As Ben Cartwright headed the buckboard north from Genoa, he was smiling.  Every day for almost a week now, either he or his oldest son Adam had made the long drive to the former Mormon Station in search of supplies, and today, for the first time, the quest had ended successfully.  Ordinarily, Ben bought his supplies in Carson City, which was closer to his sprawling ranch, the Ponderosa, but rations had been so short in western Utah lately that Ben deemed it prudent to meet any incoming freight wagons as soon as they made it over the Sierras.  The competition for goods was fierce, and it paid to put in one’s bid early.

The prices today had been incredibly high, however: fifteen dollars for a hundred-pound bag of flour!  Ben had decided to buy just one, to meet the immediate needs of his family and ranch hands, and hope for better prices later.  Potatoes weren’t quite so bad, at fourteen cents a pound, although that was a lofty sum to lay out for simple spuds.  Still, people had to eat, so Ben placed what he considered an exorbitant amount of cash in the shopkeeper’s palm, loaded the buckboard and left before he was tempted to part with more.

    Ben hated to think what a pouch of tobacco would have brought, had there been any available, but he hadn’t really expected to find a luxury item like that, anyway.   Still, unreasonable as it was, he felt disappointed.  He was completely out of pipe tobacco and missed his nightly smoke after supper.  Ben laughed as he remembered how his youngest son had tried to solve that problem for him the night before.  When no one was looking, three-year-old Joseph had filled his father’s pipe with ashes from the fireplace and presented it triumphantly, glowing with pride in his helpfulness.  Ben had had a hard time explaining to the bright-eyed boy that, however similar the substance might look, it just wouldn’t smoke the same.

    Ben crossed the bridge over the Carson River, noting again with satisfaction that it was sinking back to normal level after the spring thaw had sent it surging over its banks.  That wasn’t unusual, of course; the Carson tended to fill to capacity each spring and had overflowed many times in the ten years since Ben had first settled in this area.  The amount of snow, both in the Sierras and in western Utah, had been heavier than usual this year, however, and Ben was grateful that his old friends, the Thomases, had moved into Carson City a couple of years earlier.  The old cabin in which the Cartwright and Thomas families had spent that first winter had washed away in the torrent that poured down the Carson recently.

    Once across the bridge, Ben’s visage grew grim, as it always did when he rode through this wasteland of dead cattle with buzzards circling and swooping to the feast a harsh winter had provided.  Neither nature nor man had been kind to western Utah during the first half of 1860.  The winter had been the worst that Ben and his family had yet experienced here, and spring had brought no respite with its unseasonable snowstorms.  The valleys were clear now, but less than two weeks before this warm June day, just one day short of the summer solstice, snow had again fallen on the mountains near Genoa.

    Man, too, had brought death to the territory recently, and while the Pyramid Lake Indian War was supposedly over, the country wasn’t really at peace yet.  An atmosphere of fear still hovered over the settlements of Carson, Eagle and Washoe valleys, as well as the booming town of Virginia City.  That fear was the reason Ben and Adam had been alternating their trips to Genoa.  Ben wanted one of them close to home at all times, just in case some renegade Indians decided the war wasn’t really over.

    Ben stopped the team for a moment and rotated his right shoulder to work out some of the stiffness.  Dr. Martin would probably skin him if he knew that Ben had removed the sling supporting his wounded shoulder, but it was just too hard to manage a team with one arm bound up like that.  Two weeks now since he’d taken that Paiute bullet, and the wound was healing nicely.  It was only when he used the arm too freely that the soreness set in again.

    As Ben flicked the reins and moved the team out once more, he reflected that he, along with all his friends and family, had a lot to be thankful for.  They were all alive and no one had even sustained a serious injury.  Seventeen-year-old Adam, who had fought at his father’s side, had lost his horse in the fray, but escaped uninjured himself, as had his friend Billy Thomas.  Billy’s father Clyde had taken a knife wound in the shoulder in the first battle and their friend Mark Wentworth a bullet in the leg in the second, but they were both recovering nicely under Dr. Martin’s expert care.  In Mark’s case, that care also included the attentive nursing of his fiancé, the doctor’s daughter Sally, for the young soldier was recuperating in the Martins’ Carson City home.

    When Ben finally moved onto his own land, his smile returned.  No signs of winter’s carnage remained here.  They’d lost some cattle to winter kill, of course.  That was unavoidable in a winter as severe as this past one had been.  Ben had given the animals diligent care whenever he could, though, and his herd had fared better than most in the valley.  The cattle he’d lost had long since been disposed of, so no vultures swirled over the Ponderosa.

    Ben pulled into the yard before the ranch house, and by the time he’d jumped down from the seat and tied the horses’ reins to the hitching rail, the front door flew open.  Predictably, Little Joe was the first one through it, bare feet pattering through the mud and splashing it onto the hem of his dress.  Ben’s golden-haired wife Marie was right behind him, scooping the toddler up and scolding him soundly.  “How many times must Mamá tell you not to come outside in the mud?”  She gave the child the lightest of swats on the backside and smiled up at Ben.  “It is the third time today.”

    “Just three?” Ben chuckled.  “You’ve been a better boy than usual, have you, Little Joe?”

    Grinning, Little Joe fell into his father’s outstretched arms and hugged his neck tightly, just as nine-year-old Hoss burst out the door and charged straight for the wagon.  “Hurray!” Hoss whooped at sight of the supplies.  “Real bread tonight!”

    Hop Sing, the Cartwright’s cook, had also exited, through the side door from the kitchen, and was examining the supplies in the back of the buckboard.  “Light blead no have time lize tonight, but Hop Sing make plenty hot biscuit, okay?”

    “Okay,” Hoss, easily contented, replied, “but a real loaf tomorrow, huh?”

    “Dat light.  Much blead ‘mollow.”  Hop Sing beamed, happier even than Hoss to see the large bag of flour.  He’d felt a sense of personal failure in not being able to provide proper meals for his family the last couple of weeks.  There’d been plenty of beef, of course, since the Ponderosa raised cattle, but the pantry had grown steadily barer of almost everything else, and the only bread Hop Sing had been able to provide had been batches of biscuits, deliberately kept small due to the scarcity of flour.

    Adam, who’d ambled out from the barn, peered into the back of the buckboard with a frown.  “Just one bag of flour?” he asked.  “That all they had?”

    Ben arched an eyebrow.  “All I cared to pay for at fifteen dollars each,” he stated bluntly.

    Adam whistled.  “That’s steep.  Well, less for us to tote in, huh, Hoss?”

    As Hoss took the hint and reached for a sack of potatoes, Ben handed Little Joe back to his mother.  The youngster immediately screeched his displeasure and squirmed to get down.  “No, you naughty boy,” Marie laughed.  “You have to go inside and get your feet washed—again!”

    Ben smiled as she headed toward the house with an armful of uncooperative toddler and then reached into the wagon for a crate.

    “We’ll take care of that,” Adam said quickly.  “You ought not be lifting much with that shoulder, Pa.  You know what Doc Martin would say.”

    “Then I don’t need to hear it from you, too, do I, young man?” Ben said, the corner of his mouth quirking upward.

    Adam grinned back.  “There aren’t many supplies, and you’ve got two strong sons to tote them, so why don’t you just take it easy and tell us the news of the day?”

    “Yeah,” Hoss said, easing the potatoes back down.  “Anything goin’ on over to Genoa, Pa?”

    Ben leaned against the wagon.  “Any news?  Well, let’s see.  The big talk in Genoa is that Carson Valley is about to be annexed to California.”

    Adam hooted.  “That’s crazy!  How would anybody know, since there hasn’t been any mail since the Indian trouble started?”

    “But Billy’s ridin’ for the Pony Express again, ain’t he?” Hoss argued.  “Maybe he’s back and brung the news.”

    “He hasn’t had time yet, Hoss,” Ben said.  Billy Thomas had ridden east with twenty others to protect the incoming mail, but hadn’t been gone long enough for a round trip.  “No, son, the talk of our joining California is just that—talk.”

    “Guess when folks don’t have any real news to talk about, they just make some up,” Adam commented.  “Come on, Hoss, we’d better get this flour in to Hop Sing or we won’t even get biscuits for supper.”

    That appalling suggestion was enough to spur Hoss into action, and together the two brothers soon had the wagon unloaded, the horses unhitched and were ready to join their family inside, where Ben sat cuddling a once-more-clean Little Joe.

    Only a few days later four westbound expresses passed through Carson Valley, then finally an eastbound one, bringing news that had come from the east coast, across the Isthmus of Panama, by steamer up to California and then over the Sierras by stagecoach.  Finally, western Utah had real news to discuss, but almost everyone was disappointed by the Republicans’ nomination of Abraham Lincoln for president, since William Seward had been the westerners’ first choice.  That nomination had occurred on May 17th, while the men of Washoe were marching into battle against the Paiutes.  The Democratic Party, divided over the issue of slavery, hadn’t come up with a candidate yet, so Ben wasn’t sure who would be opposing the Republican nominee.  He feared, however, that if Lincoln, a known opponent of slavery, were elected, it might launch an even deadlier conflict than the Pyramid Lake Indian War had been.

    “Grass sure is growing lush, isn’t it, Pa?” Adam commented as he rode to the left of the buckboard in which the rest of his family was traveling.  Since his own horse had been killed in the Indian war, Marie had loaned him the use of her black gelding until another mount could be found.  Adam, of course, considered himself too grown up to ride in the back of the wagon with the other youngsters.

    Ben chuckled.  “Well, it should, considering the amount of rain we’ve had lately.”  The valleys of western Utah had been visited with one thunderstorm after another during the latter part of June, and Ben was just grateful that he wasn’t driving to Carson City through a sea of mud.

    “You don’t think it’ll rain today, do you, Pa?” Hoss asked with alarm.

    Ben laughed.  “On the Fourth of July?  Why, it wouldn’t dare, Hoss!”

    “Yeah, it would be downright unpatriotic.”  Adam grinned at his brother.

    “Huh?”  Little Joe frowned at the unfamiliar word.

