"Mister Cartwright! Mister Cartwright!" the young boy hollered, weaving and dancing among the other people on the sidewalks of Virginia City. Finally the man in the green jacket slowed and turned and he was able to catch him. Panting, he extended the envelope and stood bouncing on the balls of his feet, expectantly.

            Joe Cartwright frowned slightly, looking at his name neatly printed on the front of the telegram envelope. He flicked the envelope open and pulled out the thin sheet before he remembered the youngster in front of him. He dug into his inner jacket pocket and found a nickel there that he handed to him. The young boy disappeared into the crowd. Joe thumbed his hat back and flicked open the thin parchment to read. After he read it, for several long moments he just stood thinking on the walkway, letting the throng of people wash around him like a boulder in a creek. He took a deep breath and, giving his head a half shake, headed down the street at a good clip.

            The sign that was suspended over the walk swung in the light breeze. 'U.S. Marshal' was all it said. The door, its windows grimy with accumulated dirt, opened with a groan as Joe pushed in. The small office space beyond the door matched the condition of the windows: dirty and cluttered. It had once been some small shop but to make room for the new tenants, the counters had only been shoved to the side. In the center of the room sat a large desk, its top overflowing with papers, dirty coffee cups, and broken pencils. The edge closest to the chair showed signs of rough treatment as well, probably from boot heels propped there. Behind the desk a battered chair with slats missing from the back sat at a canted angle.

            Finding the office empty, Joe swore to himself and was about to turn and leave when a gravelly voice called from the back. "Be there in a second!" it said, halting Joe in his tracks.

            Whisking aside the ratty, faded curtain, the other man stepped into the room. In the gloom and confinement of the room, he seemed to take away all the available space and air just with his presence. His name was Riley. Never gave another name, just Riley… Marshal Riley. He was a tall man, better than six feet, with a head of thick brown hair. His face was deeply tanned and looked as though it had been chiseled from the stone of the Texas hill country he had come from a few years earlier. His shoulders were wide, his chest broad, his hands massive. The buttons on his shirt had trouble holding closed the thin fabric; the sleeves, perennially too short, he rolled back exposing muscular forearms. Like many a man born to the horse way of life, he was thin hipped and his legs muscular beneath the form-fitting buckskin trousers he wore. What little history could be gleaned of the man's past was from the beaded Indian belt he wore with a Bowie knife tucked into a sheath at his side. It had been said, with no corroborative evidence, that he had once been a Texas Ranger. He never admitted nor denied that fact, but drank alone, ate alone, lived alone, keeping no one's company but his own. Besides the fact that he obviously spent time with some Indian tribe and had lived outdoors most of his adult life, no one knew anything else about him and in the two years that he had been in Virginia City, he had volunteered nothing about himself. He was there, he told everyone, to help keep the peace in northwest Nevada; not to make friends.

            Joe Cartwright pulled his hand back from the doorknob and turned, that hand just brushing the Colt he wore in a tied down holster. With the mere motion the marshal dropped his own hand to rest on the butt of his revolver and his face tightened warily.

            "My name is Joe Cartwright," he said by way of introduction, but the marshal needed no such introduction. He knew of the man before him. He was paid to know the people he was charged with protecting, even if he didn't know them personally.

            Riley studied the man. He knew he was a lot younger than his gray hair would lead someone to believe but had a tad more years than he did. And the Cartwrights' home ranch was the Ponderosa. That meant several things to Riley: lots of cattle, horses, timber but most of all, prestige. The family had been in the Lake Tahoe area since the beginning and most folks around thought mighty highly of the Cartwright name. But all that meant to Riley was that he would have to listen to the man in the green jacket; he didn't have to do anything, but he did have to listen.

            "I know who you are. Why you here?" he asked curtly.

            "I got a telegram from my foreman. Seems there's a problem up to Flanigan."

            Riley grunted. "Flanigan? That's up by Pyramid Lake, ain't it? Didn't think there was anything there 'sides a cantina and a lot of dirt. How can there be a problem up there? There ain't anyone there to have a problem!"

            Joe was tempted to toss the telegram down on the cluttered desk that Riley stood behind but instead he held it limply in his hands. "My foreman says there's a problem and I believe him. Come on, let's go."

            "Wait a dog-gone minute!" Riley spat out, his tone making it clear that he didn't like taking orders. "First of all it’s a hard two days to Flanigan-"

            "Which means we need to get started now!"

            "You don't seem to get the picture here, Cartwright," Riley hissed, leaning down, his knuckles white on the desktop. He settled his face into a hard mask. "I ain't goin' traipsin' all over the damn state just 'cause you say -"

            Across the desk, Joe Cartwright mimicked the marshal's movements, planting his black-gloved hands on the desk with a smack that sounded like a shot in the small office. "No, you don't seem to get the picture, Marshal. If Candy says that there's a problem, and he mentions in this telegram that I should bring you with me, that means you're going. Now get your gear together. We'll leave in an hour."

            Riley reared back and crossed his massive arms over his chest. His demeanor was menacing, threatening.

            "Marshal," the other man said softly, yet his words were clipped and sure. "Even if I have to tie you belly down across the saddle, you are going with me to Flanigan. You can look at me just as mean as you want, but you're going. Got that?"

            The lawman took a breath and spread his feet shoulder width apart, preparing himself if the slender man launched himself across the desk. Riley remained silent, his lips now tightening into a thin line across his chiseled features. Then he spoke, sure of his own words. "You're mighty damn sure of yourself, Cartwright. There's laws against-"

            The other man raised his head and let his eyes bore into the marshal. "Marshal, I assume you know the law pretty good. Tell me something. What's the penalty for kidnapping a U.S. Marshal?"

            "Probably about six years. You that sure of yourself?" Riley answered but he already knew the answer the man would give since it was plainly written on his face. Joe Cartwright was one determined son of a bitch and while Riley doubted that the man could actually manage to get him face down over the saddle to haul him out of town, there would be one hell of a fight in proving him wrong.

            "Candy wouldn't have sent this, wouldn't have worded it the way he did, if there wasn't bad trouble."

            Riley chewed the corner of his lip. He'd run across the Cartwright foreman and liked the man. And Cartwright was right. Canaday wasn't one to ask for help unless it was necessary. He didn't cry "wolf" unless it was gnawing on his own leg. Candy's bent nose was testimony to the fact that the man was a scrapper in his own right as well and Riley had respect for a man who fought his own battles.

            "I'll get my horse. You get us grub for the trail."

              Riley wanted to chuckle. It was a hard pace that Cartwright had set that day, and he swung stiffly down off the pinto. But then the marshal was a bit stiff as well. Without comment or any sort of discussion, the two of them made camp, each tending to his own horse with Riley gathering wood for a fire and Cartwright doing the cooking. Settled back into his upturned saddle, Riley commented that tomorrow, he would do the cooking. He figured that way it would be edible at least.

            "You got something against my cooking?" the cattleman joked, squinting through the campfire smoke.

            "Nope, just the taste of it. Okay, so tell me 'bout this telegram that's got you so worked up," the lawman spun the words out slowly as he laid his plate aside.

            Joe told him, his words and phrases clipped as though to add anything more to his story would detract from it. Six weeks ago, his father, Candy and some of their men had taken a small herd of beef cattle north to the Army fort just over the California line. From there, his father had been headed to visit an old friend, a Jedediah Millbanks, over towards Red Bluff. By now, Joe figured, they would have been headed home.

            "So?" Riley prodded when Cartwright stopped talking. "Maybe your pa just decided to spend some more time with his friend."

            "The telegram came from Candy, not my father. No, Marshal, something's wrong. Bad wrong. And whatever it is, it has something to do with the law since Candy specifically said 'bring Riley'. You are the only Riley any of us knows."

            The marshal's brow twitched. He leaned back into his saddle's crease and tilted his hat down across his eyes. Cartwright was right, he thought but he still didn't like the idea of riding blind into a problem. He twisted his shoulders, trying to make them fit more comfortably into his campsite bed.

            "Marshal," the other man's voice came softly across the flames and Riley grunted that he was listening. "Thanks for coming with me."

            His lips twisting into a wry smile, Riley chuckled shortly then said, "No problem. I'd of hated to mess up one of Virginia City's fine citizens seein's how he was gonna try throwin' me 'cross the saddle."

            "You don't think I could have done it?" came the soft retort back.

            "I'd like to see you try, cowboy."

            Now it was Joe's turn to chuckle. He knew a challenge when he heard one, for certain, but there were other things more important now. "When this is over," was his reply as he also settled into his bedroll.

            Riley smiled, his even white teeth in sharp contrast to his deeply tanned face. "Yep," he whispered to his hatbrim, "when this is over."

            There wasn't much to Flanigan Nevada. There was a cantina; a mercantile that was closed most of the time, a livery stable and a couple dilapidated houses. But it also had a telegraph office in the corner of the mercantile. In his headlong flight across the flatlands, Griff had followed that silver wire, knowing that at some point in time, he would find a keypad and operator. He stopped at the first place he found one: Flanigan Nevada. That morning he had been the sole person stirring in the town as he had banged on the closed door, rousting the operator eventually. Still out of breath, he dictated the message he and Candy had worked out, even to the point of signing it with Candy's name. He stood by and waited while the telegrapher sent the message then waited longer for a reply.

            "The message got through okay," the wrinkled little man told Griff. "Might be a while 'fore you get any answer, ya know." There was a hopeful sound to the man's voice as though he wished the younger man to disappear back into wherever it was he had sprung from.

            "I'll wait," Griff replied. After all, he knew what the stakes were.

            Sure enough, forty minutes after the last click had carried his message out, the mechanism sprang to life again.

            "To Canaday, Flanigan Nevada. Stop. From J Cartwright, Virginia City Nevada. Stop." The operator spoke aloud, taking down the letters one at a time, slowly spelling out the message. Griff, behind him, willed it to work faster, the muscles along his jaw taut lines as he gritted his teeth. "Stay put. Stop. Riley and me coming. Stop. Arrive noon Tuesday. Stop. Joe. All stop."

            Griff let go the breath he had been holding and grimaced as he figured the time between then and noon on Tuesday.

            "Anything else, Mister Canaday?" the operator asked. "Any reply to that one or can I go get my breakfast?" His tone showed how displeased he was with having his routine disrupted.

            "No, thanks," Griff smiled for the man then changed his mind. He would have to stay there and the mere mention of breakfast had his stomach reminding him of how long it had been since he'd eaten. "Where can I get a hot meal?"

            He took his first hot meal in days at the cantina then, without a room for rent anywhere in the town, he stretched out in the livery right beside the horse he had ridden in on. Exhausted, he slept soundly for hours, the booming rainstorm outside the stables unheard.

            When he awoke, the rain's steady drip just outside the doorway caught his attention. Sitting up in the straw he had used for a bed, he looked out over the gray countryside. The rain, he thought, would it slow Joe and that marshal? He hoped not. There was too much riding on it.

            His stomach grumbled and Griff rubbed his hand across it. He calculated the money he had in his pocket. If he had to send another telegram, he wouldn't have enough to eat and pay the bill here at the livery. He looked over at the long-legged bay he had ridden into town, knowing that if he had to, he could sell the horse. After all, it was Candy's horse and it would be no skin off his back to part with the gelding. On second thought, he would have to face Candy at sometime in the future. And he certainly didn't want to tell the man that he had sold his horse for supper money. He flopped back into the straw.

            "No," he spoke aloud to only himself. "Joe can pay the feed bill." Determined, he got to his feet and, hitching his pants a little higher, swiped the straw from his hair and arms and headed for the cantina and another hot meal.

            As he chewed his way through the tough steak, he thought back over the trail he had ridden and why. Three days ago, he and Candy had waited in the little town of Wendel on the California-Nevada border. Mr. Cartwright had told them that he would meet them there but when one day of waiting had stretched into two, Candy had become concerned. Griff'd figured that to a man like Ben Cartwright, the time his help spent lolly gagging around in some two-bit town didn't mean anything. Candy set him straight.

            "Get it through your head, boy," he'd said sharply. "Ben Cartwright ain't like that. If he tells you he's gonna be some place at noon on Monday, that's where you'll find the man."

            "If that's the case, then where is he?" Griff argued back.

            Candy rubbed a hand over his jaw and studied the street outside the saloon door before he answered. "Dunno but we're gonna go find out."

            They had backtracked only as far as the next town, Litchfield, when they found old man Cartwright and when they did, both of them wished they hadn't waited one minute beyond when Ben had told them he would meet them.

As Griff scooped up another forkful of potatoes in the cantina in Flanigan, his hand shook with the memory of what they had found.

            The second morning on the trail north of Reno, Joe Cartwright and Marshal Riley found themselves slogging through mud ankle deep on their horses. It slowed their progress down to a crawl. Riley could tell just by watching the cattleman that it irritated the hell out of him but there was no way around the problem. It had to be endured, that was all. Breakfast had been cold coffee and jerky and while they had planned to be in Flanigan by noon, it was plain that wasn't going to be the case.

            "Cartwright!" Riley shouted to be heard above the storm's fury. "We need to pull up for a while. Let this storm pass."

            Joe pulled his horse to a stop and looked over his shoulder at the marshal. Like Riley, he was soaked to the skin and cold. "Listen, Marshal. I grew up in Nevada Territory. Rain like this doesn't just pass. It hangs around for a couple of days. No, we push on."

            Riley looked into the overcast sky. He knew that Cartwright was right but he had hoped to at least get that small a concession from the man. Something was driving the man and it was something that Riley had an understanding of. He'd finally seen it plain on the other's face over the tin cup of coffee that morning. Fear. Some men, Riley knew, were paralyzed by fear. Other men, and this Cartwright fella seemed to be one of them, used it as a springboard to action. While Riley'd had his fair share of the feeling, he kept it from showing on his face the way he saw it on Cartwright's, but he would use it the same way. So while he didn't like riding in the rain, he tried to understand why they rode on.

            By mid afternoon, they were dropping down onto the flat lands and through the downpour could see the fuzzy outlines of buildings rising up like some ghostly phantoms. Riley had only ridden this way once and that had been right after he had come to Nevada. He'd been hunting cattle rustlers and they had pushed right on through headed into Oregon. He had pushed through as well. But now on this strange errand, it seemed that they were coming to the end and Riley wanted nothing more than a hot meal and an explanation.

            They rode into town side by side, the marshal making a towering presence on his buckskin horse. As they drew up to the open doorway of the livery stable, a fat little man stood there just beyond the rain's reach.

            "Howdy," Joe called out and the man nodded his head. When he and Riley had both dismounted, they led their tired horses into the barn. Joe looked around, checking out the other horses. There was no familiar buckskin with a pine tree brand. His stomach turned over. The only horse he recognized was Candy's bay. "Fella who rode in on this horse, know where he's at?" Joe asked.

            The livery owner sized up the newcomers quickly. They spoke trouble to him and he wanted no part of it. But then the taller man flicked open his rain slicker just long enough for the fat man to get a glimpse of a star pinned to his shirt. "Over in the cantina." The one dressed in the green jacket smiled at him, paid him in advance for the care of the horses and tipping his hat, left the barn.               

            "Griff?" Joe shouted, his voice ringing through the quiet of the cantina. His lack of comprehension made his voice louder than he had intended it to be. He had expected Candy to greet them.

            The slight young man turned and looked across to the doorway. There stood Joe Cartwright, all right, and behind him, looming like some giant, stood the lawman Griff had studiously avoided since he had come to live at the Ponderosa. It was everything the young man could do to not bolt for the door. But before he could even decide to do that, Joe was pulling a chair up to the same table.

           "You sure of this?" Riley asked softly of the blue-eyed boy across the table. He ignored the impatience rolling off his trail partner to his left.

            "Riley, the horses are rested enough. Come on," Joe ordered, standing and already moving for the door. He would have made it but the marshal's hand grabbed his arm and hauled him up short.

            "Listen to me, Cartwright," Riley demanded. "If what this kid says is true, we'll be riding into the teeth of a posse for sure. Even if your daddy and Candy are holed up tight, that posse is gonna find them. We need a plan and riding off half-cocked into the night ain't gonna cut it."

            "I've got a plan!" Joe shot back, pulling his arm from the punishing grip of the lawman.

            "Lemme hear it then."

            For several long moments, the two men stood glaring at one another in the dusky lamplight of the cantina. Griff had finished his meal and tossed the last of his coins on the table for payment but he had yet to move from behind the table. The last place he wanted to be that night was between his boss and that marshal, but he figured they would butt heads half the night if he didn't step up and say something.

            "He's right, Joe," Griff said and saw both men turn to him. "We need some food, blankets, medicines and stuff. Hell, we need a doctor but there isn't one between here and there."

            "How far is it?" the marshal asked. Griff replied that it was less than twenty miles. A good horse, rested could make it before midnight on a good night. He decided not to point out that this wasn't a good night for traveling. Just one look at Joe's face and he knew he would be traveling that night whether he wanted to or not.

            "Bartender!" Joe called loudly and the barkeep stepped from his back room. "Gimme a bottle of whiskey. Griff, go over to the general store. Get us whatever they got in the way of blankets, bandages and the like. Marshal, how about you and I go check the horses?" Even while he spoke, Joe dug into pockets and handed Griff what he found there.

            With bottle in hand, Joe and Riley stepped back into the rainy night then hurried over to the livery. Once inside the door, Joe whirled on the bigger man. Riley was ready. The lawman gathered up the soggy jacket front in one huge fist and pulled the slender Joe up easily.

            "We need to get something straight, cowboy. From here on out, I run this operation. I can't have you running off half-cocked. That's sure to start lead flying and I don't know about you, but my hide don't take kindly to bullets hittin' it." Riley's voice was intimidating enough but Joe batted at the fist holding him, clearly not fazed by the size of the man nor his title.

            "No, you need to get something straight. Twelve miles west of here is the California line and over it, your authority becomes worthless because you're out of your territory." Joe's eyes blazed in the thin light of the stable but Riley could see the determination on the man's face. "And the man we're going after is my father. I ain't gonna tolerate any disrespect towards him so if you have any doubts as to his innocence, get rid of 'em now."

            Riley's lip curled into a near snarl as he stood boot toe to boot toe with the other man. He was a head taller and knew without a doubt that in an all out brawl, he could take the cowboy but from what he had seen and heard around town, he knew it wouldn't be an easy fight. Riley studied the man. Cartwright wasn't a big man but then smaller often meant more stubborn. Considering the present circumstances, he was proving to have an ample supply of the trait.

            "Then let's make us a deal, right here and now, cowboy. I take care of any posse. You take care of your daddy. Deal?" Riley's eyes narrowed, judging the effectiveness of his words.

            "Deal-- but on one condition." Joe waited until the lawman nodded just once. "You refer to my father by his name. Ben Cartwright, or Mister Cartwright. You leave your damn cutting, snide remarks right here."

            "I've found that a man who has to demand your respect usually isn't worth it."

            With lightening speed, Joe Cartwright planted his left fist into the jaw of the lawman. It rocked Riley back on his heels but otherwise had little impact. With one careful hand, the marshal rubbed at the spot but kept his eyes glued on the other.

            "If you two are finished beatin' on one another now, I think we need to get saddled up. And Joe, you owe the man at the store another five bucks for this stuff." Griff glided passed the two men as though nothing was happening.

            "We ain't finished, sonny boy, but maybe we will take a little break," the marshal drawled and skirted his opponent while he went to saddle his horse.

            The story Griff had told them made Joe Cartwright's stomach twist itself into knots. When Candy and Griff had ridden into Litchfield that afternoon, the town seemed to be in a festive mood. The Ponderosa foreman had asked the first passerby what was going on.

            She had shielded her eyes as she looked up into the sun at the man. "Why we're hangin' a horse thief. Just finished his trial and Judge Long said we shouldn't wait. Just go ahead and hang him. So we are." She hurried on towards the center of town.

            Griff snorted and made a comment about swift justice in the little burg but Candy had frozen in his tracks. The younger man stepped from behind him and scanned the gathering crowd to see what had taken Candy's attention.

            Just outside the saloon, still on the broad wooden walkway stood Ben Cartwright, his silver hair as disheveled as his clothing. That was enough to give Griff pause but what had caught Candy's attention was the fact that his boss' arms were pulled behind him and there was a rope around his neck. The man beside Ben Cartwright wore a badge on his leather vest and had the other end of the rope coiled in his hands. Neither Ponderosa hand needed to be urged forward.

            Before they reached Ben, the sheriff had propelled him onto a flatbed wagon and was throwing the loose end of the rope over the livery stable hoist. Candy reacted on gut instinct alone and pushed his way through the crowd and barreled into the lawman, heedless of any drawn guns. Griff was right behind him but turned to the crowd as Candy knocked down the lawman. The younger man reached down and snagged the gun from the loose holster the lawman wore. With the gun drawn, Griff quickly took stock of where any other guns were and was relieved to see that most of the men carried or wore no firearms. Behind him, one of the deputies was attempting to subdue Candy while another man pulled on the dangling rope. When elbowed by his attacker in the ribs, it knocked Candy into Ben and the older man fell to his knees, tightening the noose around his own throat.

            The gasp that went through the crowd told Griff that something had happened behind him. With the stolen gun still trained on the people, he looked over his shoulder. He shouted for Candy but knew he had his hands full. He didn't take the time to think, he just stepped back and pulled down on the rope, giving his boss the slack needed. Griff's hands were shaking and without his meaning it to, the gun went off over the heads of the crowd. The scuffling behind him stopped as he tried his best to look menacing to the crowd he now faced. Another quick look and he saw that Candy was helping Mr. Cartwright to stand, pulling the rope away from his throat and undoing the bindings on his wrists. Still he stood with the gun poised. He heard words and mere grunts behind him then a hand brushed his shoulders, signaling him to move.

            With Candy half-dragging, half-carrying the big rancher, they made their way down the street, Griff's gun the only deterrent they had from being rushed. The sheriff and both his deputies followed warily. At their horses, Candy had to push Ben into the saddle of his own mount then went up behind the slumping man. He pulled his rifle from its scabbard and leveled it at the chest of the sheriff while Griff sprang into his saddle.

            Hanging on for dear life, the men spurred their horses out of town, Griff laying a covering fire as they did. But Ben Cartwright was a big man and riding double on Candy's horse tired the animal quickly. They found a small stream below the edge of the dirt road and traveled in the streambed, hiding in a thicket when they heard riders above them. When the stream petered out, they struck out through the meandering gullies and dry washes. As darkness fell, they had made camp in a cave overlooking a high mesa.

            Candy had tended to Ben as Griff had gathered a small amount of wood for a fire. Even by the thin firelight, he could see that the older man was in trouble. The rope around his neck had burned it and he was having trouble breathing. His eyes were glazed; his wrists bloody from the bindings torn away. When they tried to give him water, he had difficulty swallowing. And as the sun had settled, he began to shiver with the cold. Since they dared not build the fire any higher for fear of being found, they tucked all the blankets they had around him.

            Candy, his rifle nestled in his arms, paced most of the night, his back to the campfire. He watched the mesa, scouring it with his eyes for any movement. There was none. He let his thoughts not stray beyond the immediate: a man he greatly respected lay behind him, possibly at death's door, and all he could do was keep watch.

            On the other hand, Griff spent the cool night beside the injured man. He propped him up on an overturned saddle so that his breathing might come easier. To a degree, it did but he still seemed to be fighting for every breath. The younger man used his own kerchief, dampened with canteen water, as a bandage around Ben's throat. He tore a sleeve from his spare shirt and used it to clean and bind the bloody wrists. Throughout the entire ordeal, Ben Cartwright said nothing, just watching with eyes blank and distant. Then finally he slept and Griff sat on his haunches, trying to decide what they could. There was nothing he could come up with beyond getting as far from Litchfield as they could. And this camp wasn't far enough.

            Dawn came quickly to the mesa, painting it in lovely shades of rose and deep mauve. But the beauty was lost on the desperate men. Once again, they rode but this time slower. The sun slowly climbed into the sky but before it had gone a hand's breadth from the horizon, both of the younger men knew they couldn't go on. Ben Cartwright could no longer even sit upright. His face had lost all color beyond bright spots of color on his cheeks. Behind him, his arms straining and screaming unmercifully, Candy tried to hold him but the rugged foreman was losing the battle. They spotted a cave down the side of a draw and leading his horse, Griff slipped and slid down the shale to it.

            Although the mouth of it was small, no higher than the back of one of the horses and no wider than that same horse, it widened quickly and then bent sharply. Beyond the bend, he found a wide enough space for a horse to be kept. This would be a better place to hole up than the open camp they'd had the night before, if only, Candy had said, because it was that much further from Litchfield.

            Not wanting to tempt the Fates any more that day, they made camp within the cave. Once Ben was off the horse's back, he drifted into what Candy told Griff was sleep. Both men knew different. Ben Cartwright was unconscious. He needed medical attention that neither of the other men was capable of giving.

            Asserting his position as Ponderosa foreman, Candy had given Griff his orders: take his horse, since it was the better of the two animals, and get to a telegraph office. If anyone stopped him, he was just a cowhand, headed back to the Ponderosa where he worked as a wrangler. Once he hit a telegraph office, he was to send a curt missive to Joe that they needed help and to bring Riley. There would be no mention of Ben being nearly hung as a horse thief. Candy figured once Marshal Riley was here, the whole matter could be cleared up quick enough. After all, people had a way of listening to men who wore stars pinned to their chests and the badge of a U.S. Marshal carried a lot of weight. He and Griff had no such advantage. For all those men out chasing them knew, he and Griff were outlaws and horse thieves too.

            So Griff had saddled up and ridden out. He'd spotted the silvery thread of wire snaking out across the land and followed it, never coming in contact with another living soul until he had hit Flanigan. He didn't lack for company though since he kept thinking about the man he had left behind with Candy. Ben Cartwright had treated him decent since obtaining his parole from the Nevada State Prison. Even though Griff had balked and fought the idea, he had finally settled into the routine there on the ranch. And as he did, his duties and responsibilities were echoes of how he was judged. At first he was kept close to the ranch house. He cleaned stalls, fixed the chicken house, chopped wood and did all those monotonous chores that a ranch needs doing. Finally, Ben Cartwright had trusted him enough, he figured, to give him the grand chore of mending fences in an area of the ranch away from the house. Griff had gone about the work - well, not  happily- but it got him away from the watchful eyes in the house. Next he had been given supplies, a map and a packhorse and told that certain line camps needed restocking. He had ridden out and enjoyed his freedom for a week before he returned. Only person he saw when he rode into the yard was Hop Sing, the cook. In fact, he didn't see a boss until the next morning.

            But now that same man was laid out in a cold cave, very possibly dying. Griff kept the horse moving but he memorized the trail he took because he had told himself he would return no matter what. Ben Cartwright had been decent to him. He deserved the same from Griff.

            Now as the rain pelted them, Griff scanned the countryside. It looked so different in the wet night with no moon to speak of to show him the way. He couldn't blame him when Joe reached over and grabbed Griff's arm, nearly yanking him from the saddle.

            "Is this the way or isn't it?" Joe shouted. Around them the storm pressed, the wind, unbroken by any resistance, drove the rain into their faces. The horses, nearing exhaustion stood heads down, sides heaving.

            "Back off, Cartwright!" Griff pushed at the iron grip but it was the marshal, putting his horse and his command between them that made Joe release his handhold. Dark eyes lost in the black of the night took measure of the men on either side of Riley. The expression on the younger man's face was pure anger. On Cartwright's face were lines etched by fear but yet Riley knew there was determination in the other's eyes. "We need to rest the horses, Cartwright, or we'll never get there. Over there," and he gestured with his chin, a barely visible movement in the night, "looks like a place we can hole up. How about you check it out, Griff."

            Once Griff had gone to check the depression and thinly treed shelter, Riley whirled his horse to face Joe. "You want to get to your father. I understand that but like I said, this ain't doin' us any good. Night like tonight, we could ride right by and never find him until it was too late. We can't ride these horses into the ground. They've got to have rest and frankly, so do I."

            "No you don't understand, Marshal. My father could be out there dying right now. I have to get to him!"

            "And if Griff here misses the way back to that cave, what're you gonna do? Beat the boy? If your horse falls dead away under you, what are you gonna do then? Beat the horse? I understand losing someone you care about. I understand it real good but I also know that we've got to stop. I'm giving you the option, Cartwright. You can either hold up here with us now or I won't wait to give you the beatin' you deserve. I'll haul your ass down from that saddle and whip you until you can't stand, much less ride. Which will it be?" To further emphasize his words, Riley had a bruising grip on Joe's left arm.

            Griff rode back onto the road just then. There was a small lean-to down there, he reported. It wasn't much but it was shelter for the men and the horses. He avoided commenting on what he took to be a fight about to erupt between the marshal and Joe.

            "Well, Cartwright?" Riley again asked.

            His anger the only thing keeping him warm, Joe had to relent and he gave the lawman a sharp nod. Reluctantly, he followed as Griff and Riley rode down off the road to the shelter.

            It was no bigger than a couple of stalls but it had a roof that kept off most of the rain. The tilt of the earth forced the runoff away from the dirt floor but there was nothing else there. Pulling their horses in behind them, the men loosened the saddle cinches. Griff handed out strips of jerky from his saddlebags that the men ate without enthusiasm. With their backs to the wall, Riley and Griff found themselves alone as Joe stood at the opening, his feet spread, his head hung.

            "You the Cartwright's ex-con, ain't ya?" Riley opened and felt the other man beside him flinch in the darkness.

            "Parolee," Griff ripped back correcting then sadly "yeah." The boy's soft voice barely reached the marshal's ears.

            "What were you doin' out of state? Ain't allowed as far as I know."

            "Mister Cartwright had okayed it with the Prison board. He can take me just about anywhere. Makes me feel like some damn dog or something."

            To his surprise, the marshal made no comment back to Griff about his choice of expression. Instead the other pointed out that Griff had a gun shoved into the waistband of his trousers.

            "Belongs to the sheriff of Litchfield. I expect I'll have to return it but I didn't think at the time that he really needed it." Griff snorted then chuckled, remembering the scuffle and how the gun had almost literally jumped into his hand.

            "That would be a good idea, boy," replied the marshal slowly and evenly and for a few moments there was no sound beyond that of the horses and the rain. "Cartwright there is gonna be a problem. You do remember the way back to that cave, don't you?" he whispered, the sound coming to Griff right at his ear.

            "I think so," came the admission. "Don't misunderstand me, Marshal. I'm doin' the best I can. Old man Cartwright and I have knocked heads a few times since I came to stay at the Ranch. And maybe Joe and I don't get along real great, but I --" The hand on his shoulder stopped Griff from finishing. In the thin light, they could see that Joe had half turned towards them but then he tucked his hands into the back of his gunbelt and went back to watching it rain.

            "What's drivin' him?" asked Riley.

            "Wasn't that long ago he lost his wife. And just before that, his brother. Guess he's afraid he's gonna lose his father too," Griff explained but Riley knew that. "That's a lot of losin' in a short amount of time and Joe and his pa, they've got somethin' 'tween 'em I never saw before. Sometimes it's more like they're friends than family." He took a deep breath and crossed his arms over his chest, hugging what little warmth there was to himself. "Never seen it before."

            Riley moved slightly in the dark, away from where he stood beside Griff. The emotions he felt coming off the younger man were strong. Upsetting too, if he wanted to be honest. Almost as upsetting were the memories these two men brought back to him of a way of life he'd left far behind him, he'd thought. Memories of a camaraderie based on --Riley pushed away the vision rising before his mind's eye of another man like Cartwright: easily graceful, sure of himself. He told himself that he couldn't afford to remember.

            "Is it true?" the boy was asking. Riley realized that he had been asked something and responded with a grunt. "That you were a Texas Ranger?"

            "That was a long time ago and a long ways away. Better hunker down and see if you can rest some. I'll keep Cartwright in one place as long as I can but once these horses have rested some, I 'spect he'll want to push on." As he spoke, the lawman moved towards the other side, away from Griff.

            "Was it something I said?" the cowhand muttered to himself but found himself sitting on the dirt floor, his knees pulled up under his chin, watching the rain fall.

            He stumbled and fell, his knees hitting the dry hard packed sand again. Swallowing painfully, he tried to rise but his chest ached and it seemed that he could not take in the air he needed to sustain life. With one hand, he sought to wipe away the sweat that ran down his brow and into his eyes, blinding him, but his hand wouldn't move. He looked up, seeking the sun above that hot desert floor. It wasn't there. He tried to order his thoughts. So much depended on him-- his sons needed him. The other people in the wagon train looked to him now as their leader even though he didn't know which way to lead them. All he knew was that they needed to head west. And heading west had brought them to this no-man's land of dry sand, tumbleweeds, broiling heat by day and freezing cold by night. But he couldn't lead, he couldn't be of any use to his sons if he stayed on his hands and knees. He struggled to his feet and stood swaying. A tug on the hand hanging beside him drew his eyes downward. Beside him, barely in his shadow stood his son.

