The usual disclaimer:The Cartwrights and other Bonanza characters belong to D. Dortort; I just let them out of their stables and took them for a little gallop in the fields. This story was written for pure enjoyment and does not intend to infringe on anybody’s copyright.

I’m grateful to everybody who read it, pointed out typos and had suggestions for improvement. Thanks to Becky for kicking out the lindwurm. A big warm thanks to Gwynne Logan, who took the time to do a detailed edit of the text. She had many thoughtful comments, fearlessly rounded up all those stray commas and gently pointed out that gerunds are not my friends. And sorry about the prairie oysters (wink wink).

Everybody needs a bucket. It doesn’t matter who you are or what you do for a living; whether you are rich or poor, old or young, honest or crooked, whether you live in a mansion or in a shack – chances are you own a bucket. Chances are also that you don’t pay much attention to your bucket, unless, of course, you need it for some task or other. And even then, if you’re like most people, your mind is likely to be occupied by more important things…..

Virginia City, Friday, April 26, 1860

Most of them arrived without a clue about how to work a claim, and few had had the brilliant foresight to bring any equipment. Soon, a good shovel could cost more than a good mule, and men had been known to bash each other’s skulls in with the very pickaxes they were fighting over.

So when on this cool spring morning the owner of Baxter mercantile hung a sign in the window that read:

“New hardware in:
shovels, pans, pickaxes,
sturdy tin buckets with lids, 
only 90 cents a piece,”

Sitting on the seat of the buckboard, Ben Cartwright sighed, as he always did when coming into town these days. Their once sleepy frontier trading post seemed to be undergoing a frightening metamorphosis. On every trip they took, there were new A-frame shacks, more wagonloads of wide-eyed newcomers, more stacks of loose timber lining the roadsides, and the fuzzy cover of canvas tents had crawled further up the surrounding hills like a fungus. With the many trampling hooves and feet, the mud grew ever deeper.

Thousands had come in the fall of ’59 and had been caught by the snows of November. Helter-skelter, up and down the hills and valleys, they squatted through that first winter under tarps made from old burlap sacks and in boxes rigged from moldy scrap wood; some subsisted like gophers in holes they had dug into the hillsides. Many didn’t live through the brutal winter, and the melt waters of spring had carried their rotting bodies from the hills to deposit them on the outskirts of town. There was hunger, despair and lawlessness, and Ben had heard whispered stories telling of those who lived only because they ate those who didn’t.

And then spring had come. The Washoe Zephyrs swept from the hills to blow away the rickety dwellings along with the musty smell of breakup. It wasn’t uncommon to see a frayed sail of sewn-together feed sacks, some poor devil’s home for the last three months, lift into the air and fly away like some great prehistoric bird. The mud was drying, the mines were open, and the building of Virginia City had begun.

A constant hammering filled the air, and Ben felt the thump – thump of the stamp mills vibrate in his belly like an animal heartbeat. He was sure that if he were to lie on the ground and put his ear to the earth, he would be able to hear the pounding of rock hammers and pickaxes hundreds of feet underneath. 

In the last two months, Virginia City had grown by several hotels, a few gambling halls, and even – God help them all – a brothel or two, inhabited by painted females with bad teeth who had followed on the heels of the silver strike to stake their own kind of a claim. They sashayed down the town’s wooden boardwalks in broad daylight, winking at young boys and threadbare old sourdoughs alike – in a gold rush town, you never knew by a man’s looks if he didn’t carry a fortune in his rags.

“Watch that hole, Joe,” Ben advised his youngest son, who was holding the reins next to him on the buckboard seat. Ben was secretly pleased at the expert way Joe steered the team of roans around the hip-deep mud hole - the boy was getting to be quite a horseman. That is, as long as he could keep his attention on his team instead of the many roadside distractions.

Just how a father was supposed to keep a wild-hearted seventeen-year-old boy out of trouble in a place like this was a topic Ben discussed nightly with his Maker.Born and raised in the wilderness, Little Joe’s only glimpse of city life had been a rare trip to Frisco or Sacramento, during which either Ben or his oldest brother Adam had kept an eyeball on him at all times. And now, all the sin and temptation of civilization had landed right smack in the middle of their own backyard. To Joe, it was as if the earth had opened up to reveal a whole new world underneath, full of strange sounds and sights and forbidden things.

Trying to keep his youngest completely isolated from the havoc of town, Ben knew, would only brighten the attraction. Best to let him have it in small doses. Ben made a point of taking Joe along on his weekly supply trips, where he could have him right there next to him on the buckboard seat, within instant reach of a restraining arm.

As they drove down the street towards the mercantile, Joe’s head was snapping this way and that in an attempt to keep up with the many attractions rolling by, like that of a puppy trying to snatch mosquitoes out of the air. Over by the corner, a purple-robed hooker was just now lifting her skirts to display her legs to a group of potential customers. Joe’s eyes popped wide open.

“Pa! Pa, did you see that?”

“No, Joseph, I didn’t, and neither did you. Watch the road.”

“Yes, Pa. Sorry, Sir.” 

Ben wasn’t nearly as worried about Hoss and Adam. His middle son Hoss showed little interest in the reckless pace of town life and preferred the quiet of the mountains and the work with his animals. Adam had left for college in Boston when he had been Joe’s age, and Ben had always known, with a twinge of regret, that whatever sin could tempt his eldest son’s restless heart had already found him there. The mayhem of Virginia City hardly held any new promises for Adam.

They pulled up in front of Baxter Mercantile just as the last of the long row of customers dispersed. 

“Morning, Mr. Baxter,” Ben greeted after stepping through the open door. “Good business today, huh?”

