6:00 am.

Adam stretched himself carefully in the bed. To be able to stretch without pain was a luxury he had not been able to enjoy for a long time and he made the most of it, working on one limb at a time and pushing out each finger and toe as far as it would go. Then he lay for a full minute, relaxing and listening to the beat of his own heart, strong and slow and steady.  He’d been confined to this bed for more weeks than he would care to count. He hadn’t been allowed up to cater for even the most personal of bodily functions, and he’d hated it. Then there had been still more weeks when he had been allowed only to sit, at first in the chair in his room and then, after endless pleadings and arguments ~ and he had to confess, what amounted to no less than a full scale temper tantrum on his part ~ downstairs in his favourite chair, with his feet propped up and cushions tucked all round him. The worst of it, once the pain of his wound had started to fade, had been watching his family suffering right along with him.

Adam was not an easy man to live with when he was ill. He had always been active, and the moment he’d started to feel better, he had wanted to get up and start moving around. Both his father and his doctor had sat patiently at his side and explained to him very carefully how close his brush with death had been. They’d told him how cautious he had to be not to over exert himself, first for fear of reopening the wound and then of exhausting himself and leaving himself open to other illnesses.  So he’d sat until he was sore from sitting. He’d read twice through every book in the house, and he’d become irritable and snappy. Adam, when he put his mind to it, had a bitingly sarcastic tongue.

Today, all that was coming to an end. Just yesterday he’d had an hour-long session with the doctor. Paul Martin, after giving him the most painstaking physical examination he’d ever had, had finally pronounced himself satisfied. Adam had been given the all clear to take up his life again, even if at the moment that did involve no more than a gentle stroll round the yard and absolutely no work what so ever.

Adam sat up and swung his legs just a little gingerly over the edge of the bed. He pulled his night
shirt off over his head and looked down at his body. It had changed little during his enforced idleness, broad shouldered, broad chested, lean-hipped, well furred from shoulder to groin with curling dark hair. The tan embedded in his arms and legs had faded a bit, and his normally iron hard muscles had lost just a little tone, but there was nothing that exercise wouldn’t quickly put right. Once he was able to get back on a horse he would soon get properly fit again. All he had to show for the ugly gunshot wound that had very nearly killed him was a puckered purple scar marring the smoothness of his belly. The scar of course, would fade eventually to silver, but the puckering would be with him for life.

He stood up, still moving with something of the exaggerated care that he learned early on in his recovery, and went over to the dresser. The face in the mirror looked much the same as well. A strong face with amber coloured, heavily hooded eyes, a firm mouth and chin, now wearing a full days growth of beard, and a hairline that ~ whether he liked it or not ~ was starting to recede. There were laughter lines around his eyes and mouth and some other lines as well, lines that were new, born of pain. He ran a hand through his raven black hair, longer now than he normally liked it, and decided that, for sure, he would have to get one of his brothers to do some barbering for him. Preferably not his youngest brother who had a bizarre sense of humour and was not to be trusted with the scissors. The beard was something he thought he'd better deal with right now. If he was going to put convalescence behind him he would have to put in an appearance at the breakfast table, and his father was a bit of a stickler when it came to the proprieties. Shirts in the house at all times, jacket and tie at dinner, and beards, even embryonic ones, were not on the list of acceptablities.

Adam lathered up his face and reached for his razor. At least now he was able to shave himself. In the early days of his illness his father or one of his brothers had done the job for him and having someone else, even someone he trusted with his life, near his throat with an open cut throat blade made him sweat.

Once his face was clean, Adam found himself some socks and reached for a favourite black shirt and a pair of pants that, while old and worn almost to destruction, were supremely comfortable. And then came the symbol of his return to health. Instead of his old scuffed house slippers he pulled on, with some difficulty, his stiff leather boots. Now he looked like himself again, and if he still felt a little sore here and there he certainly wasn’t going to tell anyone about it.

He stood for a moment and looked around the familiar room. For a while it had become his prison but now it was just a bedroom again, comfortable and comforting, his own personal space filled with treasured belongings and fond memories. His handsome face quirked in a little smile and he reached for the handle of the door.

Adam was not the only Cartwright in the house to sit on the edge of their bed that morning and critically examine the state of their body. Jenny Cartwright perched on the edge of the massive four-poster she shared with her husband and looked down at hers in despair. The neat pert bosom and tiny waist of which she had always been justifiably proud had disappeared as if they had never been. Now, as she sat, her lap was filled with the huge bulge of her belly. Beneath the ruffled cambric of her night dress the proportions of it seemed huge. It was hard and hot, and the child inside wouldn’t stay still for a moment. Even as she watched what was obviously a small elbow thrust itself out from inside and stayed there, adding to her discomfort.

She felt huge and unlovely and so very tired, and by her own reckoning, she still had two whole weeks to go. With a small sigh she hauled herself up onto her feet and waddled ~ she could think of no other term for it ~ over to the dresser and sat down in front of the mirror. She looked as tired as she felt. Her sea-green eyes were infinitely weary, and there were lines of fatigue etched in a face already too narrow in the jaw to be truly beautiful.

The reflection of her husband appeared behind her in the looking glass. Ben had risen before her and was already shaved and resplendently dressed in silver grey broadcloth with matching waistcoat, white shirt and black ribbon tie. He rested his fingertips lightly on her shoulders and lowered his silvered head to kiss the back of her neck. Although past middle age Ben was still a handsome, powerful, charismatic man. A big man in every sense of the word, tall, broad shouldered and barrel chested he had a deep booming voice that could lift the roof when raised in anger, or, as now, purr as softly as a kitten into her ear. “Good morning, my dear love.”

Jenny closed her eyes and just for a moment allowed her head to rest against him, drawing strength from the power of his love. Ben, it seemed, never noticed how gross and cumbersome she had become. She put up her hand and gently touched the side of his face. When she opened her eyes again he was looking at her in the mirror. The irises of his eyes were such a deep brown they often appeared black, as they did now. They were eyes that could pierce a man to his very soul, but now they were softened with concern.

“Are you ill?”

“No, my dear.” She shook her head with a little laugh, and to him her voice was like music. “Just tired. I might need to sleep but I think our beloved child has other ideas.” She took his hand and placed it palm down against her belly where the baby was turning round yet again.

“If our son has been keeping you awake,” he said with mock severity, “I shall have to have serious words with him at the earliest opportunity.”

She smiled into the mirror. “It might be a daughter.”

Ben shook his head. “It’s a son. Believe me. I am a man of considerable experience when it comes to sons.” He kissed her again and moved away from her, picking up bits and pieces from round the room: a handkerchief, his wallet and some small change from his bureaux.

Jenny turned to watch him. First and foremost Ben was a rancher and a timber baron, but lately his interests had expanded to include mine ownership and a partnership in a freight business, and his sphere of influence was increasing in both the business and political worlds. His forthright manner and basic Christian values made him popular, but not with everyone, and his wealth made him powerful. Jenny was delighted to see him happy and successful, but sometimes she worried about him, especially on days like today when he was going away.

From across the room he smiled at her. “I’ll see you at breakfast, my love.” and with that he was gone through the door.

 It was time to get another day underway, but each day it was becoming harder and harder to get started. Jenny brushed out her long dark-red hair and wound it swiftly into a loose coil that approximated the fashion in the latest Paris magazine. She didn’t have the necessary ornate clasps to hold it in place, so she improvised with some jade-headed hairpins that Ben had given her on their first wedding anniversary. She dressed in a loose wrap around gown that was about all she could get into at the moment and then clung helplessly to the post of the bed as the baby kicked again, this time harder than ever before. She had the distinct feeling that today was going to be difficult.

Hoss stifled a mighty yawn. He had been up this morning before it was even light, sneaking down the stairs in his stockinged feet to avoid waking the household, averting the awkward questions that he knew would be asked, especially by his father, and the ribbing he would have to endure from his brothers. He knew that he would have to pay for it later, but what with all the extra work around the place lately and his brother being laid up sick for so long, it was hard for a man to get any free time to himself. At the moment, a visit to the barn in the early morning was about the best start to the day there was.

Added to which, the pain that had been bothering him off and on for some days had taken a hold with a vengeance. It was centred somewhere low down in his right jaw, and it was taking on an insistent, nagging quality. It had kept him awake for most of the night, and first of the daylight and the chance to get up and do something to take his mind off it, had been a welcome distraction.

Hoss looked at the little bundle of fur in his big hand and smiled a big soft smile. It was worth being a little tired to spend some time with these cute little critters. A huge powerful man, as tall as his father and much further around, Hoss had a heart as big as the world. Nothing pleased him more than to hold the little scrap of new-born life close to his cheek and hear its soft mewling noises as it sought blindly at his fingers.

He spoke gently to the little kitty, soft nonsense words, and put it back down besides its mamma. She had six tiny little kittens nosing up to her. All black and white ones just like herself. She licked over the one Hoss had just put back and nuzzled it back into line with the others.

The big man straightened up and yawned again. While he appreciated that the kitties purpose was to keep the rat population to manageable proportions, and they had to get used to being outside, it seemed awful hard on the little family to make it live out in the barn like this. He would have kind of liked to have them over in the house but he knew his father would never have allowed it. While Ben acknowledged willingly enough that his sons were all grown men now, he still frequently treated them just like they were children. Hoss sometimes wondered why.  He put a bit of extra bedding in the box for the mamma cat and started to think about the other thing that started the day really well ~ breakfast.

He gave the horses theirs first, so that they got to eat before they were bridled, and then set off across the yard towards the house. There were some mighty interesting smells coming from the kitchen. Smells kind of like bacon, frying, and they were just the sort Hoss liked best.

Joe Cartwright was the last of Ben's brood to emerge, blinking, into the light of day. He hit the top of the stairs in a flat run with boots in hand, and just saved himself from going headlong over the edge. It wasn’t that Joe was lazy or work-shy. In fact, it was quite the opposite. That summer, while his brother had been laid up, he had taken on more than his share of the extra duties and worked many of the established hands to standstill. It was just that Joe had a problem with getting up in the morning.

From the landing at the turn of the stairs he made a quick survey of the living room. His father was down already, dressed to kill and over at the desk putting the last of his papers in order for his meeting later in the day. His eldest brother Adam was in the middle of the room, book in hand as usual, arrested in mid-pontification by Joe’s arrival. Adam still showed an unhealthy pallor lurking beneath his tan, but Joe was glad to see that he was standing upright at last, and not hunched up around his wound as he had been for such a long time. Though they squabbled and argued and even fought on occasion, Joe adored his brother and was delighted to see him on the road to recovery at last. Joe noticed that Adam had on his outdoor clothes and flashed him a broad grin.

