days to get them up to that peak again.  Hard days they were, too, with men going snow-blind and getting so hungry they finally broke down and ate their pet dog, Klamath.”

    “No!” Hoss wailed, burying his face into Carson’s shirt.

    The explorer’s countenance dropped.  “Guess I should’ve left that part out,” he said apologetically.  “Forgot what big ears little pitchers can have.”

    “He has a pup of his own,” Ben said by way of explanation.

    Carson patted the boy’s heaving back.  “Yeah, I understand,” he said.  “The men with us were grown, but they cried, too, when they——you know.  Starving though they were, they’d been saving scraps out of their own plates to keep that little dog alive, and it broke their hearts when they finally had to face the hard truth that it was him or them.  Anyway, we finally made it to Sutter’s Fort a month after we left the river here.  We looked more like walking skeletons than living men, but we’d proved the mountains could be crossed, even in winter.  Only loss to the party, a twelve-pound cannon.”

    Hoss peered up with red eyes.  “And a pup,” he added mournfully.

    Carson gave him a squeeze.  “Yeah, son, and a pup.  A fine pup who gave his life so his masters could live.  Klamath was the real hero of the expedition, you could say.”

    Hoss nodded solemnly.  Ben wasn’t sure the boy really understood the concept of sacrifice at just under three years of age, but at that moment he appeared to.

    “Tell about the war in California now,” Billy demanded.

    “Oh, that came much later, and I’m afraid I haven’t time to start that story tonight,” Carson said, setting Hoss down and standing.  “Ma’am, much as I’d like to stay, I’d better get back to those Mexican herders of mine and see that the flock’s secure for the night.”

    “A pleasure havin’ you, Mr. Carson,” Nelly said.

    “You come back anytime,” Clyde added as he escorted their guest to the door.

    “Mr. Carson,” Adam said, running up to him, “did you say your herders were Mexican?”

    “That’s right, son,” Carson replied.

    “So, do you speak Spanish?”

    “Enough to get by,” Carson laughed.

    “Oh, I know where this is headed,” Ben chuckled.  “An old Mexican hereabouts said something about ‘plata,’ and Adam’s been about to die of curiosity because the man wouldn’t explain what he meant.”

    Carson’s lips puckered in thought.  “Well, let’s see.  I think ‘plata’ means ‘silver,’ son.”

    Adam grinned broadly.  “I knew it was something important!  You reckon there’s silver in the hills around here, Mr. Carson?”

    “Oh, I doubt that,” Carson said.  “If you’re after mineral wealth, son, you’d better head over the Sierras.”  He chucked Adam under the chin.  “Just don’t do it in winter,” he added with a saucy wink and, tipping his hat to Nelly, departed.

    Nelly sighed.  With all the interest the others had shown in his adventures, Carson had never gotten around to talking about his wife.  Typical man.

    “You want another slice of pound cake, Ben?” Nelly asked.

    Ben groaned as he flopped back on the blanket spread out for their picnic.  “Not another bite or I’ll never get up from here.”

    “You, Clyde?”

    “Full to the brim,” Clyde assured his wife.

    “I’ll just pack things away then,” Nelly said, “soon as I feed Inger.”

    Ben looked up at her and smiled.  “Don’t you ever rest?  It’s the Fourth of July, Nelly, and you’ve worked hard to set out a fine lunch like this.”

    Nelly laughed as she lifted her baby girl.  “A woman’s work is never done, they say, but it’s so restful here by the lake, it feels like a holiday.  Listen to them younguns enjoyin’ themselves.”

    Ben smiled and closed his eyes, relishing the sound of his children at play.  Adam and Billy had met a couple of Washo lads at the alpine lake Frémont had called Bonpland and the Indians Tahoe, and they were playing a noisy game of tag among the pines with the Indian lads.  Nearby, Hoss was frolicking with his pup.  Ben could hear him calling again and again, “Fetch, Klam; get the stick.  Here, Klam; here, boy.”

    From his spot on the blanket near Ben, Clyde chuckled.  “Whatever possessed that youngun to call his dog Clam?” he asked.

    Ben opened one eye.  “Not Clam,” he explained dryly.  “Klamath, after a certain heroic dog we heard about last week.  Hoss just can’t get anything but the first syllable out.”

    Clyde cackled louder than before.  “Oh my lands!  That story sure made an impression on the boy, didn’t it?”

    “Sure did,” Ben yawned, “and not just on Hoss.  Or hadn’t you noticed what game our older boys have been playing the last few days?”

    “I have,” Nelly tittered.  She had moved out of their view to nurse Inger, but she was still close enough to join in the conversation.  “One day Billy plays Frémont to Adam’s Kit Carson, and the next the other way around.  They been acting out the Sierra crossing for days now.  Fact is, they’re the ones started calling Hoss’s pup Klamath.  Hoss sure squalled when they pretended to eat him, though.”

    “I didn’t know that,” Ben said.  “I’ll have a word with Adam on that subject!”

    “That Carson sure had some tales to tell, didn’t he?” Clyde commented.

    “He sure did,” Ben said fondly.  “Never thought I’d have the privilege of meeting a legend of the west like him.  Such a kindly man, too, to put up with our boys’ endless questions.”

    “A real gent,” Clyde agreed, “and with a fine head for business, too.  You know he’s takin’ thirteen thousand head of sheep to Sacramento?”

    “I was there when he told you,” Ben pointed out.

    “Yeah, I know,” Clyde said impatiently, “but have you figured how much profit he stands to make?”

    “Didn’t figure it was my business,” Ben drawled.

    “Could be, if we was to bring over a flock of our own,” Clyde suggested.

    Ben rolled onto his left side and propped his head up on one elbow.  “I had a feeling that’s where we were headed,” he grinned.  “So, how much would we make, my friend?”

    Clyde pulled himself closer to Ben’s head.  “Carson said sheep cost a dollar a head in New Mexico and sell in California for anywhere from five to twelve.  Even at the lowest price, he’d clear four dollars a head.  Calculate for yourself how much that would be, Ben!”

    Ben thought for a moment, then sat up.  “Fifty-two thousand,” he whistled.

    “At the lowest price,” Clyde pointed out.

    “That’s a tidy profit,” Ben agreed.  “You really want to do this?”

    “I think it’s a chance we shouldn’t pass up,” Clyde said firmly, “and one that won’t last forever.  If rumors is right, the emigrant traffic is gonna be slower next year.”

    “And likely to thin down after that,” Ben admitted.  “I figured on building up my cattle herd and relying on ranching once trade petered out.”

    “You could build it faster with more funds,” Clyde said.

    Ben laughed.  “Building up my ranch is not the reason you want to herd sheep, now, is it, Clyde?”

    Clyde shrugged, grinning.  “Got my own reasons,” he said.  “I was tryin’ to appeal to yours, Ben boy.”

    Ben didn’t need to ask Clyde’s reasons.  After the years they’d spent together, he could almost read his friend’s mind sometimes.  Clyde’s ambition had never included becoming a farmer or rancher; he was a blacksmith and preferred to make his living by that vocation.  But once the emigrant traffic stopped, the valley’s need for a blacksmith would decline sharply.  As surely as he knew his own heart, Ben knew Clyde wanted to build himself a nest egg against the leaner times he feared were coming.

    Ben sat up.  “I’d like to go in with you on this venture, Clyde,” he said, “but I’ve already got a sizable herd to tend.  What am I supposed to do with my cattle while we travel to New Mexico and back?”

    “You got two men working for you,” Clyde offered wryly.

    From the corner of his eye, Ben threw his friend an irritated glance.  “You’re not serious,” he said bluntly.  “Diego’s good with cattle, but he prefers mining; he only works for me long enough to set back a grub stake.  Then he’s off to the diggings.”

    “Always comes back,” Clyde grinned.

    “When his poke runs empty,” Ben replied gruffly, “and as for Tuquah—”

    “Now, I’ve heard you brag on his work,” Clyde snickered.

    “He does real well most of the time,” Ben said, “but you know how it is with his people.  The Washos are hunters and gatherers.  Hard for them to understand the kind of life that ties a man to one place.”

    “So Tuquah takes off anytime he gets itchy feet, is that it?” Clyde cackled.

    Ben raised an eyebrow.  “Something like that.  When it’s time for the piñon harvest or spring fishing or——well, you get the picture.  Not a man I could leave in charge for weeks at a time.”

    “Yeah,” Clyde admitted.  “I see your problem, but if you could find such a man—”

    “Then I’d join you in bringing back a huge herd of woollies,” Ben grinned, “though I don’t think we could afford as many as Carson.”

    Clyde lay back on the blanket, satisfied.  “I figure we ought to leave late January, so we’d be back in time to trail the sheep over with the first thaw.”

    Ben stared at the suddenly drowsy man lying beside him, then looked quizzically up at Nelly, who had just laid Inger down to sleep and was packing the leftovers into a basket.  She laughed and shook her head.  Better than Ben, she knew how rock-headed Clyde could be once he got his mind set on a thing, and in his mind the trip to New Mexico was obviously set as solid as if Ben had given him a definite yes.
 

The sun beat down with a merciless heat the first Saturday in August.  Billy and Adam eagerly stripped off their clothing and splashed into the cool waters of the Carson River not far from the Thomas cabin.  “Oh, yeah,” Billy sighed contentedly.  “That’s what I been needin’.”

    “Me, too,” Adam said, stretching full length on the water’s surface.

    “Bubba!  Bubba!” called an eager voice from the shore.  “Me swim, too, Bubba.”

    Adam groaned.  He might have known Hoss would follow them.  “Go back to Aunt Nelly,” he ordered.

    “Yeah!” Billy yelled.  “We ain’t got the time or the energy to put up with you.”

    “Aunt Nelwy busy,” the three-year-old stated as he plopped down on the riverbank and began pulling his clothes off.

    Adam gave Billy a sour look.  As they both knew, Nelly Thomas was devoting the afternoon to baking bread, and with Inger fretful from teething, she really was too busy to tend Hoss, too.  “Guess we’re stuck,” Adam moaned softly.

    “Guess so,” Billy admitted.  “Can he swim?”

    “Doubt it,” Adam replied glumly, “but I’ll be hanged if I’m gonna hold his hand while he wades in the shallow water.”

    “Doggone right!” Billy asserted.  “It’s a get-your-whole-body-wet kind of day.”

    Stripped naked, Hoss stuck a tentative toe in the water, then stretched his arm toward Adam.  “Bubba,” he called.  “Help, Bubba.”

    “Oh, bother!” Adam snapped, stomping toward his little brother.  He grabbed Hoss’s hand and pulled him in.  “Come on, Hoss,” he ordered as he dragged the boy behind him.  “If you’re gonna swim with us, you gotta go in the deep water.”

    Hoss was beaming happily until his chin dipped below the surface.  Then he screamed, wrapping pudgy arms around Adam’s waist.  “Deep, Bubba!” he hollered.  “Go back; go back.”

    “Oh, don’t be such a fraidy baby,” Billy snorted.  “Look at me, Hoss.”  He dived under the water and came up grinning.  “Now you try it.”

    “No!” Hoss yelled, clambering up Adam’s neck.

    “Turn loose!” Adam croaked.  “You’re choking me, Hoss.”

    But Hoss clung tight, terrified of the water splashing his buttocks.  “Go back,” he insisted.

    “All right,” Adam said, “but you gotta go all the way back.”  He sloshed to the river’s edge and pushed Hoss out of the water.  “Now get your clothes and go back to the house,” he ordered sternly.

    “Wanna swim, Bubba,” Hoss wailed.

    “Oh, no, you don’t,” Adam sputtered.  “What you want to do is wade and I don’t.  Now get back to the house!”  To add emphasis to his command, Adam landed a stinging swat on Hoss’s bare bottom.

    Hoss bellowed his protest, but grabbed up his clothes from the grassy bank and stalked toward the cabin.  Adam felt a pang of guilt as the tear-tracked face turned away from him, but he pushed it aside and splashed back into the center of the river.

    Hoss stumbled toward the cabin with full intentions of tattling on his hard-hearted brother, but when a ground squirrel scurried across his path, he forgot his sore bottom.  “Swirlwy,” he cried happily, dropping his clothes and trotting after the furry rodent.  “Come back, swirlwy.”

    Adam and Billy enjoyed a carefree afternoon of swimming and sunning themselves on the riverbank.  Fully dry, they scrambled into their clothes and raced toward the seesaw, Billy arriving first.

    Nelly, hearing his exultant shout of victory, came to the door.  “‘Bout time you younguns came up for air,” she scolded, “before you burn to a crisp out in that water.  Hoss ain’t used to that much sun.”  Her brown eyes scanned the dirt yard.  “Where is Hoss?” she demanded.  “Lands, you scamps didn’t leave that baby alone down by the river!”

    “We sent him back to you, Aunt Nelly,” Adam said, his face blanching.

    “Hours ago,” Billy added earnestly.

    “Good lands!  Last I seen him he was following you boys to the river,” Nelly cried.  She began to run toward the trading post a few hundred yards downstream from the cabin.  “Ben!” she shouted as she ran, Adam and Billy charging after her.  “Ben!”

    Ben finished loading a hundred-pound sack of flour into an emigrant’s wagon and turned.  “What is it, Nelly?” he asked anxiously, reading her alarm in her expression.

    “Hoss!” she cried breathlessly.  “I don’t know where he is, Ben.  I thought he was swimming with the boys, but they say they sent him back to the house hours ago.  He didn’t get there, Ben!”

    Ben grabbed Adam by the shoulders.  “Where did you see him last?” he demanded.

    “By the river, Pa,” Adam stammered.  “He was headed for the house, though, honest, Pa.”

    “Show me where you were swimming,” Ben ordered, taking Adam’s hand.

    Adam led the way toward the river.  Suddenly, Ben stopped and bent to pick up a small shirt and trousers from the tall grass.  “Hoss!” he cried.  “Hoss!”  There was no answer.

    Adam’s chin started to tremble.  His little brother was lost and it was his fault.  “I—I’m sorry, Pa,” he stuttered.

    Ben turned sober eyes on his older son’s face.  “I’ll deal with you later,” he said sternly.  “Right now the important thing is to find your brother.”

    “Yes, sir.  I’ll help look, Pa,” Adam offered quickly.

    “You and Billy fan out that way,” Ben said, pointing away from the river.  “Look everywhere and look close.  Hoss may have gotten tired and lain down in the grass somewhere.”

    Adam and Billy trotted away and spread out, each keeping the other in view.  Ben walked close to the river, dreading the thought that he might find his baby’s body submerged in the water, but not wanting Adam to be the one to come on such a grisly sight.  Half an hour later Clyde Thomas came running up to Ben.  “No sign of the boy yet?” he asked anxiously.

    Unable to speak, Ben shook his head.

    Clyde clapped his friend’s shoulder encouragingly.  “We’ll find him,” he said.  “I got that emigrant train taken care of, and I can help look now.”

    “Thanks,” Ben said.  Then his eyes scanned the horizon.  “Big country,” he murmured.

    “Yeah, but we’ll find him,” Clyde repeated.  “Don’t you fret, Ben.”  Clyde scratched his head.  “You reckon that pup of his could track him?”

    Ben’s head jerked up.  “I don’t know,” he cried, “but it’s worth a try.”  His eyes searched northward until he spotted his older son.  “Adam!” he called and waved the boy toward him.

    Adam ran up, smiling.  “Did you find him?” he called excitedly.

    Ben shook his head.  “No, son, but we’ve had an idea.  Find Klamath and bring him here.”

    “Okay,” Adam replied, “but it’ll take awhile, Pa.”

    “Just do it!” Ben snapped.

    Adam flushed, turned and ran to do as he was told.

    Ben felt immediate chagrin.  “I shouldn’t have yelled at him like that,” he muttered.

    “Worry’ll do that to a man,” Clyde said.  “Don’t fret over Adam now; time enough to make amends once we find the youngun.”

    “I suppose,” Ben mumbled.

    When Adam finally returned with Hoss’s dog, Ben held the boy’s small garments under Klamath’s nose.  “Can you find him, boy?” Ben asked urgently.  “Find Hoss, Klam.”

    The little dog seemed to recognize his master’s scent and barked sharply.  At first Ben thought the dog wasn’t up to the task, for he ran away from the quartet of searchers.  But when he stopped, Ben realized the dog was not far from where he’d first picked up the little boy’s clothing.  “That’s right, Klam!” Ben called, trotting behind the pup.  “Find Hoss, boy.”

    Klamath began moving slowly westward, toward the foothills of the Sierras.  For two hours the searchers followed the dog without sighting the boy.  “Reckon there ain’t much bloodhound to old Klamath, after all,” Clyde conceded.

    “You don’t reckon injuns took him, do you?” Billy offered.

    “No, I don’t!” Ben snapped.  “This isn’t some wild adventure we’re playing out, boy!”

    Billy kicked at the grass with his bare toes.  “Sorry,” he muttered.

    Ben looked at him quickly.  “No, I’m sorry, Billy.  I’m on edge, that’s all.  But I don’t think blaming the Indians is a particularly helpful notion.  The Washos are peaceable enough.”

    “They steal, Pa says,” Billy asserted.

    “Food, boy,” Clyde grunted.  “Foodstuff and stock, sometimes.  Never heard of ‘em takin’ a youngun.”

    Billy shrugged.  “I was just tryin’ to help.”

    “Look, it’s getting late,” Ben said.  “You boys head back to the cabin and have your supper.”

    “I want to look for Hoss,” Adam whimpered.  “It’s my fault he’s lost.”

    Ben knelt and took the trembling boy in his arms.  “We’ll talk about that later, Adam, but there’s no need for you to stay out here looking.  Go back to the house like Pa says.”

    “Let me stay, Pa,” Adam pleaded.

    “I’d let him, Ben,” Clyde said.  “Doin’ somethin’s easier than sittin’ and frettin’.”

    “Yeah, all right,” Ben agreed, standing up.

    “I’m stickin’, too,” Billy declared loyally, feeling that his friend’s problem was his, as well.

    “Good enough,” Clyde said, “but stay in sight, boys.”

    “We will, Pa,” Billy promised.

    Klamath gave a sharp bark, as if to regain the hunters’ attention, and trotted toward the sun that was just dipping behind the mountains.  Dark soon, Ben realized.  Harder then to find a small boy.  Oh, dear God, let us find him soon.

    When Klamath reached the forested foothills and moved into the trees, Ben’s heart dropped.  Not in there.  How in mercy would they find Hoss among the pines?  On they went, moving deeper into the shadows of the trees.  Dark as night here, even if the sun was still peeking over the summit of the Sierras.  The temperature was dropping, too.  Getting chilly, and none of them had brought jackets along.  Ben’s fingers tightened around Hoss’s clothing.  The naked boy must be shivering by now.

    Suddenly, Ben stopped, holding up his hand.  “Wait,” he whispered.  “I think I heard something.”

    “Wind in the pines,” Clyde said.

    “No, listen,” Ben said urgently.  A whimper wafted toward them on the wind, but they couldn’t discern its direction.  “Hoss!” Ben cried.  “Where are you, son?”

    There was no answer from the boy, but his little dog gave a happy bark and charged ahead.  “Atta, boy, Klam!” Billy yelled.  “Come on,” he hollered back at Adam.

    The men couldn’t keep up with the little dog, but the boys did.  Running into a small clearing, they saw the pup jump into his little master’s lap.  “Klam!” Hoss cried, his arms closing around the dog, who licked the tears from his face.

    “Hoss!” Adam shouted, pouncing on the boy with as much enthusiasm as the little dog.

    Billy grinned and trotted back the way he’d come.  “Hey!  We found him,” he called.  “Over here.”

    The words pumped new vigor into Ben’s legs and he ran up the incline to the clearing.  “Hoss, baby!” he cried, scooping the boy into his arms.  “Oh, my sweet baby boy.”

    “Pa!” Hoss whimpered.  “Cold, Pa.”

    Ben let loose a laugh of relief.  The moonlight revealed the goosebumps on Hoss’s bare flesh.  “Yeah, I bet you are,” Ben said.  “Pa’s got your clothes, baby; let’s get you dressed.”  He sat down and began pulling Hoss’s arms through the sleeves of the small shirt.

    “Naked as a jay bird,” Billy scolded.  “That ain’t no way to traipse the woods, boy.”

    Hoss shook his head sadly.  “Swirlwy too fast,” he whimpered.

    “Swirlwy!” Adam exclaimed.  “He ran off after a squirrel, Pa!”

    “Yeah,” Ben chuckled.  “Looks like both my boys need a little talking to.”

    Adam gulped.  Of course, Pa hadn’t said the fatal words, “very necessary little talk,” so maybe he didn’t mean a spanking, but Adam figured he had one coming.  When they finally reached home late that night, however, all Ben did was give a stern lecture to each boy.  Hoss was made aware that he was never to leave home unaccompanied, and Adam given explicit instructions on which came first, his own pleasure or his brother’s safety.

    Adam didn’t need the lecture, though:  during the anxious hours of searching for Hoss, he’d made a solemn vow that never again would he shirk his responsibilities as an older brother.  Hoss had acquired a watchdog more vigilant than Klamath, who, as the hero of the search party, basked in the extra attention and food scraps he received over the next few days.

    The next afternoon the three boys were again cooling their bare, sun-browned bodies in the Carson River.  This time, however, Adam patiently waded the shallows with his little brother, leaving Billy to splash alone a few yards downstream.  Ben and Clyde were back at the cabin waging war at the checkerboard.  Though they kept a running game of chess at the trading post during the week, Sunday afternoons were reserved for checkers.  Clyde’s skill at the more familiar game was second to none, so the matches were hotly contested.  With Inger bedded down for her nap, Nelly was using a drop spindle to make thread from wool recently shorn from their small flock of sheep.

    It was a quiet afternoon, the only sounds the gliding of wooden pieces across the game board and the intermittent creak of Nelly’s rocker on the puncheon floor.  Then the stillness was broken as a horse clattered into the yard.

    Clyde, whose chair faced the open doorway, glanced up from the game.  “Howdy, Mulligan,” he said, a slight frown on his lips as he recognized one of the miners who frequented their business.  “Trading post ain’t open Sundays, you know.”

    Ben swiveled in his seat, his brow furrowing as he saw the miner slouched against the doorjamb.  “Unless you have an urgent need,” Ben added, noting the pallor of the man’s face.  After all, he and Clyde willingly opened their storeroom for emigrants who happened to pass on a Sunday, and Ben saw little point in treating a needy neighbor with less respect.

    Mulligan stumbled into the room.  “I got an urgent need, all right,” he murmured, “but it ain’t for supplies.”

    Seeing the blood caked on the man’s shirtfront, Nelly dropped her spindle and started toward him.  Being closer, Ben reached him first and guided the injured miner to a chair.

    “Who done this, Mulligan?” Clyde demanded, jumping up.

    The miner gave a weak grin.  “Got no one to blame but myself, Thomas.  Reached for a loaded gun muzzle-end first and the thing went off.”  His dark eyes looked pleadingly at the others in the room.  “Got no right to ask, I know, but you always seemed like kind-hearted folks, so I thought maybe you could see your way to get this here bullet out of me.”

    “Lands, Mr. Mulligan, we ain’t doctors,” Nelly protested.

    The man shook his head grimly.  “I already been to the doctor, for all the good it did me.  Sent me packin’ the minute I asked for his services.”

    “What are you talking about, man?” Ben queried.  “There’s no doctor this side of the Sierras——none I ever heard about, at any rate.”

    “Shucks, you know him,” Mulligan said weakly.  “Bunch of us miners knew Doc Martin in California, but he sure ain’t the man he was there.”

    “Paul Martin?” Ben asked, amazed.  “He practiced medicine in California?”

    The miner nodded.

    Clyde looked thoughtful.  “Lots of them what calls theirselves doctors in Californy ain’t had no real schoolin’ in it.”

    “Martin did,” Mulligan muttered through gritted teeth.  “Real medical doctor, degree on the wall and everything, but I wouldn’t give two cents for all that now.  I’m in sore need of help, folks, if you could—”

    “Lands, yes,” Nelly said.  “Here you two are jawin’ at the man when you ought to be figurin’ what to do.”

    Ben looked beyond Mulligan to Clyde.  “You ever removed a bullet?”

    Clyde shook his head.  “Nope, and I ain’t about to start.  You got steadier hands than me, Ben.”

    “He’s right,” Nelly put in.  “You men help Mr. Mulligan up on the table, and I’ll put some water on to boil.  Then Ben can go to work.”

    Ben swallowed hard, then helped Mulligan lie down on the table.  Leaning over his patient, he said, “You understand I’ve never done this; I can’t promise how it’ll turn out.”

    “Just——get the bullet out——so it don’t fester in me,” Mulligan stammered feebly.  “I ain’t gonna complain if you carve me sloppy——just so’s you get it out.”

    “All right, I’ll try my best,” Ben promised.  He selected the sharpest knife Nelly had and dropped it in the pan of water to boil.  “I guess we’ll need to cauterize the wound once I get the bullet out,” he told Clyde.  “That’s your job.”

    Clyde frowned and, nodding grimly, laid a poker on the stove to heat.

    “You—uh—wouldn’t have a little whiskey you could spare, would you?” Mulligan asked.

    Ben shook his head.  “We don’t stock it; just a little beer.”

    The miner gave him a crooked grin.  “Willing to try it,” he said.

    “I’ll get it,” Clyde offered, heading for the trading post.

    With his patient duly anesthetized, Ben bit his lip and, sending a quick prayer heavenward, bent over the miner.  He placed the knife at the ragged entrance wound and slit downward to give himself more room to probe for the bullet.  Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead as he heard the miner’s moans.  “Sorry,” he muttered.

    “I can take it,” Mulligan groaned.  “Do what you gotta, Cartwright.”

    The next few minutes seemed like an eternity to Ben.  His eyes and fingers stayed intent on the task at hand, but his mind swirled from the shocking revelation about his friend.  He’d known, of course, that Paul Martin was shielding his background for some unknown reason, but he’d been encouraged by the way Martin had seemed to be opening up.  Now he realized how shallow had been his penetration of his friend’s wall of reticence.

    Ben couldn’t imagine why the man would turn his back on a noble profession and, worse yet, on a man in need of his help.  The gentle man who so patiently explained principles of chemistry to inquisitive Adam, the man who calmly wiped potatoes and gravy from Hoss’s messy face, couldn’t be the same man who refused to use his medical skills to aid an injured neighbor.  The two images didn’t coincide, but Ben couldn’t find the answer to that paradox.

    Fortunately, he had greater success probing for the bullet.  Once Ben had removed it, Clyde steeled himself and laid the hot poker to Mulligan’s chest.  The man screamed and passed out.  The stench of charred flesh sickened Ben, but he knew no better way to combat infection.  Martin might have, Ben thought angrily, vowing in that moment to confront his friend at his next opportunity.

    That opportunity didn’t come until Saturday evening, and the week’s wait gave Ben time to cool down.  He still couldn’t bring himself to make cheery conversation at the dinner table, but if Martin noticed his host’s unwonted taciturnity, he didn’t comment on it.  Once dinner was over, Ben told Adam to put Hoss to bed.  “You can read in your room afterwards,” he said.  “I’ll see to the dishes.”

    Adam looked puzzled.  He was happy to leave the dish washing to his father, of course, but he liked watching the two men play chess.  And between moves Mr. Martin let him ask questions about the chemistry text the miner had loaned him.  The look on Pa’s face invited no argument, though, so Adam took Hoss’s hand as soon as the baby had kissed his father good night.  Hoss pulled away and moved across the room to Paul Martin.  “Night-night,” he said, lifting his chubby arms.

    “Good night, Hoss,” Paul Martin said, bending over to give the little lad a warm hug.  Again Ben was hit by the contrast between the man he knew, or thought he knew, and the one he’d heard about the previous Sunday.  But still he said nothing.

    Not until Martin had made a particularly skillful move did Ben broach the subject that had been burning in his brain for nearly a week.  “Pretty slick move,” he said, adding, “Doctor.”

    Martin’s head snapped up, and he saw Ben appraising him with cool eyes.  His shoulders slumped.  “Who told you?”

    Ben leaned forward.  “It’s true, then?  You’re a medical doctor?”

    “Past tense,” Martin said curtly.  “Was.  I was a doctor.  Not now.”

    “But why?” Ben demanded.

    “None of your business!” Martin snapped.

    “It is when I have to treat a patient that came to you for help!” Ben retorted.

    Martin’s cheek muscles tightened.  “Mulligan?”

    “Have you refused anyone else treatment?” Ben asked hotly.  “I don’t understand, Paul.  How could you leave the man to my inexperienced hands when you knew what to do?”

    “You didn’t have to stick your long New England nose into it,” Paul muttered.  “If you think Mulligan will thank you for it—”

    “He already did,” Ben said, “but that’s scarcely the point.  I’m not a doctor.”

    “Neither am I,” Paul said quickly.

    “You were trained as one,” Ben sputtered.  “Whatever your reasons for leaving the profession, you had no right—”

    “No right!” Martin shouted, flying out of his chair and sweeping the chessmen off the board.  “How dare you judge me, Cartwright!  You have no idea what motivated my decision.”

    Ben took a deep breath.  “Then tell me,” he said quietly.  “For the love of mercy, man, I’m your friend; you can tell me anything.  Did—did you lose a patient?”

    Martin laughed harshly.  “All doctors lose patients, Ben.”

    Ben’s face softened.  “And I’m sure that’s hard to handle for a sensitive man like you, but, surely, no harder than watching them suffer and perhaps die because you refused to try.”

    The doctor moved toward the door.  “Look, I came to play chess, not to have you pry into my private affairs.  Since the game is obviously over, I’ll just go home and try to forget this whole conversation.”

    “Don’t,” Ben said.

    “Don’t forget it?” Martin sneered.  “If I don’t, you’ll never see me again, Ben.”

    “Don’t leave,” Ben said.  “You know perfectly well you can reconstruct this game, play by play, so we might as well finish it out.”

    “No more questions?”

    “No questions, Paul,” Ben said sadly.  As he watched the other man set up the chessmen, each in the position it had occupied when he knocked them over, Ben felt a deep sense of defeat.  He knew intuitively that some intense torment burned in the doctor’s soul, and he wanted to soothe that pain with the balm of his friendship.  How could he, though, when Martin resisted his offer of a listening ear?  All Ben could hope was that by remaining friends, on whatever limited basis Paul would accept, he could eventually instill in the doctor the confidence to unburden himself without fear of judgment.
 

September arrived, bringing with it the first crisp breezes of autumn and a bumper crop of emigrants to greet Ben’s thirty-third birthday.  Though the emigrant traffic was not as heavy as in previous years and despite the competition of new merchants in the area, business was good.  The trading post was busy enough to keep Ben and Clyde occupied there most days, and Ben fell into the habit of having Adam ride out each afternoon to check on the cattle herd.  Rarely was there a problem to report, but Adam’s chest swelled almost visibly with new feelings of importance.  Usually he chose to make his cattle inspection as soon as Hoss was bedded down for his afternoon nap, for the older boy still considered caring for his baby brother his chief duty, much to Billy’s disgruntled displeasure.

    Sundays were, as always, a welcome haven of peace and rest from the labors of the week.  The second one that month was typical.  In the cabin Clyde was, as usual, winning the checkers competition, Nelly was knitting, and Inger napping.  Outside, the only sound heard was Hoss’s merry chortle as he and Adam, on one end of the seesaw, swung up and down with Billy on the other end.

    “Real nip in the air,” Nelly was saying during a lull in the competition in which each man poured himself a cup of coffee.  “Makes me wonder if we’ll have an early winter.”