“Got new hardware in; you know how that goes. Reckon you’ll want the usual order? I got it all stacked for you in the corner over there, Mr. Cartwright. Kinda figured you’d show up, it being Friday.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you. My son will load it in the buckboard,” he said pointedly with a glance at Joe, who seemed more interested in the collection of silver-studded gun belts in the window. Ben cleared his throat. “Joseph!”

Joe jumped. “Yes, Pa!” Ben nodded towards the pile of boxes and sacks of cornmeal and flourin the corner. “Oh! Sure, Pa!” He heaved a sack onto his shoulder and carried it outside.

“Mr. Cartwright,” Baxter began, “I hear that Chinaman of yours…”

“His name is Hop Sing,” Ben said patiently.

“Of course. Hop Sing. I understand he keeps chickens. Well, it just so happens that I got a new kind of chicken feed in, all the way from Kansas Territory. Some kind of wild grain as grows only on real buffalo dung out in the prairies. Has to be hand-picked by virgin Cheyenne squaws. Amazing stuff. Miss Hampton says her hens lay twice the eggs since she put’em on it.”

“Is that so?” Ben said without interest. He watched as Joe came back in, grinning eagerly at his father as he gathered up too many boxes at once and dropped two of them on the way out. Ben smiled to himself. The only time the boy showed this kind of enthusiasm for a boring task was when he had a mind to ask for something in return. Ben had a pretty good idea what that would be.

“Uh, Mr. Cartwright, I was saying…”

“Yes, I heard, Mr. Baxter. I’ll take a look at the stuff.”

Baxter heaved an open burlap sack onto the counter and Ben ran his fingers through the contents. “Well, that looks like ordinary barley and molasses to me.”

“Not at all, Mr. Cartwright! This here’s a real rare kind of grain, and the only souls in the whole world what knows where to find it are vir…”

“Virgin Cheyenne squaws, of course. Thanks, but I think we have enough chicken feed.”

Baxter was about to try again when Little Joe sidled up to the counter next to Ben, rubbing his hands. “All done, Pa!” He grinned amiably. “All done and stacked. Stacked it real good and tied it down, too, so it won’t shift, just the way you like it. Anything else I can do for you, Pa?” 

Ben raised a mild eyebrow at his son. “Well, son, I’m surprised and pleased at your eagerness. Let’s see…when have you last had a haircut?”

Joe’s whole face kind of sat down at this, and then, with a valiant effort, picked itself up again. “Sure, Pa…if you really think I should…I’d be delighted, absolutely thrilled…”

“Joseph…”

“…tickled, in fact. And you’re right. It’s been three weeks, almost forever …”

“Joe, don’t push it,” Ben said sternly and watched his son shrink an inch or so under his stare. Enjoying himself immensely, he gave Joe a conciliatory pat on the shoulder. ”I think that haircut can wait for another day, son. Why don’t you simply tell me what’s on your mind?”

“Oh. Well.” Joe took a deep breath. “Pa, everybody’s been talking about…you know. I was hoping I could…just for a minute…”

“You want to check out the new saloon.”

Joe’s eyebrows rose hopefully.

“And what do you plan on doing there?”

“Just have a look, Pa. They’re getting ready for the big opening party tonight. It’s supposed to be real fancy, you know: silk tablecloths and chandeliers and dancing gir…I mean, ladies…,” he finished lamely and bit his lip.

“I see. You just want to have a brief look before the opening and have a beer or two.”

“That’s right, Pa!” Joe said brightly, recognizing the trap too late. “Oh no, Pa, no beer. No way. Not this early in the day, I wouldn’t…”

Ben held up a hand to stop the flow of words. “Joe, listen carefully. I have to go and see Doc Martin about the sick ranch hands. That’ll take about twenty minutes. You may go and visit the saloon in the meantime if you promise me not to have any beer or whiskey.”

Joe blinked at him, surprised. He hadn’t hoped for it to be this easy. “I promise, Pa.,” he said earnestly. “No beer, no whiskey.”

“All right, off you go then. Take the buckboard with you. I’ll meet you at the saloon when I’m done at the Doc’s.” 

“Thanks, Pa!” Joe bounced away and Ben looked after him fondly. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. He trusted his young son with wild horses and hundreds of head of cattle and would place his life in his hands out in the mountains. But the perils of town were a different matter. Joe had had so little experience with them. Oh well, Ben mused, the boy was almost a grown man now, and a father would have to let go, one leap of faith at a time. 

“Uh…Mr. Cartwright?” Baxter had walked around the corner and appeared at Ben’s side. “While you were talking to your boy – a fine boy heis, Mr. Cartwright – I thought some more about that chicken feed…”

“Mr. Baxter, I believe I said…”

“Sure, Mr. Cartwright, but I decided to give you a free sample, ‘cause you and your family is just about our best customers.” He handed Ben a tin bucket with a wooden handle and a tightly fitted lid. “I put some of that feed in there for you, and you’ll see if them chickens don’t lay two eggs apiece all next week.” He paused and shuffled his feet. “That’ll just be three dollars for the bucket. Real hard to come by in this town, nice buckets are.”

Ben felt an impulse to pour the chicken grain over Baxter’s head, but he just fixed him with a glare instead. “If I am not mistaken, Mr. Baxter, these buckets were only ninety cents a half hour ago”. He nodded at the handwritten sign in the window.

Baxter smiled smoothly. “Well, Mr. Cartwright, a half hour ago there was a lot more of them.”

Ben heaved a sigh. When would this man learn that he couldn’t swindle a Cartwright? “I have a better idea, Mr. Baxter. Why don’t I take the feed, and if our chickens indeed lay two eggs apiece all next week, I’ll buy all the grain you have and pay you double price for it next time I’m in town. And if they don’t, I’ll simply bring back your bucket. How is that?”

Baxter withered under Ben’s black-eyed stare and mumbled his agreement.

“Goodbye then, Mr. Baxter,” Ben tipped his hat, stepped outside and turned his steps towards Doc Martin’s house. 