            "Joseph!" he shouted, angry that the boy had not done as he was told. But even as he saw the small child he knew something was wrong with the vision. The wagons shimmered behind him in the heat then slowly disappeared. The little boy vanished as well.

He stood alone on the desert, the sun beating down relentlessly. The sweat ran down the middle of his back, plastering his shirt to him. 

"Here, drink this," the voice said beside him. A hand cupped his head and held the cup for him as he drank the lukewarm liquid. It burned down his throat, each swallow paid for with pain. He tried to push the cup away but failed. He attempted to find the person holding the cup and forcing him to drink; he had to convince them-- it was Joseph again. No longer was he a small child. Instead he stood before his father, his dark curls slicked back and a teasing smile on his face. The hat in his hands made circles that attracted Ben's attention more than the stammering apology and the promise that he wouldn't be out late again. He couldn't smile even though he wanted to, knowing that even though Joseph meant well, it was a promise that he would not be able to keep. 

A hand brushed across his face, and he began to shiver, his body now frighteningly cold. He fought to think clearly but panic continued to rise in him, the acid in his throat burning. At his feet, on Virginia City's main street, Joseph was sprawled face down, a pool of blood mingling with the dust. With trembling hands, he turned his son over and saw the bullet hole piercing the jacket, the shirt, the slender body beneath. As the frigid wind tugged at his own flesh, he cradled his son to him, calling him, pleading for him to stay alive.

"Easy now," encouraged the voice again.

Ben Cartwright opened his eyes. Above him, barely visible in the dusky light, a face hovered. He reached for it and found the stubbled jaw before the other man closed a hand over his and held it warmly.

"Give me quite a scare there, Boss," the other said. "It's me. Candy."

The rancher tried to take a deep breath and failed, his chest unwilling to accept the motion required. That pain brought him fully cognizant of his surroundings. They were in a dark hole, a cave perhaps, he thought. Just beyond Candy, a fire burned, creating dancing shadows on the uneven walls of gray rock. Behind his back, he could feel a saddle and across his body he saw a conglomeration of saddleblankets, a jacket and other pieces of clothing. He tightened his grasp on his foreman's hand.

"Joe?" he managed to get out, his voice a painful whisper, grating against pain. Against hope.

Candy shook his head. "Not yet. Griff'll get him here, don't worry. Then we'll be able to get you to a doctor." He let his words trail off. The hand he held went lax in his and the velvety dark eyes closed slowly. Candy let his hand rest gently on the big chest beside him and felt the minute rise that said the man still lived. He tucked the hand back beneath the makeshift covers and turned to throw another piece of wood on the fire behind him.

"Griff, boy, if you didn't do what I told you to, there ain't gonna be any place for you to hide from me," Candy threatened the darkness. He levered himself back to the wall across from his employer. Scrubbing at his face with one hand, he huffed, the sound alone showing his displeasure.

In the last two days, he had ventured out twice. The first time, he had gone looking for firewood. Just down from the mouth of their cave, he had found a gnarled and twisted tree that was dead, half buried in rocks and debris. At some time in the past, it had come hurtling down this draw on the crest of a flood only to find itself wedged into a pile of debris. Little by little, the debris had disappeared but the dead tree remained until Candy tore at it, hauling off chunks to feed the fire.

The second time Candy had left the cave had been at daybreak the previous morning. He didn't go far, searching for water to fill the canteen he carried. It was a good thing that a seep of fresh water was not far from their camp. He had just finished filling it when he heard horses…too many horses to be Griff and Joe. As he took a quick glance from behind what remained of his firewood tree, his blood ran cold.

Four men, dressed in slickers and riding horses that had seen too many miles were standing in the gentle rainfall not a hundred yards from the mouth of the cave. A fifth horse stood riderless. Candy's hand reached for his gun, sure that a shout would arise from the cave, telling these men that Ben had been found. Candy waited, his heart hammering hard at his chest. Five men, he thought, how could he go up against five men and walk away? Candy swallowed the lump in his throat. He couldn't. His best bet was to put his hands in the air and step out into plain sight. That way, they would pay attention to him and maybe not ever find Mr. Cartwright.

Just as he was about to make his move, the fifth man came out of the cave and got onto his horse.

"Didn't see nothing. Dark in there," the man drawled and Candy smiled, easing himself back further beside his tree. The man hadn't gone far enough into the cave, hadn't stepped probably beyond the mouth of it or he would have at least seen the low fire burning.

Candy waited until he was sure that the riders were gone. Then he waited a little longer, knowing that the rain was just as detrimental to his hearing as it was to anyone else's out there. Finally, his muscles cramping in the chill, he gathered his canteen and little more firewood and slipped up to the cave. Concealing himself just inside the mouth of it, he looked back outside. The tracks of the five horses were even then melting in the rain and as he watched, all sign disappeared except for where one shod hoof had scarred a rock.

He scurried back into their sanctuary, one hand outstretched to guide him around the bend. Even knowing that the camp was there, it was hard to see, the fire having nearly gone out. Candy prodded it back to more life and fed it a fair sized piece. Shivering from the stone-cold dampness, he checked Ben. The older man was still feverish, even to Candy's cold hand. He called to him and gently shook a shoulder but all the other did was moan.

He sat back on his heels and tried to think. The jerky that had been in Griff's saddlebag was gone. The last piece, Candy had used over and over again to make a broth the injured Ben could swallow. There was nothing else to eat and if he went out to find game now, the men just there would hear the shot and return. What could he do then? He certainly couldn't invite them in out of the rain, which would be what they would expect of him. If push came to shove, Candy would kill the horse hidden there with them but the cowboy in him hated to even consider such a thing. But if it means the difference between life and death, I'll do it and not look back.

His lips twitching, Candy thought of that not looking back. He'd lived a lot of his adult life not looking back at the bridges he had burned, the lives he had touched. When demanded by circumstance, he had gotten good with a gun and even better with his fists. He'd fought with, and against, Indians and white men alike, depending on where survival laid. He learned from old timers how and what to eat when others would have starved. And throughout it all, he had done his best to not look behind him, maybe in fear for what might have been catching up to him.

That was until a little trip through the desert had nearly cost him his life. No, Ben Cartwright and his sons hadn't saved his life then but they had been there. In the end, the old man had offered Candy a job that he decided he'd take until he moved on. A few coins jingling in his pocket might make whatever travels he took a little easier. But always he'd had the idea that he'd move on when the notion took him. Now as he edged another piece of wood into the fire, he realized he'd not had the notion to move for a couple of years.

Ben Cartwright stirred restlessly, once again muttering in his delirium the names of his sons. Using a piece of cloth soaked from the canteen, Candy wiped the older man's face, seeing the deepening smudges beneath the closed eyes. Along side of his jaw, Candy could see a bruise made by a fist and in the white hair at the temple, another discoloration. There wasn't a doubt in his mind that Ben Cartwright had been beaten but even when the near-hanging was added in, Candy couldn't fathom why the man was as sick as he was. Maybe it was the combination along with the advancing years? Whatever the reason, Candy prayed that help would show up soon or he would be forced to track down the riders he had just let get away and plead for mercy.

"No, no looking back," he told himself and pulled the blanket up higher on Ben's chest.

With a start, Griff awoke. Through the legs of the horses, he could see the coming of dawn across the way. He looked around, searching for his traveling companions. In one corner, Joe Cartwright was asleep, his body pressed tight against the wooden wall, his hat pulled low over his face. But the marshal was nowhere to be seen. Griff started to rise but found his cramped legs nearly useless.

"Here, lemme help ya," the lawman offered and Griff just about jumped out of his skin. But Riley easily lifted him and held onto his arms as blood flowed back into his legs.

"Where'd you come from? Nearly scared the life outta me!" Griff protested hotly once they were outside.

Riley smiled, reminding Griff of an oily cardsharp that had cleaned him out once. "Don't matter none. You rested enough you think you can ride?"

The young man looked back into last night's shelter and saw Joe begin to move. "You think he's gonna take 'no' for an answer?"

Breakfast was a canteen of water passed around and a few strips of jerky then saddles were cinched and the reluctant horses were led into the growing daylight. Even as Riley watched in near awe, Joe Cartwright did a swing vault into the saddle and put the pinto into motion. Griff and he, stiff and with still tired muscles protesting, followed.

Once they gained the height of the road, Griff was able to navigate. The telegraph wire may have dripped rain but it still shone bright in the early morning light and they followed it eagerly. An hour into the ride, Riley shouted for them to halt. Within moments, they were surrounded by five mounted men.

"Listen here, gents," Riley spoke up, his Texas drawl a little more pronounced that usual. "You done picked the wrong folks to rob." He flicked open his jacket and let them see the badge he wore.

"We're part of a posse," the oldest man spoke up. "Horse thief got away from us. Riding with two other men."

Riley heard Cartwright inhale sharply but otherwise Joe stayed quiet, keeping to the deal they had made. Riley would handle the law.

"Well, we ain't horse thieves," the lawman said evenly. "Got some business up here a ways, me and these two other gents."

One of the posse members rode closer to Griff, his eyes squinting. He studied both the horse and the rider. "This one ain't wearin' a gun, " he told the others.

"That's cause he's in my custody. I'm a U.S. marshal. That other fella," and Riley nodded in Joe's direction, "is his boss. Now, like I said, we got business to tend to on ahead. So if you gents would move aside, we'll be about it."

The five men traded uneasy glances. Finally one man, the leader, grumbled that no pinto had been among the get-away horses and they parted to let the trio pass.  Griff could feel the bead of sweat trickling down his spine as they rode away. He glanced from under his hat brim at Joe and saw the muscles bunching along his jawline. On the other side, Riley rode relaxed, his body moving with the horse. They let the horses walk for the better part of a mile before Riley drew to a halt. Joe and Griff rode on a short distance before they drew rein. Turning back, they saw Riley rise up in the stirrups, his whole big body tense.

"Griff!" he hissed. "You fellas make a fire?"

Reining back beside the marshal, Griff allowed that they did. Riley smiled and sniffed the air again, turning his head this way and that.

"But it was in a cave," Griff explained.

"Don't matter. Smoke's got to get out somewhere somehow. Come on," he ordered and, without looking back, put his horse down the slight slope and out onto the broad valley floor. The others had nothing else to do but follow.

Half a mile became a mile and still the big man led on, stopping every once in a while to sniff again at the air like a dog tracking prey. The third time he stopped, even Griff caught the scent of smoke. It was Joe who pointed out the hoof prints in the soft ground. A lot of hoof prints. From shod horses.

"Riley, wait a minute. Maybe what you smell is the campfire that posse had this morning." The lawman shook his head and, swinging his horse into the faint breeze, rode on.

Finally the three men rode up the side of the valley. Beyond the hill they sat atop, lay a confusing welter of gullies and washes.

"Any of this look familiar Griff?" Joe asked. Griff, in reply, shrugged his shoulders.

"Over there." The marshal pointed to the north and west. Both Joe and Griff looked and saw nothing. "There's a real faint haze over there. Close to the ground."

Joe saw it then. "Could be fog."

"Nope, it ain't. It's smoke. If it was fog, it wouldn't be moving with the breeze 'cause fog is heavier than smoke. Come on. We'll either find your father and Candy or a couple of wanderers like us." Again Riley put his big buckskin in motion, trusting that the other two would follow…and that he would be right.

He had drifted off to sleep but the sound at the entrance to the cave awoke Candy immediately. Snatching his gun from its holster, he knew there wasn't enough time to meet his guests so he positioned himself so that Ben was hidden behind him. He rolled his eyes and shoved the gun home when he recognized Joe's voice.

Within the space of two heartbeats, the cave was too full of people and motion for Riley's likes. He stepped back into the draw, pulling Griff with him. "Give them a minute," he advised and saw Candy also exit the cave. "The old man still alive?"

Candy nodded, squinting into the light. "Yeah but not by much. Havin' trouble breathin," he explained, his palms suddenly sweaty so he rubbed them down the sides of his pants. "Glad you could join us, Marshal." He extended his hand.

Riley's mouth twisted in an ironic grin. "Didn't have much choice in the matter." He ignored the outstretched hand.

Inside the cave, it was all Joe could do to keep from throwing himself onto his father's chest, his relief was so great. Instead, his shaking hands sought his father's pulse. Weak and unsteady. He brushed the back of one hand down his father's haggard face and felt the blaze of fever. He pulled gently at the bandanna that surrounded his father's throat and strangled his own gasp of shock when the rope's path became evident. Gently over and over, he called to his father, hoping to get a reaction but there was none beyond his own despair.

The words that called him back from his hopelessness belonged to the marshal. "Cartwright, listen. I think we need to get your father out of here as quick as possible. Get him to a doc. Candy says he and the boy spent some time in a place called Wendel."

Joe shook himself mentally then physically. Riley was right. "Yeah, Wendel is a little place. Not far from Litchfield though. But there is no way my father can set a horse, Marshal."

"Well, I got me an idea. You and Candy go to Wendel. Get us a wagon. Griff and I will get your father onto a travois. You meet us as quick as you can." While he spoke, Riley assessed the older man's condition. He didn't want to tell the man's son that he thought the old man was not going to make it any further than the cave entrance but he had to instill hope and the best way to do that was with action.

"No," the rancher insisted. "You and Candy go. Leave Griff with me."

"Listen," Riley began again but this time, it was Cartwright's fist holding the lawman's jacket, his green eyes blazing angrily.

"We had a deal. You would handle the posse. I would handle my father. Hold up your end of the deal, Marshal or, so help me God, I will take you out of here and beat you into the ground. Got it?"

The marshal eased back when the fist loosened but he kept his eye pinned to the man in the green jacket. "You talk mighty big for a little man," he said coolly.

"One of these days, you're gonna find out that I ain't so little a man that I can't take you apart. But here and now ain't it. Now either abide by your end of the deal or get out of my way."

Riley stood slowly, his wide shoulders nearly brushing both sides of the cave. He studied the man kneeling beside the old rancher. Just as slowly, Joe rose to his feet and faced the lawman.

"You're right, Cartwright," the marshal admitted, his dark gaze locked with the green eyes. "You ain't so little a man. And now ain't the time and place to find out how big you really are. Sorry. I'll hold up my end of the deal. You just make sure you do yours."

Once outside the cave, Riley had to take a moment to clear his mind. Back there, in the confinement of those rock walls, his mind had played a trick on him and he had to take the time to be sure of himself. For just that moment, the two men there, he knew them, but they weren't a man and his son. They were…

The dark memories threatened the carefully composed lawman's life he had led since coming to Nevada but he pushed them aside. "Hey, Candy. Feel like ridin' with me?"

It was mid-afternoon before Candy and Riley left for Wendel. They rode light, the food and supplies all staying at the cave. Behind them, Griff sat at the entrance, Candy's rifle balanced on his crossed legs. In the small area before the cave, the pinto and bay were now hobbled, grazing. As the two riders had cleared the top of the steep slope, Candy had turned and looked down to see Griff's hand raise in farewell. Marshal Riley only flicked his tired horse into a lope, guided by some unerring instinct towards their destination.

With Griff standing guard, Joe went to work. He built up the fire with the wood Candy and Riley had scrounged up. Some of it looked liked dressed lumber but where it came from, Joe didn't even stop to think. It burned well though, giving off both heat and light with very little smoke. From their packs, he pulled a coffeepot and proceeded to make coffee. Dried beans went into a small pot of water and then onto the fire to one side. From the bottle he had bought in Flanigan, he poured some of the whiskey into one of their two plates then tore up his spare shirt and dipped it into the alcohol. While the coffee brewed and the beans cooked, he bathed his father's face and pulled away the bloody wrappings from his wrists. These he also cleaned, praying the sting of the alcohol would make his father rouse. It didn't. Joe pulled away the bandanna from his father's neck and again had to look away, seeing the rope burns there. Finally, gulping air, he turned back and using the lightest touch he could, he began the necessary cleansing. Now his father did react but Joe, his voice gentle and soothing, endeavored to keep his father calm. Once the dried blood and accumulated excess was gone, Joe knew he had to bandage it to keep it clean. And so that he couldn't see it.

"Hey Griff!" he called, his voice ringing through the cave. "I need your help back here a minute."

Cautiously, Griff came into the circle of light. Joe looked up at him. "Help me just a minute then you can go back outside. Okay?"

"No, it's okay, Joe," the younger man said. "It was just there for a little bit…felt like these walls were closing in on me, ya know? But they don't seem so bad now." To further emphasize his point, he patted one rock wall. Earlier, it had been all he could do to stand at the bend. He'd tried to swallow his fear but it was evident to all of them there. They all understood. It was just like when he had been imprisoned… the Hellbox, they called it then…dark, damp, no air to breathe, no water, no sound, just the cold walls. And for the moment when they had all stood in the cave, he had heard the struggling, rasping breathing and had seen another old man die, just pulled from the Hellbox.

Together, they managed. Joe had held his father, pulling him up enough that Griff could unroll the bandage around Ben's neck. Then Joe eased his father back down onto the upturned saddle.

"Joe, think you can get some of that liquor down him?" Griff asked tentatively. "Might help him breathe a little easier. Cup's over there." When Joe turned to get the cup Griff had pointed to and poured in a small dollop of whiskey, Griff took the advantage of Joe's back turned. He brushed aside the top of Ben's shirt, the top buttons already opened. He saw bruised flesh.

The memory welled up in his own chest and Griff bolted from the cave. Out in the cool air of the gathering night, he bent over, vomiting, retching again and again, the dry heaves weakening him until he had to hang onto one of the horses to stand. He was sweating and shivering at the same time, lightheaded and swaying.

"It's okay," said Joe, reaching for the trembling cowhand, his voice soft and concerned as he edged up behind him. "You don't have to go back in there again. I'm sorry."

"No, you don't understand, Joe. Your pa…" Griff struggled with the emotions washing over him: the fear, the anger but most of all the remembered pain. He couldn't finish what he had wanted to say for almost a full minute. Then, "You need to lay your pa down flat, Joe. He's …hurt…real bad, he's hurt."  The mere words hurtled Griff back in time. He had just been arrested for the near beating death of his stepfather. There was no remorse in him except for the fact that he hadn't finished the job and killed the man. The sheriff in that two-bit town had decided to teach the boy a lesson in respect. Reaching through the cell bars, he had grabbed hold of the front of Griff's shirt. Then, with ever increasing violence, he had slammed Griff repeatedly into the bars. When it was over, he simply let go and the boy had fallen in a broken heap to the floor. For months afterwards, Griff couldn't take a deep breath without pain.

The remembered vision and pain cleared slowly. Once again, Griff King was on his own feet and under the clear afternoon sky of Northern California, not in the gray confines of the Nevada State Penitentiary or the bleak jail cell where he had been brutalized all in the name of respect. Taking a long look around, he headed for the cave. The man who'd had a hand helping Griff to stand under that sky needed his help now.

Together, Griff and Joe returned to the cave and pulled the saddle from behind Ben and lowered him to the ground. Griff took a set of saddlebags and slid one pocket under the silver head, raising it slightly. He had been right. Mr. Cartwright's breathing seemed easier. He looked up, ready to smile but held back when he saw Joe's face.

Joe had opened his father's shirt. The huge barrel chest of the man was mottled purple and black. His son gently laid one hand on it as though to reassure himself that what he was seeing wasn't a dream. Beneath his hand, he felt the massive chest give and he pulled his hand away as though he had been burnt.

"Easy, Joe," crooned Griff, pulling at his arm, moving the son away from the father. "Probably got busted ribs. Maybe some bruisin' inside too. That's what I meant when I said he was hurt bad." While he spoke, he pulled the shirt closed again and covered the injured man with the several blankets they had.

"How? I mean-" Joe's fragmented thoughts made his words disjointed and hollow.

Even though it pained him, recalling it again in so short a time, Griff told Joe about his own beating. It didn't surprise him in the least when he finished that Joe very plainly and very blunted stated "I'll kill the bastard who did this." There wasn't a doubt in his mind that Joe meant it. Hell, the only reason why Joe would have a crack at the culprit was that he, Griff, would respectfully wait in line for his chance. He had learned that much about respect.

The sun was reaching for the far western horizon when Griff saw them. There was a wagon rumbling towards them and he knew it was the big marshal handling the team. But out to the side came six riders when there should have been only one, Candy. He swallowed and shouted for Joe to join him with his rifle.

Riley pulled the lathered team to a halt at the edge of the slope. There was no way to get the buckboard down closer so this was the best to be done. He leapt down nimbly. The greeting he got was a shot fired into the air. Down below, at the mouth of the cave, stood Joe Cartwright and Griff King, rifles aimed and mouths set determinedly.

"Hold up, Cartwright!" the marshal shouted and stood his ground. "I told these men that you all are in my custody. I meant it! Until we can get this mess straightened out, you're mine to deal with. That includes your pa, Cartwright! These gentlemen are here to help us and to escort us back to Litchfield. The nearest help is in Litchfield. Your pa needs that doctor, Cartwright. Now, lay down your guns."

"What about them? They armed?" Joe shouted, his rifle not wavering as he jacked another round into the chamber. The noise it made seemed very loud.

Riley turned and addressed the five men who had caught up with them just outside of Wendel. They were the same posse members as they had met before and this time, with a different man in tow, his explanation fell short but they had respected the badge he wore. "You men, toss your sidearms into the wagon. Rifles too. " He watched as one young posse man glanced worriedly at an older man, clearly looking for direction.     " Just do like I say and no one'll be hurt." They obeyed. "Now, move off to the side a ways so that fella down there with the gray hair don't take a twitch the wrong way. He can hit just about anything he wants with that rifle and I've never seen him have to aim to do it."

Candy listened to the big marshal's easy words. They were calming to both sides. But he wanted to laugh aloud when Riley made the comment about Joe's shooting. Riley was right, Candy knew, but Riley had also never seen Joe Cartwright shoot- revolver, rifle or even dice!

Once the riders moved away and dismounted, Candy and Riley slipped and slid down the slope. Only then did Joe and Griff put down their weapons.

"How's your pa?" Candy asked.

"Alive," was the blunt answer Joe gave him as he turned back into the cave.

Between the four of them, they struggled getting Ben out of the confines of the cave. Each motion seemed to bring a moan from the big man. They had placed him on a blanket then lifted it, Candy and Joe at his head, Riley and Griff at his feet. Outside, they grimly looked at the steep slope they would have to climb, still carrying their injured. Joe was the one who called for a pause and they gently placed Ben on the ground. Joe knelt beside his father, brushing a hand over the silver hair. He heard the crunch of boots on skree but he didn't look around.

The five posse men positioned themselves around the blanket. Without a word of direction, once again the blanket was lifted. When Joe went to help, one of them brushed his hand away.

"You just stay there at his head. We'll do the liftin'".

In short order, Ben was placed on the straw spread in the back of the buckboard. Around him, they loaded what gear there was and spread the blankets they had over him. One of the posse members, a middle aged man with a rounded belly offered up his bedroll as well.

"One of you the sheriff of Litchfield?" Joe asked the gathered posse, glaring at the blanket offered to him. No one answered. "A deputy, maybe?"

The older man in the group seemed to be the one in charge and he replied evenly, "Nope, we're just townsfolk who the sheriff called on for posse duty. That's all. Our orders were to shoot your pa and these two others on sight but this fella," and he gestured towards the marshal, "well, we figure that he outranks our town sheriff. If he says he's takin' ya into his custody, then so be it."

Ashamed now, Joe couldn't look the other men in the eye as he thanked them. They seemed to understand and went to mount their horses without another word spoken. He was preparing to clamber into the back of the wagon when Candy stopped him.

"Joe," he said under his breath, the words barely audible. "You take care of your pa. Let Riley, Griff and I handle the rest of this. Okay?" There was concern in the tone but under it was a warning that Joe considering throwing back into Candy's face. One look at his lantern jawed friend, and Joe relented.

The main street of Litchfield was dark and deserted as the wagon and outriders came into town close to midnight that night. But they made enough noise that it set an unseen dog to barking and a light came on in the sheriff's office.

The same man who had spoken up at the tailgate of the wagon told Riley that there was no hotel, only a boarding house run by the Widow Cunningham. He led them to it and stood beside Candy as he pounded on the door to the darkened two-story house. Presently an older woman came to the door, in one hand a kerosene lamp, the other holding closed her dressing gown.

"Homer, what in tarnation is going on?" she demanded, her eyes taking in the disheveled man on her doorstep as well as the wagon at the gate.

The townsman explained, quickly glossing over the fact that the man hurt in the wagon was the man they had all tried to lynch four days before. For a moment, Candy feared she would turn them down. He smiled at her, hoping to win her over.

"How many you say? Five? Ain't got but four rooms and one of them is the big room downstairs," she muttered and ran an age-spotted hand over her gray hair.

"That'll be fine, ma'am," Candy piped up brightly. He didn't care if he had to sleep on the floor. The posseman, Homer, looked askance at him but Candy just pushed the man's awkwardness aside.

The woman opened the door all the way and stepped aside to light another lamp.

"You forget that you and that other young pup are going down to the jailhouse. The old man will be joining you once the doctor sees to him," Homer blustered, his finger all but shaking under Candy's nose.

"No, you forget that these men are in my custody," Riley butted in, shoving both men aside with one shoulder as he went into the parlor.

By the time they had Ben Cartwright laid on the bed in the largest room, the one downstairs, the doctor had been summoned and arrived, right on the heels of the town sheriff. The little half stump of a man was admitted but the sheriff couldn't get beyond the huge man at the front door.

"Understand you got one of my escaped prisoners in there. As well as the two who broke him loose. Stand aside."

Riley again flashed his U.S. Marshal's badge. "Name's Riley. I'm a U.S. Marshal and those men in there, the old man and the two younger fellas are in my custody." He conveniently left out the fact that he was well outside of his jurisdiction and had not the slightest clue what he could say he was holding them for.

The other man was hard to bluff. Riley watched as the sheriff sucked on his upper lip a moment. "Most times when a marshal comes through, he checks in with me first. Name's Carpenter. Mike Carpenter. I'm the law around here."

For a moment, Riley considered telling the other lawman what he thought of the 'law around here.' Instead he stood pat. "Well, Sheriff Carpenter, I hear that the old man in there was accused of horse stealin'. That right?" When the sheriff nodded, the marshal went on. "And that he got a fast fair trial." Again the nod but this time the eyes narrowed. "And when these other two fellows came into town, you were fixin' on hangin' the old boy and they broke him out. That right too?"

"That's the way of it. Common practice to hang a horse thief, marshal." Again the eyes narrowed. "I figure the old one ain't goin' no where but the young ones, I want to lock 'em up in my jail."

"Candy! Griff!" Riley called over his shoulder and the two called materialized within moments. Each man held a sandwich and a cup of coffee. To the sheriff, Riley asked, "These two the ones you mean?"

The sheriff nodded but looked past Riley's bulk into where the doctor was bending over the bed. There was another man there that he didn't recognize. No matter, he thought to himself, and pulling his gun from its holster, gestured towards the front door with it.

"Sheriff, these men are staying here with me."

Carpenter was about to say something when a commotion broke out behind Riley's back and the man who had been with the doctor was trying to get around Riley. There was murder in the man's green eyes as he shouted for the marshal to move so he could get to the sheriff. Riley caught and held the other man as he struggled.

"Joe! Joe!" Candy also turned and inserted himself in front of his friend and beside the massive lawman.

"Let me at him!" Joe bellowed, his fingers iron talons in Riley's arm. Riley held onto him, lifting him from the floor and finally shoving him into a wall to contain his unexpected fury.

"What the hell is this all about?" Riley demanded. He could feel Cartwright still fighting him but more wisely now, trying to pull away. He pushed the slighter man tighter to the wall.

"This is it." Griff shoved Candy out of the way and made his way into the room. He stopped beside the bed where Ben Cartwright laid, the doctor hovering, a bloody bandage in his hand. "But then the sheriff knows this, doesn't he? Seein's how he was the one that done it." Carefully and gently, Griff laid aside the linen shirt that his boss wore, exposing the heavily bruised chest.

The silence in the room was pervasive, broken only by the uneven breathing coming from the man on the bed.

"Sheriff, these men stay with me. For their own protection as well as yours. Now I suggest that you get out that door real fast or I am gonna turn this 'un loose on you," Riley warned.

Carpenter's eyes again narrowed. "Don't know how that old geezer got beat up like that. Maybe these young hoodlums-" He never finished his sentence. Griff charged across the room and would have pummeled the man except for Candy's intervention.

"Like I said, sheriff, these men are my responsibility. They're gonna stay in this house, right?" He swept his eyes around the room and hallway where the others stood. One by one, Candy then Griff and finally Joe nodded. Riley slowly released his hold on the struggling rancher and took a step away from him. "There's the door, Carpenter. Use it. I'll be in your office first thing in the morning and we'll see about getting this all straightened out."

With his gun still drawn, the sheriff reached behind him and opened the door. Taking small careful steps, he departed, never turning his back on the tableau. He wasn't sure who he was more afraid of: the big burly marshal or the man with the burning green eyes.

"He's still a dead man," Joe hissed.

Dawn's first light streaked across the floor, its long fingers finally touching Riley's face. He stood up slowly from the chair he had slept in the short night before, his long legs across the open doorway. While the mistress of the house had offered him a proper place to rest, he had chosen the chair. Anyone leaving the house would have to get around him and, notoriously a light sleeper, he'd have felt their passing. It didn't surprise him that no one had tried to leave in the darkness. Joe Cartwright had been too busy seeing to his father and Candy and Griff were just completely exhausted. The marshal was too but he had told people that these men were in his custody and he had to make it appear he was guarding them if for no other reason than that.

He stretched, shoulder muscles bunching then smoothing, joints popping. He ran one hand through his hair then scratched at his chin. He needed to shave, he thought, but more than that, he needed a good meal. Expectantly, he sniffed the air, hoping the Widow Cunningham had coffee on at the very least. Nothing came to his nose.

A slight sound from the large bedroom to his right caught his attention and he pushed the door completely open. The doctor had left in the small hours of the morning, stating plainly that there was nothing more he could do for the injured man. The doctor's words weren't much encouragement. From where he stood at the door that golden morning, Riley studied the man on the bed. He'd seen the distinctive bruises, the red lines arching away on the old man's chest. He'd heard the man trying to breathe normally and failing. While Riley had never done that to a man in his custody, he'd seen it done by someone who, up until that time, he had respected. Even then, Riley had tried to convince himself that it was necessary. After all, the man with his hands tied behind him had withheld information they needed. The beaten man had finally given up the required words but the words had been too late. But that had been a long time ago and a long ways away.

Seeing old man Cartwright staring at him brought the marshal back to the present. Riley looked around and saw Joe asleep on the small settee. One look told Riley that the younger Cartwright was just as exhausted as the rest of them had been and he would not awaken easily. He crossed the deep carpet to sit beside the rancher.

"Water?" the older man requested, his voice raspy and weak.

Riley lifted the silver head gently, the glass of cool water held to his lips. The other man took a few sips then wanted no more.

"I'm U.S. Marshal Riley. Rode up here with your son when we heard there was a problem. Can you talk, Mister Cartwright?" Riley asked softly.

"Joe?" Ben managed with a great deal of effort to get out the one word.

"He's asleep right over there," and Riley nodded in the general direction of the settee. "Wore himself, as well as the rest of us, out trying to get to you then to get you help. Determined, stubborn cuss, ain't he?" In spite of himself, Riley smiled. "But I got it figured that he takes after his old man on that score, don't he?"

Ben Cartwright ghosted a smile. He tried to shift positions but every movement, every breath even, brought pain with it. The marshal had asked him if he could talk but it was an impossibility. He moved his head weakly to the side then slowly back.

"Said they were hanging you for a horse thief. Now I got a notion that you ain't a horse thief." Riley let his hands hang between his knees as he sat, hunched over in the chair, his upper body leaning towards the man on the bed. It was a posture he often took during an investigation. It showed the person being questioned that Riley had no fear of them, perhaps even told them that he might believe their version of the truth. Sometimes they were right; most times they weren't. The only truth Riley believed any more came from his own gut.

"I mean why would a man who owns half the state of Nevada want to steal a horse?" Riley chuckled softly, rubbing his jaw, feeling again the stubble there. "But they said you had a trial, Mister Cartwright, and the jury found you guilty." His tone changed. The bantering stopped just as swiftly as it had once come. "Now a man in my position, knowing what I know, I got some powerful suspicions and a heap of questions to go with 'em. I'm gonna start with one that's got nuthin' to do with horses. This here," and he laid his hand gently on the blanket-covered chest of the old man, "This happen while you were jailed here?"

"Yes," Ben pushed out.

"Sheriff?" the marshal queried.

"No," the big rancher whispered the word then seemed to gather a little strength and continued. "Don't know. Dark. Head's fuzzy."

People on the Litchfield street turned and watched as Marshal Riley walked down the wooden planks. Over six feet tall and powerfully built, he moved with an easy grace that naturally drew attention. He tipped his hat to any female but all the men noticed that even as he did, he kept one hand close to a weapon, either the knife sheathed on his left side or the Colt holstered on his right. When he stopped an old-timer and asked directions to the sheriff's office, he thanked the man courteously. That consideration didn't go unnoticed either.