    Hoss leaned over to whisper in his baby brother’s ear.  “It means they’ll have that pie-eatin’ contest, for sure.”

    Little Joe immediately bounced up and gave a happy jump.  “Pie for me!” he cried.

    Marie jerked around on the seat of the buckboard, but before she could rebuke her youngest for his characteristic recklessness, Hoss grabbed the boy and pulled him down between his legs.  “Not for you,” he scoffed.  “You couldn’t even eat enough to come in last.”

    Sensing that Little Joe was about to wail, Marie quickly said, “Mais oui, there will be pie for you, mon petit, but you are too small to enter the contest.”  She smiled at Hoss.  “And as for you, mon chéri , I do not know that you will have much chance, either.  There will be many hungry men wanting those pies.”

    Adam hooted.  “I’d lay odds Hoss holds his own!”

    Ben cast a stern gaze on his eldest.  “Throwing away your money on blind chance is the surest way to lose it, young man.”

    Adam just grinned back.  “No chance involved when it comes to Hoss and food, Pa.  Besides, I didn’t say he’d win, just that he’d hold his own.”

    “I don’t care if I win,” Hoss declared with a throaty laugh, “just so I get all the pie I can eat.”

    “Me, too,” Little Joe chirped.  “All the pie me can eat.”

    “That’ll be about half a slice,” Adam chuckled, bending over to tousle his youngest brother’s soft, golden brown curls.

    When the buckboard pulled up before the Thomas house in Carson City, Billy trotted down the steps on lanky legs.

    “Hey!” Adam called as he swung down from the gelding.  “Wasn’t sure you’d make it in for the festivities.”

    “Yeah, I made it,” Billy laughed.  “Got to be back to Buckland’s by tomorrow night, though, in case the Pony runs early.”

    “You boys have got all day to jaw at each other,” Ben chided.  “I could use your help unloading this wagon, Adam.”

    “Sure, Pa,” Adam agreed readily, chuckling at the irony of his father’s changed attitude.  Easy to tell Pa’s arm wasn’t bothering him anymore.  When he’d really needed help, pride had made him argue against it; now that he was feeling pert again, he was quite prepared to pass the chores off to younger men.  Adam winked at Billy, certain his friend would share the amusement he was silently communicating.

    Billy grinned back and reached into the wagon for a crate of food.  With Ben, Adam, Hoss and Billy each toting a load, one trip was all that was needed to empty the wagon.  Nelly met them at the door, with a hug for Marie and a kiss for both Hoss and Little Joe.

    “Food’s all in the kitchen, Ma,” Billy announced, needlessly, since everyone had seen it go by.  “Me and Adam’s goin’ outside.”

    “Glad to get shed of you,” Nelly said, waving the two older boys out.  Then, turning to Marie, she added, “Come show me what needs reheatin’, gal.”  She and Marie disappeared into the kitchen, followed by the Thomases’ eight-year-old daughter Inger and Hoss with Little Joe, as usual, dogging his heels.

    Adam and Billy sauntered out onto the porch, each leaning against a post on opposite sides of the steps.  “So, how’s the Pony goin’?” Adam asked.

    Billy shrugged.  “We’re gettin’ it in shape again, but it takes time, you know, to build back up.”

    “Yeah, I know,” Adam said.  Now that the main fight was over, the Indians seemed to have marked the riders of the Pony Express, as well as stage and mail way stations, as the most vulnerable targets.  Stations had been burned, agents killed, livestock driven off, and the Pony Express wouldn’t be able to run efficiently until the damage was repaired and the mounts replaced.

    Adam felt a more personal concern for his friend, however.  He’d known Billy Thomas, just one year his senior, ever since they’d come west together, and the bond between them was tight.  “You ever see any Indians yourself?” he asked quietly.

    Billy glanced quickly toward the house and stepped closer to Adam.  “Yeah,” he admitted in an undertone.  “Even had to outrun a couple on my last trip east.  Don’t tell Ma, though, okay?  She frets somethin’ fierce as it is.”

    Adam nodded.  “I’ll keep quiet if you promise to keep your head low and ride fast.”

    Billy slapped his friend on the back.  “First thing you learn when you ride for the Pony, buddy, and I got a strong attachment to my hair.”  He gave the fiery thatch atop his head an affectionate tug.

The front door flew open, and Hoss came barreling down the steps.  “Grab hold of Little Joe, will you?” he hollered over his shoulder.  “Ma said I could go to Jimmy’s, and I don’t need him taggin’ me.”

Sure enough, Little Joe came trailing out almost immediately, obviously determined to follow wherever big brother Hoss led.  Adam snatched him as he trotted by and swung him up into his arms.  “Down, down!”  Little Joe demanded, legs kicking.  “Wanna catch Hoss.”

“Looks like you’re the one got caught,” Billy laughed.

    “Why don’t you catch him awhile?” Adam suggested.  Tired of wrestling an armful of wriggling arms and flailing legs, he tossed his little brother into Billy’s outstretched arms.  Billy tossed the toddler right back, and the two older boys played catch with the youngster until Little Joe forgot about Hoss’s deserting him for the older Jimmy Ellis and began to chortle with excitement in the new game.

    Finally, Adam set him down on the porch and patted his back softly.  “Go back in and pester Pa awhile,” he ordered.

    Little Joe was ready for a change, so he did as he was told, ambling into the parlor where his father and Clyde Thomas sat, each enjoying Clyde’s recent acquisition of tobacco in his own favored fashion.  Ben had long made it a practice to keep an old pipe and a small supply of tobacco at the Thomas house, just as Clyde normally kept a little chewing tobacco at the Ponderosa for his frequent visits.  Recent shortages had bankrupted both places, however, so the two men had not enjoyed a good smoke and chew together since before the Indian war.

    Little Joe promptly climbed into Pa’s lap, his favorite perch and one never denied him, no matter how tired Ben was after a day’s work on the ranch.  Ben kissed the top of the boy’s curly head and turned his attention back to the discussion he and Clyde had been having about the dropping cost of supplies.

    “Like I was sayin’,” Clyde continued, “I got a load in yesterday and set aside what I figured you might be needin’.”

    “Well, if the price has come down as much as you say, I’m ready to buy,” Ben remarked.  He pushed away the small hand reaching for his pipe.

    “Might come down even more before long,” Clyde commented.  “Roads is improvin’ all the time, and the way folks keep pourin’ into the territory, it’ll pay freighters to keep the supplies comin’ in steady.”

    “Yeah, but I’m running low again,” Ben said.  He grabbed Little Joe’s hand, which was again headed for the fascinating pipe.  “Little Joe, I said no,” he stated sharply.

    “Unh-uh,” Little Joe replied, head cocked innocently to one side.  “Not say nothin’, Pa.”

    Clyde chuckled.  “Youngun’s got a point.  You didn’t say a word about that pipe.”

    Ben frowned across at his friend.  “I have on other occasions.”  He eyed the toddler with a stern stare.  “And you know you’re not allowed to touch it, don’t you, Little Joe?”

    Uncomfortable under his father’s disapproving gaze, Little Joe slid out of Ben’s lap and moved over to Clyde, instead.

“Joseph, answer my question,” Ben demanded.

“No touch pipe,” Little Joe admitted without looking at his father.  Leaning on the arm of the padded chair in which Clyde was sitting, he stared as the man he had learned to call uncle took another plug of chewing tobacco and placed it inside his cheek.  “How that taste?” the child asked.

    “You ain’t likely to find out for a good while to come, tadpole,” Clyde chuckled.

    “If I have anything to say about it, he won’t ever find out,” Ben snorted.  “Joseph, you go back into the kitchen and see if Mamá needs you.”

    Little Joe just continued to watch Clyde’s jaw as it worked on the chaw of tobacco.

    “Joseph!  Now!”

    There was no missing the ominous tone of those loud words, and Little Joe, who already had a good acquaintance with the feel of his father’s palm on his backside, took off for the safety of the kitchen.

    “Marie may have a few words to say to you about foistin’ Squiggle-wiggle off on her,” Clyde chuckled.

    “I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it,” Ben said with a smile.  He decided a change of subject was in order.  “What you were saying before about new people coming in, it’s really true, and it’s brought one good change, at least.  Mail delivery three times a week from Placerville now!  Who would have ever dreamed there’d be a need for that this side of the Sierras?”

    “Yeah, I reckon it’s a sign of progress,” Clyde conceded.  “They sure charge a pretty penny for it, though.  Twenty-five cents a letter, plus the express charge the sender already paid!  It’s highway robbery, Ben.”

    Ben laughed.  “Well, you won’t hear me complaining, and I get more mail than you, my friend.”

    “Usually,” Clyde agreed, “but I’ve had a whole flock of letters come flyin’ in since this Indian trouble.  Never knew so many folks cared what happened to me and mine.”

    “Yeah, I heard from everyone on the old Larrimore train, too,” Ben said with a nostalgic smile, “as well as from Josiah Edwards back in St. Joseph and my brother John in Denver.  It was well worth the price to me.”

    “Me, too, I guess,” Clyde admitted.

    Nelly came across the hall into the parlor.  “‘Bout time we loaded up and got over to the plaza, men, if we want to find good seats at the tables.  Gonna be a crowd today, I hear.”

    “We’ll be right there, Nelly gal,” Clyde said.  He stood and aimed a stream of tobacco at the fire, which sizzled as the moist substance hit.  “Come on, Ben.  Time to earn our vittles,” he said.

    “I’m gonna call those lazy sons of ours in to help,” Ben said and headed for the front door.

    Soon everyone was busy transporting food from the kitchen to the wagon for the short drive to the central plaza where the town gathering would be held—everyone, that is, but one tiny boy, who had been waiting for a chance to satisfy his curiosity when no one was looking.  With everyone’s attention elsewhere, Little Joe found it easy to slip into the empty parlor, climb into the padded chair Clyde had vacated and help himself to the tin of chewing tobacco on the occasional table beside it.

    Stuffing a sizable wad in his mouth, Little Joe began to chew.  Almost immediately, his little face screwed up in distaste.  “Eew, nasty!” he sputtered and clambered down to spit the terrible-tasting tobacco into the fire as he’d often seen Uncle Clyde do.  His technique, of course, was not as polished as Clyde’s, and his aim not nearly as accurate.  The brown spittle plopped front and center on the bodice of his blue dress.