Buzzing with anticipation, Joe parked the team in front of the new saloon, sprang up the boardwalk to the swinging doors and peeked inside. The place looked magnificent. Rows of Chinese paper lanterns and garlands were strung this way and that from the ceiling. Posters advertising meerschaum pipes and exotic liquors decorated the walls. There were a dozen or so tables, each covered with a crisp white tablecloth. Woven drapes and Indian blankets were hung from the balustrade, and a brand new piano of shining dark wood sat in the corner. Even the brass spittoons were polished to a dazzle, reflecting the gaudy colors from the Chinese lanterns. Joe’s heart leapt with excitement at all the majesty of it. This place sure promised to be a notch above the town’s usual dirt floor booze tents filled with rough-hewn characters. He wondered if the dancing girls were housed in the upstairs rooms behind the balustrade.

“Young Cartwright! We’re not opening til four, but come on in anyways and feast yer eyes!” The proprietor, Horace Hunneker, was polishing glasses behind the bar. Horace was a middle-aged, lanky fellow, a former trading post owner, who had poured all his savings and dreams into his new establishment. When he saw Joe’s face at the doors, he waved him over to the bar. 

“Ain’t she a beauty,” he continued, waving his arm around the room, when Joe had bellied up to the smooth mahogany of the bar, “we sure got her dressed up for her big night.”

Following Horace’s gaze towards the back of the room, Joe noticed a disheveled, bearded man who was going from table to table with a tin bucket in his hand. At each table, he reached into the bucket and pulled out what looked like a small bouquet of little white flowers – spring daisies – and arranged them carefully in a shot glass on the tablecloth.

Seeing Joe’s smile, Horace tilted his head towards the figure and lowered his voice. “Ol’ Oscar been in my employ all day, helping me fancy the place up. Had him pick flowers in Hampton’s meadow by the crick. Guess I’m in the mood for charity on this fine day.”

Joe had heard all about Oscar. He was one of many out-of-luck miners who had gotten in with the wrong partner and lost everything on some dubious claim swindle. It had cracked him, people said. Now poor Oscar was reduced to working odd jobs around town to earn his booze. He was a short, hunched-over fellow of indeterminate age, dressed in rags, with messy gray hair and a chest-long frizzy beard that still carried information on what he had eaten last week. It was a well-known fact that Oscar didn’t smell so good because he probably hadn’t bathed since the days of the old trading post. But he had a sweet temper, even more so when he was liquored up, and he took just about any job without complaint and generally made an honest attempt at getting it done. Most people were fond enough of him and tried to indulge him by letting him paint barns or pick up horse manure in exchange for a few shots of whiskey and a meal; the only challenge was to keep him sober for long enough to complete the job. Apparently even such a demeaning task as picking flowers in Hampton’s meadow was not beneath him. Picking flowers, Joe thought sadly, just wasn’t a proper job for a man.

After decorating the last table, Oscar straightened up and called out towards the bar. “How’s them flowers look, Mr. Hunneker?”

“Just fine. You done a right good job, Oscar,” Horace replied with a wink towards Joe. “Come on over here and have a drink with us.”

Oscar’s face lit up at this, and he shuffled across the room. He nodded courteously at Joe, set the flower bucket on the floor and planted his elbows on the bar. He looked at Horace with the expression of a dog about to be fed.

Horace set a couple of bottles and shot glasses on the counter. “What’s it gonna be, Oscar? We got bourbon, rum, brandy, Russian vodka, whiskey, schnapps from Austria…”

“Plain ol’ whiskey’s fine, Mr. Hunneker. Ain’t got no stomach for that foreign stuff.”

“Suit yourself, Oscar,” Horace smiled. He poured Oscar a whiskey and then picked up a bottle of Austrian schnapps. “How ‘bout it, young Cartwright? Join me for a schnapps? Marvelous stuff, imported from Vienna. We’re going for some real international flavor these days, you know. Don’t worry now, it’s on the house.”

Joe hesitated while he pondered this dilemma for a moment. Was schnapps the same as whiskey? He could, of course, ask Horace, but if the answer was yes, he’d be stuck. On the other hand, as long as he didn’t ask, he couldn’t be expected to know, and having a schnapps would, at worst, be an innocent errorand not a broken promise to his Pa. 

“Sure, I’ll take one,” he drawled, trying to sound like a man of experience. Horace poured him a shot, and Joe took a careful sip. The stuff burned like acid down into his stomach, leaving a trail of heat, and he had to bite his lip to keep from coughing, which solicited a sly smile from Horace.

“Anyways. There’ll be only the best in this place.” Horace gestured his shot glass at the festooned room.“Schnapps from Austria, crystal from Paris, girls from N’Orleans. All ordered by mail and imported.” He frowned thoughtfully. “All that’s missing is a proper name for the place.”

Joe straightened up. “You can order girls? From New Orleans?” 

“You can order anything - if you got connections.” Horace aimed another wink at Joe.

“Are the girls…?”Joe’s eyes wandered up the stairs to the rooms on the first floor.

“Yep, they sure are. Sleeping now, they got a busy night coming.”

Joe made a mental note to look into the matter later. He took another swig from his shot glass and held it out to Horace for a refill. “What you mean, all that’s missing is a proper name? You sayin’ you open in less than five hours and don’t know what to name the place yet?”

Horace shook his head, and his expression sagged while he absently filled Joe’s glass. “Just haven’t found the right name yet. Been thinking about it day and night for weeks.” He reached behind the bar and dragged forth a long carved board painted a brilliant white. “It’s the name board for above the doors,” he explained sadly. ”Trouble is, I ain’t got anything to put on it yet.” He cocked his head and dreamily stared into the air above Joe’s hat. “You see, this ain’t gonna be your typical cowpoke watering hole. This place is gonna have class, and international flair. The name’s gotta reflect that. If you got any suggestions… I’m getting pretty desperate at this point.”