"Who's guarding the prisoners?" the town sheriff blurted out just as soon as Riley opened the door to his office and stepped into it.

"Last I saw of 'em, they were sittin' down to a fine breakfast the widow-lady had fixed up. So I guess you could say that she was!"

"Listen Marshal, I don't care for your high-handed--" began Carpenter's protest but Riley, slick as a cat pouncing on a mouse, had the sheriff's shirtfront balled into a fist and had lifted the slighter man half-way across his desk.

"And I don't care to see prisoners beaten. Not the way that man was. Gives bein' a lawman a bad reputation! What I want to know is why," Riley seethed into the other's face and for further emphasis, shook him. "You already got a man behind bars, why beat him with those same bars?"

"I didn't do it!"

"Your deputies, then?" Another shake rattled the miscellaneous items on the desk between them.

"Neither one of them got the brains to do squat without being told. Listen, Marshal Riley, you and I can work together or we can fight things out. Don't matter one way or another to me. The man over at the Widow Cunningham's was tried and convicted of bein' a horse thief. Two other men over there broke the law when they stopped us from hangin' the man. Yer suppose to uphold the law same as me but I don't think yer doin' that right now."

Judging the man's words to be true, Riley gradually let go of the other man but he kept his hand close to his holster just in case the other man just wanted free. "Why don't you start at the beginning, Sheriff, and tell me why you think a man who owns half the state of Nevada would stoop to stealing a horse."

Slowly and carefully, the sheriff told his story:

A week ago, the man known to them as Ben Cartwright rode into town late one evening on a fine looking buckskin and leading a handsome black horse. The buckskin wore the brand that looked like a pine tree but the black, a stallion, had no mark at all on him. The fellow put the two horses up in the livery then got directions to the saloon. Told the livery hand that he was going to have his dinner and a good night's sleep but that he wanted to be out on the trail real early the next morning. He instructed old Toby to double grain both animals after he'd cooled 'em down good.

Wasn't too much after that that Judge Long's son rode into town in a lather. He came straight to the sheriff's office. One of his prize stallions had been stolen right from the paddock. He described the horse: black, almost 17 hands, no distinguishing markings, and, most importantly, no brand. Seemed that the horse had been hard to deal with ever since they had bought him at auction and the opportunity to brand the animal had not come up. But someone had managed to steal the black. Toby had come over to the sheriff's office to freeload some coffee and after hearing the description, told all present about the stranger in town and the horses in the stable…

"Of course, we went and checked them out. George Long took one look at the horse and said it was their stud. I made him look real careful and he did. I know George and I know that he knows horses At the trial he even produced a bill of sale for the black that gave the animal's description and it matched the animal in the livery that night. You want me to go on?"

So the sheriff, with Toby in tow, went to the saloon. That was where Carpenter first met up with the man who called himself Ben Cartwright. Of course, Cartwright denied stealing the horse. Said he had bought it over towards Red Bluff from an old friend. When asked to produce the bill of sale, Cartwright said that he had none. His friend had been too weak, dying like he was, to sign the paper so Ben had left it there. The friend's housekeeper had said that when the old man signed it, she would mail it….

"I didn't believe the man. Story was so cockeyed it had to be a lie. He blustered around a little; told me to wire the sheriff in Virginia City like that man could corroborate his story! Even wanted me to wire his friend in Red Bluff. When I told him that this town didn't have a telegraph office and that I'd have to go to Susanville, he offered to pay for it! Now I ain't dumb, Marshal. I had it figured out by then that the old coot had a friend in Red Bluff all right and that the friend would alibi anything!"

"Well? Did you wire Red Bluff?" Riley asked, continuing his pacing as he waited and listened for an answer.

"No. I took Cartwright, if that's his name, into custody. Old man threw a fit but I tried telling him that it was for his own good. He asked me to wire his son in Virginia City too, to tell him that he would be home a little later than he had planned. The way I figured it, he was actually sending a signal down there for help to come bust him out of jail. I didn't bother wiring that message either but I didn't tell the prisoner that. Nope, instead, I turned in."

            By the next morning, word was all over town. Everywhere the folks were patting the sheriff's back, congratulating him like he had captured some important criminal or something. He shook it off and finished making his rounds. When he returned to the jail, his deputy, Jim Warner, said that there seemed to be something wrong with the old man in the cell. Said he seemed to be in pain but that he, Warner, had given him some of the sheriff's medicine and the old boy seemed to settle down.

            "Took a bullet in my leg during the War. Hurts like the devil ever' once in a while. Got me some laudanum that helps knock the edge off the pain. I always keep some in my desk here," and he held up the brown bottle for Riley to see as he spoke, "and that's what Warner gave him. I checked on the prisoner and he was resting."

            "Did you ever get a doctor for him?" The tall lawman's eyes narrowed.

            "Never did. Figured once again that the fella was foolin' us. Anyway, later that morning, Judge Long rode in and we commenced to havin' the trial."

            Riley spun on his heels to face Cunningham. "You mean to tell me that the same man who accused Ben Cartwright of horse stealin' was the judge who heard his testimony? What was Cartwright's lawyer doin' about it?"

            "Didn't have no lawyer. Said he didn't want one; he'd take care of hisself! And we only got one judge round these parts, Marshal, and that's Judge Long. But Cartwright had a jury trial so it weren't the judge handing down the sentence; it was twelve good men." The sheriff tipped back in his chair as he spoke, lacing his hands behind his head.

            "Is there a lawyer in town?" When the sheriff said that there wasn't but one, Riley grimaced. "Then, Sheriff Carpenter, there needs to be a new trial. A man under the influence of laudanum who claims he can represent himself in a court of law has an incompetent lawyer."

            "Listen here, Riley," snarled the other lawman. "Ben Cartwright got a fair, fast trial. Seems to me that you're takin' on a mighty big load, sayin' that you know more than a judge and twelve jurors!"

            Keeping his voice soft and low, Riley countered, "No, Sheriff, 'cause any court in the land recognizes the right to appeal a judgment. And until that appeal is heard, Ben Cartwright is in my custody. Same as Griff and Candy."

            "Fine then bring 'em over here where they belong." Carpenter gestured behind him to the empty jail cells.

            "Don't think that will be necessary. ' Sides you had a man hurt in here real bad; never looked into it; never got him a doctor. Seems to me that you're the one takin' the big load on, being both sheriff and doctor as well as executioner."

            Ben had dozed restlessly off and on after the marshal had left. Frustrated by the fact that it took willpower to breathe beyond the pain in his chest, he felt helpless. He had felt out the boundaries of his condition and found them restrictive. Any more than shallow breaths and his world dissolved into a grinding pain, shooting from his chest into his back. The instinct to curl into the pain was impossible to control and yet also impossible to follow. The night before, after the jouncing ride in the wagon, his jaws clenched tight to keep from screaming, the doctor had given him something that held the pain at bay long enough to sleep. When the nightmares brought on by the morphine came to him, he had not fought them, letting them take his mind down long forgotten paths. Twice he had awoken to find Joe there beside him, bathing his face with a cool cloth, speaking softly and lovingly to him but he had not stayed in that reality. Instead, feeling his son's comforting presence, he had slipped back towards Morpheus' arms.

            The touch to his hand was gentle, timorous almost. The voice now calling to him was soft and, like the touch, hesitant. Ben fought down the impulse to breathe deeply then opened his eyes.

            Sunlight was streaming through the windows to one side of the room, laying broad bands of light and shadow across the coverlet. Joe sat on the edge of the bed in one of the bright shafts. Ben wanted to smile. So many times, it had been he who'd had that worried look to his face as he'd sat at this son's bedside. The irony wasn't lost on him and, he figured, not on his son as well.

            "Afternoon," Joe airily greeted the deep brown eyes. He smiled, searching to shove sincerity into it but knowing it was a poor fit. "Doc said we've got to get fluid into you. Think you can swallow a little something?"

            Rather than speak, Ben grunted. Joe took it as an affirmative. He rose from the bed without undue jostling and slipped a slim pillow beneath his father's head. With oddly deft grace, he held a glass to his father's lips, tilting it gently back and forth so that the water entered only in tiny amounts. Once most of the water was gone, he switched over to the bowl of beef broth the Widow Cunningham had cheerfully made. Just watching as Ben labored to swallow made Joe cringe but both hung on gamely. Finally Ben signaled that he'd had enough and Joe set the bowl aside, coming back to sit on the side of the bed after setting it aside.

            "You need something for the pain? Doc left something here."

            "No," Ben whispered, recalling the nightmares he had been too weak to escape.

            "How about you take just a little? You know, knock the edge off?" Ben relented since he figured if there was one Cartwright who understood pain and nightmares, it was this son. "Will help you rest a little easier and that's what you need right now. Rest."

            Once the slow spread of the medicine began to take hold and Ben's body began to loosen, Joe removed the pillow and allowed Ben to rest flat. He had moved out of the older man's line of sight but when his father rallied enough strength to call his name, Joe quickly returned to the side of the bed.

            "I'm right here, Pa. I'm not going anywhere." With those words, Ben smiled and slipped off to sleep, his hand anchored in his son's.

            For many long moments, Joe stayed just as he was. He watched the slow shallow rise and fall of his father's chest and the lines etched by pain melt from his face. The tiny beads of fever, the son wiped away with just his hand then gathered back up the huge hand that had held him as a child. He remembered coming to after a bad fall and how good it felt to have Pa holding his hand, tugging him back into life. He had taken strength from it, a strength that now the other needed desperately. With shoulders hunched forward, Joe held on to his father.

            "Any change in the old man?" asked Riley, settling himself on to the back porch steps beside Griff.

            Griff didn't look at the lawman. He just continued to shred the long stem of grass he had pulled moments before the other man had joined him. "No. The doctor was here for a while when you were out but I guess nothin's changed."

            "Saw your friend was still in there with him. Where's Candy?"

            "Got to keep track of your prisoners, huh, marshal?" Griff's sarcasm rippled through the words. To his surprise, it didn't get a rise out the man.

            "I asked you where Candy was. Do you know?"

            "Said he was gonna check on the horses then get some more sleep. If he ain't down to the stable," Griff jerked his head in the direction of the small building there behind the house. "he's most likely in his room sleepin'." He paused before he went on, hesitating only to find the right words. "Marshal Riley, I think you can rest easy. Candy and me, well, we aren't the runnin' type. We got it easy, livin' at the Ponderosa, and I can't speak for Candy, but for me, for the time bein', I'm set there. I'd be a fool to run. Tried that once and Mister Cartwright showed me the error of m'ways."

            "What'd he do? Rap your knuckles and tell you to be a good boy?"

            The young ranch hand shook his head and glanced at the marshal's profile. There was nothing soft about the man, looking at him like that. Inside, Griff went a little cold, a little niggle of fear reaching into his belly. For the first time in a long time, he was glad he was on the right side of the law since having this man on your trail, hunting you down, well, it wouldn't be a long trail. When he found you, Griff thought, he had the look that  said he might just hang you rather than take you in for a trial. This Marshal Riley, Griff had the feeling that too many men didn't lie to him and live to brag about it.

             "No sir, he didn't. He sat me down and talked to me, man to man…then he had me chop wood till my arms just about fell off."

            The lawman laughed, his shoulders shaking with the sound. "You think of him as your pa, then."

            Griff looked at the small pile of shredded green on the plank step between his feet. "No, sir, I don't," he stated flatly. "My own pa, I never knew. My stepfather was the man I went to prison for beatin' nigh on to death. I got no idea what a decent father is supposed to be like. Now Mister Cartwright, he treats me fine. Honest and as long as I do my work the way it should be done, he and I don't lock horns. I know I got to spend the next year or so at the Ponderosa because that was the agreement I made with the state of Nevada to get out of jail."

            "So you think of the Cartwrights as just another set of jailers, huh?" Riley queried, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back into the step above him.

            "Not really. I work for them. It's that plain and simple. But at the same time, I owe them something, I guess because they did go out on a limb for me. 'Course then, what I did for the old man put me out on a limb too!" Griff snorted deprecatingly. His protection of Candy's identity during the prison riot would have cost him his life if he had stayed in jail so he always figured that the Cartwrights owed him a little more. Not that he would ever collect against that debt but little by little, he figured he was getting paid in full. "Maybe you could say that I have a commitment that I intend to fulfill." What he wouldn't say was that it was more to himself than to the Cartwrights. That pledge was to make sure he never landed in prison again. Funny though, it was old man Cartwright that had made him think that way and stick with it even though he had never voiced it.

            "Commitment. Now that is a ten-dollar word. And a tough word to boot. Makes a body think of all sorts of things. Mostly about how hard sometimes it is to follow through on that promise." Even as he spoke, Riley stepped away from the memory of another commitment, a vow made to another as well as to himself. That promise he had not kept and it haunted him still. Not like it had in the beginning but more now like a shadow follows a man on a cloudy day, it trailed him. There were occasions when the clouds of time were brushed away and brought it into clear focus for him. Like when he had studied Joe Cartwright carefully and seen in him the same tenacity, the same spread of emotions, the same ease with a gun but mostly it was just something about him that reminded Riley of another man lost forever. Likewise, there was the same way folks talked about Ben Cartwright with respect as they had…. Riley drew himself up short. He couldn't go down that path. Not today. There was too much else going on.

            "Well, we got us some problems we got to get settled. We've got to get some telegrams off to get us some answers. There ain't no telegraph office here in this rathole of a town so someone has got to go to Susanville. That brings on a whole new set of figurin's. I don't trust anybody in this town to take the wires to Susanville. I can't go myself 'cause as soon as I do, that stupid sheriff will be over here. He'll haul you and Candy into his jail. He'd try to take Cartwright too but I got a feelin' that Joe would fill him full of lead before the man could lay a hand on ol' Ben. That would be real messy. And I don't think Joe could be pried away from his father right now so I ain't even gonna suggest it. So that leaves me with you or Candy. But you are supposed to be my prisoners so how can I justify to that same stupid sheriff one of you two ridin' off?"

            "You do have a problem, don't ya?" Griff smiled and mimicked the marshal's pose. "Maybe you could talk the Widow Cunningham into it."

            "No, but I thank you for the suggestion. Just gave me an idea. Come on, we gotta to talk to the widow lady." Riley nudged the shoulder next to him and standing, settled his hands on his hips. He waited for Griff to stand then gestured for Griff to proceed him into the kitchen.

            "Why, Marshal Riley, I do declare that I have never in my life heard such a preposterous suggestion! Me? A deputy U.S. marshal? You must be out of your mind!" The widow's hands fluttered as she spoke, doing nothing to knead the bread dough they held.

            "Like I explained, ma'am, there is no one else I would trust in this town for such an important job. We need to get those telegrams off and while you could do it yourself, I would hate to take you away from your fine little establishment and your chores. But with you as my deputy, you could stay here, guard the prisoners and such while I ride to Susanville. How about it?" To soften the request, Riley smiled for the little gray haired lady.

            She turned from her bread dough, wiping her hands absently on her apron. "Marshal Riley, I don't know the first thing about bein' a deputy."

            "You don't have to know anything, Miz Cunningham," Griff added and caught the marshal's pointed glare.

            "No, I'm sorry, gentlemen. That is simply beyond what I can do."

            From the hallway into the kitchen, Joe Cartwright had heard what Riley and Griff had said to her. He'd understood what Riley was trying. He eased into the kitchen behind the lawman and saw the old lady's half-frightened expression. Pressing a hand to Riley's wide shoulder, Joe moved into her view. This called for considerably more finesse than either of the others was capable of with the weaker of the sexes.

            "Let me," the rancher suggested softly and edged by the marshal. He took both her hands in his and gazed into her face, catching and holding her eyes. For a long moment, he said nothing, his thumbs lightly rubbing the backs of her hands. "Missus Cunningham," he finally addressed her formally, his voice light and soft, "we need your help. Just like last night when you didn't turn us away, I wish you wouldn't now either. Sure, it's a big responsibility, being a deputy marshal, guarding four prisoners. But I don't think it would be something that you couldn't handle." He faintly smiled, his lips barely moving. "Bet you were a good mother. Making your kids toe the line. Do their chores right. That sort of thing. Weren't you?"

            She blushed and looked away from the green eyes that had danced upon her face so warmly. "Yes, I suppose my son would tell you that. He's back east now, makin' a name for himself in the newspaper business. I never did let up on him when he was growin' up. Made him do what was right whether he wanted to or not." Her words gave away her pride of the absent son.

            Joe pulled her gently and they sat side by side in the chairs by the kitchen table. He rested both her hands on his leg and continued stroking them as he had been doing. "That's what I thought. Well, now, ma'am, think of us, of Griff and Candy and myself, as your sons. Do you think we wouldn't be the same way? Minding what you say? We haven't been any burden to you so far, have we? What makes you think that without Marshal Riley here that we would be any different?"

            "Well I suppose…" she murmured then looked past Joe towards Griff. Griff smiled his best and meekest smile, then remembered he still had his hat on and whisked it from his head.

            "Please?" Joe pleaded and tilted his head. "We'll even promise to be good boys. How's that?"

            The widow giggled. "Boys! Why you got more gray hair almost than I do. Boys! "

            Joe turned on a dazzling smile and saw that his charm wasn't missing its mark. He bounced the old lady's hands on his leg a few times. "Maybe it's because I didn't have a mother around all the time. How about it? For a couple of boys who never had a mother bossin' them around?"

            Again the widow giggled and dipped her head. When she looked back up, her eyes were bright and sparkly. "Oh, all right. But you had best mind your manners or I'll take a strap to you!" Everyone in the kitchen laughed at the picture of the little woman doling out punishment to one of the men. She leaned forward and asked sotto voce, "Do you think I could wear a badge?"

            "Yes, ma'am! I'll see that Marshal Riley pins it on you himself!" Joe responded gaily but sent a meaningful look at the lawman. Seeing the smile on Riley's face, he figured the badge was a done deal.

            It was mid-afternoon before Riley rode out, leaving a deputy's badge in Mrs. Cunningham's pocket instead of pinned to her ample bust. She had fussed, saying that she didn't want any holes in her good apron but Riley had insisted that she have it with her at all times in case the sheriff should come calling. And the marshal had no doubts that Carpenter would show up not long after he found out that Riley wasn't there. He figured that with the old woman's status in town along with the narrow-eyed mean expressions that Joe Cartwright and Canaday could hand out, the sheriff might leave well enough alone should things remain quiet at the boardinghouse.

            In his pocket, the marshal had two messages to send. One of them went to a Jebediah Millbanks in Red Bluff. It asked that he confirm selling a horse to Ben Cartwright recently. It asked that he wire back the description of the animal, date of the sale and other particulars that would be known to him. This answer, Riley would wait for.

            The other telegram would go to Jamie Cartwright in Virginia City. It was blunt and to the point. "Bring Millbanks letter unopened to Litchfield. Ride hard. Joe." With both documents, a judge would be hard pressed to make Ben Cartwright out as a horse thief.

            "Aren't you gonna tell him about his pa?" Candy had asked, watching as Joe had written out the missive to Jamie.

            Riley had seen something akin to a mask dropped over Cartwright's face, hiding something. For just that brief moment before, he knew that the other man was feeling. He could sympathize for nothing was as devastating as losing someone you cared about. He'd had first hand experience too. And he had been the one saddled with the responsibility of reporting that loss.

            "No," Joe said curtly, "I don't want him doing something stupid."

            "Like threatening a peace officer?" Riley piped up, searching for a way to lighten the mood. It worked.

            "Like threatening a peace officer," Joe admitted, his mouth twisting into an ironic grin.

            "Now I got to hear about this," hooted Candy. "Think it'll make for a good bedtime story, Joe?"

            Joe folded the papers he had written on and handed them to Riley. To Candy, he said, "Remember what we said about behaving for Missus Cunningham? You do that and I might just tell you that bedtime story."

            And so, feeling better about the scene he had left behind, Riley rode to Susanville, nine miles, and half a world away, from Litchfield. The afternoon sun warmed his back as his horse managed the low hills. He kept him to an easy gait since it was possible that he would need to re-cover these same miles before the day was done. Assuredly, he would be called upon to go back to Litchfield tomorrow morning so he went easy on the big buckskin gelding. The previous four days had been hard enough on man and beast.

            Without meaning to, Riley let his memories resurface. Here with no one watching, he could let the bottled up emotions roll over him again. Perhaps this time, when he had finished reliving them, they would stay down and not trail him as they relentlessly had.

            The young man Griff had asked him if he had been a Texas Ranger and he had brushed the question aside. Now, with only his horse present, he answered it. He had. For twelve long years he had been a Texas Ranger. Company B. Back then, before the darkness had reached him, he'd made a name for himself and led a different life. His captain's name was Parmalee and he was a man to be respected. Not just because he was the captain, Riley thought, but because he had earned it from the men he led. Captain Parmalee didn't always sit behind his desk and hand out orders. There were times when he faced bullets the same as his rangers. In many ways the Captain had been the father that Riley'd never had yet he wouldn't have told him that. There was always a sense of family, of belonging, that came with being a part of the famed Texas Rangers and to impart the role of father on the captain had been natural. The same way that Chad, Reese and Erik had been like brothers to him.

            Just the memory of their names brought a hard lump to Riley's throat that he had to swallow twice to push down. On a wild ride through time and distance, he saw it all again, clearer than the day it had happened. With the bright sun overhead………

            …the flash of sunlight on a rifle barrel was the only warning they'd had. Before the warning could even leave his throat, bullets were raining down on the four rangers. Erik Hunter, too much a dude to be a ranger in Riley's estimation, went down first. Three shots had shredded his brocade waistcoat, staining the back of his dark coat with bright red blood. He had fallen right in front of Riley's horse, dead before he hit the ground.

            With their own guns drawn and firing, the three remaining rangers had sought shelter in the rocks there in the narrow canyon. Kneeling with them, he saw that Reese had also been hit in the first fusillade. Blood ran down the old ranger's arm, dripping off the gnarled fingers. Too old for this line of work, Riley had always thought of him. Bennett had lived the rough life long enough but he wouldn't give in and retire. Now, he might have to retire permanently, Riley thought, then saw in amazement as the old ranger put his gun in his other hand and squeezed off a shot. Even as he turned to celebrate the fortunate shot that had found its mark, another bullet found Bennett and the man had fallen to one side. What a hundred barroom brawls and the War Between the States had failed to do, an anonymous bullet had. Later Riley would not recall that he had stopped shooting long enough to close the old man's eyes.

            Reese Bennett and Erik Hunter were dead. Riley and his compadre Chad Cooper were all that were left of their squad of Company B. The decision to separate for better targeting was made quickly, Joe Riley heading across the road and taking the low ground while Cooper went uphill, higher into the rocks. For some reason, Riley had told his friend to be careful, something he had never done before. Chad had looked at him strangely then snapped back "Sure! Just don't shoot me, okay?" Within the next heartbeat, he was gone.

            The firefight went on intermittently throughout the afternoon. With the coming of twilight, it stopped altogether. Riley, hunkered down between two large boulders, watched and waited. When the moon rose, he went forward towards where he had last seen rifle fire. Stealthily he had climbed, his knife ready to silence any prey he found. All he found was one person, a boy more than a man. A bullet had grazed his head but he was alive. White with fear, but he was alive. Riley had sheathed his knife and squatting beside the boy had asked questions. Who were they? How many of them were there? Why had they shot at them? To each question the boy shook his head that he didn't know the answer. Using the boy's own belt, Riley had tied his hands behind him then had gone on searching the cliff side. He found signs of other men, shell casings littering the crevices where they had stood and fired. He counted six but there were no bodies; that told him they had left, leaving the wounded boy behind.

            By morning, the decision had been reached. Throughout the night, Riley had sought for Chad and not found him. He didn't know whether to be glad or not. He found one place where there was a small amount of blood on a rock at shoulder height. There the ground was hard so there were no boot prints to be found. No, he kept telling himself, Chad was alive. When the moon set, Riley came upon a place where the horses had been tied. There, in the waning light, he had found Cooper's bloody bandana and in the churned dirt, a clear print of a right boot, worn on the outside rear of the heel.

            Riley had continued to hunt but found nothing more of Chad or the men who had obviously taken him captive. He had sadly loaded the bodies of Bennett and Hunter onto their found mounts, covering them respectfully with their own saddle blankets. The boy he held captive he tied a lasso around and forced him into a shambling walk before him. Laredo was a half-day away. Laredo, where there were reinforcements. Laredo, where the captain would have to be told of the ambush. Laredo, where he would leave Reese and Hunter to be buried while he returned to find his remaining friend.

            That was the one and only time he had seen his captain in a murderous rage. Riley had told the story briefly at the hitching rail outside the Ranger office. Captain Parmalee had not looked at the bodies draped across the saddles but had reverently touched each one as Riley had spoken. Then the big man had turned and pounced on the young captive, yanking him into the back room and into a cell. The interrogation went much the same way as Riley's had the night before. When the captain slammed the cell door closed, Riley had thought that it was over and they would adjourn to the office to hash out a plan of action. But Parmalee wasn't finished. Reaching through the cell bars, he grabbed the shirtfront of the boy and ruthlessly pulled him into the iron bars. Riley stood by, shocked and drained, as the captain repeated his questions and slammed the boy repeatedly into the bars. Blood splattered. The boy urinated in fear. Unable to keep his head from hitting the iron any longer, his face had smashed into them. Teeth broke, spittle mixed with blood flew. Through it all, Riley didn't move to stop Parmalee. Finally the boy had uttered two words: Perdito Canyon. At the sound, the captain had turned loose and the two rangers had watched silently as the boy slumped to the floor of the cell.

            They had ridden hard and fast, ignoring caution. At the entrance to Perdito Canyon, Riley and his captain had pulled to a halt. Now was the time for caution. With his knife between his teeth and his gun in his hand, Riley had sneaked into the canyon. He may as well have ridden in shouting for there was no one there to hear him. At the end of the box canyon, he stopped then lifted his revolver into the air and fired three shots in quick succession: the signal for Parmalee to come on.

            Riley remembered the bitter tears he had cried. They blurred his vision but it was just as well as he didn't really want to see what they had done to Chad. It was clear that it was an act of revenge for Cooper's death had been brutal, systematic torture designed to draw out the end. Riley cut the bonds that held his friend to the rock and took the body in his arms, ignoring the blood, the flesh flayed. He carried it back towards the stunned captain but he didn't get far before his own legs gave out and he fell to his knees. Still he held the remains. Only then did he look down into Chad's face. They had left it alone, untouched by their brutality. The expression he wore in death was what would haunt Joe Riley. Chad Cooper had died smiling.

            The 'no' that Riley screamed echoed off the canyon walls and he could still hear it…..

            That had been a little over two years ago. He had left the Texas Rangers, unable to come to grips with the death of his friends and what he had done afterwards. For a while he had drifted from one small town to another. He took meaningless jobs just to put coin in his pocket to eat. Sometimes he ran across men who knew him as being the law and these men quickly shied away from the blank yet murderous stare. He had stopped using his first name. Every time someone called him by it, he would recall what it had sounded like when Chad or Reese or even Erik had said it. So he had become just Riley. Captain Parmalee had found him in a little cantina outside of Tucson in the Arizona Territory. Just like always, the captain had set him straight, telling him that his departed friends wouldn't have wanted their deaths to do this to him. He couldn't tell Parmalee that he had tracked down and killed the men responsible for those deaths. He didn't tell him that he had done it in cold blood, that he was a murderer. The captain insisted that Riley take on the job of U.S. Marshal up in the Nevadas. There, no one knew him and he could start living again, he had claimed. So Riley had taken the position but had kept himself aloof, promising himself that he would never again let his guard down long enough to call another man "friend". But there was something about Canaday and Cartwright that appealed to him. For a moment that afternoon, he had thought about it but then he heard the scream in the canyon again.

            The telegraph office in Susanville was on a side street. Riley pulled up in front of it just as a skinny man wearing garters on his sleeves and an eyeshade pulled over a head of thinning hair stepped onto the street.

            "Closin' up for dinner!" the man said when Riley asked him about getting two wires off. "Be back in an hour!"

            "No, I think you're gonna be a little late to dinner." The flash of his badge got the telegrapher to open back up and send the two messages. "I'll be over at that café I saw on the main street or at the hotel beside it when you get a response. And since this is serious business, you will get it to me right away, won't you?"

            For some reason, to see the rail-thin man go a little green at the gills was satisfying. As Riley left the telegraph office, he chuckled under his breath. Thought I had lost my touch when Cartwright got the old lady to do what I couldn't get her to do.

            The response from Millbanks came early the next morning. It was disappointing. As Riley finished his breakfast, he considered his next move. Millbanks was dead and to be buried that day in fact. The telegram was signed by the Red Bluff sheriff and had no other information than the notification of the death. There went the simple way of corroborating Ben Cartwright's story. Sipping the last of his coffee, Riley considered sending another message to the sheriff asking if anyone knew of Millbanks selling the horse to a stranger. He decided against it, figuring that the man would have said something about it if he had known. No, Riley mulled, all he could hope for now was that the second message, the one to Virginia City, got results. If this Jamie Cartwright got the message this morning and got on the trail right away, there were still two, maybe three days before he showed up. He pocketed the note, paid for his breakfast, gathered his gear from the hotel and his horse from the stable and was out of Susanville in less than an hour.

            He was an hour or so out of Litchfield when something warned him. It might have been the flick to his horse's ears or just the instinct of being a lawman that drove him from the saddle a half-second before the retort of a shot fired. The bullet buried itself in his saddle but he was already on the ground. Although not hurt, he stayed where he had fallen, his head turned so that he could look up the road. The sweat now pouring off him made the grip on his Colt slick but he was ready to open fire. He studied the area where he thought the bullet had come from and saw nothing. The trees on that side of the road made a dense shade and the rocks were of the size that they could hide a man and horse easily. Riley waited, playing 'possum. The minutes ticked by and the only sound above his own breathing was his horse grazing at the grass alongside the road.

            When no other shot had followed the first, he intended the shooter to think that he had hit his mark and advance. Riley was ready but no one approached and no darker shadow appeared in the trees. After the minutes amounted to a half-hour, Riley pulled himself slowly to his feet, expecting another shot. There was none. He dusted himself off perfunctorily and swung into the saddle. He checked the most likely locations for the ambush and came away with only an unfinished cigar, the one end chewed badly.

            On towards Litchfield he rode, now with a new set of facts to consider. First and foremost was that someone had wanted him dead.

            "'Bout time you were getting' in," was the greeting Candy gave the marshal as he slipped through the kitchen door. "Miz Cunningham was afraid you had run off and left her for good." The lady playfully smacked at Candy's arm as he spoke, nearly making him drop the dish he was drying.

            "Left you some supper, Marshal," offered the lady and without waiting for him to reply, began setting a place at the kitchen table for him.

            "How are things here?" Riley asked, dropping his hat to the floor and his body into the chair. He saw the glances traded by the widow and the cowboy and didn't like what they implied.

            "The sheriff came about an hour after you left. We did some fancy footwork tap dancin' around him but I've known Mike Carpenter since he was a babe in diapers so he finally let things be. He did leave one of his fool deputies at the front door. Is that why you came in the back door?" The dishes and silverware clattered in her hands as she spoke, setting the table. "You want your badge back?" She reached into her pocket but Riley stopped her motion.

            "Why don't you keep it for a while longer?" he suggested then turned to more pressing matters. "No, I came in the back way because I'd rather folks around town not know I was back yet." He proceeded to tell them about the attempted bushwhacking. He finished by saying, "Let them think they killed me. Or at least wounded me. But what about old man Cartwright? He able to talk yet?"

            Riley saw the woman's lower lip tremble and she turned away from him. Candy, he heard take a deep breath then let it gush out quickly.

            "Doc thinks he's getting pneumonia. This afternoon, he said he heard a rattle in his chest. If that's what's happening, there ain't much can be done for him. He can't cough without a lot of pain. At the same time, he ain't breathin' deep enough to keep it from building up in his lungs," explained the Ponderosa foreman, setting aside his towel. "Joe's been in there with him since you left. Hasn't budged."

            "Is Cartwright awake? If I asked him some questions, you think he could answer me? Maybe write the answers if he can't talk?" He was on the brittle edge of reason, the marshal knew. As a result of standing on that edge, feeling it give more and more under his feet, he was also growing more and more desperate.

            "No," Mrs. Cunningham whispered, still not looking at the men in her kitchen. "Let Joe and his pa have all the time there is left. They need it. Trust me, Marshal, watching a loved one die hurts but it also heals in the long run. I know. I watched my husband die slow and in the end, I was glad I was there every painful minute."

            For just that singular moment, Riley heard Chad's reply of that long ago hot afternoon. "Sure. Just don't shoot me!" He found himself taking a deep breath, trying to hold the image of his compadre, his friend. Riley would have given everything to be there at the end. Maybe in the midst of it all, he would have found the strength and helped Cooper end it. He hadn't been there and Chad Cooper had died alone.