“I see you finally got your runnin’ boots on brother. Shame you ain’t up to usin’ ‘em.”

There wasn’t much Joe enjoyed more than baiting his brothers and Adam, with his more volatile temper, was easy prey. Even now, Joe could see his face tighten. “Just you wait up awhile, Little Joe, an’ I’ll race the hide off of you.” Adam stressed the word little, because he knew it would irritate, but Joe just grinned at him.

“Any time you’re ready, Adam. Any time.”

Adam half raised the book to throw it at him and then thought better of it, more for the sake of the book than his brother.

Ben came through from the office area alerted by his son’s voices. He looked from one to the other, immediately protective of his eldest. “That’s enough boys.”

Joe sat on the second step and pulled on his boots. Knowing his father’s foibles as well as Adam, he had managed to grab a shave and in lieu of a comb he ran his fingers through his brown curls.

Jenny appeared at the top of the stairs and came carefully down them. Balance these days, was getting to be a bit of a problem. Ever the gentleman Joe offered her his hand as he wished her good morning and helped her down the last flight.

The front door opened and Hoss came in from the yard. He sniffed appreciatively. The house was filling up with the savoury smell of bacon and biscuits.

Ben looked at him; “You’re up early son.”

“Just checkin’ up in the barn, Pa.” Hoss carefully didn’t meet his father’s eyes. He knew he’d blush scarlet if he did.

Ben hesitated for just a fraction. He knew full well where his son had been, and why, but just at that moment he wasn’t prepared to make an issue of it. Instead he spread his arms to encompass the whole of his family and started to herd them towards the breakfast table. “Come along then. Let’s eat.”
 

7:00 am.

Ben sat himself down at the head of the table, and the others took their accustomed places around him, Jenny and Joe on his left and Hoss to his right and Adam right across from him at the far end of the table. He looked round at their familiar, loved faces, feeling proud of them and, this morning, very pleased with himself.  His wife, he noticed looked tired and pale. Only to be expected, he supposed. Joe’s wayward brown curls were getting a bit ragged, yet again. Ben wondered why it was that boy’s hair grew so fast!  Adam’s too, was a bit longer than Ben would have normally approved of, but then he hadn’t been able to get to a barber for a while. The patriarch decided to say nothing to either of them for the time being.  Adam looked as if he could do with getting out into the sunlight and fresh air. Ben recalled the long conversation he’d had with Paul Martin the day before and a slight frown of concern appeared between his eyes. Paul was still concerned about Adam’s injury and had only reluctantly, under pressure from Adam himself, agreed to allow him limited freedom outside the house. Hoss was quieter than his usual boisterous self ~ not so ready to exchange insults with his brothers. Ben recalled that he hadn’t eaten more than half his second helping at supper last night and wondered if he could be sickening for something, or was just plain not hungry.

Hop Sing, bobbing and muttering away in Chinese, started bringing in dishes from the kitchen, plates of bacon and eggs and hot corn bread. The family bowed their heads and Ben gave thanks to his God for the meal and for the new day. As soon as he was done, the men around the table shook out their napkins and started on the food.

Ben’s eyes settled first on his youngest son. “Joseph, you have the money I gave you for Kingdom Jones put away safely?”

“Sure, Pa. It’ll be all right. Don’t you worry none.”

If Joe had been paying attention to more than the eggs he was piling on his fork, he might have realized that that had not been the wisest thing to say. Ben had heard it before. Nothing Joe might have said would have ensured better that his father did start worrying, right then.

“It’s a lot of money for you to be carrying.”

“It’s a whole lot of money for a mare, Pa,” Adam put in from the end of the table. “You sure she’s gonna be worth it?”

Ben harrumphed. “From what Kingdom Jones tells me in his letter, it’s a whole lot of mare.” Privately, he wished that his eldest son were fit enough to ride up to Sparks with Joe, just as a sort of steadying influence, but there was no way he was going to say so. Instead, he said to Joe, “You make sure you look that animal over properly before you decide to buy.”

Joe spoke with his mouth half full; “Kingdom Jones says she’s a half bred quarter horse. If we put her up to Monarch we should get us some stock that heavy enough for ranch work, but real quick too...”

“Joseph!” Ever careful of his wife’s sensibilities Ben scowled. “Not at the table.”

“Sorry, Pa.” Joe’s enthusiasm was still running high. “Adam, that mare’s just got to be worth it. If we can get ten or twelve foals from her!”

 “Joseph!”

“You just make sure you check her legs out,” Adam said. “Quarter horses can get themselves some real bad legs if they haven’t been treated right.”

“I’ll check! I’ll check!” Joe sighed. They’d already had that conversation.

Ben was resigned to letting Joe have his head. He looked down the table at Adam, “I’m sure your brother knows what he’s doing.”

Adam made a dismissive gesture; “Well, I sure hope so.”

“Pa said I was to take care of the horse breeding programme!” Joe glared. He was getting himself all riled up.

“Enough!” Ben raised his voice above theirs. “Joe is the one going to Sparks for the horse. And I’m prepared to trust Joe’s judgment in that area.” The pronouncement was final and they all knew it. Adam and Joe exchanged looks across the table that spoke of unfinished business.

Ben thanked heaven that Adam was finally going to get out of the house for a while. As his health had improved he’d become steadily more irritable and short-tempered. Arguments had been flaring more and more frequently, especially between him and his volatile youngest brother. Getting outside for a bit might burn some of the fire out of him.

He poured coffee into his wife’s cup and she smiled at him. He noticed that she wasn’t eating much, just nibbling on a bit of dry toast. “Would you care for some eggs, my dear?”

“Thank you, no.” She put down her toast and her napkin, “I’m not really hungry.”

“You must keep you strength up.”

Jenny touched his arm gently. “I’m well enough.”

Ben looked to the other side of the table, expecting by now, to find his other son eating his way steadily though his second, or third, helping. To his surprise Hoss was merely picking at his food with his fork.  “What is it, son? I thought you were hungry?”

“Yeah, Pa. I sure am hungry.” Hoss shovelled some egg into his mouth and chewed, but without much enthusiasm.

Ben thought he looked pale and a bit peaky. He frowned. “You’re riding up to the north quarter today, aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir. I was gonna take a turn around Possum Creek. We seem to be down some cows up in that corner section. Thought I might be able to find ‘em and check along them fences up there at the same time.”

“Good idea. While you’re riding through there, you might go on up into the hill country, check that there’s no cat sign about.”

“I’ll do that, Pa.” Hoss still looked far from happy.

Forgetting himself, he put a chunk of crisp, fried bacon into his mouth and bit down hard. “Ouch!” The cry of pain was involuntary. Four pairs of eyes gazed at him in some concern.

Ben asked the question, “What is it son?”

“I don’t know, Pa.” Hoss rubbed the side of his jaw ruefully. “I sure got a face ache.”

Joe grinned at him cross the table. “That's what you get for eatin’ all them sweetenin’s. We done told you they all ’d rot your teeth.”

“I ain’t got no tooth rot.” Hoss looked more miserable than ever. “All I got is a face ache”

“The one almost certainly indicates the other,” Adam said cynically from his end of the table.
 Hoss glowered at him. “I said I ain’t got no tooth rot!”

“You eat enough of that candy to rot out every tooth in your head.”

“Candy don’t rot your teeth!”

Adam put down his fork; “It’s been proved...”

“That’s enough!” Ben said firmly. The family this morning was proving altogether too quarrelsome. “Hoss, if the pain doesn’t go away by tomorrow, you’ll have to go into town and see that new tooth doctor.”

Hoss mumbled something that his father didn’t quite catch, but which earned him a dark look anyway. Whatever happened, he had no intention whatever of visiting the tooth doctor. He and Joe had been in town the day the new dentist had moved into a second floor office in main street, and they had seen some of the tools of his trade.

Jenny looked across the table with sympathy. “I’ll get you some whiskey to rub on it before you go out. It’ll help with the pain.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” Hoss pushed his food around some more and finally lay down his fork with a sigh. He was still hungry, but his face was paining something awful.

Ben looked round the table. Everyone seemed to have finished eating except Joe, who was munching on biscuits smeared, rather too thickly, Ben thought, with molasses. Adam had sat back in his chair and was sipping at his second cup of coffee. He had eaten a little, but since being relieved of his milk sop and gruel diet, his normally robust appetite had not recovered. Ben worried about the weight he had lost. There was still a lot of food on the table, and Ben knew that wasn’t going to please the Chinese cook. Hop Sing took it as a personal affront if there were more than a few crumbs left. Well, this morning that couldn’t be helped. He put his napkin down on the table and got to his feet, a general signal for them all to rise.

Joe and Hoss headed for the barn to start saddling horses. Ben folded his sheaf of papers and tucked them into his inside pocket. Then he started putting other bits and pieces into his saddlebags. Adam wandered over to the desk, coffee cup still in hand; “I wish I could go with you, Pa. I’d sure like to sit in on those meetings. They use steam engines in England to run all sorts of machinery these days. There has to be some way they can be used to pump the water up out mine workings.”

“That’s as may be. The question today is, how far are we prepared to go to accommodate the steam engine, in the shape of the locomotive, in Nevada.”

“It’s progress, Pa. You can’t stand in the way of progress or you’re just going to get run down by it.”

Ben glared at him; “I think progress is in serious danger of running rough shod over everything that’s fine and beautiful in this country. You’ve seen those open cast mines up north - great gaping wounds in the landscape. They’re an offence to the works of God!”

Adam sighed. “I have to agree with you there, Pa. There has to be a better way. But you can’t just call a halt to development because you don’t like some of the side effects.”

Ben straightened up and looked at him, scowling; “That’s another thing! You’ve been reading that Charles Darwin’s book again, haven’t you?”

Adam had the grace to look defensive. “A lot of it makes sense, Pa. It’s just like we breed cattle and horses the way we want them by buying in certain blood lines, only it sort of happens naturally.”

“So you’re prepared to believe that we’re descended down from monkeys?!”

“Not exactly, Pa.”

“That’s the Book you should be reading!” Ben pointed with an authoritative finger to the huge family Bible where it sat on the shelf. “Get yourself a little humility in the sight of God!”

Adam sighed. This was an argument he was not going to win. “Yes, Pa.”

Ben gathered up his saddlebags and started for the door. Halfway there he turned back; “Now you remember what doc. Martin told you yesterday. You can stroll around the yard an’ the barn but you’re to get plenty of rest, and you’re not to do anything what-so-ever in the way of work. You hear me?”

“I hear you, Pa.” Sometimes, Adam thought, his father insisted on treating him as if he were still a child

Ben looked at him a moment longer, wondering, not for the first time, just how much of what he said his son really did hear.