    “A possibility,” Ben admitted as he sugared his coffee.  “Might be a good idea to get our supplies laid in a little earlier than usual.  What you think, Clyde?”

    “Maybe,” the older man agreed.  “Might give it some thought.”

    Billy came charging into the cabin with his usual gusto.  “Hey, Pa!” he hollered.  “There’s folks comin’.”

    “Emigrant train?” his father asked.

    “Naw, just one wagon,” Billy said and dashed to the door to eye the visitors again.  “They’re strangers, though.”

    Ben and Clyde followed Billy out.  Ben smiled as he saw Adam helping Hoss get his fat legs over the edge of the seesaw.  But prideful thoughts could wait.  Like Clyde, he peered curiously toward the approaching wagon.

    “Man and woman,” Clyde said, “but I don’t recognize ‘em.”

    “That, my friend, is our latest competitor,” Ben chuckled.  “Name’s Walter Cosser.  Just started a mercantile over at Gold Canyon, and that must be his wife.”

    “Oh, good!” Nelly said, having joined them after whisking a few things into place.  “I can’t remember when we’ve had a Sunday caller.”  Seeing Ben’s arched eyebrow, she laughed.  “You don’t count, Ben.  You’re family.”

    Nelly welcomed the visitors into the cabin and offered them each a slice of pie, but though Mr. And Mrs. Cosser accepted it graciously, the others soon learned that this was not a social call.

    “I’ve come to ask your advice, Mrs. Thomas,” Mrs. Cosser said, her thick accent marking her Scottish heritage.

    “Why, certainly,” Nelly said, flattered.  “Anything I can do to help.”

    “Short of telling all our trade secrets,” Clyde snickered.

    Nelly frowned at what she considered rudeness, but Walter Cosser found Clyde’s remark amusing.  “My wife’s got us in quite a pickle, I’m afraid,” he said, smiling.  “We were told you folks were just about the oldest settlers around and so here we are, hat in hand, but not to beg for trade secrets.  Got my own, you know.”

    “Hush your foolishness,” Mrs. Cosser sputtered.  “This is no laughing matter.  Do any of you know a man named Benjamin Cole?”

    “Only Benjamin I know is this one,” Clyde said, pushing his thumb at Ben’s chest.

    “I think he came in the trading post once,” Ben, whose memory for names and faces was better than Clyde’s, replied, “but he’s new in the territory.  I really don’t know anything about him.”

    “And the Powell family?” Mrs. Cosser asked.

    Not even Ben recognized that name, so he shook his head along with the others.

    “Oh, dear,” Mrs. Cosser sighed.  “Well, I may be interfering when I shouldn’t, but it just doesn’t seem proper to me, and—”

    “Start at the beginning, my dear,” her husband suggested.  “These people have no idea what you’re talking about.”

    “Yes, of course,” Mrs. Cosser said hurriedly.  “Well, Mr. Powell came here to mine this summer, bringing his two children with him.  At first, they lived in a tent, like so many of the boys.  But with winter coming on, I thought a good boardinghouse would be a profitable investment, so we built one.”

    “Been doing well, too,” her husband added proudly.  “Keeps the customers close, so to speak.”

    Ben chuckled.  “Now who’s giving away trade secrets.”

    “You’re both interrupting,” Mrs. Cosser scolded, “and this is a serious matter.  As I was saying, Powell left his children at the boardinghouse.”

    “Alone?” Nelly asked.

    “Well, he had little choice,” Mrs. Cosser admitted.  “The mother died recently and he thought the youngsters would be better off with a roof over their heads than camping out at the diggings.”

    “Not likely to think so now,” her husband grunted.

    Mrs. Cosser waved her hand to silence her husband, then sighed again.  “I’m afraid he’s right.  Well, you know how it is out west, Mrs. Thomas——a hundred men to every woman.”

    “We’re definitely outnumbered,” Nelly smiled encouragingly.

    “Well, the little Powell girl worked just like pollen on bees to the men around here.  No sooner had they heard there was an unattached female staying with us than we were besieged with men begging for rooms.  You wouldn’t believe the price I was offered for just a cot in a stone basement.”

    “I would,” Clyde cackled.  “A female’s worth ‘most any price out here.”

    “So you’re havin’ trouble keepin’ the men away?” Nelly asked, giving Clyde’s leg a tap with her shoe beneath the table.

    “More than I knew,” Mrs. Cosser said.  “This Benjamin Cole I mentioned——he’s gone and married the girl.  And her a child of fourteen!”

    “Oh, dear!” Nelly cried.  “Without her father’s consent?”

    “Absolutely without his consent,” Mrs. Cosser said.  “He doesn’t know a thing about it.  Now, I know girls sometimes marry that young, but it just doesn’t seem right to me.  I was hoping you could give me your opinion and tell me whether this Cole is the right sort of man or if he’s only taking advantage of the child.”

    “I’ll give you my opinion!” Clyde said, his fist striking the table.  “No man better think of marryin’ my little girl without my say-so.  I’d skin him alive.”

    “Cole left Mary with us,” Mr. Cosser explained, “while he went to build a cabin for them, but my wife thinks maybe we should encourage the girl to wait until her father returns before she goes off with the man.”

    “Have you spoken to Miss Mary about this?” Ben asked.

    “Not plainly,” Mrs. Cosser replied, “but she’s talked to me a little, and I think the girl’s having second thoughts.  You know how young girls are, Mrs. Thomas——full of romantic notions.  I’m sure she was flattered by all the attention.”

    “And in love with the idea of being in love,” Nelly added, “more than with the man.”

    “Exactly my feeling,” the other woman said.

    “Then she isn’t ready for marriage,” Nelly concluded.  “I think you’re right to encourage her to talk with her father first.”

    “Thing is,” Mr. Cosser inserted, “the situation’s already causing a lot of talk.  Some of the miners——friends of Cole, I guess——think he had a right to marry the girl, so long as she agreed.  Others, especially those with children of their own, are taking the father’s side just as strongly.”

    “You think there could be trouble?” Ben asked.

    Cosser nodded grimly.  “If it comes to it, I’d like to know we had the support of prominent settlers like yourselves.”

    “You got mine,” Clyde stated sturdily, “and I reckon I can speak for Ben.”

    “Yeah,” Ben said quietly.  He didn’t feel as strongly as Clyde——maybe because he had sons, not a daughter——but, still, it wasn’t right, going behind the father’s back.  He remembered the support Captain Stoddard had given him and Elizabeth when they married.  That’s the way marriage was meant to be, not some sneaky, back-handed contract rushed into without thought.  “Yeah,” he said more firmly.  “I’ll stand with you if troubles comes.  Let’s just hope it doesn’t.”  And as the autumn leaves began to change colors and drop to earth without any sign of conflict, Ben felt certain his hope had been justified.

    October added the annual pumpkin harvest to Adam’s list of chores, and Billy’s, as well.  The boys claimed the two biggest ones to save for jack-o-lanterns at month’s end and, after stocking the trading post with all that were likely to sell, divided the rest equally between the two families.  All but a few straggling wagon parties had passed by mid-month, and Ben and Clyde made plans for their final trip across the Sierras for winter supplies.  The weather had continued colder than usual, and they wanted to make an early trip.

    Two days before their scheduled departure Ben entertained Paul Martin in his home for what he presumed would be their last chess match.  Proud to have won it, Ben poured a cup of hot coffee for his friend.  “I’m going to miss these Saturday evenings with you, Paul,” he said.

    Still trying to analyze Ben’s winning strategy, Paul looked up quickly.  “You saying I’m not welcome here anymore?”

     “Of course, you’re welcome here,” Ben laughed.  “But I told you I’d be leaving Monday, and I naturally assumed you’d be gone by the time I returned.  Hardly any of the miners spend the winter here.”

    “Well, here’s one that plans to,” Martin replied, a hard edge in his voice.  “I’ve seen all of California I care to.”

    “Have you got enough supplies stockpiled?” Ben asked as he poured a cup of coffee for himself.

    Paul shrugged nonchalantly.  “I figured I could get what I needed at the trading post.”

    A half-smile lifted one corner of Ben’s mouth.  “That was a dangerous assumption, my friend.  Most of us shut down for the winter.”

    “You, too?” Paul inquired, looking more serious.

    Ben nodded as he moved to the opposite side of the table.  “Of course, Reese stays open, and maybe Cosser will; but Reese, at least, only stocks the basics this time of year.”

    “And maybe not enough to go around?” Paul asked.

    Ben shrugged.  “I don’t know.  I bring in my own, of course, so I don’t often have to trade there.”  He pulled out his chair and sat down.

    Paul bit his lip.  “Would—would you have enough room in your wagon to bring back supplies for me?” he asked, clearly reluctant to request the favor.

    Ben chuckled.  “Oh, I imagine I could squeeze in a little extra beans and bacon.  But are you sure that’s what you want?  Winters here get pretty cold.  We haven’t had a real severe one since we settled here, but Tuquah tells me they can get bad some years.  The way the weather’s been shaping up, this one just might get that way.”

    “Well, I’m sure I don’t want to go back to California,” Paul grunted.  “That doesn’t leave me many options.”

    Ben sipped his coffee slowly.  “What happened in California?” he asked quietly.

    Paul clunked his tin cup down.  “Stickin’ your long New England nose in where it doesn’t belong again, aren’t you?”

    Ben arched an eyebrow.  “Maybe I think it’s a friend’s prerogative.  That’s the reason you quit medicine, isn’t it?  Something that happened in California?”

    Paul took another sip of coffee.  “Keep stickin’ your nose out like that, Ben, and it just might get punched back where it belongs.”

    Ben shook his head, not worried that his friend would suddenly and uncharacteristically resort to violence, but he’d gotten the message, obviously Martin’s intent.  “Let’s discuss what supplies you’ll need for the winter,” Ben said, and once launched into that safe topic, found Paul once more easy to converse with.

    As the Cartwrights’ wagon pulled up before the Thomas cabin early Monday morning, Adam jumped from the end and reached back to help down his sleepy little brother.  “You about ready?” Ben called to Clyde.

    Clyde made a final check on his oxen’s harness.  “Ready,” he announced.

    Ben bent over to give Hoss a farewell kiss.  “Be a good boy and mind Aunt Nelly,” he instructed.

    “Good boy, Pa,” Hoss assured him with an emphatic bob of his pudgy chin.

    Ben laughed and rumpled the boy’s sleep-tousled tawny hair.  Then he laid a hand on Adam’s shoulder.  “And you be a good boy, too,” he chuckled.

    “I always am, Pa,” Adam said, a trifle grumpily.  Ben wasn’t sure whether the boy was still sleepy like his brother, disgruntled because he’d been refused permission to go on the trip or whether he felt genuinely offended by what he considered an unnecessary admonition.  The last problem, at least, Ben could remedy.  “I’m sure you’ll be as good as always,” he said.  “Look after Hoss for me.”

    Adam smiled.  “I will, Pa.”

    Clyde was squinting into the rising sun.  “Didn’t know Cosser was plannin’ to bring two wagons.”

    Ben looked over his shoulder.  Sure enough, two wagons were lumbering toward them.  “Nor did I.  Of course, with that boardinghouse to provide for, maybe they need extra supplies.”

    “Two wagons full?” Clyde scoffed.

    Ben shrugged.  The only way to answer that question was to wait and ask Walter Cosser.

    Cosser raised a hand in greeting as his wagon pulled into the yard.  “Hope you men don’t mind, but I invited Mr. Powell to travel with us.  He’s headed for California, and like we discussed before, there’s safety in numbers.”

    Ben smiled.  “As I told you before, I don’t think there’s much danger, but you’re both welcome to travel with us——at least to Placerville.  I’m not sure our plans coincide after that.”

    “That should be far enough,” Powell said.

    Ben’s brow wrinkled, and the furrows deepened as he saw two young children peeking through the opening in the wagon cover.  “You expecting trouble?” he asked quietly.

    “Maybe,” Powell replied cautiously.  “Cosser here said you’d be willing to help, even if—”

    “We are,” Clyde inserted hurriedly.  “Just like to know what we’re up against.”

    “Fair enough,” Powell agreed.  “My girl’s too young to be married, so I’m gonna resettle in California.  Mining chances here don’t seem any better than there, anyway, so it’s all one to me.  This Cole fellow don’t know yet that we’ve left, but might be he’d follow.  Mary seems to think he’s real attached to her.”

    “You bring your sidearm, Ben?” Clyde asked.

    “It’s in the wagon,” Ben replied gravely.  Though he rarely carried a handgun at home, reports of robberies on California roads had made him deem it prudent to buy one for his trips there.  So far, he’d never had to use it, but it was cleaned and ready.

    “Hey, Pa!” called a drowsy voice from the cabin’s doorway.  “Maybe I better come along after all.  Be an extra gun hand, you know.”

    Ben had to laugh.  Standing there barefoot in his nightshirt did nothing to make Billy look like a gun hand.

    Clyde, however, didn’t find the offer even slightly amusing.  “I’d better not see you handlin’ my gun, boy!”

    Nelly jerked on Billy’s elbow.  “Get back in here!” she ordered.  “What’s the matter with you, showin’ yourself to that girl without proper clothes on!”  Billy disappeared an instant later.

    “That’s all we’d need,” Clyde grumbled, “to have trouble followin’ and take it along with us, too!”

    “Pa,” Adam said, his face concerned.  “Pa, you be careful.”

    Ben knelt down and gave his son’s arms a squeeze.  “I will be, Adam.  No need for you to worry, boy.  Probably won’t be any trouble.”

    “Adam!” Hoss called from the doorway.  “Aunt Nelwy fixin’ pancakes!”

    Ben stood and gave Adam’s bottom a playful swat.  “Better get them while the getting’s good,” he cautioned.  “Your brother’s mighty fond of pancakes.”  Adam grinned and trotted into the house.

    The wagons pulled out.  Though they made good time, a group of men on horses easily overtook the ox-drawn wagons when they stopped for a light lunch.  “Bound to be Cole,” Powell declared, pulling his rifle from his wagon.

    “No, Pa!” Mary Powell pleaded.  “Don’t shoot him!  He loves me, Pa.”

    “Love!” Powell shouted.  “You don’t know the meaning of the word, girl.”

    “Put the gun down, Powell!” Ben shouted in a commanding voice.  “Maybe all the man wants to do is talk.”

    “He don’t need that many men with him to talk,” Powell protested.

    “Nonetheless,” Ben said, taking the rifle, “if gunplay starts, it’s these youngsters who are likely to get hurt.”

    Nodding grimly, Powell released the gun.  “All right,” he said, “we’ll talk, but that man ain’t takin’ my little girl.”

    The first rider, followed closely by three others, reached the encamped wagons and vaulted from his saddle.  Sweeping a hank of blonde hair out of snapping brown eyes, the young man stepped swiftly to the side of Mary Powell.  The girl’s father stepped just as quickly between them.  “Is this the one, Mary?” Powell demanded.  “Is this the fiend who preys on little girls?”

    “Oh, Pa,” Mary cried.  “It wasn’t like that.”

    “I’ll be the judge of that, girl!” her father sputtered.

    Benjamin Cole stuck a long finger beneath Powell’s hooked nose.  “You watch how you talk to my wife!” he yelled.

    Clyde walked up to stand beside Powell, and Walter Cosser flanked the father’s other side.  “Fourteen’s too young to be anybody’s wife,” Clyde said.

    Cole turned to face him.  “Look, I don’t know you, mister, and I don’t know what business you think this is of yours, but—”

    “I’m a father,” Clyde snapped, “a father who can understand what another father feels, that’s all.  You had no business goin’ behind Mr. Powell’s back to marry up with his girl.”

    “Look at her,” Cosser pleaded.  “A mere child.  Find yourself a woman, Cole.”

    “She’s a woman in every way that counts,” Cole alleged.

    “Except in judgment, perhaps,” Ben said from the place he’d taken behind the others.

    Cole squinted at the latest man to enter the debate.  “I know you, don’t I?  Cartwright, isn’t it?”

    “That’s right,” Ben said.  “I don’t know you well enough to judge your intentions toward this girl, Cole, but—”

    “Honorable,” Cole protested.  “If they’d been otherwise, I wouldn’t have bothered with a wedding.”

    “That’s a point in his favor, Powell,” Ben said.  “Mary would have had no defense against a man determined to force her favors.”

    “So maybe he ain’t as bad as he might be,” Powell argued, “but I don’t call goin’ behind my back honorable, either.  He deliberately waited ‘til Mary had no one to protect her from a smooth talkin’ fancy man.”

    Mary pressed her palms to her burning cheeks.  “You all talk like I wasn’t here at all,” she cried.

    Ben glanced at the girl with sudden sympathy.  “She’s right.  I haven’t heard anyone ask Mary what she wants.”

    “She’s too young to decide,” Powell stammered.

    “Perhaps,” Ben agreed, “but if this were my daughter or my beloved, I’d want to hear her feelings.  Surely, what we all want is what’s best for Mary.”  His brown eyes fixed on Cole’s face.  “Surely, Mr. Cole, as an honorable man, you wouldn’t demand that Mary return with you against her will.”

    “Well, no,” Cole admitted.  “Not if Mary’s set against our marriage.”

    “Then you’re willing to abide by her decision?” Ben pressed.

    Cole flashed a self-assured smile at the pretty young girl.  “Yeah, whatever Mary wants.”

    “And you, Powell?” Ben asked.

    Powell frowned.  “I—I don’t know.”

    Cole rubbed the handle of his holstered revolver.  “Make up your mind,” he mumbled in a low, threatening tone.  “Is it Mary’s choice or not?”

    Powell looked at his daughter, and in that look Ben read the agony of heart he was sure he himself would feel in a similar situation.  “I think there’s only one fitting choice for a girl her age, but I’ll let her be the one to make it,” he said.

    “Come on, Mary,” Cole said, stretching a hand toward the flustered girl.  “Let’s go home.”

    “Oh, I don’t know!” Mary sobbed.  “I don’t know what to do.  Can’t you give me some time?”

    “That’s reasonable,” Ben said.  “Let the child have an hour to make her decision.  Her whole future depends on it.”

    “An hour,” Powell agreed, then took his daughter’s hand and gave it a gentle squeeze.  “Can you decide in an hour’s time, honey?”

    Mary gazed into his gray eyes.  “I reckon I’ll have to, Pa.”  She excused herself and wandered off toward the riverbank near which they’d stopped for the noon break.  The others left her alone for almost the full hour.  Then Ben ambled over to the river to fill his canteens.  “I don’t mean to disturb you, Mary,” he said as he squatted down and let the canteens sink into the water, “but we’ll be pulling out soon and I need fresh water.”

    “That’s all right, Mr. Cartwright,” Mary said quietly, twirling a broken reed between her fingers.  “I—I want to thank you for stepping in like you did.  You’re the only one who cared about me.”

    Ben sat on a nearby rock.  “Mary, I think they both care about you, maybe so much they aren’t thinking straight.”

    Mary’s lips formed a soft smile.  “I’m not sure I am, either, Mr. Cartwright.  I still don’t know what to do.  What do you think, Mr. Cartwright?”

    Ben capped his canteens and stood up.  “Has your relationship with your father been a good one, Mary?”

    “Oh, yes,” she said immediately.  “He’s been a real good father, sir.”

    “Then, shouldn’t you be asking advice from him rather than a complete stranger?” Ben asked.

    “The stranger didn’t take sides,” Mary explained.  “I’d rather hear what he thought.”

    Ben brushed a wisp of dark brown hair from Mary’s cheek.  “Do you think you’re ready for marriage, Mary?” he asked gently.

    Mary tossed the reed aside.  “I’m not sure.  I like the idea, and Benjamin——my Benjamin, I mean——he’s so handsome and he says such sweet things.”

    “But do you love him?” Ben asked softly.

    Mary kicked at the grass.  “Maybe it’s like Pa says——I don’t really know what love is.”

    “Don’t you think you should find out before you tie yourself to one man for the rest of your life?”  Ben smiled.  “Shouldn’t you know first what you want in a man——as a husband and as a father to your children?”

    “Children!” Mary cried.  “Lands, Mr. Cartwright, I know I’m not ready to be a mother!”

    Ben reached out and took her hand.  “One usually follows pretty much on the heels of the other, child,” he said.

    Mary paled.  “Oh, dear, I suppose you’re right,” she sighed.  “I’m really not ready yet, am I?”

    “Doesn’t sound like it,” Ben replied.  “Want me to tell them your decision?”

    Mary squared her shoulders.  “No——thank you, but no.  I’m woman enough to do that myself.”

    Ben took her arm.  “Then, at least, let me escort you back, young lady.”  Mary smiled up into his warm brown eyes.

    Together, they walked back to the train.  Mary went directly to Benjamin Cole, who smiled triumphantly as she approached.  She took his hand and stroked it kindly.  “Much as I like you, Benjamin,” she said, “I’m not ready to be a wife.  I still have a lot of growing up to do, and I think the best place to do it is in my father’s house.  I want to go on to California.”

    Cole blushed furiously.  He’d been so sure she would choose him and now felt embarrassed in front of his friends.  “I think you’re makin’ a mistake, girl,” he muttered, “but I won’t go back on my word.”

    Mary glanced quickly at Ben Cartwright.  “I’m not a girl,” she said, tossing dark curls over her slim shoulder.  “I’m a young lady——something you and my pa both forgot——and I reckon I’ll stand by my choice.”
 

Ben stopped his wagon in front of the canvas and scrap wood shelter which Paul Martin called home.  “Hello the house,” he called.

    Bare-chested, with his suspenders hanging from the waist, Martin stepped outside into the fading sunlight.  “Back, are you?” he asked.  “Good trip?”

    “Fine trip,” Ben replied.  “A little trouble at the start, but it turned out all right.  Saw several old friends and found enough trinkets to brighten my boys’ Christmas.  Thought I might as well deliver your supplies directly, rather than unloading them at the store first.”

    “Thanks,” Paul said.  “Guess we’d better get the job done, huh?”

    “Soon as possible,” Ben agreed.  “I want to get back to the Thomases and collect the boys before dark.”

    “Should have brought them with you,” Paul said.

    Ben chuckled.  “Well, that didn’t suit my purpose.  I have a favor to ask.”

    Paul looked skeptical.  Not once in his acquaintance with Ben Cartwright had the other man let him play the benefactor.  Always the other way around.  “What do you need?” he asked, hoping it was something he could provide.

    “Just a place to hide the afore-mentioned Christmas presents,” Ben laughed.  “There aren’t enough hidey-holes in my cabin to fool certain prying little eyes, and that Billy Thomas is getting snoopier by the day.  I don’t think my usual device of hiding them at his place is going to work this year.”

    Paul smiled.  “My place is even smaller, but you’re welcome to its use, provided you haven’t spoiled those boys with a pile of toys taller than the mountains.”

    Ben ignored the taunt.  “I appreciate it,” he said as he began to unload Martin’s supplies.

    Paul hefted a sack of cornmeal to his shoulder and followed Ben into the cabin.  “Just pile it in the back corner,” he said in answer to Ben’s query.

    Ben dropped the bag of flour in the designated spot and headed outside to get another load.  As he was exiting, however, he noticed the black bag sitting in the corner nearest the door.  There was no mistaking the distinctive shape.  Ben picked it up and held it out toward his friend.  “I thought you’d given up the practice of medicine, doctor,” he said bluntly, “so why keep this?”

    Paul snatched the bag from Ben’s hands.  “It was a gift——from someone who meant a lot to me.  That’s why I keep it.  And you dare accuse Billy Thomas of snoopiness!”

    Ben smiled wryly.  “I assure you he didn’t learn it from me, present evidence to the contrary.”

    “I thought you wanted these supplies unloaded fast,” Martin muttered as he set the bag down.

    Ben nodded.  Working in virtual silence, the men quickly finished their task.  “Something else I’d like to talk to you about,” Ben began when the work was done.

    “If you plan on sticking that nose of yours in my business again,” Paul retorted sharply, “you can—”

    “Hey!” Ben snapped.  “What I want to discuss is a job offer, but maybe you consider that sticking my long New England nose in, too.”

    “A job?”  Paul looked suspicious.  “What kind of job?”

    “Well, you know Clyde Thomas and I have been talking about driving a flock of sheep up from New Mexico,” Ben began again.

    “You’ve mentioned it,” Paul said, feeling calmer.

    “Yeah, and I was wondering——since you’re planning to winter here——if you’d mind looking after my place and seeing to the stock while I’m away.”

    Paul laughed.  “Do I strike you as a cattleman?”

    Ben arched an eyebrow.  “More so than a miner.  Cattle, at least, are living things, more in your line than panning for gold, Doctor Martin.”  At the risk of offending his abrasive friend, Ben deliberately emphasized the title.”

    Martin blanched.  “Ben—”

    Ben raised an interjecting hand.  “Yeah, I know.  Keep my nose where it belongs.  Let’s look at it strictly as a business proposition then.  Now, I have two men working for me——part time, at least.  They can handle the day-to-day management of the cattle, but I’d prefer to leave someone more trustworthy in charge.  You may not have experience with cattle, but your medical skills will be useful when they calve.”

    “I never was a vet,” Paul chuckled, “but I imagine I could play mid-wife to a cow, if needed.”

    “Exactly what I thought,” Ben said.  “I’d pay you for your help, of course, and you’re welcome to stay at my place while we’re away.”  He looked around the ramshackle cabin.  “Certainly, you’ll be warmer there than here.”

    “What about the boys?” Paul said.  “You want me to look after them, too?”

    Ben shook his head.  “No, they’ll stay with Nelly Thomas, though I’d appreciate it if you looked in on them from time to time, just to see that everything’s going well.  A woman alone might need someone she could call on, maybe someone to chop a little wood once in awhile.  It looks to be a cold winter.”

    “I guess I could handle that,” Paul said.  “Sure, I’ll watch the place while you’re gone, Ben, but I’ll miss our Saturday chess matches.”

    A twinkle sparkled in Ben’s brown eyes.  “Absence makes the heart grow fonder, they say.  Maybe you’ll learn to appreciate a certain long New England nose when it isn’t around to poke into your business.”

    Paul chuckled and shook his head.  Snoopiness notwithstanding, he was glad it would be three months before he had to give up those weekly visits with the one man he called friend.

    November slipped past unnoticed, except for the annual gathering around a table crammed with proof of a bountiful harvest and a prosperous year.  That holiday was no sooner celebrated than the Cartwright boys began to feel excited anticipation of Christmas.  “How long now, Bubba?” Hoss demanded each December morning.  “‘Morrow?”

    “No, not tomorrow,” Adam said, exasperated.  He squatted next to the fireplace where his father was frying bacon for breakfast.  “Pa, what are we gonna do with him?” he grumbled.

    Ben chuckled.  “Serves you right for talking about Santa this early in the month.”

    Hoss slapped his hand repeatedly against Adam’s back.  “How long, Bubba?” he persisted.

    “Well, not tomorrow!” Adam snapped, jumping to his feet.  “Not for lots of tomorrows.”

    “Adam,” Ben rebuked gently, seeing Hoss’s lower lip pooch out.  “He can’t help it.  Three-year-olds don’t have much concept of time.”

    “Well, he needs one,” Adam declared adamantly.  “It’s time he learned what a week is, anyway.”

    Ben tweaked Adam’s nose.  “All right, little schoolmaster, you teach him.”

    Adam smiled, liking the idea.  “I bet I could.”  He gave Hoss’s tawny head a pat.  “Want to learn the days of the week, Hoss?”

    Hoss’s chin bobbed up and down.

    “Okay, let’s get started,” Adam said.

    “Breakfast first,” Ben said firmly.  “Then chores.”

    Adam groaned, hating to put off a project once he had it in mind, but there’d be no convincing Pa that teaching Hoss was more important than mucking out the cow’s stall.  The lessons would have to wait.

    With necessary duties out of the way, Adam seated his little pupil at the table.  “Can I use the calendar, Pa?”

    His lips twitching, Ben got the desired “textbook” for his son.  Adam spread it open at the proper month.  “Okay, Hoss, this shows all the days in December, but we’ll just learn a few at first.”  Adam pointed to December 10th.  “This is today.  We call it Saturday.”

    “Sat-day,” Hoss repeated earnestly.

    “Good boy,” Adam said.  “Now, do you know what happens every Saturday?”  Hoss’s head wagged from side to side.

    “Saturday’s the day Mr. Martin comes to teach me chemistry,” Adam lectured.

    Ben looked up from the harness he was mending.  “Oh, is that why he comes?” he chuckled.  “I always thought he came to play with me.”

    Adam grinned sheepishly.  “Yeah, I guess so,” he admitted, “but I like the other part best.”  He turned back to the calendar, pointing out two more dates to Hoss.  “See, Hoss——one, two more Saturdays and it will be Christmas Eve.”

    “Santa come!” Hoss chirped, then cocked his head.  “Pau-Pau Santa?”

    Ben laughed as he recognized Hoss’s garbled pronunciation of their weekly visitor’s name.  “Now you’ve done it!” he snickered at Adam.  “Now he thinks Paul Martin is Santa Claus!”  Of course, Hoss wasn’t far wrong this particular year, Ben thought with amusement.

    “No, no, Hoss,” Adam corrected.  “Mr. Martin is not Santa.  He just usually comes the same day that—”  Adam raised quizzical eyes to his father.  “Is he coming that Saturday, Pa?  Christmas Eve, I mean.”

    Ben sat down across from Adam.  “You know, I hadn’t realized ‘til now that Christmas Eve fell on a Saturday.  It might be a neighborly thing to have him here, though.  People get lonely at Christmas time when they have no family of their own.”

    “But you wouldn’t just play chess, would you?” Adam asked urgently.  “You’d still read the Christmas ghost story and fix up the tree like always?”

    Ben reached across the table to squeeze the boy’s hand.  “Of course, Adam.  That’s our special tradition; we’ll always do that.  But it doesn’t hurt to share our special times with others, does it?”

    Adam smiled.  “No, Pa.  Sharing makes them better.”

    “Good.  I’ll ask Mr. Martin to join us then.”

    Adam turned his attention back to Hoss’s instruction and by the time he put away the calendar was convinced his little brother understood just when the gifts would appear under the Christmas tree.  He was convinced, that is, until the next morning when Hoss greeted him with “How long now, Bubba?  ‘Morrow?”

    Standing on a chair, Hoss pressed his nose flat against the cold windowpane in the front room, then turned to look at Adam.  “Santa Pau-Pau come?” he asked urgently.

    “Santa will come,” Adam promised, “but I don’t know about Pau-Pau.”

    Ben gave the stewed turnips a final stir and looked anxiously out the window.  The rain was still coming down and, if the temperature continued to drop, was likely to turn to snow by morning, perhaps earlier.  Like Hoss, Ben was concerned that the weather might keep Paul from coming, and though Adam didn’t realize it, in that event Santa Claus wasn’t likely to arrive either.  Paul had been reluctant to intrude on a family holiday, but had finally given in to Ben’s insistence and promised to bring the boys’ presents with him when he came.  No Paul, no presents, and Ben was disappointed on both counts.

    The skies had been gray all day, but they grew darker as night fell.  No sense holding supper, Ben thought as he set out three tin plates.  Before he could get all the food on the table, however, several loud thumps struck the door.  His face lighting, Ben ran to open it.

    In the doorway stood a totally drenched Paul Martin.  “Pau-Pau!” Hoss cried, bustling over to greet their guest.

    “Mercy, man, get in here and dry off,” Ben ordered.

