Ben could hear the baby crying somewhere in the depths of the house. A slight frown formed on the elder Cartwright’s face. For the life of him, he couldn’t remember any of the other boys being so fretful as babies, except perhaps for Joe, one winter, when he’d had the croup. The continual wailing set his teeth on an edge. Perhaps, after all, he was getting old.

 Upstairs a door closed, and the sound became less intrusive as Jenny went in to feed the child and to see to its comfort. The frown on Ben’s face faded away as peace returned. He settled again to his coffee and his newspaper.

 “I’m tellin’ you, Hoss, There’s nothing you can do for that horse except to shoot it!”

 The voice was his eldest son’s, raised, querulous, intrusive, coming towards the house from the front yard.

 The frown reappeared on Ben’s face.

 The front door opened, and Adam and Hoss came in through it, arguing furiously.

 “Dad-burn it, Adam, I’m tellin’ ya, I already done treated that foot. That mare’s gonna be just fine!”

 “You cut the abscess last week! You cut it the week before! It just isn’t doing any good!”

 Adam threw his hat down on the sideboard and followed his bigger, younger brother further into the room. “It just keeps on filling up again!”

 Ben rustled the pages of his newspaper in irritation. Both men ignored him. Hoss turned round and pointed his finger into his brother’s chest. “Now you listen here! I cut that abscess ‘n’ I drained it proper! It ain’t my fault if..!”

 “Do you two mind!” Ben roared.

 His sons, two big men, stood toe to toe in the centre of the living room, glaring hard at one another. Hoss wore his habitual white shirt, tan vest and pants. Adam, as was his habit, was all in black. Hoss leaned forward into his brother’s space, angry. Adam was standing slightly hip-shot in a posture that had become all too familiar of late, the knuckles of his right hand driven into the side of his belly, somewhere under his belt. Ben knew that that hand was pressed hard against the scar of a recently healed bullet wound that still seemed to plague him.

 Ben’s sons had very different faces, but at this moment, both wore the archetypal expression of mule-headed, Cartwright stubbornness.

 The pair of them looked across at their father as if he were some mythical beast suddenly appeared out of fairyland. Their eyes, blue, and hazel-brown were still hard with anger.

 Ben threw down the paper and stood up. He was a big man himself, as tall as either of them and barrel-chested, even if not quite as big around as Hoss. Despite his silver hair he could still out-shout either of them. He looked from one to the other. “Now, just what’s this all about?”

 Hoss and Adam eyed each other, wondering which of them was going to go first.

 It was Adam that started in. “The roan mare’s gone lame again. That’s the third time in as many weeks.”

 Hoss turned on him “An’ I already told you. I’ll take care of it!”

 “Yeah? Like you did the last time?”

 Hoss bristled at his brother’s sneer. “Now look here, Adam...”

 “No! You look!” By now Adam’s temper was really getting fired up. His voice took on the tutored tones he’d learned back east the way it always did when he got mad, “If you stayed round the place a bit more, doing what you ought to be doing, instead of riding up into the hills communing with nature...!”

 “Communing...! Now see here...!”

 Afraid that they were about to come to blows right there in the house, Ben stepped between them, holding up his hands “Gentlemen, gentlemen...”

 Adam flared “It’s the truth, Pa! Whenever there’s work to be done, he’s always up there in the Reserved Section, someplace!”

 Hoss leaned over his father’s shoulder; his huge hands were working as if itching to get hold of his brother “Pa told me himself...!”

 “That’s enough!” Ben bellowed. Used as he was to squabbling between his sons, a serious falling out between these two was unusual, and worrying. “Where do you think you are? The Silver Dollar!”

 Adam made the mistake of rounding on his father, “And that’s another thing.” He said, acidly, “Where the hell’s Joe? He’s another one that’s turning work-shy around here!”

 “Work-shy!” Hoss roared.

 Ben’s face was darkening, “Your brother’s gone to Virginia City. On an errand for me.”

 “And to stop off at Ellen Weldon’s house!” Adam interjected bitterly, “He spends more time at the Weldon’s ranch than he does here!”

 Ben drew a long breath, “John Weldon and his family are good neighbours, and Joseph has been seeing Ellen for a year now...”

 “And that excuses him from doing any of the work, does it?”

 “No! Of course it doesn’t!” By now, Ben was getting worked into a rage himself, “Joseph will do his share...”

 “It seems to me,” Adam snarled, “That the only man pulling his weight around here is me! And I tell you now, I’ve just about had enough of it!”

 He turned on his heel and headed for the door, his strides long and angry.

 “And where do you think you’re going?” Ben bellowed after him.

 Adam picked up his hat and turned in the doorway, holding it in his hand. His face was dark with anger, “In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m a grown man, Pa,” He said, tightly, “And I’m going to town.”

 He went out of the door without bothering to close it behind him.

 Ben and Hoss stood looking after him, both with open mouths, until they heard the drumming of his horse’s hooves in the yard, fading away in the direction of Virginia City.

 Ben looked at Hoss, “What brought that on?”

 “Danged if I know, Pa,” Hoss looked confused and embarrassed, “We was out in the barn lookin’ at the mare’s foot, ‘n’ all of a sudden ol’ Adam took up an’ hit the roof like someone set fire ta his tail. Tellin’ me I gotta shoot my horse.”

 “But you must have said something...”

 “No, sir.” Hoss shook his head “I didn’t say nothin’ Adam just started soundin’ off about how I didn’t know nothin’, an’ how I weren’t never around here no more. You heard about all of it.”

 Ben knew that his eldest had a cynical, and sometimes caustic, tongue. It was the result, he often felt, of that fancy eastern education. Usually, his remarks were leavened with a certain good humour, but this morning’s outburst had all the hallmarks of a serious rift. Ben  wondered, briefly, if he had been so tied up in his new family that he had missed, somewhere along the way, the signs of trouble taking shape in the old one.

 Hoss sat himself down in the armchair and stared morosely at the carpet between his feet.   He was a troubled man. “What is it with Adam these days, Pa? These last few weeks, he just ain’t been the same.” Hoss hated any form of dissent, particularly in his own family. To be at odds with his much admired elder brother weighed heavily on his broad shoulders.

 Ben knew just what he meant. Adam was well again now, according to Paul Martin, the family physician, following several months of recovery and recuperation from the bullet in the belly that had all but cost him his life. He just needed time to build up his strength, Paul had said. But sometimes, when Ben looked at his son, he wondered. Adam didn’t sleep well, nor eat properly, and he seemed to tire more quickly than he should. Although tall, and broad, and powerful, his big frame had never put back all of the bulk that he’d carried before his wounding. He looked lean, his face all hard, flat planes, and sometimes, something dark seemed to haunt the depths of his eyes.

 And his temper had suffered as well. He was polite to his stepmother, sometimes barely so to his father, and, occasionally, downright mean to his brothers. Furthermore, Ben had heard mutterings among the hands. Adam was driving himself hard, perhaps too hard. Everyone else was being driven along with him. He guessed it was time he said something about it.

 He put a hand on Hoss’s shoulder. “I don’t know, Hoss. I’m sure Adam didn’t mean the things he said.”

 Hoss looked up at him with that curious little sideways twitch of the mouth that was so characteristic. His pale blue eyes were filled with unhappiness, “Oh, he meant it, pa. He sure meant every danged word of it.”

 Ben’s hand tightened, squeezing Hoss’s shoulder muscle. He hated to see his big, gentle giant of a son so distressed, “I think, there’s a devil riding on your brother’s shoulder, son.” He said. His dark eyes mirrored the concern of his soul, “I’ll talk to him.”
 

 Sitting high up on the driving seat of the Ponderosa buckboard, Joe Cartwright was a contented man. Unusually, for him, he had been out of bed early that morning, long before any of the rest of his family was astir. Using his charming personality and his boyish smile, he had persuaded Hop Sing to serve him an early breakfast of bacon and hot buttered biscuits in the kitchen. In the first grey light of the dawn he had hitched up the team, and by sunrise he had been on the road to Virginia City.

 It was the most brilliant autumn morning Joe could remember. Before the sun came up, the sky had been filled with light, thin clouds high over the pine-clad hills. The first touch of dawn had turned them pink, then orange and finally a glorious gold as the burning rim of the sun had risen in splendour. The clouds were gone now, burned away, but the sky was still blue, and the air cool and crystal clear. If Joe turned his head, he could see all the way to the foothills of the Sierras.

 The team pulled steadily and well, putting the miles behind them in a steady ground-covering canter. Joe held the thick leather reins loosely in his hands, letting the willing animals take their own time. He had errands to run for his Pa and a schedule of his own to keep, but he had all day and there was no particular hurry. He was happy to let the beauty and the tranquillity of the landscape seep into his soul. All this country, from the magnificent mountains in the west, to the deserts in the north and east, to the rolling foothills of the Sierra Nevada to the south was his family’s land. Their property encompassed a thousand square miles of prime grazing, the hills and valleys, the bottomland and the pastures, the rivers and lakes and woodlands, and the forests that grew half way to heaven up the mountainsides. Joe couldn’t help but experience a certain proprietary pride of ownership.

 The road curved and took a dip into light woods. The trees here were broadleafs, tall oaks for the most part with a scattering of ancient hazel. Although touched by the colours of autumn, all the shades of red, and gold, and copper, the trees were still fully clothed with leaves. They were all old trees, tall, with broad trunks and great knarled roots that twisted amongst the sparse underbrush. Beneath their canopy, in their shade, it was still dark, damp and cool. Joe rather wished he had put on his jacket as the chill struck through the cotton twill of his shirt. He slapped the reins against the broad rumps of the horses, urging them to a faster pace, and they responded with an extra burst of speed. The rumble of the buckboard’s iron rimmed wheels was loud on the surface of the hard dirt road.

 The road turned again as it left the wood, bending to the right around the cylindrical shape of a huge, dark-green holly tree, and then ran straight as an arrow across grassland towards the nominal boundary line of the ranch. The horses ran at an easy gallop out into the bright sunlight, and for the sheer joy of being alive on such a wonderful day, Joe gave out a wild rebel yell.

 In the earliest days of the frontier, Ben Cartwright had staked out the best land for himself. Although only a simple sign marked the place, Joe could see the change in the territory almost as soon as he passed over the boundary of the ranch. The land became more arid, and harsher, less able to support the large herds of cattle that still remained the mainstay of the Cartwright’s business empire. Joe slowed the team where the track joined the main road to Virginia City, and then urged them on again, turning them down another trail that led away from both the town and the giant, sprawling ranch that was home.

 The new road, through the more barren grasslands, led eventually to the corrals and the barn and the little two-storey house that formed the core of John Weldon’s ranch. By the time Joe drew the buckboard to a halt in the front yard, the sun had risen a finger’s breadth above the eastern horizon. The blue was beginning to fade from the sky and there was a hint of heat in the air - a mere promise of what was to come.