He strapped on his gun; the ornately tooled holster looked somewhat incongruous against his suit pants leg, and picked up his hat.

Jenny was waiting out on the porch. She looked strained, with dark shadows under her lovely green eyes. For one moment Ben considered putting off his trip to Silver City. He didn’t like the thought of leaving his wife alone, but the meeting was important, and if he wasn’t there to have his say there could be consequences he didn’t even like to consider. Besides, he consoled himself, Hop Sing would be there, and good, strong, reliable Adam.

Hat and saddlebags in one hand, he tipped up Jenny’s jaw with the fingers of the other and brushed her lips with his.

“You take care of yourself. I’ll be back tonight.”

She raised her face for a more thorough kiss. “You shouldn’t really ride both ways in one day. Why don’t you stay in Silver City tonight and come back tomorrow?”

“My place is here with you. I’ll be back before midnight.” He put his arm round her and drew her closer. Her belly got in the way and they both laughed. “You take good care of yourself.” he said gently.

“Don’t worry. I’ll be all right. What can happen? Any way, Adam will be here.”

Ben glanced back at the house and lowered his voice; “Jen, don’t rely too much on Adam. He’s not as nearly as strong as he likes to think he is.” Jenny drew back, looking at him in sudden concern. Ben hastened to reassure her. “I don’t mean he’s going to bust loose inside again. Paul says he had to take it real easy, or he’s going to exhaust himself and make himself ill all over again. He wouldn’t have let him out of the house for another month yet, but Adam’s going just plain crazy cooped up the way he’s been.”

“I’ll keep an eye on him and make sure he takes a nap after lunch.”

The thought of his diminutive, heavily pregnant wife packing his hulking great son off to bed struck Ben as funny. He kissed her again and turned as Joe and Hoss came up leading his horse and their own. Ben slung his saddlebags over the big buckskins’ saddle.

Joe and Hoss were already mounted up and were waiting for him. He kissed his wife again and stepped up onto the horse.
 

 8:00 am

The last of the autumn mist was burning off the land with the promise of another hot day to come when Ben and Joe pulled their horses to a halt at the crossroads. They sat for a while letting them blow. They both had a long way yet to ride, and there was no point in getting the animals all lathered up ahead of time. This was arid, inhospitable country with dust for dirt and nothing but scrub brush for cover.

Ben sat back in his saddle and looked across at Joe; “There’s your road to Sparks, son. About two and a half hour’s comfortable ride. You take care now, and give Kingdom Jones my regards.”

"I'll be sure to do that, Pa."  Joe touched his hat to his father and turned his horse along the right hand trail.

“Oh, and Joseph,” Ben called after him. “While you’re in Sparks, get your hair cut.”

“Yes, sir!” Joe wondered why his father insisted so often on treating him like a child.

Ben sat and watched him until he was out of sight before turning his own horse the other way and moving off.

Joe kicked the piebald mare into an easy ground-covering canter. He wanted to get some substantial distance behind him before it really got hot.

Joe, on this particular morning, was a contented man. He was young, healthy and carefree doing the job he wanted to do in the place he loved best. He liked to visit the cities well enough, to see the sights and mix with people, especially young ladies, many of whom his father would not have approved. He liked to drink, and play cards, and visit the dance halls and saloons On occasion, he even allowed his big brother to drag him to a museum or gallery. The last one, he recalled, had been an enlightenment, both to Joe’s experience and of his brother’s erudition, the pictures being entirely of ladies in the ultimate stage of undress. The memory brought a smile to Joe’s lips as he rode.

As always, the lure of the wild Nevada landscape drew him back home. His father, in his more whimsical moments, would say it was a spell cast on him at birth, and sometimes, overawed by the majesty and beauty of the lakes, and the pines and the pastures, Joe could almost believe it was true. Whatever the cause, none of them seemed able to stay away for long. Even this semi-desert county had its own particular grandeur. The rolling hills were dotted with low growing scrub pine and sage brush, two different greens contrasting with the whitish gold of the parched earth, the whole of it arched over by a bowl of blue just starting to become brazen.

So it was that Joe had his head up and his eyes on the horizon when the biggest green-backed brush lizard either he or the horse had ever seen shot out from almost directly under the mare’s hooves. She squealed and shied, skewing sideways. Joe came out of the saddle, somersaulting over the horse’s shoulder to land flat on his back in the dirt of the road. The mare shied again at her fallen rider and galloped off down the road with the reins flying.

Joe sat up and looked after her, cursing.

The mare didn’t stop. She kept on going until she was out of sight. Carefully, Joe got up and explored his abused rear end. He was going to have some real juicy bruises right where he sat.

He bent down painfully and picked up his hat, dusting it off against his pants leg. He was afoot and alone in unforgiving country. There was little choice but to start trudging determinedly after the mare.

Hoss had parted company with his father and brother before they crossed the boundary of the Ponderosa, turning off to take the high trail towards the north corner of the range. The big man had been feeling un-talkative and morose, but out here in the wilds, with the open country and the scattered woodlands spreading themselves before him like the open pages of a book, ever changing and always beautiful, his spirits began to lift. Every so often he would stop in a thicket, or by a tree, and just sit quietly for a bit listening to the unquiet silence and watching the small wildlife that soon emerged from hiding to take up small lives again. At each such stop he would un-stopper the bottle of whiskey his stepmother had given him.

Now, Hoss wasn’t a hard drinking man. He liked a beer or two well enough, especially if the weather was hot and the company was good, but corn liquor was not really to his taste. This however, was not run of the mill saloon rotgut. It was his Pa’s best sippin’ whiskey and Hoss could appreciate the difference. He rubbed generous measures of the potent alcohol onto his gums round about where the pain was. It helped a bit for a while.

Hoss moved his big, black, raw-boned horse on, steadily making higher and higher ground until he reached the line where it was too dry and windswept for the grass to grow well. Here, there were sand lizards, and gopher holes, and the trail switched back and forth between huge rocks that looked like the roots of the earth itself, washed out by a rainstorm.

Hoss studied the ground for signs of the big cats that loved this high dry country. There were no paw prints and no fresh scat, nothing at all to indicate that a cougar had cubbed in these hills that summer. Hoss rubbed his jaw with more whiskey and moved on.

It was Jenny who had to placate Hop Sing. The Cartwright’s Chinese cook had been with the family for more years than anyone cared to count, but he was not above putting on his coat and hat, and heading for the door with his carpet bag in his hand whenever he felt himself slighted. This morning he felt himself very slighted. In his book it was a mortal insult if every crumb he prepared was not devoured at the table, the only excuse being if someone were ill, or, presumably, dead. Even Adam had now lost his privileged status as an invalid and was expected to clear his plate on cue. This morning Adam had not been the culprit.

The Chinaman had cleared the table with a loudly voluble stream of insults, most of which, fortunately, no one could understand. He scraped the remains of the meal, which were considerable it being Hoss that hadn’t eaten, into the pig bin, piled the plates, unwashed, into the sink and started to pack the venerable bag.

Jenny reasoned, cajoled and finally begged. Hop Sing became suddenly deaf to American English. Jenny spoke no Chinese. The resulting confrontation, while loud and prolonged, was unproductive. Jenny prevailed, finally, by standing in the doorway and refusing to move until Hop Sing ran out of steam and threw up his hands in despair. There were times when being huge had its advantages.

Adam crossed the yard at a leisurely pace. He had all but forgotten how pleasant it was to breathe air that was moving and alive, freshly scented with pine and late roses. The sun was warm on his face and bright in his eyes. He felt, unfairly, as if he were a man freshly released from prison.

Old Charlie was mustering the hands down in the corrals, getting them mounted up and dispatched to various parts of the ranch. The autumn gather was in full flow, the cattle being driven towards the feeding stations where hay, and grain, could be distributed to them in the short days of winter when the grass would be too deeply buried in snow for them to dig out. He looked up as Adam came up, nodding his head in respect, but his washed out eyes appraised the younger man keenly. He didn’t miss the fact that Adam was thinner, and paler, and had new pain lines in his face. “Adam.”

“Charlie.” Adam nodded back. “How’s it going?”

“It’s goin’,” Charlie said. He didn’t need to tell Adam that the work was hard, and long, and that they were short handed and falling behind schedule.

Adam looked a little wistfully at the men riding off. “Wish I could ride with you.”

Charlie eyed him up and down, then turned his head to the side and spat tobacco juice. He’d known this young Cartwright since he’d been a boy and he knew how to handle him. “Well, you can’t. You know danged well you can’t get up on no horse. You jist get yorsel’ well ag’in so’s you kin help wi’ the round up next year.”

“I’ll be back on a horse a long time before that.”

“Don’ you go countin’ no chickens. Them belly wounds c’n take one hell’ve a long time t’ heal over. You git  yorsel’ all over excited ‘n’ bust yoursel’ open all over ag’in ‘n’ yo’re Pa’ll have yo’re guts fer garters ‘n’ ours ‘n’ all fer lettin’ yer do it.”

Adam smiled ruefully; “I imagine he’d do just that.”

Charlie prepared to mount up, then changed his mind and turned back as a thought struck him; “What you gonna do wi’ yorsel’ now you up ‘n’ ‘bout? Ain’t your Pa left you none ‘o that fancy book keepin’ ta keep you busy?”

Adam replied with a laugh; “I’m sure he has. If I spend any more time in that house I’ll just go plain loco. I thought I might go later and look over those new foals of Little Joe’s. I haven’t got to see any of them yet.”

Charlie chewed thoughtfully. “They’re down on that lower pasture land. That sure is too far fer you ta walk. You want I should have one o’ the hands t’ hitch up the buckboard ’n drive you down there?”

“We can’t afford to waste a man’s day driving me about, Charlie.”

“I know it.” Charlie eyed him shrewdly. “‘N’ I know what yo’re Pa done tol’ me. You ain’t supposed ta do nothin’, ‘n’ we ain’t supposed ta let ya do it.”

Adam gave a small sigh. He could imagine the instructions his father had left behind him. Even when Ben was away, he was still right there watching over him. This time he knew his father was right.  He conceded the point; “All right, Charlie. I’ll stay home.”

Charlie looked him up and down, reading his body language with an experienced eye. “Glad ta hear it.” He said, satisfied and turned back to his horse.

Adam stood back watching as he climbed into the saddle. Charlie swung his pony round on a dollar and looked down at him. Despite his gruff manner Charlie had a liking for this young man and his eyes were amiable. “You take it real easy now, Adam.”

“Like I have a choice?” Adam asked wryly.

Charlie raised his hand in farewell and moved off, following the last of the hands out of the yard.
 

