For
Halloween – Adam picks another dubious friend and the Cartwrights find
themselves held in thrall by a being that brings out the dark sides of their
natures.
Looking into the stranger’s face was like gazing into
a dark mirror. Seen from across the room, it could have been his own face,
reflected in the distorting depths of a crystal pool. It was a ruggedly
handsome, oval face with a straight, narrow lipped mouth, strong jaw-line and
deep-set, dark-brown eyes lightened with the barest fleck of gold. His hair was
jet-black, receding just a little from a wide, smooth brow and worn slightly
long – a fact which reminded Adam that he needed to visit the barber himself
before he set out for home. Tall and broad and dressed, like Adam himself, all
in black, he dominated the barroom of the Silver Dollar Saloon.
Drawn by a strange fascination, Adam sauntered across
to where the big man stood, hip-shot, with his foot on the bar-rail. There was
an empty shot-glass on the mahogany bar in front of him and a black,
California-style hat. Adam parked himself alongside, and the two men eyed each
other with a certain uneasy caution.
"Buy you a drink?" Adam offered. In truth,
after a full day dealing with recalcitrant cattle buyers, he felt the need of
one himself. The buyers could be more stubborn and bloody minded than the beasts
they bargained for.
The stranger shrugged. "I don’t see why
not?"
Adam waggled a forefinger at the barman, who fetched a
bottle and a glass and set them down on the bar before the tall cowboy. Adam put
down a dollar and indicated that he should leave the bottle behind. Pouring
generous measures into both glasses, Adam took the time to study the man more
closely, albeit from the corner of his eye. Close up, the likeness was even more
apparent. The stranger had a scar on his mouth very similar to Adam’s but
longer and deeper and on the other side. He had the same long, black eyelashes
and shell-like curvature to the ear. The two of them were exactly of a height
with the wide shoulders, born of hard work, a deep, strong chest and the lean
hips of a man born to ride.
Of course, there were differences as well. The stranger
had a wider nose, bulberous at the tip, and a distinctly deeper cleft in his
chin. He carried his gun on the left hip, low down, and wore a silver ring on
the smallest finger of his right hand – an affectation that Adam, in his line
of work, would find intolerable. He picked up his glass and lifted it to Adam in
silent salutation. He seemed amused by their confrontation.
Adam took a drink and felt the whiskey bite. It was
what he needed. "I haven’t seen you around before. You new in town?"
"I haven’t been around. I’m just passin’
through." The stranger tossed back his glass and finished his drink in a
single swallow.
Adam leaned back on his heels and looked at him
frankly. The resemblance was truly remarkable. They could well have been
brothers. The stranger even spoke in educated, eastern tones that reminded Adam
poignantly of distant days.
Adam was intrigued. He put on a friendly smile and held
out a hand. "I’m Adam Cartwright."
The stranger put his glass back on the bar and studied
Adam’s face. Again, there was that faint suggestion of laughter dancing in his
eyes. "My name is Isaac," he said, shaking hands. "Isaac Rimmel."
Adam topped up his glass and offered the bottle. Rimmel
declined. "Two is enough for me any day, friend."
"Are you looking for work?" Still fascinated,
Adam leaned against the bar. He found that he wanted to know more about this man
who looked and sounded so very much like him.
"No." Rimmel lounged himself and smiled a
slow, lazy smile. "Like I said, I’m just passin’ through."
Adam finished a drink and put a quarter on the bar.
"If you change your mind, just ask for me by name. Anyone in town will
point you in my direction."
Isaac Rimmel picked up his hat and nodded to Adam.
"Thank you kindly for the offer. I’ll bear it in mind."
Watching him walk out into the gathering gloom, Adam
found that even the rolling, horseman’s gait, with that faintest hint of a
right-legged limp, was achingly familiar. Heaving a sigh, he took off his hat
and ran a hand through his hair. He remembered again his decision concerning the
barber.
Adam treated himself to a professional shave along with
the quality haircut, and several hot towels afterwards, to ease the tension out
of his skin. Paulin Allias, the elderly, Jewish barber who had known him for
years and always welcomed him personally into his shop, plied him with a stream
of constant, cheerful chatter as he cut and trimmed and shaved and steamed.
Paulin knew everything that happened in Virginia City – news was his stock in
trade. Adam was always glad to listen. Sometimes he gleaned a lot of useful
information from the mish-mash of seemingly unconnected facts. Tonight, he found
it hard to pay attention. His mind kept drifting back to the stranger who wore
his face.
A dash of astringent cologne completed the job, and
Adam stepped out of the chair. He gave Paulin a dollar and a cordial goodnight
and went back into the street.
By now, it was full dark. Lamps had been lit in the
windows of shops and businesses up and down the street. Lanterns glowed above
the boardwalks, and bonfires burned at intervals up and down the main street.
Clouds of acrid smoke blotted out the canopy of stars and turned the faint
moonlight red. The fires lit the street and provided warm spots for people to
gather; they kept at bay the savage swarms of mosquitoes that plagued the town
at this time of year.
The thoroughfares of Virginia City were never quiet.
Life in a boomtown didn’t stop just because day turned to night; it still went
on at a constant, frantic pace. The streets were filled with colour, movement
and noise. People thronged the boardwalks; Adam heard a dozen different
languages spoken within yards of where he stood. Some of them he understood:
French, Spanish and some Chinese, a little German and Swedish. Others he
didn’t know at all.
In the open street in front of him, an assortment of
wagons pulled by horses, mules and oxen plied a busy trade. It was a constant
flow of traffic, back and forth. The rumble of iron shod wheels against hard
dirt was continuous. There were men on horseback, men driving carts and men on
foot. Right across the street, the Salvationists were holding an open-air
meeting and had gathered up quite a crowd. Their preaching was lost in the din.
Further along a bell was ringing and several dogs barked wildly at the man who
pulled on the rope.
In the other direction there were three saloons within
easy reach. Each and every one of them and a dozen more like them around the
town belched light and music and raucous laughter, snatches of song and drunken
brawlers across the boardwalks and into the street.
"Adam? You look a little lost."
Adam came to himself with a jolt. His mind had been
drifting a million miles away. The gravely drawl belonged to Roy Coffee, the
local sheriff and a long-time friend. Adam was always glad to see him and gave
him a pleasant smile. "Evenin’, Roy. I was just thinking about getting on
home."
Grey haired and grey moustached, Roy was a big man in
his own right. Languid, almost lazy, his faded eyes missed nothing that happened
in the busy street. He leaned on a post at the edge of the boardwalk and
squinted up at the sky. "You’ve left it late. That’s one hell’ve a
ride in the dark."
Chuckling, Adam shook his head. "I figure I’m
old enough to find my own way home by now."
"Well, that just might be." Roy sucked at his
teeth and looked the younger man over. Roy had been sheriff of Virginia City for
all of twenty years, since it had been no more than a shabby collection of mis-matched
tents pitched in the mud. He had known the Cartwrights almost as long. He had
watched Adam grow from a boy to a man. His fine-honed instinct for trouble told
him that there was something on the man’s mind, and, as a friend of the
family, he had a personal interest as well as a professional one. "Seein’
as you’re already late, how about a bite o’ supper? Belle’s got liver and
onions on the menu tonight." Roy smacked his lips suggestively. Adam
Cartwright would be good company, and Roy just might find something out.
"That sure sounds tempting." Adam had a
liking for onions, and Belle’s was a friendly and comfortable place to eat.
Come to think of it, a night in town would be good. He could pass an hour
chatting to Roy, and then visit the bathhouse for a good long soak. Afterwards,
a long evening in the company of the lovely ladies at Miss Lucy’s would be
pleasant, followed by a room at the International Hotel for the night. He
sighed. "But Hop Sing’ll be keeping something hot for me, and there’ll
be hell to pay if I don’t go home and eat it."
Straightening up, Roy clapped him on the shoulder.
"Wouldn’t want you ta git into no trouble on my account. The two men
laughed together. The reputation of the Cartwright’s Chinese cook was a legend
throughout the length and breadth of the Comstock Valley. Many a boisterous
saloon conversation revolved around who was really the boss of the great,
sprawling ranch that lay south of Virginia City and filled most of the territory
between there and the peaks of the Sierra Nevada Mountains. Roy had heard them
all and laughed along with them, but he knew the truth of the matter. Old Ben
Cartwright, rancher, timber baron, mine owner, patriarch and lord of all he
surveyed, kept the reins very firmly in his own hands. He could be a stern and
unforgiving man and, in Roy’s opinion, kept his three, grown-up sons snubbed a
little too close to the post. He had a gut feeling that might be what Adam’s
problem was: too tight a hand on the bridle. But Adam was obviously intent on
getting back. Roy figured he would have to wait until some other time to nose
into the other man’s affairs. "Another day, then, Adam?"
"Sure thing." Another thought crossed
Adam’s mind. "Roy, there’s a stranger in town…"
"Lots of ‘em." Roy’s mind was turning
more and more in the direction of his supper. He didn’t want Belle to sell off
all those onions before he got there.
"A man named Riddel. Isaac Riddel. Know anything
about him?" If Riddel had a story attached to his name, then Roy was the
one to tell it.
Roy hitched up his pants and hooked his thumbs onto the
edge of his belt. It was a typical and familiar attitude that seemed to help his
thought processes. He pursed his lips and focused his eyes somewhere in the air
above Adam’s head. "Big man, Rode in from the south-east a couple of days
ago on a big, black gelding. Stayin’ at the Palace hotel over on ‘D’
street. Says he’s just passin’ though. Keeps his business to himself. Keeps
out of trouble. Nothin’ else." Roy shrugged, and then, suddenly probing,
"You know the man?"
Adam laughed. Roy could be as inquisitive as a cat.
"No. I don’t know him. I just met the man in the saloon." Adam wiped
away the little frown that threatened to form on his face. He found it a little
strange that Roy’s brief, but succinct, description of the man hadn’t
included the fact that Riddel resembled Adam enough to be close kin. "I
guess I’d better get going." He held out his hand. "Goodnight, Roy.
Have a good supper."
"You too, Adam."
The two friends shook hands, and Roy started for
Belle’s Café, two blocks down on the same side of the street. Adam stepped
down from the boardwalk. Crossing the street at an angle, he was heading for the
stable where he had left his horse. His mind was busily putting into order all
the things he had to tell his Pa.
Somewhere close at hand, a man’s voice shouted a
sudden warning. A woman screamed. Adam started to turn, his hand moving towards
his gun even as he looked for trouble. Something hit him hard in the shoulder.
Then he found himself falling, not hard, but in a sort
of slow-motion tumble. He hit the ground rolling, trying to save his face with
his hands and failing. Next thing he knew, he was sprawled in the dirt, the
weight of a man holding him down. Winded and stunned, he lifted his head. A
six-mule team and a fully loaded wagon ploughed right through the place where he
has been walking only a moment before. Iron shod wheels rolled by mere inches
from his face. Not far away a horse squealed and danced as its rider fought for
control.
It took Adam a while to gather his wits. He was at the
centre of some sort of commotion. Folks were shouting and running towards him.
He could feel the hard earth under his body and taste the coppery flavour of
blood in his mouth. He had split his lip on the edge of a tooth. The weight
lifted off of his back, and someone stuck out a hand to help him up.
Still confused by what had happened, Adam struggled to
get him knees under him. A dozen willing hands lifted him onto his feet. He
looked around at the sea of faces, trying to understand. Roy Coffee pushed his
way through the crowd. The elderly sheriff was anxious.