    “Yes, sir!” Paul said, giving Ben a smart salute.  He gave Hoss a gentle pat.  “I’ll hug you later, son.  I’m wet to the bone.”

    Oblivious to the dampness, Hoss hugged Paul’s pants leg.  Ben pulled the boy away.  “Later, son,” he laughed.  “Let Mr. Martin over by the fire.”  He smiled at Paul.  “I was afraid you might not make it, the weather being what it is.”

    Paul winked.  “Santa’s sleigh runs through any storm, you know.”

    Hoss plucked Adam’s shirt sleeve.  “See.  Pau-Pau Santa.”  Adam rolled his eyes, but it was his ears that pricked up at his father’s next words.

    “Did you—uh—bring anything with you?” Ben asked.

    Paul laughed.  “In the barn,” he whispered, but Adam heard him.

    “Maybe I should put up Mr. Martin’s horse, Pa,” Adam offered, keeping his face innocent.

    Ben and Paul both hooted, seeing at once through Adam’s stratagem.  “Oh, no, you don’t!” Ben said, ruffling the boy’s dark hair.

    “I tended my horse before I came to the house, son,” Paul added.  “You just didn’t hear me because of the storm.”

    Adam grinned, not minding at all that he’d been caught.  “We’re just glad you’re here,” he said, “and even more now that—”

    “Careful, Adam,” Ben cautioned.  “Little pitchers have big ears.”

    Adam tittered, remembering all the times grownups had used that phrase around him.  He hadn’t liked the feeling of being left in the dark, but now, of course, Pa meant Hoss, and Adam enjoyed being in on the joke.

    Ben loaned Paul some dry clothes, and while his friend was changing, finishing setting out the food.  Hoss banged on the door to his father’s room.  “Hurwy, Pau-Pau,” he called.  “Time eat.”

    “Hoss, get away from that door,” Ben scolded.

    The door opened immediately and Paul swooped Hoss up in his arms.  “Now for that hug I promised you, little man.”  Hoss giggled as Paul gave him a squeeze and swung him to his shoulder.  “Now, where’s this food you promised me, Hoss?”  Hoss pointed to the table and Paul swung him down into his special, long-legged chair.

    The others gathered around the table and Ben asked their guest to offer thanks.  Paul did, then sniffed the air appreciatively.  “Oxtail stew, isn’t it?”

    “You have a trained sniffer,” Ben smiled as he ladled his friend’s plate full of the savory broth in which swam large chunks of meat, carrots and potatoes.  “Not a traditional meal, I suppose, but stew’s my best dish.”

    “Always a favorite with me,” Paul said.

    Evidently, the stew was a favorite with everyone, for all four ate large helpings.  In fact, by the time they were finished, nothing remained on the table.  Ben and Adam hurriedly cleared the table and washed the dishes while Paul amused Hoss playing cat’s cradle with a bit of string he’d brought in his pocket.

    Then they worked together to wind a popcorn garland around the tree and hang the usual ornaments from the branches.  “Now we eat popcorn while Pa reads a story,” Adam informed their guest.

    “You may eat popcorn,” Paul laughed, “but I am full up to here.”  He held his hand just below his chin.”

    “Storwy, Pa,” Hoss chirped.

    “Soon as I pop the corn,” Ben promised.  “Adam, you get the book down.”

    Paul reached for the volume as soon as Adam had taken it from the shelf.  “Ah!  A Christmas Carol——a favorite of mine, too.”  He glanced over to the fireplace where Ben was preparing the snack.  “Mind if I help with the reading, Ben?”

    “Sure, that’d be a treat for me,” Ben said.

    Out of politeness Adam didn’t say anything, though he secretly wanted his father to do all the reading.  Pa always made the story seem so real.  As the reading began, however, Adam learned that Paul Martin also had a gift for making words come alive.  He and Ben divided up the characters——Ben providing the voice for some and Paul, others.  It was almost like seeing the story acted out, Adam decided, and hoped Mr. Martin could be there for all their Christmas Eves.

    When the story ended, the boys said their good-nights and headed for bed.  “Look, Pa,” Adam said as he glanced out the window.  “It’s snowing!”  He frowned worriedly.  “You think we’ll be able to get to Billy’s place for Christmas tomorrow?”

    Ben laid the chessboard on the table.  “Oh, I imagine we can get through, though it looks like Santa will have to use his sleigh and reindeer tonight.”

    Adam giggled.  “Yeah, that’s right.  Come on, Hoss, let’s get tucked in so Santa can come.”

    “Wanna see waindeer,” Hoss insisted, stretching for the doorknob.

    “If you do, Santa won’t leave any presents,” Ben warned with a twitch of his lips.

    “Night-night,” Hoss called as he hustled into the bedroom with Adam close behind.

    Ben chuckled and started to set the chess pieces in place.  Watching the snowflakes fall, Paul frowned.  “Maybe we’d better forego the chess game tonight, Ben,” he said.  “I think I should head home before this gets any heavier.”

    “You’re not going anywhere,” Ben said firmly.  “You’re staying the night here.”

    “Oh, Ben, I can’t do that,” Paul protested.

    “Can and will,” Ben stated.  “I won’t hear any argument, sir.”

    “Christmas is for family,” Paul insisted.

    Ben laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder.  “So, we’ll adopt you for a night.  Common sense ought to tell you it’s not safe out.  You’d probably catch your death of pneumonia, and as we all know, there’s no doctor in the territory.”

    Paul bristled at the veiled rebuke in Ben’s last words, then a crafty smile touched his lips.  “All right, I’ll stay——on two conditions.”

    Ben arched an eyebrow.  “Which are?”

    Paul shook a finger under Ben’s nose.  “First, no more snide jokes about my former profession.”

    “Agreed,” Ben said with a smile.  “And second?”

    “I get to make the first move.”

    Ben laughed.  He could almost guarantee the results if he gave Paul that kind of advantage, but he readily acceded to his guest’s demand.  And as he’d predicted, Paul won the first game.

    By the end of the second, which Ben won, both men were yawning.  “We’d better turn in,” Ben said.  “Those boys will be up early tomorrow.”

    “Maybe we should bring in the presents tonight?” Paul suggested.

    “Yeah, good idea,” Ben replied.  “If you can see to that, I’ll move Hoss to the trundle and you can have his bed.”

    “Fair enough.”

    With the presents placed under the tree, Ben and Paul said good night, and the house lay still beneath the softly falling snow.  Hoss and Adam smiled sweetly in their sleep, evidently with the legendary visions of sugarplums dancing in their heads.  Ben, too, rested calmly, but Paul Martin tossed uneasily from side to side, moaning as he slept.

    The sky was still black when Ben was awakened by loud, repeated cries from the next room.  “Aggie!  Aggie!” the tormented voice groaned again and again.

    Ben sprang to his feet and hurried through the door.  “Paul,” he said, shaking the man’s shoulder.  “Paul, wake up.”

    Paul’s gray eyes opened.  “What is it, Ben?” he asked.  “Something wrong?”

    “That’s what I want to know,” Ben said.  “I think you were—”

    “Pa,” called a voice from the other bed in the room.  “Pa, is it time to open presents?”

    Ben moved quickly across the room and tucked the covers more tightly under Adam’s chin.  “No, son; it’s the middle of the night.  Go back to sleep.”  He pressed a kiss to the boy’s forehead.

    “Okay,” Adam yawned and turned his face to the wall.

    Paul was sitting on the side of the bed when Ben returned to his side.  “Sorry,” Paul said.  “I didn’t mean to wake the boy.”

    “Were you having a nightmare?” Ben asked, sitting beside him.

    “Ghost of Christmas past, I guess,” Paul said.

    “Long past?” Ben asked with a smile, taking his text from the story he and Paul had read together earlier that evening.

    Paul stood and headed for the door.  “Not long enough,” he mumbled.

    His brow furrowed in consideration of Paul’s cryptic response, Ben followed his friend to the fireplace in the front room.

    “Mind if I make some coffee?” Paul asked.

    Ben frowned.  “I don’t mind, of course, but that’s not likely to help you sleep.”

    “Nothing does,” Paul sighed.

    Catching the weary tone in Paul’s voice, Ben quietly lighted the coal oil lantern and began to fill the coffee pot with water.  “You have these nightmares often?” he asked gently.

    Paul laughed gruffly.  “Not so much lately.  At first—”  He stopped.

    “Want to talk about it?” Ben asked.

    Paul shook his head.

    “Might help,” Ben urged.  “I’ve known for months you had something bottled up inside.  Maybe if you get it out, it won’t disturb your sleep.”  Paul said nothing, but he looked as though he were weighing the idea.

    “Who’s Aggie?” Ben probed, hoping the question might help his friend get started.

    Paul paled.  “Who told you about her?”

    Of course!  Aggie would be a woman’s name.  Ben was surprised he hadn’t realized that immediately.  “You called her name in your sleep——over and over,” he explained.

    “Did I?” Paul murmured softly.  “Dear Aggie.  I suppose it is thoughts of Christmas that bring her to mind tonight.  She loved Christmas so, with the kind of starry-eyed wonder you usually see only in children.”

    “Someone close to you?” Ben pressed.

    Paul looked steadily into Ben’s face for a moment.  “Very close,” he said after taking a deep breath.  “Her given name was Agatha, but I called her Aggie.  My wife, Ben.”

    Ben set the coffee pot down abruptly.  “You’re married?” he asked.  Now, why had he assumed Paul Martin was a bachelor?  Lots of the miners had wives back home.

    Paul took the daguerreotype of Inger from the mantel.  “The same way you are,” he said and set the picture down again.

    Ben’s eyes grew misty.  “She’s gone——like Inger?”

    “No, not like Inger,” Paul sputtered bitterly.  “You had something you could bury.”

    “What happened, Paul?” Ben asked sympathetically.

    Paul shook his head.  “Oh, Ben, it’s a long, ugly story——not the kind to tell on this holy night.”

    Ben laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder.  “Exactly the kind to tell on this holy night,” he said.  “I can think of no better way to celebrate the night angels sang of peace on earth than to bring peace to your heart.  Don’t keep the pain pent up any longer, Paul; let it out and let peace come.”

    A single tear slipped down Paul’s cheek.  “Maybe,” he said.  “Maybe that is possible.”

    “Tonight of all nights,” Ben said, pulling a chair close and motioning Paul to take the rocker.

    “Quite the idealist, aren’t you, Ben?” Paul commented bitterly, then softened.  “So was I once.  An idealistic young fool.  I didn’t come west for any of the usual reasons——not for gold, not even for the money to be made off the miners.  I came because I knew there’d be a tremendous need for doctors in a newly settled area, and I guess I saw myself as some knight on a white horse, riding from cabin to cabin dispensing medical wisdom to the grateful masses.”

    “You think there was something wrong with that?” Ben asked.  “I can see you on that white horse, my friend, and you look more natural there than swinging a pick against a rock ledge.”

    Paul shook his head.  “Stupid, romantic dream,” he muttered, “but I left a decent practice in New York and sailed all the way around the Horn to follow it.  The real tragedy, of course, is that I didn’t come alone.”

    “Did your wife die on the trip?” Ben asked.  “I know many did.”  He made a quick conjecture that the reason Paul hadn’t been able to bury his wife was that she’d been lost at sea.

    “No,” Paul said.  “Not then.  Even that would have been easier to take.”  He paused, not sure he could go on.

    “It’s cold,” Ben said.  “Stir up the fire and I’ll put that coffee on.”

    Paul nodded, seeming glad to have something to do with his hands.  When he had the fire burning bright, he sat down in the rocker again, staring at the flames as if they held a secret meaning.

    Ben set the coffee pot on the grate above the fire and sat down.  “How long were you in California before your wife’s death?” he asked to open the subject again.

    “A little over a year,” Paul replied, “and Aggie never complained, despite the rugged living conditions of the camps.  She was a wonderful woman, Ben.”

    “I’m sure she was,” Ben murmured.

    Paul placed his elbow on the arm of the rocker and leaned his forehead on his palm.  “There was another so-called doctor practicing in the same region where we settled.  And I do mean ‘practicing’——or maybe ‘experimenting’ is the more precise term.  Like so many in California, he just appropriated the title without earning it.  The man knew nothing about medicine, and we had several clashes over patients.  I was probably a little arrogant in the way I flaunted my medical knowledge against his folksy treatments, so maybe I should have expected retaliation, but I didn’t.”

    “This retaliation,” Ben said when Paul paused.  “Was it against your wife?”

    Paul sighed deeply.  “Not directly.  A miner came to me with a leg badly smashed in a fall.  Bones crushed, no way to save it.  But when I recommended amputation, the patient refused.  Gangrene set in and he died.”

    “A needless tragedy,” Ben commented.

    Paul nodded.  “Yes, and it led to a greater one.  The other ‘doctor’ stirred up the miner’s friends, claiming he could have cured the man and that his death was the result of my malpractice.”  Tears began to stream down Paul’s face.

    “Go on,” Ben urged, sensing they’d reached the heart of his friend’s agony.

    Paul took a slow, deep breath.  “I’d been out late that night with another patient.  So tired when I came in that I didn’t even bother grooming my horse, just tossed him some hay and headed for the house.  Even left my doctor’s bag in the buggy, which I’d never done before.”  He paused and gave Ben a significant look.  “A good thing, as it turned out.  I told you once it was a gift from someone close to me.”

    “Aggie?” Ben asked, his face tender.

    Paul nodded.  “All I have left to remember her by.  I fell into bed and slept like the dead.  Even when the yelling finally woke me, I was still groggy, not thinking straight.  I started to stumble outside, but Aggie stopped me.  She could hear the angry shouts and was afraid the men would harm me.  She was right, of course, but I shouldn’t have listened.  I should have faced them.”

    “What did they do?” Ben asked.

    Paul swallowed hard.  “They set fire to our cabin, to force me out” he said, choking on the words.  “If they knew there was anyone else living there, I guess anger fogged their memory.”

    Ben nodded silently, realizing that most miners so revered women that they’d be unlikely to inflict intentional harm on one.  Undoubtedly, Paul alone had been their target.

    ”Anyway,” Paul went on, “by the time we realized what they’d done, the situation was critical.  Aggie begged me to save our little girl. Said she could get out on her own.  I threw a blanket around Sally and carried her out through the smoke that was filling the cabin, but when I turned back to help Aggie, the flames were too high to force my way through.”

    Ben’s chin quivered and his eyes swam with sympathetic tears.  “She burned to death?”

    Paul nodded silently.  “And I could do nothing but listen to her scream.  That’s what I dream about night after night——those screams, those awful, gut-wrenching screams.”  He buried his face in his hands and wept.

    Feeling the tears would be cleansing, Ben let him cry.  In the meantime he poured each of them a cup of coffee.  Paul finally settled down.  “I’ve wanted to tell you for weeks now, Ben, so you’d understand, but I just couldn’t get it out.  You see now why I can never practice medicine again.”

    Ben’s brow wrinkled.  “No, I can’t see that,” he said as he handed Paul a cup of coffee.  “Why deprive innocent people of your help because of the actions of a few vindictive men?”

    “Because they’re representative,” Paul muttered bitterly.  “I decided if what people in this part of the country wanted was sham doctors, I’d leave them to the mercy of the quacks.”

    “You can’t live with hate,” Ben began.

    “Don’t,” Paul said bluntly.  “Don’t talk about what you know nothing of.”

    “What makes you think I don’t?” Ben asked abruptly.  “Do you think I felt differently about the Indians who shot Inger?  I hated them at first, but whenever the hate rose in my heart, I’d hear Inger begging me with her dying breath to forgive them.  Eventually, I had to, to make my peace with her.  I know it’s hard, Paul, but you can’t get on with your life until you get past the hate.”

    Paul stared into the flames as he sipped his coffee.  “I can’t, Ben; I just can’t.  If I hadn’t played the hero on the white horse, Aggie would be alive today.  I can’t be that man again.”

    “You feel responsible,” Ben said.

    “Yes, and don’t tell me you know how that feels!” Paul sputtered.

    Ben smiled sadly.  “Don’t I?  I brought Inger west, took her into dangerous country, just as you did Aggie.”  He looked up at the other picture on the mantel.  “And before her, Adam’s mother died in childbirth.  I felt responsible for that, too.  After all, I was the one who planted the seed inside her.”

    Paul looked up quickly. “And how long did it take you to come to terms with it, Ben?”

    “Quite awhile,” Ben admitted.

    “Then give me time,” Paul said.

    “All right,” Ben agreed slowly.  “My Christmas present to you——time to heal without anyone’s long New England nose sticking into your business.”

    For the first time since the conversation started, Paul smiled.

    Ben poured himself a second cup of coffee.  “You mentioned a daughter.”

    “Sally,” Paul said.  “She’s about Adam’s age.”

    “Where is she?” Ben asked.

    Paul looked uncomfortable again.  “In Hawaii.  I sent her to a boarding school there shortly after her mother’s death.”

    Ben stared at the other man, his eyes betraying his shock.  The one thing that had helped him through the grief over his wives’ deaths had been the closeness of their sons.  He couldn’t imagine a father and child separated at the time they needed one another most.  “Oh, Paul, she belongs with you,” he murmured.

    Paul shook his head.  “No, not as I am now.  I’m not fit for civilized society.  That’s why I came here instead of going back east.  At least, in Hawaii Sally’s getting a good education, and the missionaries probably give her better parenting than I could now.”

    “I’m sure she’d trade all that in a minute for the comfort of her father’s arms,” Ben argued.  “At a time like this, especially, she needs you.”

    “Indian giver,” Paul accused.

    “Huh?”

    “That long New England nose is pushing in again,” Paul said dryly.  “You didn’t give me much time to heal.”

    Ben flushed.  “That may be a hard promise to keep if I continue to unearth new secrets, but I’ll try.  And speaking of trying, maybe we should try to get a little sleep before the boys wake up.  We have a busy day ahead.  Dinner at the Thomases, and you’re coming with us.”

    “No,” Paul said firmly.

    “Yes,” Ben said with equal firmness.  Standing, he slapped his friend’s shoulder.  “That’s your Christmas present to me, and I’ll accept no other.  High time you reacquainted yourself with civilized society.”

    A fiddle’s frolicsome tune drifted down to Ben as he and Adam turned their horses into the corral at Spafford Hall’s Station on New Year’s Eve.  “We’re late, Pa,” Adam grumbled.  “I knew Hoss would make us late, dawdling over dinner like he did.”

    Ben lifted his three-year-old and smiled down at his older son.  “No harm done, son.  We’re no more than fashionably late, as they say.”

    Adam couldn’t understand that concept.  All he understood was that the first real party in western Utah was starting without them.  And it was a big party, too; folks were coming from as far as fifty miles away, Adam had heard.  Not that he cared about the dancing, of course.  Dances could be fun, as he had discovered at the trailside one he’d attended on their journey west, but trotting around the room with something sweet and frilly wasn’t the main attraction for the boy.  At this time of year more than enough time was spent indoors, and anything that broke up the routine of daily chores was welcomed, even if it involved prancing around the upper room at Spafford Hall’s with a bunch of girls.

    Had Ben been able to read Adam’s mind, he would have laughed, for when they entered the rustic ballroom after climbing the stairs, no more than nine fair damsels graced the dance floor——a small number to constitute a bunch——and that included ladies as young as twenty-month-old Inger Thomas.  Still, nine was a good representation, Ben thought, when you considered that there weren’t more than a dozen females of any age living in this part of the territory.

    Adam spotted Billy Thomas cavorting his way around the room with Inger as a partner.  “Is she the best you could find?” Adam hooted as he tapped his friend on the shoulder.  “Why don’t you put her down?”

    “She’s too slow that way!” Billy chortled as he swung his little sister around, then finally let her feet touch the floor.

    “Here, Inger,” Ben said, putting her little hand in Hoss’s.  “Here’s a partner more your size.”  Hoss knew nothing about dancing, but he got the general idea from the others stepping to the music and started to hop around, holding both of Inger’s hands.

    Billy ruffled the youngster’s sandy hair.  “Don’t you tromp on her toes, Hoss boy,” he cautioned, “or I’ll have to punch your snoot.  Matter of honor, you know,” he explained to Hoss’s father.

    Ben snickered.  “Since when do you know the meaning of that word?  Where’re your folks, Billy?”

    “Well, Ma’s bound to be dancing,” Billy said.  “There’s so many extra men here, Pa’s havin’ to share, but I don’t know where he is.”

    Ben searched the dance floor and found Nelly Thomas.  He tapped her dance partner, Sandy Bowers, on the arm.  “May I cut in?” he requested.  Sandy relinquished his prize with a good-natured grin, then spotting a whiskered miner with a bandanna tied about his arm to designate him as a “lady” for the evening, moved to claim his next partner.

    “Thanks for rescuing me, Ben,” Nelly laughed.  “That Bowers flaps his arms too hard for my taste.  Wore me plumb down.”

    “You want to sit this one out?” Ben asked.

    “Not when I finally got a partner who can dance,” Nelly tittered.

    “Where’s Clyde?” Ben asked.

    Nelly glanced around, then nodded toward the punch bowl.  “Just about where you’d expect,” she snickered.  “Your friend Martin’s been dancing pretty steady, though,” she said, nodding the other direction.

    Ben wheeled around to see Paul Martin dancing with a girl who would have made an appropriate partner for Adam.  “Oh, I’m glad he came,” Ben said.  “I wasn’t sure I’d talked him into it.”

    “He was here at the beginning, like us,” Nelly said.  “Funny thing, though, he ain’t asked any of the grown women to dance, just the young ones.”

    “Not surprising to me,” Ben said.  “He hasn’t spent much time socializing the last several months, and the young ones probably remind him of his own little girl.”

    “Martin has a daughter?” Nelly asked, her feminine curiosity instantly aroused.

    “Um-hmn,” Ben murmured, spinning Nelly around so she’d quit staring at his friend.  “Name’s Sally, and she’s about the age of the girl he’s dancing with.”

    “You don’t say!” Nelly said.  “Back east with her mother, I reckon.”

    Ben shook his head.  “Her mother’s dead.  I’ll tell you about it sometime, but not tonight, Miss Gossip.  Tonight is given over to festive frolic.”  As the fiddle cranked out a livelier tune, Ben trotted Nelly around the room until she begged for a reprieve.  Laughing, Ben took her hand and led her to the punch bowl, where they found Clyde downing another cup.

    “You save a dance back for me?” Clyde snorted.  “I’m gettin’ mighty tired of them fuzzy-faced ladies I been partnerin’.”

    “You’re next, you fuzzy-faced old thing,” Nelly promised, giving her husband’s auburn beard an affectionate pull.

    Ben uttered a loud laugh.  “Adam just cut in on Dr. Martin,” he said in answer to the Thomases’ questioning looks

    “He lets you call him that now, does he?” Clyde grunted.

    Ben chuckled.  “Not to his face, but I’m trusting the day will come when he answers to it again.”

    “Sure glad you asked him to Christmas dinner last Sunday,” Nelly said.  “He seems such a lonely sort of man.”

    “Yeah,” Ben said.  “That’s why I pressed him to come tonight.  Even promised I’d wear the bandanna and dance the lady’s part for him, and, thanks to my young son, it looks like I’m gonna have to keep my word.”  Ben took the bandanna from his neck and, tying it around his left arm, moved across to offer his services to the now partnerless Paul Martin.

    Music and laughter echoed around the room.  Lost in their enjoyment of the evening, the settlers were unaware of softer, stealthier sounds outdoors.  Not until the families with young children made preparations to leave did anyone realize they had had visitors uninterested in music and whose laughter was that of victory over the unvigilant dancers.

    Israel Mott, the first to head downstairs, rushed up again, banging open the door to the second floor.  “Hey!” he shouted.  “The horses is gone!”  Immediately he found himself the center of a circle of men, all questioning him at once.  Then the circle made a stampede for the door, clattered down the stairs and rushed to the empty corral.

    “Fresh moccasin tracks; we can follow them easy,” Spafford Hall declared.  “Let’s get our stock back, men!”

    General agreement met his words.  Not even a sliver of moonlight touched the earth, so the men knew they wouldn’t make much progress before dawn, but no one wanted to stand around waiting for the morning light.  Quickly the men designated three of their number to remain behind to guard the women and children and gathered up all the firearms they could locate.  Adam raced up to Ben.  “Pa, I want to go with you!” he pleaded.

    Ben squatted down to look his son eye-to-eye.  “No, Adam.  I need you to stay here with Hoss.”

    “Aunt Nelly can take care of him,” Adam argued.  “I want to take care of you!”

    Ben smiled.  “I can take care of myself.  You see to Hoss.”  He stood and shouted “Ready!” in answer to Spafford Hall’s call.

    With a troubled frown Adam watched his father’s figure fade into the darkness.  Pa was brave and Pa was strong, but sometimes he took chances, like waltzing into a Paiute camp.  Sometimes Pa acted like he’d forgotten Indians could be dangerous, but Adam couldn’t forget.  He had only to remember what they’d done to his stepmother to make the prickles start up his neck.  If it happened to Pa——

    “Adam!” Nelly Thomas yelled from the open door to Hall’s Station.  “Get in here, boy!”  Reluctantly, Adam turned and scuffed his feet toward the door.

    Most of the settlers with children had come in wagons and had thrown in blankets so their children could sleep snug on the early-morning journey home.  Paul Martin, who had remained with the women, gathered up all he could find, and Nelly supervised the making of pallets.  Hoss and Inger were soon tucked in for the night, but the older boys stood, noses pressed to the frosty window that looked down into the yard.

    “Now, you don’t plan on spending the night starin’ into the dark, do you?” Nelly scolded, giving her boy a light swat on the seat of his pants.  “You get into bed now.”

    “Aw, Ma, can’t I wait up for Pa?” Billy whined.  “Adam’s gonna.”

    “No, he isn’t,” Nelly said.

    Adam turned around, a glint of stubborn determination in his black eyes.  “Yes, I am,” he announced, his expression defying contradiction.

    But Nelly was used to dealing with defiant boys.  “Your pa left me in charge,” she said firmly, “same as he’ll do when he goes to New Mexico, and you will mind me or suffer the consequences.  Billy can tell you they won’t be pleasant.”  Billy’s nose wrinkled up in distaste and he nodded at Adam.

    “Now get to bed,” Nelly ordered.  Once the boys had complied, she leaned over to kiss them both good-night.  “Don’t you fret, either of you,” she said.  “Everything’s gonna turn out fine.”

    Adam nodded dutifully, but he rolled over so she wouldn’t see his eyes fill with frightened tears.  He wiped them away quickly, and though none followed the first trickle, the fear grew with the passing hours.  Adam was sure he wouldn’t sleep all night, but eventually the stillness of the darkened room combined with his weariness to pull him into the misty realm of troubled dreams.

    The sun was barely up when Adam awoke.  Clambering over Billy’s snoring figure, he crept to the window and peered down into the yard.  Empty.

    “Up early, aren’t you, Adam?” Paul Martin asked, laying a hand on the boy’s shoulder.

    “They’re not back yet,” Adam said.

    Martin pulled him close.  “How could they be, son?  There’s just now enough light to make a decent search.”

    Adam nodded and wandered away from the window.  As Adam passed the pallet Hoss had shared with Inger and Mrs. Thomas, the little boy sat up, rubbing his eyes.  “Pa back?” he asked.

    “Not yet,” Adam whispered.  “Go back to sleep.”

    “Hungy, Bubba,” Hoss whimpered.

    “Here, here,” Nelly said, reaching across Inger’s sleeping body to soothe Hoss.  “Aunt Nelly will fix you some breakfast, Sunshine.”

    “Cake,” Hoss suggested.  It had been his favorite refreshment the night before.

    Nelly laughed lightly.  “If there’s some left,” she said.  “Then we’ll see what else we can scare up.”

    Nelly and the other ladies made a raid on the supplies of the trading post to prepare breakfast for everyone at the station.  Unlike Hoss, Adam didn’t feel very hungry, but he ate a couple of biscuits and a slice of bacon.  Without waiting for permission, he trotted down the stairs and into the dirt yard, Billy on his heels.

    “Sure wish they’d let us go with ‘em,” Billy said as he climbed the corral to sit on its top rail.

    Adam stood on the bottom rail next to him.  “Yeah,” he said simply.  Neither boy felt inclined to confess his real worry, but their actions that day revealed it clearly to anyone with eyes to see.  Some of the other children played tag  or hide-and-go-seek, but neither Billy nor Adam felt interested in anything except watching the trail.

    Lunch time arrived, and the women once again joined forces to feed the occupants of the station.  “We’re gonna have to take up a collection to repay Hall for his provisions,” Eliza Mott said later that afternoon.  “We’ve used so much already, and it looks like we’ll have to cook dinner here, too.”

    Nelly nodded distractedly.  How far had the men gone after the horses?  Or was the news worse than just a long journey?  Had they caught up with the Indians and made a fight of it?  Were any of them coming home?  She and the other ladies were once again meeting in the storeroom to plan a menu for supper when a cloud of dust appeared on the horizon.

    Billy spotted it first.  “Hey!” he shouted from his lookout post on the corral fence.  “Hey, I think they’re back!”

    Adam, who’d been trying to keep Hoss amused, spun around and a wide smile split his face.  “And they’ve got the horses!” he yelled.

    Billy ran into the trading post.  “They’re back!” he hollered at the top of his lungs.  “They’re back!”

    The women rushed outside.  “There’s Clyde!” Nelly shouted, pointing out one of the lead riders.

    “And Israel!” Eliza screamed.  “Pray God they’re all safe.”

    Adam strained his eyes to see through the dust.  He saw Uncle Clyde and Israel Mott.  Behind them he spied Sandy Bowers and a couple of other miners he knew.  But where was Pa?  Adam’s heart jumped into his throat.  He couldn’t see Pa!

    Finally, at the back of the herd of horses, came a trio of men, one slumped over his horse.  Adam looked closer and smiled in relief.  It wasn’t Pa; it was Spafford Hall, the man who owned the trading station.  Pa was riding beside him on his bay horse, and he looked fine.  Adam started breathing easier.

    “Pa!” yelled Hoss, trotting toward his father.

    “Hoss, no!” Adam cried and pulled the toddler back out of the path of the oncoming horses.  He jerked his now blubbering baby brother away from the corral and held him tight.

    “Want Pa!” Hoss wailed, squirming to get away.

    “You have to wait!” Adam said.  “Be good or I’ll spank!”

    Hoss dropped into the dust and twisted his knuckles into his eyes.  “Bubba mean!” he whimpered.  Then strong arms were lifting him and the tears stopped.  “Pa!” Hoss cried.

    “Pa’s here now, baby; don’t cry,” Ben soothed, patting the heaving back.

    “He was in the way of those horses, Pa,” Adam accused.  “I had to get firm with him.”

    “I saw,” Ben said, “and you did just right, Adam.”  He saw Billy across the yard, jabbering to his father, probably asking a hundred questions a minute.  “Billy, come here,” he called.  “I need help.”

    Billy didn’t respond right away, but a sharp word from Clyde made him hustle over to Ben.  “Yes, sir, what you need?” he asked irritably.

    “Take Hoss inside for me, son,” Ben requested.  “I need to talk to Adam.”

    Adam had run to the corral, searching diligently for his gray filly.  He hadn’t spotted her when he heard his father say he needed to talk to him, but she must be there.  Among all those horses, she must be there.

    “Adam, come here,” Ben said solemnly.  “I’ve got some bad news.”

    Adam walked slowly to his father.  Bad news?  But Pa was safe, and they’d gotten the horses back.  What else——

    “It’s about your horse, son,” Ben said quietly.