            Candy had watched the strange expression come over the lawman's face and couldn't fathom the reason behind it. He grabbed hold of one huge bicep and shook it gently while calling the man's name softly. Slowly, Riley gathered himself and looked pointedly at Candy's hand. The cowboy dropped his hand and smiled sympathetically. It could be that the marshal was tired but Candy didn't really think that was the explanation.

            "Here, Mister Riley, have some supper." The woman laid out some biscuits and butter then ladled stew, full of meat and chunks of vegetables, into a bowl. "You want some milk with that? Or maybe something a little stronger?"

            Riley swallowed hard. "Milk will be fine, Miz Cunningham. Or maybe I should call you Deputy Cunningham?" The smile he gave her was warm but strained, never reaching his eyes.

            "All right, all right!" Jamie shouted at the back of the little cook as Hop Sing bobbed back into the kitchen. He brushed a hand down his dusty clothes and headed for the study. Hop Sing had said that there was a telegram addressed to him that had been delivered earlier in the day. Jamie figured that it had to be from Joe since he didn't know anyone else who would send him one. 'Bout time somebody starts telling me something he fumed to himself.

            Almost a week ago, Clem Foster had ridden out to the ranch and told him that Joe'd had to go away suddenly. With his father and Candy away with most of the hands, Jamie had been thrust into the role of leadership there on the sprawling ranch. Not like there's a whole lot do…kind of like being a storekeeper of an empty store but it was a chance for the young man to try out a little authority. He felt sure that the hands were just being nice to him. They checked with him every morning for a list of chores to be completed and reported back every night that they were done. So far, Jamie thought he had done just fine. That morning, he had ridden out to check on things and found that the hands had followed through on his suggestions. He hadn't even dared think of them as orders and so had simply made them out to be suggestions of things to be done. He was justifiably proud of what had been done. Now if his father would come home so he could acknowledge it, Jamie's heart would have been happier.

            Dropping down into the leather chair, he picked up the envelope and opened it. First thing he saw was that he had been right. It was from Joe. Maybe now he'll explain what he's up to, leavin' like he did. Pa'll have his hide for a stunt like that. The thought came to him that his father wouldn't have done anything to punish Joe. Joe was grown, and as a grown up, beyond the stage where their father would do anything to correct his behavior. Jamie heaved a deep sigh. Well, at least Joe's back to acknowledging that I exist! 'Fore he left, I don't think he'd said a dozen words to me…That ain't fair, I guess. Pa says he's still hurtin' inside from losing Alice and the baby. I hurt too but Pa says Joe's hurt will be with him for a long time and we just have to stand by him no matter what.

            But the words on the paper before him told him very little. "Bring Millbanks letter unopened to Litchfield. Stop. Ride hard. Stop. Joe. All stop," he read out loud.

            "What that mean?" the singsong voice at his side asked and Jamie about jumped out of his skin.

            "I don't know. What do you think?" he replied testily, looking up into eyes as confused as his own.

            "Hop Sing think he better pack for you quick. How long ride?"

            Jamie rolled the thought around in his mind. He had a vague idea where the town might be but there was something far more important at the moment. In his drive to run the Ponderosa, the getting of the mail had slipped through the cracks and had not been done. He would have to go into town and get the mail, find the letter then head to Litchfield. It was too late that afternoon to make it into the post office before it closed but Jamie decided on the spot that he would have to try. Maybe if he showed the telegram to Clem, the sheriff could get the postmaster to open up after hours. But that would still put Jamie on the road after dark, headed for some place that he didn't really know where it was. There had to be a way out of this but for the time being, Jamie decided that first things came first.

            "Pack me up grub for a couple of days. I'm gonna go toss some clothes in a saddlebag."

            The last thing Jamie did before he rode out like the Devil was on his tail was to open the safe and remove all of the money there. He didn't bother to count it, just grabbed it, shoved it into his bags way down in the bottom and head for his horse.

            "Good God, boy!" Clem exclaimed, reading the telegram over again. "Litchfield is a hard three days' ride. Over in California, I think. Let me figure something-"

            "Thanks any way, Sheriff but I got a plan," Jamie lied then hated himself for doing it. Clem Foster had been instrumental in getting the postmaster to get him the letter after hours. It grated on Jamie's senses and he was sure that his father would not approve either. But Joe had made one thing abundantly clear when he said "ride hard" and Jamie would follow the given instructions to the letter.

            "And this plan is?"

            Like a bolt out of the blue, Jamie had his answer. "I can make it to Carson City tonight and catch the late stage to Placerville. From Placerville, I'll catch the next stage north. I can cut the travel time down since the stages go faster, even if I have to do a bit of finagling. I'll get as close as I can to Litchfield then rent a horse. I can do it, sir. But do me a favor? When Pa shows up, tell him about this and tell him where I've gone."

            The Virginia City sheriff huffed then studied the red haired young man before him. "Where is your pa?"

            "Cattle drive with Candy. They went north." He conveniently left out that Ben should have been back already. Already he was backing for the door.

            "Well, you ride careful, you hear? Any trouble and you get word back to me! Maybe I should just go with you." Clem's mind buzzed with the concept of explaining to Ben Cartwright why both of his sons had taken leave of their senses. He had come to the hasty conclusion that he didn't want to be in that position.

            Jamie's nose wrinkled as he promised that he could do it and that the sheriff didn't need to go along to ride herd on him. He also vowed that he would let Clem know if there was any trouble and that he would let him know he'd arrived safely.

            Out in the cool night air, Jamie pushed his horse towards Carson City. Once in the capital city, he stabled his horse and checked the time. He had made it with time to spare but he went ahead and bought his ticket, asking about getting on to Litchfield. The man behind the counter gave him a printed schedule showing the times and connections he would need to make. For a moment, Jamie was wishing that he had taken Clem up on the offer since the connections were plenty and the time between them short. Too short, actually, if a problem arose. He could miss a stage by minutes and wind up waiting more than a day. If that happened, he told himself, he would go ahead and rent the horse and ride for now he had a better idea where Litchfield was located.

            Once he was on the stage, a weariness dropped down on him. Alone in the swaying stage, he stretched out on the bench seat and was blissfully asleep within minutes.

            "No need to rush, boy," the ticket agent told Jamie early the next morning at the Placerville stage depot. "We got runs a couple times a day to Sacramento! You miss the next one and you can always-"

            "Thanks for the information, sir, but I really need to make this one," Jamie offered, taking the slip of paper and his change back. Tipping his hat respectfully, he scurried out the door. Right in front of him waited the gaudily painted stage, all yellow and red, the horses a mishmash of color, browns and bays, even a black. Jamie handed the driver his ticket and smiled at the grizzled old man as he stepped into the coach. Already inside were other passengers. There was a woman with a daughter close to Jamie's age and a man who, from the looks of the case he held close to his chest, was a drummer of sorts. Jamie smiled at them as well and wedged himself into a corner, across from the girl.

            The coach lurched into motion, the driver's whip cracking in the early morning air. Across from him, the girl held onto the open window's ledge, soiling her white gloves in the process.

            "You going to Sacramento?" Jamie asked her. She ducked her head and threw a questioning glance to the other woman. The woman nodded but watched Jamie with eyes he instantly thought of as a hawk's eyes: beady and brown, made smaller yet by her flattened brow and pinched lips.

            "Uh huh," the girl answered, her eyes switching between her mother and Jamie, trying to pay attention to each one. "Are you?"

            "No, I'm headed on to a place called Litchfield. My brother is up there and wants me to join him there," explained Jamie.

            Beside him the salesman shifted as though to see him better. "Your brother's in Litchfield? I know quite a few of the folks up that way. Could be I know him! What's his name?"

            "He doesn't live up there. He's up there on some sort of business and I have to take some papers up to him." Jamie skirted the truth enough but then shrugged to himself. He didn't know the truth so he certainly wasn't lying, was he?

            "Oh," the man sighed, letting the word go slowly. "What sort of business is your brother in?"

            The hairs on the back of Jamie's neck stood up for some reason that he could not fathom. The man was too interested all of a sudden for Jamie's liking but he had opened the door. "We're ranchers," he said, his words flat and abrupt. He hoped it would stop the inquiries. It didn't.

            "Maybe your brother's up there buying horses from my good friend Judge Long. He raises fine animals. Riding stock as well as pulling stock."

            Jamie swallowed and looked out the window at the dusty countryside. Finally he turned back to his traveling companions. "We raise good stock too. Ain't much better than Cartwright horses." It sounded, even to his own ears, like a hollow brag. The reaction he got from the man surprised him but not in the way he would have ever considered.

            "Cartwright?" the drummer scoffed. "You mean you steal fine stock!"

            "What do you mean by that?" Jamie ripped back, his eyes wide and his mouth set.

            "When I left Litchfield last week, they were getting ready to hang a man by the name of Cartwright for stealing one of Judge Long's prize stallions. That's what I mean!" expounded the man.

            For Jamie Cartwright, time stopped. 'Last week', the man had said but the date on the telegram was day before yesterday so the man hung for horse stealing couldn't have been Joe. There were only two other Cartwrights: a brother Adam he had never met who lived somewhere back east and Pa, on a cattle drive….up …north. The young man felt his heart miss a few beats then a cold sweat ran over him. He wanted to shout at the man beside him and tell him he was wrong. His father was no thief! It was a mistake! It had to be! Ben Cartwright wouldn't have….

            He had to bite his lip to keep it from trembling and tears threatened. He didn't care that the other passengers were now doing their best to ignore him, to move away from him. All Jamie felt was his heart breaking.

            "Did…did you see the man hung?" Jamie finally stammered out.

            "I left just 'afore it happened. Watch 'em put a rope around the old man's neck, though-" At that point Jamie quit listening. The girl's eyes widened at the man's words but Jamie didn't hear what he said.

            His world caved in on him, leaving him in dark void, filled with the deep vibrations of his father's voice. It was that sound he'd anchored himself to as assuredly as he did the stagecoach that surrounded him in reality. His father's laugh, his words of kindness, of direction to a young boy lost, those were what Jamie clung to.

            It had been easy to think of Ben Cartwright as his father. His real father had been a rambler and a con man. Jamie had clear and precise memories of growing up with the man. He had loved him and the two of them had made a family of sorts, at least Jamie had thought they had. But Jamie wanted something more permanent. His father had wanted something else. When his father had died, it had been big Ben Cartwright that had taken him in. He had taught Jamie the meaning of certain values that his father had merely guessed at. But more than anything else, Ben Cartwright had given him a solid home for the first time in his young life. No longer was there the ingrained fear that the next day, he would be forced to move on, leaving behind friends, or at least the beginnings of friendships. The table that Jamie sat down to for every meal was laden with good things for a growing boy to eat. Around the table had sat the men whose hands provided not only the foodstuffs but also the sense of dignity and pride doing so gave. He had grown to love them all but more importantly, he learned to respect them. And as he had grown in body, intelligence and his own dignity, they had respected him. Jamie was no fool. He knew that a good size chunk of that was because of the man he had willingly called 'Pa'.

            It was hard to consider that that man had been hung for a horse thief. To Jamie, it didn't fit within the parameters of what the man had taught him, had demonstrated to him day in and day out. No, it had to be a mistake! Whether it was a mistake or not, his father was dead.

            Within the flush of cold sweat there rose a heated anger. Joe could have told him what had happened. Together they should have ridden to Litchfield. Instead, he had taken it upon himself. Why? One answer came to Jamie: because he was the adopted son. Time and time again, Ben had reassured Jamie that his place within the family was secure; that there was nothing different between being adopted and being born into it. To Jamie's tortured thinking that dusty ride to Sacramento, there obviously was a difference and Joe had shown him clearly where his place was.

            By the time the stage reached the Wells Fargo station in Sacramento, Jamie had his mind made up. He made his connection to Marysville then on to Susanville where he arrived at dusk.

            "I don't care whether you are closed or not! I want a horse!" he seethed at the owner of the livery stable there in Susanville. He was tired but more than that, Jamie was angry and determined. "I'll buy a horse and gear, just open the damn door!"

            He got what he was after, shelling out two hundred of the dollars he had stuffed into his saddlebags the day before. Riffling through the money there, he counted out a remaining five hundred dollars. That wasn't enough, he considered as he swung into the saddle, but it would be a start. But first things first. He had a brother, an ex-brother now, that he was going to beat bloody.

            "Right down that road, 'bout ten miles or so," the chubby dirty livery owner directed Jamie, handing him the reins to a horse Jamie wasn't sure could make the ten miles. He swung his saddlebags on behind and tied them down then mounted. His heels jammed into the scrawny horse's ribs sent both horse and rider into the cloudy twilight. Before they had gone a mile, the clouds overhead had completely covered the sky and rain began to fall, softly, gently.

            On, Jamie pushed, now cold and soaked through by the rain. Even as he rode, he cried, his tears lost in the rainfall. For the past few years he had been happy and now that had been ripped away. His father was dead, hung as a horse thief and his brother'd turned against him. He never thought to try and figure out the why of it. During his wet ride, his anger growing hotter and hotter within him, he didn't ask himself why Joe had wanted Millbanks' letter. In fact, he never even thought about it. Only when the horse slipped in the mud, did Jamie allow himself to slow down.

            There was a pounding on the front door of the boardinghouse just before midnight. Clucking her tongue, the Widow Cunningham went to answer it, her wrapper clutched tight around her. Opening the door, she caught a quick glimpse of a young man, red-haired and slight of build, who pushed around her into the foyer, rainwater streaming from his wet clothes and slouch hat.

            "Where is he?" the newcomer demanded, his voice sharp and full of threatening edges. "Where is Joe Cartwright?"

            Before the lady could answer, the door to the left opened and Joe came out.

            "Good God, Jamie! How'd you get here so fast?" he exclaimed but before he could even get it all out, Jamie was all over him, fists flying. Joe had no recourse but to shield himself. The blows at first were fast, furious and hurt, connecting with his jaw then his shoulder. Jamie had learned his fighting lessons well but Joe was beyond understanding why he was using them on him. A fist caught him hard beside his ear and Joe lost his footing, sliding down to the floor. Above him, he could hear Mrs. Cunningham's shouts and Candy's demands. A booted toe slammed into his ribs, knocking the breath from him but Joe couldn't be sure whose it was in the bedlam above him.

            Just as quickly as it started, it was over. Marshal Riley bent down to pull Joe to his feet. Joe would have brushed the hands away but didn't, allowing himself the much needed help. On the other side of the hallway, Griff and Candy held a red-faced, squirming, and still fighting Jamie.

            "Turn him loose," Joe heaved, rubbing his hand over a sore spot on his jaw. "but if you come at me again, Jamie Cartwright, understand that I will take you outside and pound you into the ground. I'll answer to Pa for it, but so help me, I'll do it!"

            Jamie quit struggling, his eyes now round in surprise. He could see into the room behind Joe and saw that his father was on the bed, his hair silvery white in the glow of the lamp at the bedside. He was able to push Candy and Griff's grasping hands aside easily and he stumbled by Joe into the room, the feeling of crushing loss overpowering all other emotions. When he reached the side of the bed, he stopped and, heedless of the chair there, knelt on the floor, resting his head against the bed.

            The silence in the hallway was so profound that a pin dropped would have been heard clearly. Joe watched his brother's faltering steps but held himself ready should Jamie come at him again. When he was sure that the fight was gone from the young man, he followed him into the room. He knelt beside Jamie, embracing him gently. He could feel the shoulders beneath his hand shaking and trembling.

            "Jamie, we're doing everything we can but Pa is real sick right now," whispered Joe softly, watching his father's flush face for a sign of awakening. There was none. Just the same pallor with bright spots of color that spoke of fever. As much as he would have liked to, Joe couldn't press false hope on the boy. No, he decided, he couldn't give himself that same false hope. Too much death had stalked his shadow recently and he felt its cold hand on his heart again.

            The boy's face lifted, his mouth hanging open and his eyes glistening with tears. "You mean he's still alive? That man was wrong? He wasn't hung?" Too quick to be understood and answered individually, the questions tumbled out.

            Joe pulled Jamie away lest he disturb their father's rest. Together the brothers sat on the small settee there in the room and talked but Jamie couldn't keep his eyes from straying to his father.

            "I swear Jamie, I didn't know what was going on until we got to Flanigan. Even then, I couldn't stop to take the time and wait for you. I'm sorry but I felt like if Pa was going to survive, I had to act then, right then. I never meant to keep anything from you. Not like that. But now that you are here, tell me you brought the letter from Mister Millbanks. That should be the bill of sale for the horse Pa bought." Jamie didn't answer Joe. "Jamie!" Joe hissed and only then did Jamie look again at his brother. "The letter from Millbanks! You do have it, don't you?"

            Jamie nodded dumbly. He saw the relief flood through Joe like water from behind a broken dam.

            The dining room of the boardinghouse was full, the widow thought, fuller than she had ever seen it. But it had nothing to do with the number of men there or their size. It had more to do with the sheer energy and power around the table. At the head of the table sat Joseph Cartwright, his face lined with worry and fatigue, his eyes shifting from one man to the next as they spoke. At Joe's right sat the young man who had just arrived. He had been introduced as Jamie, the youngest Cartwright brother. She saw no family resemblance unless you counted the fear and tiredness in their faces. She had fixed him a little supper and the empty plate was now shoved out in front of his elbows as he sat listening. Just down from him was the young man she'd heard called Griff. As she poured more coffee for him, he looked up at her and thanked her, smiling gently. She decided that she liked him and patted his shoulder reassuringly. At the foot of the table sat the big marshal. The widow poured coffee into his cup just to warm it a little since he hadn't drunk much. This was the man she feared, respected and disliked the most of those around the table. The power that emanated off of him made her cautious yet, at the same time, comforted her. But she could not touch him or even meet his gaze without her stomach twisting a bit. Finally she stepped around to the last man at the table. Candy smiled broadly for her and held up his cup for a refill. She poured it for him and patted his shoulder. Despite his rough and rugged appearance, this cowboy was quickly coming to be her favorite of the men. He had pitched in without being asked and helped her wash dishes. When clean linens ran low, he had shouldered her aside and laundered the soiled sheets, albeit not to her gleaming white standards but well enough.

            "So what are you suggesting we do?" Joe spit out. "I want my father's name cleared, Riley, and damn soon!"

            Griff shot Mrs. Cunningham an apologetic look when he saw her wince at not only Joe's tone of voice but his choice of words as well. She slipped behind Joe and, remembering how he had dealt with her in the kitchen, she trailed her hand gently and lovingly across his wide shoulders as she went. Not looking at him, she felt the muscles there soften for that instant and the head duck. He had apologized, she knew. The woman sat the coffeepot on the sideboard and stood leaning against the doorjamb, listening to the men.

            "I want the sheriff and his deputies here. I want to see the expression on their faces when they see me. One of them, I'm sure, tried to kill me. And he thinks he succeeded so he is gonna be surprised when he sees me. That's why."

            "That is not going to help the Cartwrights," Griff said lowly, playing with his spoon, not looking towards either end of the table.

            "Seems to me that we need a lawyer to help us out," Candy offered, glancing at Joe's end of the table.

            "Finding an impartial one in this town ain't gonna be easy!" Joe hissed. He ran a hand back through his hair, exasperated by the turn of events. The letter from Millbanks had not held the bill of sale. It had turned out to be a letter from Millbanks' housekeeper. The words had been laboriously written with many cross-outs and poor grammar. From what Joe recalled, the old woman spoke little English so the letter's form was no surprise. In it she had informed the Cartwrights that old Jedediah Millbanks had fallen into a coma that the doctors thought he would not awaken. When it was possible, she would have someone deal with the business Mr. Cartwright had left unfinished.

            "Amos Harker's a good man," Mrs. Cunningham injected softly. "He was away when it all happened but I think he's back."

            "Thank you, Missus Cunningham," the marshal acknowledged. "But we need someone who isn't in possible cahoots with the Judge and the sheriff."

            Crossing her arms over her ample bosom, she snorted. "Amos has never been known to stay willingly in the same room with Mike Carpenter. Seen him cross the street to avoid Phil Long too. Those three, they fought like cats and dogs when they were young'uns growing up and I don't think time has changed things for 'em. I'm surprised Amos hasn't come down already to talk with you folks. Amos likes nothin' better than taking on Phil and Mike."

            Brows raised and his head dropping to one side, Candy grinned. "Sounds like just the man we need. How about it, Joe? Want me to go talk with this Amos fella in the morning?"

            Riley cleared his throat from the foot of the table and all eyes drew back to him. "Can you send a message to him and have him come here? I don't want any of us on the street. There might be someone out there with a gun fixin' to do to one of you what they tried with me."

            She didn't wait. "I'll go myself right after breakfast. That is if I can find someone to do the dishes for me."

            "Good. Thank you Miz Cunningham. And I believe that it is Griff's turn to wash dishes," Candy decreed, a half smile creasing his face.

            "Okay, that's taken care of. We have some other things that we need to take care of as well," the lawman said, putting the meeting back to order. "We need someone to ride to Red Bluff. Find someone there who can vouch for the horse being sold to your father, Joe. We also need someone to go out and take a look around Judge Long's place. That was where the theft supposedly took place. We need to know what it's like. And whoever goes there needs to be able to think like a crook." His eyes swept the room, hesitating on Griff for a moment before he plunged on. "I also think we need to talk to the people in this town. The livery hand, name's Toby, we need to talk to him, maybe rattle him a little. And we need to do this as quick as possible. That sheriff ain't gonna stay away for long. He's gonna come chargin' in here, demanding that they finish hanging your pa, Joe."

            "If Deputy Cunningham," Griff smiled as he gave her the title once more, "will escort me, I'm probably the best one to check out the Judge's place, seein's what you think of me, Marshal."

            "Thought you went to jail for beatin' a man?" queried Riley sharply, his eyes narrowing.

            "Well, all you lawmen think that one ex-con is the same as the next!" Griff retorted but the words held no heat.

            "Fine, that is if the lady is willing to put on that badge again." The widow dipped her chin and smiled for Riley, showing that she would. "Jamie, how about I make you a deputy as well. You and Candy go to Red Bluff together."

            Jamie's face registered surprise. "Why two of us?"

            "Because," the marshal purred as he leaned his huge forearms onto the dark table top, "I don't want any of us going anywhere alone again. That leaves me and Joe here in town to nose around. But first things first." The men had started to rise but paused when Riley spoke his last sentence. "Cartwright, I want you resting. I don't think you've had a good night's sleep since Virginia City. I don't want men at my back who are liable to be falling down on me."

            Every fiber in Joe's body tightened at the implied slur the marshal had just cast his way. "Don't think that's going to happen, Riley," he shoved back, his brow flattening and his shoulders straightening. "Whenever you're ready."

            Riley pursed his lips, trying to decide what to say. He knew he was right; Cartwright was about to fold from exhaustion. He could see it in every move the other man made, every breath he took but, give Cartwright his due, he'd shove iron into his backbone with his last ounce of strength and carry on until he dropped. Same way Chad... He pushed the thought from his mind. There was too much riding on him.

            "Right now, Joe, we don't need to do anything. Your pa is resting as best as he's able. I'd appreciate it if we would all follow his example. Least ways until morning." Riley let his words float out, gentling and amiable.

            Once again, it was the widow whose voice carried the day. "You boys paid for these beds but you ain't usin' 'em. Now if you ain't gonna use 'em, I'll rent them out to someone who will. What? You don't like that idea?" Hands on her hips, she surveyed the men with a shrewd and practiced mother's eye. "Didn't think so. Now get to bed. All of you! And that includes you, Marshal Riley!"

            "I'm not sure Catherine," the doctor addressed the widow by her given name, "but I think the fellow might pull through after all! Shame though, cure him just to hang him."

            "Now Walt, you know as well as I do that there was something funny going on over that trial. I've sent a note to Amos."

            The doctor folded his stethoscope back into his bag and lifted his patient's wrist to judge the pulse he found there. It was sluggish but it was there. "Do you think that was wise Catherine? I mean you know how Amos is and all."

            The little woman bristled indignantly. "Yes, I know how Amos is! And I also know about Phil Long and Mike Carpenter. Mike always has run behind Phil, cleaning up the messes either he or that fool boy George made. Seems to me that the only people in this town not stung at one time or another by them are you, me and Amos! You 'cause they need a doctor; Amos 'cause he's just Amos and me because I'm just an old woman runnin' a boardinghouse."

            The chuckle behind the two people at the bed made them turn. Joe Cartwright stood there, obviously just having awoken and come into the room to see his father. His shirttail was out and he ran his hands through his hair to brush the wild unruly mass back from his face. A face that Mrs. Cunningham thought looked a little better now.

            "Your father seems to be doing better this morning, Mister Cartwright. I'm not hearing the rattling in his chest so he may skirt by pneumonia. Keep him propped up a little more, as much as the pain in his chest will allow, Catherine. Still don't give him anything more that fluids since there is still swelling in his throat. And back off on the pain medications I'm leaving you. Only when he asks for it, okay?" instructed the doctor, snapping his bag closed.

            Joe smiled and his shoulders rose and fell with the deep sigh he took. "Thank you, sir. You don't know how good that news is."

            The doctor was putting on his hat to leave when Marshal Riley called him back into the dining room. Curious, the short stump of a doctor made his way up to the lawman, looking up into his craggy face.

            "Marshal Riley!" he exclaimed, surprised.

            "Shh!" the man cautioned, considering for a moment that the doctor had been the one with the rifle on the Susanville Road. He cast that thought away as quickly as it came to him. In all his years of upholding the law, he had never found a doctor who could use a firearm with any degree of marksmanship. But then of course, if the marksmanship had been better yesterday afternoon, the marshal wouldn't be having any thoughts at all that morning. No, even though the doctor was surprised by his presence, Riley doubted his complicity in the matter. "I need to talk to you. But we need to do it in here, where we won't be seen or overheard. Okay?"

            The doctor shrugged and followed the lawman into the dark dining room.

            "You seemed surprised to see me. Why?" Riley started, his hands resting at his waist, not far from his sheathed knife.

            "Word has it around town that you went to Susanville and didn't come back. Heard tell you'd been shot and killed. Glad to see that it was a mistake, Marshal."

            Riley chewed on his lip a moment then asked the doctor where he had heard the information from the first time. The other scratched his head then shook it, saying that he wasn't sure where he'd heard it from.

            "But Sheriff Carpenter and some of his deputies are riding up that way today to look for clues. Want me to-"

            "No!" Riley thundered then, seeing the fright come to the doctor's shadowed face, he laid a comforting hand on the man's shoulder. "I'd rather they not know I was still above ground. But enough of that, Doc. Tell me something, would you?"

            The doctor swallowed hard and nodded his head. A bead of cold sweat ran down his cheek but he didn't move to wipe it away.

            "When this started, were you in town?" Riley asked, turning from the little man and walking into the deeper shadows of the dining room.

            The doctor, rooted to where he had first stopped just inside the doorway, grunted. "No, I was out to the Lowells delivering a baby that night. I got back into my office just after daybreak. Tried to get some sleep but my office is right next to the saloon where they were holding the trial and it was too noisy to sleep. I was just stepping out onto my porch when those other two fellas with you busted the old man loose."

            "So the first time you saw Ben Cartwright, what did he look like to you?"

            The physician rubbed his chin thoughtfully for a moment and waited for Riley to step into a shaft of gray light so that he could judge the man's expression for himself.

            "First time I saw that man in there, he was being hauled down the steps of the gallows. He was a pasty gray color. Even with help, he couldn't stand up. The bigger of the two with him had to literally put him on the horse. He couldn't sit up in the saddle even."

            Riley nodded to himself and was about to speak when the doctor went on. "Next thing you are gonna ask is if something like this has ever happened in Litchfield. Horse stealing and hanging the culprit? No, not to my knowledge and I've been here since the founding of the town. Next you're gonna ask if Mike Carpenter ever beat a man the way Cartwright was. There again, not to my knowledge but I will tell you this: Mike Carpenter runs a clean town here. He ain't liable to use his gun when a word will do. Him and his deputies are looked up to 'round these parts. Some folks, like Catherine Cunningham here, don't care for Mike's ways but the man is a good sheriff. And folks around here are pretty peaceable."

            "Deputies," Riley brooded. "How many deputies Carpenter got?"

            "Jim Warner's the main one. Tom Flynn's another. Quinn Robbins is the other. Some times, when circumstances ask for it, Toby from the livery stable helps out."

            Riley stepped back into the deep shadows, his body now half turned from the other man. "Three full time deputies and a sheriff. Seems like an awful lot of men to take care of a peaceable town, wouldn't you say? I've known hell-towns that were cleaned up with half that many men."

            "Well, Jim Warner ain't a full time man with the sheriff. He works out to the Rocking L ranch mostly. When Mike needs him, he'll send for him. And Quinn Robbins is only helpin' out 'cause Tom Flynn's laid up with a bad back."

            "What does Robbins do when he ain't collectin' deputy's wages?"

            "He's the foreman out to the Rocking L."

            "And let me guess who owns the Rocking L. Judge Long, right?" The pieces of the puzzle were now laid out in front of Riley. All he had to do was put them together so that they made sense. "Thanks, Doc. And by the way, do me a favor, if you would. Don't tell anyone you had this conversation with me. Okay?"

            The little man laughed brusquely. "How can I have a conversation with a man that was shot and killed yesterday? Good day, sir."

^^^^

                        Yes, the pieces of the puzzle were there, Riley thought, but some were turned upside down and others didn't belong in the picture at all. Which ones could he lay aside? Sitting in the darkened dining room, he pondered what he knew. Two deputies who had access to the cell the night Ben Cartwright was arrested were from the same ranch where the theft of the horse had supposedly taken place. The third man Riley ruled out completely since the doctor had said he was out of action with a bad back. But there was also Toby and the sheriff. Riley had the distinct impression that Ben Cartwright had been beaten not to obtain information but to hide information. Why? While he was about it, he considered the size of the deputies since it would take a fair sized man to handle someone the size of Ben Cartwright. That took Toby out of the equation since the fellow looked like he could barely handle someone the size of Jamie Cartwright. Jim Warner wasn't a big man either but he had a certain quickness and wiry strength that most cowhands had. Quinn Robbins was a strapping man, close to the size of Candy but there was a lazy look to him, a slackness to his features.

            Riley's thoughts crashed one into the other. The sheriff had said that Warner had given Cartwright a dose of laudanum. Laudanum slowed down a man's reflexes. Given enough, it would make him unable to stand, much less defend himself against someone determined to do harm. But how did you get someone to take the drug if they weren't already in need of it? The only way Riley knew was to grab them and pour it down their throats and he couldn't see big Ben Cartwright not putting up a fight. One of those deputies would have been sporting bruises from the old man if nothing else. Riley had seen no evidence of any bruises when he had purposely walked the street to and from the sheriff's office the other morning. And the men rotating duty on the front porch showed no stiffness or other telltales from a fight. That meant that Ben Cartwright had been tricked into taking the laudanum.

            He was still deep in thought when Candy joined him in the room, raising the blinds and pulling back the curtains to let in the bright light of a midmorning sun.

            "You always sit in the dark, Marshal?" Candy asked noting the squint to the lawman's eyes.

            "Only when I got some thinking I want to do and want to be left alone to do it." Riley snapped.

            Raising both hands, Candy stood well away from the big man. "Sorry. I just thought I'd like to see what I was eating for breakfast."

            "I don't see a plate in your hands."

            Candy tilted his head to one side and made a face, a humorous scowl. "I will have. Want me to eat in the kitchen instead?"

            Now it was Riley's turn to scowl. "No. Go ahead and eat your breakfast. Tell me something, Canady."

            With a grin, Candy sat down at the broad dark walnut table. "Sure. What you want to know?"

            "I understand King's being at the Ponderosa. Even that kid, Jamie, why he's there. You, I can't figure out. You don't look like, talk like, or even act like a cowhand. You one of Cartwright's charity cases too?"

            For a heartbeat, Candy bristled at the sneer in Riley's voice. "No, I work for Ben and Joe. Simple as that." He would let the marshal make of that what he would.

            "You got the look of a gunfighter, Canady. You Cartwright's hired gun? That the work you do for them?"

            "What difference would it make to you if I said I was?" cautiously, Candy probed.

            "Maybe none. Maybe some."

            Mrs. Cunningham slipped into the room, carrying a full platter of hotcakes that she put down in front of Candy with a slight flourish and promise to get him his coffee. Candy smiled at her and thanked her but once she was gone, so was his lighthearted manner.

            "Marshal, Ben Cartwright doesn't need a gun man on his payroll. Only a man who deals from the bottom of the deck hires a gun to protect him. And Joe? Well, in case you ain't got him figured out just yet, I'll fill you in. Joe Cartwright fights his own battles. You step in to help him when he don't want you to and you are liable to wind up getting hit too!" Candy made a show of rubbing his jaw, as if he had done just what he described and felt a fist connect there when he hadn't expected it.

            "So why are you there? Like I said, you don't look like a cowhand."