 Weldon was already at work in the yard when Joe drove up, harnessing his big bay workhorse to a heavy wagon. He was a taller man than Joe, lean, broader in the shoulders than he was the butt. Joe guessed him to be just a year or two younger than his own father, but he hadn't weathered the years nearly so well. His dark hair was turning to salt and pepper, and the hard lines of his face had become deeply etched. He squinted at Joe with hazel eyes all but lost in a cross-work pattern of wrinkles. Weldon had spent his lifetime working out of doors in the sun and the wind, and his face was as weathered as a wind stripped pine.

 His smile, when he saw Joe, was genuine enough. He left the horse and came across the yard, “G’morning there, Joe. Didn’t expect to see you so far from home quite this early,” He held out his big, work-toughened paw in welcome.

 Joe reached down and took the rancher’s hand in his own, “Good morning Mister Weldon,” Joe wondered how it was that his reputation for not being an early riser seemed to have spread all through the county. On reflection, knowing his brothers, he came up with a fair answer to his own question. “‘Thought I’d make a bright and early start and get into town before it gets too hot. I’ve come to pick up Ellen.”

 “Guessed you might’ve done. She was talking just last night about going into town with you this morning,” Weldon stood back and looked at the younger man with something of a speculative expression. He liked Joe Cartwright. The young man was friendly and accommodating - always willing to help out around the place and pleasant company. More to the point, his daughter, Ellen, seemed to like him to. Despite his repute as a lady-killer, young Cartwright had been calling regularly for almost a year now, and lately, Ellen had been turning real sweet on him. It was an attraction Weldon was prepared to countenance. Cartwright came from about the richest and most highly respected family in the state. If he and Ellen decided to make a match of it, then John Weldon would be a very happy man.

 “Don’t reckon Ellen is through helpin’ her Ma with the chores yet. Why don’t you step on down a while?”

 Joe set the brake on the buckboard and wrapped the reins round it. He jumped down from the driving seat and dusted his hands against the seat of his pants. He looked around at the ranch buildings. The Weldon ranch was on a far smaller scale than the Ponderosa. Weldon couldn’t run more than five hundred head, all told, on his property. For all that, the ranch was neatly kept. The house had been given a coat of paint in the last year, all the shingles were on the barn roof, and the corrals were clean and in good repair. There were a couple of horses in one of them, both bays, standing noses to tails and flicking the first of the day’s flies from each other’s faces. In the other, in the shade beneath a knotted old cottonwood tree, the family’s milk cow was drowsily chewing. Although sadly short of water, it was a pleasant enough little spread that just about earned its way.

 “Step on up to the house, Joe,” Weldon invited, “There’ll be coffee on the stove and if you haven’t eaten, Ellen’s Ma will soon rustle you up some breakfast.”

 Joe touched the brim of his hat, “That’s real kind of you, Mister Weldon. I’ve already had breakfast, but that coffee would go down real’ well.” He moved towards the porch of the house and Weldon went back to harnessing his horse.

 Joe rapped his knuckles on the frame of the open door. In a moment there was a flurry of movement in the little living room as Ellen Weldon came bustling through from the kitchen. When she saw Joe standing there, her face lit up with a smile as bright at the sunshine outside.

 Ellen and Joe were just about the same height. She was a pretty young woman who had inherited her mother’s fair hair and sparkling blue eyes. Her cheekbones were just a little wide, and she had a neatly pointed chin. This morning, she had wound her hair up into a fancy knot, and tied it with a length of shiny green ribbon. The dress she wore was made of green and white checked gingham; it nipped in tightly at the waist and flared out over her hips. The skirt dropped almost to the ground and the toes of little green shoes peeped out from underneath. Ellen was very proud of her tiny feet.

  Enchanted, Joe took off his hat and grinned his best boyish grin, “‘Morning, Ellen.”

 “‘Morning, Joe,” Ellen flashed him a coy look from under her eyelashes and a faint blush of colour rose into her cheeks, “Come on in. Ma’s got fresh coffee on the stove and there’s corn bread and bacon left over from breakfast.”

 Hat in hand, Joe followed her into the kitchen.

 Joe Cartwright admitted readily to himself, and to anyone else who was prepared to listen, he liked the ladies. Especially, he liked young, pretty ladies, and there were occasions when he allowed himself to be led astray. Friday and Saturday nights, when he was in town with his brothers, were times when he was particularly vulnerable.

 For some reason he saw Ellen Weldon differently. She was young and pretty all right. She was light skinned, fair haired and blue eyed; it was Joe’s favourite combination. He had been visiting the Weldon’s place on a regular basis since before last winter’s snows, and there had been dances, and socials, and picnics. He had found out that Ellen Weldon had a sweet mouth and a soft body, but had never pushed his luck any further than a stolen kiss. She had a happy, sunny nature and liked to dance, and to gossip with friends, and to go for long buggy rides. She also had a serious side that Joe found oddly attractive. Sometimes her delicate face would become thoughtful, almost pensive, and at those times she would like Joe to drive her up to the lake where she could gaze at the majesty of the mountains, or just to sit in the moonlight and hold hands. She liked books, particularly poetry, and Joe had learned some verses from his brother’s books just to impress her. Exactly what Joe’s feelings for Ellen were, he wasn’t certain. He knew he liked her company, and, until he found out, he was willing to keep coming over.

 Ellen’s mother, Margaret Weldon, welcomed Joe into her kitchen with a big smile, a cup of coffee and a huge bacon-and-cornbread sandwich. Joe wasn’t hungry, having eaten at home, but he sat at the kitchen table and devoured it anyway, for politeness’ sake. While he ate, Ellen finished helping her mother with the kitchen chores. She threw him a little glance from time to time, and flushed when he caught her doing it.

 Mary Weldon refilled Joe’s cup, “How’s your Ma keeping, Joseph? And how’s the little baby?”

 “Jenny’s back on her feet again now, Mrs. Weldon,” Joe swallowed down the last of the cornbread, “An’ the baby’s - sort of noisy.”

 Mrs. Weldon laughed, “That’s the way it is with babies, I’m afraid. And what are you young people planning to do with yourselves today?” Margaret Weldon also entertained thoughts of Joe Cartwright as husband material for her daughter.

 Joe glanced at Ellen who blushed pink, “I have to drive into Virginia City with some errands for my Pa. I thought that afterwards, Ellen might like to drive out to Cockscomb Flats. The trees are real’ pretty out there at this time of year.”

 “Oh, I’d like that fine, Joe!” The water meadows at Cockscomb Flats were one of Ellen’s favourite picnic spots, and with the autumn coming on apace it was one of the last chances of the year to go there, “Please may I go, Ma?”

 “Well,” Margaret Weldon looked at the two of them a moment with her head on one side. Then she laughed, “All right then. But don’t you be late back, Ellen. It’s startin’ to get real cold, these evenings. Shall I put you together a picnic basket?”

 Joe shook his head, “Don’t you go to the trouble, Mrs. Weldon. We’ll pick something up in town.” He stood up, gathered his hat and escorted Ellen to the door, “We won’t be back late.”

 John Weldon had already driven off in his wagon by the Joe and Ellen stepped out into the sunlit front yard. Joe walked Ellen to the buckboard and helped her up onto the board seat. He couldn’t help but think that she looked as pretty as a picture sitting up there with a little shawl round her shoulders, and the sunlight turning her fair hair all to gold. Joe climbed up beside her and unwound the reins. The two horses obediently turned in a tight circle, and Ellen waved to her mother. Margaret Weldon, waved back and stood watching from the doorway as they drove off towards town.
 
 

 The road that led southwest to Virginia City took a final turn through the rocky hills, before curving down onto the plain, and running as straight as could be towards the town. The heavy-duty freight wagon was making good time. Hauled by a team of four sturdy mules, it had kept up a steady pace through the first heat of the day. Behind it, the plume of dust that marked its passage hung in the air for a long time, before slowly settling back to the earth.

 The wagon was heavily laden. The boxes and bales of goods were all covered up with stout canvas sheeting and roped down to cleats on the side of the wagon bed. Sitting up high on the driving seat, old Clem Thompson slapped the broad leather reins against the rumps of the wheelers, and whistled and shouted encouragement to the team. He had been on the road since before first light and he wanted to reach Virginia City in time for a late breakfast. He touched the brake lightly as the wagon came off the last curve, and it straightened up nicely for the last long run home.

 Sitting on the seat beside Clem was a smaller, slighter figure. He was rather more than a boy, but not yet, quite, a grown man. Today, Joe Drury was taking his first step on a great adventure. This morning, when it was still pitch dark, he had said goodbye to his Ma. Then he had been a boy. When he stepped down from the wagon in Virginia City, he would be a man, and all set to make his way in the world. He had with him, tied up in a bundle, everything he possessed, two clean shirts and a spare pair of pants. In his pocket he had two dollars and a little, white, embossed card. The little card was his entry ticket to his new life.

 Joseph Drury was stick-thin in the body and his arms and legs seemed to have grown long in proportion. Ben Cartwright, who knew most of what there was to know about boys, would have said that he had the makings of a fine, big man. The long arms and legs meant that he was going to be tall, his shoulders would grow broad, and his chest, deep. He had freckles on his face that had yet to be burned out by the sun, and tallow coloured hair that stuck out at all angles from beneath the hard, round topped hat that he wore, square dead-centre of his head. He looked just like half a hundred other boys, quite unremarkable, except for one feature. His eyes were captivating, hazel in colour and flecked with deep green and bright, bright gold.

 Right now, those eyes were wide and shining, missing nothing, as his head turned this way and that. The barren expanse of semidesert that lay north and east of Virginia City had a monotonous sameness about it. It was all low, rolling hills of pale coloured soil, littered with rounded rocks of much the same shade. Here and there were patches of grey-green sagebrush and the darker, denser green of scrub oak, soon to turn brown with the onset of autumn.  To Joe Drury, who had never before left the crowded, noisy, often overheated, streets of Silver City, it was a wonderland.

 Old Clem was a taciturn individual. He had spoken more words to the mules than he had to the boy. There was not much of the poet in his soul. He hadn’t thought to tell the boy to watch the way the sun came up over the desert, turning the sky from black, to blue, to grey, and, finally, to gold. He hadn’t told him to look how the little wisps of cloud burned away so quickly in the warming, morning air. He hadn’t mentioned that the desert at night was cold, but that it warmed quickly, and that by the time the sun was fully up over the hills, it would pull the sweat right out of his skin. They were things that Joe had noticed for himself.

 Clem did think to tell him, on the one occasion upon which they stopped to rest the team, to look out for snakes. Joe hadn’t seen any snakes, but he had seen red-bellied crows hopping in amongst the sagebrush looking for bugs, and long-eared desert jackrabbits. He’d watched in fascination as a little group of large eyed buck-deer ran off with their white tails bobbing as the wagon thundered by. He’d craned his neck to see kites, drifting lazily with wide spread wings on the morning thermals.