    Adam grew solemn.  “They got away with mine, didn’t they?”

    “Not exactly,” Ben said, putting his arm around the boy, “but she won’t be coming back, son.”

    “Why not?” Adam demanded.

    “Because by the time we reached the Washo camp,” Ben explained gently rubbing Adam’s shoulders, “they had had a feast——a feast of roast horse, son.”

    Adam’s chin trembled.  “My horse?” he asked, his voice quavering.

    Ben nodded sadly.  “Yours and one more.  The others they just turned loose.  Rounding them up is what took so long.”

    Adam buried his face in his father’s tan vest, and Ben stroked Adam’s dark hair with a soothing hand.  “I know how you loved her, son,” he said, “and I’m sorry, but to the Indians she was just meat on the spit.”

    Adam pulled back and swallowed hard.  “And I’m supposed to understand that they were hungry, aren’t I?” he asked bitterly.  “I know I shouldn’t be mad, Pa, but I am.”

    Ben drew Adam to his chest and held him tight.  “Of course, you should be mad, Adam,” he said.  “You should be mad and you should feel hurt.  Don’t deny the feelings, but don’t hold on to them; just let them work themselves out.”

    The tears came at last.  “I’ll miss her, Pa,” Adam whimpered.

    “I know,” Ben said, “but I’ll get you another horse, son.”

    “I don’t want another horse!” Adam wailed.

    Ben patted the heaving back.  “You will,” he whispered, “once the pain washes through.  There’s a settler east of here who has some horses we could look at, or if you’d rather, we could wait until I get back from New Mexico and get one from the Paynes.”

    Adam blinked back the tears.  “Could I go to Monterey to pick her out?”

    Despite the seriousness of the moment, Ben had to smile.  He might have known Adam couldn’t resist the temptation to see a new place!  “I think that might be arranged, son,” he said.  “Now let’s get Hoss and get on home.  It’s almost suppertime, and I haven’t had a bite all day.”
 
 

Nelly sat in her favorite rocker near the low-burning fire.  Her hands held one of Billy’s stockings, which, as usual, needed darning.  But her stitches were few and far between.  Nelly was tired and, to tell the truth, feeling a bit low down and lonesome, as she phrased it.  Her husband had been gone for close to two months and she missed him.  The four youngsters kept her busy, of course, and they were good company, but she missed the comfort of Clyde’s bony knees poking her in the back at night.  She even missed the music of his snoring.

    The boys had really been feeling their oats the last few days.  Spring fever, Nelly supposed.  She couldn’t blame them.  The weather had been colder than usual this winter, and they’d had to stay indoors more.  Now that the days had begun to warm, she’d put them to work plowing the fields.  Hard work for young ones, but it needed doing, and Clyde and Ben weren’t here to do it.

    Nelly took another stitch or two at the holey sock, then laid it aside.  Much as she hated to leave the task to another day, she couldn’t see wearing herself out.  After all, tomorrow was Sunday, and she always tried to fix an extra nice dinner for Sunday.  If it had been just her and the youngsters, she probably wouldn’t have bothered.  Hoss would eat anything, Inger wasn’t hard to please, and neither Billy nor Adam had earned anything special after the way they’d snapped at each other all day.  But Paul Martin had been stopping by every Sunday to see if she needed anything, and she welcomed adult company too much to let him leave without taking dinner with them.  Besides, Ben had shared Martin’s tragic loss of his wife, and she just naturally wanted to ease the poor man’s loneliness.  He seemed to be responding, too——not at all the morose, scanty-worded man she’d taken him for at first.

    At least, seeing Martin would sweeten Adam’s temper.  The man must have the patience of Job the way he put up with that boy plying him with questions the rest of them weren’t smart enough to ask, not to mention teaching the youngster to play chess.  Adam wanted to learn as a surprise for his pa, and Martin seemed glad to oblige.  Only Billy disapproved.  He might quarrel with Adam all week long, but he could get downright green-eyed with envy when someone else took a few hours of his playmate’s time.

    Laying aside the mending for another day, Nelly turned down the lamp wick and tiptoed to the room Billy and Adam were sharing.  As she peered down at the two peaceful slumberers, she chuckled.  The little scamps.  Looking at them now, you’d never guess what a ruckus they could stir up.  Nelly kissed both angelic faces and slipped out to check on the other two children sleeping in her bedroom.

    Ben sat easy in the saddle as he rode on the left flank of the flock of sheep.  It had been an uneventful trip:  no major problems, few animals lost, and a sameness to each day that almost lulled a man to sleep.  On the other hand, maybe he was just tired.  Ben chuckled to himself.  He was tired, all right——tired of listening to sheep.  He’d always found the lowing of cattle soothing to his ear, but the bleat of sheep grated on him like a baby’s bawling.  Just let Clyde Thomas try to talk him into another trip like this!  Ben’s lips twitched.  No chance of that.  Clyde was as irritated by the incessant baa-baaing as Ben, and he’d be just as glad when they reached the Carson Valley and could get away from it for awhile.  It had been a long trip, and they were both eager to get home again.  No more than two days’ drive now.

    Ben drifted back and wheeled his bay alongside the chestnut ridden by Jean D’Marigny.  The Frenchman touched his gray felt hat in greeting.  “Monsieur Cartwright,” he said.  “All is well with the sheep.”

    “I know,” Ben smiled.  “It’s been a good trip.”

    “Oui, un bon voyage,” D’Marigny replied, lapsing into his native tongue.  “And California, is it much further now?”

    Ben nodded.  “California is, yes, but we’re getting close to my land.  We’ll be stopping there two or three weeks before continuing on, and I, for one, am looking forward to the rest.”

    The Frenchman flashed him a bright smile.  “Ah, oui, that will be good, but I had not realized we were not going straight through.”

    Ben reached down to stroke the neck of his bay.  “We can’t.  The snows will still be blocking the passes.”

    D’Marigny looked thoughtful.  “I should like to have seen snow.  I have heard it is most picturesque.”

    Ben turned surprised eyes on his hired sheepherder.  “But surely you’ve seen snow in New Mexico.  Have you not been in the mountains there?”

    D’Marigny laughed.  “No, monsieur.  I was only passing through when I met you, and it did not snow then.  It is a rare winter indeed that would bring snow to New Orleans.”

    Ben laughed.  “Is that where you’re from, New Orleans?”

    “Oui, monsieur.  All my life I have lived in that beautiful city.”

    “Beautiful, it is,” Ben agreed.  “I made port there a number of times while I was sailing.  But surely you didn’t learn to be a sheepherder there.”

    D’Marigny laughed again.  “A sheepherder, monsieur?  All I know of that profession I have learned from you——and the other men you hired.”

    Ben chuckled.  “Mostly from them, I’d say.  I’ve never been around sheep before.  You, either?”  When the Frenchman shook his head, Ben commented, “Well, you certainly have an aptitude for livestock.  Of all the men we hired for this trip, I’ve been most impressed with your work.”

    The other man doffed his hat and gave as elegant a bow as he could on horseback, the movement serving to emphasize D’Marigny’s grace as a rider.  “Thank you, monsieur.  It pleases me to please you.”

    “You please me very much,” Ben said, “so much that I’ve been wanting to talk with you about staying on with me.”

    It was D’Marigny’s turn to look puzzled.  “But, monsieur, I thought you intended to sell all the sheep.”

    “That’s right,” Ben said.  “Mr. Thomas will keep a few for personal use, but the rest will be sold in California.  I’ll be buying cattle there, though, to add to my herd, and the increase will mean I’ll need more help than I’ve had before.  I plan to ask a couple of the other men to stay on, but I’ll need a foreman.  I’ve watched the way you handle yourself, the way you relate to the other men, so I’d like you to fill that position.”

    “I am honored, monsieur,” D’Marigny said, his white teeth flashing once again.  “It was my intent to stay in California, but perhaps your Utah Territory will be far enough from New Orleans.”

    Ben arched an eyebrow.  “Any reason you need to get far from New Orleans, D’Marigny?”

    Drooping lips replaced the brilliant smile.  “Unpleasant memories only, monsieur; no trouble with the law, if that is what you feared.”

    “Good,” Ben said.  “Then, you’ve got yourself a job.”  He rode forward again, shaking his head, wondering where he’d developed such a talent for picking up unhappy strays.  Surely, Jean D’Marigny wasn’t another Paul Martin, running from a miserable past.  Not that there wasn’t enough tragedy abroad in the world to touch untold numbers of men, and many men did come west as an escape.  He’d never have guessed the affable D’Marigny to be one of them, however.  Unlike the laconic doctor, D’Marigny seemed gracious, even gregarious.  A cover, perhaps?  His protection, just as Martin’s sullen silence had been his?

    Ben’s grip tightened on the reins, as though that would help him take grip on his thoughts.  It was none of his business.  Paul Martin was his friend, and he had work enough ahead helping the doctor come to terms with his haunted past.  D’Marigny, on the other hand, was merely an employee.  Whatever memories lurked back there in New Orleans surely couldn’t be as gruesome as Paul’s.  Even if they were, Ben had no intention of opening himself up anew to the charge of sticking his long New England nose into someone else’s affairs.

    Hoss and Inger were busily patting mud pies in front of the cabin while inside Nelly was peeling potatoes for supper.  When he heard a horse’s hooves galloping toward him, Hoss looked up and with a cry of joy dropped his pastry into the puddle between his legs and trotted toward the rider.  “Pa!” he yelled, loud enough to alert Nelly and even Billy and Adam, working at the far end of the garden beyond the house.

    Ben leaped from the back of his tall bay and scooped his son up in his arms, oblivious to the mud smeared on his vest and shirt collar.  “How’s my boy?” Ben cried, hugging the youngster close.  “My, how Pa’s missed you!”

    Nelly came running from the house, wind flapping at her brown gingham skirt.  “Ben, you’re back,” she cried.  “And Clyde?  Where’s he?”

    “Back a ways,” Ben said.  “We flipped a coin to see who had to stay with the flock, and he lost.  He’ll be here soon, though, with an appetite that would put this boy of mine to shame.”

    “Oh, lands, I better see what I can do to stretch dinner,” Nelly said, hurrying back toward the cabin.  “I only planned enough for me and the younguns.”

    Following her, Ben laughed.  “Well, looks like these two young ones have dessert under control.”

    “Will you look at them?” Nelly sniffed, spinning back around.  “And me with not an extra minute to wash ‘em up.”

    “I’ll wash them,” Ben said.  Nelly nodded her appreciation and headed inside.

    Adam and Billy came running up, Adam straight into his father’s arms.  “Oh, Pa, I thought you’d never get back,” he scolded.

    “My goodness,” Ben teased, “and I thought I’d made such good time!”

    “Seemed like forever,” Billy cackled, “as grumpy as Adam’s been.  Where’s my pa?”

    Ben jerked his head over his shoulder.  “That way, son.”  Billy took off for the barn.  “Hey, wait!” Ben called.  “I need your help getting your sister cleaned up.”

    “I’m riding out to meet Pa,” Billy yelled back.

    Ben chuckled.  “Looks like you and I are stuck with the job, boy.”

    “Billy’s always sticking me with his jobs,” Adam complained, rankled by Billy’s earlier accusation.

    Ben clucked his tongue.  “Sounds like you and Billy have seen a little too much of each other lately.”

    “That’s for sure,” Adam said bluntly.  “I’m gonna be glad to get shed of him.”

    “Yes, and just as glad to see him again in a day or two.  Take hold of Inger and follow me.”  Ben picked up the bucket of water beside the cabin door and led the way toward the grassy area to the east.  Setting the bucket down, he plopped Hoss next to it.  “Okay, Adam.  Which of these two muddy urchins do you want to wash up?”

    “Inger, of course,” Adam replied.  “That other one squirms too much.”

    Hoss shook his head in vigorous denial.  “Good boy, Pa,” he declared.

    “Oh, you’ve been a good boy, have you?” Ben teased as he stripped off the youngster’s mud-speckled shirt.  “Well, I guess Pa will just have to bring you back something special from California then, won’t he?”

    Hoss’s double chin bobbed up and down.  “Candy,” he suggested with a strong voice.

    “Me, too?” Adam asked, pausing for a moment in his washing of the only slightly less dirty little girl.  “I’ve—I’ve been pretty good.”

    “Didn’t sound like it awhile back,” Ben snorted.  “Besides, I’m buying you a new horse.  Don’t tell me you want more.”

    Adam shrugged.  “Guess not.”

    Ben laughed.  “Your face says different.  Well, we’ll see.  We just might find some other little gewgaw to bring back your smile.”  And the faint glimmer that touched Adam’s lips then made up Ben’s mind for him.  Adam, too, would have something special by which to remember this trip across the mountains that gave every promise of being prosperous.

    By the time Clyde arrived, the cabin was permeated with tantalizing aromas.  Ben cut a bite of thickly sliced ham and held it beneath his nostrils.  “It’s almost enough just to smell good food again.”

    “Not for me,” Clyde said, forking a huge piece into his mouth.

    Ben laughed and followed Clyde’s example.  “Yeah, you’re right,” he chuckled.  “Eating is definitely better than just smelling.”  He speared three slices of carrot onto his fork.  “Any news of the territory to report, boys?” he asked.

    “I’ll say!” Billy announced.  “We ain’t in Utah Territory anymore!”

    Ben looked up quickly.  “You don’t say!  Did California annex us?”

    “No such luck,” Nelly replied with a shake of her head.

    “Billy’s wrong, Pa,” Adam inserted loftily.  “We are still in Utah Territory, but now we live in Carson County.”

     “Guess Utah’s so scared of losin’ us they decided to make us into a separate county.  Near as I can figure, all we got out of it is a new name,” Nelly said.  “You can read all about it in the newspaper.”

    “Newspaper?  What newspaper?” Clyde demanded.

    “Mo’ taters, please,” Hoss requested, holding out his plate.

    “Why, sure, Sunshine,” Nelly said, spooning another helping into his plate.

    “What newspaper, woman?” Clyde asked again, more loudly this time.

    “Why, the Scorpion, of course,” Nelly said with a naughty twinkle in her eye.  “Oh, there’ve been several improvements in our little community while you were away, gentlemen.”

    “A newspaper,” Ben commented, satisfaction in his voice.  “Why, we really are becoming a community if we have enough news to rate a newspaper.  Who’s publishing it?”

    “Stephen Kinsey,” Nelly answered.  “It’s just one page, hand-written on foolscap, but I saved back a copy of the first issue for you.  I knew you’d be interested.  No reading at the table, though, mind you.”

    “Yes, ma’am,” Ben laughed.  “We’ll mind our manners.”

    “The paper tells about the new mill, too, Pa,” Adam announced, savoring reporting news his father hadn’t heard.

    “At the head of Carson Valley,” Nelly explained.  “Thomas Knott’s building a sawmill for John Cary.”

    “Now, that is an improvement,” Clyde said enthusiastically.  “Sawed lumber will help the town build faster.”

    “I don’t know,” Ben mused.  “I think I’d still prefer the solidity of log walls when I build again.”

    “You aimin’ to build yourself a new place?” Nelly asked, her brown eyes lighting with womanly interest in a new nest.

    “What for?” Clyde snuffled.  “Your place is plenty big for you and the boys.  Or did one of them dark-eyed señoritas down in New Mexico put ideas in your head?”

    “Clyde!” Ben sputtered.  “No, of course not.  It’s just that Adam and I have talked about moving further north eventually.”

    “Is it time, Pa?” Adam asked eagerly.

    Ben laughed.  “No, I don’t think so.  I still want to concentrate on building up my cattle herd first, son.  And as Mr. Thomas points out, we don’t really need more space yet.”

    “I guess we don’t either,” Nelly sighed, “though it’d be nice to have the kitchen separate——in summer, at least.”

    “Well, I’ll think about it, darlin’,” Clyde promised.  “If we do as well as I expect to with this sheep drive, I reckon we could afford to add you a fancy sittin’ room.”

    “To this place?  Lands, it looks thrown together now, and that would probably make things worse,” Nelly sighed.

    “Well, we’ll think on it,” Clyde said.  “Now, you got any other improvements to report, woman?”

    Nelly brightened.  “Why, yes!  The Ellises are havin’ a baby, due any time now.”

    Clyde choked.  “You call that an improvement?  Another squall-bawlin’ baby to put up with?”

    “Well, I agree with Nelly,” Ben said.  “Children are the best improvement to any community.”

    “That only goes to prove what listenin’ to a bunch of sheep night and day will do to addle a man’s brains,” Clyde cackled, then stuffed a forkful of carrots into his mouth.

    Two weeks had passed since Ben’s and Clyde’s return.  The rest and the abundant meadow grasses were putting weight on the sheep, weight that would translate into extra profit when the thawing snow finally permitted driving them across the Sierras.  About another week, the men figured.

    Their sons couldn’t wait.  Adam, of course, was excited about buying a horse from their old friends the Paynes, but Billy was even more elated.  Since several of the sheepherders had deserted to the mines of the region, Billy had prevailed on his father to let him make the trip and had been promised wages for his help with the sheep.  Adam, having no horse, didn’t qualify as a hired hand, and Billy lost no opportunity of pointing out that his friend would be a mere passenger with the caravan, while he would arrive in California with coins jingling in his pockets.  “Play your cards right, sonny,” he teased, “and maybe I’ll buy you a peppermint stick.”

    Normally, spending nights apart was enough to smooth over any friction Billy and Adam felt during the day, but Adam found Billy’s lofty attitude hard to take, especially when his tormentor wasn’t even doing his share of the garden work.  As usual, Billy didn’t miss a chance to slack off, making three trips to the water bucket for each of Adam’s.

    There he goes again, Adam fumed to himself.  Deciding he’d had enough, he stomped toward the water bucket where Billy was once again taking slow sips from the dipper.  “It’s a wonder you don’t slosh when you walk,” Adam taunted.

    “It’s a wonder you don’t dry up and blow away,” Billy snorted back.  “Here, you need this.”  He threw the remaining contents of the dipper into Adam’s face.

    Adam pursed his lips to restrain his temper.  He was getting more than a little tired of Billy’s favorite way of greeting him at the water bucket.  “Cut it out and get back to work,” he ordered.  “You’re not doing your share.”

    Billy gave a whoop.  “Injun no like work,” he said, prancing around Adam in his version of an Indian dance.  “Injun like go Tahoe for fishing festival.”

    Adam giggled.  Tuquah had just taken off again for the annual gathering of his people at Lake Tahoe, and that was, of course, what sparked Billy’s comment.  “You make a silly looking Washo with that red hair,” Adam snickered.

    Warming to the appreciation of his audience, Billy danced more wildly.  “Them fighting words, white man,” he called as he danced over to the chopping block and grabbed up the hatchet he’d left there after splitting kindling for his mother that morning.  Billy rarely put a tool away without at least one reminder.

    Adam grew sober.  “Put that down, Billy!” he yelled.  “That’s not a toy!.”

    But Billy just raised his “tomahawk” aloft and charged toward Adam, patting his palm against his open mouth to produce the traditional replica of an Indian war cry.  Adam prudently turned and ran.

    A sharp cry make him spin around to see Billy lying on the ground, screaming and clutching his leg.  Adam ran back.  “Are you hurt?” he cried.

    “My leg!” Billy wailed.  “I tripped over that blame hoe and cut my leg bad.”

    Adam blanched at the blood soaking his friend’s trousers.  Not only had Billy cut the back of his leg on the hoe, but he’d dropped the hatchet, slicing a deep cut in the front of his thigh, as well.  “I’ll get your ma,” Adam said, taking off at a run.

    “Aunt Nelly!” he screamed as he rounded the corner of the cabin.  Nelly stepped outside and, noting the panic-stricken face, immediately asked what was wrong.  “Billy cut himself.  He’s bleeding bad,” Adam reported breathlessly.

    “Oh, lands!” Nelly cried.  “Down by the garden?”  When Adam nodded, she turned back to the house long enough to snatch up a couple of rags to stanch the blood, then ran to the garden.  Adam was already gone when she came out, having headed for the barn.  Quickly saddling Billy’s horse, Adam tore off for the pasture where he knew his father and Billy’s were watching over the sheep.

    The three raced back to the scene of the accident.  Clyde flung himself off his horse and squatted beside his son.  “How bad is it?” he asked anxiously.

    “It hurts, Pa,” Billy whimpered.  “It hurts bad.”

    “It’s bleedin’ somethin’ fierce,” Nelly said.  “I’m havin’ a hard time gettin’ it stopped.”  Looking up, she saw Adam staring at the oozing cut in Billy’s thigh.  “Adam, boy, run back to the house and check on the younguns,” she said.  “I’ve been too busy to give ‘em much thought, and goodness only knows what they’re up to.”

    “Okay,” Adam replied readily.  “Take good care of Billy.”

    “We will, son,” Ben said, rubbing his son’s shoulder.  “Run along and see to Hoss and Inger.”

    Adam walked Billy’s horse back to the cabin, tied it to a post and went inside.  “Hey, Hoss!” he hollered.  “Where you at?”

    “Here, Bubba,” Hoss called from the back bedroom.

    Adam moved to the doorway and grinned as he saw his baby brother seated on the hooked rug, cradling Inger in his arms.  As the little girl wept, the small boy patted her back, trying to console her.  “That’s a good boy, Hoss, to take care of the baby,” Adam said as he bent over them, palms flat on his knees.

    Inger’s head lifted and her blue eyes widened.  “Mama?” she inquired.

    “Mama’s outside with Billy,” Adam explained, lifting the diminutive girl and carrying her into the front room.  “Billy hurt his leg and your mama’s fixing him up.” Adam sat in the rocking chair by the fire, holding Inger in his lap.  Hoss followed them in and leaned on the arm of the swaying rocker.  “Bilwy sick?” he asked.

    “Not sick.  Hurt,” Adam said.

    “Oh,” Hoss said.  “Too bad.”  He sympathetically stroked Inger’s strawberry-blonde curls.

    Hearing footsteps, Adam looked up and saw Ben and Clyde carrying Billy to his bedroom.  “You got him all fixed up?” he asked Nelly as she followed them in.

    Giving a happy cry, Inger stretched her arms toward her mother.  Nelly stepped across the room to take her baby.  “I finally got the bleedin’ stopped,” she told Adam, “at least, for now.”

    “He’ll be all right,” Adam declared optimistically.  “Billy’s tough as nails.”

    Nelly smiled.  “He is that.  Well, I’m gonna finish cleanin’ up his leg and get it bandaged tight.  Can you watch the younguns ‘til I’m through?”

    “Sure,” Adam said, reaching for Inger.  The baby whimpered her protest, but the kiss Nelly placed on her forehead seemed to soothe her.

    Clyde bumped into his wife as she headed for Billy’s room.  “I’m gonna see if I can talk that doctor feller into takin’ a look at our boy,” he announced.

    Nelly laid a hand on his arm.  “Oh, Clyde, if only he would!  I think the boy needs stitches.”  She saw Ben standing in the doorway to Billy’s room.  “Do you think he’ll come, Ben?”

    Ben shook his head.  “I don’t know, Nelly.  Can’t hurt to ask, but he can be pretty stubborn on that subject.”  He glanced sharply at Clyde.  “Want me to come with you?”

    “Naw, I can handle it,” Clyde said.  “You got your own boys to see to and it’s gettin’ late.”

    Ben nodded.  “Good luck, then.”

    Nelly moved past Ben into the bedroom.  “I’d ask you to stay to dinner, Ben,” she said, “but I don’t figure there’ll be much to set out.  I want to stay near Billy.”

    “You do that,” Ben said, his countenance brightening.  “I’ll fix dinner for you for a change.”

    “Lands, Ben, we can’t come to your place tonight,” Nelly protested.

    Ben chuckled.  “I meant here, Nelly.  I think I still know my way around well enough to throw a little grub together.  Nothing to compare with yours, but it’ll be warm and filling.”

    Nelly smiled.  “I’m gonna take you up on that offer, Ben, then you and the boys will stay the night.  It’ll be too late to ride home.”

    Ben tweaked her nose.  “All right.  I’ll take you up on that.  We don’t mind a pallet, eh, Adam?”

    “No, sir,” Adam declared stoutly.

    “No, you and the boys can take our bed, Ben,” Nelly said.  “I figure me and Clyde’ll sit up with Billy, at least ‘til we see he’s restin’ good, so you might as well take the bed.”

    “All right,” Ben agreed, seeing there’d be no point in arguing.

    As Nelly went to Billy’s side, Ben began to scrounge through the corner cupboard.  He frowned.  The Thomases’ larder looked about as lean as his own after a winter’s meals——leaner, in fact, since the boys had spent most of the winter eating at Nelly’s table.  Supper wouldn’t even be up to his usual standard, much less hers, but it wouldn’t matter.  So long as it was warm, it would likely get eaten.  Ben sliced off pieces of bacon and set them sizzling in a skillet while he chopped onions and potatoes to fry on the side.  A hot pan of cornbread would round out the meal.

    “Can I go in and see Billy, Pa?” Adam asked from the rocker.  “Inger’s asleep.”

    “Yeah, if you can put her down without waking her,” Ben said, “and you leave when his mother says he’s had enough.”

    Adam had only a short visit, for Billy seemed very tired.  “Can I help, Pa?” he asked when he came out.

    “Yup, sure can,” Ben said cheerily, feeling useful work the best cure for Adam’s worries.  “Fix a pot of coffee, then set the table.  We’ll be eating soon.”

    The food was ready before Clyde returned.  First Nelly prepared a plate for Billy.  “He says he’s hungry.  That’s a good sign, don’t you think, Ben?”

    “A very good sign,” Ben agreed heartily.

    “I won’t fill his plate too full, though,” Nelly said.  “He can always ask for seconds.”  A horse’s hooves clattered into the yard.  “Oh, I bet that’s Clyde now with the doctor,” she said brightly.

    Her optimism struck no responsive chord within Ben.  He’d heard only one set of hooves.

    “Where’s the doc?” Nelly asked when Clyde entered and shut the door.

    “Ain’t comin’,” Clyde grunted.

    Nelly paled.  “He turned you down?”

    “Almost quicker’n I could ask,” Clyde muttered.

    Nelly shook her head.  “I thought he was comin’ around.  What makes a man want to hole up inside hisself, Ben, when there’s folks that need him?”

    Ben’s face was rigid with anger.  “I don’t know, Nelly.  I’ve known grief myself, but—”  He couldn’t put into words what he was feeling.

    Nelly patted his arm.  “Now, don’t fret, Ben.  Billy’ll likely do fine——just an ugly scar or two to impress the girls with later on.”

    Ben laughed uneasily.  He hoped that’s all the accident would amount to.

    Three days passed, and with each sunset Billy’s condition grew graver.  The appetite that had seemed so healthy that first night faded as his temperature rose.  With each change of bandages a sickly sweet odor arose from the greenish-yellow pus seeping from the ragged edges of the wound.  Finally, the boy lay listless, too weak to raise his head, and his tormented parents feared for his life.

    Ben stopped by that evening, as he did at the end of each day’s work, to inquire about the youngster.  “Oh, Ben,” Nelly wept in a croaking whisper, “I—I think he’s got gangrene.  I reckon the only chance he’s got is to take his leg, but I don’t see how I can do it.  I’d be as like to kill him tryin’.”

    “It’s my job to do, woman,” Clyde groaned, “if it needs doin’.”

    “Oh, if only—” Nelly cried, swiping at her moist eyes.

    She didn’t finish the sentence, but she didn’t have to.  Ben could read the desire of her heart.  For her son to lose a leg was bad enough, but it would comfort her to know the job had been done properly, to believe that Billy had, at least, a chance of survival.  Ben bit his lips and slammed his hat back on his head.  “Don’t do anything ‘til I get back,” he said tersely.

    “What you aimin’ to do?” Clyde demanded.

    “What I should have done in the first place,” Ben growled.  “Grab a certain doctor by the nape of the neck and drag him here.”

    “Won’t do no good,” Clyde snorted.  “Man ain’t got a heart.”

    “Yes, he does,” Ben muttered, “somewhere deep down inside, he still does.  And if I can’t bring it to the surface, at the very least I’m gonna make him look your boy in the face and tell him why he has to die for what some idiots in California did.”

    Spurred even more by anger than the need for speed, Ben galloped hard toward Paul Martin’s ramshackle cabin.  He couldn’t ever remember feeling such fury.  He considered himself a reasonable man, but he had no intention of reasoning with the recalcitrant doctor tonight.  There’d been talk enough, pleading enough.  And it had all failed.  Now he couldn’t afford to fail.  A young boy’s life hung in the balance; and though he abhorred violence, he was prepared to beat Paul Martin to a pulp and drag him every step of the way back to Billy, if that’s what it took.

    He flung himself off his bay gelding as soon as he reached his destination.  Without bothering to knock, he burst into the cabin.  Paul Martin, seated at his makeshift dining table, looked up.  He lifted a smoke-colored whiskey bottle in his right hand.  “Hello, Ben,” he drawled.  “Come to share a nightcap with me?”

    Ben stopped, stunned, for he’d never known Martin to take a drink, much less drink himself into a stupor.  “What’s this all about?” Ben demanded.  “Can’t you live with yourself sober?”

    “None your business,” Martin slurred, lifting the bottle to his lips.

    Ben knocked it away with a backhand swipe.  The bottle crashed to the floor and shattered, whiskey puddling the dirt floor.  “I’m right, aren’t I?” he yelled.  “You can’t live with what you’ve done.  You turned your back on a child who needed you, the son of people who’ve been nothing but kind to you.  And you think you can drown that in a bottle?  Oh, no, my friend, it’s not that easy.”

    “Go away, Ben,” Paul stammered.  “I’m all you say——and one thing more.”

    Ben faced his friend, arms akimbo.  “And what’s that?”

    “A coward,” Paul moaned, dropping his head into his open palms.

    Ben’s jaw hardened.  He rounded the table and jerked Martin to his feet by his shirt front.  “You’re coming with me,” he ordered.

    Martin flinched away.  “Ben, please—”

    “No!” Ben shouted.  “It’s settled.  That boy’s eaten up with gangrene, and if he’s got to lose his leg, the least you can do is make sure it’s done properly.  You can’t leave that to his parents!”

    Paul’s face went gray.  “They wouldn’t,” he whispered.

    “What choice do they have?” Ben sputtered.

    “They’ll kill him,” Paul murmured, his hand raking his rumpled hair.

    “No, they won’t,” Ben said, “because you’re gonna do the job.”

    Paul lurched to the other end of the cabin.  “Think what you’re asking,” he protested.  “It’s a leg wound, for mercy’s sake, Ben!  If it had been anything else, maybe I could have faced it.  And amputation!  Recommending that is what got Aggie killed.”

    The anger drained from Ben’s countenance.  He hadn’t stopped to think that the nature of the injury itself had brought Paul’s buried pain boiling to the surface.  “Look, Paul,” he said.  “I’ve helped bury one of Clyde and Nelly’s boys; I’m not gonna stand by and see them lose another.  I understand it may be the hardest thing you’ve ever faced; but if you don’t face it, you’ll never be able to hold your head up.”  He nudged the broken whiskey bottle with his boot toe.  “And there won’t be enough of this in any saloon to drown the guilt.”

    Paul backed up against the wall.  “Ben, I—I’m not in condition to perform surgery.”

    Ben grabbed the doctor’s bag sitting in the cabin’s front corner and tossed it at his friend.  “We’ll sober you up,” he said.  “Come on!”

    Paul Martin was sobered, if not sober, by the time he and Ben entered the Thomas cabin.  “Nelly,” Ben said, “could you make the doctor a pot of coffee before he examines your son?”