            "I'm there because I like it there. I like being the Ponderosa foreman. Got a little distinction to it, you know? But just so you get it right, Riley, yeah, there have been times when I wasn't working for Ben. I've done a lot of things but I have never crossed the law. So you take your tin star, Marshal, and go hunt game somewhere else."

            "Easy, boy!" Riley scooted back from the table. "Like I said, I was just trying to figure out how you fit in with these folks is all."

            Before he answered, Candy forked in some of the hotcakes and chewed but he kept his eyes on his table companion. He swallowed then turned his attention back to his plate.

            "Marshal, I like and respect Ben Cartwright. He deals with you square. You know where you stand with him. There's never any guessing. Sometimes he's tough, like on this cattle drive we just finished. He pushed us, but he didn't push us any harder than he did himself. Same with Joe. He and I are friends, Marshal, good friends."

            Riley leaned back in his chair, lacing his hands behind his head. "You strike me as the type of man that makes friends easily. Where'd you grow up?"

            A shadow ran across Canady's face, the lawman saw and recognized it for what it was: a repugnance for the truth.

            "Here and there, but mostly a lot of 'there'. My father was an army man so I grew up on parade grounds. When I got tired of listening to him preaching at me, I left. Never looked back. Drifted for a long time. Took jobs wherever I could find them. Left them when I figured I didn't want to do that any more. But to answer the next question you're gonna ask, the Ponderosa is home now. When I want to, I'll leave and go some place else. Mister Cartwright and I have that arrangement. Now, if that's all, I'm gonna roust Jamie out and head to Red Bluff. That was the plan last night. Is it still the plan?" Candy didn't wait for an answer. He laid his fork down, swallowed the last of his coffee and was out of the room before Riley could form another probing question.

              "Never knew one of these things weighed so much," commented Jamie as he hefted the badge Riley had just handed him. If nothing else, the young man looked younger yet and far too young for the responsibilities implied by the star.

            "Well, you only got to use it if the local constable shows his nose around you and Candy. You still do what Candy tells you. You hear?" With his hands braced on Jamie's shoulders, Joe glared at him sternly. "And you take care of Cochise, you hear me?"

            "Ain't no one gonna believe me if I ain't got a gun, Joe."

            "No! No gun! My God, but Pa would flay me alive if I gave you a gun!"

            Jamie bunched his face and glared at his older brother but it was the marshal who came to his assistance.

            "Tell me, Cartwright. How old were you when you started wearing a gun? Fourteen? Fifteen?" pried the marshal.

            Joe shook his head. "Listen, I am not going to give you my gun. My horse is bad enough. Besides, mine is a left-handed rig. You couldn't use it." It was all he could do that noon to keep from grabbing his little brother by the heels and thrashing him. But even as Jamie watched, Joe's expression changed. He puffed out a breath then turned to Candy. "Loan him yours until you get out of town? But please take the ammunition out of it. I mean he has got a point and if we need to go through with this charade, you as a prisoner wouldn't have a gun."

            Candy's brow ruffled and Joe caught the puzzled expression on his friend's face.

            "I just heard my father and older brother's words come out of my mouth. That's all," Joe addressed Candy unasked question as to his change of heart. "But Jamie, please, be careful. The marshal was right. I was carrying a gun when I was your age but I had also been through the Ben Cartwright school of how to use the thing. When we get home, I'll see to it that you get the same lessons. Okay?"

            Jamie brightened but it wasn't for the reason everyone else thought. Sure, he was glad that Joe was letting him at least wear a gun. The real reason for Jamie was that he was sure his family, or at least his brother, was beginning to see him as a man, not a boy.

            Slinging their bedrolls up behind their saddles, Jamie and Candy made ready to leave. Out in the small backyard, Joe was trying his best to keep his fears in check but realized he wasn't doing a very good job when Candy jokingly referred to him as 'pa' and told him that they would be careful.

            "Two days to Red Bluff. Give us a day to find out what we need to and two days back. Five days, Joe and we'll be back," Candy's patience was wearing thin. "And Jamie and I will be careful, I promise. Come on, Deputy Jamie, let's get before your brother decides to say something else!" Candy put his heels to his horse's sides and moved out.

            Joe stood beside the pinto and looked up at his brother. Unable to say anything else, he smacked the leg closest to him to let the young man know he could also leave. It didn't settle Joe's nerves in the least that the leg wore Candy's holster tied down to it. Not letting anyone else see, he himself had unloaded the revolver and crammed it back into the leather holster with far more ferocity than it required. He hadn't seen when Candy took it out and reloaded it, knowing the worst thing that could possibly happen would happen if the gun wasn't prepared for a fight.

            The Rocking L Ranch spread like a spider's web out over the valley floor. Numerous outbuildings, corrals and three barns arched away from the sprawling main house. Griff sat beside Mrs. Cunningham in her buggy and surveyed the landscape before descending into the midst of it. The house had to be bigger than the main house at the Ponderosa, he thought, but it may have been because it was single story with a porch extending out another ten feet or so all the way around it. Behind the house, Griff had spotted what he figured was a smoke house and a root cellar.  To one side of it was the plot of a vegetable garden.

            "Prosperous place, ain't it?" Griff asked rhetorically. "Never seen so many buildings in one place that wasn't a town."

            "Phil Long inherited all this from his daddy. And that includes the title judge. Knew his father well. Came west in the same wagon train as the Longs, my husband and I did. William, that was Phil's father, brought the first law and order to these parts. When no one else was willing to put a stop to rustling cattle, jumping claims and downright murder, Bill Long put his foot down. And he put it down hard. He'd read the law, he said, and he was determined to make all of this here territory of California peaceable. He did too! But I'll tell you this about the first Judge Long. He never ever hung a man without a trial."

            Griff clucked to the horse and they began moving again. "You mean like the trial Ben Cartwright got?"

            The widow looked to her clasped hands, an atmosphere of shame washing around her. "I said that was the first Judge Long. The second one ain't nothin' like his daddy."

            Down through the outlying buildings, Griff drove the buggy. The dusty lane he followed showed hoof prints and wagon tracks galore, and he figured that it was a busy place to be most of the time but now, at mid-day, everyone was probably in eating their noontime meal. He heeded Mrs. Cunningham's pointed directions and stopped in the shade of the largest barn closest to the house.

            "Phil keeps his stallions close to home. You hop out here, look around and I'll go on up to the house. No trouble, now, ya hear?"

            He smiled and just before he dropped into the shade, patted her hand. She picked up the reins and drove expertly on, pulling up at one corner of the main house. As he listened, he heard voices calling out greetings and heard her replies. Then the sound drifted away and he heard a door bang closed. Griff went on into the spacious barn.

            Once his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he was astounded by what he saw. Down each side of the barn were large stalls that opened to the outside, each one having its own paddock. He quickly counted a dozen down each side, which meant the barn could hold twenty-four animals easily. Keeping close to the walls, he slipped down, checking each stall as he went. He had no idea what he was looking for exactly but just the gathering of information he reasoned would be enough. On the side he was on, the walls of each stall went to the rafters and the fences delineating each outside area were not only taller than normal but also doubled so that there was a space between each wide enough for a man to walk.

            "Stallions," he whispered to himself. Of the dozen on that side of the barn, only four stalls held horses. The remainder were empty. The stallions were nothing to make him pause. As far as Griff was able to tell, they were of the size and breeding for draft stock. He stopped and scratched his head. They also didn't appear to be pure-breds. He would have to talk it over with Joe and Candy but he had seen better blood at the Ponderosa.

            On he went, skipping to the other side when he reached the end of the first side. "Riding stock?" he asked, his voice whispery. He poked his head up over the first stall door. The walls here were not as tall as the other side and peeking into the paddocks outside, the fences weren't constructed the same. "Yep. And mares." He nodded to himself and just to be sure, checked the first horse he came to, the second stall down. A mare and obviously in heat if her constant tail rubbing the upright was any indication. At each stall door, he looked over and saw basically the same thing: a ready mare. But where were the stallions? Or did Long use his pulling stock?

            Back to his starting point, he leaned against the wall in the deep shadows. Eight mares, in heat, ready to be serviced. They were riding stock. Across the broad corridor, four draft stallions. He scratched his head.

            "Oh Griff!" he heard Mrs. Cunningham's voice calling to him. Taking a deep breath, he stepped from his hiding place and into the noonday sun shimmering in the dusty lane. "Did you find the outhouse okay?"

            The young man colored as he slowly scuffed through the dust towards the house. Beside her there on the porch was a tall thin man. Even then he wore a dark broadcloth suit, white shirt and dark string tie. As Griff approached, he looked for a weapon on the man then decided he looked just like what he was: a judge. With salt and pepper hair, drooping mustache and squinty eyes, he stood there beside the widow, his hands held before him like a chastised schoolboy.

            "No ma'am," Griff slowly replied. "but I got things taken care of. Say, this barn here." He gestured from the one he had just investigated. "That your breedin' barn? Saw a couple of stallions there, reason I asked."

            Phil Long lifted his chin and his eyes became even more slit-like. "Yes, it is," he answered slowly. "We don't let our stallions run loose like other places do. We chart and keep records of our breeding. By keeping them in that barn, we can make sure of their fitness as well as that of the mares we are going to be breeding them to."

            Griff seemed to weigh the words carefully and nodded as if he agreed with the man. He wrinkled his nose and now, looking upwards at the man as he stood at the edge of the porch, stated, "That's a lot of horses in all them barns." He indicated that he meant the other barns as well with a sweep of his arm.

            "We only keep our stallions in this barn."

            He felt as though a dam had just sprung open, Griff did, and it was all he could do to stand still. "Did you get your business done, Missus Cunningham?" he asked, now anxious to get away with his information.

            "Yes, I did. You will deliver that meat to the house the first of next week? I know its more than I usually get off you but I have had a full house the past week and the larder is looking a little thin. Remember now, Phil, that's two smoked hams and a quarter side of beef." Griff fought to keep from smiling at the tone the old lady used on the Judge. While not quite deprecating, it certainly didn't have the respect he would have given a judge.

            "Of course, Missus Cunningham. But you know that this young man here-"

            "I know exactly what I am doing, Phil Long! And I don't need you or Mike Carpenter to worry one bit. This boy here is a fine young man. Knows his manners better than some I could mention. Good day!" She all but flounced down the steps, leaving the judge shaking his head. "Come along Griff. Need to get supper started when we get home," she demanded as Griff helped her into the carriage and settling himself beside her, took up the reins.

            "Yes'm." He grinned.

            They had barely reached the crest in the road when Mrs. Cunningham grabbed at his arm and urged "Well? What did you find out? Anything?"

            He chewed on his lip a moment before he spoke. "How much do you know about breedin' horses, ma'am?"

            She drew back, her body slightly rigid and leveled her gaze at him. "You mean the animals themselves or the …um…act?"

            "The animals," Griff corrected himself and felt the lady beside him soften back up.

            "Not much. Why? What did you find in that barn, Griff?"

            His answer was the same as hers. "Not much. That's what I found, Missus Cunningham. I don't know a lot about breedin' horses either. Always thought Mother Nature did a better job than man did on makin' those sorts of decisions. But I look at a spread this size and know something's wrong. Now, sometimes, I've helped when they have brought in a particular mare and bred her to particular stud but the Ponderosa doesn't keep their stallions penned like this. That's just their way. But they have probably closer to twenty stallions in their various herds. Draft stock, riding stock, all of 'em, maybe twenty-five. And mares in heat don't stay that way for long out in the open pastures. If that barn is where Long keeps all of his stallions, he has a big problem. He's got four in there and they are pullin' stock that he is gonna breed to ridin' mares."

            "So?" the widow queried.

            "I don't want to say anything more 'cept that I didn't see a black stallion in that barn. Tonight, Joe and I'll come back. Poke around some."

            "That sort of setup is common, Griff. Places back east use it all the time. Like Long said, it's so they can track their breeding. We don't do it because all of our stock is either sold green to the Army and they could care less about sires and dams. Or we use it ourselves," Joe explained, stretching out beside Griff on the back porch steps, anchoring himself with his elbows planted on the porch.

            "What I mean is he said that they keep all of their stallions in that barn. Joe, there wasn't a black there! Let's say your father did steal a black stallion from Long's-" Griff began. Joe growled lowly and the younger man re-emphasized his position. "Just suppose he did! Jeeze!  Anyway, after the trial was over, even if they didn't hang the culprit, Long would have taken the horse back. Right?"

            Joe nodded, seeing then the intention.

            "But there was no black stallion, Joe. Not in the barn, in the pens, nowhere. That can only mean that they have him hid somewhere and we need to find that somewhere."

            "No," Joe corrected. "We need to know why he has him hid as well."

            "We find one answer and I bet we find the other one."

              "Joe!" Mrs Cunningham's voice called through the quiet house, finally reaching its target on the back steps where he was still talking with Griff. "Amos is here!"

            For a moment, Joe couldn't place the name but with a snap to his fingers, he recalled that she had said the lawyer's name was Amos Harker. He told Griff to come with him and, dusting down the backside of his britches, entered the house.

            The man Catherine Cunningham introduced to Joe as Amos Harker almost made Joe laugh he looked so comical. A short man, Amos was so round in the middle that Joe bet any way you measured him would still come up with the same number. His head reminded Joe of that of a gnome, bald and pinkish. The man's eyes were huge behind thick-lensed glasses and his mouth, twitching and constantly moving, looked feminine. He didn't appear to have a neck at all, his shoulders sloped away from his ears to all appearances. Most comical of all, he had stick-like legs that seemed totally incapable of carrying his weight at all. The hand Joe shook was damp and soft.

            "Please to meet you, Mister Cartwright," the lawyer enthused in a voice that shook as he spoke. "Met your friend over there, the marshal. I've asked him to sit in with us if it's okay with you. Catherine will stay with your father while we talk but I also want to talk with him before I leave."

            "Sure, Mister Harker. Shall we sit down in the parlor?" Joe suggested but then caught Riley's head shaking 'no'.

            "Here in the dining room is fine since I need to make some notes while we talk."

        Harker dropped his papers onto the table and sat at the head of the table, pulling himself up close, the edge of the table pressed into his ample midsection.

            With eyebrows raised, Joe sat on one aide and Riley the other.

            "Let me start by saying that I was surprised to meet you, Marshal Riley. Word out on the street has it that you were shot and killed on the road from Susanville yesterday. May I also say that you are the liveliest looking corpse I have yet to meet! But why, pray tell, is Sheriff Carpenter out combing the bushes for you? No!" he quickly answered his own question, his face brightening considerably. "You think the sheriff had something to do with the ambush. And you are laying low. Good move I suppose since our good sheriff doesn't have the brains God gave a fly."

            "Well, Mister Harker, your sheriff may not be very smart but I am betting he knows how to follow orders." Riley's face stayed blank as spoke yet his eyes were darting and dancing over the lawyer's face. How much could he be trusted with, the marshal wasn't sure, but at that point, he was in for the whole pound, not just the penny.

            "Or someone that he would have in his posse might know a whole lot more than he's willing to tell," Joe added.

            "You have a couple of points there, gentlemen. Tell me, Marshal Riley, when the sheriff returns, are you going to speak to him?" Harker pushed his glasses up further on his nose.

            "Yep," drawled Riley, "but in my own time and at a place I choose. Since I suspect someone in that posse is responsible, I want to see all their faces. The man'll give himself away. However, I truly believe once this business with the Cartwrights is cleaned up, it'll be obvious who did the shooting."

            "'Probably right. This morning I went around and asked some questions of a few of the good townsfolk here in Litchfield. What did they see the day of the trial? What had they heard? I checked out the stable. Only strange horse down there now is a big buckskin wearing a brand I presume is yours, Mister Cartwright. A pine tree? Thought so. Your father's horse?" Harker nodded as he answered his own questions. Joe didn't try to interrupt but the man's slow pace was maddening. "Let me tell you what I found out and you tell me if it meshes with what you know. Then we'll talk with your father. Okay?" Before either Joe or Riley could continue, the attorney did. "Ben Cartwright rode into Litchfield just a little before 8 in the evening. Full dark, it was. He came from the west. He stabled the horse he was riding as well as one he was leading at the livery. Asked where he could get something to eat. He paid Toby in advance and told him that he would want the horses early the next morning. Toby said he didn't appear to be in any hurry. George Long, Phil Long's only son comes tearin' into town about an hour later. His prized black stallion is missing. Toby, whiling away his time down to the sheriff's office, says a man brought in a black stallion. According to Toby, when they looked at the horse in the livery stable, George immediately said it was theirs even though there was no brand on the animal. Ever'body trooped down to the saloon where your pa was finishing his supper. The sheriff demanded to see a bill of sale for the animal that your father couldn't produce. That's when they took him into custody, figurin' he had stolen the horse. Next time anyone saw your pa, they said they thought he was drunk, Mister Cartwright. In court the next morning, ever'body said he sat hunched forward, slurred his words bad, didn't really seem to know or care what was going on. When the judge asked who he wanted for counsel, he just gestured with his hand that he was going to be his own lawyer. You can thank your lucky stars that's what he did since that is the grounds I have used to reopen the case and stay the execution as your father was not fully capable of acting in his own defense."

            On either side of him, the two men could only look at the little rotund man with open-mouthed awe. He caught their expressions and smiled, shoving his glasses back up onto his nose.

            "I ain't been sitting around doin' nothing! Papers are all on file -- or will be at the county courthouse in Susanville when I get the time to get them there. Important thing is that Judge Long and Sheriff Carpenter have been so notified," he chortled then continued. "The trial, because your father was incoherent most of the time, went quickly. George Long produced a bill of sale for an unbranded, unmarked black stallion, dated almost two years ago. Described the horse your father was said to have led into town to a "t". When your father offered no plausible and understandable defense, the jury took about two minutes and came back with the verdict. And since it was a foregone conclusion, Judge Long pronounced sentence: death by hanging. That's when I understand your two hired hands got into it. Am I right, Mister Cartwright?"

            "Yeah, Candy and Griff rode in, saw what was happening and kind of took matters into their own hands." Joe's shoulders slumped. The way the lawyer had just lined things out, he wasn't sure but what he would have found a man guilty.

            "You're missing somethin' pretty important, Mister Harker," the lawman spoke up, his voice barely carrying beyond the table. "While he had been held in the jail, Mister Cartwright was beaten. Afterwards, one of the deputies gave him laudanum because the old man was hurting so bad."

            Nodding his head, Harker indicated that it wasn't new knowledge to him. "I talked with the doctor and he concurred that the way the defendant was acting, he could have been under the heavy influence of laudanum or some other medication. Doc says he didn't treat him until much, much later so any medication had to have been given by someone other than a medical practitioner. From all reports, your father appeared to be in excellent health when he was eating his dinner so your supposition, Marshal, that he was drugged while in custody is perhaps apt. But tell me, why do you think he was beaten in the cell?"

            Riley took a deep breath and met the green eyes across the table and held them as he spoke. "There's a --a way--of getting a prisoner to tell you what you want to hear. It ain't pretty." He hesitated, gauging and weighing his words for the impact they would have on the man across from him. But the expression he saw on Cartwright's face never faltered from its grimness. "You handcuff the prisoner, put him into the cell then grab hold of him while you are outside the bars. You pound his body against those bars again and again. You don't wind up with a mark on you so no one can trace the beating back to you and your prisoner can be so afraid, so intimidated, by what happened, that he can't say."

            "That fits with what Doc said he found on your father. Broken ribs, sternum broken. Bad bruising, some possible internal bleeding. From the sounds of it, it's a wonder your father could even stand up, let alone try to get through a trial."

            "You don't know my father, Mister Harker," Joe said softly, now studying the tabletop. Just hearing what the marshal had said made his stomach roil and burn with unspent rancor.

            Harker stretched out one flaccid hand and patted Joe's hand on the table. "Sorry, but we have to go on. You okay?" Joe nodded and the lawyer continued. "First thing I always do is look for what might have been my client's motive. I know, we're supposed to believe in their innocence but you need to know where he's coming from in order to even start that process. I checked the gear your father left at the stable. Expensive saddle; the horse with the brand is a fine specimen of horseflesh. I understand that he ordered the biggest steak the saloon could find and had all the trimmings with it. Over at the sheriff's, I saw the gun he was wearing. Again, fine workmanship with quality materials. I added all that together, along with what I knew, and came up with the one singular fact that Ben Cartwright didn't have to steal anything. He could afford to buy half of Litchfield if he wanted to. The other half he wouldn't want," Harker chuckled at his own joke but saw the faces around him remain impassive. "So if Ben Cartwright had stolen Phil Long's stallion it would have been because Phil wouldn't sell it to him and old Cartwright just wanted it."

            "Then why wouldn't he have ridden hard to get away from the Long ranch? Missus Cunningham said it's less than an hour from town." Unable to sit still any longer, Joe rose and began to nervously pace the floor. "He wouldn't have come into town with a stolen horse. Oh God, what am I saying? I sound like I believe my father stole the horse when I know he didn't."

            "What do you know about the transaction with the man your father had bought the horse from?" Harker queried softly.

            As he paced the room, Joe told both men what he knew of Jedediah Millbanks. Millbanks was an old family friend, going back to before Joe had even been born. The old man had extensive holdings up towards Red Bluff and, when his health had begun to fail, had written to the Cartwrights and asked that they oversee the closing out of his Nevada holdings. They had, the job being done just before the cattle drive to Fort Benson. The plan had been for Ben to take and deliver the bank draft and visit with Mr. Millbanks for a few days then return, picking up Candy and Griff in Wendel. There had been no mention of buying a horse so that may have been a spur of the moment decision on his father's part. The letter that they had from Millbanks was actually from the housekeeper, letting them know that the old man was too ill to conclude the transaction.

            "And you assume that this Millbanks was going to send the bill of sale for the horse to your father?" pressed the lawyer. Joe said he did and he would produce the letter but Harker waved it aside.

            "Millbanks is dead now, from what I also gather? Too bad."

            "We've sent two men up to Red Bluff to talk to the sheriff and anyone who knew about Mister Cartwright being there. They should be back in a day or two." Riley left out that one of the men was supposed to be under house arrest for the aborted hanging of Ben Cartwright.

            "Good, good," enthused the attorney, now making furious notes, his pencil wiggling across the pages as the tip of his tongue darted in and out across his lips.

            "Mister Harker, can I ask you a question?" Joe inquired. "Once the trial was over and my father and Candy and Griff had escaped, what happened to the horse? The one my father was to have stolen?"

            "It's my understanding that George took it back to the Rocking L the night your father was arrested. There were some disparaging comments made about Toby's stable. Toby claims it ain't so and has threatened to sue Long for libel. Or is it slander?"

            "You mean they just took the evidence and the sheriff said nothing about it?" Riley's voice clearly showed how just what he thought of a lawman allowing such to happen.

            "I don't know what happened exactly. All I do know is that the horse went to Long's."

            Joe stopped his pacing and turned back to the lawyer, the conversation he'd just finished with Griff still rattling around in his head. "If the horse went back to Long's, where is it? One of our men took Missus Cunningham out there and he said-"

            "Stop!" Harker slapped his hands over his ears. Joe's mouth snapped shut up. "I don't want to hear that you have been snooping out to Long's! Marshal, surely you can exert some control over these men, for God's sake!"

            Coyly, Riley half smiled. "I sent one of my deputies. They had instructions to look around for anything suspicious. As a duly appointed officer of the United States government, I am entitled to investigate where and how I see fit, Mister Harker. Should I need their assistance, I can and do use deputies."

            Harker looked around as though expecting those deputies to magically appear from the shadows in the room.

            "One of my deputies is back in the kitchen. The other went to Red Bluff," explained the big lawman, having no difficulty in keeping a straight face for what he spoke was the truth.

            The attorney dropped his hands to the tabletop but once again, pushed his glasses back up to where they belonged. "You were saying, Mister Cartwright?"

            "There is no black stallion in Long's stud barn. Our man was out there today. Said the horse wasn't there."

            "I overheard Phil Long making a deal with one of the smaller ranchers that he would stud out his Mischief, that's his black stallion, for fifty bucks. Red Norton said he'd have the mare over first thing in the morning tomorrow morning. Gentlemen," the lawyer smiled broadly. "I think we need to be at Long's tomorrow morning!"

            "We'd better take the sheriff with us, don't you think?" Riley's brow arched as he made the suggestion. " Meet first thing at the jail? That way you can watch Carpenter and his men same as me when I come back alive. Should be an interestin' show--for one of them at least."

            Ben Cartwright could offer only one new piece in the way of defense evidence. He struggled to speak, his breathing erratic, struggling despite the fact that Joe had propped his father up and given him a small dose of painkiller. He had, he'd said, stopped just shy of Litchfield to ask directions for someplace to stay that night and to water his horses. From the lawyer's description, it could very well have been the Rocking L but Ben wasn't entirely sure.

            The marshal and the lawyer quietly departed, leaving Joe deep in thought at his father's side. It was only when the son realized that his father was looking at him very pointedly that he returned from his wool-gathering.

            "Jamie?" Ben whispered the single word.

            Joe leaned forward in the chair there at the bedside. He sought for and finally found a smile to give. "He and Candy went to Red Bluff. They're gonna talk with the sheriff about getting an affidavit from Mister Millbanks' employees 'bout you buyin' the horse."

            The father grunted but his eyes narrowed sharply.

            "He promised me he would do what Candy told him. Should have seen him, Pa. He was feelin' so important!"

            "Growing up."

            "Yeah," Joe agreed and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "Guess we should have expected that, huh?"

            "He's…mad?" Ben forced the words, fighting with each one to get his thoughts across. From some where in his hazy recollection, he recalled a ruckus outside his door but couldn't place it firmly with the exception that one of the people involved had been Jamie.

            "He was when he got here." Joe absently rubbed his chin. "Think he's over it now, though. He thought I was keeping information from him. I imagine that if one of my brothers had done and said what I did when I was his age, I might have done and felt the same."

            "Good boy," murmured Ben, his hand dropping from its cradling his chest to Joe's arm.

            Meeting his father's eyes, Joe smiled again for the man so clearly in pain. "Me or Jamie?"

            "Both." A tiny smile lifted the corners of Ben's mouth then fell away.

            "Okay, you want to tell me one more time what we are supposed to be looking for?" Joe hissed in Griff's ear. A glance over his shoulder showed Joe that the moon's rising was still in the offing so as they hunkered down in the shadows of the buildings, they were as invisible as a pair of cowboys could be. Inside the building under Joe's supporting hand, they could hear the small sounds of horses.

            "We're lookin' for a horse. Remember?" Griff whispered back, wondering if something hadn't happened to Cartwright's thinking some where along the way. "A black one," he added for good measure.

            Stealthily they eased open the door and slipped into the dark barn. The horses in the stalls picked up their noses and one whickered in greeting. Each man took a side and as Griff had done before, checked each and every stall. There were ten mares on the side Griff checked, ranging from a pretty red roan with a wide white blaze and four white stockinged feet to a mud-brown sway-backed mare who looked old enough to have come off the Ark. On Joe's side, the four draft horses were there, their impressive bulk filling the spacious stalls and their grey-white dappled coloring making them shine even in the low light.

            At the far end, Joe stopped and hissed for Griff to join him. Moving restlessly in the stall was a tall black horse. He had blended so well with the deep shadows that Joe'd had to look twice to be sure he was there. When Griff joined him, he gave a low short whistle.

            "That is one hell of a horse!" Griff couldn't keep the faint awe from his voice.

            "Sure is. But is this Long's Mischief or is it the one Pa bought?" Joe chewed on his lower lip then taking a deep breath to steady himself, he lifted the latch to the wooden half door and with hands extended, went into the horse's stall.

            The black moved away, perhaps a little afraid of the stranger entering the stall but it finally dropped his head and took a few tentative steps towards the man. When he did that, Joe snagged the halter and talking low to keep the horse calm, edged him over into a patch of starlight.

            "Do we dare light a lantern?" Griff asked, joining Joe beside the horse.

            "No!" Joe spat. "Just use your hands. Go over every square of inch of him. You take the other side."

            Together in the dark, the two men went over the black, their hands smoothing across the glossy hide. At one point, Griff grunted and whispered that the horse's left front knee had a cut on it. It was healing, apparently but it felt like it had been a dandy when it had happened. Joe checked its teeth, trying to see enough in the dim light to guess it's age. When the two men were finished and the horse backed into his shadowy stall, they edged out of the barn.

            Drifting from shadow to shadow, they checked out the other buildings. One building was used to store farming equipment, sicklebar mowers and rakes for hay. Another building yielded nothing but hay, its dry sweetness in the night air reminding Joe of slipping into the barn loft with a pretty girl. The small barn beside the Rocking L Ranch house held two red and white milk cows placidly chewing their cuds and an orange tabby cat on the prowl for mice.

            When all the buildings had been looked into and their contents assessed, Griff and Joe slipped back up the rise and over to the small draw where they had left their horses tied. They didn't speak but quickly mounted and headed back towards Litchfield. A fair distance away, Joe pulled up his father's Buck and turned his head back towards the ranch.

            "Well, we found the black," he said.

            "But which one is it? Is it Long's or is the one your father bought? No brand, no markings."

            Joe sighed and again caught his lower lip between his teeth. "Griff, we've been looking at this all wrong. Why would Long want the horse my father had? Want it bad enough that he would concoct this story, go through a fake trial and hang a man. Why? When he had a good stud of his own? Why?"

            "Maybe Long wanted a back-up stud," suggested the young cowboy.

            "Something you said that Long said would make that a no-go. Long keeps detailed records of his studs and mares. He's proud of the bloodlines. So why introduce a wild card into the deck? If he used Pa's black, he'd have no record of the animal's past, the horse's dams and sires, to go on."

            His own horse skittish in the night, Griff rolled the little mare back around to where Joe sat, Buck not moving a hair. "I don't understand a bit about what you are talking about, Cartwright. But I do understand that we are way too close to the Rocking L to just be out for a little ride if someone comes by. Can we ride and talk while we head back to town?" The nervousness Griff displayed Joe thought for sure was the adrenaline emptying out of his system now that the sleuthing was done.

            So as they rode, Joe told Griff all that he knew of the breeding of horses. He spoke of bloodlines, desired attributes and how to attain them by selective breeding. Joe explained the importance of keeping records of the same as well.

            "Do you all do that?" Griff  inquired but Joe shook his head 'no'.

            "Well, let me say that we don't do that all the time. We have a contract with the U.S. Army that specifies sound animals, broke to ride of a uniform coloring. No pintos or paints, I guess is what they meant because they have taken every horse we have ever sent them. For our own use on the Ponderosa, we aren't particular either because we have a wide range of jobs for a horse to do, we can fit whatever the animal is to the job. But, yes, sometimes and with some horses, we pay attention to their breeding. Adam got us doing some of that years ago. Most of our finer riding stock comes from what he started. Pa's buckskin here for one. The horse Candy rides is another."

            "What's the business about keeping records?"

            "It's just a book that we make notes in. For the Rocking L, probably a fat one. Lists the mares, when they came in season, which stud covered them, the foal. That sort of thing. That way, if you want to breed out something, like being too runty for pulling a wagon, you know what combination to use. That's all. Besides, I thought you knew all about horses!"

            Griff smiled. "No, I said I knew how to work 'em. And I do, don't I?"

            Joe shook his head and pushed Buck into a lope, knowing that Griff would follow.

            "What's you find?" Riley pounced on them as soon as they made it through the back door. The clock in the hallway began to chime sedately twelve times.

            Pulling off his black gloves, Joe took the cup of coffee Mrs. Cunningham offered. He sipped it while he looked up the dimly lit hallway. As he watched, a shadow slowly walked by the front door glass. "I see we still have company at the front door." Joe indicated the guard.

            "Yep. And I intend for him to stay there! He asked me for some coffee but I told him I wasn't no café." The widow chuckled heartily as she poured another cup for Griff.

            The three men gathered loosely around the small table there in the kitchen.

            "There was a black in the breeding barn tonight. Don't know where he was when Griff was out there earlier but he was there tonight. Big fella. Might go seventeen, seventeen and half hands. Muscled out good, too. Couldn't see well enough to do a solid estimate but I would say he's five or six years old. Cut on one knee that is mostly healed. That's about it." Joe ran down through the mental list he had made in the Longs' barn. Griff's nodding, showed he agreed.

            "Wait a minute!" The marshal leaned forward as he spoke. "You managed to get a hold of the animal? Look him over?" When the other two men nodded, he dropped back into his chair. "That's it then." He quickly told them what he knew of Long's horse. "Mean tempered enough that they never branded him. Yet you two waltz right in and make out like he is some pet dog. Gentlemen, I think you found your father's horse."

            Eyebrows around the table rose as did the men's spirits until Mrs. Cunningham pointed out the obvious. "That's all well and good but we need to be able to prove that the horse is your father's, Joe."

            "And find Long's," Griff added.

            The town of Red Bluff reminded Candy of every other town he had ever ridden into. It was situated on the banks of the Sacramento River with feeder creeks abounding, crisscrossing the fertile valley floor and giving Red Bluff a slightly respectable look to its plank buildings. Even though it was coming on night as Candy and Jamie rode in, they sought out the sheriff's office at once.