    “Little Joe,” he heard his mother call.  “Where are you, mon petit?”

    Knowing he’d be in trouble the minute anyone saw him, Little Joe ducked behind the chair to hide.

    Marie peered into the parlor, but seeing nothing, she headed back to the kitchen.  No baby there, either.  Typically, she panicked.  “Ben,” she cried, hurrying out to the porch, “I can’t find Little Joe.”

    Standing by the wagon, Adam laughed.  “I can’t count the number of times I’ve heard that!”

    “It is not funny!” Marie snapped.  “Help me find him!” she ordered with a stamp of her foot and then turned to go back inside and search the second story of the house.

    “I think he likes playing hide and seek,” Adam told Billy as they both headed back inside to join the search.

    “Hey, so do I,” Billy joked as the two young men entered the parlor.  “Play it with them Paiutes ‘most every day.”

    “Thought you didn’t want your mother to know,” Adam scolded in a stage whisper.  “Keep cracking that kind of joke and she’ll”—he held a finger to his lips and pointed at the wisp of blue fabric the chair had not quite hidden.

    Walking almost on tiptoe, Adam moved into position, reached around the chair and made a quick grab.  “Got you!” he announced with glee and lifted Little Joe over his head.

    Little Joe squealed and squirmed, desperate to get away.  Adam, he had learned, was what Hoss called a tattletale, always ready to run to Mama or to Pa and talk about whatever innocent misstep Little Joe had made.

    “Uh-oh,” Billy cackled.  “Looks like he’s been into it again.”

    Adam held the toddler before his face and sniffed the stained dress.  “Ugh!  Chewing tobacco,” he announced.  “You are in for it this time, baby boy.”

    “No, no!” Little Joe screeched.  “Let go!  Let go!”

    Ben, who’d been conducting a diligent search of the kitchen, heard the noise and walked across the hall, stopping to call up the stairs, “Marie, the lost has been found!”  As he entered the parlor, he stood still, shaking his head.  “What’s he gotten into this time?”

    “Pa’s chewing tobacco,” Billy reported, his lip quirking up with amusement.

    “In that case, I’ll ask you boys to step outside,” Ben said.  “This child and I are going to have a very necessary little talk.”

    Marie hurried in, appalled to see the condition of her baby’s clothing.  “Oh, Little Joe, how could you?” she wailed.  “Mamá wanted you to look nice for the town dinner.”

    “Well, tie a white napkin around his neck, and he’ll be appropriately attired in red, white and blue by the time I finish with him,” Ben announced as he laid the toddler across his lap.

    “Oh, Ben, must you?” Marie pleaded.  “We will be late.”

    “Yes, we will,” Ben said firmly, “and, yes, I must.  It’s a case of flagrant disobedience, Marie.”  He pulled Little Joe up long enough to ask, “You knew better, didn’t you, Little Joe?”

    “Not touch pipe,” Little Joe protested, hoping to get off on a technicality.  He instinctively understood the concept, although he did not have the vocabulary to express it.

    Ben’s face grew darker.  “You knew better, didn’t you, Little Joe?” he repeated, louder this time.

    Little Joe started to quiver and his chin ducked.  “Uh-huh,” he whispered.

    Ben looked to Marie for permission to continue and she nodded.  “Please hurry,” she murmured.  “I’ll have to clean him up as best I can.”

    “Oh, this won’t take long,” Ben promised and once Marie had left, he again placed the toddler across his knee and planted five firm smacks across the boy’s backside.  Then he crossed the hall and delivered the sobbing child to his mother’s care.

    “Please go ahead and see that the food is properly placed,” Marie requested.  “I will be along as soon as I can.”

    “I will,” Ben said.  Then he cupped Little Joe’s chin in his palm.  “Joseph, don’t give Mama any more trouble, or you and I will have another conversation like the one we just had.  You understand, naughty boy?”

    Rubbing his fists in his eyes, Little Joe nodded.

    Marie carried the toddler to the table and, setting him on it, began to unbutton the blue frock.  “What is Mamá going to do with you?” she scolded gently.

    “Oh, my, my,” Nelly Thomas chuckled from the kitchen doorway.  She walked to Marie’s side.  “The little sugarfoot’s been into mischief again, I see.”

    “What am I going to do?” Marie asked mournfully.

    Nelly took the dress that Marie had pulled off Little Joe.  “Oh, this’ll wash out,” she said, “and be good as new by the time the celebration’s over.”

    “But I have nothing else to put on him!” Marie wailed.

    Nelly laughed.  “I thought you’d learned long ago to bring extra duds when you travel with this magnet for mud puddles.”

    Marie sat in the kitchen chair, shaking her head.  “I do know better, and I laid out a change of clothes for him this morning.  We must have overlooked that bundle in the rush of loading.”

    “Me go this way, Mama,” Little Joe offered, swinging his bare legs off the table edge.  “Hot outside.”

    Nelly tweaked his nose.  “I think we can do better than sending you out in your underwear, you scamp.”  She gave Marie’s arm a consoling pat.  “I’ll see what I can find upstairs.  I still have some of Bobby’s things.”

    Marie gasped.  “Oh, are you sure, Nelly?”  As a mother who had lost a child herself, she knew how the other woman must treasure her few keepsakes of the child who had died along the trail.

    “I’m sure,” Nelly said and left before she had to say more.  Though little Bobby had died years ago, his memory still tugged at her heart.  Soon she returned with a small brown and yellow plaid shirt.  “It’s not fancy,” she said, holding it out for Marie’s approval, “but it’s clean.”

    Marie turned from the sink, where she was scrubbing the stain from Little Joe’s own dress.  “Fancy doesn’t matter at this point,” she sighed, giving up her dream of showing off her beautiful baby boy to the assembled citizens of Carson City.  “Could you dress him, Nelly?”

    “Glad to,” the older woman said.  More than glad, she might have added, for a moment feeling as though she were once again dressing the little boy who had first worn this shirt.  She fastened the final button and lifted Little Joe so he was standing on the table.  “There now, that’s not bad at all,” she commented as she rolled up the sleeves.

    Marie smiled at the little boy dressed in a shirt that almost reached his ankles.  Bobby had been four when he died and obviously a bigger child than her boy, but the ill-fitting, makeshift garment only made Little Joe look like an adorable ragamuffin.

    Little Joe surveyed his new apparel with delighted approval.  A shirt—a real shirt—just like Pa and Adam and Hoss wore!  It only lacked one thing to make it perfect.  “Britches, Aunt Nelly?” he asked eagerly.

    Nelly just laughed.  “Younguns your size don’t wear britches,” she teased.

    “Uh-huh,” Little Joe insisted.  “Got big boy shirt; need big boy britches.”

    “Now, Sugarfoot,” Nelly soothed, “all baby boys wear dresses ‘til their breechin’, and that’s a year or two away for you.”

    “Not a baby!” Little Joe screamed with a stamp of his small foot, a gesture he had obviously copied from his mother.

“Little Joe, that will be quite enough,” Marie said firmly.  “You have caused much trouble already, and you would be wise to think carefully before causing more, or Papá may again decide to put something besides britches on your little bottom.”

    Little Joe instantly adopted the expression of a cherub, and his complexion faded from fiery red to rosy pink.  “Good boy, Mama,” he promised earnestly.

    Marie giggled at the swift transformation and gave him a kiss.  “Well, do try, mon petit, for at least a few minutes.”

    By the time the trio arrived at the town square, Little Joe was all sunny smiles again.  “Lookee, Pa,” he announced, tugging on his borrowed garment as he and his mother approached Ben.  “Me got real shirt; need real britches, doncha think?”

    Ben laughed and reached for his baby boy.  “Oh, you are a real sight, all right.”

    “Is he not?” Marie asked, trying to sound perturbed and failing completely.

    Ben turned so that Little Joe was facing the man standing at his side.  “Now, you apologize to Uncle Clyde for stealing his tobacco.”

    Little Joe frowned.  “Not steal; just borrow, Pa, like you.”

    Clyde cackled.  “Like father, like son, huh?  Well, I don’t want any used tobacco back from either of you.”

    Ben scowled at his longtime friend.  “How am I supposed to teach him right from wrong with that kind of support?”

    Clyde Thomas reached around Ben to wag Little Joe’s loose shirttail.  “Oh, I reckon he learned his lesson pretty well this time.  You ain’t gonna borrow Uncle Clyde’s chewing tobacco any more, are you, mischief?”

    Little Joe shook his head vigorously.  “Nasty,” he declared.  “Don’t want no more never!”

    “Well, that’s some solace, I suppose,” Ben muttered.

Marie had been glancing around the plaza and had spotted Adam and Billy across the green, talking to Sally Martin and Mark Wentworth, but not the other boy her eyes were seeking.  “Where is Hoss?  He was to meet us here.”

    “Oh, he’s still over with the Ellises, I suppose,” Ben replied.  “Laura’s baking all the pies for the contest again, I hear, so I imagine Hoss is quite content to stay within sniffing range of those.”

    “Oh, there they are now,” Marie said.  The smile that touched her lips tilted sideways in puzzlement.  “But who is that holding Laura’s arm?” she asked.

    Nelly Thomas looked at the group leaving the bakery where Laura Ellis regularly worked.  “Oh, that’s George Dettenrieder,” she said.  “Lives south of here, over to Gold Canyon.  I’ve seen him hanging around the bakery a lot lately,” she confided with a significant nod.

    Even without the gesture, Marie’s feminine curiosity was immediately aroused.  “Why is that, I wonder?” she probed.

    “Probably got a fondness for good, hot bread,” Clyde joshed.

    “Perhaps,” Marie smiled, determined not to take the bait.  She brushed her dark merino skirt smooth.  “Well, it is time Hoss remembered to join his own family.  I shall just have to go speak to him.”

    “Oh, yes,” Ben snickered.  “Hoss always needs help finding his way to the table.”