    “Of course!” Nelly said.  “There’s some on the stove now, and I’ll fix as much as he needs.  Oh, Dr. Martin, thanks so much for coming.”  She looked at him with almost worshipful awe, then hustled to the stove.

    Paul groaned inwardly.  He’d forgotten that look, that all-trusting look patients and their families often gave physicians.  Once he’d felt proud when people looked at him that way.  Now he felt nothing but shame, knowing how little he’d done recently to merit anyone’s respect.  “May I see Billy now?” he asked quietly.

    “This way,” Clyde said, ushering the doctor into the boy’s bedroom.

    Dr. Martin sat in the chair beside the bed and took the youngster’s feverish hand.  “Hello, Billy,” he said softly.

    Billy pulled his hand away.  “You go away,” he murmured.  “I heard ‘em talkin’.  You’re gonna whack off my leg.”  His head wagged weakly from side to side as he moaned, “No, no.”

    “All I’m gonna do right now is look at it,” Paul said soothingly.  “Then your folks and I will talk about what treatment you need.”

    The look on Billy’s face wasn’t nearly as trusting as his mother’s had been, but he made no more objection as the doctor unwound the bandages and examined the wound.  He groaned when Dr. Martin touched his thigh, but bit his lips to hold back further sound.  Paul left the wound unbandaged and pulled the covers back over the boy.

    Returning to the front room, the doctor accepted the cup of coffee Nelly poured for him.  He took a seat at the table and motioned for the others to be seated, as well.

    “He’s got to lose it, don’t he?” Nelly wept.  “I knew it; I just knew it.”

    Paul reached across the table to take her hand.  “It may come to that,” he said, “but I’d like to try to save the leg.  A young boy like that.  How old is he?”

    “Twelve,” Nelly sniffled.  “Just twelve, doctor.”

    “A young one like that needs both his limbs,” Paul said.  “Obviously, the leg is badly infected.”

    “And you know why!” Clyde snapped.

    Paul met the accusative gaze directly.  “Yes, I do,” he replied meekly.  “I take full responsibility for whatever happens to your boy, Mr. Thomas.  I’ve done you a grave injury, and all I can do now is ask your forgiveness and do all I can to help Billy.”

    “That’s all we ever asked,” Clyde said gruffly.  “You sayin’ he don’t have to lose his leg?”

    “I’m saying there’s a chance to save it,” Paul said.  “Not a guarantee, mind you.  I may yet have to recommend amputation, but I’d like to drain out the wound and close it properly, then see what happens.”

    “I won’t risk his life,” Nelly said.  “I’ve lost one boy.”

    “Yes, Ben told me,” Dr. Martin said sympathetically.  “I’ll do my best to see you keep this one, Miss Nelly.  There is one problem, though.”

    “What’s that?” Clyde demanded.

    “The pain,” Paul said plainly.  “I’ll need to cut into the boy’s leg.  Ordinarily, I’d give him ether, but since I haven’t practiced in some time, I only have a small amount in my bag.  And I’d prefer to save that in case I do need to amputate later.  He’d need it more then.”

    Nelly buried her face in her hands, hating the thought of her child’s suffering.

    For the first time Ben entered the conversation.  “Billy’s as ‘tough as nails,’ as Adam says.  He’ll handle the pain.”

    Paul smiled.  “I’d say Adam’s a good judge of character.  That’s just how I read Billy, too.  Now, Mrs. Thomas, if you’ll heat some water and brew some more coffee, we’ll see what can be done for that tough little fellow of yours.”  He looked across the table at Ben.  “You as good at sticking your hands in other people’s business as you are that long nose?”

    Ben’s brow furrowed.  “I don’t follow your meaning.”

    “I could use an assistant,” Paul said, “someone to hold Billy down, and I’d rather it weren’t his parents.”

    “Yeah, I’ll help,” Ben replied at once.

    “Good.  Wash your hands and use plenty of soap,” Dr. Martin ordered briskly.

    Ben’s eyebrow arched, and Paul laughed.  “Don’t look offended, Ben.  I dare say they’re clean enough for normal purposes.  Let’s just say I’m extra careful.”

    “Never heard of no doctor bein’ fussy about clean hands,” Clyde commented.

    Paul shrugged.  “Most aren’t, but I’ve read some studies by doctors in Europe who think it’s a factor in preventing infection.”

    Nelly turned from the stove.  “Oh, no, doctor!  You’re not sayin’ I made Billy worse ‘cause I didn’t wash my hands!”

    “No, I wouldn’t say that,” Paul replied quickly.  “We really don’t know what causes infection, any more than we know what causes diphtheria or whooping cough or cholera.  But this Dr. Semmelweis from Austria noticed that far fewer of his maternity patients died of childbed fever when he and his students washed their hands between touching each one.  I was skeptical at first, but it was a simple enough thing to do, so I tried it.”

    “And it works?” Ben said from the wash basin where he was scrubbing at the grime under his fingernails.

    “I think I get better results,” Paul said, “though I couldn’t prove it scientifically.”

    “Well, as you say,” Ben commented, drying his hands, “it’s simple enough that’s it’s worth the effort if it helps even a little.”

    Paul took his turn at the wash basin, then finished by pouring alcohol over both his hands and Ben’s.  “I don’t expect you to actually touch the wound,” he told Ben.  “This is just in case of incidental contact.”

    Paul took his instruments in hand and went to Billy’s bedside.  “Billy,” he said, “I don’t believe in lying to my patients, not even young ones like you.  This is going to hurt, son, and I need you to lie still, so Mr. Cartwright here is going to hold you steady.”

    Ben gave Billy a nod and an encouraging smile as he laid his hands on the boy’s shoulders.

    Dr. Martin pulled back the blankets to expose the wound and began to wash the area gently with warm water.  Billy winced.  The doctor noticed, but gave no indication that he had.  “Billy, did Mr. Cartwright ever tell you about the time he played doctor to an Indian boy?” he asked instead.

    “Yeah,” Billy muttered through gritted teeth.

    “Mighty painful, having a broken leg set,” Paul commented, “and the way I heard it told that brave lad didn’t let out a whimper.  You think you can be as brave as an Indian, son?”

    “Br—braver,” Billy stammered, then gasped as the doctor’s scalpel sliced his leg.  But he didn’t scream.  No Indian was going to show him up!

    “You must have some other stories you haven’t told our young patient, Ben,” Paul suggested.

    Ben took the hint.  “Yeah.  How about my trip to Zanzibar, Billy?  I ever tell you about that?”

    “Unh-uh,” Billy grunted.

    Ben immediately launched into a recitation of his adventures in that exotic island that successfully kept Billy’s attention riveted on him instead of the pain.

    Paul cleaned the wound thoroughly, then rebandaged it.  Finally, he gave Billy’s arm a pat.  “You did real well, Billy.”

    “Is—is it gonna get better?” Billy whispered.

    “I think so,” Dr. Martin said.  “Now, you do your part by lying still and getting plenty of rest.”  He motioned for Ben to follow him out.

    Nelly, who’d been sitting in her rocker, knitting to keep her fingers busy, stood immediately.  “Is he gonna be all right, doctor?”

    “Like I said before,” Paul answered carefully, “I can’t promise, but it looks hopeful.  I think it’d be a good idea if you got some clean sheets on that bed and made him comfortable for the night.  And, if you don’t mind, I’ll stay the night here.”

    “Speaking of night, I’d better start for home,” Ben said.  “Adam will be wondering what’s kept me this long.”

    “I’ll walk you out,” Paul said.  “I need some fresh air.”

    Clyde met him at the door.  “Thanks, Doc,” he said, but there was a world of emotion in those two simple words.

    Paul nodded and followed Ben outside.  “You’re the one they should thank,” he said quietly.

    “They don’t need to,” Ben replied.

    “But I do,” Paul insisted.  “I’d forgotten, Ben.  Once I took an oath.  Among other things, I promised to do no harm, but I’d forgotten that sometimes we can do harm just by doing nothing.”

    Ben nodded as he looked up at the stars.  “True for all of us, Paul, though I guess it’s more obvious when you deal with life and death like you do.”

    Paul placed both hands on Ben’s upper arms.  “Thank you for reminding me.  You were right:  I’d never have forgiven myself if I’d let that boy die without trying to help.”  Ben pulled his friend close and gave him an unashamed embrace with only the stars as witness.
 

Billy Thomas lay back against the pillows propped behind him, a frown on his face.  “It ain’t fair,” he whined.  “I’m feelin’ real good now, and that blame doc still won’t let me out of bed.”

    Adam, grinning broadly, perched on the foot of Billy’s bed.  “You’re just jealous ‘cause now I’ll be the one with the jingling pockets.”

    “Doggone right I’m jealous!” Billy exclaimed, sitting forward.  “It was my idea to hire on as a sheepherder.  I’m the one talked Pa into it and now you get the job.”

    “Aw, Billy, you know you can’t do it,” Adam argued patiently, feeling his friend’s disappointment.  “Your leg’s not full healed yet, and you can’t risk breakin’ those stitches open on the trail.”

    Still weak, Billy flopped back into the pillows again.  “Yeah, I reckon.  It ain’t you I’m mad at.  You know that, don’t you?”

    “Sure, I know that,” Adam assured his friend, “and thanks for loaning me your horse, so I could take the job.”

    “You take good care of her,” Billy ordered, “and you better bring me back a peppermint stick like I’d’ve done for you.”

    A wicked twinkle flared in Adam’s black eyes.  “I’ll bring you two,” he said with an elaborate expression of generosity.

    Billy pulled a pillow from behind his back and tossed it at Adam.  “Aw, get on out of here!” he demanded grumpily.

    Adam fired the pillow back, then stood up.  “Yeah, I better,” he said.  The trail drive was beginning that morning, and Adam’s first responsibility had been dropping his little brother at the Thomases.  “Time I got that filly saddled and headed out on the trail to meet Pa,” he added, then ran as the pillow once more flew after him.

    In the front room Adam stopped at the table to give his little brother a farewell hug.  “You be a good boy, Hoss; take care of Billy for me.”

    “Okay,” Hoss mumbled, his mouth full of egg.  “Bwing me pep’mint, too, Bubba.”

    Adam scowled at the little boy.  “You been eavesdropping, Hoss?  That’s not good manners.”

    “Loud as the two of you were yappin’, a body don’t have to eavesdrop,” Nelly laughed.  She handed Adam a paper-wrapped package.  “Just some biscuits and bacon to nibble on the trail,” she explained, seeing Adam’s puzzled look.

    “Oh, thanks,” Adam said.  “We had an awful hurried breakfast this morning.”

    “Figured as much,” Nelly said.  “Get on with you now before your pa figures you’re a stray little lamb needs roundin’ up.”  Adam laughed and headed for the barn to saddle Billy’s horse.

    “More coffee, Señor Cartwright?” a vaquero holding a tin pot asked.

    “Gracias, Diego,” Ben replied, holding out his near empty cup.  As he sipped the hot brew, he leaned back against the trunk of a tall pine at the edge of the meadow where the sheep were bedded down for the night.  Next to him, the campfire glowing on an intent face, Adam sat strumming the guitar he had borrowed from one of the men hired in New Mexico.  Remarkable, Ben thought, how the boy had picked up the right fingering for the chords from the few lessons Lupe had given him at camps along the trail.  Of course, any boy who could coax tuneful music from the cheap harmonica Ben had bought him a Christmas or two ago was bound to have a good ear for music.

    “Bon soir, monsieurs,” Jean D’Marigny said as he approached father and son.

    “Good evening, Jean,” Ben responded to the tall, dark-haired Frenchman.  “The sheep sound contented.”

    Jean squatted beside his employer and held his hands to the warm fire.  “Oui, they are most fond of the rich grass in this——what was the name?”

    “Hope Valley,” Ben replied.  “Hope was what this place represented to the first emigrants after the long struggle up Carson Canyon.”

    “Oui, that was a hard trail,” Jean agreed.  “It is good to let the sheep rest a day here.”

    “I’m going fishing tomorrow,” Adam announced, laying aside the guitar.  “Trout are real good in that stream over there.”

    “I’ll expect a nice mess for breakfast,” Ben drawled, tousling Adam’s black hair.

    “I just might,” Adam giggled.  “Trout for breakfast sounds good to me, too.  You like trout, Mister D’Marigny?”

    “You may call me Jean, Monsieur Adam,” the foreman said.

    “Well, I’m just Adam,” the boy stated.  “Would you like trout for breakfast, Jean?”

    “Oui, that sounds good,” Jean said.  “I have never eaten trout, but I always liked seafood.”

    “Trout isn’t—”

    “He knows that, Adam,” Ben smiled.  “My son, the instructor,” he added apologetically to D’Marigny.

    Jean flashed the boy his typically bright smile.  “He is a good learner, too, monsieur.  He is becoming a better herder of sheep each day.”

    Adam scowled.  “I like cows better.”

    Ben laughed loudly.  “Me, too, son.  No more sheep for us, eh?”

    “No, sir!” Adam agreed emphatically.

    “I hope they are not too different,” Jean said.  “I am just getting used to sheep, and now I must learn all over again with cattle.”

    “If anything, cattle handle more easily,” Ben assured him.  “My opinion, of course, but I have no doubt you’ll make the transition successfully.”

    “You sure ride good,” Adam complimented.

    “Well, Adam,” Ben corrected.

    “Yes, sir,” Adam replied hastily.  “I meant ‘well.’  Jean rides really well.”

    “Very well, indeed,” Ben agreed.  He took another sip of coffee.  “Were you raised around horses, Jean?”

    “The stables on our plantation were among the best around New Orleans,” the Frenchman replied.  “From a child, I had my choice of mounts and I rode often.  A Creole gentleman must be an excellent equestrian, you know.”

    Adam’s forehead wrinkled.  “Creole?” he asked.  “Equestrian?”

    Ben laughed.  “Now you’ve done it, Jean.  Don’t use new words around this boy if you don’t want to become a schoolmaster in addition to your other duties.”

    Jean smiled.  “That would be my pleasure, monsieur.  A Creole, Adam, is a descendant of the French who first settled Louisiana.”

    “I think it can refer to those of Spanish descent, too,” Ben commented.

    Jean shrugged.  “You are right, of course, but my family is so proud of their aristocratic French heritage that they act as if none other existed.  They do accept the Spanish nobles, grudgingly, but Americans are still considered interlopers and barely tolerated.”

    Surprise flickered in Ben’s brown eyes.  “You were a member of the aristocracy, Jean?  And wealthy, I take it?”

    Jean shrugged.  “Oui, monsieur.  Few in New Orleans lived more elegantly than the D’Marignys.”

    “I’m surprised you’d leave all that to come west as a common laborer,” Ben commented.

    Jean colored slightly, but his smile remained warm.  “I am content with my life here, monsieur,” he said, “though there are things I left behind with only the greatest reluctance.”  A dreamy look came into the man’s dark eyes and the smile faded slightly.  “I, too, unfortunately, have my share of the family pride.”

    “You didn’t tell what ‘equestrian’ meant,” Adam said, giving his father a reproachful look for interrupting the train of his lessons.

    Jean’s smile flashed bright again.  “A horseman, Adam, such as you are becoming.”

    Adam’s chin lifted proudly, the compliment and the new word with which to describe himself adding to the grownup feeling surging through his breast.  He wasn’t just a boy learning to ride anymore:  he suddenly saw himself as an accomplished horseman, an equestrian, and it felt good.  “I better get to sleep if I’m gonna get up and catch those trout for breakfast,” he said, standing and squaring his shoulders.

    “He is a fine boy,” Jean said as Adam walked away.  “You have much reason for pride.”

    “Yes, I’m proud of him,” Ben admitted, “unashamedly so.  Pride is a good thing when it draws us closer to those we love.”  He threw a significant glance at Jean.  “Not so good when it pulls people apart.”

    Jean stood abruptly.  “I am sure you are right, monsieur,” he said hastily, “just as it is a good thing to sit by a warm fire, but not so good when it is my turn to watch the sheep.  I must relieve Lupe, monsieur.”

    Ben’s eyebrows met in a line above his nose as he nodded.  “All right, Jean.  You be sure and join us for breakfast.  You’ll like the trout.”

    “Oui, I will see you then,” Jean called as he faded into the darkness beyond the flickering campfire.

    Ben shook his head.  There he went again, sticking his long New England nose where it didn’t belong.  Or maybe it did.  Didn’t the Good Book say something about being your brother’s keeper?  All at once, Ben’s thoughts turned to his own brother, whom he hadn’t seen for three years now.  How he’d relish sticking his long New England nose into John’s business!  He’d love to tell his older brother a thing or two about leaving his family to dig his way around the world in search of golden dreams.  Probably he should just be grateful for the miles between them, though.  John wouldn’t hesitate to give him the punch in the snoot Paul Martin had once threatened to throw.

    Ben finished his coffee and headed toward his bedroll.  He wasn’t likely to influence either John or the man who shared the French equivalent of his name anytime soon.  For now he had enough responsibilities getting this flock of bleating sheep to market, finding just the right horse for Adam and driving a herd of new cattle home to Carson County.  Then there was the upcoming emigrant season to prepare for.  Yes, someone else would have to play brother’s keeper to those two wanderers from home.  Ben was just too busy.

    Ben and Clyde moved away from the teller’s window of the Sacramento bank and stood to one side of the busy room.  “Satisfied with the profits, my friend?” Ben asked, his smile indicating just how rhetorical the question was.

    “Never thought we’d do this good,” Clyde admitted.  “I know I talked big, but ten dollars a head is more than I dreamed of!  We done good, Ben boy; we done good.  And I could never have done it alone.  Didn’t have the spare cash to bring through a herd this size.”

    “I think those extra weeks pasturing at home fattened them up.  That’s what raised their value,” Ben said.  “But don’t get any ideas; I am through with the sheep business.”

    “Me, too,” Clyde laughed, “soon as we pay off the men.”  He grinned down at Adam, who had hugged his father’s side all through the banking process.  “Reckon we might as well start with this one,” he said.

    “Yup, always start with my right-hand man,” Ben agreed, counting out Adam’s wages.

    “I—I want to send half home to Billy,” Adam said.

    “That’s a kind thought, son,” Clyde said, “but there ain’t no need.  You earned your pay.”

    “Yes, there is,” Adam argued stubbornly.  “His horse did half the work, so he should be paid for her hire.”

    “Take it, Clyde,” Ben said, his hand resting proudly on Adam’s shoulder.  “I agree with my son.  Take it and buy Billy a fine get-well present from all of us.”

    “All right,” Clyde agreed.  “Guess I’d better pay off the men and head down to Stanford Brothers for a load of provisions.”

    “Diego’s still planning to take the second wagon back for you, isn’t he?” Ben asked.

    “Far as I know.”

    “I’ll pay Jean and Lupe,” Ben said, “since they’ll be staying with me to bring back my cattle.  You can pay the others.”

    They all moved outside, where the hired men were waiting for their wages.  Ben motioned Jean and Lupe to one side.  “Here’s your pay, men,” he said, counting it out in gold and silver coins.  “Try not to spend it all in one place.”

    Lupe grinned.  “No, señor.  There are many cantinas here, sí?”

    “Sí,” Ben agreed, but he was frowning.  “Now, remember, Lupe, we’re leaving in the morning.  I want you sober.”

    “Oh, sí, señor,” Lupe assured him, grinning as he moved away.

    “Wait, Lupe,” Ben called.  “When you’re through seeing the town, there’ll be a room for you at the Empire Hotel.  You, too, Jean.”

    “Oui, monsieur, the Empire,” Jean said.  “I will remember.”

    “Planning to visit the cantinas, Jean?” Ben asked.

    Jean shrugged.  “I may have a drink or two, monsieur, but I think I would prefer a bath, a shave and a quiet dinner, then early to bed.”

    Ben nodded approvingly.  “I can recommend the Alpha Bath House.  It’s near our lodgings.”

    “Merci, monsieur.  I will see you in the morning, then.”  Pocketing his wages, Jean headed down the street.

    Ben smiled at Adam.  “Now, where shall we set our heading, matey?  The nearest bookstore?”

    Adam shook his head.  “I hope I have enough money left over for a book or two, Pa,” he said, “but there’s something I want more.”

    “It had better not be a visit to a cantina,” Ben chuckled.

    Adam flushed.  “No, Pa, no more saloons for me.  I didn’t relish what I got after visiting the last one.”

    “What do you relish?” Ben asked.  “Lunch, I hope.”

    “Yeah, that first,” Adam admitted.  “I’m hungry.”

    “Let’s see what we can find, then,” Ben said, rubbing the boy’s neck affectionately as they walked along J Street.  Entering a modest diner, Ben asked for a window table.  The waitress seated him and Adam at the requested table and handed them printed menus.  They perused them quickly and placed their orders.

    Adam grinned.  He liked to watch the people passing by, and he’d have a good vantage from this table.  As his father’s hand covered his own, Adam looked up.

    “I’m real proud of you, Adam,” his father said, his expression speaking the message even more clearly.  “You’re getting to be quite a little hand.  You did good work on the drive, and sharing your pay with Billy was a kind, unselfish thing to do.”

    “I was just being fair, Pa,” Adam insisted.

    “All right, but Pa’d like to reward you for that fairness,” Ben said.  “Let’s make a special night of it, shall we?”

    Adam beamed.  “Sure, Pa.  What you got planned?”

    “Well, we’ll spend the afternoon shopping,” Ben said.  “Then, let’s have dinner in the best restaurant we can find.  After that, I thought we might go to the theater.”

    “The theater?  Oh, Pa!” Adam cried.  He could imagine nothing more wonderful.

    “I saw a playbill posted in one of the store windows we passed,” Ben said.  “They’re playing King Lear at the American.  You like to see a little Shakespeare?”

    “Yes, sir!” Adam exclaimed, then his face took on a puzzled expression.  “We haven’t read that one, have we, Pa?”

    “No, I’ve always thought you a bit young for the tragedies,” Ben admitted, “but as grown up as you’ve been acting, I think you’re ready, unless you’d prefer something else.  There are other theaters in town.”

    “No, I want King Lear,” Adam said.  “Shakespeare’s my favorite.”

    “All right.  Now, I have several stores I want to visit.  You have anyplace particular in mind?” Ben asked.

    “Not a particular place,” Adam said.  “I was hoping I could buy a guitar, like Lupe’s.  You think they have a store like that in Sacramento, Pa?”

    “I seem to remember passing a music store last time I was through,” Ben mused.

    “Oh, good,” Adam said.  “You—you think I have enough for a guitar.”

    “You’ll have enough,” Ben promised.  “One way or another, you’ll have enough, son.”  Their food arrived and both Cartwrights dug in heartily.

    After lunch, feeling more than normally generous after the prosperous sale of the sheep, Ben led Adam on a shopping tour of Sacramento.   They stopped first at Charles Crocker’s dry goods store, where each came away with a new suit——for Adam, his first.  “I know you don’t have much cause to wear one back home,” Ben said, “but we are going to a fancy restaurant and the theater tonight, and Pa’s in a mood to splurge.”

    Adam admired himself in the mirror.  “I like it, Pa.  Wait ‘til Billy sees me duded up like this!”

    Ben laughed.  “You think he’ll be jealous?  I, for one, can’t picture Billy Thomas in a suit.”

    “Me, either,” Adam snickered, “but I gotta wear it some at home, to be worth the price.”

    “It’s worth the price to me, even for one night,” Ben said indulgently, “but I’m not totally impractical.  I bought it with room to grow.  And there’ll be other trips to town, my boy.”

    “Yeah.  Where to next, Pa?” Adam asked eagerly.  “The music store?”

    “Not yet,” Ben laughed.  “We’re headed for Kaerth and Smith’s Philadelphia Boot Store.  If you’re going to be a real hand, you need proper footwear for the job, don’t you?”

    “Yes, sir!” Adam agreed enthusiastically.

    “Then I guess we’d better locate some candy and trinkets for your little brother.”

    “And two peppermint sticks for Billy,” Adam grinned.  “I promised.”

    “All right,” Ben chuckled.  “Candy for Hoss and Billy, then the music store.”

    The required sweets, along with two new toys for Hoss, were purchased at Hardy Brothers and Hall on J Street, conveniently located next door to Dale and Company’s music store.  Adam found his desired guitar, and Ben purchased some simple sheet music.  “I can show you how to read the notes,” he told Adam.  “I learned when I was not much older than you.”

    “You still remember?” Adam asked.

    Ben swatted his son’s britches.  “It hasn’t been that long, boy!” he guffawed.  “Now, what say we take all these packages back to the hotel and head for the Alpha Bath House before we dude up for our night on the town?”

    “Sounds good, Pa,” Adam said.  “I’ve been wanting to try out that shower bath.”

    Rachel Payne answered the rap on her front door, and her hands flew to her cheeks when she saw the two Cartwrights, flanked by Jean D’Marigny and Lupe Rodriguez.  “Oh, you’re here!” she cried.  “We’ve been expecting you ‘most a week now.  I didn’t know you were bringing Adam, though.  What an unexpected delight!”  She stooped down and gave Adam a hug.  “My goodness! how you’ve grown, boy.”

    Adam cocked his head at his father.  “How’d she know we were coming?”

    “Why, from your pa’s letter, of course,” Rachel replied, standing up to exchange an embrace with Ben.  “We were real sorry to hear about your horse, Adam, but Jonathan’s got one picked out for you that I’m sure you’ll like.”

    “But there’s no wintertime mail from Carson County,” Adam puzzled.

    “I didn’t mail it from there,” Ben explained.  “They do keep a southern route open, Adam, and I made connections with that when we went after the sheep.”

    “Oh, sure,” Adam said.  “I just didn’t know.  I was hoping to pick my own horse, though.”

    Rachel smoothed his dark hair.  “You’re welcome to anything we’ve got, sweetie, but I bet you’ll choose this one in the long run.  She’s the sweetest little sorrel mare.”

    “Full grown mare?” Ben asked, his brow wrinkling.

    Rachel smiled.  “Full grown, but small, Ben.  She’ll fit Adam fine.  Now, you both come in and I’ll fix some lemonade.  I’ll bet you could use some after your long, hot drive.”

    “Yes, ma’am!” Adam agreed.

    “That sounds good,” Ben said, “but I need to see to my men here first.  You have a place where these two could bunk tonight?”

    “Sure, we built a new bunkhouse since you were here last.  They can stay with our men.”  She pointed south.  “You see that building there?”

    “Sí, señora,” Lupe replied, doffing his sombrero.

    “Well, take your gear down there,” Rachel said, “and I’ll send Mañuela down with some refreshment for you, too.  The other men should be back in about two hours for dinner.  Plenty of frijoles and tortillas for everyone.”

    Lupe bowed, smiling happily.  “Gracias, señora.”

    “Frijoles and tortillas,” Ben moaned.  “With Diego cooking for the trail drive, I’ve had my fill of beans and tortillas, I assure you.  I do hope there’s something else on the menu at the main house.”

    “There is,” Rachel smiled, “even at the bunkhouse.  But you know most of our hands are Mexican, so they expect frijoles and tortillas at every meal.  Whatever else shows up on the table is immaterial.  I think it’s enchiladas tonight.  For us, too, probably.”

    “What’s enchiladas?” Adam asked.

    “Cheese and onions wrapped in a tortilla and covered with chili and more cheese,” Rachel said.  “I’ll ask Mañuela to fix some albondigas soup, too.  That’s meatballs.  You’ll like it, Ben.”

    Ben laughed.  “I’m sure I will.  Now, how about that lemonade?”

    “Mercy, yes,” Rachel laughed.  “Come in out of this hot sun and we’ll get that right away.”

    As soon as they entered, a pretty little blonde of about Hoss’s age popped into the room from the bedroom beyond.  “Mama,” she called.  “Sammy’s awake.”

    “Oh, he would, the minute I sit down with company,” Rachel laughed.

    “Can I get him up for you?” Adam asked, feeling he’d rather spend time with the two youngsters than listen to adult conversation.  “I’m used to babies.”

    “Why, Adam, that would be so nice,” Rachel said.

    “Hi, Susan,” Adam said to the little girl.  “Want to show me where your little brother is?”

    “How you know my name?” Susan lisped softly.

    “Oh, sweetie, Adam was on the wagon train when you were born,” Rachel explained.

    “Oh!” Susan cried in awe.  “Sammy’s in here,” she said, pointing to the bedroom.

    Adam followed her in and grinned at the drowsy two-year-old boy.  “Hi, there, Sammy,” he said.  “If I know babies, I bet you need your diaper changed.”

    “Unh-uh.  No diaper,” Susan said.

    “Big boy,” Samuel chortled.

    “And boy am I glad!” Adam announced, lifting the little boy and swinging him around.  “Babies are a lot more fun when they keep themselves dry.”

    Ben tiptoed into the spare bedroom the Paynes had added to their hacienda since his last visit.  Adam had turned in not long after dinner, while Ben and the Paynes had recounted old times and shared news of their separate lives.  Ben sat down on the bed, eager to pull off his new boots.  He hadn’t broken them in yet and they were tight.

    “Pa,” Adam said.

    Ben twisted around to look at his son.  “You still awake?  Can’t you sleep, Adam?”

    “Just thinking, Pa,” he replied.

    “About getting your new horse tomorrow?” Ben asked, plunking his boots in the floor and stretching out beside Adam.

    “Yeah, that——and other things.”

    “What other things?” Ben asked, noting Adam’s sober tone.

    “About Hoss, Pa,” Adam said.  “Susan’s just his age, isn’t she?”

    “About six weeks older, as I recall,” Ben answered.

    “She sure talks better than him,” Adam said.

    “Oh, yeah, I noticed that,” Ben said.  “Of course, she’s a girl, son, and I sometimes think girls are born talking.”

    “You—you don’t think there’s anything wrong with Hoss, do you?” Adam asked anxiously.  “Little Sammy sure seems quicker about things than I remember Hoss being.”

    “Now, don’t you worry about your little brother,” Ben said, giving Adam a comforting pat.  “He picks up things slower than I remember your doing, for a fact, but he seems to get there eventually.”

    “Yeah, I guess that’s what matters,” Adam yawned.  “I’m getting sleepy, Pa.”

    “Roll over and start snoring, then,” Ben chuckled, planting a kiss on the boy’s cheek.

    “Night, Pa,” Adam smiled and obediently rolled over.

    Ben’s smile faded.  Was Hoss’s slowness that obvious?  Obvious enough to worry Adam?  Ben had noticed himself, of course, but he’d just figured that Adam, being extra quick and bright, made his more stolid brother look slow.  But both the Paynes’ children seemed sharper than Ben’s roly-poly son.  Was it possible there was really something wrong with Hoss?  Ben couldn’t have asked for a healthier boy or a sweeter one, but he wanted Hoss to be sound in mind, as well.  Obviously, he wasn’t equipped to judge that, but maybe Paul Martin could tell him.  Might be a good idea to have him check the boy out once they got home.  Laying aside the concern, Ben quickly finished undressing and climbed under the covers next to Adam.

    Riding his new sorrel mare and leading Billy’s roan by the reins, Adam rode up to the garden beside the Thomas cabin and raised a hand in greeting.  “Hey!” he called.

    “Back, are you?” Clyde responded.  “Where’s your pa?”

    “Settling the cattle in at our place,” Adam replied.  “He sent me to fetch Hoss.  How’s Billy doing?”

    “See for yourself,” Clyde said.  “He’s up to the house watching the younguns.”