9:00 am

The sun was well up and it was getting hot. Joe had taken off his coat and was carrying it slung over his shoulder. It was starting to get heavy. Now he took off his hat and wiped his sleeve across his forehead. His brown curls were already damp with sweat. He limped over to a convenient rock and sat, rubbing the pain out of his foot through the leather of his boot. He had covered several miles since the mare had dumped him in the dirt, and the stylish high-heeled riding boots he favoured were certainly not designed with walking in mind.

The countryside around him all looked very much the same. One clump of scrub was much like another. For all he could tell he might have been walking round and round these same two hills for an hour, and the sand coloured soil and the sagebrush were starting to lose their attraction. He was beginning to wonder just how far that danged onery mare might have run. He squinted up at the sun, which was burning bright and brassy now, and climbing the side of the sky; and he looked at the road, long and dusty with a heat haze just starting to shimmer. He shook his head and replaced his hat. There was no help for it. He simply had to keep walking.

Jenny prowled the living room of the ranch house. The huge living space had been designed years before her arrival by Adam and his father and built with their own hands. It combined sitting room, office space and dining area in one. It served the family as library, gun room, music room and games room. Lives were lived out here. A log fire burned in the stone built hearth, its heat dissipated by the sheer size of the room. Insulated from the extremes by the doubly thick split pine walls it was neither hot nor cold in summer or winter.

Jenny’s loom stood in one corner, unused at present. She was too big in the belly to sit behind it. Her spinning wheel and workbox were not far away. A half played game of chess sat on the round table, waiting for Ben and Joe to return and finish it.

She lingered by Ben’s desk, her hand on the back of his chair. Her eyes rested a while on the faces of the women she shared her husband with. She felt no jealousy for she knew that he loved her unreservedly, but she was curious. These three women and Ben’s memories of them were as much a part of the man she adored as was his love for his sons, and for the land that he called his own. Each of the women was different, individual and striking, and each in her own way was remarkably beautiful. In each face, softened by femininity, she could see the strong features of her stepsons. The face in the fourth frame was her own.

She took a book down from the shelf and opened it at random. It was a dry and dusty history. She sat in Ben’s armchair beside the fire, unable to tuck her legs up because of her size, and attempted to read. The words seemed to run together, and she read the same paragraph three times over without learning anything.

She put down the book and picked up her needlework, but her concentration was lacking and she had not the patience to finish the intricate embroidery on the skirt of the baby’s dress.

The child moved languidly, unhappy that she was sitting down and not standing. To placate it she got up and walked about some more.

Hoss stepped from the saddle and hunkered down to get a better look at the ground. There was some sign here, but it was not fresh and that made it difficult to read. A little frown formed between his eyes, and he rubbed his sore jaw thoughtfully. Looked at one way, it seemed as if some large pawed animal had passed this way several days ago, but it wasn’t cougar spore. The pads splayed out further, and there was evidence of claws extended even as the creature walked.

Hoss straightened up and stroked his horse’s soft muzzle, puzzling at the problem. “Ain’t no tellin’, fella,” he said softly. “But I reckon that there’s a varmint for sure. Can’t tell which way he went.” The horse snorted and nuzzled at his hand for a candy. Hoss found him one in a pocket and let him snuffle it out of his hand. “Don’t reckon it’s gonna give you no tooth rot, eh?” The horse agreed. Hoss gave him a pat and went to get the whiskey bottle out of his saddlebags.

High above, in the deep shadows of a rocky cave, two enormous bright green eyes slowly opened, and slitted pupils closed up tight against the brightness of the sunlight. A huge, black-furred body stretched, cat-like, in the darkness. A soft sensitive nose sniffed at the air. Something new had entered a circumscribed world. Something sensed, until now, only at a distance. Curiosity stirred in a very alien mind. Powerful muscles rippled beneath the ebony dark hide. The cat-like body moved stealthily to the cave entrance and the green eyes looked out.

Below, for the creature had some concept of up and down, were two creatures of the lower, wetter lands. A four footed one, prey, fleet footed but nothing like fleet footed enough if the creature were hunting; and the other, stranger, standing erect on two legs, soft yet somehow a threat. A rumble sounded somewhere deep down in the creature’s throat, half roar, half-purr. The jaws opened to reveal black gums and sharp black teeth. The both of them were such easy, easy prey!

But the creature was not hungry, only interested.

Hoss took a sip of water from his canteen and winced as its coolness touched the soreness in his mouth. “Danged tooth!” he muttered holding his jaw.

The black horse threw up its head, nostrils flaring as it caught the scent of something on the air. It whinnied an alarm call, shrill in the silence of the hills, and it started to dance sideways as it sensed the presence of a predator. Hoss managed to grab the reins before the animal ran off and left him afoot.

“Easy now! Easy.” Hoss put his hand on the horse’s nose to quieten it and spoke softly; “There ain’t nothin’. Nothin’ at all.” His sharp blue eyes searched the rock formations around and above him for signs of movement, but he saw nothing. All was quiet and still.

Under his hand the horse settled again. Hoss shook his head, puzzled. He took a small sip of the whiskey the for the sake of his tooth and climbed back aboard.

As he moved off the curious green eyes watched and after perhaps a minute, the varmint began to stalk.

In a gentle stroll Adam completed his circuit of the ranch buildings and corrals. It had been a journey of re-familiarisation. Unlike most complexes of ranch buildings, which tended to evolve and spread as necessity demanded, those of the Ponderosa had been carefully planned. Adam had designed them himself and then helped build them with his own hands and back. That’s not to say there was nothing he would have liked to change. The outhouse arrangements for instance, were now, to his mind, decidedly primitive. His lips quirked in a smile as he thought how bitterly his father complained, daily, each winter. He decided he would have to investigate the modern methods of sanitation being developed in Europe and the cities on the east-coast to see if there were a way he could adapt them to make life more comfortable for his family.

Only details had changed while he’d lain ill, but those details told him a lot about the function of the ranch and how well it was doing.

Generally speaking the structures were in good repair. Adam would have expected no less of his family. He noticed only one shingle on a shed roof that needed a nail. Winter-feed and bedding for the stock had been gathered into the barns. While the quality of the sweet hay was good enough the quantity, in his opinion, was barely sufficient. If it turned out to be a typical Nevadan winter with blizzards all the way from November clear through to March, they were going to have their problems. He made a mental note to speak to his father about making some extra provision.

On his way back to the house he stopped by the barn to fuss the mother cat and introduce himself to the kittens. He would never have said so, but he could see the attraction the little blind fur balls had for his big, soft hearted younger brother.

He hadn’t realized that just a short walk could take so much out of a man. He was plumb tuckered out and very glad Charlie had talked him out of the trip to the lower pastures. In fact, he was so tired a wave of weakness threatened to overwhelm him as he stood up. His eyelids were displaying an alarming tendency to droop, and it was a temptation to stretch out on the straw for a little rest. Determinedly, he shook off the fatigue and headed for the house, one hand pressed hard against his newly healed scar in a gesture that had become habitual in recent weeks.
 

10:00 am

At first it had seemed such a good idea, to sit at the spinning wheel and spin the soft cream wool of her Jacob’s sheep into fine woollen thread. The rocking motion of the treadle and the gentle clacking of the machine often lulled the restless child. Indeed, it was quieter now, but as she straightened, Jenny gasped aloud at the sudden pain across the middle of her back.

She stood up carefully, both hands behind her and stretched herself. The pain eased, settling into a nagging ache, low down. She felt so very tired and wanted nothing more in the world to lie down for a bit.

Tackling the staircase on her own was just too daunting a prospect. The long sofa, on the other hand, was much more inviting. Awkwardly she walked over and lowered herself down. The irate rattling of pots and pans from the kitchen had abated, and, except for the slow, steady ticking of the long case clock, the big house was quiet.

Jenny lay on her back with her hands resting lightly on her stomach. For once the child was quiescent as if it were asleep, or pondering upon some deep enigma. Jenny’s eyes closed and her breathing steadied and she slept.

Hoss pulled his horse to a halt and shifted his butt around in the saddle. He had ridden down now, out of the hills, and from this final bend in the trail he could over look a good section of the north quarter.

The high pastureland was lush with grass, sere and tussocky now after the summer’s heat, and it sort of rolled, building itself up in a series of slow waves into the foothills of the Sierras. Here and there, a sweet chestnut still in full summer leafage dotted the grassland, and a couple of miles away, a stand of willow marked the line of Possum Creek where it twisted and turned, dipping at last into light woodland.

There were cattle grazing, probably some of those Hoss had come all this way to find. Cows with their half-grown calves and some yearling steers that already wore the pine tree brand on their hip.

Hoss took a little sip from the whiskey bottle and looked behind him. He knew darned well there wasn’t another human being within a three hour ride of him. None the less, he had the distinct feeling that he was being watched. The trail curved back into the dry hill country, shimmering in the sun. Not so much as a lizard moved, yet the feeling persisted. Something with a keen and savage intelligence was up in the rocks, and it was taking an interest in him - or more probably, in his horse. He could feel it deep down in the pit of his stomach. Hoss eased the rifle a little in its scabbard, just in case he suddenly needed it in a hell of a hurry. Gathering the reins into his big hands he nudged the horse forward with his heels.

Unafraid and unhurried, the great black beast padded silently down the centre of the trail, not quite a cat but a fluid feline shape. It stopped where the man and the horse had stopped, snuffling at the ground. Ahead of it were the cooler, wetter lands where it rarely ventured except when hunting. It could have left the trail there and then and returned to its haunt in the hills, but something about the two legged intruder had piqued its curiosity, and its spark of intelligence drove it on. Black jaws agape and green eyes glowing, it flowed on into the pastureland.

Hoss reached the banks of Possum Creek in about twenty minutes. The water was high and running swiftly, bespeaking rainfall higher in the foothills. He turned the horse’s head downhill and kicked on. The animal did a little dance and fought the bridle. Hoss looked back. He could feel the little hairs on his neck and arms all standing erect. There was nothing to see but grass and an occasional cow. Frowning, he brought the horse under firmer control and moved on along the bank.

The road curved up and around the shoulder of the hill before dipping down again into the semi-desert. As Joe laboured his way to the top he was delighted to see that his horse had finally stopped running. Being a herd animal, she had found comfort with others of her own kind and stood quietly now, with the pair of workman like bays harnessed to the wagon that stood, lop-sided, in the middle of the road. Joe was not nearly so happy to see that the wheel was off, and that someone was lying sprawled under the fallen back end of the wagon.

It was a big man, about his father’s age, with longish grey hair, and about a two day growth of beard. He wore a work shirt, and grubby overalls and he looked as if he were in an awful lot of pain. Joe dropped to one knee in the dirt beside him.

“Hey, Mister, c’n you hear me?”

The grey head rolled and the eyes opened, blue-grey, but they had trouble focussing on Joe’s face. All that came from the lips was a groan.