"Adam? Are you all right?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I think so. Adam looked at his palms;
they were smarting where he’d scraped the skin. There was blood on his lip and
dirt in his mouth. He spat onto the ground and began to dust himself off.
"What in hell happened?"
"Reckon you-all walked right out in front o’
that ore wagon. This here fella jist about saved you from bein’ run
down." In the light of the bonfires, Roy peered into Adam’s face
"You want ta go visit with the doctor?"
"No. I’m okay." Adam turned his head. The
man who had thrown him down and away from the hooves of the mules and the
crushing wheels of the wagon was the man who wore his own face, Isaac Riddel.
Adam looked into that familiar countenance and offered his hand. "I have to
thank you. I guess I had other things on my mind."
Riddel smiled a lazy smile. "Think nothing of it.
But let’s get out of the street."
They moved to the boardwalk while Roy broke up the
crowd. Adam felt his shoulder and winced at the pain. Riddel looked at him with
some concern. "Are you sure you don’t want to see that doctor?"
Adam consulted with all the sore spots that were just
starting to make themselves felt. He decided that, apart from a few bumps and
bruises, the split lip and, perhaps, a black eye, he was essentially undamaged.
"No, I’m all right." Adam was embarrassed by all the fuss; he felt
he had made a fool of himself. "I just wasn’t looking where I was
going."
Having cleared the onlookers out of the street, Roy
rejoined them on the boardwalk. "Adam, you look like you could use a
drink."
Stubborn to the last, Adam wouldn’t admit to feeling
a little shaky. He was insistent. "I’m all right. I have to be getting
home." He looked for Riddel - he felt he owed the man something – but
Riddel had disappeared into the crowd. Adam made another start for the stable
and staggered; suddenly, as reaction set in, his legs were unsteady.
Roy grabbed him by the arm "You look a mite wobbly
there, Adam. I reckon you ought ta see Doc Martin afore you ride all that way on
your own."
Adam raised an objection, but Roy wouldn’t hear
anything of it. He had a firm grip of Adam’s elbow, and he wasn’t about to
let go. "You fall off a horse an’ break yore head, yore Pa ain’t never
gonna let me ferget it." Adam felt like he was eight years old all over
again and had just fallen out of the westbound wagon. He remembered the look on
his father’s face and submitted. Roy marched him across the street to Paul
Martin’s office.
Paul already had a customer. He was busy sewing up a
long, jagged cut in a cowboy’s arm. The man had been in a fistfight that had
turned nasty and had come off worst in an encounter with a shattered bottle. He
had lost a lot of blood, but the amount of whiskey he had consumed more than
made up for it and acted as an anaesthetic to boot. Even so, it was going to
take the Doc quite some time to compete his embroidery.
Roy parked Adam in a chair in the outer office.
"Now you wait right here ‘til the Doc gets a chance ta look you
over," Roy warned again.
Resigned to his fate, Adam sighed. "All right,
Roy. I’ll talk to the Doc." If he were truthful, Adam felt a whole lot
better now that he was sitting down.
It was a Friday night, and Adam knew that Roy would be
anxious to get back on the street before the weekend rowdies started to take
over the town. "You don’t have to wait, Roy. I’ll be all right."
Roy chewed on his lip, considering. "Well, okay.
If you’re sure you’re gonna be all right waiting on your own. Don’t you go
wanderin’ off no place…"
"I’ll wait, I’ll wait!" Laughing, Adam
held up his hands in mock self-defence.
"All right, then." Mollified, Roy turned
towards the door. You make sure that you do."
Adam took the opportunity to ask, "Roy, that fella
Riddel…"
"What about him?"
"You notice anything funny about him? About his
face? The way he looks?"
Roy scowled, thinking hard. "Can’t say that I
had. Why’d you ask?"
"Oh nothin’." Adam made a dismissive
gesture. "Just a passing thought."
The sheriff gave him a long, puzzled look. He was
starting to wonder if Adam Cartwright had taken a bang on the head after all.
"You just make sure you get to see the Doc afore you set for home."
Once Roy had gone, Adam set himself in for what looked
like being a long wait. Paul’s waiting room was harshly lit and sparsely
furnished and none too warm. Like every waiting room Adam had ever known, it was
not designed to be comfortable. He pulled his hat over his eyes against the
glare of the lamp and tipped the ladder-backed chair against the wall. Arms
folded across his chest, he did his best to doze.
It was the better part of an hour later when Paul
emerged from the inner room, still in his shirtsleeves and leading the wobbly
drunk by the arm. He hadn’t expected to find another customer waiting and
cocked an inquiring eye. "Adam? You sick or something?"
"No, I’m not sick." Adam pushed back his
hat and planted all four legs of his chair firmly on the floor. Briefly, he
explained to Paul what had happened out in the street. "I just took a
little tumble, that’s all. I feel fine now."
"From the looks of your face you took more than a
tumble." Paul took the cowboy to the door and relieved his pocket of a
silver dollar as his fee before launching him back into the night. "Better
come in the office and let me look you over, just to be on the safe side. One
thing’s for certain, you’re going to have some bruises to show your Pa in
the morning."
Adam went on through and tossed his hat onto Paul’s
desk. "I’m all right, Paul. It’s just Roy being an old woman. He made
me give my word to see you."
"I know what he’s like." Paul chuckled.
Never the less, he went over Adam from top to toe and looked long and hard into
his eyes. Ten minutes later, he stepped back. "Guess you can put your shirt
on now. I don’t reckon there’s much wrong with you that a day or two’s
rest won’t cure. Not that you’ll get it out on that ranch. You feel dizzy at
all?"
"I feel fine." Adam buttoned his shirt.
"Paul, you seen a man around town name of Riddel? Tall, black haired, looks
something like me?"
"Can’t say that I have." Paul dried off his
hands and shrugged his way into his coat. "He somethin’ to you?"
"No. Not really. How much do I owe you?" Adam
felt for a coin.
"Don’t you trouble none." Paul put on his
hat and reached for the door. "I’ll just put it on your Pa’s next
bill." He held the door open for Adam to precede him into the street.
Adam laughed. "I’m sure he’ll appreciate
that."
"I’m just stepping out for some supper. You care
to join me?"
Adam put a hand to his face and felt for the tender
spots. "I’d better get on home. I’m late as it is, and I’ll have some
explaining to do. Pa’ll be madder than a hen in a rain barrel, an’ Hop
Sing’s likely to chew my ears off for not being home for supper."
Paul chuckled appreciatively. "You take it easy,
Adam. You feel dizzy again, you send someone to get me."
"I’ll be sure and do that." The two men
shook hands and parted company. Paul headed across the street to his favourite
eating place, and Adam started once again for the stable.
He led his horse out into the yard and swung himself up
into the saddle. He worked his shoulder again. Paul had said it was just a
bruise, but it felt pretty sore. It was going to be a long and unpleasant ride
home through a dark, cold night. Adam wished he had his coat with him. Gathering
his reins, he turned his horse’s head towards the western mountains and the
road that would, eventually, lead him home.
A darkness moved in the shadows beside the barn. Ever
alert, Adam pulled his horse up; his hand slipped towards the gun on his hip.
Someone was there; he couldn’t quite see. The light from the stable lantern
didn’t reach that far. "Who is it?" His fingers brushed the butt of
the gun. "Come on out and show yourself."
The shadowy form moved again. A figure rode out into
the yard. It was Isaac Riddel, still all in black and mounted on a tall, black
horse. He sat easily in the saddle with his hands clasped together on the
saddlehorn. There was smile on his face. "Peace, friend. Peace."
Adam relaxed and sat back. "You change your mind
about that job?"
"Don’t reckon I did." Riddel rode his horse
over and pulled up alongside Adam. Adam’s gelding laid back his ears and
danced nervously in the dirt. Adam frowned. This horse didn’t usually act like
that. He tightened the rein and brought him under control. Eventually, the
animal settled. "It’s a pleasant night," Riddel said. "Cold and
bright. I thought I’d ride out with you part way. Take me a look at the
stars."
Adam looked at him. In the dark of the night the
man’s resemblance to him was even more striking, almost uncanny. With the
colour of the eyes concealed by the darkness, he would have sworn that the
features were the same ones he saw every morning in the mirror as he shaved. In
fact, tonight, Riddel looked more like Adam Cartwright than Adam did himself.
"You’re more than welcome." Adam nodded and
touched the brim of his hat. He nudged his horse with his heels, and, side by
side, the two men rode out of town.
It was a long way from Virginia City to the sprawling
ranch house that Adam Cartwright knew as home. Most of the way lay across the
vast, rolling grasslands that belonged to his family. The Ponderosa ranch, the
heart and home-place of the Cartwright’s ever expanding and highly successful
business empire, covered a thousand square miles of God-given country, some of
it the wildest and most beautiful territory on earth. Silver tinged in the
starlight, otherwise very dark, the rolling rangelands flowed from the
tree-covered slopes of the High Sierras, all the way to the fringes of the
desert in the east.
At first the two men rode hard, putting some distance
behind them and warming themselves and their horses. The first grass of summer,
fresh grown, passed swiftly beneath the galloping hooves. Later, they slowed to
a ground-covering canter, a pace that ate the miles away. Despite the fact that
he was already late, Adam succumbed to temptation and took the long road home
– the one that led through the pine forests and up to the high vantage point
that overlooked the lake. While the horses caught their breath after the long,
hard climb, Adam and Riddel sat and feasted their eyes of the glory of the good
Lord’s creation.
The night was still chilly, the stars hard and bright,
but, now, Adam wasn’t cold. Up here on the heights, the mosquitoes didn’t
bother him the way they had in town. Far below, the lake lay like a pool of
quicksilver caught in a fold of the hills. Its surface was utterly flawless,
unreflective, as a page of history yet to be written. The hillsides, dark with
trees, arose straight out of the water and reached halfway up to the sky. It was
a sight that Adam never could resist; it was embedded in his soul.
He planted a palm on the rump of his horse, leaned back
against it and sighed. Riddel glanced at him, then returned his attention to a
study of the scenery. "It’s a funny thing," he said thoughtfully.
"I would never have taken you for a cowboy."
"You wouldn’t?" Not quite sure how to take
the remark, Adam laughed gently, mocking himself. "What then?"
Riddel shrugged. "Oh, I don’t know. Some sort of
business man. A lawyer, a doctor, a teacher, perhaps. Maybe a politician. You
don’t look right or sound right out here in the west."
"You should hear me when I’m up to my knees in
mud and cow dung and swearing like a three-stripe sergeant."
Now it was Riddel’s turn to chuckle. "I don’t
doubt it. But somehow, you just don’t fit the part. You been to school?"
"I went to school in the east. Spent four years
there."
Riddel looked at him again, searchingly, and then
quickly looked away. The starlight shifted in his eyes. "I thought so. I
can hear it in your voice. What did you study?"
"Architecture, engineering, literature," Adam
remembered. "They were good times. I made some good friends; I still have
some of them, now."
"What do you miss the most?"
"Apart from the people? The art, the music, the
conversation – and the plumbing."
The two men laughed together as if they were friends.
Riddel sobered first. "Yet you left all that behind to come out here and
break your back chasing long-horn steers?"
"Guess I did." Adam’s smile died and was
replaced by a reflective expression that furrowed his brow and deepened the
shadows in his eyes.