    Adam grinned.  He could just imagine how Billy relished that chore.  He walked the horses up to the cabin and slid off, slipping his hand into the saddlebag and pulling out two slender striped sticks.  With them hidden behind his back, he walked into Billy’s room unannounced.  Billy wasn’t there.  “Hey, where you at?” Adam called.

    “In here,” Billy hollered from his parents’ bedroom.

    Adam ambled back through the front room and into the one where Billy lay sprawled on the bed, watching Hoss pile blocks one atop the other, only to send them crashing down again the next time his inept fingers tried to add a block to his tower.

    “Bubba!” Hoss cried, scrambling up and running to wrap his older brother in a bear hug.

    “Keep it quiet, will you?” Billy demanded.  “Inger’s still asleep.”

    Adam grinned at the baby in her crib, then laid a finger to his lips.  “Shh, quiet, Hoss.”  He ran an appraising eye over Billy’s prone figure.  “You doing better, ole buddy?”

    “Yeah, doin’ good,” Billy said.

    Adam pulled his hand from behind his back and held out the peppermint sticks.  “Here’s that candy I promised you,” he snickered.  “Two.  Count ‘em.”

    “Candy!” Hoss cried, stretching for the red and white sticks.

    “No, Hoss!” Adam said sharply.  “These are for Billy.”

    “Aw, he can have one,” Billy said.  “Pa brought home some candy, so my sweet tooth ain’t achin’ too bad right now.”

    “Yeah, and I’ll bet Hoss has already had his share,” Adam giggled.  Then he frowned at Hoss.  “I have some for you in my saddlebag, Hoss.  You can have it on the way home.”  Hoss’s lips curled at having to wait, but he let Adam give both candy sticks to Billy without further whining.

    Billy took a lick of his candy.  “Thanks,” he said, “and thanks for sharin’ that money with me, too, pardner.”

    “That’s okay,” Adam said.  “I spent my share on a new guitar.  I’m learning to play pretty good now.”

    “Wanna see what Pa spent mine on?” Billy asked.

    “Aw, I was hoping he’d let you spend it yourself,” Adam groaned.  “Guess I should’ve given it to you direct.”

    “Naw, that’s okay,” Billy assured him.  “I like what Pa picked just fine.  Fact is, he put some extra with it to bring me somethin’ special.  Wait’ll you see!”  Billy swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood up.

    “Hey, are you allowed out of bed?” Adam sputtered.

    “Sure,” Billy said.  “Leg’s still kinda sore, so I don’t do much walkin’ yet, but Doc Martin says a little exercise is good for me.  Come on; it’s in my room.”

    Adam followed Billy, with Hoss tagging along.  Billy reached up to the pegs over his doorway and pulled down a shiny twenty-two.  “A rifle!” Adam shouted.  “You got a rifle!”

    “Ain’t she a beauty?” Billy drooled.  “‘Course, it’ll be awhile before I can take her out, but I can’t wait to bring home some real game.”

    Adam nodded.  Now, why hadn’t he thought to buy a rifle?  Then he shook his head.  Because Pa wouldn’t have let him, that’s why.  “Maybe I can get one next year,” he said.

    Billy understood immediately what Adam meant.  “Yeah, we’ll have us a real good hunt then,” he said sympathetically.

    “Can you go outside?” Adam asked.  “I wanted to show you my horse.”

    “Sure,” Billy said.  “Let’s go.”

    They went outside and Billy made the appropriate oohs and ahs over the sorrel mare.  Hoss just pointed to the saddlebag.  “Candy!” he cried.  “My candy now!”

    Adam laughed.  “Okay, okay.”  He took another peppermint stick from the saddlebag and gave it to Hoss, then stroked the sorrel’s white mane.  “What do you think?” he asked Billy.

    “She’s something,” Billy said.  “That white mane and tail really make her an eyeful.”

    “Mr. Payne picked her out for me,” Adam said.  “I could’ve had any I wanted, but I liked this one best.”

    “Sure makes my filly look plain,” Billy said, “but she’s a good horse.”

    “Yeah, she is,” Adam agreed, “and I’d better get her stabled and head for home.”  He looked disapprovingly at Hoss.  “Come on, sticky face.  You can finish off that candy while I tend to Billy’s horse.  Then I’ll clean you up and we’ll go see Pa.”

    “Pa!” Hoss chortled happily.  Not even a second peppermint stick sounded better than that.

    Ben eagerly opened the door in answer to Paul Martin’s rap.  It was the first Saturday after his return from California and the first opportunity they’d had to play chess since the middle of January.  Though Ben had arrived back in the territory in early April, he’d been too involved with the sheep then to take time for their weekly game.  He was looking forward to an enjoyable evening.

    Ben’s lips twitched with amusement as he saw the bag in Paul’s hand.  “You aiming to do some doctoring while you’re here?” he chuckled.

    “Back to my old habits,” Paul smiled.  “Never know when I might need it.  As a matter of fact, I’ve just been called upon to give my professional opinion of Adam’s new horse.”

    Ben guffawed.  “The boy’s insufferably proud of that animal, but she is a little beauty.”

    “And certified sound,” Martin said in his most doctorly tone.

    Ben arched an eyebrow.  “And what will the bill be for your services, doctor?”

    Paul sniffed the air.  “Two plates of oxtail stew should cover it.”

    “It’s Adam’s bill,” Ben laughed.  “He should pay it, not me.”

    “All right, then,” Paul snickered.  “Since he’s grooming my horse, we’ll call it square.”

    “Hoss with him?”

    “Sure.  Planning to help, I think.”

    Ben scowled.  “Adam won’t appreciate that.”  He started to set the table.  “All joking aside, I would appreciate your medical opinion on something.”

    “Of course, Ben,” Paul said, sobering.  “Are you not feeling well?”

    Ben shook his head as he placed a spoon by each plate.  “No, I’m fine.  It’s Hoss I’m concerned about.”

    Paul laughed.  “I thought you were serious.”

    “I am,” Ben said gravely.

    “That boy’s as healthy as a horse,” Paul said.

    “I know, but—”  Ben took a deep breath and told Paul his concerns about Hoss’s development, how much slower he seemed than Adam had been or even the two Payne babies.

    When Ben finished, Paul laid a warm hand on his friend’s shoulder.  “Do you demand perfection from your sons, Ben?”

    “No, of course not,” Ben said.  “Nothing could change the way I feel about the boy; but if there is a problem, I want to be aware of it.”

    Paul smiled.  “What’s the matter, Ben?  Now that you’ve gotten me straightened out, aren’t there enough problems in the world without imagining them in your own boy?”

    Ben looked intently into the doctor’s  gray eyes.  “Is that what I’m doing?  Imagining problems where there are none?  I pray I am!”

    “You want the plain truth?” Paul asked.

    “Certainly, I want the truth!” Ben sputtered.  “Quit tiptoeing around the question and give it to me straight.”

    “All right,” Paul agreed.  “Sit down.”  When Ben complied, Paul sat down, folding his hands.  “Unless you’re demanding a perfect child, there is no problem, Ben.  That’s why I asked.  In all honesty, Hoss isn’t as bright a boy as Adam.”

    “Well, who is?” Ben muttered.  “I know I didn’t have that boy’s head for learning when I was his age.”

    “Precisely,” Paul said.  “Adam is exceptionally sharp-witted, and he loves learning.  Hoss, on the other hand, is a little slow, I think.  Not feeble-minded, not dim-witted.  But while Adam to seems to catch on to new ideas immediately, Hoss will probably be one of those boys who really has to study hard to learn his letters.  But he does learn, Ben, and I doubt he’s much behind other boys his age.”

    Ben smiled, relieved.  “He’s a precious, loving boy; I hated the thought of his not being able to make his way in the world.”

    “He can make his way,” Paul assured him, “but his way won’t be Adam’s way, nor yours——though not so different, at that.  The way the child loves animals, I’d say he’s a born rancher.  And he doesn’t need to understand Shakespeare or chemistry to be a good one.”

    Ben stood to give the stew another stir.  “Thanks, Paul,” he said.  Turning, he asked, “How does it feel to be doctoring again?”

    Paul grinned broadly.  “It feels wonderful, Ben.  I’ve even had my second patient already.”

    Ben laughed.  “You referring to Adam’s horse or his little brother?”

    “Neither,” Paul chuckled.  “I meant a real patient.”

    “Oh?” Ben said.  “Who’s sick?  Anyone I know?”

    “No one’s sick,” Paul laughed more heartily, “and you haven’t met this particular patient yet.  His name is James Brimmel Ellis, and he was just born May first.  And I’ll tell you another thing, my nosy friend:  saving a life, bringing a new one into this world——I’d forgotten how good that could feel.  I don’t know yet whether I can make a living at medicine here, but no more mining for me.  I’m a doctor.”

    Ben smiled.  “Word’s bound to spread quickly, but if the pickings get a little lean, there’s always a plate of stew for you here.”

    “Two plates,” Paul reminded him.  “That’s my bill for medical advice concerning your younger son.  And you can’t argue your way out of paying it this time.”

    Ben ladled the doctor’s plate brimful of steamy stew.  “Here’s your first installment, then, doctor.  Eat hearty, and if you want a second helping, eat fast.  Where food is concerned, there’s nothing slow about Hoss!”
 
 

The latter half of 1854 brought a number of changes to the residents of Carson County——for the most part, developmental changes, the kind any growing community desired.  A few were less pleasant.

    The emigrant season was much as it had always been.  Though the traffic didn’t approach the numbers of the gold rush years, more than two hundred wagons had passed through Carson Valley by the first of July.  But while the number was smaller, Ben felt busier than ever.  He had put a large portion of his profits from the sheep drive into cattle, and they required more and more of his time.  The business of the trading post, which had once been his livelihood, now seemed an intrusion on time he preferred to spend developing his ranch.

    So far, Clyde hadn’t complained about Ben’s frequent absences, but Ben felt stretched by the pull of two opposing responsibilities.  He knew at some point he’d have to snap one direction or the other.  He began to ponder the idea of dropping his partnership in the trading post.  The sale of his cattle would be sufficient to support him and the boys, and Clyde no longer really needed his capital to purchase trade goods.  The profits made from their trip to New Mexico would enable Clyde to continue the venture without Ben, if that’s what he wanted, or to give him the needed cushion if he decided to switch completely to blacksmithing.  Ben didn’t feel the need to make an immediate decision; the end of the year would be soon enough.  In the meantime, he had plenty of work to occupy his days.  More than occupy; overload was a more accurate term.

    Thomas Knott finished building the sawmill for John Cary and began another, as well as a grist mill, for John Reese.  Ben would have preferred to give his business to the pioneer he’d known and respected for years, but when Cary’s mill opened July 26th, Ben was among its first customers.  His new hired hands hadn’t complained about being housed in tents, but Ben wanted to provide them with a regular bunkhouse.  He’d have to, anyway, before winter came, and the sooner the better.  He’d found some good hands, and he wanted to keep them.  The best way to do that, Ben felt, was to treat them the way he’d want to be treated in their place.  And that meant a solid roof over their heads.

    Hoss turned four only a couple of days after Ben started the bunkhouse and seemed to celebrate the event by shooting upward in height, measuring almost a foot for each year of his life.  The growth, of course, had been gradual, but Ben suddenly became aware of just how tall his baby boy was.  He was tempted to ask his physician friend whether that was normal, but checked his concerns before he spoke.  He figured he’d just get laughed at again and told that he was once more imagining problems where none existed.  And this time Ben was pretty sure he was.  Boys, like communities, were meant to grow, and if Hoss was doing it more quickly than most, well, so did some cities.

    The August 5th issue of the weekly Scorpion brought news of a change that was either desirable or horrifying, depending on one’s outlook.  Adam greeted with exultant joy the news of a school to be opened September 4th, but Billy moped openly, mourning the good old days of running barefoot and ignorant through the grass.  According to the Scorpion, Israel Mott, having built a new home for his family, was donating his former cabin for use as a school, and his wife Eliza would act as teacher.

    While the benefits of a new school might be open to debate, everyone in Carson County regretted the news printed the final Saturday in August.  Editor Stephen Kinsey couldn’t remain unbiased as he reported the disaster which had befallen his uncle, John Reese.  E. L. Barnard, one of Reese’s partners in Reese and Company, had absconded with the total profits of a large cattle drive in which most of the company’s assets had been invested.  For Reese, personally, the financial failure couldn’t have come at a worse time, for he was unable to pay for his recently completed sawmill and grist mill, thus adding debt and disgrace to his disappointment in what had been a trusted friend.

    The next week’s issue of the Scorpion reported the sale the previous day of all the holdings of Reese and Company to William Thorrington, known as “Lucky Bill” to his friends.  Included in the sale were all ranch and farm property, livestock, tools, household furniture and cooking utensils and all the dry goods, groceries and hardware at the Mormon Station trading post, as well as the claim to Eagle Valley Ranch and half-ownership in the toll bridge over the Carson River.

    “Wiped out,” Ben murmured as he read the paper the next afternoon at Clyde and Nelly’s.

    “Sure makes you want to count your blessings,” Clyde said.

    Ben nodded gravely, then smiled at his old friend.  “Yeah,” he said, “and chief among them I count a partner who can be trusted.”

    “Exactly what I meant,” Clyde replied, giving Ben a hearty slap on the arm.
 

    “Which books should I take, Pa?” Adam queried seriously.

    Ben looked up from stirring the pot of oatmeal.  “Oh, I think just your speller and reader today, Adam.”

    “But arithmetic, Pa,” Adam pressed.  “I’m sure hoping we’ll study arithmetic.”

    “All right; take that, too,” Ben laughed.  “Then you can tell Mrs. Mott what other texts you have and ask which you should bring.”

    Adam added his gray copy of Joseph Ray’s Arithmetic to the pile on the table containing McGuffey’s Third Eclectic Reader and Noah Webster’s blue-backed speller.

    Hoss leaned over from his chair to pat the book.  “Read story!” he demanded.

    Adam impatiently pushed the little hand away.  “No, Hoss.  It’s not a storybook; these are my schoolbooks, and you don’t touch.”

    Hoss’s lower lip pooched out.  “Story!” he yelled.

    Ben plunked a bowl of oatmeal in front of his younger son.  “No story,” he said firmly.  “Time for breakfast.”

    Hoss grabbed his spoon and dug in, smearing his cheeks with clumps of cereal as he ate.

    “What a pig,” Adam muttered under his breath.

    “Adam,” Ben said sharply.

    “Well, look at him, Pa,” Adam insisted.  “He’s getting it everywhere but in his mouth.”

    Ben chuckled as he wiped Hoss’s face with a red-checked napkin.  “True, true, but you must not call your brother names——however well deserved.  You just concentrate on your own breakfast.  You don’t want to be late your first day.”

    “No, sir!” Adam declared, lifting a spoonful to his mouth.  “I’ve been looking forward to this for weeks.”

    “No,” Ben drawled playfully.  “You don’t say!”

    Adam grinned at the teasing tone in his father’s voice.  No need to tell Pa how much he wanted to go to school again, he had to admit, not when he’d talked about little else since hearing the news.  Adam lost no time finishing his oatmeal and bundling into his jacket and cap.

    Hurrying outside, he saw his father lead his sorrel mare, already saddled, from the barn.  Adam tied the leather strap holding his books around the saddle horn.

    Seeing his brother prepared to ride out, Hoss trotted to the barn for his stick pony, mounted and galloped to Adam’s side.  “Me go, too!” he announced.

    “Oh, no, you don’t!” Adam giggled as he swung into the saddle.

    “Mind your manners and be attentive to your teacher,” Ben admonished.  “Don’t let that Billy lead you astray.”

    “Pa, I wouldn’t!” Adam protested, offended.  “Not at school.”

    “Look to your horse when you get there,” Ben reminded him.  Adam nodded as he touched his heels to his mount’s flanks and moved away.

    Hoss started after him.

    “Oh, no,” Ben laughed, swooping the hefty boy, pony and all, into his arms.  “Pa can’t spare you today.”

    Hoss wriggled, both arms flailing wildly.  “I wanna go Bubba!” he whimpered.

    Ben spit the stick pony’s yarn mane from his mouth.  “You stay Pa,” he said firmly, setting Hoss down.  “You’re too young for school, Hoss.”  Hoss looked like he was about the let loose a loud squall, so Ben quickly took his hand.  “Come help Pa in the barn, son,” he said.  With one longing look at the dust from Adam’s trail, Hoss trotted to the barn beside his father.

    “Put your horsey up,” Ben chuckled.  “No riding in the barn.”  He and Adam had laughed heartily at the way Hoss treated his toy horse with the same attention they showed their mounts.  When they groomed their horses, the stick pony got a rub down, as well; when Ben and Adam pitched hay for their animals to eat, Hoss took a handful to feed his wooden horse.  Amused at first, Ben had decided that caring for his toy was a good way for Hoss to learn how to treat live animals, so he’d designated one corner of the barn as Hoss’s stall, and there the boy stabled his wooden pony.

    As Ben started to feed his bay and the milk cow, Hoss crawled between his legs to get a handful of straw.  Ben tripped over him and landed bottom first on the dirt floor.  Grabbing Hoss and pulling him out of reach of the cow’s hind legs, Ben scowled.  “Now, how am I supposed to work with you underfoot?” he demanded roughly.

    His face reddened.  Just yesterday Nelly Thomas had posed that very point to him and offered to keep Hoss while Adam was in school.  But Ben had proudly asserted that he could take care of his own son and still tend to his chores.  After all, Hoss was a big boy now.  Lips set with determination, Ben picked himself up, then guided Hoss across the barn and plunked him down.  He’d prove he could take care of his boy if it were the last thing he did.

    The barn chores took extra time that morning, due to a small distraction that wouldn’t stay put in his corner of the stable.  For the last week Ben had looked forward to getting Adam out of the house.  The boy’s interminable chatter about the delights of returning to school had been grating on his father’s nerves.

    Now Ben thought putting up with the racket a small price to pay for having Adam’s help around the place.  Until this morning Ben hadn’t realized how much help Adam gave him.  Not only did the boy do his share of chores, but he kept his younger brother occupied, a greater blessing than Ben had recognized before.  He sighed as he set the pitchfork down, suddenly feeling very appreciative of his older son.  A boy who loved learning as much as Adam deserved his chance at an education, though.  Ben planned to see his boy got that chance if it were the last thing——

    Ben grinned.  That phrase had trickled through his mind too many times this morning.  Maybe some fresh air would clear his thinking.  “Come on, Hoss,” he chuckled.  “Let’s work outside awhile.”

    Ben led his younger son into the yard.  “Pa’s gonna chop a little kindling.  You want to ride your horsey or get some of your toys from the house?”

    Hoss shook his head.  “Eat, Pa,” he said, pointing to the house.

    “You can’t be hungry already!” Ben argued, arms akimbo.

    Hoss bobbed his head hurriedly.  “Hungry, Pa.  Eat!” he demanded, tugging on his father’s hand.

    “Oh, all right,” Ben conceded grudgingly.  He could just imagine the look on Nelly’s face if she saw this scene, but he’d show her.  He’d prove he could handle whatever arose without the help of any woman.  “I’ll give you some jam and bread,” he said, taking Hoss’s hand, “but that’s gonna have to hold you ‘til dinner.  Pa has work to do, baby.”

    “Jam!” sweet-toothed Hoss chortled, licking his lips.  The snack contented him for awhile, but before Ben could get much kindling split, a small hand tugged on his pants’ leg.

    “It’s too soon for dinner, Hoss,” Ben said firmly.

    “No, Pa; gotta go,” Hoss tried to explain with his limited vocabulary.

    Seeing the boy point toward the outhouse, Ben comprehended the message and slammed the hatchet into the chopping block.  While Hoss was old enough to visit the outhouse on his own, he didn’t like going into the dark shed alone to do his biological business.  Didn’t, for that matter, even relish sleeping in a room without a candle burning.  Ben sighed.  Another chore he’d always relegated to Adam.  Well, no help for it.  The boy needed assistance, and there was no one else to give it.  Ben escorted his son to the outhouse.

    By the time Ben managed to get a good supply of kindling chopped, the sun was directly overhead.  Time to cook dinner and it had better be a good one, he decided, for he planned to head into the nearby hills afterwards to fell some trees for firewood.  He figured if he filled Hoss full enough, the boy could sleep on a pallet out of harm’s way, and Ben just might get a full afternoon’s work accomplished.

    After eating, Ben draped a couple of blankets over one of his oxen and set Hoss atop.  Hoss seemed to enjoy the smooth-gaited ride up the hill, but protested when his father spread out the blankets and told him to lie down and go to sleep.  “Story,” he whined.

    Ben sighed.  Hoss was used to his brother reading to him before his nap each day, but Ben had brought no book.  “Pa’ll just have to tell you a story, I guess,” he said as he sat beside the boy on the blanket.

    Hoss snuggled close, laying his head in Ben’s lap.  Ben smoothed the boy’s wheat-colored hair with a tender hand and began, “I was just thirteen when I first went to sea.”  As Ben reminisced nostalgically, Hoss slowly began to yawn, finally closing his eyes and snoring softly.

    Smiling, Ben slid the small head off his thigh and walked downhill to the tree he’d selected.  Grabbing an ax, he swung blow after blow into its bark.  As he worked, Ben whistled happily.  Despite the delays of caring for a small child, the day was going well.  He’d soon have this tree down and chained to the ox’s yoke for transport back to the cabin.  By the time they arrived, Adam should be home and he could tend his brother for awhile.

    Ben finished the undercut and started to chop on the opposite side of the tree.  When the tall pine began to sway, he ran to the side and stood watching the massive trunk topple.  Suddenly, from beyond the tree came a happy cry, “Pa!”

    Ben’s attention snapped at the sound and he saw Hoss running toward him, arms outstretched.  “No, Hoss!  Stop!” Ben yelled, his face contorted with alarm, for the huge pine was falling directly across the boy’s path.

    Hoss gamboled on, heedless of danger.  Ben ran toward the child, wishing his legs could race as rapidly as his heart.  Moments before the trunk crashed to ground, he flung himself at Hoss, knocking the boy aside and rolling with him down the hill.  Ben slammed to a stop against another pine and Hoss almost immediately piled into his chest.

    Hoss wailed, and Ben instinctively gathered the boy into his arms.  “There, there now,” he cooed soothingly.  “It’s all right, son; you’re safe now.”

    Hoss continued to cry and Ben soon realized the tears came from pain and not just fear.  “Oh, baby, you’re hurt,” Ben cried, tenderly touching the cut on the little head.

    Gently, he lifted his son and carried him back to the blanket, where he’d also left a canteen of water.  Ben took the bandanna from around his neck, wet it and wiped the blood away as best he could.  “Ooh, you’re gonna have a goose egg, too,” he purred sympathetically.

    Hoss had gradually quieted.  “Tree,” he whimpered.

    “Yeah, the tree fell,” Ben said.  “I didn’t expect you to wake up so soon.  Pa should have kept better watch.”

    “No,” Hoss whimpered, frustrated that his father didn’t understand.  “Wanna go Tree, Pa.”

    Realizing Hoss was referring to his name for their ranch, Ben squeezed the child to his chest.  “Yeah, we’ll go home, son,” he said.  “Just let Pa get things together and we’ll go home.  Stay right here, Hoss.”

    As he chained the downed tree to the ox and gathered up his tools and the blankets, Ben chided himself harshly.  What a fool he’d been!  What a proud, ignorant fool to think he could adequately care for his child and still do the needed work of the ranch.  Nelly had been right, and Ben wouldn’t let pride stand in the way of accepting her offered help anymore.  That mule-headed pride had almost cost him one of his most cherished treasures, and what a poor trade that would have been!  It wasn’t a mistake he’d make again.  No matter how much crow he had to eat, no matter how many times Nelly said “I told you so,” he’d trust his precious boy into her hands and rest in the assurance that Hoss was safe.

    Adam clattered into the yard and led his mare to the barn.  “Pa?” he said, peering inside.

    “Over here,” Ben called from the cabin’s front door.

    Adam grinned and trotted across the yard.  “Hi, Pa!”

    “Hi, yourself,” Ben chuckled.  “How was your day?”

    Before Adam could answer, he felt his legs wrapped in a circle of small, fleshy arms.  “Bubba!” Hoss crowed happily.

    Leaning over to give his little brother a hug, Adam noticed the white bandage around the little fellow’s head.  “Ooh, what happened to you?” he asked.

    “He took a tumble,” Ben said soberly.

    Adam gave the little boy’s head a gentle pat.  “That’s too bad, Hoss.  Does it hurt bad?”

    Hoss’s head bobbed.  “Hurt bad,” he reported.

    Ben lifted the child and gave him a squeeze.  “Now, son, it doesn’t still hurt, does it?”

    Hoss touched his head and nodded solemnly.

    Ben sighed.  “Well, I don’t know what I can do that would help, child.”

    A wide grin split Hoss’s face.  “Jam!” he cried.

    Ben and Adam both laughed.  “I’m kind of hungry, too, Pa,” Adam giggled.

    “Come on in, then, soon as you’ve stabled your horse,” Ben said.  “I guess we don’t need Dr. Martin to administer that kind of painkiller.”

    Ben handed Adam a slice of bread spread with peach jam when the boy ran in after completing his chores.  He again asked Adam how his day had gone.

    “Pretty well,” Adam said.  “Mrs. Mott isn’t nearly as interesting a teacher as Mr. Edwards was, though.”

    “I didn’t think she would be,” Ben admitted.  “Do you feel you’re wasting your time, Adam?”

    Adam shook his head.  “Oh, no.  There’s plenty she can teach me; it’s just that she sort of makes it work.”

    Ben smiled.  “And Mr. Edwards made it fun?”

    “Yeah,” Adam said fondly.  He took a bite of the bread, then jerked up.  “Oh, I forgot, Pa.  Mrs. Mott wants to see you at your earliest con—convenience.  Yeah, that’s the way she put it.”

    Ben arched an eyebrow.  “Don’t tell me you’re in trouble already.”

    Adam frowned.  “No, Pa!  Of course not.  I think it has something to do with geography.”

    Ben chuckled.  “Geography?”

    Adam swallowed his mouthful of jam and bread.  “Yeah.  I showed her my books, like you said, and told her what others I had.  Then Billy piped up and said he liked geography best of all ‘cause you made it so exciting with all your stories about the places you’d been.  That’s when Mrs. Mott said she wanted to see you, so I think it has something to do with geography.”

    “Well, I’ll ride in with you tomorrow and see,” Ben said.  “We’ll need to leave early though; I’ve got to stop by the Thomases first to eat some humble pie.”

    Hoss looked up expectantly.  “Pie?” he queried, his blue eyes brightening hopefully.

    Ben collapsed with laughter.

    When the door opened, Eliza Mott looked up from the rough plank desk at the front of her classroom, which had at one time been the kitchen of her cabin.  “Why, Mr. Cartwright,” she said, rising quickly.  “I didn’t dream you’d respond so quickly to my message.”

    “I was in the area,” Ben said simply, “and, of course, I’m very concerned about anything that relates to Adam’s education.”

    Eliza smiled at the boy who had entered behind Ben.  “Yes, I can understand that.  He’s a very bright boy, and I can tell he’ll be one of my best students.”  Adam blushed furiously, but it was obvious he was pleased by his teacher’s praise.

    “Actually, what I wanted to talk with you about, Mr. Cartwright—” Eliza began.

    “Please call me Ben,” Ben interrupted.

    “Of course, Ben,” Eliza smiled.  “As I was saying, it wasn’t really for Adam’s sake that I asked to see you.  I’m sure he’s already had the benefit I hope you’ll afford the other students.”

    Ben cocked his head quizzically and Eliza rushed on.  “It’s geography, Ben.  The only traveling I’ve ever done was the trip here from Missouri, so I’m afraid what little I know comes strictly from books.   And when Billy Thomas mentioned your teaching him the subject, I just knew that if that little scamp actually enjoyed the lessons, the other children would surely profit by listening to you lecture.”

    Ben laughed.  “I’m afraid I also tried teaching the little scamp some basic grammar, and I couldn’t tell he profited much from that!”

    Eliza smiled.  “Well, I can deal with grammar.  I truly would appreciate your help with the geography lessons, however.”

     “You’d like me to come by sometime and talk to the children?” Ben asked.

    “Not just sometime,” Eliza explained.  “I thought it over last night, and it seems to me the best thing to do is have you come in once a week, say on Saturdays, and teach the children then.  It would be something for them to look forward to and I trust not unduly take up your time.”

    Ben shrugged.  “I’m not overly busy at this time of year, of course, but once Spring comes—”

    “Oh, I understand,” Eliza said hurriedly.  “And while I can’t pay you for your help, I would write off Adam’s tuition in return.”

    “That’s more than fair,” Ben said.  “I’ll be glad to help out.”

    Eliza extended her hand.  “I’ll see you Saturday morning, then.”

    Ben clasped her hand warmly and the bargain was sealed.

    As Mrs. Mott had predicted, all the children looked forward to Saturdays.  Each Saturday morning brought another of Ben Cartwright’s intriguing stories about life and customs in foreign lands.  After the geography lesson the children competed in a spell down.  Since there were only six scholars in the Mormon Station school, the contest never lasted long.  To reward the youngsters for good work and good behavior during the week, Mrs. Mott dismissed class as soon as someone, frequently Adam, emerged victorious.  The prospect of a free afternoon provided sufficient motivation to keep the children attentive the rest of the week, and Mrs. Mott had few discipline problems.

    For Ben, as well as the young scholars, Saturdays were a pleasant break in the regular routine.  While giving his weekly geography lectures, Ben couldn’t miss the look of pride in Adam’s eyes, and Ben found it difficult to keep a similar expression out of his own as he watched Adam’s regular triumphs in the spelling bees.  Then, too, teaching the children gave Ben a sense of contribution to his community, made him feel a part of its growth.

    While the changes taking place in Carson County were primarily good ones, the news outside the valley was increasingly bad.  The country had been in turmoil ever since Congress passed the Kansas-Nebraska Act annulling the provisions of the Missouri Compromise.  Giving each territory the right to choose whether to permit slavery within its borders had only exacerbated the controversy dividing North from South.

    As proponents of both viewpoints flocked to Kansas, trying to insure a majority for their cause, open hostility raged within that afflicted territory.  Each month’s mail from back east brought word of more fighting and killing, and even the Scorpion, normally devoted to news of local interest, began to carry stories of what was all too appropriately labeled Bleeding Kansas.

    Ben felt thankful for the safe haven of the West.  California was already within the fold of free states, and slavery was unlikely to find a foothold in Mormon Utah, even if it ever achieved a population large enough to merit statehood.  Carson County was certainly doing nothing to enhance Utah’s chances of that, Ben had to admit ruefully.  But obscurity and isolation had their blessings, and the chance to grow and develop slowly seemed greatest among them whenever Ben heard news of the turmoil outside his peaceful valley.
 
 

After receiving Eliza Mott’s thanks for his help with the geography class, Ben walked outside to meet Adam one Saturday.  Resting a hand on the boy’s shoulder, Ben said, “We’re branding the new calves this afternoon.  You want to come along?”

    Adam bit his lip and glanced at Billy, with whom he’d been in earnest conversation just moments before.  “Well, I’d like that,” Adam admitted, “but me and Billy—”

    “Billy and I,” Ben corrected with a smile.

    “Yes, sir.  Billy and I,” Adam said hurriedly.  “We were talking about making kites.  The wind’s good for flying this afternoon.”

    Ben chuckled.  “Yeah, it’s brisk.  So where’s this kite-building taking place?  Our place or Billy’s?”