Joe fetched the canteen from his saddle, taking care, while he was there, to tie the mare to the wagon. He moistened the stranger’s lips.

The man groaned again, and rolled his head in the dirt. “Leg’s broke!” he said, through his pain. “Was trying to fix the wheel, an’ the wagon dropped!”

“I’ll take a look at it.” Joe screwed the top back on the canteen, and squeezed, on his back, under the wagon bed.

It was dark under there, and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust enough to see what had happened. It wasn’t good. The axle had come down hard against the man’s right leg. His shin bone was all twisted out at a peculiar angle, and there was blood staining the cloth of his pants. Joe used his pocket knife to slit the pants leg up to the knee. Shards of white, splintered bone jutted out of an ugly wound. The man’s leg was already purple and swelling.

Joe wiped the sweat from his chin with the back of his hand. Not relishing the task in hand, he wriggled out again, into the sunlight.

The blue-grey eyes fixed on his face, pain filled and anxious. Joe guessed that his own face told a lot of the story. He tried to put confidence into his voice; “It’s gonna be all right. I’m gonna get you out of there, Mister..?”

“Idress. I am Paulin Idress.”

Joe thought he had detected a trace of accent, and the man’s name confirmed it. He was Swedish, like Hoss’s mother, or, at least, Scandinavian.

Idress rolled his head again. His eyes were starting to glaze over.

Joe kicked some boards out of the side of the wagon and used them, tied with his own shirttails, as splints. Idress’s screams, as Joe straightened his leg, reverberated from the hillsides, and were something the younger Cartwright would remember, later, in his nightmares.

As gently as he could, he pulled Idress out from under the wagon by the armpits. By now, the man was only semi-conscious, but still, he groaned.

The wound was starting to bleed heavily. Joe didn’t think there was much chance of saving the leg, no matter what, but he had to try to save the man’s life.

He turned his attention to the wagon. The wheel lay back in the road. It was beyond repair by anything except a fully equipped blacksmith’s shop. Two of the spokes were broken, and the rim had sprung apart at the weld line.

Joe stripped a longer length of board from the side of the wagon, hoping to heaven that it was going to be as strong as he needed it to be. With much heaving and sweating, and a few choice cuss words, he got it wedged up under the axle, and, with the rope from his saddle, he lashed it securely in place.

He tied Idress into the wagon bed with a length of rope around his chest and climbed into the driving seat. With just three wheels on the wagon and the fourth corner dragging on the improvised sled, he gee’d up the team, and they started to limp, slowly, on towards Sparks.

Hop Sing had got over his fit of pique. He’d never had any real intention of leaving. Early on he’d made this kitchen, and this house, and this land, his home. In truth, he thought of himself as much one of the family as if his own name were Cartwright. It didn’t hurt though, to threaten occasionally, just so that they really knew who was boss man in this household.

He decided that tonight, because Mister Hoss wasn’t eating, he’d do one of his favourite meals, just to tempt him. Pork in a crisp crackling coat with sweet potato and onions all fried up.

He turned around, the skillet in hand, just as the door to the yard opened and Mister Adam came into the kitchen. For a moment Adam clung weakly to the doorframe. Hop Sing took in the look of him at a glance and produced a sturdy wooden chair. “You sit!” he ordered.

Adam didn’t need telling twice. He sat.

“You sick!” Hop Sing pronounced, taking in the drained face and the slumped shoulders. “Just when we get you well, you sick again!”

Adam held up a defensive hand; “I’m not sick, Hop Sing. I’m just tired. I guess I must have over done it.”

Hop Sing threw up his arms; “Doctor tell you take it easy! Father tell you take it easy! Now look!”

Adam sighed. It seemed that everyone on the place knew just what the doctor had told him. So much for the new concept of patient confidentiality. “I’m all right, Hop Sing. Really I am. But I could do with some coffee. And, do I smell ginger cake?” Ginger cake was one of Adam’s absolute favourites and the air was redolent with the warm, sweet smell of it.

Hop Sing beamed, his annoyance forgotten. There was nothing more likely to placate him than someone appreciating his cooking. He poured Adam a cup of thick black coffee from the pot kept constantly simmering on the back of the stove and cut him a substantial slice from the slab.

Adam sat at the kitchen table, and sipped coffee and munched his way through the sticky warm cake He reflected that being confined to the ranch did have some advantages after all. He got first stab at the treats without having to compete with his brother, Hoss. He was well into his second slice, and discussing with Hop Sing the relative merits, in culinary terms, of river and lake-bass, when they were interrupted by a piercing cry of pain from the living room.
 

11:00 am

Silver City had grown some since Ben’s last visit there. Fresh-faced timber frames standing shoulder to shoulder had extended Main Street way out into the desert land. Most of the buildings now had two, or even three floors, and many of the elaborate false fronts bore brightly painted signboards advertising goods and services Ben would never have dreamed of.

He walked his horse over to the livery stable, and stepped down. He stretched himself carefully, straightening out the kinks of a long sustained ride. Secretly, he was glad he didn’t have to make this journey too often. Perhaps it was a sign of getting old, but Ben didn’t feel old. He felt as young as the springtime! The one thing he did regret was that his son Adam had been unable come with him. They didn’t always see eye to eye, but he missed the boy’s insight and his keen intellect, and, he had to admit, his often acid tongue. Then he laughed inwardly at himself. Boy indeed! Adam had been a full grown man these fifteen years past, even if he, as his father, did sometimes see him still as a child.

And then, as he thought of Adam, the laughter in his eyes faded. His son had suffered a lot that year. The bullet that had nearly ended his life had left him with health problems that could be long term. Ben knew that if he, himself, hadn’t gone off half cocked, and ordered Adam from the house without listening to what he had to say, the shooting might never have taken place. It was a thought that rose up from time to time, to torment him.

A lad with tousled fair hair came out of the livery, and Ben handed over the horse and two bits for feed and a rub down. He figured the animal deserved it, and he wanted it fit enough to carry him home that same night. He knocked the dust off his hat against his suit pants leg, and brushed down the front of his jacket.

Ben felt like a tourist as he gawked at the sights. There was a brand new dance hall, and several saloons, and what looked like a real high-class brothel built in the southern style with balustraded balconies outside each of the upstairs windows where the ladies could sit, and the customers could browse. Further on was a busy little shopping district with fancy storefronts that could have come directly from the any of the big cities on the coast. Ben found himself both fascinated, and bemused by some of the goods on show, particularly the ladies fashions as displayed on ridiculously proportioned manikins. He was glad at that moment that his wife wasn’t with him. Jenny liked to dress in the latest style she could manage, and the thought of trying to squeeze her into the necessary corset made him sweat.

The thought of his wife reminded him of the list she had written him, and he scanned the painted signboards looking for the haberdashery.

The store he wanted was on the other side of the busy street. Ben found crossing from boardwalk to boardwalk something of an ordeal. The amount of traffic was amazing, and somewhat alarming, with carts, and wagons, and private carriages going every which-way, and a strange new innovation, a vehicle drawn by two horses in which a dozen members of the public could ride at a time for the price of a ticket.  He found himself dodging between wheels and hooves and feeling quite the country bumpkin.

A little breathless he pushed open the door. A little brass bell tinkled a welcome, and the door, closing, shut out the clamour of the street. The interior of the shop was dim, and perfumed with muslin and silk. There were several ladies in bonnets and shawls at the counters, being waited on by store clerks in dark waistcoats and white shirt sleeves. Ben tipped his hat to them, and they looked the big built rancher over with interest.

One of the clerks approached; “Can I be of service, sir?”

“I guess so.” Ben fished the scrap of paper out of his pocket. “Can you fill this list?”

The store clerk scanned the note; “Yes, sir. Of course.” He moved off, and Ben looked about him. The store was an Aladdin’s cave, filled with boxes of buttons, and bolts of cloth, and reels of thread in every conceivable colour and shade. One case held a variety of scraps of lace, collars, and cuffs, and little trimmings for a lady’s frock. When the clerk came back with Jenny’s papers of pins, and a packet of sewing needles, Ben pointed out a particular little collar that had taken his eye, “I’ll take that too.”

“A gift for a lady?” asked one of the ladies, a small woman whose grey head came only up to Ben’s chest. She looked up at him with bird bright eyes. “Would you be courting, young man?”

Ben laughed; “For my wife,” he said with a slightly embarrassed smile.

“Then a lucky lady indeed!”

“A gift of thanks. She is about to have our child.” Just then Ben saw the ribbon. A festoon of it hung behind the counter. He remembered Jenny searching her workbox in vain. “The ribbon,” he said to the clerk, pointing.

“Certainly, sir. How much would you like?”

Ben hesitated, bewildered, “Well, all of it I guess”

“The whole roll, sir?”

“The whole roll.” Ben decided, firmly.

The woman with the bright eyes was looking at him with amusement. “It’s to trim the baby's shawl,” he said by way of explanation.

“Ah! So you're expecting a boy.”

“Well, yes I am. But how did you know?” Ben was acutely aware of the other ladies listening and smiling.

“It’s the latest idea from Europe, you know. Pink for a girl and blue for a boy.”

It was Ben’s turn to be amused; “Is that a fact? Then this will be - appropriate.”

The bright eyes twinkled at him; “You’re very sure you’re getting a son.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Ben touched his hat to her.

The store clerk put the ribbon into the parcel, and tied it all up with string and sealing wax. Ben was stunned when the resulting bill came to folding money.

Out again in the heat and clamour of the street, he took stock of the other things he needed to do. Ben bought spices for the kitchen, and, reluctantly, when he thought about Hoss’s sore tooth, candy for his two younger sons. He wondered if Adam could possibly be right about sweetenings causing tooth rot, or if his eldest son were just being bloody minded and determined to upset his brother.

Silver City now had a dedicated bookshop that Adam would have loved. Ben went in there, and arranged to have lists of all the latest titles sent home to his son. There was also a brand new tobacconist’s shop on a prime corner plot with a window full of spun glass jars. Ben treated himself to some good pipe tobacco, so by the time he came to the last item on the list he already had quite a little bundle of packages.

Hop Sing had given him a paper all covered in Chinese writing together with an address. The little Oriental’s relatives seemed to spread far and wide across the nation. The directions led him down several back streets to a dark little shop that smelled of spices, and oils, and incense. There was a little Chinaman inside that could have been Hop Sing’s brother. He had the same smile, and the same crinkly eyes, and the same bobbing bow. He took the piece of paper, and disappeared into the gloomy recesses of the shop with it.