"Do you ever regret it?"
"Sometimes." It was an admission that Adam
felt justified in making, even if it made him a little uncomfortable.
"You ever feel like going back?"
Adam sucked his lips and shifted his weight uneasily,
sitting up straight in the saddle again and stretching his back. He had no idea
why he was talking so openly to a complete stranger. These were deep and
personal matters that he often avoided thinking about, even in the privacy of
his own mind. Perhaps it was simply that Riddel looked so much like him; he even
seemed to know the thoughts inside his head. It was almost like talking to
himself – and Riddel made one hell of a good listener. "Once in a
while," he admitted. His thoughtful face became wistful "Especially
when I row with my Pa."
Leather creaked in the night as Riddel moved in the
saddle; his voice came to Adam though the darkness. "D’you row with your
Pa often?"
Adam’s breath hissed in through his teeth. "More
often than I like. Much more lately than ever before. He never sees things my
way, never wants to try anything new – and he never lets me be my own man.
He’s just getting old and sour…" Adam bit his bitter complaint off
short. A man didn’t talk this way about family to someone he didn’t know.
"You don’t mean that." Riddel suggested
mildly.
"Don’t I?" Adam said shortly. Then he
sighed, but his face remained bleak. "Perhaps not."
There was a pause, and when Riddel spoke again, Adam
could hear the smile in his voice. "Perhaps your Pa’s afraid."
"Afraid!" Suddenly, Adam was angry.
"What’s he got to be afraid of?"
Riddel shrugged. Adam could see the hunch of his
shoulders against the silver of the lake. "Of you. Of the future. You could
take over from him. You know that, don’t you?"
"All I want is to introduce new ways of doing
things, innovations, advancements, new techniques. All I want to do is to
help!"
"Your Pa’s seeing those things as a threat,
signs that his time is passing. Just as you said, he’s getting old. A man
doesn’t like to see those things. That’s why he fights you. He sees you
stepping into his shoes."
Adam made an exasperated gesture that made his horse
toss its head. "It isn’t like that. He just never listens to me!"
"He listens – and he watches you. You’ve seen
the way he follows you with his eyes." Riddel smiled again. "You’re
the brains of the family. That’s why he’s scared."
Adam turned his head sharply a frown on his face, but
the man – so very much like him - was gazing out across the valley at the
trees and the mountains beyond the lake. He had said it so softly that his voice
might merely have been an echo of Adam’s own thought. Adam asked, "What
would he be scared of?"
"He’s afraid that you’ll stay and afraid that
you’ll go." Now Riddel turned to look him full in the face. Adam saw the
gleam of moonlight flash in his eye. "How would he manage without
you?"
Adam thought about it. From where he sat at the top of
the bluff, he could see the moon’s pale face plainly reflected in the mirrored
surface of the lake. As it slid into the cusp of the hills is made a silver
highway over the water. This place was his home. He had chosen it as such a long
time ago. His roots ran deep into the rich, dark ground. Whenever he was away it
was these trees and these mountains and this still deep water as much as the
love of family and friends that summoned him back.
There was no doubt that his father needed him here:
more and more as time went on and the extent and the diversity of the family’s
business interests grew. Increasingly, it was Adam’s talents, intelligence and
education that were called upon to hold things together. But he still hadn’t
built a windmill.
"Is this really what you want to do with your
life?" Riddel asked quietly, merely a suggestion on the cooling night air.
Uncomfortable, Adam shifted again in the saddle.
"I guess there are places I’d like to see," he said at last,
"and things I’d like to do."
"Then perhaps you should go there and do it –
before it’s too late." Adam looked to him again. This time, he couldn’t
see his face.
The two men sat silent for a while, each man thinking
his own deep thoughts as he watched the moonset over the lake. Then Riddel
gathered his reins. "Well, Adam, I guess I’d better get back to
town."
Adam came out of his reverie. "You can’t ride
all the way back to Virginia City tonight. We’re a whole lot closer to the
house than we are to town. You’d better stay the night with us."
Riddel laughed his gentle laugh and shook his head.
"I wouldn’t want to upset your Pa."
"Pa likes company," Adam sighed ruefully. The
big house was often filled with mismatched waifs and strays. "We have
plenty of room. I insist."
A moment’s further hesitation and Riddel relaxed and
accepted, "Well, okay. Since you put it like that – you lead the
way."
Two men, so alike that they could have been twins,
turned their horses and cantered downhill to the road that led Adam Cartwright
home.
*******
Ben Cartwright leaned down and tapped out his second
pipe of the evening on the hearthstone. There was a slight frown of concern
clouding his distinctive and still handsome features. Adam was late. In fact, it
was beginning to look as if he wasn’t going to come home tonight at all. Ben
wasn’t really worried – Adam, after all, was a full-grown man now, and quite
able to take care of himself. Ben was just a little anxious, and a little
annoyed as well. Adam’s stated intention had been to ride straight home to
tell him all about his meeting with the cattle buyers. Ben had planned for the
two of them to get their heads together and spend a long evening discussing the
autumn cattle drive. The boy – the man – Ben corrected himself firmly –
must have decided to stay the night in town. Ben pulled a disapproving face. The
fast growing township had all too many attractions for a hot blooded young man,
and none of his sons had proved to be immune.
Ben consulted his silver-cased pocket watch. As he had
thought, the hour was late. The rest of his household was long abed, and the
house was quiet. Ben turned down the lamp until the light in the living room was
reduced to a mellow glow and went out into the yard. It was his habit and his
pleasure to take a last breath of fresh air before he turned in for the night.
Ben raised his eyes towards heaven. The full-faced moon
had already set, and the sky, now lit only by an array of glittering,
diamond-hard stars, was deep, velvet black. The starlight shone on Ben’s
silvered head and reflected in the dark depths of his eyes.
Across the yard a lamp still burned in the bunkhouse
window, but the boisterous shouting and singing of the early evening had long
since abated into silence. The hired men were resting up for tomorrow, if not
actually asleep. Three milk cows that kept the kitchens supplied and a team of
solid draft mules destined for the lumber camp shifted in the home corral. The
horses were bedded down in the barn, and Hop Sing’s poultry was all locked
away, safe from the deprivations of the family of foxes that had moved into the
water meadows early that spring. Ben reminded himself, and not for the first
time, to have those critters dug out just as soon as he could spare a man to it.
Ben pulled a long breath and filled up his barrel
chest. The air smelled good. Still and frosty cold, it was laden with the fresh
scents of pine and growing grass and the inevitable aromas of cattle and horses.
The breath, when Ben released it, turned into steam in front of his face. There
was no breath of wind, no clouds in the sky; the underlying silence was intense.
Content that all was well with his world, Ben turned once again towards the
house.
Someone was coming; Ben could sense it. He could feel
the beat of their horse’s hooves transmitted through the ground before he
could hear it with his ears. Two men, coming in fast along the trail that led
through the woods. They were riding as if they owned the place. Ben wondered
about that and thought about getting his gun.
Before he could make up his mind, the riders emerged
from the trees. He could see the horses, black on black, and then the men who
rode them. He relaxed. He recognized one of them at once: the broad shouldered
bulk of the man in the saddle, the lithe way he moved with the horse’s gait.
It was unmistakably Adam.
Ben stepped out into the yard and held up his hand in
greeting. "Adam!" His strong voice rang in the night. "I didn’t
think you would make it home tonight."
Adam stepped down from his horse. "Got held up a
little, Pa."
Ben’s irritation over took his concern. "I
thought you were intending to get home early tonight. We were going to go
through all those figures." Then he caught sight of his son’s battered
face. His took him by the upper arm and swung him towards the porch light so
that he could get a better look at the damage. Adam’s lip was split and
swollen, and there was a spreading bruise on his cheekbone. "What have you
gotten yourself into? Have you been fighting, boy?"
Adam shook his arm loose. "No, Pa, I haven’t
been in a fight - just a little accident." Irritated to be treated as a
child in front of his newfound friend, he spoke with exaggerated care. "Pa,
I’d like you to meet a friend of mine." He turned to the man still
sitting silently on the big black horse. "This is Isaac Riddel. Isaac saved
my life tonight."
Ben’s eyes switched from the face of his son to that
of the stranger. He was somewhat taken aback by Adam’s sweeping statement.
"If that’s right, then I owe you a debt of gratitude, Mister Riddel.
Won’t you step down?"
"My pleasure, sir." Riddel smiled his
friendly smile and stepped down from his saddle. He shook Ben’s offered hand.
"But call me Isaac, if you will."
Ben looked the man over. He didn’t look the sort of
man he would have expected Adam to take for a friend. He was about Ben’s own
height and build, with the thickset chest and narrow, horseman’s hips that
could make a man appear top-heavy. When he stepped into the light, his face was
vaguely familiar, like that of someone Ben had met, many years ago. He
couldn’t quite place the face nor call the name to mind. The deep-set eyes
were lost in shadow; it was impossible to see their colour, though Ben had the
impression that they were dark. The cheekbones were high and the chin, narrow;
when he took off his hat, Ben saw the glint of silver shining in his hair.
Adam said, "I told Isaac he could stay here the
night." His voice filled an awkward silence.
"Of course, of course!" Ben realized that he
had been staring. He spread his hands expansively. "Do come into the
house."
Having missed supper, Adam found himself with a
man-sized appetite. He headed straight for the kitchen to see what Hop Sing, the
Cartwright family’s cook and general factotum, had left him to eat. Hat in
hand, Riddel watched him go. There was a smile on his face. He cocked an eyebrow
at Ben. "That’s a fine, young man you’ve raised there, Mister
Cartwright. You must be very proud of him."
Riddel put his hat down on the table and, uninvited,
sat down in the blue velvet armchair close beside the fire. "And stubborn
and headstrong as well, I’ll wager."
A slight frown creased Ben’s handsome face.
"Well, a little wilful now and again, maybe," he confessed. "Have
you known my son long, Mister Riddel? Isaac?"
"Not long at all. I just met him this
evening."
Ben looked after his disappeared son. "You
certainly seem to have made an impression. I don’t really know how to repay
you…"
Riddel made a dismissive gesture. Ben noticed that he
wore several rings on his hands - an affectation he did not wholly approve of.
Rings were apt to get in a man’s way. "Think nothing of it. It was a
minor incident in the street."
"But Adam said he owed you his life."
"I was in the right place at the right time. I did
nothing you’d not have done to save another man’s son."
"Even a stubborn and headstrong one?" Ben
suggested.
Riddel smiled and looked around him in appreciation.
"Let’s say no more about it. Adam asked me come and meet with his family.
I must say, you have a lovely home."
For the first time in a long time, Ben saw the room as
a stranger might see it: generous in proportion, the great hearth and fireplace
built of roughly-dressed grey stone, pine timbers and split log walls, well worn
furniture of warm, solid wood together with touches of faded French elegance and
of Indian artistry. "Adam designed it," he said, unbidden. "And
he worked alongside me to get it built."
"He told me he was an architect." Riddel
settled back in the chair. "He has a great deal of talent. A drive. An
intellect. A desire to get things done."
"Oh, he’d got that all right." Ben’s
small frown returned.
At that moment Adam came back, munching on a fist-full
of sandwich and carrying a plate, which he gave to Riddel. "I found bread
and cheese and some cold meat," he said, speaking around the food.