 Now, his journey towards manhood reached its final stage. His attention centred front and forward as the buildings of Virginia City came into view.

 The town had grown slowly, from a collection of tents and shanties, into a small settlement in the early days of the frontier, providing a trading centre and meeting place for the first, far flung, settler families. It was only recently, when gold, and then silver, had been found in the Comstock valley, that the little town with the pretentious name had started to boom in earnest. Now it spread across the dry plain like a desert flower opening its petals after rain. Every week saw new buildings, new streets, entire new blocks added to the north and southwest sides. The streets were broad, of necessity, to allow the passage of the wide freight vehicles that had to pass each other in either direction, but they were just dirt, of the type that would turn rapidly into a quagmire in the deluging rains of spring and autumn. The buildings were all of a timber-frame and clapboard construction. Many of them, particularly those that lined the premier streets, had grand false fronts and wide covered boardwalks outside, which would stand high up above the mud. All the roofs were steeply slanted to throw off the heavy snowfall that came, inevitably, with each Nevadan winter. In the centre of the town several large cottonwood trees had been left to stand, to provide shade, and to alleviate the harsh, straight lines of the buildings. Further out, where the new building was taking place, there had been no such consideration, and all had been cut down.

 Old Clem drove the mule team right in through the burgeoning suburbs where homes stood cheek by jowl with bawdy houses and drinking dens, and into the centre of town. Here the structures were certainly more extravagant. There was a grand hotel on a prime corner plot, with white painted railings, and steps leading up to the panelled front doors. Across the street, stood an imposing building that proclaimed itself a Bank, and two doors down, the Land Office. Further along the street was the Sheriff’s Office and gaol and from where he stood, Joe could see three saloons already open for business. There were thriving shops and businesses in both directions and from the number of wagons and horses that were already filling the two, right-angled main streets, customers were going to be in no short supply.

 Clem pulled the mule team up across the street from the Freight Office and looked slantwise at the boy.

 “End o’ the line,” he said, with his usual, sardonic, monotone delivery, “Kingdom Jones says ta bring ya as fer as Virginia City, and this is it.” He set the brake and wrapped the heavy reins around the lever. “Guess if’n you ask around you’ll soon find someone who knows who you lookin’ fer.”

 Joe said his thanks for the ride, and stepped down into a whole new life.
 

 Sheriff Roy Coffee lounged against the upright outside Mary Patterson’s café with two good helpings of ham, and eggs, and hot corn bread tucked safely away behind his belt buckle, three cups of hot strong coffee on top, and a tooth pick working in the gaps between his teeth. His colourless, sun-creased eyes slowly scanned the length of main-street. The pale gaze appeared casual - even lazy. That impression was deceptive. As his scrutiny travelled methodically up one side and back down the other, Roy missed nothing.

 As a lawman, Roy didn’t hold any great reputation, nor did he crave one. He wasn’t an especially fast man with a gun. Although he’d use a weapon when he had to, normally he kept the peace simply by being in the right place at the right time, and nipping trouble in the bud before it got properly started. That relied on knowing who was in town, doing what, and when.

 Despite the early hour, another fine day in Virginia City was already well under way. The stagecoach, with its high slung carriage and its four dark coloured horses, was already rigged up outside the Stage-line Company Office and ready to go. The driver and his shotgun guard were up on the roof tying down the baggage. Roy didn’t envy any of the folks who were travelling today. There was no glass in the stagecoach windows, but even so, a day spent being jounced and jostled over rough roads in that airless little box was not Roy’s idea of having a good time. The dust alone would be enough to choke a man to death.

 Further along the street there were no fewer than four heavy freight wagons, each with a four- mule team, waiting in line outside the Freight Office to be allocated loads. Even as Roy  watched, yet another wagon came rolling into town, loaded high with goods. Ol’ Clem Thompson hauled the team to a stop and jumped down.

 Roy chewed on the toothpick and a slight frown touched his face as his interest quickened, For once, ol’ Clem hadn’t made the run alone. There was someone else getting down, rather less certainly, and looking around. He was a stranger in town. A small man - no, a boy. Roy settled back comfortably against his post. One more boy was unlikely to pose any threat to law and order around town. Returning his attention to the freight wagons, Roy reflected that Kingdom Jones, now that he had Ben Cartwright as a partner and the backing of Cartwright money, had the haulage business in western Nevada securely by the tail.

 There was an assortment of other rigs, up and down the street. A couple of wagons already loaded with the staple dietary requirements of flour, bacon and coffee stood outside the General Store. Another waited outside Nathan Goodwin’s Hardware Emporium loaded with wire and kegs of nails. There was a buckboard outside the bank that Roy knew well. Ben Cartwright’s Ponderosa Pine brand was burned into the sideboard. Ten yards on, the buggy belonging to the Widow Cotton was parked outside the little shop that she ran alone, now that old Will was dead.

 Here and there, up and down the street there were saddle horses tied at the rails. Alexander Gordon’s fancy Appaloosa gelding stood hip-shot outside the Land Office, and a couple of nondescript bays that Roy knew belonged to the Tyler brothers, Michael and John, and Josh Benskin’s white kneed chestnut mare. Roy knew the town would fill up more as the sun rose higher and the day got hotter.

 For all his nonchalant, even lazy appearance, Roy Coffee didn’t miss much. Certainly he didn’t miss the horseman galloping hard into town out of the west. Almost imperceptibly, Roy’s interest sharpened again. His pale eyes narrowed. As Roy knew well, all that lay out to the west was the sprawling vastness of the Ponderosa. Sure enough, as the rider got closer, he recognised the breadth of the shoulders and the fluid way the man sat the saddle. It was Ben Cartwright’s eldest son, riding hell for leather on that big, rangy, chestnut gelding he favoured.

 The slight frown returned to cloud Roy’s face. The Cartwrights, generally speaking, were Friday night visitors. It was unusual to have two of the clan in town this early in the week.

 Adam Cartwright’s horse had run hard for along time. He was well lathered up and his bright coat was splotched with sweat stains. There was white froth on his neck where the rub of the reins had lashed the sweat into foam. It was unusual for a Cartwright to get a horse worked into that state for nothing. It meant one of two things, either it was trouble - or it was trouble.

 Adam Cartwright ran his horse right on past the Doctor’s Office and pulled up outside the saloon. Roy let go the breath he’d been holding. This time, the Cartwrights didn't need the doctor, and that meant that, for once, none of them had fallen off his horse and cracked his fool head open.

 Cartwright swung down out of the saddle. He still looked a little stiff, following a near fatal run-in with a bushwhacker’s bullet, but Roy was glad to see that a lot of the old panther like grace was back. The last time he’d ridden into town on a lathered up horse he’d all but fallen out of the saddle. Roy’s lips quirked at the memory.

 Adam tossed the geldings reins over the rail and ducked under. He crossed the boardwalk in two long strides and slammed through the swinging half doors of the saloon.

 Roy sighed and chewed on the toothpick some more. He could tell just from the set of Cartwright’s shoulders that he was riding on the back of a mad. He wondered how long it would be before he found out what it was all about.

 Adam stepped up to the bar of the Silver Dollar and threw a coin down on the counter–top. It spun for a moment on its edge and then settled, ringing.

 “Give me a whisky, Sam,” he called, “And leave the bottle.”

Sam duly delivered the bottle and a shot glass. He could tell from the thunderous look on Adam’s face that he wasn’t in the mood for small talk, and he moved back to the far end of the bar. Adam poured himself a drink and tossed it down his throat. It burned its way down to his stomach and lay there, seething. Adam poured another.

 A small-fingered hand brushed the sleeve of his black shirt. A woman’s voice asked, lightly, “It’s a little early for you, isn’t it?”

 Adam looked ‘round, and down. The voice belonged to Mirri Chaplain, a saloon girl he’d known for a while now. They were friends. Sometimes, on a Friday night, they were very good friends. She was blond, and blue eyed, and pretty, but not with the brazen, painted-on saloon girl prettiness that was the norm in her profession. Her face was young, and fresh, and this morning it was free of powder and paint. In place of her brightly coloured working gown she wore blue and white day-dress and carried a pair of white gloves. She looked for all the world like a preacher’s daughter on a Sunday morning. Adam made an effort to clear the scowl of anger from his face and greeted her civilly enough.

 “Miss Mirri.” He touched the brim of his hat.

 She drew back and looked at him, her head just a little on one side, “Oh! So, it’s Miss, now, is it?”

 Mirri had come to know Adam Cartwright quite well. He was a clever, educated, complicated man, and he was a man of moods. A lot of them she was only just beginning to understand. Right now, she could tell, he was as mad as a hen in a rainstorm. The dark shadows of anger were lurking in the depths of his eyes and his inviting, sensuous lips were compressed into a hard line.

 If asked, Mirri would have had to confess, she found this tall, broad, darkly handsome man irresistibly attractive. His tanned, regular features were finely chiselled and perfectly proportioned, with a neat chin and cheeks that dimpled when he smiled. He wasn’t smiling now. Mirri put her hand back on his arm. She could feel the tension in his work hardened muscles. She remembered, with a little shiver, that his face was not all that was perfectly proportioned.

 He drew a long breath and she saw the effort he made to relax. “I didn’t expect to see you about this early.” He said.

 Mirri gave him a wry smile. She knew that he was referring obliquely to her all-night profession.

 “Even a working girl has to eat.” She said, with a little laugh.

 Adam turned the whiskey glass round in his fingers, watching the liquid swirl. Mirri noted that he hadn’t drunk the second glassful yet. She could see him debating the proprieties with himself. He was the son of about the wealthiest, most influential family in the State. For him, Friday night with a saloon girl was one thing. Walking out with one in the cold light of a

Tuesday morning was another entirely.

 As it happened, that was not what Adam was thinking about at all. He gave her a smile that did not reach his eyes, “I’ll buy you breakfast.”

 “No, thank you,” She flashed him a real smile in exchange. “I’ve already had mine down at the Corner House.”

 She squeezed his arm again and moved closer, well aware that her light perfume would drift into his face and of the effect that it would have on him. He drew a long breath and she saw the pupils of his eyes dilate. His chest rose as he filled his lungs with the scent of her. She knew well the power of the body beneath the black clothes. The power - and the endurance. That was another thing that made him attractive. Taking advantage of her familiarity, she reached up and undid another button of his shirt. It revealed some more of his chest, all furred in little black curls.

 A strong, but sensitive, sun-browned hand closed over hers, firmly putting a stop to her explorations. She looked up into his eyes and saw something new, but familiar, smouldering there. Her eyes sparkled, “If you’re not busy...?”