The small shop was filled with curiosities. Ben spent several minutes while he waited, examining the strange, and often bizarre, items in the boxes and bottles around the shop. Some of them he recognised from his days as a sea faring man, little dried sea horses, and starfish, and shrivelled up fronds of exotic herbs; joss sticks, and packets of little flavoured crackers, and packets and jars all neatly labelled with hand written Chinese characters. Others were utterly strange and completely bemusing.

The Chinaman came back with a very small package wrapped up in white paper. He handed it over with a deep bow, and refused all Ben’s attempts to pay.

Emerging again, blinking, into the street, Ben decided that the next item on his agenda just had to be lunch.

The woodland below Possum Creek was sparse. The trees here were old and twisted and the vegetation beneath them thin. Underfoot the ground was tracked back and forth by the feet of cattle. Somewhere up ahead, there had to be a watering place.

Old black branches reached down low over the meandering trail, and Hoss had to bend down in the saddle to pass under them. He rode with one hand clamped hard against his jaw. The pain was getting worse. It had spread from being just a face ache to an agony that filled the whole of his head, pounding in time with his heartbeat. It had spread down his neck, and into his shoulder and arm. He had consumed half the bottle of whiskey, but now it just didn’t seem to be working any more. What Hoss was dreading worse, was an enforced visit to the new fangled tooth doctor that had moved into Virginia City only last week. He had seen the tools of the dentist’s trade as they were carried into the building, and he had heard all the talk going round in the saloon. It had sounded to him like there was a veritable torture chamber being set up in that upstairs room. And the young, handsome, dark haired dentist with the moustache and the flashing white smile had, in the big man’s mind, taken on the persona of a demon straight out of hell. One thing he was absolutely certain of, was that he wasn’t going to allow any of those bright, shiny instruments anywhere near the inside of mouth. Unfortunately there was every chance that his Pa just wasn’t going to see it that way.

A low sound interrupted his morbid contemplation of present and future suffering. Hoss drew up the reins and sat, listening.

After a moment, the sound came again, and Hoss knew it at once for what it was, a steer in some sort of trouble, bellowing. He moved on with care, watching both the ground and the low branches at the same time. The trail took another turn back towards the creek. The ground was getting softer. He could see the cloven footed tracks of cattle in the soft earth getting ever deeper. Several animals had come this way, and not too long ago either.

The trees cleared, and ahead of him he could see the problem. Several cows had broken down the bank of the stream, and made themselves a wallow. When the water level came up the mud patch had become a death trap. Hoss counted four animals stuck in it to half way up their sides. They were so plastered in mud it was impossible to tell what colours they might once have been; they were now all mud coloured. One of them wasn’t moving any more and Hoss reckoned she was already drowned.

At the edge of the wallow, a young brown and white steer was standing knee deep in the muck, calling to his mother, and she was moaning back at him.

“Hey, now little fella,” Hoss said to him, consolingly; “Your mamma gone an’ got herself stuck in the crick?”

The steer mooed mournful agreement.

“Don’ you worry none,” Hoss told him. “I’m gonna get her out o’ there fer you real soon.”

For the time being he forgot all about his tooth. He backed his mount up, and stepped out of the saddle, taking his rope with him. Right now he was really pleased he had ridden this particular horse. He had trained it himself, and they worked well together.

He shooed the young steer out of his way, and back, onto firmer ground, and then spun the loop of the rope lazily, letting it swing out in an arc and settle squarely over the cow’s horns. She complained loudly, and shook her head in an attempt to free herself. Hoss took a hitch on the saddle horn, and walked the horse backwards. The rope tightened. The horse threw up its head as it took up the strain.

“C’mon now,” Hoss murmured to him. “You c’n do it.”

The horse pulled ~ and the cow pulled the other way. It seemed she had made up her mind to be contrary. Hoss added his not inconsiderable weight to that of the horse, and they both leaned against the rope. The young steer called to his mother, and she bellowed back. She fought against the suck of the mud, trying to lunge out of it but finding nothing solid to push against.

The horse took up the slack the way he’d been trained, and Hoss cheered him on. The cow sank back but not quite so deep as she’d been before.

Hoss gathered up his strength for another pull, and this time, the cow timed her own effort to coincide with his. She came half way out of the mud before sinking back in.

Hoss wiped his sleeve across his face. He was already getting all filthied up. He took a deep breath, and called to the horse. An even, steady pressure on the rope started to draw the cow up out of the mire.

The little steer lowed to its Ma, its feet again getting perilously close to the edge. The cow made another mighty effort. The black horse sat back on his haunches and pulled. The cow came loose from the bog with a fearful sucking noise and an overwhelming smell of marsh gas.

Hoss cheered her on as she staggered up onto the bank, and then dropped to her knees in sheer exhaustion. Hoss sort of knew how she felt. “There’s a gal!” He stepped forward, and freed his rope from around her horns. “You git along now.”

The cow mooed, and lumbered back onto her feet, and moved off unsteadily with her youngster at her side.

Hoss took a moment to blow, and wiped some of the muck of his face, and then remade the loop in his rope and turned back towards the creek. The next cow was further out and deeper in. Hoss roped her round the horns easily enough, but there was no way the horse was going to pull this one out. He turned the animal broadside on to act as an anchor, and started to strip off his clothes.

By the time Joe drove into the small township of Sparks, Nevada, the team was nigh on exhausted. Dragging the crippled wagon had been hard work, and the temperature was soaring. Their coats were dark with sweat, and streaked with white foam. Joe drew up alongside the first person he saw on the sidewalk.

“Hey, Mister! I gotta hurt man here! You gotta doctor in town?”

The cowboy sauntered over, faded eyes taking in the sweaty team, the rigged up sled and Joe’s dishevelled clothing. “Nope. We ain’t got no doctor.” He peered into the back of the wagon; “But we got us a barber fella what fixes folks up when they wants fixin’.”

Joe looked back at Idress. The big man had been raving and sweating all the way into town, but now he was lying ominously quiet. His leg had leaked a lot of blood through Joe’s improvised bandaging.

“Can you tell me where to find this barberin’ fella?”

“Shore kin. Down the street. Past the Post Office. On the right.” The cowboy waved his arm in the general direction; “You can’t miss it.”

“I’m obliged.” Joe touched his hat and gee’d up the tired team.

The barber’s shop was easy enough to find. It had a glass front, and a red and white painted pole stuck up over the door. Joe jumped down and went inside.

The barber, a small man with a bald, white fringed, head and bright blue eyes looked up from the man he was shaving. He looked Joe up and down, and his eyes settled on his longish locks. “You jist take a seat, young ‘un, an’ I’ll be with you in two shakes.”

“It ain’t for me I’m here. I hear tell you do the doctorin’ ’round here, an’ I gotta man out in the wagon hurt real bad”

“That a fact?” The barber tossed his customer a towel and left him to wipe his off own face. “let’s go take a look at him then.”

The barber took a long look at Paulin Idress’s leg, and stated the obvious, “That there leg’s one hell’ve a mess, boy. This fella yore Pa?”

“No, he ain’t my Pa. I just found him out along the road there. Wagon must’ve fell on him when he was tryin’ to fix the wheel.”

“Reckon there might not be much I kin do fer that leg.”

“Well, do what you can, all right?”

The barber scratched his fringe of hair and pursed his lips; “It’ll cost you ten dollars fer the docterin’,” he said, after several moments thinking.

“Ten dollars!” Joe was astounded. The amount was outrageous.

“That’s the price." The barber stuck his hands symbolically into his pockets. “Take it or leave it.”

Joe sighed. He guessed he really didn’t have that much choice. He pulled out the money his father had given him to pay for the mare, and peeled off a ten-dollar bill. “You just patch him up good, huh?”

The barber pocketed the money. “’Cause, if’n that leg has ta come off it’ll cost two bits more fer the whisky.” He was eyeing the roll of bills in Joe’s hands speculatively.

Joe put the rest of the money back in his pocket. “I’ll come back later and see how he’s doin’”

“Just as you say, boy.” the barber gestured to some of the men in the crowd that had gathered, “Two or three o’ you fellas help git this man inside.”

Joe stood to the back as several men pushed forward, and Idress was carried, none too gently, through the door of the barbers shop.

Joe untied his mare from the back of the wagon and took a long look round. Sparks, if the truth were told, was not really that much of a town. One wide street ran right through the centre, and the buildings lined up along it on either side. Some of them had grand false frontages, but the structures behind were not a great deal better than shanties.

Joe spotted a small Mercantile that claimed, on the signboard outside, to sell everything from horseshoe nails to hat pins; a feed store with heaps of dusty sacks outside, and at the end of the street, a shed that looked to be serving time as a livery. And of course, the first building that went up in any town, a saloon!

Right now, to Joe, hot, tired, dirty and thirsty, that seemed like a very good place to be. Leading the mare, he crossed over the street and tied her alongside several other animals at the rail outside.

“Hey, Mista!” The voice was a high pitched whine, and it had a edge to it that instantly set Joe’s teeth on edge. “You gotta quarter?”

Joe turned round. The man the voice belonged to could only be described as a tramp. His clothes, now of no particular colour, were filthy, and fraying, and showing holes. There was dirt on his face and in his long knotted hair. His eyes were rheumy, and his breath stank. In fact, all of him stank - of unwashed clothes, and unwashed flesh, and drink. He held out a hand with grime imbedded in the lines of his palm; “You gotta quarter?”

Right at that moment Joe’s patience was running at a low ebb, and his reaction was, perhaps not as charitable as it might otherwise have been. In fact, he recoiled in disgust, his contempt clearly showing on his face. “Get away from me, will ya?!”

“Please Mista,” The drunk came closer, breathing fumes of rot gut into Joe’s face, “Just a quarter ta buy a drink!” He put his hands on Joe’s chest, pawing at his clothes.

“I said getta way from me!” Joe pushed him away rather harder than intended.

The drunk staggered back, tripped over the edge of the sidewalk, and went sprawling on his butt in the road.  He sat up in the dirt, not hurt, but furiously indignant. There was drool on his chin. “I’ll git ya!” he yelled, “I’ll git ya!” He spat in Joe's direction, and shook a filthy fist. The gob landed on the toe of Joe’s boot.

Swallowing his fury Joe turned his back and pushed through the little crowd of amused onlookers into the dim interior of the saloon.

Jenny came from being deeply asleep, to wide awake in the time it took her to lift her eyelids. She lay still for what felt like a long time, watching golden motes of dust dance in the shaft of sunlight that fell through the dining room window, wondering what had awakened her so abruptly. She felt comfortable, almost languorous, in a deep state of relaxation. Even the restless child seemed to be at peace. The only sounds in the house were the slow ticking of the clock and a low murmur of voices coming from the kitchen, lulling her. It was pleasant just to lay here, safe in this comfortable home in the midst of the family she had come to love as her own. It was all so very different from the days of her childhood on an Ohio dirt farm, with a once beautiful mother worn to a thin shadow, and a father who drank, and often beat her with his belt. Details she has glossed over and made light of in her conversations with Ben. Details she had buried so deeply in her mind, that she had thought them all but forgotten. They returned to her now with a startling sharpness. The gentle tired smile of her mother; her father’s bellow, so different from Ben’s; the fractured reflection of sunlight on the pond behind the house; a yellow dog, now long dead, running through long grass.