    “Ours,” Adam grinned.  “I’ve got the makings all set aside.”

    “You know you’ll have to watch Hoss, too,” Ben pointed out.

    “Aw, you could leave him at our place,” Billy argued.

    “No, I couldn’t,” Ben said firmly.  “That’s not fair to your mother; furthermore, I have no intention of going all the way back there from my cattle range just to give you rapscallions the pleasure of an afternoon alone.”

    “That’s all right,” Adam quickly assured his father.  “We can pick Hoss up first.”

    Billy groaned, but saw little point in arguing further.  Ben Cartwright was even less vulnerable to that kind of manipulation than his own folks.  “Let’s go,” he urged, elbowing Adam.  “You can take dinner at our place.”  He threw Ben a significant glare.  “Ma won’t mind,” he insisted.

    “I know she won’t,” Ben grinned.  “Fine with me if my boys have a hot meal.  There’s not much ready to eat at our place.”

    “That’s for sure!” Adam exclaimed.  “I’m hungry, too.  Let’s go, Billy.”

    “Yeah,” Billy agreed, “before that chunky brother of yours picks the table clean.”

    Adam and Billy mounted their horses and raced for the Thomas cabin, four miles to the north.  Billy won and, leaping off his horse, rushed into the cabin.  “Ma, me and Adam’s gonna build kites at his house this afternoon.  That’s all right, ain’t it?” he asked, rushing his words.

    “If it’s all right with Ben, I got no objection,” Nelly replied, pushing a damp tendril of light hair off her forehead.

    “He done said yes,” Billy announced.  “What’s for dinner?  Adam’s eatin’ with us.”

    “Should have told Ben to come along, too,” Nelly chided.

    “He’s anxious to get to the calf branding, ma’am,” Adam said from the doorway.  “Diego’ll have something for the men to eat there.”

    “Humph!” Nelly sniffed.  “Some meal that’s likely to be.  Well, at least, you younguns will have good food.”

    “Yeah, good food!” Hoss chirped, clambering into a chair at the table.

    “Not yet,” Nelly laughed.  “You run along and play with Inger awhile longer.  Dinner’ll be ready in about half an hour.”

    “Long?” Hoss asked Adam as he climbed down.

    “Short,” Adam said, knowing those two words comprised Hoss’s entire concept of time.  Hoss grinned and trotted back into the bedroom where he’d been playing with Inger.

    After a filling lunch the boys mounted, Hoss behind Adam on the sorrel mare, and rode to Pine Tree Station.  Adam helped Hoss down, then faced the four-year-old, arms akimbo.  “All right now, Hoss, you want to feed your pony while Billy and I take care of our horses?”

    Hoss shook his head.  “Pony all fed,” he said.  His pup came racing from the barn to greet him with leaps and licks.

    “Go find some toys to play with then,” Adam ordered.  “Billy and I’ll be real busy making our kites, and we don’t want you underfoot.”

    “Me help,” Hoss offered amiably, turning his face aside to avoid Klamath’s wet tongue.

    “Oh, no, you won’t!” Adam sputtered.  “You keep your hands off.  Now, in the house and find some toys.”

    Hoss thrust out his lower lip, then drew it back in when he thought of something he’d like better than toys.  He jogged toward the cabin, Klamath trotting at his heels.  “No, Klam, stay,” Hoss ordered.  He patted the little dog’s head, went inside and pulled from the corner cupboard half a loaf of bread and a crock of plum jam, successfully carrying both to the table.

    Feeling like a big boy, able to fix his own snack, Hoss climbed in a chair, stuck his fingers in the crock of jam and slathered it lavishly on one end of the loaf of bread.  Pa, of course, would have sliced off just one piece, but Hoss instinctively knew he’d be in trouble if he touched one of Pa’s sharp knives.  Besides, jam and bread tasted sweet no matter how you put them together, and Hoss was prepared to finish off all the bread anyway.  Highly satisfied with his creation, he sunk his teeth in.

    When Adam and Billy walked in, Hoss was sloppily applying more jam to the nibbled end of the loaf.  “Want some?” he offered generously, favoring Adam with one of his sunniest smiles.

    Adam’s lips tightened, his brows met in a straight line, and his face reddened——a perfect copy of his father, when angry.  “What have you done?” he demanded.  “Look at the mess you’ve made, Hoss!”

    “Sorwy, Bubba,” Hoss whimpered, lapsing into baby talk at the sight of Adam’s angry countenance.

    “Don’t ‘sorry,’ me, Hoss Cartwright!” Adam snapped.

    “That youngun’s a mess waitin’ to happen,” Billy charged.

    “You can say that again,” Adam moaned.  “Now we’ll have to clean him up before we can start the kite.”

    “Not to mention the table,” Billy commiserated.  “He’s swiped jam everywhere.”

    Disgruntled, Adam grabbed Hoss roughly by one arm and herded him outdoors.  When Klamath stood and growled, Adam let go of Hoss’s arm and snatched up the bucket resting by the front door.  “Stay right there and don’t touch anything,” Adam ordered, heading for the creek.

    Hoss flopped down on the ground and, with Klamath’s tongue busily assisting him, began to lick plum jam from his fingers.  When Adam returned, he held his pudgy palms out to demonstrate that he was already clean.

    “Not good enough,” Adam snapped, thrusting first one, then the other, sticky hand into the water and scrubbing hard.  Hoss whined, for the water was icy.  Klamath began nipping at Adam’s heels.  Adam kicked at him, and though the dog wasn’t hurt, he slunk back, adding his whimpers to Hoss’s.

    “It’s your own fault,” Adam said harshly, “so you can just quit the bellering.”  Not sure whether Adam meant him or his dog, Hoss wiped his dripping nose with his just-washed hand while Adam scrubbed the other.  Adam dried both his brother’s hands.  “Now sit here ‘til we get the table washed off,” he ordered.

    “Cold,” Hoss whimpered.

    “Then go in the house,” Adam retorted, “but stay in your room.”

    Adam, with Billy’s help, was vigorously scouring the table when Hoss ambled in from the bedroom he shared with Adam.  Crumpled in his hand was a large sheet of paper.  “Here, Bubba,” he said, obviously hoping to appease his irritated sibling.  “Make kite.”

    Adam yelped and jerked the paper from Hoss’s hand.  “Doggone you!  You’ve gone and scrunched it full of wrinkles.”

    “Tore it, too,” Billy added, conveniently overlooking the fact that it was Adam’s precipitous action that had torn the paper.

    “S—sorwy,” Hoss sputtered.

    “Don’t start that again!” Adam snapped.  “Sorry doesn’t cut it, Hoss.  Billy’s right.  You’re a ca-catastrophe waiting to happen.”  He chose to replace Billy’s simpler term with one from the previous week’s spelling list.

    “We won’t get nothin’ done with him around,” Billy complained.

    “So I’m just gonna see to it he’s not around,” Adam said firmly.  He grabbed Hoss by one elbow.  “Give me a hand,” he ordered Billy.

    Billy took the other elbow.  “Where we headed?”

    “The tool shed,” Adam replied.  “He can’t open it from the inside.”

    “Good idea,” Billy said.  Between them, the two boys dragged the kicking, squirming youngster.  Behind them, Klamath barked in loud protest.

    Adam opened the door to the shed and shoved Hoss inside.  “You, too,” Adam ordered as he pushed Klamath in with his young master and slammed the door.

    “No, Bubba!” Hoss screamed.  “Dark!”

    For a moment Adam felt a twinge of guilt.  He knew Hoss hated dark places.  That’s why he’d never go to the outhouse alone or slept without a lighted candle.  “Time he got over it,” Adam mumbled under his breath.  Aloud he said, “Quit that blubbering, Hoss.  I just want you out of our hair for awhile.  I’ll let you out soon as we finish the kites.”  And I’ll do that a lot sooner with you in there, Adam told himself, justifying his actions.

    “Let’s get to it,” Billy urged, “before your Pa gets home.”

    Adam flinched.  Pa.  That was the fly in the ointment, all right.  Pa’d have his hide for treating Hoss this way.  Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea, after all.

    “Come on,” Billy, who had already reached the cabin, called.

    Adam squared his shoulders.  He couldn’t back down now——not in front of Billy.  “I’m coming,” he shouted over Hoss’s vociferous pleas for help.

    Without Hoss’s interference, the older boys quickly constructed two wind-worthy kites.  “Bet mine’ll fly the highest,” Billy bragged.

    Adam tossed the challenge back in his friend’s face.  “No, sir; mine’s the best.”

    “Prove it,” Billy dared, racing outside.  He ran as fast as he could and soon the kite was soaring skyward.  Adam charged after him, grinning as he saw his kite sail higher than Billy’s, higher than the emerald pines fringing the foothills west of the cabin.  Back and forth the boys raced, each flaunting the merit of his own creation whenever it chanced to rise above its competitor.

    Evening shadows lengthened unheeded.  Suddenly, a voice rang through the trees.  “Adam!” Ben Cartwright called.  Jubilant with triumph, his cheeks chafed ruddy by the wind, Adam ran to greet his father.

    Ben’s face, however, was glowering with a different kind of warmth.  “I thought I told you not to leave Hoss at the Thomases,” he said tersely.

    “I didn’t,” Adam said, then clapped his hand over his mouth.  Hoss!  He’d meant to let his little brother out of the tool shed as soon as he’d finished his kite, but in the excitement of his contest with Billy, he’d completely forgotten.  Adam hurriedly explained what he’d done.

    “You did what!” Ben shouted with undisguised fury.

    “Well, he—he was being an awful pest,” Adam sputtered, “and we wanted to make the kites and—”

    “I get the picture,” Ben growled, “and it’s not a pretty one.”

    Adam gulped.  “No, sir, it’s not.  I’m sorry, Pa.”  Suddenly, his face drained.  He hadn’t accepted Hoss’s apologies.  Why should he expect any better response from Pa?

    “I think it’s time you went home, Billy,” Ben said firmly as he turned his back on the boys and headed for the tool shed.

    “High time,” Billy muttered.  “Boy, are you gonna get it!”  He gave Adam a sympathetic look.  “I hope he ain’t too hard on you.  It was part my fault.  Tell him that if you think it’ll help.”

    Adam shook his head.  Pa was smart enough to figure out Billy’s part without being told, but whatever his friend had done wouldn’t excuse Adam’s behavior.  That was the attitude Pa would take, so there was no use trying to squirm out of whatever punishment Pa laid down.  And seeing Hoss’s tear-streaked face when he was released from the confining shed convinced Adam more than any amount of scolding that he deserved the worst Pa could think up.

    Adam’s footsteps dragged the dust as he approached the bench beside the cabin door where Ben sat comforting his younger son.  A growl rumbled in the throat of the dog sitting at their feet and Adam took a step back.  “I’m sorry, Pa,” he said again, not hoping to lessen his penalty by the words, just feeling the need to say them.

    Anger was still glinting in Ben Cartwright’s eyes.  Hoss, too, looked up at Adam with a look the older boy had never seen before.  Nothing akin to the hero worship with which Hoss ordinarily ogled him.  “I’m sorry, baby,” Adam murmured.  “Brother forgot.”

    “Forgetting wasn’t the problem, Adam!” Ben grunted.

    “No, sir, I know that,” Adam said.  “It wasn’t right in the first place, but I never meant to leave him that long.”

    “How long is ‘that long?’” Ben demanded.

    Adam shrugged.  “A couple of hours, I guess.”

    “Two hours,” Ben sputtered.  “How do you think it feels to be shut up in the dark for two hours, Adam?”

    “Not good, I guess,” Adam admitted.

    “Well, you’re about to find out,” Ben stated bluntly.  “That’ll be your punishment.  I’ll lock you in that shed for exactly two hours.  Then we’ll have a little talk about how it feels!”

    Adam nodded silently and headed for the tool shed.  He pulled the door shut behind him and immediately felt the darkness close in.  A few minutes later he heard the door latched from the outside and knew he was as hopelessly trapped as Hoss had been.  Adam started to cry, but not for himself.  For Hoss and the fear he’d endured at his big brother’s hands.  Adam sat down on the cold earth and let the shame wash over him.

    The minutes straggled past, dragging as slowly as his footsteps had earlier, until Adam was sure that Pa’d forgotten him the way he’d forgotten Hoss.  Finally, the door creaked open.  “You can come out now,” Ben said.

    Adam almost didn’t respond, the dark shed seeming preferable to the sight of his father’s wrathful eyes.  Two hours had done little to wipe the fury and disappointment from Ben’s visage.  Adam silently followed his father into the cabin.

    Ben pointed to a slice of dry bread and a cup of milk on the table.  “That’s your supper,” he said.  “Eat it.”

    “I’m not much hungry, Pa,” Adam whispered.

    “Eat it,” Ben said, but his voice was gentler this time.

    Adam sat down and tried to comply, but the dry bread stuck in his throat.  Ben sat across from him.  “Well, how was it, son?” he asked.

    Adam choked down the bread in his mouth.  “Bad, Pa,” he said.  “Worse than I thought.”

    “And worse yet for Hoss,” Ben said grimly.  “He’s only four, Adam.  He was terrified.”

    “I know, Pa,” Adam murmured, staring at the tabletop.  “I—I guess he hates me, huh?”

    “He was very angry, very hurt,” Ben said, “but I talked with him about it.  I think he’ll forgive you, Adam, but you can’t play this kind of game with his feelings.  Baby or not, Hoss is a person, same as you; he deserves to be treated with kindness and respect——no matter how much he gets in the way of what you’d rather do.”

    “Yes, sir, I know.”

    “Then behave as if you knew,” Ben said firmly.  “I’ve entrusted you with a great responsibility, Adam, and most of the time I’ve been proud of how you handle it.  But I don’t feel proud today.”

    Something shriveled inside Adam.  He’d basked in his father’s approval for so long.  Now it was gone, and Adam would rather Pa had blistered his bottom than to lose that respect.  “Will—will you forgive me, Pa?” he asked hesitantly.

    “You are forgiven, son,” Ben said without hesitation, “but not excused.  When you’ve finished your dinner, go straight to bed.  And for the next week, you’ll pick up Hoss after school and come directly home——no dawdling at Billy’s afterwards.”

    “Yes, sir,” Adam said.  He finished his milk quickly and went to his room without saying anything else.  Quietly, he undressed and pulled his nightshirt over his head.

    “Bubba,” a timid voice called.

    Adam knelt beside the bed where Hoss lay on his stomach.  “Yeah, Hoss?”

    “You still mad, Bubba?”

    Adam threw his arm across the chunky little boy’s back.  “No, I’m not mad.  You still mad, Hoss?”

    “Unh-uh,” Hoss muttered.  “Sc—scared.”

    Adam patted the youngster’s shoulder.  “Want me to sleep with you?” he offered.

    “Yeah!” Hoss cried, scrunching over to let Adam in.

    Adam grinned and crawled beneath the covers.  “I’m sorry I scared you, Hoss,” he whispered as he lay his dark head beside the sandy one on the pillow.

    Hoss cuddled close, nestling his head against Adam’s chest.  “Kite fly good?” he asked.

    “Real good,” Adam said.  “I’ll show you tomorrow, maybe even let you fly it.”

    “Oh, boy!” Hoss shouted.

    “Time for bed, boys,” Ben ordered from the doorway.  His voice sounded firm, but he was smiling, glad to see the brothers at peace again.

    The next morning Adam got the kite soaring high, then handed the string to Hoss.  “Hold tight,” he said.

    “Looky, Bubba,” Hoss cried.  “See it fly!”  Hoss clapped his hands in delight and the kite string slipped from his hands.

    Adam lunged forward and caught it, tumbling to the ground.  Hoss clapped his hands again and laughed.  Lying on the ground, Adam laughed, too, suddenly realizing that Hoss could be as much fun as Billy.  You had to get down on his level, of course, but that was a small price to pay for the toothy grin you got in return.  Over the next week, deprived of Billy’s society, Adam had a chance to work on his relationship with Hoss, and he rediscovered just how much he liked his little brother.

    Shortly after Adam’s reprieve from confinement at home, Ben had a chance to practice the patience he’d preached to his older son.  Though he regularly sent Hoss to stay with Nelly Thomas while Adam was in school, one crisp September morning Ben decided to keep the boy home with him.  Hoss had a slight case of the sniffles, and since Ben planned to spend the day doing chores in the barn and tack room, he saw no reason to send the child on a long, cold ride.  Better to keep him indoors and ward off a bad cold.  Even with a doctor in the county, Ben preferred healthy boys to fretful, sick ones.

    Hoss wasn’t, however, sick enough that he appreciated staying inside.  “Wanna help, Pa,” he insisted as Ben prepared to go out.  “Hoss big boy.”

    Ben’s mouth twitched.  Hoss was indeed a big boy, a fact confirmed every time Ben tried to lift him.  “Hoss is a big boy,” he agreed, “and a good one to want to help Pa.  But I think you’d better stay out of the wind today, son.  Pa’ll be in the barn if you need anything.”

    “Wanna help, Pa,” Hoss repeated, his face drooping.

    Ben gave the youngster a hug.  “The best help is to do as you’re told, Hoss.  Now go back to your room and play with your Noah’s Ark.”  Ben opened the door, then turned, remembering Adam’s description of what had first irritated him the day he’d locked Hoss in the tool shed.  “And stay out of the jam,” Ben ordered firmly.  “This place is messy enough without your making it worse.”

    Hoss’s chin bobbed up and down.  He hadn’t forgotten the aftermath of the last time he’d helped himself to a snack.  As his father disappeared, he looked at the table covered with the dirty dishes from breakfast.  Ben, who hated washing dishes just about worse than anything, had decided to let them sit until lunch time and do them all at once, but Hoss didn’t know that.  He thought his father had just forgotten.  “Place messy,” Hoss muttered, repeating Ben’s evaluation.

    A wide grin split the youngster’s face as he spotted the bucket of water set just inside the door.  Adam had brought it from the creek earlier that morning so he could wash up for school and had left it for the dishes.  “Hoss help Pa,” the boy cried, pulling the tin dishpan down from the counter and setting it in the floor by the fire.  Hoss dragged the water bucket over to the pan and tipped it so the water spilled into the pan.  Most of it, at least.  Some was on the floor, but not enough to bother Hoss.

    The four-year-old grabbed a bar of lye soap and lathered up a pile of suds.  Then he took the fortunately unbreakable tin plates from the table and dropped them with a splash into the dishpan.  Hoss frowned as he saw more water slosh onto the floor.  He’d have to remember to ease the next ones in.  Sitting on the hooked rug, he hummed off key as he scoured the plates with vigor.  Holding the first one up, he grinned at his dull image reflected from the metal surface.  Nice and clean.  He gave the others similar treatment and, drying them with the towel ordinarily used for hands, stacked them back on the table.

    All that remained was the three-legged spider in which Ben had fried the bacon that morning.  Hoss grabbed the long handle and pulled.  The skillet hit the floor with a loud bang.  The boy ran to the window and peered anxiously out.  It wouldn’t do to have Pa come investigating suspicious noises and discover Hoss’s surprise before it was completely done.  Satisfied the clatter hadn’t reached the barn, Hoss scooted back to finish the job.  He slipped in the bacon grease that now filmed the floor and sat down hard.  Hoss shook his head.  He was going to have to do something about that floor.  First, though, he gave the skillet an energetic rub, dried it and set it back on the table.

    All done now except emptying the dishpan.  Hoss had started to drag it to the front door when an idea struck him, an idea that would solve the problem of the greasy floor, as well.  Instead of pulling the dishpan of water out the door, he just tipped it over and let the water flood the puncheon floor.  Now to find something to scrub with.  He ran into the bedroom he shared with Adam and snatched his brother’s nightshirt from the peg on the wall.  Adam wouldn’t need that until nightfall.  It would do nicely.

    Hoss had worked halfway across the front room when the door opened.  “Oh, you peeked,” he cried in disappointment.  “Not done, Pa.”

    “Not done with what?” Ben demanded, staring at the wet floor.  “What have you done, Hoss?”

    “Place messy,” Hoss explained, sure his father would understand and be as proud of him as he always seemed to be of Adam.  “Me help.”

    “Help!  Is that what you call it?” Ben croaked, then stopped as he caught sight of his little boy’s sudden change of demeanor.

    Hoss’s lower lip was trembling.  “Try help,” he whimpered.

    Ignoring the water soaking through his trousers, Ben knelt and gathered the youngster into his arms.  “Yeah, it was a good thought, Hoss,” Ben said comfortingly.  “Pa knows you meant well, but you’ve made quite a mess, son.”

    Hoss shook his head in denial.  “Mop,” he said, “like Aunt Nelly.”

    Ben guffawed.  “Is this what she uses, Hoss?” he laughed, pulling Adam’s nightshirt from the pudgy fingers.  Hoss gave his father a sheepish grin.  Now that Pa mentioned it, he could remember that Aunt Nelly didn’t use clothes; she used a scrub brush.

    “Well, I hate to admit it,” Ben said, looking around the room distastefully, “but this place could use a thorough cleaning.  Not what I planned for this afternoon, but I guess I’d better make a change, starting with this floor.”

    “Me help,” Hoss offered.

    “No thank you,” Ben laughed.  “I’ll—”  He stopped abruptly, seeing Hoss’s wet clothes.  And this was the child he was keeping out of the cold so his sniffles wouldn’t worsen!  “In the other room right now!” Ben said.  “You need dry clothes, boy!”  Hoss shrugged and followed his father’s pointing finger.

    Ben soon had the child redressed.  “Now into bed, son.”

    Hoss shook his head.  “No, no.  Help Pa.”

    “You’ve done your share,” Ben grinned.  “Get under the covers and warm up while I finish the floor.  Then Pa’ll fix us something to eat.  Sound good?”

    “Good!” Hoss agreed.  “Toy?”

    Ben poked through the chest at the foot of Hoss’s bed and handed him the calico dog Nelly had made him.  “This do?”  Hoss grinned and reached for the soft, cuddly dog.  Klamath would have made a better companion, of course, but Pa wouldn’t let a real dog in the house.  Hoss never could understand why.

    Ben went back into the front room and located the rarely used scrub brush.  His knees hit the floor, a position Ben was sure the Almighty had only intended man to use in prayer.  “Housework.  Blah!” he grumbled with masculine disdain as he vigorously scoured the puncheon floor.
 

    “Come in out of the cold, you tardy wretch,” Ben laughed, opening the door for Paul Martin.

    “Sorry, had to see a patient,” Paul said quietly.

    Ben nodded understandingly.  “I figured it might be that, and I’m afraid I’ve got another one for you.”

    Paul looked up, alarmed.  “Not Hoss?” he asked.  Adam was reading in the rocker by the fire, but the younger boy was nowhere to be seen.  “Why didn’t you send for me?”

    “I don’t think it’s serious,” Ben explained, “but I’d like you to take a look as long as you’re here.”

    “Sure, right away,” Paul said, going at once to the boys’ room.  “Well, little man,” he said, sitting on the edge of Hoss’s bed.  “What’s your trouble?”

    Hoss coughed hoarsely.  “Sick,” he mumbled.

    “Just a cold, I think,” Ben said.  “He’s been sniffling around for two or three days, and yesterday he said his throat hurt.  He started coughing today.”

    Dr. Martin laid his hand across the boy’s forehead.  “Not much fever,” he said.  “Open your mouth, Hoss, and let Pau-Pau see your throat.”  Hoss obliged and the doctor smiled up at Ben after giving the throat a quick examination.  “A little red, but I agree with your diagnosis, Dr. Cartwright——just a common cold.  Keep him warm and see he gets plenty of rest.”

    “I’ve been feeding him salt pork and onions,” Ben said.  “His mother said it was an old Swedish remedy, and it always seemed to help Adam when his throat was sore.”

    Paul chuckled lightly.  “I imagine it’s the salt that helped, Ben.  I sometimes recommend gargling with salt water for a sore throat, but Hoss will probably prefer his mother’s medicine.”

    “It’s food,” Ben said, as if that explained everything.

    The doctor gave Hoss a parting pat and stood with a sigh.

    “Something wrong?” Ben asked.

    Paul shook his head.  “Just not feeling worth much as a doctor these days.  I’ve seen three patients this week and couldn’t help one of them.”

    “But Hoss isn’t seriously ill, is he?” Ben asked, puzzled.

    Paul rested an assuring hand on his friend’s shoulder.  “No, he’ll be fine in a few days, and so will the patient I saw earlier this evening.  Not because of any help I gave, of course, but that doesn’t matter when the situation isn’t serious.”

    “You mentioned three patients,” Ben probed as he followed the doctor into the front room.  “Was the other situation serious?”

    “Fatal,” Dr. Martin murmured softly.  “The first patient I’ve lost since settling here.”

    “Oh, I’m sorry,” Ben said sympathetically.

    Paul took a chair.  “Yeah, and it makes it harder when the patient is a neighbor, someone you know and care about.”  Seeing the question in Ben’s eyes, he answered without being asked.  “James Ellis,” he said.  “Shot himself cleaning his rifle.  I did all I could, but a gutshot from short range—”

    “Oh,” Ben moaned.  “Yeah, there’d be no way to treat that.”

    “I closed the wound,” Paul said, “but he’d lost too much blood by the time I got there.  He died about an hour afterwards.”

    “How’s his wife taking it?” Ben asked.

    “Pretty well,” Paul said.  “Thanked me for trying to save her husband and started counting her blessings, like having that new baby to carry on his father’s name.”

    “Brave woman,” Ben said admiringly.  “Doe she have folks back east she can go to?”

    “Doesn’t plan to,” Paul said.  “Says this is her home, and she’s not leaving.  Plans to take in sewing and washing, maybe do some baking for the miners.”

    “You know, my boys could use some new clothes,” Ben mused.  “Nelly Thomas usually makes them, but she has enough to do taking care of her own.  I think I’ll bring some cloth back from California and see if Mrs. Ellis won’t take on the job.”

    “A kind thought, Ben,” Paul smiled.  He saw through Ben’s transparent reasoning at once.  Ben Cartwright was just the kind who’d want to help a young widow and do it in a way that didn’t hurt her pride.  “Speaking of California, though, are you heading that direction soon?”

    “In about a week,” Ben replied.  “You want to send a list of supplies with me?”

    “I do,” Paul said, “including a list of medicines I’d like you to pick up, if that’s all right.”

    “It’s all right, provided you print it out legibly,” Ben smiled.  “I’ve seen your writing, my friend, and I have no intention of deciphering your scrawl for some poor apothecary.”

    “I’ll print it in big block letters,” Dr. Martin laughed.  “Now, what’s for dinner?”

    Ben looked thoughtfully at the signboard announcing Ghirardelli’s Fine Chocolates above the store across the street.  Might make a nice gift to take Camilla Larrimore, Ben mused.  Not that his friend from the overland journey couldn’t buy all the candy she wanted now, especially here in San Francisco, where she lived.  But her husband Lawrence always insisted Ben stay with them when he was in town, and Camilla would appreciate the gesture of courtesy to her as his hostess.

    Ben smiled.  Camilla had started taking on airs ever since Lawrence had built her the grand mansion she’d always dreamed of back in St. Joseph.  Then he chuckled.  Be honest, Ben, he scolded himself; Camilla took on airs back then, too.  She just didn’t have the money to flaunt them in those days.  Now she did, and her ambition seemed to be the best of everything——for herself, her husband, and especially for her two children.  Ben quickly crossed the street and entered the chocolate confectionery.

    Inside, the florid face and extravagant hand gestures marked the man behind the counter as an Italian.  Since the man was busy with another customer, Ben eyed the candy behind the glass counter.  So many kinds.  At least, they looked different in size and shape, though all were obvious made of chocolate.  Ben shook his head in wonderment.  Wouldn’t Hoss crow with joy if he could see this lavish display?  The boy’d never actually eaten chocolates, but Ben knew they’d meet with Hoss’s immediate approval.  All candy did.

    The Italian concluded his business with the previous customer and came at once toward Ben, his smile broad, either by natural tendency or business courtesy.  The former, Ben decided.  “Signor, how may Ghirardelli help you?” the man asked.

    “You’re Ghirardelli, the owner?” Ben said.  “Pleased to meet you, sir.”

    “Oh, sí, signor,” the Italian beamed.  “Domingo Ghirardelli.  You have not been to my shop before?”

    “No,” Ben said.  “I live out of the state and haven’t had the pleasure.  I’m visiting friends and thought I might take a box of chocolates to the lady of the house.”

    “Ah, sí, and what kind would you like?”

    Ben raised his hands in perplexity.  “I have no idea what I’m looking at, Signor Ghirardelli, and no idea what the lady would like.”

    “An assortment, then,” Ghirardelli suggested.  “If you permit, I will make up a box of my especial favorites.”

    “Yes, please,” Ben agreed readily.  “About a pound, I think.”

    “Sí, signor,” the proprietor said, reaching immediately for a triangular piece of candy.  “Since this is your first visit to my establishment, perhaps you would like a sample?”

    Ben nodded and accepted the chocolate, biting into its creamy,  orange-flavored center.  “Delicious,” he said.  “I’m sure my friend will love these, and I may return tomorrow to buy some to take back to Utah with me.  They keep well?”

    “Like any chocolate, they will melt in the heat, signor,” Ghirardelli said, “but the weather is cool now.  They should travel well.  Shall I make up another box for you to pick up tomorrow?”

    “Yes, like this one, please,” Ben said.  “It’ll go to an even more special lady.”  Ghirardelli beamed, his romantic soul clearly putting the wrong cast on Ben’s words.  Ben didn’t bother to correct the obvious misconjecture.  Nelly Thomas might not be the woman of his heart, but she was the most special lady he knew.  She deserved a fine Christmas present like those chocolates——and would appreciate them more than Camilla Larrimore, who could have all she wanted any day of the week.

    Ben enjoyed his stroll through the streets of San Francisco.  The town had grown, even since his last visit, but Ben had paid scant attention to the stores before.  Now, with all the money he’d made this year from the sheep drive, the trading post and, most recently, the sale of some cattle, Ben felt rich.  More than rich——extravagant.  For the first time in his life, he could rain gifts on his boys, and he was tempted to buy out the town.  He resisted the temptation, though.  He had only to look at Lawrence Larrimore’s two children to see what too much too easily obtained did to children, and he had no desire to spoil his own youngsters.

    Hoss and Adam, however, were good boys, and Santa was going to be good to them this year, unusually good.  Ben would, as always, get some of the gifts at Larrimore’s Emporium, in honor of his friendship with the proprietors, but this year he wanted to find the best San Francisco had to offer for his boys.  So he was scouting out possibilities today, even though he couldn’t make the purchases until he left the Larrimores tomorrow.  Better not to let Camilla know he gave his business to anyone else.

    Ben grinned happily as he leaned on the railing of the stern-wheeler Eclipse that would carry him northeast to Sacramento.  It felt good to be afloat again.  A steamer, of course, couldn’t compare with the square-rigged ships Ben had sailed on long ocean voyages, but it was, at least, a reminder of those happy times.  What Ben would really like to sail was one of those fast clipper ships he’d read about in newspapers from back east.  Why, only three years ago the Flying Cloud had made the trip from New York to San Francisco in just eighty-nine days.  Imagine that!  But the speedy little clippers wouldn’t be too useful for travel on western rivers.  No, Ben would have to content himself with steamers, probably for the rest of his days.

    For now, though, this uneventful boat trip was luxury enough for Ben, a far more pleasurable way to travel than following an ox team——for an old sea dog, anyway.  Ben felt prosperous enough now to afford the fare; he’d even splurged on one of the thirty-dollar cabins.  Probably should have saved himself the extra price, though, Ben admitted, since he’d spent the majority of the voyage leaning over the rail, enjoying the scenery floating by and the feel of a deck beneath his feet.