 Adam’s lips twitched into a smile. It was not what he had come into town for, but right now, Mirri’s suggestion seemed like a good idea. Lifting the glass, he swallowed down the mouthful of raw liquor. Then he offered her his arm and they went up the sweeping staircase that led to the upstairs rooms.
 

 Hoss looked round the barn, and the frown that had been clouding his broad features ever since the early morning confrontation with his brother, finally cleared. It was replaced by a wide smile that revealed white, if uneven teeth, and threatened to slit his face in two. The six little black and white kitties were all of five weeks old now. Their eyes were wide open, a sort of tawny green colour, and their mamma was letting them out of their box to explore the barn floor.

 She was sitting, a-washing of her face, up on the high hay racking at the back of the barn and keeping a close eye on her adventurous little family. As Hoss watched, one of the kittens ventured just a little too close to the open barn door for the mamma cat’s comfort. As quick as all-get-out, she was down off that hayrack and had the little one up by the scruff of his neck. Holding her head way up high, she hauled his little balled-up body all the way back to the security of the old ammunition box that Hoss had given her to nest in.

 Ben came into the barn and found his big son beaming all over his face. It made a change, he thought, from the dark scowl of the last several hours. Then he saw the kittens and started to frown himself.

 “You’ll have to start thinking about finding homes for all these cats,” he boomed, "We can’t possibly keep them all.”

 Hoss’s face fell, “Aw, Pa, they’re too little yet to take away from their Ma.”

 “Never-the-less, homes will have to be found,” Ben stepped over one little black and white fur ball and came further into the barn, angling towards the stall where his horse stood, already saddled and waiting for him. “Have you any idea how difficult it's going to be to find places for this number of cats?”

 “I don’t have ta find homes for all of ‘em, Pa,” Hoss objected, “You already said as I could keep two o’ them.”

 Ben, backing his horse out of the stall, gave him a dark look, “As I remember the conversation, it was one kitten I said you could keep.”

 “I’m real sure you said two, Pa. An’ Little Joe already tol’ that he wants one for his own.”

 “Did he, indeed?” Ben sighed. He could see at this rate, there would be no homes found for any of the kittens. He half turned and looked down. Another small, black-and-white bundle of adventure was using his tiny claws to climb up the back of Ben’s trouser leg. Ben bent down and gently disengaged him. Without a word, he handed him over to Hoss.

 “I’m riding out now to the east range. I want to see how Charlie and the crew are getting on with that broken fence line. I expect to be back before supper.”

 “Yes, sir.” Hoss held the little kitty close against his huge chest as his father led his buckskin gelding out of the barn and mounted up. A moment later, he heard the rattle of the horse’s hooves as Ben rode out of the yard. He set the little cat down on the floor. He smiled. With just a little more perseverance, he’d get to keep all of  the little kitties.

 Then he turned, with a fresh frown, to the red roan mare that stood in the stall behind him. Her right forefoot was so sore she couldn't bear to put it down on the ground. She stood with her knee bent and her foot resting on the toe of her hoof. Hoss didn’t know why her foot kept swelling up like that, but he knew there was one sure way of easing some of the pain for her. He took out his sharp pointed knife and lifted the mare’s foot up onto his knee.
 

 The sign, painted in ornately curlicued lettering up above the double doors read ‘Eli Huxton’s Hardware and General Store’. Joe Drury, standing outside, wasn’t able to read it, but he could tell from the array of goods displayed in the windows the nature of the business conducted inside. He tucked his bundle more securely under his arm and opened one of the doors with the other hand.

 Inside, the store was dim, and cool after the gathering heat of the morning. The air was heavy and unmoving, a little dusty, and filled with the smells of coffee, and bacon, leather, and metal tools. Joe stood blinking for a moment, staring ‘round, while his eyes adjusted to the more subdued light of the interior. The place was stuffed so full of goods there was hardly room to move. Sacks of flour, and coffee, sugar, and maize leaned one against the other to the right side of the door. To the left, there was a counter with tins of peaches piled up on one side and a basket of eggs on the other. Alongside the counter stood several kegs of salted butter and tubs of molasses and honey, and on the shelves behind were round cheeses and packs of shortening. Filches of bacon and sides of salt pork hung, wrapped in muslin cloth, from hooks in the wall. In front, at just a height where small people could peer in, was a box that contained strings of sugar candy, aniseed suckers and chunks of stick-jaw toffee.

 Further in, where the light didn’t penetrate so well, there were racks of harness, and coils of rope and wire, and barrels of nails. Spades, and hoes and long-handled billhooks leaned at drunken angles against one wall. There were racks of hats and men’s checked shirts and folded up pairs of pants. He saw candles, and lanterns, and flat pans for panning gold from the mountain streams, and over in the corner was a glass cabinet displaying a whole range of revolvers and pistols.

 At the back of the store was another long counter where Eli Huxton himself presided. At that precise moment, he was unrolling bolts of gingham cloth for the critical examination of two lady customers in bonnets, and shawls and ankle length skirts. He cast a critical gaze in Joe’s direction. He was not a tall man, wiry in stature, and had a narrow, anxious face beneath thinning hair.

 Joe moved forward to stand in the narrow space behind the two ladies, waiting for them to conclude their discussion on the cloth. It seemed to him strange that there could be so much to say about the merits of the pink compared to the green.

 Mister Huxton looked the boy over again. He had thought that he knew all the boys in town, at least by sight. This was a new one and Huxton didn’t much like his thin freckled face, or the round topped hat he wore, or the disordered way in which his pale hair stuck out from underneath it. Mister Huxton was not overly fond of boys.

 The two ladies decided, finally, on the pink cloth, and Mister Huxton started to measure it off against the edge of the counter. Joe fidgeted, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. In his hand was the little embossed card with writing on it. He rubbed his thumb nervously over the raised lettering. Behind him, the door of the shop opened again. Through it three or four boys, all younger than Joe, pushed and shoved one-another into the shop and filled it with high voices and excited chatter.

 Mister Huxton looked up anxiously. He was trying to see what mischief the children were about at the front of the shop, but Joe was standing in his way. He couldn’t leave the ladies. His wife, who usually looked after the grocery side of the business, was out for the morning.  Mister Huxton became increasingly concerned about what the boys were doing.

  The ladies decided that they would like some trimmings to go with the pink gingham. Mister Huxton put the box up on the counter so that they could choose. He glared at Joe. At the front of the shop the four boys had stopped shouting. They seemed to be having some sort of whispered discussion with their heads close together. Without turning, Joe got the feeling that either he, or Huxton, was the subject of several furtive glances.

 A match for the gingham finally decided upon, Mister Huxton started to bundle the ladies purchases into a neat, brown paper package.

 There was some sort of commotion at the front of the shop as scuffling broke out between two of the children. Joe turned to see what was going on, and Mister Huxton looked up sharply. The four boys made a sudden bolt for the door. The box of sweetenings was knocked to the floor and the candies spilled out.

 Mister Huxton let out a roar. The ladies, alarmed, jumped back, and got in his way as he dived round the counter to give chase. He did a sort of back and forth waltz with them as they all tried desperately to get out of each other’s way. Mister Huxton got round them and dived after the last of the children, a black haired urchin clutching a twist of pink candy in his hand. This time it was Joe that got in Mister Huxton’s way. They sidled this way, and that, while the little shopkeeper became more and more furious. Finally, he pushed Joe out of the way and made it to the door. By then the boys were gone.

 Eli Huxton stood on the boardwalk outside the store and yelled after the four boys at the top of his voice, which, in truth, was reedy rather than loud, “You come back here, you young varmints! Goddamn! You come back here!” His thin face reddened and worked furiously. He shook both fists after the rapidly disappearing children.

 It was unlikely that any of the boys heard him. They were already half a block away, their boots pounding on the boards. They spun round a corner and vanished down an alleyway, one after the other, like rabbits down a hole.

 Huxton was beside himself with rage. He jiggled about on the boardwalk out of fury and sheer frustration. It was not the first time he had been targeted by little groups of thieving children. In fact, the little hellions seemed to single him out more than any of the other storekeepers. He would have liked, dearly, to chase after them. He would have liked to catch them. He would have been delighted to deliver them the punishment they justly deserved, either at the hands of their fathers, or of the law. But these days, his knees were just not up to it, and besides, he couldn’t leave the shop and his customers. His stringy face was still flushed and twisted with anger as he turned towards his shop door.

  Joe Drury had witnessed the incident in its entirety, and knew, first-hand the propensity of storekeepers to jump, sometimes, to unwarranted conclusions. He had decided that it would, perhaps, be better to make his enquiries concerning the white card elsewhere. He was exiting the shop, with perhaps a little nervous haste, as Eli Huxton entered it.

 Mister Huxton saw a boy. It was the same boy who had been in his shop when he had been robbed, the same boy who had blocked his view of what the children were doing, and the same boy who had hindered his pursuit of the children. There was no doubt in Mister Huxton’s mind that this boy was in collusion with the thieves. He grabbed Joe Drury by the scruff of the neck and by one ear.

 “Oh no, you don’t young man!” Huxton pinched Joe’s ear hard enough to make him yell, “I know you’re in league with those young thieves! The only place you’re going is to the Sheriff’s Office!”

  Joe wriggled and squirmed. He had a lot of experience in escaping from pinched ears.
Eli Huxton, however, had a firm grip, and he wasn’t about to let this miscreant go. He hauled Joe out onto the boardwalk and looked up and down the street, searching for the sheriff.

 Roy Coffee had witnessed the little disturbance from his vantage point outside Mary Patterson’s. He had stretched himself, and spat out his toothpick and wandered on over to see what it was all about. He arrived at just about the same time that Joe managed, finally, to wriggle out of Mister Huxton's grasp, at the cost of a torn shirt, and grabbed the boy by the arm. He looked from the boy’s pink, freckled face, to the shopkeeper’s red, irate one, “What’s this all about then?” He enquired, of either one.

 “Let go a’ me!” Joe wriggled some more, but Roy Coffee had a firmer grip, and more experience, when it came to handling men, or boys, than Huxton did. He wasn’t about to let go. Joe was starting panic now. This was not the way his new life as an adult was supposed to begin - in exactly the way his life as a boy had ended. Unwisely, he tried to kick the sheriff in the legs. Roy was alert to that one was well. Deftly, he turned the young man round so that he could hold him by both arms, from behind. He looked enquiringly at Huxton,

 “Eli?”

 Eli Huxton puffed himself up like a rooster, “That boy was stealin’ from my store, Roy! I want you ta lock him up in the Gaol House and call out his Pa.”

 Joe stopped his struggling long enough to glare at him, “I didn’t steal nothing from you, Mister! I didn’t steal nothin’!”

 Roy sighed. This was just the sort of thing he didn’t want on the top of a good breakfast.
“What’d he steal, Eli?”

 “Same as always,” Mister Huxton’s voice was still hard and shrill, “They went fer the candies.”