    “Today it would seem he does,” Marie retorted briskly and swished away.

    The façade was well in place as Marie sauntered up to her friend.  “Bonjour, Laura,” she said.  “Hoss seems to have forgotten that I told him to return before the food was served, so I have come for him.  I trust he has not been too much trouble.”

    “Not a bit,” Laura assured her friend warmly.  Seeing Marie’s curious glance at her companion, she made quick introductions.

    “It is a pleasure to meet you, Monsieur Dettenrieder,” Marie said, offering him her hand, which he gave a hearty shake.  “If you will excuse me, however, it is time that Hoss and I found our places at the table.”

    “Time for all of us,” George Dettenrieder suggested.

    “I wanna eat with Jimmy, okay?” Hoss inserted.

    Seeing the swift exchange of looks that passed between Laura and George, Marie instinctively knew the last thing they wanted was another little boy to look after.  “No, Hoss, your father is expecting us, but if Jimmy would like to join us, he would be most welcome.”

    “Can I, Ma?  Please?” six-year-old Jimmy begged.

    Flashing her friend a grateful smile, Laura readily agreed and went off on the arm of what was obviously her beau as Marie herded both boys back to where most of the Cartwright and Thomas families were gathering.  Adam and Billy weren’t there, having evidently decided to eat with the Martins and Mark Wentworth, instead.

    “How come you’re dressed like that?” Hoss asked as soon as he saw Little Joe.

    “Shh,” Little Joe whispered, holding a finger to his lips.  “Me make a little mess.”

    “Huh! Like always,” Hoss snuffled.

    Ben set Little Joe between Hoss and Jimmy at the table and admonished them to watch him.  “Hold our places, boys.  We won’t be long.”

“I’ll watch them, Uncle Ben,” Inger assured him in her most womanly manner.

Ben smiled.  “You do that, Inger.  Make them behave—especially this one.”  He rubbed Little Joe’s neck.  Then he took Marie’s arm and followed Clyde and Nelly to the line that was forming at the food tables.

    “‘Won’t be long,’ my foot,” Hoss grumbled to Jimmy.  “Just look at that line!”

    “Yeah, how come kids always gotta go last?” Jimmy complained.

    “Beats me,” Hoss returned.  “Kids are still growin’, so we oughta get first crack at the vittles, but we always gotta take the leavin’s at a shindig like this.”

    “Ain’t it the truth?” Inger added, joining forces with her own age group now that the adults were gone.

    “Yeah, but at least you’ll get plenty of pie,” Jimmy grinned at Hoss, “bein’ in the contest.”

    “That’s one good thing,” Hoss crowed happily.

    As they fell into line, Ben leaned close to Marie’s ear.  “So, is romance in the air again?”

    “Again?” Marie asked with a smile.

    Ben nodded up the line at a black-haired man with a T-shaped mustache and the tousle-headed girl at his side, who looked almost like an Indian, although she was not.  “Thee and Margaret still count as newlyweds, don’t they?”

    “I suppose,” Marie laughed.  The Winters, neighbors whose Rancho del Sierra was situated just north of Washoe Lake, had only been married four months.

    “A disgrace, that’s what it is,” Nelly Thomas turned to comment, voicing an opinion they’d heard before.  “A girl of fifteen married to that old man.”

    “Old man!” Ben hooted.  “Thee’s two years younger than I am!”

    “Yes, and you’re too old to be married to some slip of a girl,” Nelly insisted.

    Ben circled Marie’s waist and gave her a squeeze.  “Oh, I don’t know.  This slip of a girl doesn’t seem to mind an old man like me.”  Marie smiled back warmly.

    “Marie’s years older than Margaret, and you know it,” Nelly snorted.  “How Thee expects that child to stepmother his boy when she ain’t but three years older than him is beyond me.”

    “It can be difficult,” Marie said, recalling her early struggles to win the acceptance of her stepson Adam, who was only six years younger than she.

    “But worth the effort, I hope?” Ben asked.

    Marie briefly touched her golden head to his broad shoulder.  “Mais oui.  Worth every effort,” she said softly.

    The four friends reached the head of the line, filled their plates and returned to the table.  Hoss, Jimmy and Inger immediately jumped up and aimed for the end of the line, and Little Joe was just swinging his short leg over the bench to give chase when Marie swooped him into her lap.  “Me eat, too, Mama,” Little Joe protested, squirming.  “Kids’ turn now!”

    “Mamá has food for you, mon petit,” Marie said.

    Little Joe frowned as he realized his mother intended to feed him off her own plate.  Just like a baby, he grumbled internally, wondering when his parents would ever realize that he was past that stage.  As his stomach grew more content, however, he found himself realizing there were some advantages to being little.  He was already getting full, while the trio of older children still hadn’t started eating.

    A couple of large-boned men sat down across from the Thomases.  “Ben, you met these fellers yet?” Clyde asked.

    “No, I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,” Ben said with a welcoming smile.

    “New settlers,” Clyde said.  “Got some property around that spring in the southeast corner of Washoe Valley.”

    “That’s good land,” Ben commented.  “I’m afraid Clyde doesn’t make formal introductions, gentlemen.  I’m Ben Cartwright,” he added with a chuckle.

    “I am Mathias Fege,” one man said with a thick German accent.

    “And I am Jacob Schroeder,” the other added, his accent similar.

    “Pleased to make your acquaintance,” Ben said.  “You’re partners, then?  Do you intend to farm the land or run cattle?”

    “Oh, we will farm,” Fege declared.

    “Yah, the miners will be glad to get fresh vegetables, we think,” Shroeder amplified.

    Ben nodded.  “They will, indeed.  I wish you well, neighbors.”

    “You got land near here, Mr. Cartwright?” Matthias Fege inquired.  “You farm, too, maybe?”

    Ben laughed.  “No, you’ll get no competition from me.  I’m a rancher, and all I grow is hay for my stock and a truck garden for my family’s use.”

    “Well, maybe you won’t want to do even that once you see our produce,” Shroeder suggested with a wide grin.  “We have just begun planting our orchards, so you will have to wait to taste our fruit, but before long, we will have green vegetables to sell.”

    “I’ll look forward to seeing them,” Ben said, mostly to be polite.  So far, the Ponderosa had always been able to produce enough to meet the needs of everyone who lived on it.

    As he ate, Ben let his gaze wander down the tables, seeing faces both new and familiar.  So many people, like these German farmers, Peter Marquette and his family and the widow O’Neill and her youngsters, had come to western Utah since the Mormon exodus, but Ben noticed the faces of long-time residents mingled among them.   Some, like James Sturtevant and Dick Sides, he had come to respect, in spite of past disagreements.  Others, Dick’s volatile brother William among them, he steered clear of, wanting to avoid trouble.  Then there were those whose sight he could barely tolerate.  Rough Elliott headed that list, for Ben found it hard to forgive the man for his role in the hanging of Lucky Bill Thorrington and the beating he’d ordered given to Ben when he tried to resist that piece of vigilante justice.

    Hoss, Jimmy and Inger had just arrived back at the table, when a distinguished-looking man rose to speak.  “Are you enjoying the good food, folks?” Abraham Curry, founder of Carson City, began.  After a chorus of affirmative responses, he continued, “Well, you go right on enjoying it, then.  I want to say just a few words in honor of the occasion.”

    “Few,” Clyde scoffed.  “Abe Curry don’t know the meaning of the word.”  His wife swatted his hand in rebuke, but Curry soon proved the point by droning on until a number of people just got up and headed back to the food tables for second helpings.

    Curry took the hint.  “That’s right, folks,” he said.  “We don’t want any of this fine food to go to waste, so help yourselves to more as long as you’ve got room to hold it.  We’ll be starting the contests in about half an hour, shooters at the south end of the plaza and pie-eaters over by the Pioneer Hotel, whose bakery has supplied all the pastries for the contest.  The two contests will be going on simultaneously, so decide which you’d like to see and head on over.”

    “Well, I wasn’t expecting that,” Ben commented with a hint of irritation.  “I’d planned to watch both my boys compete, but they’re making it difficult.”

    A small hand tugged at his sleeve.  “Pa, Pa,” Little Joe demanded insistently.

    “Yes, son?” Ben asked, rescuing his shirt from the clutching fingers.  “Don’t tell me you want Pa to watch you, too, ‘cause I’ve already got a problem on my hands.”

    “Me fix, Pa,” Little Joe declared earnestly.  “Me watch Hoss.”

    Ben guffawed.  “As my substitute?  Well, it’s a solution of sorts, I guess.”  He turned to his middle boy.  “How about it, Hoss?  Will you settle for Little Joe watching you?  I’d really like to see that shooting contest.”

    “I don’t care who watches me,” Hoss said, tucking in a final bite of mashed potatoes.  “I’m gonna be too busy to pay that any mind.”

    “I will watch you, Hoss,” Marie laughed gently, “and keep your little brother out of your pie.”

    “Yeah, you might better do that,” Hoss snickered.  “He can get into things at the worst times.”

    “Unh-uh,” Little Joe denied.  “Me not get in things.”

    His mother tweaked the borrowed shirt he was wearing.  “No?  Then, why are you in this?” she giggled.  She set him on the ground and took his hand as she led him, Hoss, and Jimmy toward the Pioneer Hotel.  Ben, Clyde, Nelly, Inger and Sally all headed the opposite direction for the shooting contest, in which Adam, Mark and Billy had all signed up to compete.

    Laura Ellis gave her friend a warm kiss on the cheek as they met in front of a table loaded with pies.  “I have to stay close,” Laura explained, “to get a fresh pie to each contestant whenever he finishes one.”

    “I will help you,” Marie said.

    “Thanks.  You never know; they might all be yelling for more at the same time!” Laura laughed.  Looking down at her son, she gave instruction.  “Jimmy, take Little Joe down where he can watch Hoss, and hold tight to his hand.”

    “Yeah, I will, Ma,” Jimmy promised.  “Come on, Little Joe.”  Happy to be trusted out of his mother’s grasp, Little Joe willingly toddled along with the older boy.

    The contest started, each man cramming in pie as fast as he could.  Hoss, the only youngster in the contest, didn’t rush.  Not expecting to win, he planned to savor every bite.