“The Golden Spur.” Oscar intoned longingly while he chased a dim memory of a classy girl in a classy place somewhere else, long ago, both of whom he had frequented in better days.

“Nah, too common. Got one of those in every town from here to Kansas.”

“How about the ‘Rearing Bronco’?” Joe suggested cheerfully and sipped. His brain was beginning to swim just a little bit.

Horace shook his head. “Too cowboy. It’s gotta be a mining name, for a mining town. And it’s gotta have originality. Nobility. Class.” His gaze wandered towards the ceiling while his fingers lovingly stroked the smooth wood of the bar. ”It’s gotta ring like a clarion call across the mountains to lure all the weary and thirsty souls from their toils in the silver mines…”

“The Silver Trumpet?” croaked Oscar and held out his empty glass.

Horace looked at him in surprise and poured him another whiskey. “That ain’t bad. Leastways, the silver part. Dunno about trumpet, though. Who needs a trumpet? It’s gotta be something that speaks to a miner’s heart.”

Oscar didn’t have to think about that one too long. “The Silver Shovel? The Silver Pan? The Silver Bucket?”

Horace frowned. “Hm. Something kinda vulgar about ‘bucket’, ain’t there?”

“Not iffen it’s filled with silver,” Oscar said with feeling. He closed his eyes and imagined it. ”Silver. Beautiful silver. Bucket loads of it. Beautiful buckets full o’ silver. The Bucket o’ Silver.” He opened his lids and looked at Horace with blue-eyed sincerity. “Sure speaks to my miner’s heart.”

“The Bucket of Silver” Joe repeated slowly. “It’s got the originality part. I ain’t sure about the other, though…”

“Sounds right noble to my ears,” Oscar nodded wistfully. “Got real class.” 

“I don’t know…” Horace began.

“Think about it, Mr. Hunneker,” Joe reasoned, feeling the schnapps encourage his logic, “You don’t want it to be too noble. I mean, most of your customers are likely gonna be plain, simple, not-so-noble folk like Oscar here.” When he saw a slow frown gather on Oscar’s brow, he added quickly “And myself.”

Horace didn’t seem convinced. “I still think ‘bucket’ is a bit too…earthy.”

“Well, that’s what us miners is, Mr. Hunneker. We’s earthy.” Oscar mused wisely. He gestured loosely at the decorated room. “You got plenty o’ noble in the place. You kinda need the bucket to keep yer feet on the ground, iffen ye know what I means.”

“Noble and earthy,” Joe nodded his approval.

“Hmm. The ‘Bucket of Silver’.“ Horace said the name out several times, rolled it around his tongue, and then he rowed his arms in the air and roared it into the room, letting it fill the empty spaces. “Hah! On second thought, it does kinda grow on you,” he concluded happily. 

For a second, he stood there, thinking. Then, with sudden resolve, he slapped his palm onto the smooth mahogany of the bar. “Gentlemen, the ‘Bucket of Silver’ it shall be!” He pointed an enterprising finger at Oscar. “Oscar, I’m full of ideas now. I sure could use your help tonight at the opening, if you wanna stick around. Let me see those flowers.”

Oscar lifted the bucket of flowers onto the bar and removed the lid. It was still more than half full of blossoms. Horace lovingly ran his fingers through the daisies. “Oscar, here’s what we’re gonna do. We’ll have an official naming ceremony tonight, after everyone has mingled a little. When I give you the signal, you’ll take this here bucket and go up there,” he pointed at the balustrade on the first floor, ”and when I unveil the name” –here he pointed at the white board behind the bar- “you throw handfuls of them pretty white flowers into the crowd below. It’ll be just like it’s raining silver. Bucket loads of silver. What do you say?” 

Joe bobbed his head approvingly. “That’s plumb brilliant, Mr. Hunneker.”

Oscar’s enthusiasm was a little more subdued. “I suppose it’s gonna be right purdy,” he frowned. He had hoped to be done with flowers and was about to point out that this was a job better suited to one of the girls, when he remembered all the free whiskey he would have the privilege of sampling if he played along. 

“I know I can rely on you, Oscar,” Horace said generously and placed the lid firmly back on the bucket. “You keep an eye on these here flowers and keep the lid on, so’s they won’t dry out.” He handed the bucket back to Oscar, who pushed it down the bar a ways to get it out of the way.

Horace’s eyes wandered dreamily up to the balustrade. “It’s gonna be a glorious night,” he intoned, and then he filled their glasses again, whiskey and schnapps, pouring himself one of the latter. He lifted his in a solemn salute. “Gentlemen: To the ‘Bucket of Silver’, the finest establishment in the Comstock!”

“The ‘Bucket of Silver’,” they repeated, and all three clinked their glasses together and drank. 

In the meantime, while Joe sipped schnapps at the future ‘Bucket of Silver’, Ben dropped by the place of his old friend, Doctor Paul Martin. The door was open, and after knocking and calling into the house, Ben took a step inside, where the familiar muffled smell of sickness greeted him. Ben often wondered if Paul and his wife even noticed it anymore.

Emma Martin came out of the darkened surgery room, carrying a basin with what appeared to be bloodied water. “Oh, good morning, Ben. No emergency, I hope?”

“Hello, Emma. No, not at all. But I’d like to talk to Paul, if he’s got a moment.”

Suddenly, a hoarse voice ranted out of the darkness of the surgery room. “That you, Martin? You git back in here, you brute, I still got one good hand to strangle you with!”

“Good Lord,” Ben winced, troubled. “Bad case?”

“Very bad.” Emma shrugged sadly and nodded towards the back door. “Paul’s in the garden, Ben. Just go on through.”