 Roy turned Joe round again and held him at an arm’s length, bending down so that he could get a good look at his face. He didn’t know this particular boy, which was strange because Roy knew every boy in town. Then he remembered. This was the boy that had ridden in on Kingdom Jones’s wagon not an hour gone by. The one that wasn’t likely to cause any trouble. Roy put on his best scowl. The one specifically designed to frighten boys. “You heard what Mister Huxton says, boy. D’you deny you bin stealin’ candies out a’ his store?”

  Joe was indignant and defiant, “Yeah! I deny it. I ain’t stole nothin’. I ain’t got no candies. You c’n search my pockets if you want!”

 “We might just come to that later,” Roy looked at Huxton over Joe’s head, “He says, he ain’t got no candies, Eli.”

 “He ain’t got no candies,” Mister Huxton agreed, readily enough, “He was in my store, gettin’ in my way, an’ stoppin’ me from seein’ what them other kids was doin’. He was just a much a part of the stealin’ as they was!”

 Roy’s pale gaze switched back to Joe, “Is that what you was doin’, boy?”

 Joe, in his brand-new role as a grown-up man, was trying hard not to start snivelling. “No, Sir. I ain’t never seen them kids ‘afore. I only just got inta this town.”

 Satisfied that the boy wasn’t going to make a bolt for it,  Roy let him go and straightened up. He chewed at his lip, “Guess he’s right about that, Eli. I jist saw him come inta town my own self.”

 “That’s as maybe, Roy,” Eli Huxton was still angry, and he was determined to have his ire out of this boy’s hide, “But you wasn’t there in my store. I saw what he did, ‘n’ I want him locked up ‘till his Pa c’n git here ‘n’ pay fer them candies!”

 Joe saw the sheriff turning the problem over in his mind. It was his word against the storekeeper’s, and he had a fair idea whose word the elderly lawman was likely to listen to. He also knew that he didn’t relish being locked up in the Gaol House while the sheriff wired Silver City for his Pa. Joe didn’t have a Pa that he knew anything about, and he certainly didn’t want his Ma getting all upset by finding out he was in the gaol. While Roy chewed his lip and made up his mind, Joe took the opportunity to follow his street-honed instincts, and made a dash for it.

 Roy grabbed for him as he dashed past and missed. Eli Huxton set up a howl of rage. Joe ducked and dodged between several of the interested spectators, and hared off along the boardwalk. Roy gathered his wits and followed in hot pursuit, and Eli Huxton laboured along behind.
 

 Adam Cartwright closed the door of the cramped little cubicle behind him and made his way down the stairs. He was still angry with his family, and, right now, he was not feeling especially pleased with himself, either. He had treated the woman with less consideration than usual. He had driven both their bodies to a release that had satisfied neither of them, and solved nothing. He jammed his hat onto his head and stepped out onto the boardwalk.

 Joe Drury, in full flight from the law, careened squarely into Adam Cartwright.

 It was something like hitting the side of a barn, head-on. Despite his recent brush with death, Adam was a powerful man. He had a solidly built frame, and his muscles were dense and iron hard. He staggered, just a little, from the unexpected impact, but that was all. Joe rebounded off him and landed flat on his back on the boardwalk.

 Concerned, and momentarily distracted from his other problems, Adam leaned down and took the boy by the arm, easily lifting him up onto his feet.

 “Are you all right, boy?”

 Joe was winded, and for a moment, a little stunned. He swayed, and Adam held onto him to steady him. Joe blinked at him. The eyes that regarded him so steadily from beneath the finely drawn, black brows were a strangely dark-shade of hazel, interested and intelligent. That was all he had time to notice

 “Hey, Adam!” Roy’s shout made Adam look up, “You hold on ta that boy!”

 Adam held on, not hard, but firmly enough, as Roy pounded up. He looked at the sheriff curiously  and with some amusement, “What’s up, Roy? Takin’ your exercise a little early, aren’t you?”

 Roy stood and panted, catching his breath, “Believe me,” he gasped, “Chasin’ boys so soon after breakfast sure ain’t my idea of fun!”

 Adam looked at Joe, a small smile still playing around his mouth, “What’s the boy supposed to have done?”

 “He’s been stealin’ candies out a’ Eli Huxton’s store.”

 Joe struggled in Adam’s grasp, but to no avail, “I ain’t stole no candies!”

 Adam looked at Roy, “He says he didn’t steal any candies, Roy.”

 “I heard him. An’ I heard what Eli Huxton said,” Roy looked round as Huxton joined the little group, purple faced and breathless, “Eli says this boy was helpin’ out his friends while they was thievin’,”

 Mister Huxton nodded furious agreement, “That’s right, Adam. He was in my store right enough, trippin’ me up while them others was stealin’ them candies clean out from under me.”

 Adam looked at Joe, “Is that right? What Mister Huxton says?”

 “No, it ain’t right!” Joe tried to twist out of Adam’s grip, without success, “I ain’t stole nothin’!”

 Adam glanced at Huxton, and at Roy, and then looked back at Joe. Still keeping a tight hold on the boy’s arm, he crouched slightly so that the could look him straight in the eye, “Why don’t you tell me,” he suggested, reasonably, “Just what you were doing in Mister Huxton’s store?”

 Joe stared back at him, his mouth tight and his gold and green eyes hard. He didn’t quite know what to make of this darkly good-looking man with the educated voice. He had never seen him before in his life, but somehow, his manner was familiar. He felt, almost, as if he could trust him. Adam held the hard stare and waited. Joe relented, “I was only waitin’ ta ask after someone,” he said, sulkily.

 Roy and Eli Huxton exchanged looks. “Who is it you were askin’ after, boy?” Roy inquired, doubtfully.

 In answer, Joe produced the now dog-eared, and decidedly grubby, little card from his pants pocket and handed it up to the sheriff. Roy read it and passed it on to Eli Huxton, “Looks like this one’s gonna be your problem, Adam,” Roy said, “That’s your Pa’s card.”

 Adam straightened up as the card was passed back to Roy, who handed on to him. Adam looked at it. It said, simply ‘Benjamin Cartwright, The Ponderosa Ranch, in Nevada’. Adam had designed the cards and had them printed himself. He looked at Joe again. He remembered his father mentioning the strange coloured eyes when he had explained, a month earlier, about the boy he’d met in Silver City, “What’s your name, son?” He asked quietly, already guessing the answer.

 Joe looked at his boots, “Joe Drury,” he mumbled into his chest. It confirmed what Adam had thought.

 Adam let go, finally, of Joe’s arm and nodded to Roy, “‘Guess you’re right there. This looks like the boy Pa was expecting.”

 Roy was glad to shift the whole, petty business squarely onto someone else’s shoulders. He was already starting to think about lunch. “I guess that settles it then, if you speak up for the boy, Adam.”

 Adam looked dubious. His father had described in detail his meeting with Joe Drury, and told his family all about the offers he had made to the boy and to his mother. Unproven as he was, Ben had agreed to take the boy on as a ranch hand. Adam, with wisdom born of experience, had, so far, kept his several misgivings to himself. On the Ponderosa, what Ben said was law. “I guess I’ll speak for him, Roy.” The reluctance was evident in his voice.

 Roy leaned back on his heels, “That’s it then, Eli. Adam, here, speaks fer the boy.”

 Eli Huxton looked from one man to the other, entirely ignoring Joe. He could see himself coming out the loser in this. “That’s all very well!” He said, shortly. “Who’s gonna pay for all them candies I lost?”

 Adam sighed and put a firm, brown hand on Joe’s shoulder, “Just put them on my account, Eli,”

 Compensated, but unsatisfied, Eli Huxton set off back to his business and his customers. Adam and Roy eyed each other.

 “I guess you’ll be takin’ this boy out to the ranch then,” Roy said. It was more than a suggestion.

 “I guess so,” Adam’s gaze travelled over Joe’s un-prepossessing build. The boy was all arms and legs, and appeared to be hollow-chested. Adam wondered just how much of a cowhand he was going to make. “Have you got a horse with you, boy?”

 Joe shook his head, “I ain’t got no horse.”

 Adam looked sour. He didn’t much fancy riding double all the way home. Roy knew what he was thinking.

 “Your Pa’s buckboard’s over there outside the bank, Adam. ’Guess this boy could ride home in that.”

 Adam looked towards the bank, and his expression lightened considerably. He asked Joe, “Have you got any baggage?”

 “Only what I dropped over by the store when I run off.”

 “Let’s go and get it then.”

 The two of them started along the boardwalk back towards Huxton’s store. Joe Drury looked up at the big man’s dark profile, trying to spot some resemblance to his benefactor, “Are you really Ben Cartwright’s son, Mister?”

 Adam nodded, a small smile touching his lips and lightening his brooding expression. “I’m one of them.” He said.
 

 Joe Cartwright paced the floor of the small, stuffy waiting room that smelled of polish and paper. It was a quiet room, in the manner of rooms in banks. The furnishings might have been comfortable, with a deep pile carpet and over-stuffed furniture, but the pictures on the wall were dull and the reading material out of date and of interest, probably, only to financiers. The view from the window was uninspiring, merely the blank wall of the building opposite and a stretch of the alleyway in between. Joe had studied it in detail. His father’s business with the bank had already taken far longer than he had anticipated. He had been waiting almost two hours for the documents to be processed.

 Joe paced and fretted. It was one of the last, beautiful days of summer, and he wanted to be outside in the sunlight and fresh air, preferably on his way to Cockscomb Flats with Ellen Weldon at his side.

 He had already carried messages to the Freight Office - from his father to Kingdom Jones, and to the Telegraph Office - instructions for Ben’s lawyers in San Francisco. He had been to the Post Office and collected the family’s mail, and he had ordered a picnic basket from the Corner House. All he needed to do now was to conclude this wretched business...

 A step in the passage beyond the door caught him in mid-stride in the centre of the room. He turned, feeling awkward, as the door opened to admit Austin Damier, the bank manager and a long-time friend of Ben Cartwright’s.

 Damier smiled, “So sorry to keep you waiting, Joseph,” He closed the door and came into the room. Damier limped heavily, favouring his left leg. He had been shot in the hip during a raid on his bank almost eighteen months before. It had been Joe’s eldest brother, Adam, who had saved his life by shooting the robber out of his saddle. He spread the papers out on the table and started to explain the details to Joe.

 Joe barely listened. He was intent only on getting out of the bank as quickly as possible and going to collect Ellen. At last, Damier produced a pen,

 “If you would just sign here, on your father’s behalf?”

 Joe said something inane, took the pen and signed with something he hoped was a flourish.

 Damier smiled again, and took back the pen, and insisted on shaking Joe by the hand. He said something about it always being such a pleasure to do business with the Cartwright family.

He walked Joe to the front door of the bank, his limp slowing their pace. Joe manfully resisted the urge to race ahead. Damier shook his hand again, “Now you be sure and carry my regards to your Pa,” he instructed.