"But Hop Sing’s tipped the coffee away. There’s only buttermilk in the
pantry." His face showed what he thought about that. As a child, Adam had
hated buttermilk, much to Ben’s annoyance; often it had been all he could get
to give to a hungry child. He still wouldn’t drink it, given a choice.
Ben felt the sharp spur of aggravation. "At one
time you were lucky to get it!" he said, rather more sharply than he had
intended.
With an air of something that closely resembled
defiance, Adam stared at him. "Don’t we have something better to offer a
guest?" He stood beside Riddel’s chair in an attitude that said, bruised
and battered as he might be, he was still quite ready to take on the world, and
that included his father.
Ben felt a shiver course through him. His son might be
spoiling for a fight, but, just at that moment, with a stranger in the house, he
wasn’t prepared to oblige him. He didn’t understand what was happening here.
"I’ll see what I can find," he said abruptly, but his eyes delivered
a different message. He crossed over the room to the dresser and took out a
bottle of wine. It was one he had been saving for a special occasion, but with
the eyes of both men upon him, burning into his back, he didn’t hesitate for
more than a second. He poured three generous measures and passed them around.
Ben reminded himself firmly that this stranger was
Adam’s friend and his invited guest. If what Adam had said was true – and,
looking at his son’s damaged face, Ben had no grounds to doubt it – Riddel
was owed a debt of gratitude.
"Isaac," he said with as much sincerity as he
could muster, "Our guestroom is yours for as long as you’d like to
stay."
*******
The first, faint flush of gold above the eastern
horizon heralded the start of another day’s work on the Ponderosa. Long before
the sun was fully risen above the horizon, Joe Cartwright sat down on the lowest
step of the staircase and began to pull on his high riding-boots. It looked like
being a long, hard day in the saddle chasing recalcitrant cows when what he
really wanted to do was take pretty young Ellen Walden up to the meadow beside
the lake to share a picnic basket – and, perhaps, to steal a kiss or two.
Ellen was just about as sweet a girl as any man could dream of, and, lately,
she’d been more than willing to spend time alone with a Cartwright man.
She’d been on Joe’s mind a lot. Joe sighed a little wistfully and started on
the other boot. This week, with all the jobs he’d already been given to do, it
didn’t look as if he was going to have any time at all for the important
things in life.
Adam came down the stairs behind him and stepped over
his brother with a long stride; he missed his ear by a precisely calculated
inch.
Joe yelled at him and swatted him away. "Watch it,
will ya?"
Adam ignored him. He was running late. His face was
still swollen here and there from the accident the night before, and the bruises
were becoming colourful. Having to miss all the sore spots with the razor’s
edge, it had taken him longer than usual to shave. He took a look around the
room. The table was all set for breakfast with red and white checked tablecloth
and pink edged china. The aromas of bacon and strong, black coffee issued
tantalisingly from the kitchen. Someone was missing. Adam planted his hands on
his hips. "Where’s Hoss?"
His over-sized brother’s place at the table was
empty. A man of legendary appetite, usually he was sitting up and ready to start
eating as soon as the food was delivered. Everyone else had to shift for himself
if he didn’t want to go hungry.
Joe stood up and stamped about to settle his feet in
the boots. "I guess he’s out in the barn fussin’ over that sick colt
again. He’s been out there ‘most every spare minute he gets."
Adam sighed with a trace of exasperation. "I
don’t know why he’s bothering. That colt’s never going to be any use for
anything anyhow."
"You know how he is. Anything that’s weak and
helpless…" Joe shrugged.
"I know it." Adam’s tone became resigned.
In his own way, big Hoss Cartwright was as stubborn a man as any one of his
kinfolk, and he didn’t like to admit defeat. The colt, born a week ago, had
been a weakling right from the beginning, but Hoss wouldn’t give up until the
last breath was breathed. It just wasn’t in the man’s nature.
Joe finally got his toes comfortably into the ends of
his boots. Looking up, he caught sight of his brother’s bruises. "Hey,
Adam! Who you been fightin’ with? You look like you walking into a wall!"
His young face brightened into a smile. It was not often his elder brother got
up in the morning looking the worse for a tussle, and from the looks of him this
one must have been a dandy.
Adam favoured him with a furious glare, but otherwise
didn’t answer. He was obviously out of sorts.
Adam brightened a little as the food arrived on the
table. "Well I guess that means that you and I get to eat first!"
"Hey-hey! I guess it does." Joe backhanded
his brother hard in the chest and started for his chair. "Hoss is likely to
be a while. That fella you brought home last night has gone out there with him.
I reckon they’ll be chewin’ it over for quite some time."
Adam grabbed Joe by the back of the collar and hauled
him back, holding him up on his toes. "Who d’you think your pushin’,
little brother?"
Joe yelped and struggled, arms flailing wildly.
"Put me down, will ya?"
An early cup of coffee already in hand, Ben, followed
Hop Sing and the breakfast dishes through from the kitchen. He looked at his
sons, the eldest and youngest, with disapproval. "Boy’s, you know I
don’t like horseplay inside the house. Adam, put your brother down."
Adam held Joe aloft a moment longer than absolutely
necessary, just to prove a point, then dropped him. Joe glowered belligerently
and shrugged himself back into his shirt. Ben frowned at the pair of them.
"You say Riddel’s out in the barn with Hoss?"
He had only heard the last part of the conversation. "He didn’t seem the
sort of man to take that much interest in livestock."
"Oh I don’t know, Pa." Adam took his
accustomed seat at the table. "He seems to be quite a horseman."
Ben looked at his son with faint surprise, but he
wasn’t about to dispute the point. Joe, still wearing an aggrieved expression,
joined them, and Ben gave thanks to his God for the food on his table.
*******
The colt nuzzled into Hoss’s hand, and once more he
turned the small, brown nose towards the mare’s belly. He was a cute little
thing, all long legs and huge dark eyes - a sort of pale, red-roan colour with
big liver spots over his rump. For some reason Hoss couldn’t account for, he
just hadn’t grown right. He had been small when he was born, and he just
hadn’t caught on to the knack of feeding properly. And now the mare wasn’t
helping much either. She was losing interest in her young one, and Hoss was
afraid that before very long her milk would start to dry off.
"C’mon, little fella. You just gotta get some
o’ this stuff down ya." Hoss talked to the colt as if he could
understand. The colt banged his head into his mother’s belly. Eventually, with
a little help from Hoss, he succeeded in getting the nipple into his mouth. He
didn’t seem to have much of a notion what to do next. Hoss rubbed the front of
the little horse’s throat vigorously, encouraging him to swallow. Wide eyed,
the colt looked at him and let the nipple slip out again. The mare stamped her
foot in irritation.
Perplexed and frustrated, Hoss’s broad face creased
into a scowl. "You just gotta eat, little one, or you just ain’t gonna
grow up inta a big, strong horse like your Pa."
A shadow fell across the floor of the barn. Still
frowning, Hoss looked up. A large man stood in the doorway, blocking out the
early morning brilliance. Sharply angled sunbeams danced around wide shoulders,
and, just for a moment, the face was invisible, obscured by the contrast of dark
and light. Hoss didn’t know who it was. Then he remembered. "Say, you
must be that Riddel fella my brother, Adam, brought home last night." From
the way that he said it, his brother was the one in the habit of adopting waifs
and strays.
Riddel stepped into the barn, smiling and holding out
his hand. "Isaac ’s the name, friend. Isaac Riddel."
Hoss wiped his palm on the seat of his pants and shook
hands with Riddel. He introduced himself. "I’m Hoss Cartwright."
"I’m right pleased ta meet ya, Hoss."
Hoss found himself returning the smile. He found
himself liking this big-built man with his easy smile and his lazy drawl. He had
a broad, bluff-featured face that was somehow familiar. Then, just for a moment,
Hoss felt just a trifle uneasy, a little chilled, as if a shadow had passed
across the face of the sun.
Riddel hunkered down beside the colt. "What’s
the matter with this little fella? He looks kinda sickly."
"I guess he was just born puny." Hoss
scratched his head through his thinning hair. "My folks tell me I’m
wastin’ my time with him, that it’d be kinder ta put a bullet through his
head."
Riddel shot him a swift glance. "And you don’t
feel right about doin’ that?"
"Heck no." Hoss reached out a hand to pet the
colt again and the sad smile came back to his face. "I reckon he ought ta
have the chance ta grow up just like any other critter."
"You like animals, Hoss?"
"Sure do." Hoss frowned. "Most times, I
like animals a whole lot better than I like people." He flushed a little at
the admission. This friend of Adam’s didn’t seem like he was such a bad sort
of fella for a man to know.
Riddel nodded understanding. The look on his face
mirrored Hoss’s own. "I don’t reckon critters judge a man like folks
do. They don’t look at a man like they’re scared o’ him or laugh at him if
he’s kinda big an’ clumsy, or if he don’t look so pretty."
Hoss looked at him in earnest amazement. "Is that
how you feel too?"
"You bet I do." Riddel grinned at him, and
Hoss saw that he had jagged, gappy and very uneven teeth. "Goodness knows,
I ain’t nothin ta look at."
"It ain’t just that they point an’ poke fun at
a man. Heck, that ain’t nothing at all." Hoss crouched down on the other
side of the colt, hiding his flaming face behind the animal’s neck. He
didn’t know why he was talking this way, but, somehow, this friend of Adam’s
understood. "Sometimes people just plain ain’t nice ta each other. They
go out shootin’ an’ killin’ and hurtin’ one another fer no good reason
at all. Animals just ain’t like that."
Riddel thought about it. Then he spoke into the
sun-spattered, dust-moted, warming silence of the barn; "A man can’t let
himself be pushed around the whole of his life. Comes a time when he has ta
stand firm for the things he believes in. It about the only way he can do some
good in this world.
"Guess you could be right." Hoss’s face
creased into lines of fierce concentration as he fondled the little colt’s
ears. A man of great stature and physical strength, he had learned from an early
age that might did not always mean right. His Pa and his big brother had taught
him to control his temper and always to pull his punches. Now that he thought
about it, he could see things another way. Very slowly, he began to smile.
"Isaac, I reckon you are right!
"That’s just what you do." Riddel
straightened up and dusted off his hands. "And I reckon that this little
horse is gonna be just fine too."
He’d had his fingers stuck into the colt’s mouth
and had been working them around until he had got the animal sucking hard on his
hand. Then he’d turned the colt’s head towards his mother, and the little
creature had stretched out his neck and was taking a good, long drink.
Hoss grinned – and then laughed out loud. "He
sure is."
"Say." Riddel looked at Hoss sideways. "D’you
you think we’re too late for breakfast over at your house? Seein’ him eat
like that sure makes a man hungry."
Hoss realized that he was hungry too. "I reckon
it’s about time we went and found out."
The two huge men draped their arms across each
other’s shoulders and started across the yard.
Ben welcomed his son and his guest to the table with a
warm, if wary, smile of greeting. "What do you think of the Ponderosa,
Isaac?"
"It’s a beautiful country, and you have a fine
spread here."
Hoss surveyed the table and the remains of breakfast
with dismay. "Hey, didn’t you fellas leave a man nothin’ ta
eat’?"
Adam, already replete with scrambled eggs and bacon and
fried corn fitters was drinking his third cup of coffee. He sat back in his
chair and stretched out his long, lean legs under the table. "Well, we got
us a growin’ boy to feed here, Hoss." He indicated Joe with nod of the
head. "’Sides, we thought you’d decided to forgo breakfast this
morning."