Ben walked through the narrow hallway and stepped out into the Martin’s modest fenced garden. The garden was not very well kempt; shaggy wild rose bushes had conquered the fence, and weeds ran rampant. This was in stark contrast to the doctor’s meticulous nature, and probably, Ben reflected, spoke of how little time Paul and Emma had these days for activities other than caring for patients. Smiling, Ben paused a moment to admire the rare and peaceful sight of Paul Martin, gardener. The good doctor was busy digging a deep hole in the middle of the vegetable patch. Next to the hole sat one of the new tin buckets from the mercantile; identical to the one Ben was carrying. 

Paul jumped when he heard someone approach and whirled around. “Ben! You startled me. Good to see you.” He leaned on his spade and wiped his rolled-up sleeve across his face. “What can I do for you?”

“Hello, Paul.” Ben set his bucket down next to Paul’s. “What have you got in here? Planting potatoes?” He lifted the lid off Paul’s bucket and instantly regretted it; at the sight that greeted him, he expelled a strangled cry and recoiled in horror.

“I’m sorry, Ben, I should have warned you. It’s Edgar Jericho. Got hurt in a mine accident. I had to amputate his right arm today.”

Ben shuddered. “Lord, that’s terrible. The poor man.” He stared at the object in the bucket in morbid fascination. He noted how badly squashed the tissue was just above the elbow, and the straight, clean cut through the bicep where the arm had been separated. Ben suddenly realized with horror that he had shaken that same hand not three days ago when Jericho had come to the Ponderosa to buy some chicken eggs from Hop Sing. He fumbled to replace the lid and fought back nausea. 

“My God, Paul, and you just…you just bury it in your garden? That’s…”

“That’s what, Ben? Repulsive? Sickening? If you’ve got a better idea, let me know.” Ben was startled by the sudden edge in his friend’s voice. “Let’s see. Shall I throw it to the stray dogs so they can fight over it in the streets? Or should I drop it out on the trails and hope no one stumbles across it? Or maybe I can chop it up and burn it in my stove, so that the good citizens of Virginia City sniff the air in the streets and say ‘Wonder what Mrs. Martin is cooking for dinner’?”

Ben saw now that his friend looked a bit disheveled and out of sorts, not at all his usual spotless self. For as long as Ben had known Paul Martin, the doctor had been a bastion of composure in moments of chaos. How many times had Ben himself, sitting by the bed of a sick or injured son, been kept on this side of sanity by Paul’s reassuring calm? He had never really considered that there might be a time when Paul took off his professional face and dealt with the debris of his trade, both the emotional kind and the kind that was now in that bucket. 

“Sorry, Ben, I was rude,” Paul was saying now, and as if he had read Ben’s mind, he smiled a little and continued, ”you caught me a bit off guard here. I bet you never wondered about some of the less glamorous tasks of a physician, did you?” He jammed the spade into the loose earth, pulled up one of the lidded buckets and heavily sat on it. 

Sensing that his friend wanted to open up, Ben carefully sat on the other bucket – he was pretty sure it wasn’t the one containing the ghastly object.

Paul ran his fingers through his messy hair and rubbed his tired eyes with the palms of his hands. “Ben, when I was a young man, twenty-five years ago, I apprenticed under the old Dr. Belford in St. Louis. And one day, after a particularly nasty double leg amputation, during which the patient…suffered more than any creature should ever be made to suffer, Old Belford took me to the saloon and bought me a couple of shots of whiskey, and when we were both drunk, he said to me, ‘Paul, we’re butchers. Surgery is a barbaric, cruel trade. But you must never, never harden your heart to the suffering you inflict. You must never allow yourself to become insensitive to human pain. If you do, you will cease to be a good human being. And a good doctor.’ ”

“Paul, you’re the best doctor I’ve ever known.”

“I try to be a good doctor, Ben. But today I was a butcher. I had to saw the arm off of a father of five children, and I couldn’t even put him under, because he has a nasty head wound too, and I was afraid if I knocked him out he would never wake up again. Well, he’s awake now, and he screams obscenities at me every time I enter the house.” 

“Surely he’s delirious and doesn’t know what he’s saying.”

“Of course. They never do. Lord, but I hate amputations. I seem to be doing one every week these days. Those mines just aren’t safe, and I can hardly keep up with the amount of injuries. Human life has become cheap around here, Ben.” He smiled gratefully at his friend. “Thanks for lending an ear. And you haven’t even told me why you’re here. The boys all right?”

“Just fine. But we have a couple of sick ranch hands. Fever, sore throat. Wonder if you could come out and have a look.”

“Any vomiting?”

"Not that I know of.”

“Hm. I’ll come later today. Probably just that spring cold that’s been going around. Just give them lots to drink and keep them in bed.” He got up and grabbed his spade. “Now excuse me, Ben. I gotta make this deep. Can’t have the dogs dig it up.” 

“Then I’ll see you later, Paul.” Ben stood and nodded at his friend. He turned and walked away and was about to re-enter the house, when Paul came running up behind him, carrying one of the lidded buckets.

“Don’t forget this, Ben. What’s in there, anyways?”

Ben shrugged. “Some fancy kind of chicken feed Baxter tried to canoodle me into buying.”

“I see. And Ben, one last word… I’d appreciate if you don’t talk about what you saw here today.” He waved lamely at his vegetable garden. “No need for the whole town to know why my carrots grow so well.”

Ben left Paul’s house and wandered down the town’s wooden boardwalks, weaving his way around the bustle of passers-by, lost in thought. Try as he would, he could not shake the sight of what he had seen in that bucket, nor that tormented voice from the darkness of the surgery room. The Jerichos were recent newcomers to the Comstock. Like Ben had done twenty years ago, they had come all the way from the east in a covered wagon, and like him, they had arrived in this valley filled with that same stubborn pride and capacity for endurance that was born somewhere in the biting winds and brutal winters of the prairies. Their dream of owning their own farm was crushed when they realized their modest savings were not sufficient to buy any good land, and so Edgar had taken up work in one of the mines that sprang up all around Virginia City, setting up his family in the dilapidated shack provided by the mining company. Three days ago, Jericho had come to the Ponderosa to buy chicken eggs for his children, because, Ben knew, he could not afford meat for them. When Ben had wanted to give the eggs and a side of beef as gifts, Edgar Jericho had bristled as if it was an insult to be offered charity, and so Ben had reluctantly accepted the smallest amount of money Jericho was willing to pay. 