 Joe retrieved his hand, “I’ll do that, Mister Damier,” He pasted a smile onto his face and edged round the bank manager to the, oh, so invitingly open, door, “And say Hello to Mrs. Damier for me.” Finally, he made good his escape.

 The day was warming up nicely. It was a perfect morning for a ride out into the country and a picnic in the water meadows. Joe settled his hat on his head and stepped down off the boardwalk into the street. He was heading for where he’d parked the buckboard, right outside the bank’s front window. He had the bundle of his family’s mail in his hand and Ellen Weldon still very much on his mind. He just hoped she hadn’t gotten too bored looking at the fancy new hat shop that had opened just down the street. But then, he thought, women never got tired of looking at hats, did they? He tucked the several letters inside his shirt.

 Someone was sitting up on the driving seat of the family buckboard. Joe slowed down and took a good, hard look. It certainly wasn’t Ellen. It looked like a boy, a rather skinny, lanky boy in a tattered, checked shirt. Standing there beside him was Joe’s big brother, Adam. Joe was nonplussed. When he’d left home that morning, early, Adam hadn’t yet come down to breakfast. He walked over.

 “Hi, Adam. Who’s this?”

 Adam gave Joe a black look that puzzled him, “This is Joe Drury. Pa’s been expecting him.”

 “Yeah. I know.” Joe Cartwright looked Joe Drury over. He thought he looked a little thin, but then, he wasn’t that big a man himself. He thought the boy might well have some growing still to do. He nodded to him.

 “He doesn’t have a horse, so he can ride home with you.” Adam added.

 Joe did a double take on that and yelped in protest, “Hey! I ain’t goin’ back home!”

 Adam, having delivered the boy into his brother’s keeping was already walking away, his mind on business of his own. He turned back, “What do you mean, you ain’t going home?”

 “Just what I danged said! I ain’t going home!” Joe was getting mad at his brother’s imposition, “I’m just gonna pick up Ellen Weldon an’ we’re drivin on down ta Cockscomb Flats!”

 “Is that so?” The tone of Adam’s voice dropped, dangerously, “So that’s another day’s work you’re wriggling out of?”

 Joe bristled, “I ain’t wrigglin’ out o’ nothin’! I already done the errands Pa gave me!”

 “And that’s your idea of a full day’s work, is it? Delivering a few messages?” Adam’s voice, still controlled and precise, was getting louder, “And while the rest of us are sweating our guts out on the east fence-line, you plan to be sparking with Ellen Weldon?”

 Joe took half a step forward and put his hands on his hips. His face was darkening with anger, “What I do in my own time is my own damn business!”

 “In your time?” Adam was furious now, “And when was the last time you put in a full day’s work out at the ranch?”

 A little crowd of interested onlookers had, by now, gathered on the boardwalk. Two of the Cartwright clan having a stand up, all out shouting-match in the middle of the street was an event not to be missed. With luck, in the opinion of some, it might even come to blows. Certainly it looked as if it could, with the two of them standing toe to toe glaring at each other. Joe Drury, sitting up high on the buckboard seat rather wished he could melt away into the woodwork. He had a feeling that he might have been the cause of all this. The two angry brothers had completely forgotten his existence.

 “I do as much Goddamned work as you do!” Joe Cartwright yelled into his taller, broader brother’s face, “Anyway, It ain’t your place ta tell me what ta do!”

 “I’ll tell you any damn thing I please!” Adam’s retort was hell-fire hot. His hands were on his hips as well now, and his knuckles were showing white.

 Joe was equally enraged, “Who in hell do you think you are?”

 “I know who the hell I am!”

 “Boys! Boys! Boys!” Roy Coffee, to the disappointment of the spectators, who were hoping, at least, for some pushing and shoving, stepped in between the two feuding Cartwrights. “Let’s just cool this down a little, shall we?”

 Joe was on the boil,” He’s sayin’ I don’t pull my weight!”

 “That’s just what I’m saying!” Adam pulled himself up to his full six feet-two and a fraction,
which made him a lot taller than either Roy, or his brother. He drew a breath to continue but Roy forestalled him,

 “Then I think you’d better go say it someplace else, Adam,” he said, “Someplace quite a ways out o’ town.”

 Adam made a gallant attempt to simmer himself down, “I’ve got business in town, Roy.”

 “You c’n come on in an’ do your business another day,” Roy was implacable, “That goes fer you to, Joe.”

 “What?” Joe’s voice went up half an octave, “I’ve gotta pick up Ellen Weldon down the street!”

 “So you can get out of another day’s work.” Adam said scathingly.

 Joe snarled, “I ain’t gettin’ out a’ nothin’!”

 “You’re damn right you ain’t!”

 Roy, caught in the narrowing space between the two angry men, put one restraining hand against each man’s chest. “Now, you two jist quieten down an’ listen ta me,” He looked from one furious face to the other, “I don’t want no more a’ this. I’m a runnin’ you both out a’ town, right now. ‘You hear me?”

 “But, Roy...” Adam started.

 “No buts!” Roy held up his hands, “It’s either that, or I’ll lock the both o’ you up in the Gaol House fer disturbin’ the peace, an’ I’ll keep ya there ‘til your Pa comes ta’ bail you out.”

 Joe spread his arms wide in supplication, “But Roy...”

 “I’ll tell Ellen Weldon you got called home urgent, like,” Roy told him, “Now git up on that buckboard an’ start drivin’.”

 Joe made a helpless gesture. Roy turned to Adam, “An’ you git your horse an’ ride on out. Right now!”

 Adam let go a pent up breath and looked away, “Roy,” he began, in a reasonably toned, but very tight, voice, “Can’t we talk about this?”

 “Nope,” His mind made up, Roy wasn’t about to enter into any fancy conversation with Adam Cartwright. The man was all together too glib with those college-educated words of his.

“You’ve already done all the talkin’ you’re gonna do in this town fer a while. I don’t want ta see neither one o’ you fer at least a week. Now git on out a’ town, the pair o’ you, ‘fore I really do lock you up!”

 He looked from one to the other. They could see in his pale eyes that he meant exactly what he said.

 “What are we gonna tell our Pa?” Joe asked, plaintively.

 Roy put his hands on his hips, elbows wide. By now he had a burning indigestion, and he knew just who to blame for it. “You can tell your Pa anything you damn well please, Little

Joe. Or, if you like, I’ll ride on out an’ tell him myself!”

 “That won’t be necessary, Roy.” Adam put a hand briefly on the sheriff’s shoulder, taking it away quickly when Roy glared at him. He could well imagine what his father would have to say about two of his grown-up sons having a verbal brawl in a public street. “We’ll, er, we’ll explain it to Pa.” He caught Joe’s eye and gave him a nod. “Come on, Joe. Let’s go home.”

 Joe, reluctantly, let the last of his anger fade. He to, knew when he was beaten. He turned to the buckboard and climbed up next to Joe Drury.

 Adam thought about trying, just once more, to talk some sense into Roy, but then, seeing the thundercloud expression still on the sheriff’s face, thought better of it. The shadow of the Gaol House still loomed large. Adam walked back across the street to get his horse.

 Joe Cartwright unwound the reins and gee’d up the team. His brother, remembering to touch his hat to Roy Coffee, fell in behind, and they headed west, out of town.
 

 Ben Cartwright sat on his big buckskin horse at the top of the hill, and allowed his eyes to trace the line of the new fence. Two rows of shiny new wire, tight-stretched between new posts that stood as upright as sentries, it followed faithfully the undulations of the land. It curved down out of the north, marking out the familiar boundary of his property, separating his lush grazing land from the unclaimed scrublands that lay beyond. Ben felt a pride of possession and of achievement. For as far as he could see, all that was good, and worthwhile, was his.

 Below him, in the valley, a work crew laboured at extending the fence. He could hear the steady hammering of wood on wood as yet another post was driven home. It was hard, hot work. First the virgin soil had to be broken for the posthole. Then the post was driven in, straight, and true and deep, if it were to stand firm against the rigours of the Nevadan weather and the onslaughts of the cattle, who delighted, from time to time, in rubbing their hides up against the woodwork. Then the wire was strung, and stretched, and nailed into place. Good men could string a mile a day, and Ben’s men were some of the best.

 That was why, even though he was pleased enough with the fence-line, he was less than happy with the progress it had made. He had expected to find the wagon and crew at least five miles further along the valley. He nudged the buckskin with his heels and cantered down into the valley.

 Old Charlie, Ben’s foreman and friend for more years than either of them cared to count, was pouring himself a well-deserved cup of coffee. Seeing his employer approaching, he poured out a second cup.

 Ben stepped down from the saddle and looped his reins round the wheel of the wagon. He walked over and hunkered down by the little fire, accepting the offered cup from Charlie with an appreciative grin. The hot, black, trail-brew scorched his mouth and burned its way down to his stomach.

 “How’s it going, Charlie?”

 Charlie considered. He knew that they were short handed, and behind schedule, and falling further behind every day, and he knew that Ben knew it as well. He turned his head to one side and spat an amber stream of tobacco juice. “It’s goin’.” He said, stoically.

 Ben looked towards the three men working on the latest post. Two of them were hammering with a steady rhythm while the third man made sure the timber stayed straight. “You’ve just got the one team working?” The remark was more comment than criticism, and Charlie knew it.

 “All the men I got.”

 Ben was doing a swift mental review to see where on the ranch he could poach a man or two to help with the fencing job. Nothing sprang readily to mind. Corners were already being cut elsewhere, as well. “D’you think we’ll have it finished before the season turns?” Stringing fencing once the autumn storms started chasing down out of the Sierras was an impossible task.

 Charlie squinted up at the brass coloured sky as if he might find an answer written there. With all of his experience, perhaps he did. “‘Don’t reckon.” He said, at last. He tucked his wad of tobacco into his cheek so that he could speak a sentence of more than four syllables.

“Need three, maybe four, teams o’ men postin’ an’ another stringin’ wire if we’re to make the Triangle before fall.” He and Ben had discussed, earlier in the summer, the need to fence the boundary at least as far as the distinctive patch of woodland, before winter set in. At the present rate of progress they were going to fall a long way short.

 Ben took another swallow of coffee, and then gestured towards the wagon with the hand that held the coffee cup, “You look as if you’re runnin’ a little low on supplies.”

 Charlie gazed at the seriously depleted cargo of wire and trimmed posts that remained in the wagon bed, “Reckon so.” he said.

 Ben waited. He had known Charlie a very long time. He knew that behind the old cowboy’s weathered, dead pan features was a mind as sharp as a skinning knife. He also knew, from long experience, that Charlie had something to say. It just took him a while to get round to saying it. The men finished hammering on the post and started stringing the wire to it.

 “‘Was kinda hopin’,” Charlie said at last, “That one o’ them boys o’ yours would drive on out with some wire an’ stuff.”