            The sheriff was a grizzled old man, his slightly longish hair greasy and gray. His mustache was the same but had the added feature of being stained yellow at the dangling ends by his chin. When Candy and Jamie entered his office, the sheriff had stood but he couldn't come erect, both saw. With hands gnarled by years holding him in place, the sheriff's hunched over body seemed about to fall but didn't. Perhaps it was the steely glint of his blue-gray eyes that made both younger men pause.

            Quickly, seeing the unfinished meal on the desk, Candy explained what they were after.

            "Oh, yeah. Got that telegram from a Marshal Riley down to Susanville. Sorry to say but old Millbanks was dead. Couldn't help him-the marshal, I mean."

            "Sheriff Colfax," Candy tried again, noting the man's name on sheet of paper from his cluttered desk. "We know that. What we need is someone who would have been out to Millbanks property in the week before he died. He had a housekeeper, we know that. Where is she now?"

            The old man's laugh was more of a bark, sharp and staccato. "Old Elvita is still his housekeeper!" When he saw the confusion on their faces he went on. "Old Jedediah gave her the place when he died. Just the house. Ain't much, but the old woman can live there the rest of her natural borned days. Don't know about the ranch itself. Old Jedediah didn't have any kin that we knew of and I don't recall anything else about the will-"

            Jamie's impatience erupted. "We aren't interested in the ranch, sheriff. We just need to find someone who knows that my father bought a horse from Mister Millbanks before he died."

            The sheriff plopped himself back into his chair and, steepling his fingers before him, eyed the young man shrewdly. "Sorry to hear your pa died, boy."

            With a roll of his eyes, Jamie sent a silent plea heavenward for help. It came in the form of Candy's next words.

            "Can you tell us how to get out to Millbanks' ranch?"

            "Well, it's too late to be riding out there tonight…"

            After a poor night's sleep on lumpy mattresses at Red Bluff's only hostelry, Jamie and Candy were saddled and ready to ride at daybreak. Following the sheriff's directions, they were surprised by what they found. Jedediah Millbanks was clearly not a man concerned with the appearance of his ranch. Outbuilding were all but falling down. The house needed painting and the roof was sagging. But smoke puffed into the clear blue sky from the chimney at one end of the house and through that door, they could hear singing.

            Jamie had to pause a moment when he stepped through the doorway. Going from the bright sunlight outside into the darker interior, he wasn't sure of what he saw. He stood in the kitchen part of the house and just looking at it made his mouth water. Hop Sing's kitchen back at the Ponderosa was the only equal that Jamie knew of. In stark contrast to the exterior, this room was immaculately kept. Copper bottom pots hung over a huge blackened stove. Bright colored pottery lined two shelves that bracketed the room. In the center of the room stood a worktable that nearly glistened, it was so well cared for. And at the table, her hands busy cutting and forming the flat pancake-like tortillas, was a woman.

            Looking up hastily, she spoke to them in rapid Spanish. Her tongue clicked and danced over the words that neither visitor understood. Seeing the uncomprehending look on their faces, she finally got them to understand with gestures. "Sit down over there and I will feed you," her flour-covered hands said.

            Rather than try to make her understand that they hadn't come for food, both Candy and Jamie sat at the small table in one corner. Each shrugged but an experimental sniff made their mouths water.

            The woman bustled about the kitchen. She was a huge woman with ample rolls of flesh that vibrated and churned as she worked. Keeping up a steady barrage in Spanish, she moved from the stove to work table then back again. She took two cups from a cupboard and after placing them before the two men, poured thick black coffee into them. Then she returned to her cooking. The aroma of heady spices filled the air along with her one-sided dialogue which seemed informative rather than accusative. Finally, with a flourish, she put two platters on the table, one for each man.

            Crossing her hands over her wide girth she pronounced, "Huevos rancheros." Then she smiled, showing a mouthful of crooked teeth.

            Candy picked up his fork and prodded the odd colored mass on the plate before him. "I know huevos is eggs but I'm seein' a lot of stuff here that ain't eggs." Indeed, he could see bits of green that he took for some sort of pepper mixed in with a hearty amount of tomatoes and onions. He put a little into his mouth. The hearty flavors danced across his tongue delightfully. The fork came up full the next time. "You won't like it, Jamie. Just sip the coffee a little then I'll eat yours."

            Jamie studied Candy for two heartbeats then launched himself into the meal, finding it delicious. "Better get yourself a new pitch, Candy," Jamie warned. "I saw through that the second time Hoss used it for something he wanted."

            Within a half-hour after their arrival, Jamie and Candy were pleasantly stuffed with the lady's cooking. But they were no closer to getting what they truly needed.

            "Ah, Mamacita Elvita," a voice called from the doorway and Candy and Jamie both turned at the sound. There stood a slim boy no more than twelve years old. His bare feet were dusty as they slapped over the stone floor of the kitchen, his baggy white trousers tangling about his thin legs. "You should have told me that we had guests!"

            The boy turned to them as he spoke in the same rapid-fire Spanish as the woman. She answered him the same way, but added more flair with her hands punctuating the air around her.

            "Welcome, señores. I am Miguel Asoares. That is my grandmother," he gestured with a flip of his hand towards the old woman. "She does not speak English well. Let me say that another way. She chooses not to speak English. She understands a little. Now me, on the other hand, I speak English very well as you can see."

            "Good!" exclaimed Candy. "Then maybe you can help us out. My name is Candy and this is Jamie Cartwright. A few weeks ago there was a man here. He came to see Mister Millbanks. Remember him?"

            "Oh, sí, señor! I remember him well. Big man, silver hair. Rode a fine looking horse." Miguel fairly bubbled to Candy's way of judging things.

            "He bought one of Mister Millbanks' horses. A black stallion. Remember that?"

            "Sí, I do. Señor Millbanks, he have me show the other hombre the caballo, the horse. Together they talk for a long time. But I do not know what the deal was. Why? Is there a problem?" For the first time, Miguel slowed down and looked suspicious of the two anglo strangers in his grandmother's kitchen.

            "Well it seems as my father didn't get the bill of sale from Mister Millbanks," explained Jamie.

            Miguel turned and said something in his native tongue to his grandmother. She answered him, her hand fluttering at her lips as she spoke softly. He said something else and the woman hurried from the kitchen into another part of the house. She returned within moments, carrying a piece of white paper. Her grandson took it from her and handed it to Candy. "Is this what you search for? As you can see, Señor Millbanks did not sign it. His last days, he was very weak then he slept for a long while before he died."

            Jamie studied the paper Candy held loosely in his hand. The script he saw he recognized as his father's handwriting. It described the horse he had bought as black, a four-year-old stallion bearing no distinguishing brand or marks with the exception of several white hairs at the base of his tail. Jamie whistled softly when he saw how much his father had paid for the horse.

Candy looked up at the sound and raised his brows then snagged the paper from Jamie's loose fingers. "Your pa must have felt the animal was worth it. That's better than a year's wages for me! That black must be something else."

            "He is!" Miguel asserted sharply. "He is, how do you say it?- much horse! Señor Millbanks get him from rancher who needed to pay a debt but had no money. But here, with no mares, the horse, he go crazy, muy loco, so Señor Millbanks say he sell him to first man who want him. The big man want him."

            Both Candy and Jamie laughed but it was Candy who said it. "I don't think we want to tell your father that he got swindled, do we? Nope, I will not tell Ben Cartwright that he bought a crazy horse!"

            Before they could go further, the grandmother caught Miguel's attention and for a few minutes, the two of them chattered rapidly back and forth. Even though they didn't understand the language, both of the others knew that the boy and his grandmother were arguing about something. When the argument petered out, the old woman stepped forward and took the slip of paper from Candy's grip.

            "Wait a minute!" Jamie protested loudly. "We need that!"

            "I am sorry, señores, but we can not give it to you. My abuela, my grandmother, she is right when she says that we do not know you. It would be wrong to give you this paper since you are not Señor Cartwright."

            Jamie exploded from behind Candy. "Ben Cartwright is my father! That piece of paper means his life or death. We have got to have it!"

            Again the old woman and her grandson conversed, the words becoming sharper and shorter as she progressed.

            His mouth downturned, Miguel shook his head. "She says that you are not Señor Cartwright's son. She has met them both and you are not either one. Nor are you, señor," and he looked pointedly at Candy.

            "You got anything on you that says you're a Cartwright, Jamie?" Candy asked but his words were sharp and cutting and meant for the old woman's ears.

            "No, 'course not."

            For several long moments, it was so still in the kitchen that the birdsong outside sounded loud.

            "Go check your saddle bags and make sure, okay? There has to be someway. Without that bill of sale, we've ridden this whole way for nothing." Candy's despair was plain. "Go with him, Miguel and satisfy your grandmother, okay?"

            With Miguel and the woman trailing him, Jamie left the kitchen and stepped into the bright sunlit yard. He didn't glance back as he ambled over to the horses, sure that his saddlebags held nothing that would solve the problem. It was only Miguel's call for him to stop that Jamie heeded and didn't bother to drag down his bags from behind the saddle.

            "Si, Mamacita. I will. I will," Miguel placated the woman, his child's hands held up, begging her to be quiet. "This horse, where did you get it?"

            Jamie smiled ruefully and patted Cochise's neck. The horse in turn, nudged Jamie's hand as though searching for something. "He's actually my brother Joe's horse. My horse-" Jamie stopped when the boy turned and began talking to his grandmother. She said a few words that Miguel rolled his eyes listening to.

            "This horse, he has a name."

            His hands now planted firmly on his hips, Jamie squinted in the bright light at the woman. With a cursory shake to his head, he answered, "His name's Cochise. And he drinks coffee when he can get it out of Joe. Joe's had him for a long time and most of the time, nobody rides him but Joe. I had to make all sorts of promises to get him back in one piece." He watched and listened closely as Miguel translated. "And if that ain't enough, there's the Ponderosa brand on him and on Candy's horse." Again the words were translated but still the grandmother's face held doubt. Jamie sighed and pulled out his last bit of evidence. "Joe, my brother Joe," he emphasized the relationship then continued, "gets on just like this-" He took a deep breath, grabbed hold of the saddle horn and prayed. He had tried more times than he wanted to count to swing into the saddle the same way Joe did but he had never been successful. Jamie had watched from the corner of his eye to see how Joe did it but, even with that knowledge, it eluded him. Surreptitious tries when no one was around met with failure. He knew Joe would have taught him but Jamie, with a boy's pride to be kept whole, never asked. Now he needed it to happen with the same smooth grace of his brother. He wasn't sure who was more surprised when his buttocks met leather, the grandmother, Candy watching from the doorway, or himself, now wishing he hadn't accomplished it since his rear end stung.

            Now the words traded between the boy and the woman were quieter until finally the old one handed the bill of sale to Miguel with a dismissing motion of one hand. When she turned and walked away, Jamie caught a glimpse of the smile on her face. Miguel handed the paper to Jamie as he dismounted, wishing for all the world that he could rub his sore buttocks without anyone seeing him. Candy sauntered slowly across the yard, tipping his chin to the woman as she returned to her kitchen.

            "Quite a show, young man," Candy cheered and clapped his hands together as though applauding. "But I wouldn't do that again in front of Joe for ten of those black horses."

            "It got us what we needed!" Jamie's reply was full of heat. He shook the bill of sale at the Ponderosa foreman to underscore the fact.

            "No, it got us half of what we need. This is a worthless piece of paper without Mister Millbanks' signature. Any court in the land would throw this out. I mean, Jamie, this is Ben Cartwright's handwriting! Miguel, was there anyone else here the day Mister Cartwright bought the horse? Someone who might have overheard the talk?"

            "My grandmother. She was here! She told me that they made the deal over dinner. She saw the big man give Señor Millbanks a piece of paper with writing on it. Then the other man make out this piece of paper but Señor Millbanks does not sign it," Miguel spelled out just what he had learned from his grandmother.

            "But she doesn't understand English enough," moaned Candy. To have come so close and yet so far-

            Jamie's question to Miguel cut across Candy's moan. "Why didn't Mister Millbanks write this stuff out?" He turned to Candy. "When Pa sells a horse or cattle, he writes out the bill of sale and sells it. Why didn't Mister Millbanks?"

            "Because", the boy said, "his hands were like this." He showed them with his own two, turning them sharply at the wrists and entangling the fingers on each hand. It was a fair approximation, Candy thought, of a man's hands made useless and crippled by arthritis.

            "Who signed things for Mister Millbanks, Miguel? Like that first piece of paper that your grandmother saw Mister Cartwright write out. That had to be bank draft since he wouldn't have been carrying that much money. Where did that bank draft go?"

            "The next day, Mamacita say Señor get very sick after big man leave. She get doctor but doctor no can help the señor then. After Señor die, she give all papers to man in town but forget this one."

            The man in town turned out to be Jedediah Millbanks attorney. It took the remainder of the day, tracking down the facts for the lawyer but the bank manager did remember the sizable bank draft made out to Mister Millbanks being deposited to his account before the man's death. The bank had gone so far as to wire the banking establishment in Virginia City, asking for the funds to be transferred as well as making sure that the draft was good for the amount specified. With Miguel translating his grandmother's words, the lawyer agreed that everything was legitimate.

"The horse so described had been sold to Ben Cartwright prior to Jedediah's death," the attorney spoke aloud as he wrote the same words on a thin sheet of paper, his pen scritching and scratching out the words that Jamie felt sure would remove the blot against his father's name. "This sale was witnessed by Elvita Asoares and Miguel Asoares as attested to by their marks below." He turned the paper to the woman and the boy.

Hesitating, the woman picked up the pen and awkwardly made an X where Miguel showed her. Then he took the pen, dipped it in ink and with little wasted effort, signed his name as well.

"You do realize, Mister Canaday and Mister Cartwright, that you may need to have Elvita and Miguel come to Litchfield to testify. There is only so much an affidavit like this can accomplish. I mean, if I were the State's attorney prosecuting this case, I would throw out this bill of sale. She's an old woman who barely understands English and he is a minor."

After studying the signed affidavit and handing it to Jamie to see, Candy grinned. Much like a satisfied cat with a mouth full of feathers, he grinned. "Let's hope it doesn't go that far. Thank you for your help and we'll be on our way."

The morning sun did nothing to dispel to chill in the air. The small town of Litchfield was slowly coming to life. The few people on the street watched the three men with curious but distant interest. Even from across the street, the wide shoulders easily distinguished the one man as the U. S. Marshal that had been reported killed two days ago on the road to Susanville. The other man, the one in the green jacket, pulled down tan hat and easy stride, was the son of the man they'd tried to hang. Since coming back into town, they had holed up at the widow Cunningham's boardinghouse and the sheriff had instructed one and all that as long as he had a man on guard, they were safe. Besides there was talk that they had returned to clear the man's name. The third man in party stayed well behind. If he'd been wearing a gun, one might have thought him a guard for the other two. Not that they appeared to need such. But he wasn't wearing a gun and for all intents and purposes, that made him as equally interesting as the dead Marshal now returned to life.

Sheriff Mike Carpenter looked up quickly when the office door opened. Still feeling the affects of a long fruitless day in the saddle, he didn't rise to his feet. The night deputy Jim Warner turned at the sound of the door. The only change to his expression was that his nose twitched to one side before he let his eyes rest firmly on the big lawman.

"Bet you're surprised to see me," Riley commented as though he were discussing something as innocuous as the weather. In truth, his nerves were edgy that morning. It takes a big man to look at the man who wanted him dead bad enough to have attempted an ambush and Riley was big enough to do it yet smart enough to let fear keep him wary.

"In truth, I am, Marshal Riley. Go along home, Jim," he addressed his deputy. "Quinn'll be here soon enough. Tell Phil thanks again for his sending you boys in to help."

Riley held his ground and made Warner step around him on his way to the door. A glance over his shoulder showed Cartwright had done the same and that both he and Cartwright had exchanged long cool looks with one another, all the while the rancher kept slowly grinding one gloved fist into the palm of his other hand. The marshal, if he was of a mind to give points for being bad hombres that morning, would have given Joe a whole passel of them. Still waiting silently, he heard the deputy try to swap pleasantries with Griff who hadn't entered the office at all, remaining on the porch to guard their backs, he had said,. Riley hadn't argued but he knew the real reason the boy had stayed outside. He'd seen too many cases of Jail House Fever to not know the symptoms, nervous swallowing being the most obvious. And the kid had a bad case of it.

"You want to tell me just how you wind up alive and whole when I had it on good authority that you'd been shot off your horse on the road?" The easy tone to the sheriff's voice was gone.

"You want to tell me who told you?" countered Riley, his eyes narrowing as he pinned the other lawman to his chair with them.

"What difference does that make?"

"Because only the man who took a shot at me would know that. There wasn't another soul around. No body else on the road, 'ceptin' me and my horse for the better part of an hour. Come on, Sheriff Carpenter, who was it told you?"

The sheriff snorted then gave a short barking laugh. "Toby told me. Now if you really think that old Toby took a shot at you, well, Marshal, there is one thing Tob' don't do real well. He can't shoot worth a plug nickel."

Cartwright stepped easily around Riley's bulk and ended up a little closer to the sheriff than Riley wanted him. Riley wasn't sure but what the rancher wouldn't just reach out and grab himself a handful of the man he thought was responsible for his father's condition. So the marshal eased forward as well, ready to grab and separate if needed.

"Then who told Toby?" Joe demanded.

Rearing back in his chair, Carpenter took the time to assess the man questioning him. He knew who he was; one of old Ben Cartwright's sons and the one who had come after him that first night over at the boardinghouse. The man had a lot of the earmarks of a rich man's pampered son. The clothes, the black leather gloves were what Carpenter saw first but what made him change his mind was the holster tied down on the man's left thigh. It hung low, like a gunslinger's would and the pearl-handle on the heavy Colt looked ready to spring into the man's hand. He rearranged his first fast thoughts. Rich, yes. Pampered, maybe not. One thing was certain, though: Carpenter wouldn't turn his back on him.

"I don't know who told Toby, " Carpenter replied. "But I will find out. Why did you wait to come tell me, Riley? Could have saved me and my men a long day wasted in the saddle."

Riley smiled a wicked little smile. "Maybe I wanted to see who'd go with you. See where you stood on a murder report that wasn't followed real close by a body. That's the way I always handled an investigation. Show me the murdered man first then go look for clues. Not the other way around. Come on, Cartwright. We were headed out to the Rocking L this morning."

They weren't halfway to the door when the sheriff found his voice again. "What are you going out to the Rocking L for? I don't want trouble, Riley and you're making it for me!"

"We're just going to go see how an important and successful rancher breeds his horses, sheriff. That's all," and Joe Cartwright tipped his hat in the lawman's direction.

Out on the street, they paused to breathe in the cool morning air and collect Griff.

Tilting his hat down over his eyes, Riley nudged the shorter man beside him. "You always pet a mean cat backwards, Cartwright?" He then moved off down the street towards their horses.

In front of his storefront office, Amos Harker had his buggy pulled up and was waiting for the marshal and Cartwright. Nervous, he asked who the third man was and once introduced, lost the edge of his discomfort. With a snap to the reins, he led the small entourage out of town. Riley wondered if it was on purpose that they drove passed the sheriff standing on the street. Harker and Cartwright apparently dealt with cats the same way, Riley concluded.

At the end of the large barn at the Rocking L Ranch stood a pair of saddle horses. Amos Harker pulled his buggy to a stop behind them and indicated that Riley, Joe and Griff should also dismount there. The door into the barn stood part way open and through it came the sounds of men speaking in low voices.

As soon as Riley strode through the door, a man broke away from the small knot of others and came towards him.

"That's the judge," Griff muttered only loud enough for Riley and Joe to hear. "That blonde haired man over there with the slouch hat is his son, George. Or at least that's what Missus Cunningham said he looked like."

Riley grunted in response but was already moving further into the barn.

"Amos," the judge greeted icily. "What are you men doing here? I don't want you here. Get out."  His gray eyes flicked over the men before him and the lift to his lip showed he certainly didn't like what he saw.

"Just rode out to see how a successful horse breeder plies his trade, Judge," Joe crooned as silkily as he might have been romancing a young lady. He nodded towards the center of the barn where a mare was crossed tied between two posts.

"I said get out," repeated the Judge but not one of the four men heeded his words. Instead they watched as from his high walled stall, the black stallion was brought out on a short lead. The judge's son took the lead and twice walked the stud around the mare, letting the big black make her acquaintance. The muscles under the glossy black hide quivered and the mare danced in anticipation. Quickly the stallion mounted her, all other intentions obviously sidelined for the moment.

Griff had moved away from the gathering at the door. Over to one side he had watched the way everyone else had and once the action was over, edged close enough that he offered his help to George in getting the stallion back into his stall. The mare's owners were busy inspecting her, making sure she was not damaged in any way by the black's hooves. One of them called to George and he left Griff with the black at the stall door.

Hurriedly, Griff shoved at the black, getting him into the stall. The horse was still blowing as the young man leaned over and brushed down both front legs. There was no healing cut on either leg. Wary now, he tugged the horse deeper into the enclosure and ran his hands over the animal. It was a toss up as to who was breathing harder, Griff or the horse but he finally finished his quick once over. It was good timing as the Long son was returning and making ugly noises about Griff getting too close to the horse.

"Just helpin' out," shrugged Griff and backed out of the stall.

"Yes, that is the horse your father tried to steal," the judge was now shouting, his red face not two inches from Joe Cartwright's red face. "I'm telling you that I want you, this hulking monstrosity of a marshal, your boot licking lacky over there and your worthless legal mouth piece off the premises now!"

Behind the judge, Riley caught the motion Griff made with his head. It was a fast jerk to one side that said they needed to talk. Letting Cartwright and the judge share the attention for the moment, Riley showed the kid that he was watching and paying attention but also wanted to know what was happening. Again Griff jerked his head, this time more vehemently, his lips tightening as he did. The marshal bobbed his chin once.

Stepping in between the lanky judge and Joe Cartwright, Riley could feel the anger radiating off each man. He pressed a firm hand to each chest but the one that gave was the judge's. Cartwright leaned into the restraining hand, fighting it. Riley let his own attention waver for just one instant. Under his hand he could feel the straining muscles of the rancher and for that instant, concluded that Cartwright could take the judge. As much as Riley would have loved to've watched the fight, he couldn't let it happen.

"Down boy," he hissed and pushed Cartwright back a step. "We're leavin', Judge. But you call anyone names again and I am not likely to let you get away with it. I am a U. S. Marshal and the government don't take kindly to anyone, judge or not, calling us anything but 'sir'. You got that? You understand that?"

"I don't take threats easily, Marshal," Long spat, the sneer lingering over the other man's title.

With both hands now pushing Joe out the door, Riley was glad. If he hadn't had his hands full of struggling cattleman, he would have most likely turned around and done something to get himself in trouble with his superiors. As much as he disliked hearing the slurs, his bosses wouldn't have wanted to hear that Riley had plastered a judge either. Instead, he chose words. "That ain't a threat, Judge. It's a promise."

Outside, Amos Harker was already in his buggy and was backing the horse to turn around. To say that the little egg-shaped man was happy might have been putting it mildly. His enthusiasm was fair to bursting at the seams. "Come on, boys!" he hollered cheerfully and waved them on. "This has been a good day already! See you Phil!" He cackled as he drove away. With black looks back, the other three mounted their horses and rode away.

To the riders' surprise, Amos Harker didn't slow down until he pulled to a halt in front on the boardinghouse. With light quick steps, he jumped from the buggy, grabbed his slim leather case and bounced up the stairs on his spindly legs. He even tipped his hat to the indolent guard by the front door. From where they were tying their horses, the other three could hear him calling to the widow Cunningham, asking for a slice of pie and a cup of coffee. By the time they caught up to him, he was ensconced at the head of the dining room table, pie and coffee provided but shoved aside as he penciled out some notes on a pad of paper.

"Oh, I so love it when a plan comes together, boys!" he chirped.

Riley, Griff and Joe all looked at each other, clearly confused. "Missus Cunningham," Joe finally spoke up. "My father?"

"He's doin' fine this morning. Just finished his oatmeal. He asked about you and I told him you were with the marshal. Doc should be here soon. You want me to call you when he comes?"

Joe nodded and thanked her.

"Mister Cartwright," Harker called, drawing Joe's attention back to the table. "That was a tremendous performance! Wish you all had told me that you were going to do that!"

They pulled out chairs, dropped their hats on the floor and looked askance at one another.

"Truth is, Mister Harker, none of that was planned," Griff admitted, studying his hands. One had streaks of something black and oily-feeling on it and he tried wiping it off on his pants. After three swipes, he checked and it was mostly gone.

"Even better! Oh, I can see that I need to explain things for you boys! What we needed more than anything else, other than a not guilty verdict, was a solid reason to call in a different judge. Bring in a circuit judge. One that could overrule Long's previous determination. Phil Long was elected to stand as judge over this township only. We needed a reason to go to the county level and you boys gave it to us. Just like it was on a silver platter, you gave it to us! When he lit into you out there at his barn, he showed he was prejudiced against you Cartwright. And he did it in front of witnesses. Oh I so love it!" The lawyer was rubbing his hands together cheerfully. Then he picked up his fork and cut off a piece of pie its large size worthy of his success.

"Somethin' else, too," Griff spoke up. "That stud wasn't the same one that was in that stall last night, Joe. Remember the cut on his foreleg? Don't think it could have healed up that fast 'cause it wasn't there. I checked."

Marshal Riley accepted the cup of coffee and plate of pie that Catherine Cunningham was handing him. "You mean to tell me that now we have two black horses? No, wait, I guess I should say that we need to find two black horses at the same time."

"And we need to find them on Long's property. But what I can't figure out is why." Joe accepted his pie and coffee as well.

She was about to hand Griff his plate and cup when the widow spotted his dirty hands. "You go wash them up right now, young man. I'll not have filthy hands at my table."

At the kitchen sink, Griff tried to wash the smudged black off his hand but it wasn't budging. The woman slipped in behind him and clucked her tongue.

"Can't get boot blacking off any way but this," and she poured a small shot of whiskey onto Griff's hand. She was right. Rubbing briskly, the smudging disappeared. He finished washing his hands and returned to the table and his pie.

The other men were discussing when Candy and Jamie would probably be returning but Griff was suddenly consumed by a single burning question. Where had he gotten the blacking on his hand? Maybe it wasn't blacking, but grease like was used on a wheel, he thought. Where had he been in contact with wheel grease? No place. Again he looked at his now clean hand.

"Griff!" Riley's sharp call brought him back into the conversation. "What's with you, boy?"

Before he could even make sense of it himself, Griff uttered "Boot blacking. On my hand." When Joe asked him if he were sure, Griff nodded his head."Uh huh. But how did it get there? I ain't been shinin' no boots no matter what the judge thinks." His choice of wording showed that he had been angered at the man's epithet as well.

The silence around the table grew large.

"Could they have covered the cut place on the horse's leg with it? Disguised it?" Harker asked.

Griff and Joe both shook their heads. "No," Griff answered, still looking at his hand."Because that would have just colored it. Joe and I both felt it last night, in the dark so I would have felt it again this morning no matter if they had colored over it."

"You thinkin' what I'm thinkin'?" parried Riley to Joe's grunt.

"Probably. That horse this morning wasn't all black. That means he wasn't Long's Mischief. That means that Mister Red Norton paid for something he didn't get." Joe was half smiling when he finished.

"Somebody want to tell me what this all means?" Harker asked cautiously.

"Let's say you have two horses that are almost identical in appearance," Joe began. Harker's soft assertion that he was following urged Joe on. "But they aren't identical in their bloodlines. If you pay for box seats at the theater, you expect to sit there, don't you? Well, I have a feeling that Red Norton paid for first class bloodlines to service his mare but he got seated in the back row."

The three horsemen around the table chuckled at the completely lost expression on the lawyer's face.

"Well, he's doing better than we could hope for, Mister Cartwright," the doctor informed Joe as he folded his stethoscope and put it back into his bag. Shaking a finger at Ben, he continued. "You just keep following doctor's orders. Resting, some of Catherine's cooking, taking some deep breaths. Oh don't make that face at me! I know it hurts but pneumonia would be worse. Your chest is mending fine and the swelling around your throat is going down. But I still don't want you trying talk. Most likely damaged your voice box and we need to give it time to heal." With a snap to close the bag and a friendly hand patting the blanket-covered leg, the doctor left.

Joe pulled his chair closer to the side of the bed. "So the doc says you still can't talk. Maybe I should take advantage of this situation." There was a lilting tease to the son's voice that was echoed in the raised brow of the father. "But then again, maybe not." Joe turned serious and continued. "Amos Harker is going to Susanville tomorrow morning. That's the county seat. He is going to see about a judge from up there coming down here to hear the appeal. He is also suggesting that we sue Phillip Long and the Rocking L Ranch."

"Why?" Ben croaked out the single word question.

"Among other things, false accusations, slander, misuse of our property. My God, Pa, but he has a list of charges a mile long."

"Why?" Ben repeated, his voice rough but urgent, demanding.

"Why?" Joe echoed. "You mean besides being a no good, worthless polecat who tried to hang you? Thought that would have been enough right there." Joe paused and studied his father's face. "Well, maybe, just maybe it’s a scare tactic against Long. Harker seems to think the man's hiding something. He is! A horse he stole from you!" Joe caught the downward flick of the deep brown eyes and put up both hands, surrendering. "Okay okay. I'll talk to Mister Harker about dropping the civil charges after we get your name cleared."

Ben smiled and reached for his son's arm in a motion that told how pleased he was with the final decisions.

Joe wasn't finished. "Pa, the horse that you bought from Mister Millbanks, was he all black?"

"No," Ben responded and held up three fingers. "White…hairs… in his… tail,"  he finally got out. He was perplexed by the sudden bright smile on his son's face.

"Tell me that's on the bill of sale! Please, Pa?"

When Ben simply nodded that it was, the whoop Joe let out rattled the windowpanes.

Now the hard part began. Waiting for Candy and Jamie to return from Red Bluff, hopefully with a signed bill of sale, was harder on the men than if they were in a pitched gun battle. While the others stewed and fretted, Amos Harker went about his lawyering duties, riding to the county seat to file his various legal papers. It was all Joe could do not to ride out to Long's ranch and accost the man. Riley threatened to arrest him at one point if he didn't settle down. Not long after that, the steady rhythmic sound from the backyard said he was chopping wood at a maddening pace. With nothing else to occupy his hands, Riley joined him. He stacked the scattered wood into a neat rack next to the back steps. Once he was finished, he and Joe traded places. Or almost, since Joe sat on the steps to take a breather.

"Can't figure you out, Riley." When Joe said that, Riley merely glanced in his direction, the axe never faltering. "Why? Why are you here? We both know that you have no real authority over here. You're out of your territory. Don't think anyone else has stopped long enough to check but then again, I have the feeling you do a real good job of intimidation, don't you?"

Riley set another block of wood up then before he swung the axe, looked at Joe. He tried for the intimidation Cartwright had alluded to but he waved it away, telling him that it was a nice try but that he knew better.

"I'm here," Riley grunted out between swings. "Just be glad of it."

"Oh, I am. Don't get me wrong but you could have turned this over to your counter-part here in California and rode back to Virginia City long ago. I appreciate the fact that you didn't but I still don't know why you've stayed." Joe crossed his arms over his chest.

Riley hacked through four more pieces of firewood before he answered. "I'm here because a man that is well respected in my home territory has been found guilty of a crime I am sure he didn't commit. It is my job, no matter where I am, to see that justice is served." With the last words, he slammed the axe down into the slab of wood on the block. The split wood jumped off the block and one piece flew at Joe. With an upraised arm, he batted it away but shouted at Riley to be careful.

"No," retorted the marshal and gestured with the axe handle, "You be careful." Even as he said those three words, he was catapulted back to hot closed in canyon where lead flew and he had said those words to someone else. For the instant it took him to go there and return, the man he was looking at was not Joe Cartwright but Chad Cooper. Still holding the axe, Riley stared at Cartwright. As much as Cooper and Cartwright had in common, they were different. Both had an easy moving grace and a smile that was earnest and full of delight. Each man had a way with women, both old and young, that defied explanation. But Cartwright had the comforts afforded him by a wealthy life while Chad had struggled to make do on Ranger's salary. And Cartwright had family around him. Chad'd had…Riley's thoughts stumbled then slowly righted themselves. Chad'd had family too. Maybe not the doting, wise and compassionate pa that the Cartwrights had, but Edward Parmalee'd been a father, leading, guiding the men under him. And while Joe Cartwright had brothers, so did Chad, even though they shared no blood. The shared times, both good and bad, had welded the four Rangers into a brotherhood. It was commitment that joined them one to another, a brotherhood of choice, not blood. But at the end of his life, Chad had not had the comforts of that brotherhood. Again Riley heard the scream in the canyon.