Hoss favoured Adam with a withering glance and looked
at Joe reproachfully. "Heck Adam, some o’ us bin working already today,
’stead o’ wrestlin’ with grizzlies like it looks like you bin doin’.
Joe, you gonna eat all o’ that bread?"
Adam grimaced. He was painfully aware that his close
encounter with the ore wagon the night before had done little to enhance his
appearance; it didn’t look as if anyone was going to let him forget it.
"I reckon he might just do that," he said in a slow western drawl,
answering for Joe who had his mouth full. He eyed Joe with speculation. "I
reckon he might."
Meeting his eyes with defiance, Joe popped the last
piece of bread into his mouth and chewed it. Hoss watched mournfully as he
swallowed it down.
Hop Sing appeared around the corner from the kitchen
carrying a fresh tray of bacon, eggs and new bread. Hoss’s expression
lightened. He nudged Riddel in the ribs. "This here’s Hop Sing. The best
darn cook in the whole o’ the territory. You git some o’ his eggs ‘n’
bacon inside ya, you’ll feel a whole different man."
"That is, if you manage to get at it before Hoss
eats it all," advised Adam, gravely over the rim of his cup.
Hoss gave him a glare that was full of resentment.
"Why don’t you mind your own business, big brother?"
"Gentlemen," Ben said from the end of the
table, "Please remember we have a guest in the house."
Adam smirked at Hoss, and Hoss kicked out at Adam’s
leg under the table. For a moment it seemed that Ben might have a full scale
riot on his hands as the brothers squared up to each other.
Hop Sing set down the tray. As Hoss settled down in his
seat and started to help himself from the dishes, The Chinese cook bowed low to
the tall, lean oriental in rusty black silk. "Mister Hoss always tease Hop
Sing." He explained with a self-depreciating gesture that spoke volumes of
respect and humility.
The se-mu jen acknowledged his obeisance with a
nod of the head. "I am sure you fill your place in this society admirably
and with honour," he said quietly. No one else heard. "But a man of
your undisputed abilities could undoubtedly do better for himself in this new
land of golden opportunity."
Hop Sing looked up into the tall man’s eyes. He saw
in their darkness an aloof contempt of one in so menial a position. It was with
trepidation that he dared to reply; it was not usually acceptable to question
the opinion of such a high ranking official. "Hop Sing is very happy
working for Cartwrights."
"Happiness is a quality that a man carries inside
himself," the se-mu jen told him mildly. "Consider carefully
what I have said. I am sure that in San Francisco or one of the fine cities in
the east, you would do very well for yourself."
Afraid to answer further and strangely disquieted by
what he had heard, Hop Sing bowed once more and retreated into the kitchen.
Isaac Riddel sat down in the seat beside Hoss, served
himself from the platters and started to eat.
"How’s that little colt this morning?" Ben
asked Hoss.
Hoss took a mouthful of bread and shovelled eggs in
after it; he spoke ‘round the food. "He’s a whole lot better, Pa. In
fact, I think he’s gonna be just fine. Isaac here, he’s got him ta eat
proper."
A frown clouded Ben Cartwright’s face. "Is that
a fact?" It seemed unlikely. With his suit brushed clean and his tie neatly
knotted, Riddel looked more like a banker than a man who would know about
horses.
"You still think that colt’s going to grow up to
be useful?" Adam inquired of his brother. "He looked pretty sickly to
me."
Hoss was still eating. He was as hungry as a bear.
"Just goes ta show what you know about horses, big brother. I’m gonna
call him Isaac, after Isaac here. An’ when he’s done growing I’m gonna
give him ta Little Joe. He’ll make a real fancy saddle horse - fer a puny sort
o’ a man."
Joe was both pleased and insulted. "Say, who you
callin’ puny?" I can outride you any day."
Hoss paused in his chewing and scowled "You know I
didn’t mean nothing by it!"
Adam’s breath hissed in through his teeth, and his
face tightened with annoyance. Normally, he let his brother’s bickering simply
wash by him, but, this morning, it was getting under his skin. He sat up
straighter in his chair, and his cup rattled into its saucer. "Why should
Joe be the one to get the horse? It seems to me that Joe gets all the
privileges." It was a thing that, normally, wouldn’t have bothered him.
Joe was his younger brother and now, as always, the baby of the family. Any
other day of the week, Adam would have denied him nothing. This morning, it was
a source of intense irritation. Then he caught the glint of steel in his
father’s eye and subsided.
Ben said sternly, "It’s only reasonable that
Hoss should do as he pleases with his own horse."
Ben glanced at Riddel who had just about finished his
breakfast and was dabbing his lips with his napkin. The silver haired banker –
as such Ben still thought of him - was politely ignoring the altercation his
host’s table.
Changing the subject, Ben Cartwright said,
"Talking about riding, don’t you three have some work lined up for
today?"
"That’s right, Pa," Adam acknowledged,
"We were going to work those draws down in the south section, out as far as
the ridge. There’s always a lot of unbranded mavericks hiding out in the
brush."
"And then there’s that cabin up in Craig’s
Cutting want fixin’ up for the winter." Ben reminded him. "And a
dozen head of broom-tails still left in the corral need breaking for the winter
remuda."
Joe didn’t need telling. Finished with his meal, he
got to his feet. He looked at his elder brother, who seemed disinclined to move.
"Hey, daylight’s a-spendin’. You gonna sit there an’ drink coffee all
day, or you gonna come and do some work?"
Adam raised a sardonic eyebrow, surprised at Joe’s
unusual enthusiasm. "So what got in to you all of a sudden? It’s not like
you to want to get to work."
Joe pointed a finger. "I work just as hard as you
do. I don’t make so much noise about it, that’s all!"
"Noise?"
Adam caught his father’s look again. It occurred to
him to mention the instructions Paul Martin had given him –all those wise
words about taking it easy. With all the work that was waiting to be done, he
could imagine what his family would have to say if he claimed to be sick.
Besides, it wasn’t in his nature. With a sigh he got out of his chair and
followed his brother to the door. Both men buckled on hardware.
"Adam." Ben called after his son sternly;
"Tonight after supper I want you to go through the books with me. We have
to come to some decision about what to do with that land on the southern side of
the river. And we still have to work on those round-up figures"
"Yes, Pa." Adam ground his teeth and rolled
his eyes towards heaven. He already knew what had to be done, and, sometimes,
the tone of his father’s voice made him feel about six years old. He walked
slowly back to the breakfast table and put his foot on his empty chair. He
looked at his big younger brother. "We," Adam began, his voice heavily
laced with sarcasm, "are going out chasing cows." He gave Hoss a
little bow. "Would you care to join us, brother?"
Hoss hadn’t finished eating. He heaved a mighty sigh.
"I guess I’m comin’ too, iffen you fellas can’t manage it all on your
ownsome." He grabbed a slice of bread and the last of the bacon, folding it
into a sandwich as he went through the door. Irritated voices were heard from
the yard, evidence that the half-serious arguments continued outside, and then
the drum of horse’s hooves as the three men rode away. A sudden, velvet
silence descended on the ranch house.
Still scowling at his offspring’s antics, Ben took
his coffee with him to his desk. He would have preferred to be out in the
sunlight and fresh air himself, but he had a whole heap of paperwork to catch up
on and several important letters to write – and still there were those figures
that he and Adam hadn’t gotten to last night. He wasn’t looking forward to
any of it. With a sigh of his own, he sat down in the green leather chair. The
sooner he began, he supposed, the sooner he’d be done.
Riddel trailed after him, his own refilled coffee cup
in his hand. Once again, Ben experienced that momentary measure of unease. From
the corner of his eye he watched Riddel scan the elaborately tooled spines of
the books on the shelves. Here and there, the man paused to read a title, head
on one side. He seemed genuinely interested, and Ben’s disquiet passed,
fading, finally, as Riddel turned and smiled.
"Quite a collection of reading material you have
here."
Ben had to agree. "Most of it belongs to Adam.
He’s the one for reading. He gets it from his mother."
"His mother? Ah, yes." Riddel surveyed the
row of tiny, painted faces, each in its golden frame, that adorned Ben’s desk.
Suddenly, Ben wanted, quite irrationally, to sweep them into the protection of
his arms and hold them against his chest. This man’s eyes somehow sullied them
and the memories that they engendered.
"Do you miss them?" Riddel asked. Ben
didn’t answer. White faced, he sat at the desk. His hands clenched slowly into
white knuckled fists. Of course he missed them! Every single day and more than
words could tell.
"I had a wife once too." Riddel said
unexpectedly. "A beautiful woman, very similar to Adam’s mother:
raven-haired, with eyes as dark as midnight and a laugh like the tinkle of
bells." He sighed a small sigh. "There’s nothing quite like the love
of a good woman."
Ben breathed into a silence broken only by the tick of
the long case clock and the distant clatter of pots and pans in the kitchen.
Gradually, he relaxed back into the chair. The frown was still on his face.
"What happened to your wife?" he asked quietly.
Riddel’s eyes focused on some distant horizon in the
landscape within his own mind. "She died in childbirth. The child died too.
I’ve missed her dreadfully for a very long time." Lost in thought and the
memory of loss, he stood with his head lowered and his broad shoulders hunched.
The silence extended.
Ben looked again at the three painted faces - each one
so different, each dearly loved. They gazed back patiently over the span of the
years. Finally he spoke, his voice harsh with pain. "A man has to learn to
let go; he has to move on – appreciate the things that he has."
"That’s easy enough for you to say," Riddel
responded heavily, "A man with all this: a ranch, a great house, three fine
sons."
Ben’s brow creased further. Despite the warmth of the
sun spilling in through the window, he shivered. "They’re good boys, I
know, but sometimes I’m not sure what gets into their heads. Joe can be so
hot-headed at times, he seems almost out of control."
"The wild ones are always the hardest for a father
to control," Riddel said softly –so softly Ben barely heard him.
"Adam’s always got his head in some book, or
he’s off in the clouds with his mind filled with windmills, and Hoss –
there’s times when he seems to live in another world entirely with his animals
and his love of the wild."
Riddel smiled a slow, secret smile. "They’re
fine young gentlemen - a credit to you in every way," he said slyly.
"They’re bound to run wild from time to time. Joe might be impulsive but,
with luck, he’ll settle down someday and make a fine husband, and Hoss is as
strong and as steadfast as the land itself."
He paused, and Ben looked up sharply at the noticeable
omission. "And Adam? What do think about Adam? He’s the reason you’re
here, after all." For some reason he couldn’t account for, Ben felt he
needed to know.
"Adam." Riddel thought for a moment.
"Adam’s a man of many talents, not all of them readily apparent. He has
ideas of his own and a desire to make his own path through life. As much as he
has here, I don’t think it will be enough for him."
Ben voiced a fear he’d held for a very long time –
since the day that his son had been born – and the day that Elizabeth died,
"You think that Adam will leave?"
Riddel left his answer unspoken. Now the house was
completely quiet except for the tick of the clock. Even the rattle from the
kitchen had stopped.
"You seem to know my family very well on such a
short acquaintance." Ben was disgruntled again, disturbed and unhappy. This
man seemed to know far too much about him – and his sons. And he still had
that uncomfortable feeling that, somewhere, he’d met him before. He looked at
his big hands, folded together on top of the desk: powerful, capable hands that
had tamed a wild country, brought civilization to a wilderness, hand that were
work-hardened, callused and scarred and seemed, at the moment, incapable of
holding together what they had created.