 Ben breathed out carefully, “I’m sure that could be arranged. I’ll get one of them to pick up some gear and get it on out here.”

 “‘Kinda thought, bein’ as we was short handed, a couple o’ ‘em might ‘a’ helped out wi’ the wire.”

 Ben put his coffee cup down and straightened up. Charlie stood up with him, watching his face. Ben had understood what he was saying, and Charlie knew it.

 “I’ll talk to them about it Charlie. See what I can do.” Ben watched the three men move on to the next posthole. He found the next words with difficulty, “I wanted to talk to you about Adam.”

 Charlie watched him, waiting. Ben had an idea that he knew what was coming, but Charlie wasn’t one to answer a question before it was asked.

 “He’s driving himself hard, and I think he’s driving the men hard as well. Have things been said in the bunkhouse?”

 Charlie spat again, giving himself time to compose a reply. “Ain’t nothin’ bin said that adds up to a can o’ beans. That boy of yours grew up into a fine man, Ben. ‘Real shame he got hi’self shot up like he did. Takes a man a long time ta git over a belly wound like that. ‘ Reckon he’s still hurtin’ some.”

 That was something Ben hadn’t seriously considered. In the last few weeks, Adam had made giant strides towards recovery. He had taken on again almost all of the jobs he had done before he was hurt, and he hadn’t made any complaint. Ben realised that he had put to the back of his mind the fact that his son was still, officially, convalescent. Thinking back, he recalled the look on Paul Martin’s face the last time he spoken to him. Paul had said Adam was healed, but he hadn’t looked particularly happy about it. Now Ben was wondering what had been left unsaid.

 With a troubled frown on his face he walked towards his horse and unlooped the reins. He turned to Charlie again before he reached for the stirrup. “I thank you for that, Charlie,” he said, “If Adam starts driving too hard...”

 Charlie put his hands on his hips and his pale eyes took on a look of determination Ben knew well, “Then I’ll tell ‘im about it.” he said.

 Ben laughed and mounted his horse. Charlie might be only half Adam’s size, but the little foreman was quite capable of giving Ben’s grown son a dressing down he would remember for a long time. What made Ben smile again, was the fact that, big as he was, if he considered the reprimand deserved, Adam would stand and take it. He raised a hand to Charlie in farewell and kicked his horse into a canter.
 

 At bay, Ben Cartwright stood with his back to the log fire that burned brightly in the stone build fireplace. He had nowhere to retreat to. Not that retreat, at that exact moment, was foremost in his mind. He had his hands on his hips and his huge barrel chest thrust forward. It was a stance familiar to those who knew him well, and one known to bode ill to the subject of his anger.

 For more than twenty years he had been the master of this land, the absolute ruler of all he surveyed. He had always been the soul power and authority in his own house. What he said was final. He considered himself answerable to only one, higher authority, and he would tackle that on Judgement Day. He found it quite unbelievable that he was being defied, and,
predictably, the expression on his face was thunderous.

 “He’s a hired hand!” he said, in a voice loud enough to make the prisms in the chandelier shiver, “He sleeps with the hired hands!”

 His adversary, his diminutive, dark-haired, green-eyed wife, mirrored him exactly in attitude, in expression and in the fury of her temper. “He’s a little boy!” Jenny Cartwright yelled back at him, “And he sleeps in the house!”

 Ben filled his formidable chest, “I didn’t ask him here to be a house guest!”

 “And he didn’t come here to learn to drink, and to swear, and to smoke and chew tobacco!”

 “That’s all a part of growing up!” Temporarily, Ben found it convenient to forget his own, strict, house rules about drinking, swearing and tobacco. None of those present thought it prudent to remind him.

 Jenny threw back her head and her sea-green eyes flared, “He’ll grow up soon enough! What do you think his mother would say?”

 “I spoke to his mother!”

 “And obviously you didn’t listen!”

 Joe Drury, the subject of this, somewhat heated, discussion between the senior members of the Cartwright family, sidled towards the door. His ears were flaming scarlet and he rather wished the floor would swallow him up. The biggest of Ben Cartwright’s sons, a veritable giant of a man whom, apparently, went by the name of Horse, caught him by the arm. Ever so slightly, the big man shook his head. “Stay put,” the gesture said, “Do nothing, say nothing, lest the wrath fall upon you!”

 “He’ll sleep in the bunkhouse!” Ben roared.

 He had an uncomfortable feeling that, somehow, he was losing this one. What made it worse, was the fact that this argument was about as public as it could get.

 Three of Ben’s sons were present, each one of them trying desperately to pretend that he were somewhere else. Their gazes were all carefully affixed to the pattern in the carpet and they were all hoping to hell that they, personally, were not about to become embroiled. They knew, from hard won experience, the towering heights that their sire’s rage could reach.

 Joe Drury stood between Joe and Hoss. His face was suffused purple with embarrassment. Of all the Cartwright household, only Hop Sing had effected an escape. He had suddenly become deaf to all languages but his own and slammed his way into the kitchen.

 Jenny’s eyes blazed across the room at her husband, “He’ll sleep in the house! And stop bellowing, Ben! You’ll wake the baby!”

 “I’m not bellowing!” Ben bellowed.

 In an upstairs room, Daniel Cartwright, the most recent addition to Ben’s family started to cry. The plaintive wail drifted down the staircase to the ears of all those present below.

 Joe Cartwright, chancing a glance at his father’s face, did his best to swallow a grin.  “You woke up the baby, Pa.”

 Ben favoured him with his blackest glare and Joe lowered his gaze again - fast!

 “If he lives in the house, it’ll set him apart from the rest of the men!” Ben said, pitching his voice to a reasonable roar.

 “And a good thing to!” His wife retorted, “He’s just a boy!”

 “He’ll have to do a man’s work!”

 “He can do that, and sleep in the house!”

 Ben drew a breath to reply, and the realised that he was trapped. There were four grown men in the house already, all of them, supposedly, doing a man’s work. He looked at his wife’s triumphant face and sighed, “Very well. He can sleep in the house. But only until he’s fifteen! Then he moves in with the rest of the men! And he learns to pull his own weight, or
I’ll know the reason why. No molly-coddling him!”

 Jenny was nodding and smiling. She was well aware that she’d won, and she was prepared to let her husband save his face if he could.

 Ben glared round at his grown sons, studying each of their faces in turn. Joe, it seemed, had found something quite fascinating on the toe of his boot. Hoss was picking, in a totally absorbed fashion, at a hangnail, while Adam was taking an inordinate interest in the cover of a book he must have seen, at least, five hundred times before. All of them had incipient grins on their faces.

 “Don’t you three have any chores to do?” Ben inquired, ominously.

 Joe Drury was almost knocked down in the stampede for the door.

 “Joseph!” Joe Cartwright had been slightly slower than his brothers, and Ben had caught him by the arm. “Why don’t you take Joe here out to the barn and show him what a horse looks like?”

 Joe dropped his hat onto his head at a jaunty angle. “Yes, sir!” He winked at Joe, put his hand on his shoulder and steered him firmly towards the door.

 Ben looked at his smiling wife across the suddenly empty living room and sighed. Upstairs, the baby was still wailing and Ben supposed, that as it was his shouting that had awakened it, it was his turn to go.
 

 For all its vast reaches of forest and grassland, The Ponderosa was a practical, working ranch, and, of necessity, most meal times in the Cartwright household tended to be informal and flexible affairs. The one exception was dinner.  Ben expected everyone who was at home, and who was not, in some way, indisposed, to attend. Furthermore, he insisted that certain social proprieties were observed. In a civilized world, and Ben considered himself nothing if not civilized, a gentleman dressed for dinner. He did so himself, and he required no less of his sons. The men wore dress shirts, and jackets, and a string or ribbon tie. His wife always dressed beautifully in a formal gown, tonight a creation in green silk that matched her eyes to perfection.

 Glancing round at the people seated at his table, Ben could see that at least that basic requirement had been met. One of his sons, probably Joseph, had loaned Joe Drury a tie so that even he fitted the convention. Looking at the faces that went with the clothes, Ben suspected that it was only outwardly that all was serene.

 Hoss, seated, as always, to his father’s right, wore an exceedingly glum expression. His blue eyes, normally alive with a merry twinkle, were grey with shadows. His mouth was tight, and the jovial smile, missing from his big face. Absent also, was the seemingly endless steam of trivia and small talk, concerning the ranch’s doings, which often formed the mainstay of table conversation.

 Next to Hoss, sat Joe Drury. Ben hadn’t expected the boy to arrive unannounced in the way that he had. But upon reflection, he supposed, considering that neither the boy, nor his mother, could read or write, it could hardly have happened any other way. In any event, Ben was determined to make good his promise. The boy looked pale, and anxious beneath his freckles. Ben thought that understandable. The young man was spending his first night away from home and in the midst of a strange family. He would take time to find his feet.

 At the far end of the table, facing Ben along its length, Adam was in his own accustomed place. Ben paused in his survey to study his first-born. Recent days, spent in the sun and the wind, had given Adam back some of his healthy tan. Underneath it, his skin has lost that sallow, almost jaundiced colour that he’d had for so long. This evening, he looked a little tired around the eyes, but then, he often did at the end of a day. Paul Martin had warned that that would happen until Adam had rebuilt his reserves of strength. Ben recalled Charlie’s comment and wondered if Adam could really still be suffering. Then Adam looked directly at him, alert and inquiring. The eyes themselves, a warm brown, slightly hooded and deeply set in the undeniably handsome face, were bright and clear. There was no sign of any lingering pain.

 Adam exuded a nervous tension that Ben could feel even from where he sat. Normally, Adam’s sharp tongue and wicked wit were on open display at the dinner table, Tonight, even he seemed guarded.

 Moving on, Ben’s gaze settled on Joseph, now  no longer his youngest son. Joe was the most volatile of Ben’s brood. His face, which had retained its boyish good looks into manhood, was usually the easiest to read. At the moment, his expression was distinctly downcast. Ben didn’t need too much paternal intuition to guess that his son’s dejection was closely associated with Ellen Weldon. He found himself hoping that nothing too traumatic had happened to that, particular, relationship. Ellen had done a great deal towards stabilizing Joe’s youthful waywardness.

 Finally, Ben looked at his lovely wife, and smiled. A young woman to brighten his later years, Jenny’s eternally sunny nature and lively spirit brought extra brightness into his life. Her steadfast love never ceased to amaze him. Daily, he wondered at his amazing good fortune in finding her, in wooing her and in winning her. Jenny looked up and saw his smile, and her face lit up with love.

 Ben cleared his throat for attention and clasped his hands before him. Around the table, the heads lowered. Ben called down the blessing of his God upon the meal, and on all those gathered together to share in it.