    Little Joe, on the other hand, would have none of that.  Jumping up and down, he yelled, “Eat fast, Hoss!  They beatin’ you.”  Mostly to please his little brother, Hoss speeded up his jaw action.

    Standing back, waiting for fresh pies to be needed, Marie leaned toward her friend.  “I see your Monsieur Dettenrieder is in the contest.  Is it you or your pie he favors most?”

“Now, what kind of question is that?” Laura chided playfully.

“Ben was asking me if romance was in the air,” Marie commented, then asked softly, “Is it?”

    “Maybe,” Laura replied with a demure smile.  “George is a fine man, a widower, and he has been attentive of late, but he hasn’t spoken of matrimony yet.”  Seeing two of the men finish off their respective pies, both Marie and Laura hurried to replace the empty pans with fresh ones.

    “And if he did speak of matrimony, would you accept?” Marie asked as they waited for the next man in need of a pie.

    “I’m not sure,” Laura said.  “After James died, I didn’t expect to marry again, but I guess enough time’s gone by that I’m willing to consider it.”

    Marie smiled.  “I happen to think second marriages are the best,” she said.

    Laura gave her hand a squeeze.  “Yes, but your first wasn’t as happy as mine, dear girl.  That makes a difference.  Still, it would make life easier, and Jimmy needs a father.”

    “You would not marry for that reason,” Marie said.  “I know you too well.”

    “No, no more than Ben married you to provide a mother for Hoss and Adam,” Laura agreed.  “Oh, speaking of mothers, had you heard that Eilley Bowers is one now?”

    “I knew her time must be close,” Marie returned, “but, no, I had not heard.  Boy or girl?”

    “A little boy, John Jasper, but so puny I fear he may not thrive.”  Laura cast an eye down the tables.  “Ah, more men in need of pies, I see.”  Again, she and Marie joined forces to rush pies to the table of hungry contestants.

    “Mama, Mama!” a small voice called insistently as Little Joe, having broken away from his keeper, ran up to his mother.  “Hoss need mo’ pie!”

    “Mais oui, mon petit, I will get him one,” Marie laughed, “and you take Jimmy’s hand again, as you were told.”

    Jimmy Ellis made a grab for the small hand and yanked Little Joe back into place.  “Be good for a change,” he dictated.  Ignoring Jimmy, Little Joe began once more to jump and cheer for Hoss.

    Meanwhile, across the plaza, the contestants had taken their places for the shooting contest.  “Might as well have saved yourselves the entry fee,” Billy boasted to his two friends.  “Prize is as good as mine.”

    Adam snorted.  “Oh, you think so, do you?  You’re as big a braggart as ever, Billy Thomas.”

    Billy smoothed an affectionate hand down the barrel of his rifle.  “Stands to reason, old buddy.  You’ve had your nose in the books so long you’re bound to be out of practice, and Mark here is new to soldiering, so I figure he ain’t even up to your standard.”

    Adam grinned back.  “You’re about to see how out of practice I am, buddy boy, but I’m glad to hear you think we’re your only competition, ‘cause I know I can beat you.”

    Rubbing his jaw, Billy surveyed the rest of the field.  “I’m not too worried about the old men, but that Marquette kid might make a contest of it, all right.”

“Kid?”  Adam laughed.  “He’s our age, isn’t he?”

“Closer to yours than mine, kid,” Billy replied with a mischievous wink.  Knowing that Billy was almost exactly one year older than Adam, both Adam and Mark Wentworth laughed.

“The important question is whether he can shoot,” Mark pointed out.

Billy gave a grim nod.  “Yeah, I’m afraid he can.  He fought with the Carson Rifles alongside me and seemed like a fair shot—as best I could judge between dodging Paiute bullets.”

    Mark shook his head in dismay.  “I’m beginning to wonder why I signed up for this.”

    “Oh, we know, don’t we, Adam?”  Billy cackled with mischievous glee.  “Showin’ off for something blue-eyed and beautiful, that’s what!”

    “That’s right,” Adam quickly agreed, smiling at his friend in uniform.

    Mark laughed.  “All right.  I admit it, but I’ve got a feeling I won’t make much of a showing, with the likes of you two and that other fellow to shoot against.  Been spending more time helping to patch up bullet holes than I have shooting, of late.”  His evaluation proving true, Mark was eliminated after the first round, but his lack of prowess did not seem to diminish him one iota in Sally Martin’s adoring eyes.  When she slipped her arm through his and stood beside him to watch the remaining shooters, Mark felt that he’d won first prize, after all.

    As the contestants lined up for the third and final round, Adam found himself standing next to the Marquette boy, who was as good a shot as Billy had feared.  “You’re doing some pretty straight shooting, Marquette,” he said.

     The Marquette boy flushed to the tips of his ears, which stuck out from beneath an unruly thatch of muddy-brown hair.  “Uh, thanks.  You, too—Cartwright, isn’t it?”

    “Adam.”  He thrust out his right hand.

    The other boy awkwardly switched his rifle into his left hand and closed his fingers around Adam’s outstretched palm.  “Ross.  Ross Marquette.”  He flushed again.  “Oh, you knew that, already.”

    Adam chuckled.  “Just half of it, and I can’t go on calling such a fine marksman ‘that Marquette kid.’”

    “Kid?”  Ross Marquette frowned.

    Adam laughed aloud at the look on the other fellow’s face.  “Not my description, you understand.  You’ve met my loud-mouthed friend, Billy Thomas, I presume, the one shooting now?  To him, we’re both kids, he being so much older, you see.”

    Ross laughed, too, then.  “Guess we’ll have to show that old man what two kids can do, then!”

    A loud voice interrupted the laughter.  “Ross!  Get your mind back on your business, boy!  You’re up next.”

    Ross Marquette flinched.  “That’s my pa.  Look, it’s nice talkin’ to you, Cartwright, but like he says, I got to concentrate now.”

    “Sure,” Adam said, a furrow forming in his brow.  Peter Marquette was staring at his son with narrowed and almost severe gaze as Ross went to the line and took aim.  It had to be making the boy nervous, Adam figured, so he wasn’t surprised when Ross’s shot went wide of the target and he was eliminated.  “Tough luck,” Adam said as the downcast boy moved back from the line.

    “Uh, yeah,” Ross muttered, sweeping a hank of hair out of his eyes.  “Well, hope your luck’s better, Cartwright.”

    “Adam,” he insisted.

    “Ross!  Quit your jawin’ and git over here,” Peter Marquette demanded.

    “Uh, gotta go,” Ross said quickly, keeping his voice low.  He loped toward his father, and Adam was shocked to see the man swing a none-too-gentle swipe at his new friend’s backside.  What was the matter with Peter Marquette?  It was only a contest, meant for fun, and Ross had done very well, right up until his father had butted in and made him nervous.

    “Next up, Adam Cartwright,” called the announcer, and Adam approached the line to the cheers of his father and friends.

    Within an hour both pie and shooting contests were finished, and the Cartwrights met back at their buckboard to begin the journey home.  “How’d you do, Adam?” Hoss asked eagerly as his father and older brother walked up.

    “Your brother took first prize,” Ben announced proudly, clapping his eldest son on the back.

    “Hurray!” Hoss hollered.

    “H’ray!” shouted his younger echo.

    “Thanks,” Adam said, “but I was lucky to win.  That Billy’s a crack shot.  Mine was just a hair closer to the center of the target in the final round.  They even had to measure to be sure.”

    “Well, you was best, anyway,” Hoss declared loyally.

    “And how about you?” Adam asked Hoss, lifting his youngest brother into the back of the buckboard as Ben assisted Marie to the seat and walked around to mount the other side.  “How’d you make out with the pies?”

    “Hoss best, too, Adam!” Little Joe declared.

    “You’re kidding!” Adam exclaimed.

    “He don’t know what he’s sayin’,” Hoss replied, crawling in the back end.  “I did better than I figured I would, though.  Came in third.”

    “See?  Hoss best!”  Little Joe insisted.

    “Third place against grown men?”  Adam whistled.  “I’m with you, Little Joe.  When it comes to eating, Hoss is the best.”

    “Told you,” Little Joe smirked at his middle brother.

    Ben looked over his shoulder from the seat of the buckboard.  “Well, get in, Adam, if you want a ride over to the Thomases.”  Adam had left his horse in his friend’s barn and walked the short distance to the plaza, as the rest of the family would have had there been no food to transport.

    “No, I’m not leaving yet,” Adam said, but after seeing his father’s frown, he quickly added, “if that’s all right with you.”

    “What are your plans?” Ben asked.

    Adam shrugged.  “No plans.  Just gonna hang around town awhile, talk to my friends a little more.”

    “Will you be home for supper, Adam?” Marie inquired quickly, trying to forestall any conflict between father and son.

    “Kind of doubt it,” Adam replied.  “I’ll probably eat at either the Thomases or Martins.”

    “Don’t stay out too late,” Ben admonished as he picked up the reins.

    “I won’t,” Adam called to the departing buckboard.

    Before leaving town, Ben swung by his friends’ home to drop off their dishes, since all the food had been carried to the plaza in one buckboard.  He and Hoss helped carry Nelly’s kitchenware inside while Marie struggled to separate a disappointed Little Joe from Bobby’s shirt and redress him in his own frock, now clean and dry.  “Rest a spell before you head out,” Nelly suggested when the Cartwrights prepared to leave.

    “No, better not,” Ben said, almost automatically.  “It’s a long drive, and we should get started.”

    Not having expected to be taken up on her invitation, Nelly nodded easy acceptance of the explanation.  She followed the Cartwrights out to their wagon and, with a hesitant look at Marie, added a final comment.  “You think about what I said, Ben.  You don’t want to be raisin’ a pack of heathens.”

    Marie cocked her head quizzically at her husband, but Ben made no response other than standard words of farewell.  When they were outside town, Marie asked, “What did she mean about raising a pack of heathens?  Was she upset about Little Joe’s behavior?”

    “No, of course not,” Ben scoffed.  “Having raised Billy, she’s had plenty of experience with mischievous little boys.”