What would the Jerichos do now? Crippled as he was, Edgar’s days as a miner were over. He might still be able to work a farm with the help of his wife and his two oldest sons, but how would he earn the money for the land now?

Ben had walked a good five minutes before he realized he had paid no attention to where he was going. He stopped and closed his eyes against the image invading his mind: Edgar Jericho’s right hand, the knuckles callused and dirt-encrusted from ripping through the earth beneath Virginia City, dropping a few coins into his own hand, then shaking it, and then the ghostly white fingers curled against the rim of a tin bucket…Ben shuddered. There had to be some way to help the Jerichos. He looked around. He was near the end of C Street, and the bank was on the other side. An idea came to him right there and then. 

Yes, he knew what he wanted to do. He was about to direct his steps across the street, when he remembered something else. He’d almost forgotten about Joe! The bank would have to wait a moment; first, he had to collect his offspring from the new saloon.

Ben bellied through the saloon’s swinging doors to the sight of three men, his son one of them, convivially grouped around several half-empty bottles of what was most certainly not lemonade.

“JOSEPH!”

At that great volcanic boom, Joe’s knees dipped, and he had to hold on to the bar rail as he turned around to face his end. Ben covered the distance in three strides, set his bucket on the floor by one of the tables and grabbed both Joe and one of the offending bottles around the neck. “Schnapps!” He read off the label. “Boy, have you been drinking this?”

Horace and Oscar were watching in slack-jawed fascination; Oscar’s glass was frozen halfway to his mouth. 

“Uh…Pa. You said no whiskey, no beer.” Joe managed meekly. “It…it ain’t the same as whiskey. Or is it?” When his father’s grip tightened painfully around the scruff of his neck, he heard himself answer his own question. “Um. Then again, maybe it is, after all. Isn’t it? Sort of?”

“Are you drunk, boy?” Ben thundered.

“Uh, Mr. Cartwright,” Horace ventured carefully, “he’s only had a smidgen, there ain’t no harm in it. It’s a fine import from Austria; would you like a taste? It’s on the house.”

“I ain’t drunk, Pa, honest,” Joe ventured in a small voice. “I stopped just short of….of getting drunk. Honest.”

To Joe’s surprise, Ben released his neck and heaved a mighty sigh. “I sure could use one. Make it a double, Mr. Hunneker.” He drummed his fingers on the bar and watched Horace fill up the glass, then downed it in one round swill. Setting the glass down, he sighed again and closed his eyes. 

Joe watched with a mix of interest and concern. He knew that his father was a man who could hold his liquor ever since his sailing days, but it wasn’t often that Ben drank so…athletically…in front of his sons, and certainly never before noon. Something was definitely bothering his old man. ”Pa?” he nudged cautiously. 

“Never you mind, son.” Ben turned towards Joe, his dark brows drawing together like thunderclouds. “Joseph, I have business at the bank to see to and have decided to stay in town until the celebration tonight. You will drive the buckboard home, unload the supplies and ask your brother Adam if he has any chores for you to do for the rest of the day. You then may ride back into town with your brothers tonight for the saloon opening. If I hear from Adam tonight that you have not asked him for any chores, you’ve got another thing coming, young man.”

Joe felt the urge to roll his eyes, but he restrained himself. Boy, Pa was really mad. There went what was supposed to be his afternoon off. No fishing today, then. Things weren’t at all going the way he had hoped. And to have his bossy older brother appointed as his watchdog was a humiliation he hadn’t suffered in years.

“And Joseph. No more detours, no more stops. Straight home.” 

“Yessir.”

Horace had watched the exchange quietly, and now spoke up excitedly, “Mr. Cartwright, I sure am delighted to hear that you and your boys will be present tonight. It’ll be the finest party this here town has ever seen.”

“I don’t doubt it, Mr. Hunneker.” Ben commented wearily. He thanked Horace for the schnapps and followed his son out into the street, where he waved Joe off before directing his steps towards the bank. Suddenly he turned around and stepped up to the buckboard just before Joe steered the team down the street.

“Joe, don’t forget that bucket I brought – give it to Hop Sing when you get home. I left it inside by the bar.” He gave Joe a quick smile and a brisk clap on the thigh and ambled down the street. 

Joe, shaking his head at his old man’s forgetfulness, hopped back inside the saloon. Oscar and Horace had gone into the back room, but Joe saw the lidded bucket sitting on top of the bar. He grabbed it, briefly wondering what exotic spice or seasoning Hop Sing might have ordered this time. But his thoughts were elsewhere, and with a pained sigh, he glanced once more towards the upstairs rooms, imagining the sleeping wonders they contained, before turning towards home to report for duty to Sergeant Adam. 

Hank Allenby, the elderly bank clerk, greeted Ben from behind the counter. “Howdy, Ben, I was just about to close up. Already locked the money in the safe. We’re closing early today for the saloon celebration. Just about the whole town’ll be there. What do you need?”

“Tell me, Hank, does the Jericho family have an account here?”

Hank gave him an odd look. Like everyone in town, he had heard of the cave-in at the mine. “Now, Ben, you know such things are confidential.”

Smiling, Ben raised his eyebrows. “Of course. But let’s say I needed to transfer some money from our account to theirs, could you help me with that?”