 If conviviality at the table was somewhat lacking, then the quality of the food was not. Hop Sing had produced an amazing dinner of fried chicken, crisply coated on the outside, soft and succulent inside. To go with it were pale mounds of mashed potatoes,  golden maize running with melted butter and chunks of fresh bread to mop up the juices.

 Joe Drury had never seen anything like it in his entire life. He was overwhelmed by it all, by the size and the grandeur of the house, by the assertive, confident personalities of the people, even by the magnificence of the dinner table. The expanse of snow-white linen with its silver cutlery and crystal glassware left him a little bewildered. He even had a napkin. He watched the others carefully to find out what to do with it. When the dishes were passed around and he was urged to help himself, he found more food piled in front of him than he had ever seen on one plate in his entire life. He was still wondering where to begin when he realised that he had been spoken to.

 He looked up to find everyone watching him. His face flamed furiously.

 “I was asking after you mother.” Ben said, carefully keeping the stern edge out of his voice. He was used to people paying attention when he spoke.

 “Ma’s just fine, thank you, sir.” Joe managed to say, trying hard to remember all the manners his Ma had been coaching him in. Then he found that his knife and fork were waving out of control. He put them down quickly, on the tablecloth.

 Ben frowned. The place for dirty cutlery was on the plate.

 Leaning forward slightly, Jenny smiled at Joe across the table. “I’ve put you in the room just across the hall from Joseph,” She said, kindly,” I thought you might be comfortable there, as you’re closest in age.”

 “That’s right kind of you, ma’am,” Joe was fighting another battle with the knife. It was bigger and heavier than he was used to. “I’m sure I’ll be just fine.”

 Jenny’s green eyes glowed with encouragement, “You’ll need a few more clothes, as you weren’t able to carry a lot with you. Perhaps Joseph might have a few things that you could use.”

 Joe Cartwright looked up brightly. At least, Ben thought, some of his family was trying to be friendly. “I guess I’ve got a few things you could have.”

 It was at this point that Ben, who knew the pattern of these conversations well, would have expected a biting interjection from his eldest.

 On cue, Adam offered, “Joe sheds clothes like a snake sheds skins.”

 While not up to his usual standard of repartee, it showed, at least, that he was paying attention. His brother glanced at him, mildly irritated. Joe looked at Joe Drury,

 “I could give you those shirts I got from the store at Cooper’s Crossing. They always were a bit tight on me. They’d fit you just fine.”

 “If you don’t mind the frill and the flounces.” Adam added.

 Joe glared at him. “I don’t wear frills and flounces.”

 Adam, warming to the subject, turned in his seat, “That shirt you wore to the Warner’s dinner-and-dance last month had more fripperies on it than a girl’s blouse.”

 Joe’s ears glowed an interesting pink. “They weren’t fripperies! It was just a little embroidery on the front!”

 Adam’s expression spoke volumes of what he thought about embroidery on a man’s shirt, but before he could put the thoughts into words, Ben stepped in,

 “I think that’s enough, gentlemen.”

 Joe appealed to the higher authority, “Pa, them shirts are the latest thing in New Orleans!”

 “I said, that’s enough!”

 “New Orleans is a long way from here, little brother. And it should be ‘those’ shirts.” Adam said, smugly.

 “Enough!” Ben roared. He saw Adam and Joe exchange venomous glances but neither of them was prepared to defy him further. Around the table, gazes returned to plates, and attention, to eating.

 Ben chewed on a mouthful of chicken without realising how good it was. He noticed that at the far end of the table, Adam was merely toying with his food. He had eaten almost nothing. Paul had said to give it time, but still, Ben worried.

 Come to that, he thought, tonight, neither Joe, nor Hoss, were doing a great deal better. They were both picking at the meals on their plates. The only one really doing the food justice, was Joe Drury.

 Ben looked down the table. “I was out at the east fence, today,” He said to Adam, but including everyone, “Charlie needs a whole lot of supplies picked up and taken out there, first thing in the morning. Perhaps you could do that, Adam?”

 Adam hesitated for just one moment. “I was planning on working on that timber contract, tomorrow, Pa. We really should get the figures worked out. Perhaps Hoss can pick up the supplies for Charlie.”

 Ben was a bit bemused. “Hoss?”

 The big man looked up from only his second helping of chicken. He shrugged. “I don’t mind goin’ into town for the supplies, Pa. If Adam don’t want ta do the work.” He and Adam exchanged dark glances along the table.

 Ben knew this was part of their on-going argument about the workload. “Very well,” For the moment he was content to let them sort it out between themselves. “Hoss will fetch the supplies.” The flicker of relief that crossed Adam’s face puzzled him. “Charlie’s falling behind schedule with that fence-line. He’s short handed out there. He could do with some help.” He looked expectantly at Joe and Adam but neither seemed prepared to volunteer.

 Adam met his father’s eyes levelly. “Charlie’s getting old, Pa. Perhaps he’s just not pushing hard enough.”

 It was unlike Adam to make quite such ungenerous remarks, but Ben was already too irritated to pick up on the incongruity. He bristled. “And perhaps he just not getting the support he needs from this family! Tomorrow I want you, and Joseph, out there working with the fencing crew. You can take Joe here with you. ‘Start showing him how it’s done.”

 Joe looked mildly alarmed, but resigned. “Yes, Pa.”

 The expression that appeared, for one fleeting second, on Adam’s face, was something akin to panic. Again, Ben didn’t register it.

 “Pa,” Adam began, carefully, “You don’t think...?”

 “No, I don’t think!” Ben glared. “The timber contract can wait a few days. I want the three of you out there first thing in the morning. I want that fence-line back on schedule if you have to work at it all night!”

 Adam sighed. “Just as you say, Pa.” He put down his fork and pushed his plate away. For him, the meal was over. Unfortunately, another of Ben’s rules was that he had to sit there until everyone else had finished.

 Hop Sing bustled in to start clearing the first course. He was not pleased to see the amount of food left on the plates. He took it as a personal affront if anything but scraps remained. The torrent of Chinese became voluble. Graciously, Jenny excused herself from the table and went to the kitchen to try to placate the cook. As Jenny spoke no Chinese, and Hop Sing became suddenly deaf to English, the argument, though long and loud, was ultimately fruitless.

 As the voices rose in the kitchen, Ben sought for a subject to fill the embarrassing silence. He addressed his youngest son, “Joseph, did you remember to collect the mail, this morning?”

 “Yeah, Pa. I’ll fetch it.” Joe started out of his seat.

 Normally, Ben would not have countenanced reading the mail at the dinner table. Tonight, however, was not turning out to be a normal night. Joe returned with the envelopes and Ben sorted through them. Trying not to listen to the continuing altercation, he selected one and set the others aside.

 Ben scanned swiftly down the two pages of his correspondence. His face broke into a smile.  Hoss’s curiosity finally got the better of him. “What is it, Pa?”

 “Toby Addington is coming to stay. You’ll remember that I invited him?”

 “You said, he was a travelling man these days, Pa.” Joe reminded him.

 Ben waved the letter, still smiling “He says he can visit for a few days before he leaves on a trip to Europe. You remember Toby Addington. Adam?”

 “I remember him, Pa.” Adam’s expression indicated that he was rather less pleased than his father at the prospect of Addington’s visit.

 “He arrives on the stage the day after tomorrow,” Ben went on, oblivious to Adam’s black humour. “I’d like you to take the buggy in to Virginia City and pick him up for me.”

 Adam stared at him down the table, his agile mind trying desperately to think of another excuse not to go into town. Somehow, he didn’t think his father would be too pleased to hear the truth. Adam realised his mouth had come open, and closed it. “Uh - I - er - I’ll be helping Charlie out with the fence-line, Pa.”

 “Me to, Pa.” Joe agreed, just a little too quickly and in a voice pitched just a little too high.

Ben looked from on to the other. He knew something was going on.

 “How come, all of a sudden, you don’t want to go to town?” He asked Adam, pointedly.

 “It ain’t that, Pa.”

 But Ben was working it out. “First, you get Hoss to collect the supplies for Charlie. Now, you’re too busy with the fencing that you didn’t want to do, five minutes ago.” He looked from Adam’s face to Joe’s and back. He knew both of them well enough to recognise guilt when he saw it. Neither man was willing to meet his eyes. “What, exactly, went on in town today?”

 Adam and Joe exchanged a look of mutual sympathy that didn’t go un-noticed at the far end of the table.

 “Joseph?” Ben said, sternly.

 Joe swallowed hard. He shot another frantic glance at his eldest brother and then looked at his father. That was a mistake. Ben pinned him with his dark stare and Joe was caught like a mesmerised rabbit. “I - that is, we -uh.” Joe stuttered.

 With a tremendous effort he tore his eyes from his father’s demanding and increasingly angry stare. He looked at Adam in helpless appeal.

 “Adam?” Ben asked.

 Adam made a valiant attempt to look his sire in the face.

 “It was nothing, really, Pa.” He ventured.

 Ben switched his gaze briefly to Hoss. “What do you know about this?”

 Hoss was mystified. “Me? Not a thing, Pa.”

 Ben glanced briefly at Joe Drury, who, right then, was wishing that he was a long way from the Ponderosa, and looked it. The dark gaze returned to Adam.

 “Why don’t you explain this ‘nothing really’ to me?”

 Adam sighed and met his father’s eyes squarely. He knew from past experience that there was, now, no way out of telling the truth. “Joe and I had a disagreement in town, this morning, Pa. Roy ordered us out of town and said he didn’t want to see us back for a week.”

 Ben stared at him, mouth open. He rose half out of his seat, and then sat back in it, heavily.
His hands spread out flat on the table.

 Jenny, having finally succeeded in placating Hop Sing, returned from the kitchen to find her husband slowly turning purple with rage.

 “Are you telling me,” Ben asked in a low, level voice, “That my sons have been run out off town by the law?”

 Joe looked at Adam, who watching his father’s face with a dreadful fascination. He was wondering just how much angrier the man could get. Joe managed to nod, just once.

 “I guess that about sums it up, Pa.”

 Ben remembered, at last, to breathe. “I never thought I would see the day.”

 Jenny moved behind him and put her hands on his shoulders. She could feel him trembling with rage and feared for his health. “It’s all right, Ben. Calm down.”

 “Calm down!” Ben bellowed, “You’re telling me to calm down!”

 Hop Sing appeared from the kitchen, a big smile back on his wrinkled, Oriental face and a huge pie-dish in his hands. He looked from face to face.

 “You eat desert now,” He said, “Cherry pie. You eat all up. Make Hop Sing happy.”

 Six faces turned towards him and six pairs of eyes regarded the pie dubiously. From the expressions, the Chinese cook had a sinking feeling that no one was very hungry.
 

 Sitting before the oval mirror of her dresser, Jenny unpinned and slowly brushed out her long dark hair. She had taken off her elegant green gown, and sat in just her shift, with a shabby but very comfortable robe of pink and mud-coloured cotton draped about her shoulders. It had b