    “Then what?” Marie pressed.

    Ben took a deep breath.  “While we were watching the shooting, we heard that there were going to be revival services here in Carson on the fifteenth.  Nelly was very excited about it and suggested it was time our boys had some religious training.”

    Marie sat up stiffly.  “Some Protestant religious training.  That is what she meant, is it not?”

    “Now, Marie, don’t take it that way,” Ben urged.

    “I have always thought we were doing a fine job of teaching our sons the right way of life,” Marie said haughtily.  “They are not heathen!”

    “There are times I wonder,” Ben laughed, trying to lighten the discussion.  When he saw that his wife continued to glower, he tried a different approach.  “My love, you are a good and godly woman, and you are doing a fine job with our boys.  No one doubts that.”

    “For a Catholic, you mean?” Marie demanded.

    “Marie, don’t be like this,” Ben pleaded.  “Have I ever given you reason to think I felt anything but respect for your beliefs?”

    Marie quieted at once.  “No, mon mari, you have not, but others do not think as you do.”

    “I don’t care what the rest of the world thinks, so long as you and I are at peace over this issue,” Ben said.

    Marie nodded.  “We will be at peace, however hard we must work for that peace.”  She was silent for a few moments and then asked, “These services?  You would like to go?”

    “We have so few opportunities to attend church,” Ben stated before answering more directly.  “Yes, I would like to go, and I would like to take my family with me—my whole family, if you’re willing.”

    Marie sighed, feeling hesitant, but not wanting to deprive her husband of something he so obviously wanted.  “Oui,” she agreed at length.  “I will try your style of worship, mon amour, but you must not expect my own preference to change.”

    Ben leaned over to kiss her cheek.  “I promise I won’t,” he said tenderly.

    The following people are historical settlers of western Utah, as Nevada was known in 1860:  Theodore Winters and his new wife Margaret, Matthias Fege, Jacob Shroeder, the O’Neill family, James Sturtevant, W. T. C. (Rough) Elliott and Richard and William Sides, as well as Abraham Curry, the founder of Carson City.
    Laura and Jimmy Ellis are also historical figures, as is George Dettenrieder, her beau in this chapter.  While I had indicated in a previous volume of Heritage of Honor that Laura was near Marie’s age, subsequent research in the 1880 census has revealed that she would actually have been more than twenty years older.  The real Laura Ellis was forty-five in 1860.
    Ross Marquette is a character from the Bonanza episode, “The Dark Gate” by Al C. Ward.  All other members of his family are inventions of the author.
 

    Dressed in a well-fitting gray suit, Adam leaned through the doorway to Hoss’s bedroom.  “You better get a move on,” he cautioned the younger boy.  “Pa’s ready to leave, and Marie will be as soon as she finishes dressing Little Joe.”

    “That’ll take awhile,” Hoss muttered, “fancy as she’s primpin’ him up.”  Then, as Adam moved back into the hall, the younger boy called, “Hey, help me with this fool tie, okay?”

    Adam turned around and walked over to his brother.  “Sure.”  He took the two ends of the brown string tie and looped them expertly into a loose bow.  “There you go.”

    “Thanks,” Hoss said.  “Don’t see why we gotta dress up for this revival thing.”

    Adam shrugged.  “Folks dress for church.  It’s tradition or something, I guess.”

    “You been before?”

    “Some,” Adam replied, sitting on Hoss’s bed and tucking one leg under the other.  “We used to go with your ma—the one who gave birth to you, I mean—when we lived in St. Joe.  This may be different, though, because she was Lutheran and this preacher’s Methodist-Episcopal, Pa says.”

    Hoss shook his head, confused.  “And which of them is heathens?” he asked.

    Adam laughed.  “Neither one.  They’re both Christian churches.”

    Annoyed by his brother’s obvious amusement, Hoss scowled.  “What is heathens, then?”

    Adam smiled mischievously.  “You and Little Joe come to mind as prime examples,” he suggested with a soft laugh.

    Hoss doubled his fist.  “Quit makin’ fun of me,” he demanded.

    Adam held both hands protectively before his face.  “Okay, okay,” he chuckled.  “Peace, little brother.  Where’d you hear that word, anyway?”

    Hoss unclenched his fist and leaned toward Adam.  “That’s what Aunt Nelly’s afeerd we’re gonna be if we don’t come to this revival meetin’,” he whispered.

    “That’s silly,” Adam muttered.  He patted the bed beside him and Hoss sat down.  “A heathen is—well”—he searched for some way to express the meaning simple enough that Hoss might understand—”well, someone who doesn’t believe in God and, of course, we do.”

    “Sure we do,” Hoss declared.  “Everybody knows there’s a God.”

    “Not everybody,” Adam stated, “but most folks around here are believers, so don’t you go calling anyone a heathen, you hear?”

    “I don’t call folks names,” Hoss protested.  Having been called some unpleasant names himself, he felt incensed by the suggestion that he could do something so hurtful.

    “No, I know you don’t, buddy,” Adam said, giving the chunky lad beside him a quick hug.  “But sometimes when you throw around words you don’t understand, you can hurt people without meaning to.  That’s what I meant.”

    Hoss smiled up at the big brother he had admired as long as he could remember.  Then his brow puckered in thought as he recalled other words he’d recently heard without understanding.  “Adam, what’s a prostant?”

    “Huh?” Adam asked.

    “A prostant,” Hoss repeated.  “You know all kinds of words, so I figured you’d know.  I—I think Pa is one—and Ma ain’t.  She’s something like a cat lick.”

    Adam doubled over, cackling, and Hoss clenched his fist once more, this time pounding his brother’s back.  “Okay, okay, hold up,” Adam begged, trying to bring his laughter under control.  “It’s not cat lick, Hoss.  Marie is a Catholic, and Pa’s Protestant.  That must be the other word you meant.”

    “Okay, so what they mean?” Hoss demanded.  “Which one’s a heathen?”

    Adam ruffled his fingers through Hoss’s sandy hair.  “Neither one, buddy.  They’re just different ways of worshipping God.”

    Hoss shook his head, still obviously confused.  “Sure must be a bunch of different ways,” he sighed.

    “Yeah, buddy, there are.”  Adam patted his brother’s knee.  “Time you got a look at one, I guess.  We’d better get downstairs.”

   Fingers shaking inside delicate lace gloves, Marie retied her hat ribbons as the buckboard pulled up before the large tent that had been erected for the revival services in Carson City.  Looking around at the other worshippers entering the makeshift place of worship, she knew instantly that the hat had been a mistake.  Though she’d worn it regularly when she attended church in New Orleans, the wide brim and elaborate ornamental feather looked out of place among the homemade poke bonnets.  She could feel the eyes of every woman on her as Ben helped her down.

    Marie shook the wrinkles from her maroon dress, the bodice and sleeves of which were covered in lace one shade lighter.  Though she’d only wanted to look her best, to combat a little of her nervousness, she decided with a sigh that she’d obviously tried too hard.  While the dress was tailored along simple lines, the fabric and accessories made it stand out even among the dark poplins and silks worn by the better-dressed women, much less the faded calicos of those less well off.

    Ben lifted Little Joe down from the wagon, and Marie smiled as she took his small hand.  Her child, at least, looked exactly as he should, although he obviously didn’t share her appreciation for the cream-colored dress with six tiny tucks on each side of the row of pearl buttons down the front.  Ben took her opposite arm, and they walked into the tent together, with Adam and Hoss following.

    Moving down the narrow aisle, flanked on both sides by long, wooden plank benches, the Cartwrights saw Nelly Thomas stand to wave them forward.  To Marie’s dismay, the Thomases were sitting just three rows from the front, but she gave her friend a strained smile as she guided Little Joe down the row toward the older woman.

    Nelly caught the little boy up and gave him a hug and a kiss, which Little Joe promptly returned.  “My, you’ve sure got our little sugarfoot decked out fine this morning,” Nelly observed.

    “I think I picked well—for him, at least,” Marie said quietly.  Looking down at her own frock, she added, “I fear I have overdressed for the occasion.”

    Sensing the younger woman’s need for reassurance, Nelly squeezed her hand warmly.  “Not at all, not at all.  You look right fine, honey lamb, and so does your little one.”  Nelly had learned long ago that there was no quicker way to bring a smile to Marie’s face than to compliment her beautiful baby.

    As the two ladies sat side by side on the rough bench, Clyde leaned around his wife.  “You did bring little mischief a spare this time, didn’t you?” he chuckled.  Young Inger, seated beyond her father, giggled, and Marie returned the laughter.

    “Mais oui,” she said, the familiar teasing easing her tension a little.  “I have learned to check that most closely.”

    Little Joe squirmed out of Nelly’s lap and started to squeeze past his mother’s knees and then his father’s.  As Ben lifted the little boy into his lap, the youngest Cartwright let loose a squeal of outrage.  “Wanna sit wif my bubbas!” he announced loudly.  Heads turned at the sound, but most simply turned back again once they’d traced its source.

    “Shh,” Ben ordered.  “You sit still and be quiet, Joseph.  You’re in church.”

    The word had no meaning for Little Joe and gave him no motivation to surrender.  “I wanna sit”—he began firmly, but before he could finish the restatement of his desire, Ben smacked his bare calf, an action his youngest son rewarded with outthrust lip and quivering chin.

    “I can hold him, Pa,” Adam offered from the end of the row.

    Nelly Thomas beamed her approval as Ben passed the boy over to Adam.  All to the good, she thought.  Now his mother can concentrate on the preachin’.  She patted Marie’s hand.  “I reckon this is all kind of new to you,” she said kindly, “so if there’s anything you don’t understand, you just ask.”

    Marie nodded, out of politeness, although she had no intention of accepting that offer.  If ever a situation warranted following the Apostle Paul’s admonition to women to keep silent in the church and wait until they were home alone to ask questions of their husbands, she decided, this must surely be it.  Smiling demurely at Ben, she recalled how, as a young girl, she’d rebelled against the idea of submitting to a man—a rebellion, among others, the Ursuline nuns of New Orleans, in whose orphanage she had been raised, had endeavored long and futilely to quell.