"You never talk about yourself, Riley. Don't even know your first name, assuming it isn't 'Marshal'," Joe teased, tossing back the stick of wood. There had been a split second that Riley's face had gone funny, his eyes lost their focus and Joe wondered what the man was seeing and thinking but then it was gone as swiftly as it had come.

The lawman set up another chunk of wood and threw the axe into it. He had no intention of answering any questions about either himself or his life. How could he? Cartwright couldn't have begun to understand as far as Riley was concerned.

"You know, I still owe you a good beatin'. You want it now?" Riley wiped away a bead of sweat that ran down his face as he propped the axe on the chopping block and leaned on the handle.

"Thought we were gonna take care of that when this was over and it ain't over yet," came Joe's quick reply.

Riley gave a clipped nod of his head. "Just you remember that." The axe again began its rhythm.

"Riders comin'. Hard. Fast," Candy informed Jamie then suggested that they drop off to the side of the road. Without waiting for Jamie to agree, Candy nudged his horse down off the road and came to a stop within the treeline. Jamie followed him but put Cochise well inside the shadows and hidden behind Candy's bay horse. He didn't have to be told that there was no way to hide the brilliant white spots on the old paint horse. Nor did he have to be told that they didn't want to be seen. He just trusted Candy implicitly.

Up on the hard dirt road, four men went by on lathered horses. They rode at a hard gallop, bunched together. From where Candy and Jamie sat, it was hard to pick out individual features but one man Candy was almost certain was one of the men who had sat outside the widow's front door.

"How close are we to Litchfield?" whispered Jamie even though the riders were gone and no one could have heard him.

"Another hour. Maybe a little more at the pace we're going. Why?" Candy gazed towards the western horizon, trying to decide if they could make it to town before night fell. Suddenly he had an overwhelming desire to sleep indoors that night.

"Think Joe would mind if I brought Cochise in a little sweated up?"

Candy laughed, his head thrown back. He reached out and grabbed the boy's neck in his hand and shook it. "Is that why you've been poking along this afternoon? Afraid of what Joe would do to you if you brought his old horse home tired? Got news for you, my young friend. If you didn't come home, Joe would be more than upset. And he would take your father's horse out and run him into the ground looking for you. Now, picture what your father would say to Joe. See it? Okay then, let's ride. Come on, that old horse still has life in him!"

Indeed the spotted horse did. They made it into Litchfield just before dark and were pleased to find the boardinghouse lit up brightly to welcome them home. The first thing Joe did was to ask Jamie for the bill of sale that Candy handed over. The second thing he did was give his little brother a fierce hug.

"Go talk to Pa while I take care of my horse," encouraged Joe. He remembered too many times coming home from a long trip and wanting time alone with his father, having missed the man greatly. He wasn't always sure if Adam and Hoss felt the same way but he was pretty sure that Jamie did. "Come on, Cooch. Looks like they rode you hard, old boy."

"Now all we need's the judge and our lawyer. Lay all this out in front of him-" Candy started but Riley cut him off.

"No, now we need the proof of the two different horses. But something has been bothering me." All eyes around the table looked at the marshal; hands pushed empty plates aside and coffee cups rattled on their china saucers. "Why did Long do this? Why would a judge, a man of some influence and importance in the community, do it? Steal a horse? Why? He's got a fine business built up on the studs he has. If he suddenly showed up with two identical horses and started billing them out to the locals, the theft would be plain as the nose on your face."

"Are we sure he has two blacks?" Candy asked.

"Like I said earlier. The horse we saw servicing Red Norton's mare was not the same horse in the stall the night before." Griff cut into the piece of cake that was dessert that night.

Around the table, the ideas ebbed and flowed but conspicuously silent was Joe. That is until everyone else was busy eating the cake. "The answer is in Long's books. Think our lawyer can subpoena them?"

"Don't see why not. Missus Cunningham, dinner tonight was outstanding and although I would like to sit up and discuss things with these gentlemen, I think Jamie and I will head off to our beds. It's been a long couple of days." Candy rose from the table, bowing to their hostess who blushed like a schoolgirl.

That left the marshal, Joe and Griff sitting at the table as the widow cleared the table.

"Griff," Joe said suddenly, "It's your turn to help Missus Cunningham with the dishes."

Frowning, the young man looked across the table and saw Joe's head jerk in the direction of the kitchen. The message was clear. Joe wanted to talk alone to the marshal. Mumbling under his breath, Griff shoved the last of his cake into his mouth and headed into the kitchen. He figured it was going to be worth another slice of cake and the old lady never seemed to think it bad manners if he snagged a piece.

"What do you suppose will happen now? Think Long and Carpenter and his men are going to wait until this all goes to trial?" Joe toyed with his fork, not looking up at the lawman.

"Dunno. I would think that they would want to stop that from happening. Long can't afford for this to be exposed by a public trial. He'd lose status 'round here. And the last thing a man like the judge wants is to lose face." Riley finished off his slice of cake and pushed the plate to the side of the table.

"Think we need to be prepared for gunplay?"

Riley leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking under the stress. "Don't think they'll try that but they may try a lynchin' party. By my count we got five guns. They got a whole town."

Joe shook his head. "Four guns. If it comes to that, I'm shoving Jamie and my father on a horse and heading them out of here. We can buy them enough time to get a good head start."

"No," Riley replied succinctly, bluntly. "For one thing, your pa ain't in good enough shape to ride very far and Jamie, while he's plenty strong, he couldn't handle things. Besides, neither of them knows the area."

Shifting in his chair uncomfortably, Joe had to agree. "If it comes down to a fight, what will you do?"

"Turn my back," was all Riley said.

Joe felt the pit of his stomach fall. He was so sure that the marshal was on their side, that he would help them when the chips were down --

"Not like that," Riley spoke up, seeing the distress on the other man's face. "I'd turn my back long enough for you to get your father and get out of town. You, you could take care of him. You have the range-smarts to find a hiding place. You have the strength it would take. Your brother doesn't 'cause he's still a kid, basically. If trouble comes, I'll …I'll take care of your brother. See that he gets back to Virginia City all right."

"What about Griff and Candy? What happens to them? They go to jail for the first breakout?" Joe's voice was low so that there was no chance of being overheard from the kitchen. "Griff can't go back to prison. They'd say he violated his parole. I can't see that happening, Marshal."

"I can't make any promises there because they did break the law. What I can do," and Riley took a deep breath then let it out slowly before he continued. "I can see that they get away too. But not all of you together. It would be too big a bunch and you'd be caught easier that way."

"You need to stay right here!" Missus Cunningham spoke up, waddling into the dining room for the rest of the dishes. "This town isn't all made of fools. Just some of 'em are. Why I would bet my last dime that Mike Carpenter is just being used in all of this nonsense." She bustled around the table, pushing chairs in and dusting crumbs to the floor with her dishtowel.

"Missus Cunningham, what do you know about the Rocking L Ranch?" Joe asked and was pleased to see that she stopped, pursed her lips then pulled out a chair and sat down.

"Phil Long's father started it when we come out west together. By the time Phil took it over, it was the finest spread in the country. Fine cattle, good horses. They sold hay to other ranchers 'cause their's did so well. Phil made the decision about ten years ago to get rid of the cattle. Said there wasn't a market for 'em anymore like there had been. 'Fore we all knew it, his cattle were mostly gone. He keeps about fifty head going but that's for local use and what he needs on the ranch."

"But I got the feeling that he was more into horses now. That right?" Joe pushed, searching, reaching, for answers to questions he couldn't even begin to voice.

She wiped at a ring of dampness on the table then looked up at the two men. "I'd say it was about five years ago that they started selling horses to folks 'round here. Fine lookin' animals too! Sold 'em far and wide! Sold a matched team to the governor, I heard tell. He didn't deal with no free range stock, no siree; he went for bloodlines and fancy pedigrees."

Riley pressed his hands flat onto the table. "How did he get his buyers? He advertise or something?"

The woman nodded. "He'd have big auctions out to his place twice a year, selling off what he planned. That way too, folks could sign up for getting their mares bred by one of his grand stud horses. Heard tell from some folks that he made just as much money doing that these last years as he did selling his own horses. Now I can't understand how that it did."

"Me neither," Joe muttered. "Not at fifty bucks a shot, if you'll pardon the expression."

"Fifty bucks?" The widow leaned back in her chair, a surprised look on her face. "I heard tell he charged upwards of a hundred but then again that was a few years back."

Joe looked at Riley, whose expression was bemused.

"Now I ain't no rancher but tell me something, Cartwright. When you were out there, in daylight," and he cleared his throat, indicating that he didn't want to know about other times, "how many critters did you see that you thought Long would be selling off any time soon?"

Joe thought for a few moments, seeing the broad pastures in the valley, the long lines of fencing and doing a memory count of the horses he saw there. "At most, maybe twenty, no more, I would think. But you know something odd? I didn't see any foals. Every horse out there looked old enough to saddle." A smile lifted the corners of Joe's mouth and his eyes took on a sparkle. "That's it. That's why Long stole my father's stallion."

"You want to make sense, boy?" the lady said, her head twisting sideways as she spoke.

Joe laughed. "It was a theft of opportunity. My father stopped there to get water and directions to town. Long, either the father or the son, took one look at my father's stallion and decided he was as close a match to their Mischief as would ever walk down their lane. So they decided to steal him and use him as a replacement. And why? Because Long's stud is a dud!"

"But how are we gonna prove it?"

"Riley, I swear, you take the fun out of things, you know it?" Joe shook his head but got up from the table chuckling.

The pounding on the front door drew Widow Cunningham from the kitchen early the next morning. Amos Harker didn't wait but simply bustled by when she cracked the door open. Watching him waddle through the entranceway then into the dining room, she gasped for Amos Harker looked like he had been in a fight- a physical one.

"It's nothing, my dear Catherine. A few scrapes and bruises 'tis all. Can I have some coffee?" he commented airily. He only grimaced twice as he lowered himself into a chair beside Griff and grunted when he reached for his cup of coffee.

"Mister Harker, you look like you tangled with somethin'," piped up Jamie as he gestured with a butter knife to the lawyer's appearance.

"Well, ahem, yes I did, but we seem to missing someone. Oh, the other one, the other Cartwright- sorry, I forget names sometimes."

Patting his lips with his napkin, Candy started to stand. "That'd be Joe and he's in with his father. I'll get him."

"No!" Harker said hastily. "I wanted to ask you others a few questions, if I could." He looked around him and saw the guard rise in each man. The heavy-chested marshal squared his shoulders and set down his coffee cup. The man across from Harker, Canaday, settled back into his chair but left his hands below the table. The young man next to him, Griff, shifted to the opposite side of his chair and stared at him openly. And the redhaired boy at the foot of the table chewed on his bottom lip but didn't let his gaze move from the lawyer's face.

The silence was overwhelming. Amos Harker knew how to use a jury, a judge and witnesses to their fullest extent. Most of all, he knew people, and could read them like a page from one of his law texts. Looking at the stern faces around the table that morning, he read one word: distrust. He could tell that suddenly he had become a possible enemy. He almost smiled.

"Well?" the lawman asked, encouraging Harker.

"As you may have figured out, these bruises were delivered with a message to drop out of the Cartwright case. They threatened quite well." He chuckled but it was without mirth. "What I want to know is where you gentlemen stand should things escalate."

"Joe and I talked about that very fact last night, Counselor." Riley leaned forward, planting his elbows on either side of his plate.

Amos Harker paused as he scooped eggs into his plate. "And?" he prompted then asked Jamie to pass him the ham.

"This man Cartwright breeds loyalty the way other folks do chickens. I don't understand how he does it. He just does. He adopted Jamie down there and you may as well say that he adopted ol' Candy here too since he seems to be more than the Ponderosa foreman. Griff there beside you, well, he's still bein' worked on but my guess is that he'd admit to some feelin's of attachment. And me? I ain't so sure but I'll tell you this, I want to be around with this finally shakes out. Does that answer your question?"

Forking in his eggs, the lawyer nodded. He reached for his cup, ready to wash them down.

"You recognize any of the fellas who did this to you?" Griff asked, handing the man the platter of flapjacks he requested.

"Well, they weren't dumb enough to show me their faces, if that's what you mean. Had bandannas over them but I got a good look at their boots. Particularly," he rubbed one side gingerly, "the one that connected with my middle. That should be sufficient since most of the men around here only own one pair of boots!"

A restrained chuckle circled the table as the attorney continued, eating and talking at the same time. "Yes, they seemed to think that I was stupid to take on this case. Didn't have the heart to tell them they were the stupid ones. And their timing was awful since I had just come from a meeting with the county judge. Oh, he'll be here in two days and we'll have us a formal meeting with him, Judge Long, the sheriff--you know, all the good folks of Litchfield." The sarcasm in his voice produced an exasperated sigh from the widow Cunningham.

"You mean like a trial?" asked Jamie, handing the rotund man the biscuits and honey.

"No, young man, like a hearing. Judge Taylor, that's his name, is going to listen to the reasons why we want the first trial set aside. Appealed is the term we in the profession use. If the reasons are good enough, he'll tell us so and let us have a new trial for your pa. We don't need a whole lot of evidence. Doc's testimony should be enough."

"So all the other stuff that we have found out doesn't count?" To Griff it sounded like he was saying that they had wasted their time.

"Oh no! We'll need every bit of what's come up for the second trial. And some luck too, if I've not missed my guess. But," Harker waited until all eyes were on him before he went on, "I'm thinking that Phil Long isn't going to want this to come to trial. He has men, men like Jim Warner and Quinn Robbins on his payroll. Their good hands, is my understanding, but they have a more than passing acquaintance with firearms. Like you gents, I am sure they can handle a pistol. The question then becomes not one of right and wrong, but who is the better shot. I hope that loyalty you spoke of, Marshal, covers ducking as well as throwing lead."

"Are you ready for this?" Joe's expression showed his father his own doubts. The day before, the doctor had suggested that Ben be allowed to sit up in a chair for a while. With his enforced inactivity, Ben felt as weak as a kitten yet felt able to hide it from others. From Joe he had no such reprieve. Now the moment had come to test it. He nodded slowly.

Joe had helped him into a robe that Missus Cunningham had said belonged to her late husband and it was a close fit. After struggling to get it around his shoulders, Ben'd had to lay back in his pillows to regroup. Joe moved the chair closer to the side of the bed then stood, hands on hips, a challenging question in his eyes. Finally Ben croaked out that he was ready. With his son's help, he was able to come to a full sitting position and Joe moved his father's legs over the side of the bed. Ben gripped Joe's arms ferociously when he became light-headed.

"It's okay. Just take shallow breaths, Pa. It'll pass." Joe could feel the tremor going through his father's body. Through the fabric of his shirtsleeve, he felt his father's forehead dampen with a sudden cold sweat as Ben pressed his head against his son. "Want to keep on?" he asked softly, concern his overriding emotion but the look in his father's eyes as he knelt before him said that it had to be done.

As gently as he could, he helped him to stand. Joe heard the caught breath and could feel how tense his father's body became. Joe turned slowly and using his own strength, lowered him into the chair. Looking down, he could see how white Ben's face was, the cold sweat of pain now shining across his brow clearly.

Holding out the glass of water from the nightstand, Joe wordlessly offered it to his father. Ben took it but his hand trembled so that he had to have his son's help with it. When he'd had enough, Joe set it aside and again knelt as his father's knee. He tried to smile but it came out more like a grimace.

"You okay? Not gonna pass out on me, are you?" teased the son, smiling up into his father's face.

"No." The single word was soft and half-strangled.

"Good. Don't think I could get you back into bed on my own. Hell, I think I'd need Riley and Candy both. You still dizzy?"

"Some…passing…how'd you know?" The words were spaced, breathy in quality.

"Been there a time or two myself, remember? Gettin' up that first time after you been down for a while- mighty tricky. You don't go slow, you wind up with one of your brothers fussin' at you while you look at the carpet real close." Seeing his father smile for the first time, Joe went on. "Yes indeed. Now Hoss, he was always real careful 'bout such things. Concerned, guess you'd say. He'd fuss and fume a little but then scoop you up and plop you into bed. With brother Adam, it was a whole different story." His father's raised brow begged Joe to continue. "Adam never had any truck with foolishness but then of course you know that since you raised him that way." Both brows shot nearly into his father's white hair. "You know you did, so don't be givin' me that look. Only one time did I ever wind up like that when Adam was home. 'Member when that mescalero put buckshot in my back? Don't know where you were when I tried getting out of bed for the first time but I know where Adam was. Oh Lordy, do I know where he was! You ever realized how big his feet are? Well they are, trust me, 'cause I watched them come across the floor at me then they just stood there, one of them pattin' the floor real irritated like. Next thing I know he's hoistin' me up like a sack of potatoes and slinging me back into bed."

Was it the story Joe told or was it the way he told it? Ben decided that it didn't matter. For just those few moments it took to tell, Ben was back to other times, more happier times, when his house was full of sons. He thought if he listened really hard, he would be able to bring the sound of their voices back, their shouting, their laughter. He wondered for the millionth time what Adam would say upon meeting his new brother Jamie. Would Jamie idolize him the same way he often did Joe? The way Joe had Adam when they were younger? Ben hoped to find out some day.

            "Were…good…brothers," Ben said, watching the green eyes in front him.

            Joe's smile softened. "They still are, Pa. Jamie too. But then we all had one thing in common --a good father. Maybe that's what it takes to be good brothers, you think?"

            The shoulders before him were wider than years ago. The hair was graying quickly but still curled unruly. And the chest was deeper, more muscular. But the boy was still in the eyes of the man that knelt before Ben. He reached out to that boy and let a father's loving hand touch the shoulder. It was a man's hand that covered his own.

            "It's going to be all right, Pa. Trust me."

            Jamie watched from the doorway as Joe got their father back into the bed, now made up with fresh linens. His father settled once more into the pillows propping him up and Jamie could see the strain on his face. He desperately wanted to do the same sort of things Joe was doing for their father but Joe was shutting him out. It hurt. Deep inside, it hurt. While he could find no logical reason why, he felt that his brother was once again drawing a line between being related by blood and being adopted. Did Joe realize he was monopolizing Pa? Did he care that Jamie needed to be there at his father's side? Feeling left out, Jamie turned silently to leave.

            "Hey, Jamie," Joe called to his back and the boy half turned. His brother was motioning him into the room.

            Fearful lest he jostle his father, Jamie sat on the edge of the bed. He tried smiling for Ben but felt that it was forced, strained, so he stopped.

            Ben saw the look on his youngest son's face. When he had stood at the door, he had been hopeful. Once he had come into the room, he became afraid, apprehensive and now, there was the smile that had come and gone in a heartbeat. Whether he knew it or not, Ben figured, Jamie needed him.

            "Joe?" rasped Ben to get his attention. When Joe quit tucking in the quilt around his father's legs and looked at him, Ben's hand gently but firmly dismissed him.

            The same fear that Ben had seen on Jamie's face so plainly, shot through Joseph's eyes but then disappeared when he claimed he had to get his father's breakfast. Ben prayed that Joe understood. After all, he had been that boy in need of a father once. Perhaps he still is, Ben thought as he watched him walk away and closed the door softly behind him.

            He turned his attention to his son and patted the bed nearer to him. It pleased him that Jamie shrugged and smiled, his nose wrinkling as he then slid closer. There was something so much like an innocent puppy about him that Ben did what came naturally do him. He reached out and gently pulled the boy to his side.

            "I don't want to hurt you, Pa." The words, the concerns, were edged with tears.

            "Can't…'less you stay away."

            "I've wanted to be here every minute, Pa. I know I ain't as strong as Joe but I can help you. Been listenin' to what the doctor says and I can be here for you. Same as Joe can." The words tumbled out, chased by tears. Jamie levered himself back, looking into his father's face, striving to show him that he was ready for adult responsibilities. "It ain't fair, Pa. He sends me off to Red Bluff with Candy. Gone almost four days! Said we needed to get the bill of sale for the horse. Four days, Pa! Then when I get back, he shuts the door on me. Sends me to bed."

            Ben listened to the rant, knowing it had nothing to do with what Jamie was actually feeling. Part of Ben wished Joseph was in the room right that minute so that he could hear his brother's words. They might have been Joseph's at one time and Ben wondered how he would feel hearing Jamie speak them. However, the father in him knew that Jamie would not have unburdened himself with his brother present so he relished the fact that they were alone together. He sought for a few words, for his throat pained him to speak and the doctor had warned about trying it out too much. Ben wondered to himself if the doctor had children.

            Finally, when Jamie stumbled to a halt, Ben took the boy's face in his hands to hold his eyes. "Help me."

            Instantly the boy became alive but Ben held him fast. "Help him." Jamie sagged, confusion swirling about him but Ben continued and said two more words. "Joe's scared."

            "Joe's scared?" echoed Jamie yet his words were full of doubt when Ben's had been rife with certainty. "Joe ain't scared, Pa. Nothin' scares him."

            The raised brow look that the father gave the son asked him to reassess his statement. Dropping back to sit at his father's side, Jamie nonetheless stayed close.

            "You think Joe's scared? Why would Joe be afraid?" Jamie let the rest of his thoughts, the unspoken words, his doubts, linger in the air. "Same as me? Afraid?"

            "More."

            He took a deep breath and tried to think of his brother as being afraid, or even more afraid than he was, but Jamie couldn't fathom it. He longed for his father to be able to talk to him, to tell him what he meant but it wasn't possible. Maybe, Jamie thought, maybe if I talk about it, he can help me anyway. 

            "I was scared, Pa. When that man on the stage said that you had been hung for bein' a horsethief, I was scared spitless. And I was mad because I thought Joe hadn't told me the truth. That he had run off, thinkin' that he could save you and he hadn't. Guess you heard that he and I got into a bit of a ruckus the night I got here. Well, maybe I should say that I got into a ruckus. Joe never raised a hand to me but I walloped him good!" Jamie laughed a little, remembering the startled look on Joe's face when he had bashed him in the jaw. "Don't worry, Pa. I don't think I'll be takin' him on again any time soon. He promised me when I did, he'd take me outside and pound me into the ground." Jamie smiled at the memory. "'Course he also said something about being in trouble with you for doing it. Can't see you takin' a strap to Joe." Jamie was surprised to see his father's expression that said he had done so a time or two in Joe's past. "I mean now that he's a man." At the last word, Jamie paused. Suddenly he couldn't hold his father's gaze any longer. "That's why I don't think Joe's afraid, Pa. He's a man. I'm a kid. Kids are allowed to be scared. I didn't mean that adults can't be scared by something, they just don't show it." Again Jamie halted but this time because he suddenly understood what his father would have told him. He nodded as if to himself then looked again into Ben's deep brown eyes. "I see what you mean, now. Maybe he is afraid. Maybe more than me since so much is on him now, ain't it? That's what you meant when you said that to help you I should help Joe."

            Ben's chin dipped once, and he smiled. He knew Jamie was a smart young man, just beginning to understand what being an adult was truly all about. Some lessons Life taught a man, he knew; others he learned from his parents but the lessons that stayed with a man the longest were the ones he taught himself. Jamie had just taught himself an important lesson: It was okay to be fearful, even as an adult.

            "Well, why's he got to be so pigheaded about it?" With a gusty sigh, Jamie shifted over to the side of the bed, unintentionally jostling Ben. Apologies erupted when his father gasped in pain and he started to return to the chair but Ben seized his arm and pulled him back. Gently, cautiously he eased back down.

            "But, Pa," he whispered, his chin beginning to tremble, "I'm still scared."            

            Like warm wax, Jamie melted to rest his head on his father's shoulder. With his arm wrapping around the slim body, Ben held his son, listening to the nearly silent crying. Jamie had to get it out and perhaps, Ben thought, he needed to have his father to help him. He hoped so.

            Joe pushed the door open with his foot, balancing the tray with its bowl of oatmeal and hot tea in his hands. Seeing his brother's head on his father's shoulder, Joe opened his eyes wide and was about to say something when Ben waved him in but put his finger across his lips to ask for silence. Joe walked on into the room and sat the tray down on the sideboard. A glance showed him that Jamie had fallen asleep. He reached for him, to pull him away, sure that his father's injuries were not being improved by this. But Ben pushed Joe's hands away.

            "Okay," he whispered and scratched his head. "As long as he's not hurting you any." Joe smiled tightly and started to turn away but stopped when he heard his name called.

            "I need…my…boys." Ben tapped the coverlet on the other side of the bed from Jamie. "All of 'em."

            "That's two matches to you, Canaday." Riley held his cards close to his chest as he laid the wooden sticks out onto the tabletop. Another one was stuck between his teeth.

            Candy looked at the five cards in his hand and squinted one eye nearly closed. Then he made his decision. "There's your two and I raise you two. Missus Cunningham, that's four matches to stay in the game."

            The little woman looked at her cards, slowly spreading them in her hand. Lifting her chin, she surveyed the pile of matches in the center of the kitchen table. "There's the four and I raise you one more."

            "Too rich for my blood," and Griff threw his cards down but picked up his glass of lemonade.

            Riley counted out the matches in his pile. He was short one. "Don't suppose I could get a loan. I seem to be a little shy."

            "Nope," the widow chirped. "If you can't make the bet, you're out of the game. And you ain't using the one you been picking your teeth with neither! 'Sides, ain't got no more in the house."

            "Guess that leaves you and me, ma'am," Candy hooted. "To see what I got, you'll have to lay out four more. What about it?" His four matches gathered with the others in the center pot.

            Again, she studied her cards then, eyes narrowing, she slid four more matches into the pile. "And I raise you two more." They also went into the pot.

            Now it was Candy's turn to consider his cards and his dwindling pile of matches. He had a decent hand, he thought. Two pair, eights and tens. But the lady had proven herself to be a fair poker player that afternoon and had the little piles of matches in front of her that proved it. He twisted his mouth to the side as he thought.

            "Come on, Candy. We ain't got all day. I got to be starting supper soon."

            He took a deep breath and held it then tossed three matches into the pot. "There's your two and I raise you another one."

            She stayed calm but counted her matches, sliding a considerable pile into the pot. "There's your one and I raise you ten."

            Candy shook his head. He didn't have the ten he needed. "Griff, loan me some?"

            Griff turned him down, a smile making him look younger and younger the wider it got.

            "That's it then. I fold. It's all yours, Missus Cunningham."

            The little woman nearly jumped for joy and raked the pile of matches back towards her.

            "Wait a minute!" Riley spoke quickly. "Let's see what you had!"

            Grinning, she showed them. A pair of nines. "You boys want to play for real money?"

            The no's were vehement as the men backed away from the table. The boardinghouse mistress was fairly cackling.

            Joe came into the kitchen just in time to see the game breaking up. "Who's the big winner? Should I take him on for some serious poker?"

            Candy, slipping by him and headed out the back door, clapped him on the shoulder. "Do me a favor," he said then glanced back at the woman. "Don't play with her. You'd wind up betting the Ponderosa and I would wind up working for her. Guaranteed."

            "Bring me in some water, would you, Candy?" she called and smiled down at all her matchsticks. "How about it, Joe? Want to play for real?'

            "No ma'am. At one time I would have taken you on, but I learned my lessons about playing poker," he claimed.

            Riley hastened through the back door. "Where is everyone?" he asked curtly.

            "We got company?" Joe shot back, catching the tenor of the lawman's question.

            "Yeah, there's two men in the trees by the barn. Another two on the street side of the house. Think I also saw a couple windows open in the warehouse next door. Miz Cunningham, this might be a real good time for you to go visit someone else."

            She harrumphed just once. "What are you sayin', Marshal? You think there's gonna be a play made to take Mister Cartwright? The other boys?"

            Joe slipped over to stand before the little woman. He put his hands gently on her shoulders and drew her attention from Riley to himself. "We don't want you to get hurt. If things start to get bad here, we'd all feel better if we knew you were safe somewhere."

            She looked up into his earnest face and made a face back at him. "This is my home, young man. Lived here for almost forty years. My husband built it, built it strong. I'm not leavin'. Would like you all to help put my mirrors and breakables in the cellar before they start shootin', though."

            "Missus Cunningham," Joe pulled on her shoulders and tugged on her, trying to make her see what might happen. "Please, for all of us. Leave while you have the chance."

            The gray-haired woman began to dig into her apron pocket and finally finding what she was after, elbowed Joe's restraining hands aside. Her hands were shaking a little but she did it with pride; she pinned on her deputy marshal's badge to her bodice.

            "There's good men out there who wouldn't shoot at one of these, 'specially on a woman. I know. I used to give 'em cookies and such when they was growin' up here in this town." She sniffed but still stood ramrod straight.

            "But there's also men out there who don't care about shootin' at a badge or a woman. That's why Joe's right. You need to leave, ma'am." Griff took up the cause.

            Just then Jamie slipped into the kitchen. "Just thought you might want to know that the deputy guardin' the front door left and didn't come back. I saw across the street that some men are gatherin'."

            Both Riley and Joe hissed an expletive under their breath. "You help Missus Cunningham, Jamie. Since they can see inside the house, make it look like your cleaning or something," Joe suggested. "Griff, you slip out to the barn and bring in our rifles hidden in bedrolls. There's a box of ammunition in one of my saddle bags, bring it but don't let them see you doin' it."

            "There's extra ammunition in mine as well," Riley spoke up from where he stood, rolling the chamber of his revolver down his arm, checking the loads. "Also another Colt."

            "I need your help with something, Marshal," Joe said softly as the woman and Jamie slipped from the room.

            "It ain't dark enough now to get your pa out of the house without bein' seen," warned Riley while he adjusted the holster on his leg, tying it down expertly.

            "That's not what I meant. I need you to help me when the lead starts. I've got no idea if you can hit the broad side of a barn." Riley's snort didn't stop him. Joe plunged on. "Listen I know lawmen that handle trouble with a shotgun. Not for the impact but because it gives them a better chance of hitting something. I also know lawmen that were once outlaws and can knock off the head of a flying sparrow at dusk from fifty yards. Which are you, Riley?"

            There it was: the flat out challenge in Cartwright's voice. Riley looked at the man and considered how he would answer him. His gut churned and he considered just walking away and not replying but then pride, and honesty, pushed him to the edge. The memory of an equally bold Chad Cooper made him take the step.

            "I've been on both sides of the law, Cartwright. I don't carry a shotgun. I use a Winchester repeater because I can hit the broad side of your daddy's barn. This Colt I wear, I use as a close in weapon but I prefer not to look a man in the eye when I kill him. But don't think of me as a coward. Last man who did that found out different." Riley's words were edged with something Joe couldn't put a finger on but they sounded harsh.

            "But you carry that Bowie knife. Never saw a man killed with a knife that wasn't close enough to hear him breathe his last."

            Joe's words were no more that out of his mouth when the knife flashed by his face and buried itself in the door frame not an inch from his head. Keeping his eye on Riley, he reached back and removed it, noting that it had sunk almost an inch of its tip in the woodwork. He thought of throwing it back since just the thought of what Riley had done made him angry. Instead, he laid it on the kitchen table.

            "I don't think of you as a coward, Riley, but I have gotten the feeling that you are hiding something. Something that haunts your past. Something that might make you pause at the wrong time. I don't want that something making trouble now." Without waiting for his answer, Joe pushed his way around the marshal and into the dining room.

            Candy returned to find the kitchen empty. Shrugging, he put the pail of water on the counter and made his way further into the house. In the nick of time, he helped Missus Cunningham and Jamie set the heavy oaken frame hutch mirror on the floor. She thanked him for his help then motioned for Jamie to follow her into the parlor.

            "What's up?" he asked. Before anyone could answer him a pounding came to the front door. Candy opened the door and found a flush faced Amos Harker on the porch, profusely sweating. He didn't wait to be invited in, nearly running Candy down in his effort to get behind the closed door.

            "Marshal! " the little rotund lawyer squealed. "There's talk in town you need to hear 'bout!"

            Coming up silently behind him, Riley's soft voice scared the other even more. "Talk 'bout what?"

            "Phil Long, Jim Warner and Quinn Robbins. They've been talkin' about how long this is dragging out. Warner in particular has gotten a good many folks riled. The sheriff has tried talking to 'em but they ain't listening. Long's whiskey and beer talk louder. And the one word they keep saying is lynching. Not just the old man but all of you in here." Harker didn't speak, he gushed, the words tumbling out as fast as he could form them.

            "Thank you for the warning, Mister Harker. Now iffen I was you, I think I'd head out of town." Riley stepped out of the way so that Harker could pass.

            The lawyer stayed put. "Marshal, is Catherine leaving?" Riley studied the floor a moment then looked back into the man's eyes, made larger yet by his thick glasses. "Then neither am I. I'm not such a good shot but I can load rifles and handguns, if it comes down to shooting. But the thing I'm best at is using words. When the time comes, will you let me try first?"

            There was such sincerity in the little round man that Riley felt he had to give in to him. If bloodshed was to be avoided at all, this fellow might be the one to pull it off. The other men in the room with him, Candy, Griff and Joe, the marshal knew didn't seek violence as a means of settling this affair but they wouldn't shrink and hide when it came knocking at their door either.