"Surely the bookwork can wait," Riddel
suggested mildly. "I’d like to see the lake. Adam showed it to me by
starlight. I’d like to see it again – in the full light of day."
Ben closed the ledger with its neat rows of figures in
his hand and in Adam’s and ran his blunt fingertips over the gold embossed
edges of the cover. The book represented the whole of his achievement. It
didn’t seem to matter that much any more. If Joe got himself shot and killed
in some senseless saloon brawl, if Hoss wandered off someplace and took up
residence in the hills, if Adam – if Adam just went away – it would all have
been for nothing. He straightened abruptly, jack-knifing himself out of the
chair. All of a sudden he needed to renew his relationship with the lady of the
lake. "You’ve gotten yourself a deal, Mister Riddel. Let’s go and
saddle ourselves some horses."
*******
The hammer-headed sorrel gelding had made up his mind:
he wasn’t about to be ridden. He’d made his decision abundantly clear, right
from the outset, and, the third time he came out of the saddle and hit the hard
packed earth, Joe was inclined to agree with him. He sat up slowly, this time
determined not to rush it, and probed gently with his finger tips for all the
various sore spots that he knew for dead-certain sure he was going to discover
later. The accumulated effect of this morning’s work was going to leave him
black and blue in some very interesting places.
The cowboys had already hustled the bucking pony away
and were busily loading him back into the chute. Joe guessed he had no choice
but to get up off the ground, brush himself off and do what was expected of him
– it was one of the duties of being the owner’s son. He shook the last of
the wooziness out of his head, gathered his hat and clambered stiffly back onto
his feet.
Right there and then he could think of about three
hundred things he’d rather be doing than banging the grit out of ill-mannered
brush-horses: most of them involved spending time with sweet Ellen Weldon. On
thing was sure, by the time he’d finished in this corral he’d need a bath
and a fresh change of clothes before he went anywhere near her. Dust rose in
clouds from the seat of his pants when he banged his hands against them and an
itchy trickle of sweat ran down his neck.
"Hey, little brother!" Hoss hailed him from a
precarious perch on the top rail of the fence. "That was a mighty fine
ride, but ain’t you supposed ta end up sittin’ on the back o’ the horse
when you’ve done?"
Still dusting his rear, Joe limped over. Not for the
first time in recent days, the usual, light-hearted reposte failed to rise to
his lips. He had no idea how long his brother had been there, but obviously, it
was long enough to witness the ignominious end to his ride. He squinted up at
him, his dirty face pinched tight with irritation. "I don’t seein’ you
doin’ much ta help. When was the last time you put your butt on a bronc?"
Hoss chuckled again. "Heck, Little Joe, I sit down
on one o’ those ponies, I’m apt ta break ‘im in half!"
"I still don’t see why you shouldn’t do some
o’ the work." Joe was prepared to grumble on, although his heart wasn’t
in it. That thought led to another. "Where’s Adam? Off someplace wi’
that new friend o’ his?"
"Don’t reckon." Hoss looked vague. "I
saw Riddel goin’ out a while back, buggy ridin’ wi’ Pa."
Joe thought about it. From where he stood it seemed
unlikely that either his Pa, or his big brother, Adam, would make such elaborate
overtures of friendship to a man like Riddel. So far, no one had bothered to
explain it to him. His expression soured still more. "Looks like I’m the
only one around here doin’ any work at all."
"Aw, it just seems that way, Joe." Hoss’s
smile broadened with mischief. "Leastwise it’s keeping your mind off that
pretty li’le Ellen Weldon!"
Joe looked at him sharply, his eyes bright and hard
with irritation. "What’s it to you if I think about Ellen?"
The amusement faded from Hoss’s face to be replaced
by a puzzled frown. "It ain’t nothin' at all ta me, Little Joe. But you
just might manage ta stay on that horse iffen you kept your mind on the
job."
Joe’s face went white with fury. He was angry on
three separate counts. Irrationally, he felt that Hoss had cast a slur on Ellen
purely by speaking her name; he had certainly ridiculed Joe’s ability to ride!
Most insulting of all, he had dared use that hated word ‘little’.
Joe lunged for his brother. He used the corral fence
for a ladder and grabbed for the front of his shirt. Hoss was already out of his
reach. Moving remarkably quickly for a man of his bulk, he was down from the
fence rail and heading towards his horse. His big voice boomed back over his
shoulder. "I just don’t know what’s got inta you, Joe. You want ta keep
your mind on bustin’ them broncs."
Furious, Joe hurled his hat to the ground and resisted,
manfully, the urge to jump up and down on it. The sorrel was still waiting and
there was nothing else for it but to get himself back to work.
*******
The day had been a long one, hot, dry and dusty for the
Cartwright brothers. They had spent every last minute of it chasing lazy,
summer-plump steers out of the brush. They had gathered several, small bunches
of twenty and thirty head and driven them several miles across rough country to
the makeshift corral. Now, it was the later part of the afternoon, and they had
a sizeable herd gathered in the steep sided valley and every reason to be
feeling pleased with themselves.
Joe Cartwright was far from pleased. Every time, he had
drawn the short straw and he had gotten to ride drag. He was tired of getting
dirt in his mouth and sick to his soul of the sight of steer’s backsides. To
add to Joe’s indisposition, both his brothers were in the most ridiculous of
good humours. They had spent the early part of the day swapping loud and bawdy
jokes that, a few years ago, they wouldn’t have dared speak aloud in front of
their baby brother lest he inadvertently repeat them to their father. Then
they’d taken to exchanging senseless riddles across the cattle’s backs:
riddles that neither one had bothered to explain to Joe. They’d kept up the
banter all afternoon, hardly pausing for breath, and Joe felt that, somehow,
he’d gotten the worst of it. Now, at the tail end of the day, with the sun
tipping into the western hills and the sky taking on the colour of beaten
bronze, Adam was spouting high sounding verse, stumbling slightly on the words
when his swollen lip got in the way. Hoss was laughing his fool head off, and
every trip of Adam’s mouth made him haw-haw harder. Joe had just about had
enough.
Riding, yet again, at the back of the bunch, he chased
the last, reluctant steer into the holding pen. He stepped down from his horse
and wiped his sleeve over his face. He succeeded only in smearing the mask of
sweat and dust. Glaring at up at Adam, who was in mid quote, he said, irritably,
"Why don’t you shut up?"
Hoss leaned out of his saddle, his big face beaming.
"Whoo—ee! What’s the matter, little brother? A little culture getting
to ya?"
"I don’t need culture!" Joe turned
furiously on Adam. "All that fancy book learnin’ you got, it don’t
count for nothin’ out here on the range!"
Adam pressed his hand to his breast; his horse, tight
reined, danced on the spot in the dust. "What e’re you think, good words,
I think, were best!"*
Hoss hooted with laughter. "Little Joe, iffen you
concentrated more on book learnin’ ‘stead o’ chasin’ every high-tailed
filly that comes prancin’ by, you’d be able ta talk all that fancy stuff,
just like Adam here."
Adam slapped his palm against his thigh and laughed
aloud. Joe didn’t see the joke, and, suddenly, he was angry. He leapt back
into the saddle and snatched up his reins. "I don’t know what the
hell’s got into you two today, but I’ve had enough of it!"
"Aw, heck, Joe, we didn’t mean nothing."
Hoss wiped tears of laughter from his face. "We was just joshin’
along!"
Joe looked from face to face: Adam was struggling to
compose himself, and Hoss was still chuckling. "Well’ I don’t like
it!" He reined his gelding in hard and spun him about on a dime. "You
two can finish up here on your own!" Well aware that there was still an
hour’s work to be done – and it would take longer with just two men to do it
- he kicked his horse into motion.
With his brothers’ laughter still echoing loud in his
ears, Joe rode at a furious gallop all the way to the top of the rise, and then
home at an easier pace. His mind was in turmoil, and the hot fires of resentment
burned in his belly. This was one of those days when his half-brothers’
sometimes-weird senses of humour simply got under his skin. He led the gelding
into the corral alongside the barn and stripped off the saddle. The horse was
sweating and blowing hard, and Joe felt rather ashamed at having pushed him so
cruelly.
At first he though there was no one about. Then the
front door of the house opened and Isaac Riddel came out. Joe watched the
stranger approach over the horse’s steaming back. Still angry, he didn’t
feel like being sociable – especially with this new friend of Adam’s. Joe
had disliked Riddel from the moment they had been introduced. The smile was a
little too easy, the gleam in the bright hazel eyes a little too bright. Joe
didn’t buy the idea of a chance encounter in the street, and an older
brother’s friends should be – well – older.
With the rapid, easy movements of a fit young man,
Riddel climbed to the top of the corral fence. Joe shivered as the man’s
shadow fell across him. Wide kneed, Riddel sat and watched as Joe rubbed the cow
pony down.
Joe eyed him warily but didn’t speak. He was prepared
to allow the silence to grow until the other man became uncomfortable.
Riddel wasn’t in the least disconcerted. "Nice
gelding," he ventured. "I’ll bet he’s a fine cutting pony."
Joe shot him a hostile glance. He refused to be
flattered. His response was reluctantly honest. "He’s a good enough
horse."
"Did you train him yourself?" The friendly
enthusiasm in Riddel’s voice made Joe bristle all the more.
"I trained him," he answered shortly. He
continued to work, polishing the gelding’s black hide with a piece of cloth
until it was bone-dry and shone in the afternoon sky.
"You don’t like me, do you?" Riddel asked
from his place on the top of the fence.
Joe came around the rump of the horse. Still scowling,
he studied the stranger’s face. It was a young face, as young as Joe’s,
younger it seemed than the man who wore it, and there was something about it
that was uncannily familiar. Right now, that face was as wary and watchful as
Joe knew his own to be. "What is it you want, hanging about my family the
way you’re doing?"
The cowboy shrugged and ran a hand through his curls.
"A bed for the night, a few free meals, perhaps a little spending
money."
Joe was taken aback. It was what he had suspected all
along, but he hadn’t expected the man to admit it so readily. He slapped his
hand on the horse’s rump to move him out of the way and took a long step
nearer the figure that loomed, menacingly, so it seemed, from the top of the
five-barred fence. "Is that all there is to it?"
"Sure. What else?" The young cowboy smiled
disarmingly.
Thinking about it, Joe didn’t believe it – not for
a minute. No common cowboy would go to the elaborate lengths of this deception,
not even to eat at the Cartwright’s fine table. There had to be something more
behind it: something deeper, colder and darker.
There was something sly behind the young man’s smile.
Joe shivered again, as if, years in the future, someone
walked over the place where he’d lie. He threw the sensation off with a shrug.
"So how long do you intend to hang around?"
"A few more days." Riddel eyed him narrowly.
"Perhaps until after the weekend. Long enough for your Pa and your brother
to show their appreciation properly." Sitting up on the fence, Riddel was
silhouetted against the sky. His expression was unreadable. Joe squared up to
him and pointed a finger.
"I want you to pack your gear and get off the
Ponderosa."
Riddel’s eyes narrowed. "I’ll go when I’m
good and ready, Cartwright, and not a moment before."
Joe took another long stride. He reached out for Riddel,
fully prepared to drag him down off that fence and beat the living daylights out
of him. At the very last moment, Ben’s bellow from across the yard summoned
him to the house, "Joe? Joseph!"