A slight ache in her back made her shift uncomfortably.

She thought of Ben, and a slight smile came to her lips. He was so different from anyone else she had ever known - strong, powerful and influential. A good, moral, God fearing man,  honest, kind, and gentle with roots as deep as the land itself and a heart as big. She remembered their first inauspicious meeting, his gallantry, his persistence, his whirlwind romancing, his first introduction of his fine sons. He was so proud of them. He was so anxious that she should like them and they her. A kaleidoscope of happy images pressed in on her, dispelling the less happy ones from before.

The pain in her back returned, and brought a frown to her face. She thought that if, perhaps, she got up, the ache would ease.

She lowered her legs over the edge of the sofa and levered herself up. Instead of fading the pain increased and moved abruptly to the front, travelling in a wave on down through her belly. She cried out as much in surprise as anything else.

She wrapped her arms around herself and rocked back and forth as the pain lingered. It was long seconds before it faded, at last, to memory. She squeezed her eyes tight shut.

A door opened, and Hop Sing and Adam came through from the kitchen in a hurry.

Adam dropped to one knee beside her, his face all concern. “Jenny? What is it?”

She opened her eyes and looked at him; “Adam,” she said, softly, “I think it’s time.”

He pulled a quick breath; “Are you sure? I mean, isn’t it too soon?”

“Soon or not,” she said, “it’s now.”

If Adam was in any doubt, Hop Sing wasn’t; “Missy Jenny need doctor real soon.”

Jenny struggled into a more upright position on the sofa. “I think Hop Sing’s right, Adam. You’ll have to send one of the hands. Can you help me to lay down?”

Adam straightened up and gave her his hand. She leaned heavily against him. His instinct was to pick her up in his arms and carry her up to the huge four poster bed that she shared with his father, but the soreness that still lingered in his own belly advised strongly against it. Instead, he put his arm round her, and very slowly, they walked together towards the downstairs bedroom.
 

12 noon

The beer was cloudy and warm, but it was serving its purpose, and already it had taken the edge off Joe’s thirst. He was starting to feel a whole lot better. His thoughts were beginning to turn towards getting his horse and starting out on the final leg out to the farmstead that Kingdom Jones had made the headquarters of his expanding haulage business. From there, Joe’s thoughts moved onto the quarter horse mare he was hoping to buy, and a slow smile spread to his lips. Joe was always happiest when thinking about horses - or, of course, a pretty woman.

Behind him, someone cleared his throat loudly. Joe turned - and looked up. The man was long in every sense of the word. He was tall, standing head and shoulders over Joe, lanky and thin with long arms and long legs. Even his face was long featured, and when he spoke, it was with a drawn out drawl. He wore a shiny black dress coat, black pants and a loose black string tie. The hair under his black hat was grey, and long, and tied back into a bunch in the nap of his neck, and he had a tufty grey moustache on his upper lip.

The two men looked each other over carefully.

“You want something, Mister?” Joe asked.

The tall man took a long slow breath; “Well,” he said, “I guess you could say I want you, boy.”

Joe lowered the beer glass. “Me? Why’s that?”

The pale grey eyes went over him again, lingering on the tied down gun, low on Joe’s left thigh, and then drifted off to focus somewhere way over Joe’s head. “Well, I guess I gotta take you over ta’ the feed store an’ lock you up.”

Joe stared at him, bewildered; “Why would you want to do that, Mister..?”

“Hirshall. My name’s Osimire Hirshall. Now we don’t have no properly elected sheriff ’round here, so I‘m sort of temporary actin’ sheriff, like. ’N when some fella needs lockin’ up then it falls to me ta’ do it.”

Joe put the beer glass carefully on the bar while his bemused brain tried to make sense of all this. “Mister Hirshall, why would you want to lock me up?”

“Ossy. All my friends call me Ossy.”  Hirshall drawled. “Guess I gotta lock you up on account o’ it looks like you might a’ killed a man, boy.”

Joe gapped. “Killed a man?! What man?! I haven’t killed anyone, Mister!”

Hirshall chewed at his lower lip with large, grey teeth, “Seems like you was havin’ some sort o’ altercation with ol’ Henry Carlisle outside o’ the saloon here. Lots o’ folks say they seen ya.”

Joe blinked, “I don’t know anybody called Henry Carlisle.”

“Town drunk,” Hirshall said bluntly. “Pan handles of’n ever’body. Guess he tried it once too often with you, eh boy?”

The ‘boy’ for Joe, was starting to wear a bit thin, and his temper was getting ragged. “I don't know Henry Carlisle - and what’s that got to do with me killin’ someone?!”

The grey eyes focused in again on Joe's face; “‘Cause Henry Carlisle is the man what’s dead.”

Joe had all but forgotten about the filthy, ragged man that had accosted him outside the saloon.

“I didn’t kill him! I didn’t even know him! I only just rode into this town!”

The eyes gazed off into the distance again; “Reckon you jist rode on in an’ reckon you sure didn’t know ol’ Henry, but you sure was seen shovin’ ol’ Henry around outside the saloon here.”

“That doesn’t mean I killed him!” Joe was starting to get worried, and angry. “I’ve been here in the saloon drinkin’ beer!”

Hirshall turned his grey eyes on the bartender; “Hey Pete, this feller bin here fer the past hour?”

“Hell, I don’t know.” The barkeep shrugged eloquently. “I bin out the back.”

Hirshall chewed on his lip some more;  “Well, I guess you might just ha’ stepped out there when ol’ Pete here turned his back on yer.”

“Well I didn’t! I’ve been here for the past hour drinkin’ this damned beer!”

“There ain’t no need fer you to go shoutin’ yer head off, boy.” The grey eyes narrowed. “No need”

“Guess you’d better come on over t’ the feed store ’n let me lock you up fer a while. Jist ’til I git this sorted out.”

Joe stared at him; “The feed store?”

Hirshall looked a trace uncomfortable. “Guess we ain’t got no proper gaol ‘round here. Fella needs lockin’ up we gotta use the back room o’ the feed store.”

Joe shook his head. “I just don’t believe any of this is happening.”

“Guess you better believe it, boy.” Hirshall rocked back on his heels. “Ol’ Henry Carlisle sure is dead, ‘n’ folks round here reckon you might be the one what done it. Now you gonna come, or am I gonna take you?”

Joe was having a job getting his head round this, but Hirshall had a business-like black handled Colt strapped down on his leg under the dress coat, and when he fixed his steely grey eye on Joe, he looked like a man to be reckoned with. Besides, Joe’s Pa had taught him to always respect the law, and here in Sparks, it looked like Osimire Hirshall was the law.

He spread his hands; “All right Mister Hirshall...”

“Ossy.” The sheriff repeated. “All my friends call me Ossy.”

“All right, Ossy.” Joe was beginning to think this was some sort of Alice in Wonderland nightmare, “I’ll come over to the feed store with you, but just ‘til we get this sorted out.”

“That’s all I’m askin’ boy.”

“My name isn’t ‘boy’,” Joe said, with as much patience as he could muster. “It’s Joe Cartwright.”

Hirshall nodded to him; “Alright, Joe Cartwright, Let’s git goin’.”

The two men stepped side by side into the hot bright sunlight, and crossed over the street. There were several men loitering about watching, and three grubby boys with bright eyes threw pebbles at Joe until Hirshall turned his grey gaze on them and they ran off whooping. The interior of the feed store was cooler than the street outside, but airless, and thick with the smells of sacking and corn. Hirshall marched Joe right through the front shop, and into the storeroom at the back.

To Joe’s surprise, the back room of the feed store made a very effective gaol cell. There was no window, and the walls were boarded up on a sort of steel frame that made as perfect a cage as any man could want. It was dark, and stuffy, and half-filled with sacks and bags of grain, and some bits of broken old harness in the back corner.

Joe looked round, and then turned to Hirshall; “Say Ossy, how did this Henry Carlisle fella die?”

“You mean you don’t know?” Hirshall chewed on his lip. “Figure if you killed him you ought t’ know already how he died.”

“I told you already, I didn’t kill him!” Joe was exasperated.  “Now tell me how he died, will ya?!”

“Guess I can.” Hirshall eyed the younger man thoughtfully. “Someone done cracked the front of ol’ Henry’s head in with a rock. Over in the alleyway alongside the saloon.”

“With a rock?”

Hirshall nodded; “It sure was a rock.” He turned to the door, then had a further thought and turned back. “Guess you’d better empty out your pockets ‘n’ hand over that gun o’ yours, Joe Cartwright. Jist while you’re locked up in here.”

Joe sighed and un-strapped the gun, and turned out his pockets onto a barrelhead.

Hirshall picked out the roll of banknotes. “This is an awful lot of money to be carryin’ in your pants pocket, boy.”

Joe sighed; “It’s my Pa’s money. He sent me ta buy a horse from Kingdom Jones.”

“Guess this’d buy one hell’ve a horse.”

“That’s what my Pa sent me for,” Joe said miserably. He sat down on a sack.

“Hm.” Hirshall scooped Joe’s belongings into his hat, and picked up the gun belt. “I’ll jist look after this all fer you. You all take it easy, now.”

The door closed, leaving Joe in total darkness, and he heard the heavy key turn in the lock.

The gun was now an unaccustomed weight on Adam’s hip as he walked back across the sun baked yard. He was considering his options. Jenny had asked him to send a hand into town for the doctor. She didn’t know or had forgotten that he and Hop Sing were alone at the house. All the hands had gone stock gathering and they had taken most of the saddle horses with them. Adam’s own gelding and Jenny’s had been turned out to pasture while their owners were unable to ride. He considered briefly saddling up one of the buckboard team and dismissed the idea at once as impractical. They were slow and unused to being ridden. He might not be able to get the doctor back in time. There were a dozen or so mustangs in one of the corrals but they were unbroken, and Adam didn’t feel himself quite up to bronco busting today. Then there were two sick horses in the larger barn where the hands generally kept their mounts. One had a badly cut foot, and the other had been pulled over by a steer on the end of a rope and had twisted its back.

That left Mozart.