    The cabin made a good place to leave the overwhelming number of bundles and boxes he’d brought back with him, though.  In addition to his sons’ Christmas gifts, there’d been presents for the Thomases and for his hired hands.  The cabin also held Dr. Martin’s requested medicines, Ben having felt they would be more readily obtainable in San Francisco than in the smaller towns closer to home.  Thankfully, he didn’t have to manage the box containing that huge doll Paul had instructed him to purchase for young Sally Martin.  Ben had posted it on the steamer to Hawaii, along with a thick letter from her father.  Ben knew the letter would brighten Sally’s heart, for Paul had shared its contents, a promise to meet Sally in San Francisco in May and bring her home to live once more with her father.

    Ben hired a young fellow passenger to help him get his baggage from the steamboat landing on Front Street in Sacramento to the stage depot.  Travel in a crowded stage was about as uncomfortable a means of conveyance as Ben had ever experienced, but he had no other way to get to Placerville.  Clyde Thomas, who had elected to bypass the annual trip to San Francisco, had agreed to shepherd, with Lupe’s help, both his own and Ben’s wagonload of supplies back to Carson County.

    In Placerville Ben somehow juggled the packages to the nearby El Dorado Hotel.  He decided to try the hotel’s dining room rather than walking down the street to Ludmilla Zuebner’s place.  If she found out Ben was in town, she’d insist on boarding him at her house, and Ben hated to be eternally imposing on his friends.  Not when he could afford the price of a room.  He’d see Ludmilla tomorrow, for breakfast, at least.  Hopefully, the buckboard he’d contracted from local wheelwright John Studebaker would be ready and he could leave for home soon after that.

    Ben opted for the three-dollar full meal that included rice pudding for dessert.  The pudding was excellent, but the rest of the meal made him wish he’d gone to Ludmilla’s after all.  The food wasn’t bad, not bad at all, but it didn’t compare to the fare at the Zuebner Cafe.

    Ben took his time on the journey home, partly to give the new team he’d purchased at the livery in Placerville time to get used to him and partly to baby them over the rough Sierra roads.  The steady emigrant traffic over the years had gradually improved them, but the sharp rocks could still be hard on a horse’s tender feet.  Ben took his time and skirted every rough spot he could avoid.  The snows were holding off, so he was in no hurry.

    His first stop, once he reached Carson County, was the little community growing up at the mouth of Gold Canyon.  He dropped off the fabric he’d purchased for the boys’ new clothing with Laura Ellis, who thanked him gratefully for the work.  Then he’d made his way to Cosser’s boardinghouse, where Paul Martin now made his home.

    Paul helped him carry the boxes of medical supplies into his room.  “I suppose the rest of this is supposed to fit in my quarters, too,” Paul snickered, looking at the wagon filled with boxes and barrels.

    “Not quite all,” Ben chuckled.  “I at least want to leave Adam’s new rifle here, though.  He could tell in an instant what that was, just by the shape.”

    “Well, maybe I can disguise it by Christmas,” Paul mused.

    “By his birthday,” Ben said.  “He’s not getting that rifle until he turns twelve.”

    “You shop early,” Paul said.

    “Have to when you live this far from the stores,” Ben pointed out.  Despite the encouraging growth of the area, anything beyond basic supplies was still hard to find during the winter months.  And the county offered nothing too fancy, even in warm weather.  Someday Ben hoped it would be different, that he wouldn’t have to plan so far ahead.  But that seemed less likely than ever this year.  The gold fields in the region were petering out, most miners making no more than five dollars a day at the diggings.  With prospects of wealth as slim as that, Ben suspected that few of them would return next spring.

    Paul somehow made room for all Ben’s Christmas bundles inside his room, leaving only the three kegs in the buckboard.  “You’ll have to make other arrangements next year,” Paul advised.  “With Sally here with me—”

    “Here?” Ben asked with an arch of his dark eyebrow.  “I think you’re the one who may have to make other arrangements, my friend.  You don’t want some Benjamin Cole-type snapping her up for a wife, do you?”

    “Just let them try!” Dr. Martin snorted.

    Ben grinned and mounted the seat of his wagon.  “Well, maybe Adam will take her off your hands before the miners get a good gawk.”

    This time it was Paul Martin’s eyebrow that arched disdainfully.  “Can’t have a rifle until he’s twelve,” he taunted, “but you’ve no scruple against marrying him off early, huh?”

    Ben laughed.  “So far, I don’t think any female could attract him as readily as a new book.”

    “Wait’ll he gets a ‘good gawk’ at Sally,” Paul warned.  “He might grow up a lot quicker than you think.”

    Shaking his head, Ben drove away chuckling.  He made his way back to the Thomas cabin to unload the three kegs of Zuebner Beer Clyde had requested and to pick up Hoss and Adam.

    “Sure not much in that new wagon,” Adam commented as he helped his father hitch the oxen to the larger one that held their winter supplies.  “Thought you went to San Francisco to buy some things.”

    “And you know what kind of things,” Ben teased, “so quit prying.”

    “Well, where are they?” Adam inquired.

    “At the north pole,” Ben replied slyly.

    Adam hid his mouth behind his hand and tittered softly.  He couldn’t ask, of course, but from what he remembered of last year’s Christmas, he figured the north pole was a lot closer to Gold Canyon than he’d ever thought before.
 
 

As the Cartwrights and the Thomases gathered around the table for their annual Thanksgiving feast, another guest took the place of honor.  Clyde and Nelly felt that the preservation of Billy’s ornery hide (Clyde’s description) was their greatest blessing of the previous year and, among human benefactors, Dr. Paul Martin most merited their thanks.

    To see Billy that day, however, no one would have believed his well-earned reputation as an ornery nuisance.  Having provided the turkey for the meal with his own rifle, Billy beamed with pride and seemed determined to act with grown-up dignity, though Adam, green with envy, called it swelled-headed swaggering.  Loud and lavish were the praises heaped on Billy’s fiery head as the blue crockery plates were filled and filled again with succulent turkey and savory sage dressing.

    “Our most traditional Thanksgiving yet,” Ben said as he raised his glass of water, “and I propose a toast of gratitude to the fine young hunter who provided it.”

    Paul Martin lifted his glass.  “Hurray for Billy!” he announced.

    Adam lifted his glass grudgingly.  “Yeah, hurray,” he muttered.

    “‘Ray, Billy!” Hoss shouted fittingly, for only the three men had consumed more of the bird than he.

    “Hush,” Adam hissed in his brother’s ear, then turned guiltily away from the puzzled frown on Hoss’s face.  Why’d Billy have to be a year older, anyway?  If Adam had had a rifle of his own, he could have been the one reaping in the acclaim.  Adam knew what he was feeling wasn’t right, though, so he kept his thoughts to himself.

    “Too bad them men of yourn can’t have a feed like this,” Clyde taunted.

    Ben chuckled.  “They may not be having turkey, my friend, but I imagine Mrs. Ellis is doing well by them.”  To express his appreciation for the work his hired men had done, Ben had asked Laura Ellis to prepare a Thanksgiving meal for them.  Needing the money, she had gladly accepted, and because Ben was paying for the food, had promised to leave the leftovers, if any.  Since Nelly would undoubtedly send food home with him, too, Ben figured he and his sons would eat well for days to come without his doing much cooking on his own.

    “In fact,” Ben continued, smirking at Clyde, “maybe I’ll just have Mrs. Ellis prepare a big meal and have you all at my place for Christmas.”

    “Ben Cartwright!  You’ll do nothing of the sort,” Nelly scolded hotly.  “The day you have to hire a Christmas dinner for me!”

    “Sorry, Nelly,” Ben apologized quickly.  “It wasn’t your goat I was trying to get.”

    “Oh, well, if it’s Clyde you’re aimin’ to rile, I reckon I won’t object,” Nelly laughed, “so long as you promise to take Christmas dinner here like always.”

    Ben lifted his right hand, palm out.  “I promise,” he pledged, “though I wish I could return some of the hospitality I’ve enjoyed here so many times.”

    “I know what you mean,” Paul said, “but it’s hard for a couple of bachelors like us, Ben.  Perhaps when my Sally gets here, we can put a meal together with her help.”

    “Oh, are you bringing your girl here?” Nelly asked eagerly.  “I’ve been prayin’ you would.”

    Paul nodded and told the Thomases what Ben already knew, that Sally would arrive from Hawaii in May.  “I got a letter back from her by the last carrier, and she’s thrilled about coming here to live.”

    “Well, of course, she is,” Ben said enthusiastically.  “She’s missed her pa.”

    “Yes, that’s what she wrote,” Paul agreed.  “I don’t deserve her love, after the way I’ve treated her, and the fact that I still have it is what I’m most thankful for this year.”

    Ben patted Hoss’s stomach.  “And what are you most thankful for, my boy, as if I didn’t know?”

    Hoss cast an affectionate glance at the sideboard.  “Pie!” he shouted and everyone laughed at the totally predictable answer.

    Winter winds blasted Carson County, and though they brought no snow, the weather was bone-biting cold.  Nightly songfests, however, warmed the Cartwright cabin or, at least, the hearts of those within it.  Ben’s baritone rang in spirited accompaniment to Adam’s guitar, while Hoss’s lusty, if tuneless, singing demonstrated clearly that he had none of his brother’s gift for music.  Nor even his father’s, Ben admitted ruefully.

    As December began, Adam started to learn Christmas carols, practicing faithfully whenever he had time to spare from lessons and chores.  He’d been asked to sing and play for the school’s Christmas program later that month and wanted to do his best.  When Ben informed him one night, however, that he couldn’t listen to “Joy to the World” one more time, Adam decided to take a break and tackle a second project he had in mind.

    He’d tried with limited success to teach Hoss the days of the week a year before.  Now Hoss began repeating those same tiresome questions about Santa’s arrival, so Adam took down the calendar and made a determined effort to give his little brother some concept of time.  Hoss’s tongue didn’t fight the syllables the way it had last year, so within a few days he could rattle off the days of the week and did so incessantly.  “I’d rather hear ‘Joy to the World’ again,” Ben grumbled one night after Hoss had recited Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday for the twelfth time.  Adam grinned and obligingly picked up the guitar.

    When Adam finished playing his four favorite carols, Hoss clapped exuberantly.  “Good, Bubba!  Play ‘em again.”

    Adam frowned.  “Quit calling me Bubba, Hoss,” he scolded.  “You’re not a baby any more, and it’s time you called me by my name.  Now say Adam.”

    “Bubba!” Hoss insisted stubbornly.

    “No——Adam!” the older boy demanded.  “Say it!”

    Hoss wagged his head from side to side.

    “Doggone it!” Adam shouted.  “If you can say a big word like Wednesday, you can say Adam.  You mind me!”

    “Adam,” Ben chided softly.  “You’ll catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.”

    “Huh?”

    “He’s not going to respond to your yelling,” Ben explained, “and if you keep it up, I’ll give you a response you won’t care for.”

    “Well, what else can I do?” Adam sputtered.

    “Try giving him a reward,” Ben suggested.

    “We ate the last of the cookies after dinner,” Adam moaned, “and food’s all he cares about.”

    “Oh, Adam,” Ben laughed, “surely there’s something else he likes.”

    A light sparkled in Adam’s dark eyes.  “How about a story, Hoss?  Would you like that?”

    Hoss’s fat chin bounced up and down.

    “Okay, then, I’ll read you one if you say my name right,” Adam offered.

    Hoss frowned for a moment.  He had a feeling he was being tricked, but he couldn’t figure out how.  Still, a story would be nice.  “Read me a story,” he said and after a slight hesitation added, “Adam.”

    Adam grinned.  “That’s good boy.”

    “Story now!” Hoss shouted.

    “Okay, okay, let’s go in the bedroom and pick one out,” Adam said.  Soon the two brothers were seated side by side on Adam’s bed as the older boy, by the aid of a coal oil lantern on a shelf between the two beds, read Hoss’s favorite fables by Aesop.  And while Hoss frequently lapsed into the use of “Bubba” during the following days, Adam continued to tempt the little boy with a story or a song or a romp in the woods, and soon Hoss’s use of his brother’s proper name became habitual.

    “I can’t decide which songs to sing,” Adam moaned as his father looped the brown string tie around his neck.

    “Joy to the World!” Hoss cried.

    Adam shook his head.  “No, Hoss; Pa’s tired of that.”

    “No, I’m not,” Ben laughed, standing back to admire Adam in his brown suit.  “Besides, it’s the one you practiced most, and it really does sound best, Adam.  I think you should definitely treat the folks to that one.”

    “Okay,” Adam said, smiling with relief.  He really had wanted to sing his favorite.  “But what else?  Mrs. Mott asked for two, one to open the program and one to end it.”

    “My, my,” Ben clucked, “my boy sure is the highlight of this program.”

    Adam beamed; he thought so, too, and he liked feeling important.  “Which other song do I sing really well, Pa?” he asked.

    “Hark Angels,” Hoss suggested.

    “You already picked one,” Adam scolded gently.  “Let Pa choose now.”

    “Well, you do Hark the Herald Angels real well,” Ben mused, “but I think I prefer The First Noel.  Why don’t you sing that one, Adam?”

    “Okay, I’ll do that one first,” Adam decided, “and save Joy to the World for the end.”

    “Sounds like a good plan,” Ben said.  “Now, let’s get bundled up and on our way.  We don’t want to be late for such a special night.”

    Every proud parent in Mormon Station and from the homesteads round about crammed into the Mott’s old cabin that now served as the community schoolhouse.  Adam opened the program with a sweet rendition of The First Noel that won applause from all in the audience.

    “My, I had no idea Adam was that good,” Nelly whispered to Ben, seated just beyond Hoss to her left.  She had dressed in her best blue dress edged with ivory lace and, despite the cool weather, had draped the light mantilla Billy had given her across her shoulders.

    “Wait ‘til you hear his other song,” Ben whispered back.  “It’s even better.”

    “Shh!” Inger, on her mother’s lap, urged, her finger to her lips.  “Billy gonna talk.”

    Ben nodded solemn acceptance of the little girl’s mild reproof and focused his attention on Billy’s recitation of a holiday reading about a naughty boy who found nothing but lumps of coal in his stocking Christmas morning.  Everyone who knew the impulsive redhead considered the choice most appropriate.  As the reading concluded, Clyde leaned around Nelly.  “You got any coal lumps I can borrow for a certain stocking?” he asked Ben.  Nelly thrust a sharp elbow in his side.

    Each child presented a poem, story or verse of Scripture.  The younger ones, of course, spoke very brief pieces, but the older students amazed their parents with the lengthy recitations they had memorized.  Ben was perhaps most surprised when Adam flawlessly quoted A Visit from St. Nicolas by Clement Moore, for the boy had deliberately kept his choice secret.

    Thunderous applause of appreciation greeted Eliza Mott as she stood before the assembled parents and friends of her students.  Wearing her best black satin dress, unadorned except for a little white frill at the neck, she smiled.  “We’re not finished yet,” she said, “but we will have a short intermission while the children get into costume for their version of the Christmas story.  They’ve dramatized this all by themselves, and I’m sure you’ll find it quite unlike any Christmas pageant you’ve ever seen.”

    “I’m sure of that,” Ben chuckled, turning to Nelly.  “What part is Billy playing?”

    “Lands, I don’t know,” Nelly tittered.  “The boy’s turned shy on me.  Won’t say a word about what he’s doin’.”

    Ben arched an eyebrow.  The idea of Billy’s turning shy was too ludicrous to contemplate.  No one else would have believed it either after the youngster’s boisterous portrayal of the innkeeper.  Even Adam, acting the part of Joseph, was caught off guard when the innkeeper knocked him to the ground in answer to his request for shelter.  They hadn’t rehearsed that part!  With a warning glint in his eye, Adam stood and went on with his lines as though nothing unexpected had happened.  The innkeeper——after an ad-lib monologue, in which he paced and pondered what to do with these unwanted guests——finally relented and allowed young Joseph to escort his visibly pregnant wife to the stable.

    And there, with a couple of cutely costumed lambs bleating in the background, the Child Jesus somehow appeared in the manger.  As the little Mary held a blanket-swaddled doll up for the audience to see, Adam, still costumed as Joseph, drew his guitar from behind a bale of hay and sang an exuberant conclusion to the school’s first Christmas program.  Everyone joined in on the choruses, as if they, too wished to express the joy that come into their hearts while they watched this retelling of the story that never grows old.

    The next week found Ben Cartwright busily trying to sandwich in preparations for Christmas between the necessary work of the ranch.  He’d spoken to Laura Ellis after the school program about once again providing a holiday dinner for his workers.  She had agreed, provided the meal could be served other than on Christmas Eve or Christmas Day.  Those, she explained, she wanted to observe at home with her baby.

    Ben had readily accepted her conditions and decided on Saturday, the twenty-third, as the best date.  Then, determined to provide something other than beef for the party, Ben had gone hunting.  Unlike Billy, he didn’t flush a turkey, for they were rare in the region, but he did manage to shoot enough sage grouse to feed everyone in the bunkhouse.

    Ben decided to invite Paul Martin to dinner that night, too, so he and Adam set up two rough plank tables, one for the hired hands and the second for the family and their other guests, Adam having begged permission to have Billy come.  The tables, of course, had to be outside since there wasn’t room for that many people in the cabin, but Ben planned a big bonfire.  That would keep everyone warm enough unless it snowed.  If it did, they’d all just have to crowd into the house and probably eat in two shifts.  Not a pleasant prospect, so Ben hoped the weather continued as fair as it had been thus far.

    Stars shone in a cloudless sky Saturday night as the guests gathered for the celebration.  Everyone took their places, Ben shaking hands with each man as he arrived and giving him an envelope containing his week’s pay, along with a silk neckerchief as a token of appreciation.  The wide smiles which greeted the gifts assured Ben that no one, with the possible exception of Jean D’Marigny, had ever owned a bandanna quite so elegant.

    Hoss had been perched in his chair ready to eat from the moment the first dish was set on the table.  Finally, everyone expected had arrived and the others joined him, Paul giving the youngster an affectionate pat on the head as he seated himself to Hoss’s left.  “I know I can trust you to show me what’s good,” Paul chuckled.

    “All good,” Hoss assured him.  The only experience he’d had with Laura Ellis’s cooking had been the leftovers from the Thanksgiving meal, but they’d been tasty and this looked even better——especially the pumpkin and custard pies.

    Paul tickled the boy’s well-padded ribs.  “Tell me, Hoss, is there any food you don’t think is good?”

    Hoss’s face screwed up as he spat out “Liver!”

    “Well, it is good for you, of course,” Paul said, catching Ben’s nod of approval out of the corner of his eye.  Then he leaned close to Hoss’s ear.  “But I don’t like it either,” he whispered.  Hoss grinned.

    “‘Course this ain’t as good as turkey,” Billy announced from across the table, “but sage grouse makes mighty fine eatin’, and these look prime, ‘most as good as my ma would make.”

    “A left-handed compliment if ever I heard one,” Ben commented dryly.

    From the foot of the table opposite Ben, Mrs. Ellis laughed.  “Every boy thinks his own mother’s cooking is the best there is.”  She smiled gently at Billy.  “I know that’s just the way I hope my boy will feel.”

    “He’d have reason,” Billy said, having taken his first bite of the bird.  “This is as good as it looked.”

    “Sure is, ma’am,” Adam said.

    Hoss’s face held an unusually thoughtful expression.  “My ma cook good?” he asked Adam.

    “The best,” Adam replied emphatically.

    “Yeah, she did good,” Billy acknowledged.  “A lot like my ma.”

    “Better,” Adam insisted.  “All you ever ate was her trail cooking, but when we were at home, Inger made the best meals you ever tasted.”

    “Adam,” Ben chided softly.  “It’s not polite to brag.”

    Adam shrugged.  He couldn’t understand why it was wrong to brag up his mother (Hoss’s, really) when Billy had sung Aunt Nelly’s praises to the sky without anyone’s scolding him for the loud-mouthed braggart he was.  Adam decided to try a safer approach.  “Remember that Swedish Christmas dinner she fixed, Pa?  Wasn’t that special?”

    Ben smiled in fond remembrance.  “Yeah, real special.”  He looked down the table at Laura Ellis.  “Our last Christmas together my wife prepared traditional holiday foods from her country.  Very unusual.”

    “I don’t know anything about Swedish cooking,” Laura said.  “Do you remember what she fixed?”

    “Well, there was a corned pork roast,” Ben said.  “It took ten days to prepare and it was unforgettable.  Then there was sauerkraut cooked with onions, apples and brown sugar.”

    “And pork, Pa,” Adam added.  “There was pork in it, too.”

    “That’s right,” Ben nodded, remembering.  “And split peas with bacon and caramelized potatoes and some kind of fish.”

    “Lutfisk, Pa,” Adam inserted.  “Don’t you remember?”

    “Not as well as you, evidently,” Ben laughed.

    “It was swimming in cream sauce,” Adam continued.

    “That don’t sound good at all,” Billy declared.

    “Well, it was!” Adam snapped.

    “Boys, boys,” Ben said, “neither of your mothers would approve of this behavior.”  Adam and Billy looked at each other quickly and nodded in agreement.  It was too close to Christmas to get caught acting up.

    “I can see why you remember that meal,” Laura said brightly to dispel the sudden silence.  “I’ve never heard of such dishes.  I—I don’t suppose your wife left the receipts, Mr. Cartwright.”

    Ben shook his head.  “I don’t think she ever wrote them down——just carried them in her memory.”

    “And the cookies!” Adam cried.  “Oh, she made good cookies.”

    Ben started to caution Adam about starting up the controversy again, but before he could speak, Hoss looked wistfully at his brother.  “Ma made cookies?” he asked.  “Like Aunt Nelly?”

    Ben quickly reached out to brush his fingers through the boy’s fair hair.  “Yeah, good ones,” he said softly, regretting the boy’d never had a chance to taste them.  Adam might remember Inger, but this boy had no memories of his mother, and that seemed to Ben an incomparable loss.

    “I—I wish she was here,” Hoss murmured.

    “Yeah, so do I, Hoss,” Ben said, his voice barely audible.  Like Laura before him, he smiled suddenly to keep the party from being bogged down with sentiment.  “Better eat up,” he cautioned Hoss, “if you plan on having pie.”

    That night, though, after the guests had gone home and the boys were in bed, Ben sat in the rocking chair by the fire, staring at his second wife’s picture.  This was supposed to be a season of joy, and he’d make it one for the boys, of course; but tonight all he felt was loneliness.  He missed Inger, and if he let his thoughts wander further back, he’d be missing Elizabeth, too.

    Tonight, however, Hoss’s plaintive words echoed in Ben’s heart and made him think of Inger.  Deep words they’d been for such a little lad.  Oh, it was probably cookies Hoss was really wishing for, but maybe it did go deeper than that.  Maybe it was mothering the boy craved and cookies just symbolized that for him.  Maybe I’m wrong to deprive him of a mother because I can’t bear the thought of marrying again, Ben mused.

    For a moment he thought of Laura Ellis, left to make her way in the world without a mate, her baby boy left without a father.  It was a match that made sense, but you couldn’t form a union based on mutual need, could you?  Well, maybe.  Ben had heard of successful marriages starting just that way, but such a coupling wasn’t for him.  Having been blessed twice with deeply loving relationships, he wasn’t willing to settle for one of convenience.  And as fine as woman as Laura Ellis was, he simply wasn’t in love with her.  Nor she with him, more than likely.

    Ben stood and set Inger’s picture back on the mantel.  He touched his index finger to his lips, then to her portrait, then kissed Elizabeth in the same way.  “Merry Christmas, my loves,” he whispered and headed for bed, more convinced than ever that he would never again know a woman’s closeness.

    “Can’t you hurry him up?” Adam complained, frowning at Hoss, who was taking far more time eating his oatmeal than Adam considered needful.  “I want to see Billy.”

    “Oh, my, yes,” Ben scoffed.  “It’s been almost twenty-four hours since he left here, so I can well understand the urgency, Adam.”  Billy had spent the night after the Christmas party and hadn’t left until mid-morning of the next day.

    “But, Pa, it’s Christmas,” Adam moaned.  “I want to hear what he got.”

    “And brag about your own gifts.  I know,” Ben laughed, “but we’re not leaving until your brother finishes his breakfast.”

    “Come on, Hoss,” Adam wheedled.  “There’ll be more presents at the Thomases.  Want more toys, Hoss boy?”

    Hoss’s spoon paused in mid-air.  “More toys,” he agreed cheerfully just before popping the spoon in his mouth.  “Breakfast first, Adam,” he mumbled.  “Then more toys.”

    Ben roared with laughter as he reached over to run affectionate fingers through his younger son’s wheat-colored hair.  “Sounds like you know what’s really important, boy; your brother here seems to have forgotten.”

    Adam rolled his eyes.  “It’s Christmas,” he repeated as if that one fact made his impatience logical.

    “Take your time, Hoss,” Ben chuckled.  “Give your food plenty of time to digest.  Greedy britches here can just wait for ‘more toys.’”

    Adam frowned.  Toys, indeed!  As if that’s what he really wanted.  Of course, the chemical cabinet he’d found beneath the tree this morning with its pint-sized powders and potions was obviously meant for children, not real scientists, but Adam considered it more a learning tool than a toy.  And his new books couldn’t be considered toys either; Moby Dick and Ivanhoe were both bound to have plenty of hard words.  So Pa was seeing him as somewhat grown up.  Obviously not enough, though, or Adam would have received what he’d so earnestly wished for.  Sighing, he propped his elbows on the table and watched his poky brother lick every grain of cereal from his spoon.

    Hoss eventually finished his breakfast, and while Ben quickly cleaned up the dishes, Adam saddled their horses.  The boy raced his sorrel mare ahead with Hoss holding on for dear life, while Ben, gifts tied behind his saddle, trotted at a more leisurely pace.  Galloping up to the cabin, Adam helped Hoss slide down, then vaulted from the saddle.

    Billy rushed outdoors to greet them.  “Did you get it?” he whispered.

    Adam shook his head grimly.

    “Aw, shucks!” Billy commiserated.  “I was aimin’ on askin’ my pa to take us huntin’ tomorrow.”

    “Well, my pa spoiled that,” Adam muttered.  He planned to straighten up his face by the time Ben arrived, however.  No matter how disappointed he was at not finding a shiny rifle beneath the tree, Adam wouldn’t have dreamed of revealing his shattered hopes.  Pa’d been too good to him for that.

    “Well, come on in and see my loot,” Billy suggested.  “It was my biggest Christmas ever.”

    Adam grinned with genuine pleasure.  “Yeah, mine, too,” he said and started to chatter about his chemical cabinet.  Somehow, though, even that grand gift paled in comparison with Billy’s sharp new hunting knife.  A man’s tool.  When would Pa ever understand that Adam was as near manhood as Billy, even if he was a whole year younger?

    Ben received a warm welcome from the Thomases when he came in.  Inger, dressed in a crisp new frock of blue calico, immediately claimed his attention.  “My, what a pretty dolly,” Ben cooed when the little girl showed him the rag doll her mother had obviously crafted since it wore a dress identical to Inger’s.  Uh-oh, he thought.  He hadn’t meant to compete with her parents’ gift, but, having no experience with girls, he hadn’t known what else to buy the child except a doll.

    “Want see my stove?” Inger asked.

    “Sure do,” Ben replied.

    The diminutive strawberry-blonde took his hand and led him into the next room.  “Pa make,” she said proudly.

    “And a fine job he did,” Ben stated.  That Clyde, he could make anything with his hands.  Inger’s tiny wooden stove, painted coal black, was an exact replica of her mother’s cast-iron one.  And it came equipped with miniature pots and pans, some obviously store-bought, but Ben suspected the little three-legged spider had come straight from Clyde’s blacksmith shop.

    As Ben ambled back into the front room, Nelly turned from her stove.  “Clyde, show Ben what you got me for Christmas,” she giggled.

    Clyde blushed.  “Aw, Ben’s seen lumber before.”

    Ben arched an eyebrow.  “Lumber?” he scoffed.  “A romantic gift if ever I heard one.”  He laid a firm hand on his friend’s shoulder.  “Are you trying to run this dear woman off, sir?  Bad policy with so many unattached men in the county.”

    Nelly laughed, enjoying Clyde’s discomfort.  “It’s a better gift than it sounds,” she explained.  “Clyde’s gonna cut a door where this stove is now and build a kitchen beyond it.  Then, come Spring, I’m goin’ to Californy to pick out some parlor furniture and make this a regular sittin’ room.”

    “Ah!” Ben said appreciatively.  “I take back all my mocking words.  That, sir, is a gift worthy of this lovely lady.”

    It was Nelly’s turn to blush, but she pretended it was the heat of the stove that made her suddenly fan her face with a dishtowel.

    Ben’s most cherished gift of the season arrived during the week between Christmas and New Year’s Day.  He still wasn’t used to the idea of receiving mail during the winter, but this year carriers had been bringing it over the Sierras by pack mule, using snowshoes when necessary.  And while getting mail of any kind as long as snow blocked the passes was a pleasure, the letter from his brother John was an even more unexpected delight.  Since John had traipsed off to New South Wales, letters had been few and far between.

    This one, however, brought news Ben wasn’t pleased to read.  John confessed himself ready to give up his quest for gold nuggets, but instead of sailing for the coast of California, John had signed on as second mate for an extended voyage in exactly the opposite direction.  Needed the money to get home, he said, but Ben knew that wasn’t the real reason.  Pride was behind John’s reluctance to return home, that and perhaps a nostalgic yearning for the sea thrown in to boot.

    Maybe it was the holiday season that made the importance of family seem so fresh to Ben as he read his brother’s letter.  How long had John been away from home now?  Since the Spring of ‘49, almost six years.  A lifetime when you realized how quickly boys grew up.  John’s boy Will was just older than Adam and hadn’t seen his father since he was seven.  His wife Martha’s letters, too, were increasingly despondent, as if she’d given up hope of seeing her wandering husband again.

    It wasn’t right, Ben decided, and it was high time he took his older brother to task.  That approach had never worked before, however; maybe a gentler, less condemning appeal would be better.  Ben took pen in hand and wrote a warm letter describing how his own boys had been growing, how much they had changed in the time since John had last seen them, then suggesting that Will would probably be barely recognizable to his long-absent father.  Ben mentioned the emptiness he had felt a few days earlier while thinking of his beloved Inger and mused that John must surely feel a similar loneliness for Martha, whose letters clearly showed signs of missing her husband.  Wasn’t it time, Ben concluded, for John to consider returning to his wife and boy?  If it was only a matter of money, Ben would be more than happy to help his brother on his way.  And if it were pride, John would do well to remember that the Scripture said that went before destruction.

    Ben reconsidered the last phrase.  Too strong?  No, the tone was exactly right, he decided.  He signed and sealed the letter, then consulting the list of ports at which John was scheduled to call, chose the one which the mail steamer would most likely reach before John’s vessel and addressed it there.

    The mail carrier wouldn’t be back through for several weeks, of course, but Ben dropped the letter off at Mormon Station when he and the boys went to the Thomases for Sunday dinner.  Later that evening they all traveled together to Spafford Hall’s Station for the New Year’s Eve dance.  This one promised to be even better attended than the first, with more female partners available, and they’d make sure to avoid last year’s mistake.  This time the men would take turns standing guard over the horses, so none of them provided a holiday feast for their neighbors, the Washo.