    “And if you decide you want to sit on the mourners’ bench,” Nelly was chattering on, “I’ll be happy to go along with you.”

    Bewilderment filled Marie’s emerald eyes.  “Mourners’ bench?  But I am not in mourning.  Jean has been dead many years now.”

    Nelly drew a sharp breath.  “Oh, honey lamb, that’s not what I meant!”  She could do no more than shake her head at her friend’s appalling ignorance of spiritual matters, however, for the minister was approaching the crudely built pulpit.

    After introducing himself and welcoming everyone to the service, the Reverend Jesse L. Bennett led the congregation in several rousing hymns, all of which were new to Marie.  Ben and Adam sang exuberantly along with the others.  Hoss, at first, was too shy to add his voice, but as each song was sung several times, he began to recognize the words and was soon able to repeat them.  Hearing Hoss’s voice break into song was all the motivation Little Joe needed to chime in with discordant syllables that had little resemblance to what the other worshippers were singing.

Adam bent his lips to the little boy’s ear to shush him, but the admonition was only effective until the beginning of the next song.  “Hush or I’ll have to take you out,” Adam warned.

    “Okay,” Little Joe piped cheerfully.  He had quickly tired of sitting still and was quite willing to explore the world outside the tent.

    Adam grinned, reading his little brother’s thoughts.  “Pa won’t like it,” he advised in a whisper.  “Better be good.”

    Little Joe frowned.  It made no sense to him that he alone had to sit quietly and listen when everyone else was making noise.  One glance at his father’s face, however, was enough to confirm that Pa was, indeed, displeased with his behavior, so Little Joe snuggled back into Adam’s protective embrace and popped his thumb into his mouth for extra solace.  Adam rewarded him with a light kiss brushed against his soft curls.

    Ben had no cause for complaint about any of his sons’ behavior during the sermon.  Adam was listening intently, and Hoss’s face was screwed up attentively as he tried to understand what was being said.  Little Joe, on the other hand, was simply fascinated by the way the preacher paced back and forth across the front of the tent and even came down the aisle once or twice to make more direct contact with his listeners.  The second time, when the man stopped close to the row on which the Cartwrights and Thomases were seated, the toddler flashed his sweet smile.

    The Reverend Jesse L. Bennett proved no more resistant than most people.  Returning the smile, he gestured toward the child as he closed his sermon.  “Friends, this is a picture of the innocence of heart the Savior purchased for you on Calvary.  Come now, like a child; be washed of your sins and receive this innocence into your own heart, I urge you!”

    It was all Adam could do to keep a straight face, but feeling certain that no plea of manhood would save him from dire consequences if he laughed out loud during the altar call, he managed to avoid giving vocal expression to his amusement.  He had less success, however, in stopping the twitching of his lips as he mused that had the minister been blessed with a better acquaintance with Little Joe, he’d have chosen a different illustration of innocence.  His baby brother might look like a cherub, but everyone who’d spent more than an hour in his company knew there was definite impishness behind that sweet, little grin.

    A number of people, however, seemed to want their hearts to feel as clean and innocent as that child’s, for one by one they made their way to the mourners’ bench to signal their sorrow over their sins and invite the prayers of the godly.  To Nelly’s evident disappointment, Marie was not among them.

    At the conclusion of the service, Ben put Adam in charge of his younger brothers and took his wife’s arm.  “I want to thank Reverend Bennett for his message,” he explained as he led her forward.

    “Mais oui,” Marie agreed quietly.

    There had been around seventy people crowded into the tent that morning, so they had to wait a few minutes before Ben had his chance to introduce himself and his wife and express his appreciation to the minister.  “I’m glad you could come, Brother Cartwright,” Reverend Bennett said warmly, then turned toward Marie.  “And you, too, Sister Cartwright.”

    Marie’s brow furrowed for a moment, not being accustomed to hearing anyone but nuns addressed by that title.  Another question to ask Ben later, she thought as she gave the minister a mannerly nod.

    They made their way outside, Clyde meeting them as soon as they exited.  “Nelly’s gone on to the house to start dinner, but she says to stay and visit with folks as long as you’ve a mind,” he reported faithfully.  “I know I aim to.”

    “Oh, but I should help,” Marie said.

    “Don’t go yet,” Ben urged.  “I see someone else I’d like you to meet.”

    “All right, Ben, but then I should go,” Marie insisted.  “It is not right to leave all the work to Nelly.”

    “I agree.”  He took her arm again and steered her toward a thin man in uniform.  “Captain Stewart, how good to see you again,” Ben said warmly as he extended his hand.  “I’d like to introduce my wife, Marie.  Marie, this is Captain Stewart, under whose command I had the privilege to serve during the recent hostilities.”

    The captain doffed his slouch hat, revealing a receding hairline above jet-black hair, and bowed slightly.  “My pleasure, ma’am.  Did you enjoy the services?” he asked.

    “Well, it was different,” Marie began hesitantly, not quite knowing how to express her feelings, “more—more vigorous than I am accustomed to.”

    “My wife is Catholic,” Ben explained, “and this was her first experience with a Protestant revival.”

    Marie saw the heads of several women nearby turn when Ben mentioned her religion and watched the Army officer closely to see if his reaction was equally negative.  Captain Stewart, however, merely said, “Ah, I can see why things seemed different to you, then.  You’re probably used to a more ordered service.”

    “Mais oui,” Marie smiled.  “I do miss that, but there is no Catholic church here.”

    “But there is,” Captain Stewart corrected.  “Several men at the post have requested passes to attend Catholic services in or near Virginia City.  I could ask them the exact location if you’d be interested, Mrs. Cartwright.”

    “I know where it is,” Ben said quietly.

    Marie lifted shocked eyes to her husband’s face.  “You knew, and said nothing?” she demanded, feeling her temper rise.

    Ben took her hand and gave it a gentle caress.  “They hold the services inside a mine tunnel, my love.  I didn’t consider that an appropriate place for a lady, so I didn’t mention it.”

    “It’s my understanding, Mr. Cartwright, that a small chapel is being planned,” the Army captain offered.

    “Indeed?  I’d certainly feel more at ease about my wife’s worshipping above ground.”

    Marie gazed longingly into her husband’s eyes.  “Oh, Ben, may we?” she asked eagerly.

    Ben nodded.  “We’ll talk more about it later.”

    Marie suddenly remembered her desire to help Nelly with the noon meal.  “ Oui.  Please excuse me, Captain Stewart,” she said, “but I am expected at a friend’s home.  Thank you so much for telling me of the new church.”

    “You’re welcome, ma’am,” Captain Stewart said, bowing again.  Facing Ben, he added, “I had hoped to speak with you about another matter, Mr. Cartwright, if you can spare a few more moments.”

    “Certainly,” a curious Ben replied.  “You go ahead, Marie, and I’ll be along directly.”

    “I’ll take the boys,” she told him and after looking around for a moment, headed toward Adam, who was talking with Sally Martin.  As she passed a group of ladies, she heard one tell the others in a stage whisper too loud to ignore, “She’s a Papist.”

    “Should have guessed,” another commented, “decked out in Popish finery like that!”

    Marie lifted her chin and walked past the ladies without a word.  “Where are your brothers?” she asked Adam sharply when she reached him.

    Adam looked surprised at the tone.  “They went with Nelly,” he said.

    “You were asked to look after them,” Marie snapped.  “It is not right to burden Nelly with their care when she is busy cooking.”  She turned on her heel and stormed off toward the Thomas residence.

    Adam whistled.  “What brought that on?” he observed.

    Sally shrugged.  “Couldn’t say, but I’d make peace if I were you, Adam.”

    “It’d be easier if I knew what I’d done wrong,” Adam laughed.  “Well, I’d better be going.  I have a feeling today is not the day to be late to dinner.”

    “Father’s out on a call, so it doesn’t matter when I cook ours,” Sally responded merrily.

    “Hey, come on and take dinner with us,” Adam suggested.  “You know Nelly won’t mind, and I could use a buffer.”

    Sally shook her head and grinned.  “I think I’ll stay clear of there today.”

    Adam gave her a friendly kiss on the cheek and left in the same direction as his stepmother, taking care to keep well behind her, however.

    Ben was oblivious to the storm brewing across the plaza, for he found the news Captain Stewart was sharing of vital interest.  “The Army will be staying on, then?” Ben asked.  “In light of the recent problems with the Indians, that will make many people rest easier, sir.”

    “Precisely why my troops have been restationed here, Mr. Cartwright,” the captain shared, “and to that end, I’ve been commissioned to supervise the building of a new fort, a project with which I could use your help, sir.”

    “My help?” Ben queried.  “I’ll do whatever I can, of course, but I don’t know what I have to offer to such a project, Captain.”

    “First, I thought you might supply timber for the buildings, Mr. Cartwright,” the captain returned with a smile.  “I understand you have quite a stand of it on your Ponderosa.”

    “Trees I have in abundance,” Ben laughed, “but I’ve always considered myself a rancher, not a timber man.”

    “An area you might want to consider, Mr. Cartwright,” Stewart suggested.

“Call me Ben,” Ben requested.

“I’d be pleased to, and you may call me Jasper—except in front of my men, of course.”

“Of course,” Ben readily agreed, “but I thought your given name was Joseph, sir.”

Stewart laughed.  “It is, but I’m Jasper to my friends, and I would like to consider you one.”  Returning to his original subject, he continued, “With the mines going deeper all the time, there’ll be an enormous market for timber, Ben, and a wise man learns to diversify his assets.”

    Ben slowly nodded his head.  “Yes, you could be right.  Something to think about.”

    “We plan to construct most of the buildings of adobe,” the captain continued, “so not a large amount of timber will be needed.  However, that makes it an ideal project for someone just starting out in the business, and I would prefer to assign it to someone I trust.  I found you to be such a man during the action against the Paiutes.”

    The warm praise brought a glow to Ben’s countenance.  “Sir—Jasper—I’d be honored to take on this assignment, and I thank you for thinking of me.”  He extended his hand, and the two men sealed the bargain with a handshake.