Distracted, Joe looked away. Then he looked back at
Riddel. The cowboy hadn’t moved. The sun had set behind the mountain and now
Joe couldn’t see his face at all. He said, "You be on you way tonight,
Mister. I don’t want to see you around here any more."
With eyes that glowed very slightly in the gathering
gloom, Riddel watched him walk away. A sudden, cool breeze ruffled the scrub oak
alongside the house. Joe didn’t look back. After a moment, Riddel’s smile
reasserted itself.
*******
It took the combined strength of all three brothers to
hold the mule still. Joe had him firmly by the bridle, the big head tucked
underneath his arm and his free hand clamped on the meal-coloured muzzle. Adam
had his arms wrapped around him somewhere aft of the saddle; he was using all
his strength to keep the animal’s rear end pinned against the side of the
stall. It was Hoss who had drawn the short straw, and his was the job of doing
the cutting. He had the sore and swollen hoof in between his legs and wedged up
on his knee. Even so, he was doubtful about the security of his position.
The mule was stubborn and angry and frightened. He was
in pain, and he didn’t like all these men holding on to him. He heaved,
dragging everyone with him. The knife poised, Hoss chewed at his lip.
"Hey, hold on ta him, will ya?"
Adam, balanced on one leg, his other foot braced
against the stall post, yelled right back at him. "We’re holdin’ him
down as best as we can! Just get on an’ do it, will ya?"
For once, Joe was inclined to agree with his eldest
brother. This job was taking altogether too long. "Yah! Stop yakkin’
an’ get on with it!"
Hoss considered the spot a moment longer while his
brothers fought with the mule. Then, with a scowl, he neatly lanced the abscess,
cutting deep to tap the infection and let the poison out.
The mule squealed with pain and wreaked his revenge.
Dropping his head, he broke free of Joe and paid him back, in spades, with his
teeth. Adam, abruptly, ran out of room and found himself crowded into the wall
of the stall by half a ton of enraged and pain-driven animal. Hoss let go of the
leg in a rush and caught only a glancing blow from the inevitable two-footed
kick that would have disembowelled him if it had caught him squarely.
The golden, afternoon air turned abruptly blue with the
string of not-so-muffled curses that issued from the depths of the barn. Shortly
afterwards, the three men emerged, two of them limping and Joe clasping his arm.
The mule, doubtless, was feeling much better.
Favouring his often-sore hip, Adam hobbled to the water
trough and cooled his neck with a palmful of water. He glared angrily at Joe.
"I thought you were holding on to him!"
Joe snarled right back, "I thought you had him
too!" He rolled up his sleeve to inspect the bruise on his arm. The
mule’s big, blunt teeth had not broken the skin, but they’d dented it
considerably and it was starting to pain him something awful. It was already
blue turning to black, and the damage was spreading. He dunked it deep in the
water to cool it.
Hoss rubbed ruefully at a knee that was rapidly
swelling. "Iffen you two had held on tighter..!"
Both his brothers turned on him. The argument developed
very quickly into pushing and shoving and would have come to blows if Ben
hadn’t ridden up at just that moment with Isaac Riddel in tow. Ben swung out
of the saddle and shook his sons apart. His face took on all the hues of a
thundercloud. "I can’t leave you three alone for a minute before you’re
brawling over some sort of nonsense!"
The three young men stood and dusted themselves down.
Their expressions were rather more stunned than sheepish. Isaac Riddel sat back
in his saddle, that inescapable smile still firmly in place. "Now
Ben," he said affably. "Boys will be boys." Adam and Joe stared
at him in bemusement. It wasn’t the sort of thing they would have expected a
man like Riddel to say. Hoss, who had come off worst in the scuffle, was too
busy to notice.
Ben continued to glare furiously from one of his
progeny to another. "Boys? They act more like children!"
Joe stared past his father at Riddel. There was
something in the back of Joe’s mind, something he couldn’t remember:
something about Riddel going away and a deep, residual anger.
Adam fingered his lip, which had only just healed over.
He half expected it to be bleeding again and was relieved to find that it
wasn’t. He considered offering some sort of explanation and decided it really
wasn’t worth the effort. His Pa was mad enough already and talking about it,
in Adam’s considerable experience, was only likely to make matters worse.
Ben pointed an imperious finger towards the house.
"I think you all better go and get washed up for supper." It was more
a command than a suggestion. Hands on hips he watched until the young men were
more than half way towards the door. Riddel dismounted, and the two of them led
their horses into the barn.
*******
The hammer missed the nail-head and, only narrowly,
Adam’s fingers. It wasn’t the first time that day. He let rip with a furious
expletive. "Hold the damn thing steady, will ya!"
"Heck, Adam, that’s just what I’m tryin’ ta
do!" Hoss was struggling with the far end of the board. It was a long,
whippy plank with a life of its own and this was the fourth attempt the brothers
had made to get the thing nailed in place.
Adam threw the hammer down on the floor. His hands went
to his hips in the archetypal Cartwright attitude of annoyance. His tawny eyes
flashed with fire. "Well, I think perhaps you should try a little harder,
brother. Why don’t you watch what you’re doing?"
Hoss bristled resentfully. His hands on his own hips, a
taller and bigger man, he leaned over Adam. "Iffen you reckon you c’n do
this job better on your own...""
"That’s not what I’m saying!" Adam’s
voice had lost its even modulation and was starting to rise.
"Well that’s what it’s soundin’ like!" By now the two men were
chest to chest and glaring at each other.
A physical confrontation with Hoss Cartwright was never
a good idea, and no one was more aware of it than Adam. It was he who had taught
the big man to use his fists in the first place. Hoss was not only taller and
stronger but he packed a punch like a mule, and his temper, when roused was
legendary. Nevertheless, Adam was not prepared to back down. He leaned back on
his heels and stared deep into his brother’s angry blue eyes. "You heard
Pa say that he wants this shack fixed in time for the winter," he said with
controlled intensity. "And he said he wanted you and me to get the job
done. We still have to fix up this panelling and mend the holes in the roof.
Now, are you gonna set to and help me do it, or are we gonna step outside and do
something we might both regret?"
"Regret!" Hoss jabbed a forefinger into
Adam’s chest. "Rearrangin’ your pretty face ain’t somethin’ I’ll
regret one little bit! I reckon them bruises you’re wearin’ kinda suit ya!"
Both men stood and considered Hoss’s pointing finger.
Adam raised his eyes and looked resentfully into Hoss’s face. He said, with
deliberate precision, "Why don’t we find out how a few bruises would look
on you?"
A small voice of caution whispered in Hoss’s ear. He
knew his own strength, and he knew if he fought with his brother, which of them
was going to win. He also knew that neither of them would emerge from such a
battle unscathed. He stepped back and held up his hands. "I ain’t gonna
fight ya, Adam, but I had just about as much as I c’n take o’ your smart
mouth! Reckon I might just go away and live some place where I can’t hear it
no more." Turning on his heel, he walked away, out of the cabin and into
the sunlit morning.
It was a bright fresh day of early autumn. The sunshine
was warm on his face. The fresh air served to clear his head and to cool his
temper. He was aware that Adam took two long steps after him, and then stopped
in the cabin doorway. He didn’t look back, nor did Adam call after him
‘though he could feel his brother’s anger burning into his back. Hoss kept
on walking until he reached his horse, then stepped into the saddle and rode
away.
*******
Leaving his horse tethered in a stand of trees, Adam
went for a walk by the shore of the lake. It was Saturday, and a big day in the
social calendar of the southern Washoe Valley, second in importance only to the
ritual gatherings at Christmas and the traditional spring picnic: it was the
night of the annual Harvest Dance. Preparations had been underway for weeks, and
anticipation throughout the wide spread community had reached fever pitch. Adam
should have been home, getting himself bathed and shaved and oiling his hair.
Instead, he felt divorced from all the excitement; he felt he needed some time
on his own.
The water lay in a slate grey sheet reflecting the
sky-blue sky. Lightly ruffled by a vagrant breeze from the hillsides, it looked
chill and uninviting. As always, it had adjusted itself to his mood. Adam was in
a bleak frame of mind. His life had lost its balance. His home-life was in a
state of disruption, his family, usually able to rub along together with no more
than the usual, human differences of opinion, was tearing itself asunder. His
father, who normally tempered his innate paternal sternness with patience and
good humour, had become irascible and possessed of a black despair. Hoss still
grumbled on about leaving and going to live on a mountaintop someplace, and Joe
stormed about in a perpetual dark cloud of anger.
And Adam himself – he wasn’t at all sure what he
felt any more. At one time, not so very long ago, although it seemed like
forever, his life seemed settled in its course; his wanderlust, except for a
little occasional dreaming, was mostly laid to rest. As his father’s business
associate, professional advisor and confidant, as well as being the first-born
son and principal inheritor, his future and his place in the upper echelons of
society were assured. He had decided that travel, the arts and culture could all
come later. Now, he was unsettled again, restless and uncertain. He was no
longer at peace with his world. It all stemmed back to that singular evening
when he had first encountered Isaac Riddel, the man who had stepped out of
nowhere, who looked so very much like him and reflected his thoughts and deepest
emotions.
In a little more than a week, his guest had become a
part of the family. He shared Adam’s love of books, poetry and music,
participated in Hoss’s overwhelming absorption in all things connected with
nature and the call of the wild, and would happily spend all night discussing
history and politics and the state of the nation with Ben. He had even developed
some sort of strange relationship with Hop Sing, the Chinese cook. He got along
well with everyone - except for Little Joe.
He was always there, ready with a word of advice or
encouragement and that ever present, always friendly smile. Was he also sowing
seeds of dissension and dissatisfaction among the ranks of his hosts: a viper
nesting in the heart of the Cartwright family? On reflection, Adam thought that
perhaps he was. It was yet another friendship that Adam had been enjoying that
was destined to bite the dust.
Adam skimmed a few rocks out over the water and watched
the ripples spread. It was plain to him what he had to do. It was he who had
invited Riddel to stay; it was up to him to tell him to go. A grim look of
determination settled onto his face. There was no time like the present when it
came to getting an unpleasant job done.
*******
Ben emerged from his office corner. The deep-folded
frown that he wore had taken up more or less permanent residence in the last
several days. He had a headache, and he was feeling out of sorts. He was angry
and resentful; if the truth were known, he would have liked to go to the ho-down
as well. He might have enjoyed a glass or two of the traditional, stunningly
strong brandy punch, some convivial conversation and perhaps a turn or two
around the floor with the pleasant faced and always obliging widow Burns. It
wasn’t to be. Those half dozen letters were still to be written, and the tally
cards from the autumn gather were waiting to be tallied up. They were jobs his
eldest son was strangely reluctant to undertake.
It was six o’clock by the dial of the long case
clock. The great room of the ranch house was lit by pale lamp light against the
gathering gloom. A log fire blazed in the fireplace, relegating the creeping
chill of the evening into the farthest corners. The three younger Cartwrights
were making their final preparations to go to the Harvest Ball. Mixed with the
smell of wood smoke, Ben could detect the aromas of soft soap, shoe polish and
lavishly applied pomade. The atmosphere of joviality and friendly competition
that was the usual bill of fare on such an occasion was missing.