            "Mister Harker," Candy caught the man's attention with his soft call. "Lot's of times the man who stands out front to talk is the first one shot. You want to risk that?"

            Amos Harker paled noticeably but straightened after a brief pause. "Well, maybe someone out there will listen. And it will be worth something." He gulped and swallowed audibly. "With Sheriff Carpenter out there talking sense and me in here talking sense, maybe there won't be any shooting."

            "We don't want any shooting, Mister Harker. We want a fair trial, where we can present our side of the story, show that same jury the evidence we have. And we want it in front of an impartial judge." After he was finished, Joe Cartwright turned back to the table where a veritable arsenal was laid out.

            "One of you want to make sure I can load these right?" The attorney pulled out a chair and sat down, reaching for a pearl-handled revolver. "And Catherine, a cup of coffee and some pie would be real nice too."

            Throughout the afternoon, outside the house, men gathered in ones and twos. All of them were armed. Inside the house, similar preparations were being made. The most likely time for this festering wound to burst open would be just at sunset. Then, because the front of the house faced west, those inside would be at their greatest disadvantage with the sun in their eyes.

            The diminutive widow cooked a light supper and forced the men to eat it. She cajoled, threatened and pointed to her badge. She shook her finger under noses and poked broad chests until every last bit of what she had prepared was gone. With a proprietary sniff, she made Marshal Riley help her clear the table and carry the dirty dishes to her sink.

            "Need more water to wash m'dishes. There's the bucket."

            "I'll get Griff-" he began but she cut him short. Pushing the bucket into his hands, she glared fiercely at him.

            "Didn't your mother ever teach you nuthin'?" She poked her face up at his, her chin leading the way.

            "I was raised by Commanche Indians, Miz Cunningham. Totin' water was squaw's work. But considerin' that you are the chief here, maybe I should just go get your water." He winked at her. Her delighted girlish giggle followed him.

            At the well, while he pulled up a bucket of water, Riley took the opportunity to study the surrounding yard, outbuildings and more importantly, the thin line of trees a hundred yards behind the house. There in the shadows, he could see several men lounging about. His sharp ears picked up the clink of a bottle being thrown and broken.

            Good,  he thought, a drunk doesn't aim as well as a sober man.   He hoisted the bucket and headed back into the house. On the side of the house closest to the warehouse, he saw two men but there was movement in the warehouse at the window. He juggled the bucket to his other hand and saw the three men on the opposite side of the house, lingering beneath the huge old tree there.

            Once inside the house, he gave her the water and waving aside her demands, called out for Candy.

            "Yeah? Think maybe we should do something about the upstairs windows, huh? You're right, Marshal; we can't guard them and they could get a man through one of them from the warehouse." Candy scratched the rising hairs on the back of his neck. "Griff and I'll go move some furniture."

            Riley returned to the kitchen when he heard scraping sounds overhead that said something very heavy was being moved. When the widow looked up sharply at the sound, Riley patted her shoulder and smiled down into her faintly worried face. "Don't worry," he claimed. "I make them put it all back right when this is over."

            "Actually," she huffed and handed him a towel to dry the dishes. "I been wanting to rearrange things up there and never had the strength to do it. My, I do hope I had dusted under those beds."

            "So, that's the lay of things right now, Pa," explained Joe. "We're gonna let Mister Harker talk things out but if they try to use force, we'll meet it. We're not backing down." He leveled his gaze at his father. "If I can, I'll try to get you on a horse and get you out of here."

            "No!" The strength of the word surprised both men but Ben recovered first and continued. "Not run away."

            "We're not running away. Let's try escaping to safety until the trial day after tomorrow." Joe knew as soon as he had uttered the thought that his father would disagree but he'd had to try. His next move he would not be talked out of so easily. From his waistband, he pulled the long barreled Colt that Marshal Riley'd had in his saddlebag. He handed it to Jamie and, as he expected, saw his father's eyes widen and his face darken.

            "Not open for discussion, Pa. Jamie, you got the toughest job of any man here. Anyone, and I do mean anyone, that comes through that door that you don't recognize instantly, shoot 'em." Jamie hefted the gun in his hand, feeling how heavy it was. "Don't think about aiming at a leg or an arm. They're going to be shooting at you too so you need to shoot to kill. Maybe you ought to put on that deputy badge again. Make whoever it is think for a second. That'd give you an edge."

            Jamie paled and gulped convulsively when his brother had told him to shoot to kill. "I think I could wing 'em. Slow 'em down long enough for you or the Marshal, or-"

            "No, Jamie. If they get this far, none of us out there are going to be able to help you. You understand what I'm telling you?"

            The younger man dropped his head, the weight of his brother's words crushing him. "I-I understand," he said, his voice shaking.

            "Good, now can I have a minute alone with Pa?" Once Jamie had left the room, Joe turned his attention back to his father. God, Pa looks old. Tired too. "I've done all I can do, Pa, with the exception of getting you out of here. That offer still holds. Until the first shot then we have to stick it out here. Please, Pa?"

            The 'no' Ben said this time was gentler and Joe hung his head sadly. When he looked back up he saw his father struggling to sit up more in the bed.

            "Give… me…Jamie's…gun. Protect…"

            "I would give you another gun but we're a little short on firearms. This is a boardinghouse, not the Ponderosa!" Joe tried a laugh but it died quickly. "No, Jamie keeps that one. For once, Pa, let us, your sons, protect you. There's four of us out there. We're going to take a lot of men with us if it comes to that. I want Jamie in here with you. That way, you'll both have a chance."

            Ben listened to the words his son spoke but he heard other things there too. The words he used were clipped, short words that betrayed his underlying fear. His poor attempt at humor clearly revealed his nervousness even though Ben saw that his hands were steady. And the fact that as he spoke, Joe didn't look his father in the eye, seemingly more intent on the floor, exposed the shame he felt at what he thought he had to do.

            It was a hard place for a man's son to be, Ben considered. Yet here he'd unwittingly put both his sons in this fight to prove his innocence. For a few brief moments he thought about the offer Joe had made to help him escape. But the sanctuary he would have sought would have been for his sons, not himself. They would've left good men behind, Candy, Griff, the marshal, Harker and dear Mrs. Cunningham to their fates. With no assurances that they wouldn't pay with their very lives, Ben couldn't have left. Not even to protect his sons would he have left innocent people at the hands of an angry town. For not the first time, Ben regretted ever leaving Red Bluff in a hurry to meet Candy and Griff and take the handsome black stallion home to the Ponderosa. He had made a mistake and now not only his friends but his sons were about to die because of it. There was only way he could stop what he felt was a needless massacre. He would give himself over to the gathering mob and pray that his sons would be left alone. Better my death, he thought, than theirs.

            The hand gentle on his face brought him back from the brink of his decision. He saw the struggle in Joe's eyes, now bright with threatening tears. He covered his son's hand with his own, grasping it firmly, holding it against his face.

            "Cartwright!" Riley's voice rasped out sharply. "We got men headed towards the house. Come on." He didn't wait to see if Joe followed him but pulled his head back through the doorway, leaving the door partially open.

            Joe's eyes squeezed tightly closed and he gathered himself together, sure in his heart that this would be the last time he would see his father this side of Heaven. There suddenly became so many things he wanted to tell his father but there wasn't enough time. If he'd had a hundred years, he couldn't have said all he wanted to say.

            Ready to withstand any pain it may cost him, Ben slipped his hand around to his son's neck and pulled him to his chest for one last moment. For father and son, no other words were needed.

            As Joe finally walked away from his father, he squared his shoulders, his hand grasped his holstered Colt and the muscles in his jaw tightened. He didn't, he couldn't, look back.

            The shout from the tiny yard in front of the boardinghouse caught their attention. "Give us the old man and the cowboys and the rest of you can go free!"

            "That's Phil Long. I'd recognize his whiney voice any where," Mrs. Cunningham spat, her lip wrinkling in disgust.

            Portly Amos Harker tugged on his waistcoat and swallowed the last of his coffee. "Guess this is where I earn my fees," and then he stepped boldly passed Griff and onto the dark porch.

            "Judge, I don't know why you're doing this. Day after tomorrow, Judge Taylor from up to Susanville will be down here. He's gonna hear the case now that it's being appealed. All you have to do is be patient for another 48 hours." The men inside the house marveled at the fact that the attorney's voice was strong, calm, in what had to be the face of ten armed men.

            "We've been patient way too long as it is! The man in there was found guilty by a court of law, sentenced to hang. Those other two defied the law when they broke him free." Long's shout was directed as much at the men in the house as it was the gathering behind him in the growing sunset.

            "Justice must be served, Judge. You know that! You know that Ben Cartwright is entitled to appeal his case and he's done so. If you hang him now, you aren't serving Justice but vengeance."

            "Get out of the way Harker or collect yourself some lead. We ain't waitin' round for another trial." That shouted threat belonged to another voice that Mrs. Cunningham identified as Jim Warner's.

            In a flash of inspiration, the attorney shouted "Then let's have another trial. Right here, tonight. Now! We'll forego the jury. Make Mike Carpenter the presiding judge. You, Long, prosecute."

            A low grumbling could be heard from outside the house. Inside, crouched beside windows with weapons drawn, everyone held their breath, praying.

            "I will not have the law made a mockery of, Harker," Long hissed, his words full of contempt. "Now get out of the way."

            "Then you all need to know that inside is a U.S. Marshal and two of his deputies. They uphold the law. You men ready to shoot a U.S. Marshal just because Phil Long is anxious?" Harker challenged and through the crack in the door, Joe could see him, his thumbs hooked in the pockets of his vest and rocking back on his heels.

            When there came more mutterings and they grew louder, Harker put both hands clasped behind his back and paced in front of the door, the fading sun highlighting his round figure. "Yep. Three badges in there and a heap of bullets. Some of you fellas won't make it home tonight if you try to go through with this lynchin'. Others of you will meet the same fate, the same noose maybe for this little get-together. At the very least, you'll do time in a prison somewhere. These U.S. marshals, well they don't take killing of one another very lightly and since no one will know for sure whose bullet it was that killed any of 'em in there…" He let his voice trail off suggestively. "And, no, I won't be defending any of you. And you'll have to find an accommodating judge like Phil Long here.  Judge Long won't be 'round to help you 'cause there's a man in there who's main job it will be to shoot you down, Long, when the first one out here fires a gun. I've watched him over the past few days and the way he handles a gun…well, I'm betting you won't even see the dirt you land in, Long."

            "He's bluffing. He's trying to scare you all off." For the first time, Long's voice wasn't sounding so strong and certain.

            "Phil, Jim, Red, you all ever know me to play poker? And why not? 'Cause I can't bluff. Same thing here. You want to take Ben Cartwright, Mister Canaday and Mister King, tonight, without a trial, and string them up, you come right ahead. But remember what I said about that bullet aimed at you, Long. We'll be waiting."

            The lawyer unhooked his thumbs and boldly turned his back to re-enter the house. Once inside the darkening entranceway, he pulled out his bandanna and wiped the sweat off his face. With his knees trembling, he had to lean against the wall just to stand.

            "Mighty fine words, Amos Harker," Mrs. Cunningham regarded the man and patted his shoulder. "Think they'll go for any of them?"

            The answer came as a bullet broke a front window.

            "You know, Cartwright, " Riley yelled as he smashed the rest of the window out and began firing. "We ain't got but one chance in Hell in coming through this without one of us killed. You know that don't you?" He looked into the parlor where he could see the other man's pistol blazing.

            "I'll take it!" Joe shouted back. From overhead, he could hear Candy's rifle barking. Behind him, came the even steady paced firing of Griff. Just inside the dining room door, he could just make out where Mrs. Cunningham was reloading guns by just the light of a single candle. Too few of us, Joe thought again. Too many windows. Sure we shoved furniture in front of most of 'em but there are just too many to cover. Should have tried to get Pa into the cellar but there wasn't room for him there.

            In the growing darkness outside, the men had scattered, taking refuge behind whatever they could find there on the street. Back of the house, the men there had advanced to the edge of the small stable but couldn't get clear shots into the house because of the angle. Once the men in the warehouse realized that they were not hitting anything other than walnut armoires, headboards and bureaus, they joined the men in front of the house. The two men on the opposite side of the house stayed put down next to the huge oak tree. Judge Long had been plain about what he wanted them to do. When he gave the signal, they were to sneak towards the house and gain access through any window they could. Like the upstairs on the warehouse side, the windows there had been blocked and to everyone outside that said one thing: a helpless target lay behind that barricade.

            Amos Harker had gone upstairs with Candy. Unfamiliar with firearms, he said he could at least keep Candy supplied with loaded weapons. He had just handed Candy a loaded revolver when he heard him grunt and duck below the window. Harker could see by the waning light that Candy had been hit, a bloody streak slashed across his forearm. The lawyer scooted across the carpet and although his hands shook, he tied his bandanna around the wound.

            "Can you still shoot?" Harker asked as another round of fire came through the window over his head.

            "Can't see much of the street. Trees're in the way. Go down stairs. Come on." Candy gathered two revolvers into his hands but Harker took one back. For a split second, both men glared at one another, Candy's blue eyes boring into the lawyer's large ones.

             "Your arm," the little attorney gestured. "You can't carry both. I can carry one and the ammunition."

            Candy grinned. "Just remember, if you have to, pull the trigger nice and easy. Don't jerk it. And make sure when we're going down the steps that you have it pointed at the floor, okay?"

            Together they scurried down the stairs and slipped into the parlor. Amos slipped over beside the widow and set down the box of ammunition then handed the loaded gun back to Candy with a faint tremble to his hand.

            "Couldn't get an angle upstairs," Candy explained as he and Joe shared the same window for a few shots. Then Joe slipped to the window beside the front door.

            Another series of shots peppered the house, breaking windows, thudding into the thick walls and in general making the men within duck. Riley, the man closest to the door, levered another round into his rifle chamber and, laying the barrel on the broken sill before him, squeezed off a shot that took a man in the street down. As he cranked another round into the gun, he saw Candy take a bullet and he went down, clutching his right hand. Harker bellyflopped onto the floor and slithered towards Candy, another revolver in his hand. As Riley watched, Candy sat back up and shifted his gun to his left hand. He poured more fire into the street. Beside him, Amos Harker also began firing.

            Tough man, Riley thought, seeing Candy switch gun-hands. Just like ol Reese…Riley shoved that memory aside but it came back. Another shot and Candy was on the floor. God, no! the marshal's mind screamed and he returned to firing. He wasn't sure from moment to moment if he was in the canyon or in the boardinghouse. With shots screaming by him, he just continued to fire.

            Catherine Cunningham's hands trembled as she sat in the dining room doorway loading weapons then sliding them across the floor to the men. She saw Candy go down but was scared to go to him, to help him. To her surprise, Amos took Candy's place, keeping up a steady barrage of gunfire. Amos slid an empty revolver back to her but it stopped short. Laying low, one of the marshal's Winchesters still in her hand, she scooted over to retrieve it. Before she got to it, a hail of bullets again slammed into the house. In the falling light, she saw a bullet smash into the wall of her parlor, taking out one of her grandmother's sconces that had stayed fixed to the wall.

            "By God," she hissed, "that's been in my family three generations!" Incensed now, she got to her knees beside Amos and pulled the trigger on the Winchester. Although the recoil pushed her hard back into the parlor, she pulled the trigger again and saw a man go down across the street. Thinking that it had been her effort that had put the man down, she pursed her lips and let loose another shot.

            Outside, the rapidly falling darkness gave the men there more cover. Long, breathing heavily from his place behind a crate, urged the men forward. He himself would stay behind but the men, their thoughts only of the bounty Long had offered for the men inside the house, surged forward, closing the distance.

            When Riley saw Candy go down, he had screamed for Griff, stationed at the back of the house to come forward. There was no reply so the marshal again called out.

            "I'm down!" Griff's strangled cry finally came. "I've been hit!"

            Two down, Riley counted. Damn fool kid. Should have locked him in with old man Cartwright. He turned to where he had last seen Cartwright. Joe wasn't there. Another surge of gunfire swept over the house and Riley was forced to take shelter again behind the heavy oak door. As he knelt there, he touched a hand that was wet with what Riley knew to be blood. Quickly, hand over hand in the darkness, he felt his way up the body, finding the source of the blood to be a large gushing wound in the man's shoulder. He knew that the body belonged to Joe Cartwright.

            "Stop your firing!" came the shout from outside. There in the street, still mounted on two winded horses, were the Litchfield sheriff and another man. "This is Judge Linwood Taylor. He's the circuit court judge. There will be no more of this tonight or I will arrest the next man who pulls a gun. Do you hear me?"

            "That's Mike Carpenter," Catherine Cunningham exclaimed and yanked her finger from the trigger of the rifle she held. Glancing to her side, she saw Amos Harker, his eyes wide and his face white. "Let go of your gun, Amos," she whispered but when the little man hadn't, she took it away from him and scowled.

            "We'll put our guns down if they will," she shouted into the dark.

            In the street, beyond the blowing horses, a torch was lit and by its light, men came forward and under the glare and muzzle of the sheriff's shotgun, laid down their weapons. Following their example, Mrs. Cunningham lit the remaining wall sconce candle in the parlor and tossed the revolver that lay beside Candy's still form out onto the porch. Her own rifle followed it and Harker tossed out his weapon as well.

            "We got men hurt in here, Sheriff. I'd 'preciate it if you'd send for the doctor," the widow called out, looking down at Candy. She turned, suddenly shaking. There behind her, Marshal Riley was kneeling on the floor.

Although badly wounded, Joe moaned, fighting to remain conscious. He tried to rise but Riley easily pushed him back onto the bloody floor.

"Guess you're gonna have to wait for that beatin' I owe you," Joe wheezed to the marshal. But even as the taunt left him, Joe's grin faded as he slipped into unconsciousness.

With Cartwright now gently lifted into his massive arms, the lawman started to rise but fell back to his knees instead. He looked across the floor to where Harker was trying to staunch the flow of blood from a wound in Candy's shoulder. A glimpse down the hallway showed him where Griff lay against a wall, his body motionless in the deep shadows there. As Mrs. Cunningham watched, the rugged face of Riley had softened then she saw his expression go strangely blank as though he were detached from what had happened there that night.

Pulling Joe's now unconscious body to his chest, he whispered down to him, "I thought I told you to be careful."

The scream from the canyon, from his past and now his present, echoed in his ears once more but for those around him, all they heard was his soft, heartbroken "No!"

Her fingers twined into her purse strings tightly. She leaned forward in her chair, her whole body straining. Catherine Cunningham was sure of the verdict but she also knew there had to be something afterwards.

"We find the defendants not guilty." Homer Heffernan, the jury foreman declared, his nervous voice finally ringing out in the courtroom.

The judge pounded his gavel for silence in the ensuing uproar. The three men with Amos Harker were free to go but he instructed the sheriff to take George Long, Jim Warner and Quinn Robbins into custody pending a hearing on their involvement. Further more, he announced that he was going to seize all property held by Phillip Long until one black stallion with white hairs in its tail could be produced and turned over to Mister Benjamin Cartwright.

As she stood aside, beaming at the tableau before her, the widow had trouble keeping the tears of joy from her cheeks. Jamie had leapt over the banister and was hugging his father fiercely. His brother Joe was a touch more restrained but also made his way to his father and shook his hand, his smile wide and bright. Candy and Griff had pumped Amos' hand until the little man shook almost off the floor, his glasses sliding down his nose.

The only one besides herself not part of the celebration stood with her, stiffly, she thought. The marshal. It was like he'd become a stone statue following that horrible night at the boardinghouse. She had seen the strangeness come over him when he had tried to pick Joseph up from where he had fallen. The expression on his face, that distant, fearful look, had passed but what it left behind was a visage cold and aloof.

She looped an arm through his and tugged him towards the impromptu celebration. He went grudgingly, she thought. Once within that happy circle, she found herself kissed and hugged by nearly every man there except Riley. She saw that he shook Ben Cartwright's hand and nodded his head to Candy and Griff. To her way of thinking, it had been his testimony, coolly and professionally delivered, that had begun to put the pieces of the puzzle together. At every turn it pointed to one man responsible: Jim Warner. But when called to the stand, Jim had started breaking under Amos' deliberate questions. In the end, it had become a contest of sorts between George Long, Phil's only son, Jim Warner and Quinn Robbins. The three men had been so busy blaming each other that they hadn't realized the nooses they were slipping around their own necks. The widow was pleased when the judge had finally called a halt to the shouting match. Now, they would be charged with horse stealing, attempted murder of a U S Marshal, attempted murder of Ben Cartwright, the beating of Amos Harker and a whole variety of other crimes, some petty and some not so.

Yes, Marshal Riley was the one responsible for saving Ben Cartwright's life and keeping Candy and young Griff from going to jail. He didn't act like it though.

"Well, now gentlemen," she chirped up and once again linked her arm through Riley's and added Ben Cartwright on the other side. "There is a big ol' cake and some of my prized elderberry wine waiting for us at the boardinghouse. I think we need to do our celebrating down there." She tugged gently and both men went with her into the bright sunlight of a fine day.

"Marshal, would you give me a hand?" Mrs. Cunningham asked. Around her table sat her "boys", as she had begun to think of them, and they had quickly demolished the cake, the bottle of wine and it looked like she would need to make some coffee soon.

Riley arose from his chair off to one side of the dining room. He hadn't joined the rest of them at the table, saying there wasn't enough room. No one seemed to mind or care. He hadn't joined into the festive talk nor the planning to return to Virginia City. Unless spoken to directly, he stayed quiet, ate his cake and drank his little glass of wine. He would have thanked the widow for getting him away from it if he thought she would understand. Maybe she did but maybe she didn't and that was a chance he wasn't willing to take.

"Out here, on the back porch," she called when she heard him in the kitchen. As she listened, she heard the floorboards creak and knew he would join her momentarily.

He was surprised to find her sitting on the steps, her hands clasped around her knees. She smiled up at him and patted the step beside her.

"Sit down, Marshal." She scooted to the edge so he could do as she asked.

"Thought there was somethin' you needed me for," he complained, his voice ragged and gruff.

To his surprise, she wasn't put off by his tone. Instead, she smiled at him and once again linked her arm with his. He tried to pull away but found she had more strength than she appeared to have. Riley knew he could have broken her arm but she didn't deserve that from him.

"No, there's something you need, Marshal. You said you grew up with the Commanches, didn't you?" She didn't wait for him to answer. "You didn't learn this from them."

Perplexed, he looked at her through eyes squinted nearly closed. "I don't understand."

"Marshal, ever since that night- oh my, was it less than a week ago?- when Phil Long and his cronies tried to kill us all, you've been mighty strange. Kind of stand-offish. Brusque is the fancy word, I believe. You don't join in the conversations. You sit over by yourself like a bump on a log. Won't even play poker with us any more! I'm sure that when you lived with the Indians, you didn't act like that."

"You don't understand, Miz Cunningham," he started and began to rise as he did. She rose with him, barely coming chest high to him but with one stiff finger, she jabbed there.

"I do understand, Marshal. I saw the look on your face when you saw Candy shot. I heard the fear- yes, the fear!- in your voice when you called for Griff to come forward that night. When he told you he'd been shot, you couldn't speak, it rattled you so! And when you found Joe Cartwright bleeding at your side, I saw something come over you. You tried to gather him up in your arms and stand but you couldn't do it! And it ain't because you ain't strong enough. I couldn't even figure out where you'd be goin' with him! No, Marshal." She shook her head slowly and spread her hands across his chest. "And I heard you when you said 'no'. I don't know what that meant to you but I know what I saw and what it meant to me. These men, Candy, Griff, Joe and Mister Cartwright, they're something to you."

Riley tried to pull away from her probing gray eyes but her little hands pressed to his chest, held him. Again he tried to dissuade her. "You don't understand, ma'am."

Her gray head shook but her voice didn't. "Oh, I do understand. You figure that you made a mistake by coming here with Joe, by getting involved. Not with the legal things but with the people involved. And then before you realized it, you were getting to like them. There ain't no crime in that, Marshal. Every last one of them in that dinin' room, "and she pointed back towards the house, "would lay down their life for one of the others. You would too and it has nothin' to do with the law. It has to do with being friends. That, Marshal Riley, is what scares you. That being friends part."

How could he tell her? She was just an old woman he had stayed with for a while. She meant nothing to him and once he was gone from this little town, he would forget her. Her kindness to him had been perfunctory because she owned the boardinghouse. He owed her nothing and she owed him nothing. As for the others in the house, it had been his job and nothing more. It had been his life on the line that night too but he was doing it because it was his job and nothing else. Just like when he had been a Texas Ranger.

"When I was loading the guns, these fell out of your saddlebag. I stuffed them in my apron pocket that night and have been meaning to give 'em back to you. They mean something to you, I know they do, because a man doesn't save such things unless they do. And the fact there's two of them, that tells me something else. Ain't no need for one man to have two of  'em, unless one belonged to friend and the friend doesn't need it any more. Why is that, Marshal?" She handed him two Mexican silver dollars that had been altered. In the center, the silver on each had been carved away to leave behind a five-pointed star, encircled still by the grooved edging of the coin. On one side, all of the markings of the coin had been polished away while the markings were still visible on the other.

Riley looked at what she had forced into his hand, an unsteadiness growing in his chest as he did. "We never wore 'em," he whispered and allowed them to fall back and forth in his hands. "When Cap'n Parmalee gave 'em to us, we all said that they would attract too much lead. He said we had to have them so's we could identify ourselves to folks. We put 'em in our pockets. Carried 'em there."

"Go on," she encouraged when he had not spoken for almost a minute.

"I wasn't there when they laid Reese and Erik out or I would have their's too. But this one, this one means more."

"The men who carried these coins, they were your friends, weren't they?"

Riley couldn't speak, lost in other times full of sadness and a loneliness of the soul. He nodded when the lady had asked about them being friends but there was something else he struggled with.

"One was mine. This one," and he held up the one whose star was slightly larger, "he was more than a friend."

"More like a brother? Like family?" When the big man nodded once again but didn't speak, she went on. "And he's gone now, isn't he? He's the man you said that 'no' about, wasn't he? You couldn't believe he was dead then and you still aren't over it."

"You don't get over something like that, ma'am. Never."

"So you go through the rest of your life, holding away from good folks just like your friend, so that you can --what? Say you honor his memory by not getting over his death? Say you honor his friendship by not taking any other man's hand? You can't change your memory of your friend, Marshal. And by being friends with others you can lift his friendship to another level."

"Can't say I got it in me, Miz Cunningham. That's an awful lot to take on and I can't rightfully say I could do it like you want me to."

"That's the nice thing about bein' friends with someone. You don't have to do it all at once. Little steps can take you where you need to go same as big ones. I know you aren't a coward. When the time is right, you'll take that first little step towards lettin' someone else be your friend and returning the same." That was what she had longed to say and as she stood there before him in the afternoon's fading light, she saw a softness come over his features that she had never seen. If it had been on her face, she might have said that it was a look of relief but on the big marshal's face, she wasn't sure. She reached up and stroked that solid jaw-line and told him softly that it was all right. All right about what, she wasn't exactly sure, but the mother in her felt it was.

Oddly enough, he smiled for her, and it went deep. He took the hand that stroked his face and kissed the fingers. That little soft hand that smelled of violet water had wiped away a barrier.

Six weeks later

"You healed up enough?" Riley asked, removing his gunbelt and hanging it over his saddle horn. He settled his hat there as well.

The soft wind blowing across Lake Tahoe was cool but with the golden warmth of autumn. Beneath his feet, Riley loved the feel of the corral dirt, churned into a feather-lightness. He stretched his arms and, feeling the restriction of shirtsleeves, decided a little more visual intimidation might help. He pulled the shirt off in one smooth motion and left it behind him on the top rail of the corral.

"Surprised you ain't got an audience?" Joe Cartwright taunted. Since they were behind the barn at the Ponderosa, he didn't have all the paraphernalia to remove that the marshal had but when Riley had striped off his shirt, Joe followed suit.

"I just figured that you didn't want anyone to see you get whipped, sonny," Riley taunted back but was a little surprised to see the muscles Cartwright did carry. He mentally chewed his lip. He knew the smaller man was no match for him. He had him by weight, height and reach but he might have to give a few points on speed. A few beers with Candy two nights ago had revealed a few things about Joe Cartwright in a fight and foremost, according to all reports, was that the man was fast and furious. Riley figured he had better make the first hit count or Cartwright might do a little damage before it was over.

"That's the horse? Take your gunbelt and hat off the saddle unless you want them mashed," Joe said as he gestured to the buckskin standing placidly to one side of the corral. He rolled his shoulders and narrowed his eyes.

"Ain't no danger of that happenin'. Come on, Cartwright, come get your beatin'."

For a few moments, both men circled one another, their eyes locked. It wasn't the first time that Joe had gone up against a bigger foe but this one was the biggest yet, besides Hoss but he figured Hoss always pulled his punches, being family. And he hated to admit that he was very liable to take a good thrashing but the deal had been struck early on: he had to put Marshal Riley belly down over the saddle or take one hell of a beating.

Joe made the first move, a quick in-and-out with a left that stung Riley's jaw but when the lawman had reached with his own left, he found nothing but air and the sound of a laughter that more resembled a bluejay's than a man's. Two steps and Riley nailed the slender Cartwright with a right hook to his stomach and a left uppercut that slammed Cartwright into the corral railings. Riley backed away, seeing Joe shake his head and blink his eyes.

"Maybe you ain't healed up enough to do this," Riley offered as he watched Joe regain his footing. He would have let the promised fight disappear but that wasn't the way it would be. Riley was sure how it would end but Cartwright, as game as Chad Cooper had ever been, wouldn't hear it. And Candy, having heard of the boasts from both sides, claimed that it would be the only way to settle things. What Candy wasn't aware of was the fight Riley'd had in the back yard with Catherine Cunningham that he had lost but won as well. In the last few weeks, the marshal had studied himself and his life and found that she was right. He wasn't the man he thought he was. What was lacking was friendship and maybe today, matching physical brawn and outright stupidity, he would take that first step. What was the first step? Of that, he wasn't sure.

"I could've whipped you the morning after that doc pulled the bullet out of me! Hell, could have done it before then but I had to see to other things. Come on, Marshal, come and get it." Despite his big talk, Joe knew he was far from being able to put the marshal down, even if he hadn't been shot in Litchfield. He pulled himself upright and wiped sweat from his chin. He tried not to wobble as he advanced on his opponent.

Dropping into a half crouch, Riley spread his arms and smiled menacingly. He gestured for Joe to come on and told him that he was waiting. Then a left hook from nowhere caught him on the shoulder and he found out that close-in fighting with Cartwright wasn't exactly a good idea. Fist after fist hit him. Shoulder, stomach and one to the chin that made him see stars. He backed away but when Joe came at him again, Riley hit him and hit him with all of his back, leg and shoulder muscle combined. When he saw Joe drop and slide backwards on his back in the deep dust, Riley had hoped that he would quit.

The damn little cuss,  Riley thought as Joe rolled over and crawled to the fence and pulled himself up. But the bravado was short-lived as Joe couldn't keep his grip on the timbers and started slipping downward, his vision blurred and his breath coming in painful gasps. The lawman took the intervening ten steps carefully but then Cartwright slumped into the dirt and stayed there, sprawled on his back.

The marshal stood there, his chest heaving as he fought to regain his breath, his hands riding his hips, but his gaze had followed the rancher's collapse into the dirt at his feet. Once again, he thought how resolute Cartwright had been and not just here in this foolish fight but on the trail to find his father. When faced with overwhelming odds, he'd gritted his teeth and gone on to do what he thought he had to. And why had he done it all? The same reason Riley would have at one time: because of friendship and loyalty. Mrs Cunningham had been right; small steps could get you where you needed to go. While he had ridden back to Virginia City alone, he had thought what that first step would be and thought he had found the answer: even before you became friends with someone, you told them your name. As he studied the man sprawled in the dirt, he decided he would take that first small step even though it might hurt if it was familiar in an old way.

             "Joe," he said, the word barely audible.

              Cartwright looked up. "Huh?" he replied, and thinking that the marshal was about to reach down and grab him up to take another swing at him that he was far from prepared to handle, tried to fall back further but found he couldn't.

              "Joe," the marshal repeated and this time looked into the cattleman's face. "My first name ain't Marshal. It's Joe. Like yours."

             The slighter man smiled, wincing with the motion, then shook his head as he chuckled. "Joe, huh?"

  Joe Riley nodded and tried a faint smile as well. No, it didn't sound the same as when Chad had said it. And it only hurt a little to hear his given name again from another man. Fact was, he decided, it didn't sound half-bad at all. Had a certain feeling to it…felt kind of… warm .. and friendly.

Finis

The Tahoe Ladies

March to September 2003

Author's Note: We wish to thank Randy (Outrider Cooper) for her assistance with the character of Joe Riley and her input on "Laredo" and Texas Ranger history. And don't worry, Randy, we'll keep the secret as long as you keep yours.

Irish, Tahoe Lady