Hank nodded approvingly. “If you put it that way, I probably can. How much you thinking about?” And the warm sheen in his eyes betrayed that he had a pretty good idea what Ben was doing.

Ben thought hard about how much money he could afford to give. In early spring, after the losses of winter and before the first timber sales and cattle drives had brought in money, cash flow was always a bit of a problem on the Ponderosa. He would have to justify this to his sons, who, after all, co-owned the ranch. But he knew, without a doubt in his heart, that they would approve. He briefly closed his eyes against the ever-present image of the mangled arm in the bucket. 

“Let’s say a thousand dollars.”

“That’s right decent of you. You know, Ben, the Jerichos is proud folks,” Hank reminded him of the real problem. “They won’t take it if it’s just for pity’s sake.”

Ben saw the dilemma. If Jericho wouldn’t accept a few eggs, how could he make him accept a thousand dollars without losing face? He shook his head sadly. He’d been a bit naïve about this, he realized. Probably what he had seen in Paul’s garden had stirred him up more than he cared to admit.

"I’m a sentimental old fool, Hank. But I’d sure like to help somehow.”

“Tell you what, Ben: why don’t you think it over til Monday? The Jerichos won’t need it before then, and we’ll be closed, anyways. You’ll figure something. It sure is decent of you.”

“You’re right. I’ll talk it over with the boys. We’ll think of something by Monday.”

Hank saw him out, and after Ben had left, he locked the door behind him and hung the ‘Closed’ sign in the window. 

Hank popped his knuckles and allowed himself a satisfied yawn. Another week gone by of guarding the hard-earned dollars of Virginia City’s good people. Another week of work well done. And as was his habit on every Friday after closing, he got out a bucket of water and a cloth and began to wipe the week’s dust off his counter. After all, a respectable bank has to look sparkling clean on a Monday morning.

Rubbing his tired eyes, Paul Martin stepped back out into his garden. He had been repeatedly interrupted in his grisly task by his patient’s attempts to flee his house. This last time, the poor delirious man had made it almost out the front door, when Paul had heard Emma call for him. Finally, he had reluctantly given the man a sedative and sat by his bedside until he had drifted into a tortured sleep. 

Now Paul took up the spade again, and after a few hearty thrusts, declared himself satisfied with the depth of the hole. Ready to put this unpleasant task finally behind him, he grabbed the bucket, and with one movement, pulled off the lid and turned over the contents into the hole.

For a long while, he stood anchored to the spot and stared in utter befuddlement at that which had come out of the bucket and was now filling up the bottom of the hole. Then, with a slow, shaky movement, he grabbed his head with both hands.

“Damn,” he muttered to himself. “Chicken feed!”

Across the street from the bank, Marge and Clifford Johnson sat on the seat of the rickety covered wagon that carried all their belongings. Their haggard, one-eyed horse, ears floppy and lower lip drooping, was dozing in his harness. Marge was dozing, too, stretched out on the narrow seat with her broad thighs draped over her husband’s lap and her face hidden under her shapeless felt hat. Clifford looked uncomfortable; after all, his wife’s powerful legs probably weighed almost as much as he did, but he dared not move for fear of earning another smack on the head.

Anyone who saw the two sitting there on their moldy old Conestoga with its torn canvas cover ravaged by mildew, would assume that they were among the many newcomers who had bravely crossed the continent on one of the pioneer trails. They couldn’t be more wrong. Marge, in fact, had been born in a trapper’s cabin right here in the Sierras, back when there had been only Piutes, bears, and a few hardy mountain men with their Indian wives, like her Pa. All her life, Marge had watched the pioneers arrive, then the 49ers, then the Comstock miners. She had listened with a yearning heart to their tales of the eastern cities from which many of them had come: tales of ball rooms, of ladies in silk brocade gowns, tall ships at anchor, streets lit with lamps at night, of opera houses and music halls and good manners and polite conversation; things, in other words, that were as far removed from Marge’s world as a walk on the moon. 

Then one day, Marge, ever a woman of action, decided that she had enough of dust and snow and scorpions and pickaxes. Let all those dreamy-eyed fools heading west in their covered wagons have them. Marge Johnson was going the other way. She was going east. She acquired a run-down Conestoga wagon which had crossed the continent at least once before, and picked up a horse and a husband somewhere along the way to help her run the wretched thing. 

And then she turned her eyes towards the east. Marge’s grasp of geography was rudimentary, but she figured it was better than her dimwit of a husband’s, who couldn’t find his own butt with both hands in broad daylight. Marge assumed that if only she managed to get to Reno and from there across the great Utah desert, the East with its wonders would be right there somewhere. And since the Miner’s spring dance, there was the name of one place in particular that resonated in her mind: 

Boston. 

More than anything she had ever wanted in her thirty-two years of hard life, Marge Johnson wanted to go to Boston. 

And maybe, he would be there…

…She had found him at the Miner’s spring dance a few weeks ago. Marge, not invited but unstoppable, had cut the tangles out of her hair with her hunting knife, donned her only dress, slipped in by the back door and prowled the dance floor. 

And there he was, sitting on a lavender couch,sipping his wine, momentarily alone, because his female company had taken a trip to the facilities. Tall, dark, and subtle, dressed in a smart white shirt and string tie, he was the most beautiful thing Marge had ever seen. Never shy, she had swaggered over and plopped down next to him. 

‘You from somewheres aroun’ here, dahling?’ she had asked and wriggled close enough to feel the warmth off his thigh against hers. She remembered to smile keeping her upper lip down to hide her missing front tooth. He had wriggled the other way and laughed nervously – that’s when she first saw those dimples – and spilled some wine on his lap and told her that well, no, actually, technically speaking, he was really from Boston.