Hoss was pensive, as was normal of late; his mind was
on other things. His broad face was scrubbed to pinkness and his thinning hair
brushed until it shone. He wore his habitual garb, the sort of clothes that made
the big man comfortable: a bead-trimmed, soft leather vest over a full sleeved
shirt of white linen. He had not yet put on the coat to his suit and stood by
the hearthstone, one hand upon the mantle. His blue eyes were focused somewhere
far beyond the flames. Ben wondered what he was thinking. Was he still
considering that log cabin high in the hills, so far removed from the rest of
humanity. He had mentioned it a lot lately and seemed to be permanently angry.
It was plain to his father that Hoss was not a happy man.
A log fell in the fire and sent the sparks jumping.
Hoss stepped back sharply, and then looked up as Joe came clattering down the
stairs. The youngest Cartwright had taken longest to dress. With his heavily
bandaged arm confined in a sling it had taken a while to button his trousers. He
had found himself left with one final problem.
"Hey, Hoss, can you help me tie this thing?"
The black, shoestring tie around his neck already showed evidence of Joe’s
one-handed struggles. Hoss walked over and straightened it out. His big fingers
fumbles with the narrow, silk ribbon.
"Just hold still a moment, will ya, Joe I can’t
tie this darn thing with you dancin’ about all over the place.
To Ben’s paternal eye, Joe looked very young and
vulnerable: a little boy all dressed up in a grown man’s suit. The frown still
firmly in place, he said, "Joe, I’m not sure that you ought to go."
Joe turned on him; his young faced flushed abruptly
with anger. "I can take care of myself, Pa."
"With your arm all bundled up like that?" Ben
thought that he sounded the very soul of reasonableness. "I doubt that you
can."
Hoss had just about fumbled the tie into some sort of
bow. "Joe’s jist worried that arm might cramp his style a little."
Joe stepped back, his fury increasing. The ribbon
unravelled in disarray. "What d’you mean by that?
"I don’t mean nothin’, Joe." Frustrated,
Hoss attempted a feeble joke. "You git ta spoonin’ wi’ li’l Ellen
Weldon, I’m sure you’ll manage jist fine."
Pointing the furious finger of his good right hand, Joe
shouted into his brother’s face, "I told you before, don’t you talk
about Ellen! Don’t you even mention her name!"
"Joseph!" Ben moved forward to intervene
before the brothers came to blows.
Hoss was more than a little bemused. "Hey, Little
Joe...!"
"And don’t call me ‘little’!" Joe was
enraged, his face turning purple.
"Boys, boys." Adam stepped between them and
put his hands on their shoulders. Ben’s frown deepened into a scowl. In the
thigh length, full-skirted jacket and pin striped pants, a bow of black silk
tied at his throat and his hair slicked back from his face, Adam looked all too
much like some riverboat gambler or – worse – a gunslinger, for Ben’s
peace of mind. Adam went on, unperturbed, "There’s no need to argue.
I’ll be there to take good care of the pair of you. That’s what big brothers
are for."
Hoss snarled, "Adam, there ain’t no need fer you
ta patronize me! I told you afore, I don’t need no more o’ your smart
mouth!"
Joe tore away from Adam’s hand "An’ I don’t
need no lookin’ after neither! You just take care o’ your friend Riddel
an’ leave me alone!"
Joe! Adam! Hoss!" In despair, Ben saw his family
falling apart in front of his eyes There was nothing he could do to prevent it.
He saw the expression on Adam’s face freeze.
"Isaac Riddel isn’t coming to the dance
tonight."
Possessed of black rage, Joe hadn’t listened to a
word that Adam had said. "What is it with you and him anyhow? You keep on
tryin’ ta shrug me off o’ your coattails because you say I’m too young!
Riddel ain’t a whole year older than I am!"
Adam stared at him blankly and so did Ben. Hoss frowned
steadily at his little brother as if he were trying to think it through. Ben
began, slowly, "Joseph…"
"I don’t want ta hear it!" Joe threw up his
hand; his wild stare was inclusive. "I don’t know what sort of hold
he’s got on any of you, but I’m not taken in by him – not one little
bit!"
Almost in tears that belied his manhood, Joe ran for
the yard. The door slammed shut behind him, then swung slowly open again,
letting the cool breath of evening drift into the room and making the flames
dance higher. Adam took a long step as if to go after his brother, then stopped.
He turned to look at his father, dismay on his face. In the stunned silence that
filled the great room, another log fell in the fire and the clock ticked on.
Predictably, perhaps, it was Hoss who fitted the mystery into words. Perplexed,
he inquired, "Pa, what did Joe mean when he said Isaac weren’t no older
‘n he is?"
Ben shook his head. "I’m damned if I know.
Riddel is my age, if he’s a day."
Adam looked from one to the other. "But he’s
more like me than I would have believed possible!"
Hop Sing came through from the kitchen. He was tall for
a Chinaman and sturdily built. He had on his coat and his black, bowler hat. In
his hand he carried the all-too-familiar carpetbag that the Cartwrights knew,
from experience, held all his worldly possessions. "Hop Sing go now,"
he announced, without preamble. "Go to San Francisco – start business of
own."
Ben and his sons all stared at him, their mouths
falling open. For Hop Sing to leave was nothing new. He did it on a regular
basis. Every minor disagreement or imagined slight was a sure signal for a
prolonged holiday with one of his many cousins, but this was totally unexpected.
This blow, on top of their other problems, left them all reeling. It was Ben who
recovered first, by reason of longer experience. "What do you mean,
you’re going to San Francisco? Why now? Why tonight?"
Hop Sing bowed low. "Honoured Chinese gentleman,
Is Aak, tell Hop Sing he make good life in San Francisco. Much better than here
on Ponderosa."
The men breathed several, long breaths. "Did he
indeed?" Ben turned to Adam. "I think we’d better get to the bottom
of this. Where is Isaac Riddel?"
Still stunned. Adam replied without thinking.
"He’s saddling his horse. I already told him to leave."
Ben had a flash of intuition. He pulled himself tall.
"He’s out in the yard, and Joe’s out there with him!"
Adam took his gun from its holster and stepped through
the door. Night had fallen; it was dark and very quiet. Alongside the house, the
bunkhouse was already deserted – the hands had all left for the dance in town.
The breeze was silent in the tree-tops, and even the stock was still. By common
consent, Ben went one way and Hoss the other. Soft footed, Adam crossed to the
barn.
A shiver of movement caught Adam’s eye: the glint of
starlight on silvered metal. He took a long stealthy step to the side of the
barn. Riddel’s horse stood there, saddled and ready. While not exactly hidden,
the tall, black gelding stood in the shadows, out of open sight. The animal
shifted, and Adam caught the gleam of his eye. There was no sign of Riddel nor
yet of Joe. His gun in his hand, Adam sidled to the half open door.
Inside the barn, the lantern had not yet been lit. It
was very dark, and the shadows were darker yet. Adam pushed the door open with
his foot, and the moon, half past full, sent a shaft of light inside. Aware that
he made a broad target against the open doorway, he ducked inside. He smelt the
horses, fragrant and familiar, and felt their body heat warming the air. In the
dark, he couldn’t see them, but he could feel the bulk of their presence, and
he knew that they were uneasy, fidgety, shifting their feet.
Something moved in the gloom, up at the back where
there were no horses but only feed sacks and broken harness and other assorted
jumble. Adam said, uncertainly "Joe? Joe, are you in here?"
Joe’s voice came right back to him; it sounded odd.
"I’m here, Adam. Your friend’s got the drop on me."
"I don’t think he’s any friend of mine."
Adam’s eyes were adjusting to the light. By moving
his head just a little, he could make out their faces, or, rather, their face!
The two were exactly alike, each the mirror image of the other. If it hadn’t
been for Joe’s bandaged arm, he couldn’t have told them apart. The two men
stood close together in an attitude of bitter confrontation. Riddel had his
right hand wound in the front of Joe’s silk shirt and seemed, somehow, to loom
over him. The maw of his left-handed gun was pushed hard against Joe’s gut.
Adam pointed his gun at Riddel. "Let my brother go."
Riddel turned his head and smiled. His features flowed
like putty warmed in the summer sun. They melted and changed until Riddel looked
so much like Adam that the eldest Cartwright son might have been seeing his own
reflection in a dark, ever flowing pool.
"You can’t shoot me, Adam," Riddel said
softly. "You can’t shoot yourself."
Adam eased the hammer back to full cock. "Are you
prepared to risk it?"
Riddel jammed his Colt even harder into Joe’s belly.
"Are you?"
Adam’s mouth was dry. It was a stand off. He could
kill Riddel, whatever he was. A good slug of lead would kill anything he had
ever encountered. But Riddel would kill Joe. He licked at his lips. "I
don’t know who you are, Mister, but I’ve got a gut feeling you can bleed and
die just like any other man. You’ve been trying to tear my family apart, and I
want to know why you’re doing it."
"Perhaps because I can." At close range,
Riddel gazed into Joe’s face. His golden eyes glowed in the dark. Sorely
afraid, Joe wriggled and squirmed but Riddel held him fast by the collar.
"I could do that right now, simply by blowing a hole through your
brother." Adam saw his finger tighten on the trigger.
Desperate, he said, "What would that gain you?
He’s not much more than a boy. Why don’t you step outside and fight it out
with a man?"
"A man?" Riddel considered. "Oh yes,
you’re that all right, Adam. But I think you might find yourself
outmatched." Still smiling, he let go of Joe’s shirt. Joe edged away from
the gun, then scuttled into the shadows. Adam could hear his harsh breathing and
trace his movements by the rasp in his chest.
"Are you all right, Joe?"
Joe shifted position, and Adam could see his face, a
stark and bloodless oval, his features all pinched together with fear. Adam
turned to Riddel. "What’s it going to be, then? Just you and me?"
Riddel smiled and put his gun away. "I’m not
going to fight you, Adam. I’m just going to leave you wondering if you would
have won."
Adam’s breath hissed through his teeth. "Get out
of here. Get off my property before I’m tempted to find out just how much
you’d bleed!"
"Adam?" Joe’s voice came sharp with a
question. "You’re going to let him go?"
"I’ll let him go," Adam said. "As far
as I know, he’s not broken any law." He cocked one, wry eyebrow at Riddel.
"If I ever see you around here again, I’m likely to change my mind."
Riddel laughed again, and it was Adam’s own, warm
laugh, strangely disconcerting. "I never ride the same road twice, my
friend. In any event, in just a short while, none of you will even remember me.
But you’ll see me again, all of you, every time you look in the mirror."
With that damnable smile still fixed on his face, he
stepped past Adam into the yard. Seconds later, they heard the sound of his
horse’s hooves as it cantered away.
Joe emerged from the shadows, and, just for a moment,
the brothers clung together – afraid for each other, afraid of the dark. Ben
and Hoss ran in from the yard. Ben looked at his sons, and then gazed round at
the inside of the barn. Except for the horses and the stable cat, the rest of
the building was empty. "Are you boys all right?"
Adam and Joe looked at each other. Adam slapped Joe on
the back. "We’re all right. Pa."
"And that friend of yours," Ben frowned.
"Riddel?"
"He’s gone, Pa." Adam sighed. "He’s
not coming back."
Ben looked at his sons, one after the other.
"Well, that’s good. I think."
As a family, they had some healing to do, but a dark
cloud had lifted from over their heads. Already, the memory of another man’s
face was fading from their minds. "I think," Ben said, "that
we’re going to be late for that party!" With their arms wrapped about
each other, the four Cartwright men set out for the house.
*William Shakespeare - King John –Act 4, scene 2.
Potter’s Bar 2001.
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