    “There is one other area in which I’d appreciate your help, although there will be no profit to you in it,” Jasper continued.

    “Name it,” Ben said readily.

    “Samuel Buckland has recommended a site for the new fort,” the captain explained.  “However, since it is on his own land, I would like an outside opinion.  You’ve been in this area as long as or longer than anyone else I might consult, so I would appreciate your riding out to the site with me and giving me an honest evaluation.”

    “I’d be glad to,” Ben said.  “My only concern would be leaving my family for that length of time.  I’ve heard that the Paiutes have been returning to Pyramid Lake.  Do you know if there’s any truth to that rumor?”

    “It’s true,” Captain Stewart replied soberly, “and many of them would still like to massacre the white settlers.  Thankfully, we’ve had the assistance of two peace-loving chiefs, who have thus far been able to dissuade their people from further violence—except against the Pony riders and stage stations, of course.”

    “Numaga?” Ben asked.

    “Yes, and Oderkeo,” Jasper replied.  “I appreciate your concern for your family, Ben, but I doubt they’re in any danger.  If the Paiutes do decide to attack, they’d most likely head in the direction we’ll be going, so you’d have advance warning, as well as a complement of soldiers between the savages and your loved ones.”

    “That’s true,” Ben admitted, relaxing.  “In fact, on that basis, perhaps I’ll bring my son along, if you have no objection.  He has quite an interest in structures and might provide some valuable insight.”

    “Adam?  A fine lad,” the captain commented, remembering how stalwartly the young man had conducted himself on the journey from California and during the Battle of Pinnacle Mount.  “By all means, bring him with you.”

    After a brief discussion the two men decided that the following Friday would be the best time for both of them to examine the proposed site for the new fort and agreed to meet around noon that day at the Big Bend of the Carson River.

    In 1860 the Reverend Jesse L. Bennett preached the first sermon heard in Virginia City.  He had, however, come to western Utah as early as 1859, probably returning to California during the interim.
    Captain Joseph (Jasper) Stewart is a historical figure, the first officer in charge of Ft. Churchill.
 

    In order to shorten their ride to the scheduled meeting with Captain Stewart, Ben and Adam spent the night in Carson City with the Thomases and rose early on Friday, July 20th.  Riding south, they reached the Carson River and stopped to water their horses.

Adam stooped down to splash water on his face.  “Gonna be a scorcher,” he commented as he stood.

Ben lowered the just-filled canteen from his lips.  “Days don’t come any other way this time of year, son.  Besides, we need the heat to cure the hay.”

    Adam groaned.  “Don’t remind me.  If there’s one job I hate . . .”

    Ben clapped his son on the back.  “You and me both, but it has to be done—and right away.  We’re late getting started this year as it is.”

    “Well, that couldn’t be helped, Pa,” Adam pointed out.  “All that foul weather this spring meant the grass got a late start.”

    Ben chuckled.  “I know, Adam.  I was tromping through that snow right along with you, remember?  And we’ve been playing catch-up with the ranch work we let slide while we were with the army.”

    “Now here we are again, giving the army more of our time.”  Adam grinned.

    Ben plucked Adam’s black hat brim down over his eyes.  “We’d best get a move on, boy, or the army will be waiting on us.”

    Adam pushed his hat back.  “We’ll make it with time to spare,” he said as he gathered the reins of the black gelding and vaulted into the saddle.

    Father and son rode east along the river, grateful for the wide shade of the dark-leaved cottonwoods.  As Adam had predicted, they arrived at Buckland’s Station before the appointed time, but Captain Stewart was already there, waiting for them in the tavern.  “Gentlemen, may I offer you some liquid refreshment after your long ride?” the Army officer suggested.

    “I’d be pleased to accept,” Ben replied.  “A day as hot as this does give a man a thirst.”

    “Adam?” Captain Stewart asked.

    Remembering that his father had once requested he not drink until he was eighteen, Adam started to decline.  Before he could answer, however, Ben smiled and said, “You can have a beer if you like—but just one.”

    “One’ll be enough,” Adam said, pleased to receive a man’s privilege in the presence of the Army officer.  “Thank you, Captain Stewart.”

    “Three beers, Mr. Buckland,” Captain Stewart called to the raw-boned tavern owner, who was standing behind the bar.

    “Right away, Cap’n,” Samuel Buckland yelled back, ignoring his one other customer to hastily draw three beers and hustle them to the men who would decide on the sale of his property.  “On the house,” he said as he set the beers on the round, wooden table.  “Wish they was colder, but reckon they’ll wash the dust out’n your throats, anyhow.”

    Captain Stewart nodded in acknowledgement, his moderate manner intended to convey that his approval of the sale could not be influenced by a free drink.  Buckland got the message and backed off to let the men finish their beers in private.  When all three mugs were drained, Captain Stewart suggested they head immediately for the proposed site of the new fort.  He left the tavern first, followed by Adam.

    Just as Ben was about to exit, he felt a thin arm circle his shoulders.  Turning, he found himself looking into deep-set eyes with a ravenous look about them.  He raised a quizzical eyebrow.

    “Now, Ben, you and me’s old pals, ain’t we?” Sam Buckland queried.  “You’re gonna give a good report on my land, ain’t ya?”

    Ben gave the younger man a crooked smile.  He’d never considered Sam a “pal,” but he was an old acquaintance, and Ben decided not to take umbrage at the bald-faced attempt to influence his evaluation.  “I’m gonna give it an honest report, Sam,” he said.  “You can be sure of that—and I doubt you’ll be disappointed.”  Ben was familiar enough with the territory that he could almost give his approval, sight unseen, but considered it wise to examine the exact location before he spoke.

    The last phrase gave Sam the reassurance he was looking for.  “Uh—yeah—an honest report, that’s all I was askin’, Ben.”

    “I’m sure it was,” Ben said, clapping the man’s bony back, and went out quickly to join the others, who were already mounted.  Having seen the byplay at the door, Adam gave him a grin and a wink.  Ben just shook his head, chuckling, and mounted quickly.

    The land Sam Buckland hoped to sell the Army was only a mile west of the tavern, so Captain Stewart was soon pointing out the boundaries of the proposed site.  “Well, what do you think, Ben?  Would this be a good place for the fort?”

    “Excellent, in my view, Jasper,” Ben said.  “Good water supply, close to a major road, good view of the trail in both directions.  Buckland’s toll bridge means easy access to the opposite side of the Carson River, as well.  The only drawback I see is the proximity of that tavern.  Might encourage drunkenness among the men.”

    “Soldiers don’t need much encouragement in that department,” Stewart said with a smile.  “Frankly, if I must haul tipsy soldiers back to the fort, I’d prefer to travel only one mile, as opposed to twenty-five to the saloons of Virginia City.”

    Ben laughed heartily.  “That’s a point.”  Suddenly, he realized his son had wandered away from them.  “Adam?” he called.

    Adam waved and walked down the slope he’d just climbed.  “I’d build up there, on the elevated ground,” he said as he came up to the other two men.  “Being this close to the river, you’ll want some protection against flooding.”

    “Good suggestion, young man,” Captain Stewart said with a smile.  “Your father tells me you have an architectural interest, so while we’re here, I’d appreciate your advice on the layout of the buildings.  Why don’t we sit under the shade of one of those trees by the river, so I can tell you what we plan to build and we can discuss precise locations and the amount of lumber we’ll need you to supply.”

    “Sounds good,” Ben said.

    The three men sat beneath the circular shade of a large cottonwood and discussed the buildings needed, the best location for each and the timber to be provided by the Cartwrights.  When all was decided, a contract was signed.  “Now, I must get back to Buckland’s Station and finalize the sale of this property,” Stewart said.  “Of course, you understand that your timber contract is contingent upon successful purchase of the land, but I don’t anticipate any problems.”

    “I’d be very surprised if Sam gave you problems,” Ben said.  “Having soldiers nearby should significantly enhance his profits, as well as providing additional security.”

    Stewart smiled.  “As I said, I anticipate no problems, for those very reasons.  If you’d like to return with me, you could verify the validity of your contract this afternoon, and I’ll gladly buy you each another beer.”

    “Thank you, but we’d best be going,” Ben replied.  “I’d like to make another stop on the way home.”

    Adam cocked his head curiously, but didn’t inquire into his father’s plans until they were alone.  “I didn’t know we were going anywhere else today, Pa,” he said.

    “I didn’t mention it because I wasn’t sure we’d get away in time,” Ben explained.  “I thought I’d ride up through Gold Hill into Virginia City to see if I could learn anything more about that Catholic chapel Captain Stewart mentioned on Sunday.  You needn’t come unless you want to.”

    “I’ll ride along with you,” Adam replied.  “Maybe you’ll even treat me to a second beer.”

    Ben chuckled.  “I wouldn’t count on it.  Maybe I’ll buy you a nice, cool sarsaparilla.”

    “Oh, Pa,” Adam grunted.  He knew he was being teased, but as he considered that beverage more appropriate for a kid Hoss’s age than a man like himself, he didn’t find the offer amusing.

    Ben grinned even wider.  “Well, we’ll see,” he said appeasingly.

    Adam grinned back, and they rode in companionable silence for several miles.  “We’re sure taking on a load of work,” Adam commented at length.  “Will we be hiring some extra hands?”

    “If we can find any,” Ben said.  “With the haying to do and the timber contract to fill, we could use extra help, but it’s still hard for us to compete with those miners’ dreams of making a fortune.  We’ll have to push to get it all done before you leave for school, so you might as well plan on some long days ‘til then, young man.”

    Adam licked his lips.  His father had just touched on a topic he’d known for some time that they needed to discuss, but it was still hard to bring it up.  “Pa,” he said quietly after a few minutes’ silence, “I’ve been thinking that maybe I shouldn’t go back to school this year.”

    Ben jolted his horse to a stop.  “That’s ridiculous, Adam.  No need for that at all, son.”

    “But with all the extra work—”

    “We’ll manage,” Ben assured him.

    “And what about the Indians?” Adam pressed.  “I’d feel terrible if I left and things got stirred up again.”

    Ben scowled.&n