Adam sighed. Mozart was about the onoriest creature that had ever set hoof, foot or paw on the Ponderosa. He was a tall, solidly built bright bay stallion with about the meanest temper any of the Cartwrights had ever encountered in a horse. Debate had raged furiously back and forth through the family about whether to geld him or keep him whole. Ben thought the knife would cure his manners and make a useful work animal of him. Joe maintained he could be useful as a stallion, introducing spirit and fire into the bloodline. Hoss reckoned it would destroy the animal’s noble character and make nothing but a plough horse out of him. And Adam - well right this minute Adam would have fetched a knife and willingly done the job himself if he hadn’t needed the horse to ride right there and then.

He collected a bridle from the barn, and hitched a saddle up onto his shoulder. The newly healed wound in his belly pulled sharply, reminding him that he shouldn’t really be doing any of this. He stood for a moment, head down, breathing shallowly while he waited for the pain to subside. Then he hitched the saddle higher, and went out to the corral.

Nominally, Mozart had been broken in and was already a saddle horse. The trouble was, Mozart didn’t know it yet. He stood at the far side of the corral, head up and ears well forward, and watched Adam coming. He had a bright intelligent eye, and he knew well what the man had in mind before he ever reached the rail. As usual, he had no intention whatsoever of co-operating.

Adam carefully closed, and fastened, the gate behind him. He had no intention of letting the horse make a quick escape, as he had been known to do in the past. He dumped the saddle on the ground and advanced with the bridle. Mozart watched him come, head held high. Adam sighed again. He could read the horse’s body language.

“Come on, boy,” he said softly. “Let’s not play this game today. Let’s be nice, huh?”

Mozart snorted softly, nostrils quivering. He waited quietly until the man was in fingertip touching distance of him, and then he moved in an explosive burst of power that shifted three quarters of a ton of horse flesh from one side of the corral to the other in two and a half seconds flat.

Adam used a short sharp word that his father didn’t know that he knew. The horse stood still again and shook his head, defying him with the flying mane. Adam re-crossed the corral, aiming for the horse’s front end in an attempt to forestall a repeat performance. Mozart was wise to that. He waited again until Adam was almost within touching distance of his head and then backed up abruptly, spun around in his own length and shot off again.

Five passes and a whole bucket of sweat later, Adam trapped the horse in a corner of the corral. Mozart hopped up on all four feet and threw his head up, making it damned difficult for Adam to reach him. For a moment Adam thought he was going to refuse the bit, but he managed to get it in between the tombstone teeth without getting bitten and, after a struggle, got the straps done up round the horse’s head. By now both man and horse were sweating hard in the mid-day sun.

Mozart shook his head savagely, trying to free himself of the bridle, and then submitted with an ill grace to being led across to the dumped saddle. Adam took the precaution of tying the reins to the rail before lifting the saddle onto the horse’s back.

Mozart saw the saddle coming. He arched up his back and blew out his gut. It was an old trick and one that Adam knew well. He brought his knee up hard into the horse’s under belly. The horse exhaled with a grunt, and Adam tightened the cinch before he could draw another breath.

The first battle was over. Adam leaned against the saddle and caught his breath. It had taken more out of him than it had the horse; he was afraid he might yet lose the war.

Hoss had stripped all the way down to his drawers and waded out into the thick mud until he could get around behind the cow. She was embedded in the mud right up to the points of her shoulders, and she was exhausted from her struggles to free herself. Hoss thought that she was just about ready to lie down and die. The only thing keeping her head up was the constant pressure the black horse, obedient to its training, was keeping on the rope.

Hoss came right up behind the cow, and got his shoulder wedged in under her rump. The fact that, in her terror, she had defecated into the mud, didn’t make the task any more pleasant. Hoss called out encouragement to the horse. The horse pulled. Hoss pushed. The cow bellowed.

Nothing else much happened.

Hoss paused to catch his breath and consider his position. He would have liked to wipe the muck away from his face, but his hands were thick with the stuff and would have only made matters worse. Instead, he spat out what had got into his mouth.

He reckoned there wasn’t much else for it. Much as he hated doing it, he had to be cruel to be kind. He took a firm grip of the cow’s tail and gave it a good hard twist against the grain.

The cow suddenly found a whole lot of get-up-and-go right where there hadn’t been any before. She lunged up and out, taking the tension off the rope so fast that the horse standing braced on the bank stumbled and nearly went down.

Hoss was left behind, floundering in the mud. He spat more of the filth out of his mouth and tried to clear it away from his eyes.

He looked across at the other animal that had been struggling, but the steer had laid its head down in the mud and died. Hoss felt a deep pang of regret. Near exhausted as he was, he would have tried his damnedest to get the beast out.

From way back in the trees, the varmint watched with interested detachment. It smelled life in the air ~ and death ~ and life that should have become death. It had watched the man creature thwart the inevitable. Now it watched him emerge, dripping mud from the bog and marvelled, in its strange way, at its determination to change the one into the other.

Adam opened the gate and led Mozart out. The stallion followed docilely enough, but Adam wasn’t about to be deceived. He wouldn’t be the first man this horse had made a fool out of. He’d known it before, and, even while he’d been ill, his brothers had told him all about the animal’s exploits.

He stepped up on the bottom rail of the corral, and reached for the stirrup.

Mozart stiffened. Adam felt the horse bracing himself, and he knew he was in for a rough ride. He put his foot in the stirrup and started to step across. Mozart put his head down, making himself an awkward shape to mount. Adam shortened the reins and the horse pulled back, fighting the bit.

Adam put his free leg over, transferring his weight into the saddle. Mozart didn’t give him time to find the stirrup on the other side. He buck-jumped from a standing start, humping up his back and coming down again on all four feet at once. Adam left the saddle by a good twelve inches and landed back in it again, hard. The impact drove the breath right out of him, and something in his belly jabbed at him like a knife. He remembered what the doctor had told him only yesterday about taking things real easy and hoped to heaven that his wound wasn’t going to bust wide open again. That was all he had time to hope for, because Mozart was just plain determined to get rid of him. The horse threw up his head in an attempt to head butt his unwanted rider in the face. Adam narrowly missed a broken nose but got a face and a mouth full of stringy black mane.

Then Mozart thought it might be a real good idea to sit right down and let Adam simply slide off backwards, but by now Adam had found the loose stirrup and was able to cling on with his knees.

Mozart shook himself like a wet dog, and all Adam could do was hang on to the saddle horn and try to stay put on his back. The horse reached round, extending neck and teeth in an effort to take a big chunk out of Adam’s leg. Adam had taken just about as much of this horse’s foul temper and bad manners as he was going to take. It was not a thing he would normally have done, but when circumstances dictate...

It was a trick an old horse breaker had taught him a long time ago, and something his father would not have approved of.

Adam balled up his fist and punched Mozart squarely on the nose.

The horse nearly fell over in surprise.

Adam took advantage of the moment to get the animal’s head facing front again and got the reins real short in his hands, bringing Mozart’s chin down onto his chest. Mozart shook his head and pranced about, but Adam had him now. He got the horse pointing in more or less the right direction, let the reins out just a fraction and brought his heels hard in to the animal’s flanks.

Mozart set off from a standing start to a full-blown gallop in a single stride with Adam clinging on to the saddle on his back as much as riding him, but at least they were going in the right direction. The rough pounding of the horse’s gait felt like hammer blows to his tender belly.

Lunch in a grand style was in order, Ben decided, so accordingly he set his sights on a place that called itself, pretentiously, ‘The Windsor Castle Hotel’

The building stood all of four stories tall behind a white painted, colonnaded frontage. It had wide steps leading up from the street to double glass doors and a doorman in green liveried uniform to hold the doors open. Once beyond the doors, Ben just stood and stared. The inside had been all decked out in old colonial style

The ceilings were easily as high as those of the Palace Hotel in New Orleans, or the International in San Francisco. Elaborate chandeliers of crystal and bright mirrors depended from gilded chains. There was a vast expanse of marble slabbed flooring, all green and cream swirls, and lots of polished wood with carved curlicues. A staircase of heroic proportions swept upwards on carpeted treads from what Ben could not help but think of as the lobby, doubtless to equally grand guest rooms above.

Ben finally had to shift when someone wanted to come through the doors behind him. He realized he’d been gaping, and to cover his embarrassment, walked quickly to the wide curving reception desk. The reception clerk, tall, balding, dark suited, moved smoothly over. “How can I help you, sir?”

Ben dumped his armful of parcels on the counter, fully, and somewhat painfully, aware of the expression of disdain on the man’s face. “I’m dining here today,” he said in his most authoritative tone. “Would you look after these for me until I’m ready to leave?”

The clerk looked from Ben to the parcels, as if debating momentarily with himself quite what he should do with the motley little collection of brown paper packages. Training won out. “Certainly, sir,” he said scooping them out of sight under the counter. “The dining room, sir, is that way.” he indicated the direction with a discrete point of the finger.

“Ben Cartwright!” The voice boomed from somewhere behind Ben’s right shoulder.

Ben turned. For the briefest moment he was confused, and then recognition dawned on him. The big man holding out a hand to him was his old friend, Tobias Addington.

“Toby!” The two men clasped hands long and hard, and looked each other over.

Addington came barely up to Ben’s shoulder, and he was as big around as he was tall. Like Ben, he had aged gracefully. His cap of curly hair had turned in the years, from black to pure white, and there were more lines in the round, eternally cheerful face than Ben remembered, but the vivid blue eyes that smiled out of it were the same.

Tobias Addington and Ben Cartwright had been friends, and sometime business partners, from the time they had both left their seafaring days behind them, but their life paths had diverged, and time and miles had come between. Now, the years fell away, and, for a moment as they gazed at one another, it was if they were both young men again, just setting out on the long road.

“Ben Cartwright, as I live and breath!” Addington said, through his smile. “What’re you doing here, Ben?”

“Business, Toby. Business.” Ben laughed “And you?”

“Oh, I’m retired now. Resting on my laurels, you know? You here to eat?”

 “Now that’s the best idea I’ve heard today!”

The two men walked together towards the dining room. “Are you still running that whopping great ranch out west o’ here, Ben?”

“It gets bigger every time I go out an’ look at it. And did you ever marry that English girl you were courtin’.”

“I sure did. Twelve years we were wed. She died...”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“And your family? Three boys you had, last count, wasn’t it?””

“Soon to be four,” Ben said with a smile. “I got married again, just last year...”
 

1:00 pm

The turning of the heavy key in the lock woke Joe up with a start. The hot dusty atmosphere of the dark storeroom had produced a somnolence that proved irresistible to the young Cartwright despite his problems. The feed sacks had made a comfortable mattress, and he had slept.

The door opened, just a crack, spilling light into the gloom, and then a bit further as someone carrying something edged carefully round it. Joe sat up, blinking owlishly against the brightness. Whoever it might be, it certainly wasn’t Ossy Hirshall that stood in the open doorwa