‘Boston!’ she had exclaimed knowingly and edged even closer, ‘that out towards Californee, ain’t it?’. She had him wedged now between her ample seat and the armrest. His hand – what a strong, well-groomed gentleman’s hand – was fidgeting with his face, and his eyes were bouncing around the room. Aah, Margie Johnson, she told herself, you can’t be that ugly if you can still make a handsome man get all twitchy. And she had leaned in a bit and smelled his aftershave and explained that she wasn’t really all that married, because that no-good little squirt of a husband of hers, all one-hundred-twenty pounds of him, wasn’t taking proper care of her, as a husband should. He could have been a miner, or a farmer or a homesteader, but he was just too darn limp and stoopid, and no matter how many times she popped him on the skull, she couldn’t beat an ounce of ambition into him. 

Then Marge had taken the wine glass from his hand and emptied it in one draught. ‘Don’t you worry none about Ol’ Cliffer, honeypuss ’, she had cooed, and leaned towards the handsome face.

‘Why, Ma’am’, he had uttered, sweating now, ‘you’re a regular Lady….’ …something or other, she couldn’t remember exactly what kind of a lady he had called her, but what did it matter? That dashing young gentleman from Boston with the dark eyes and the dimples was the only man who had ever called her a lady in all of her life. Ever. And before she had recovered from the shock, he had jumped up and run off, never to be seen again, leaving her sitting there on the lavender couchholding his wine glass. She placed a hand on the spot where he had been sitting, still warm from the heat of his butt, and murmured, ‘Boston!’

….“Boston,” Marge mumbled dreamily under her felt hat.

“Margie?”

“Shut yer mouth, Cliffer.”

“But Margie, he left.”

Marge grunted and opened one eye to squint towards the bank. The tall, silver haired man, who had entered the bank minutes before, was stepping out into the street. Behind him, she saw the skinny old clerk hang a ‘Closed’ sign in the window. Money, Marge had found out recently, was an unfortunate necessity when one was traveling. This is why she had come to Virginia City today: Marge Johnson was going to make a withdrawal.

She sat up and gave her husband an ungentle nudge. “You ready?“

Clifford Johnson rubbed his sweating palms on his pant legs. “I’m telling ye, Margie, it ain’t right. ‘Thou shalt not steal’, it says.”

“Don’t you go relijus on me again, Cliffer. Jus’ do as I say.”

She lumbered off the wagon’s seat, stuck her .45 army colt and a length of rope between her breasts and splashed with long strides through the mud across the street. Clifford hastily scrambled behind. When she stepped onto the boardwalk on the other side, Marge grabbed her husband by the arm and steered him in front of the window next to the door. She quickly moved against the wall where she couldn’t be seen from inside the bank. “What’s he doin’? He gotta gun?” she hissed.

Clifford peeked through the window. “He’s cleanin’ up some. Wipin’ the counter.”

“Ain’t that cute. Do yer thing, Cliffer, like we practiced. Don’t ye mess it up, now.”

Clifford knocked politely on the window.

“Geez, Cliffer.” Marge rolled her eyes impatiently. “Old fart’s deaf, most like.”

Clifford licked his lips nervously and rapped his knuckles smartly against the glass. After a minute, Hank Allenby’s face appeared in the window. 

“ ’Scuse me, Sir,” Clifford called, removing his hat, “my dear sister left her purse here this mornin’…I come ta pick it up.”

Hank’s face vanished and re-appeared a minute later. “I can’t find it, mister. Where’d she leave it?”

“Well, it’s over by the…behind…” he pointed through the window. “It’s kinda hard ta show…maybe iffen ye’ll let me in…”

They heard the old man grunt something and fumble with a key chain, and a moment later the door opened. Immediately, Marge shoved Clifford out of the way and pressed inside. 

Hank Allenby’s day took a turn for the worse when he saw a hulking six-foot figure advance on him, and before he could utter a sound, a gun was in his face and a large calloused hand snatched the cloth from his nerveless fingers. “No more wipin’, grampa, open the safe.”

Marge grabbed the old clerk by the nape, dragged him behind the counter and pushed his face brutally into the safe door, pressing the gun to his temple with her other hand. “You open this, or you gonna wipe up your own brains.”

Clifford had followed pale-faced and looked on in horror. “Margie, you cain’t do a thing like that! ‘Thou shalt not…”

“Shet up, Cliffer, or I blow your brains out first, jus’ to prove to this here ol’ fool that I can do it.”

Whimpering under Marge’s iron grip, Hank dialed the combination with trembling fingers. As soon as the door popped open, Marge hauled him into a corner behind the counter and kicked his feet out from under him. Hank collapsed in a heap, and the next thing he knew, his captor pulled a rope from her bosom, accidentally ripping her shirt open in the process, and then he had the surreal experience of staring at a pair of floppy, dangling breasts while being gagged with his wiping cloth and having his feet tied. He was jerked around brutally, and his hands were bound and tied to his feet behind his back. His old joints screamed at the treatment, and Hank moaned with the pain. “Shet up, grampa, if ye wanna live.” Marge hissed savagely. “You gettin’ the money, Cliffer?” she called over her shoulder.

Clifford was indeed working on it. Enthralled by the sight of more riches than he had ever seen, he had temporarily forgotten his scruples, and had loaded his arms with wads of dollar bills. It was at this precise moment that Clifford Johnson became aware of a flaw in their carefully drafted plan. He turned towards his wife, his face a blank. “Margie, you brung anythin’ to carry it in?”

Growling, Marge advanced on him dangerously, her head lowered. “Jimminy Christ! Cliffer Johnson, if you ain’t the stoopidest runt I ever married.” She gave him a cuff on the head, causing him to whimper and drop the money. Marge looked around, saw the bucket on the counter, and with a quick movement, emptied the slosh water on the floor. “Here, you idjit.” She thrust it into Clifford’s hands and gave him another cuff, just to make sure. She spotted the lid lying behind the counter and kicked it towards Clifford’s feet. “An’ be sure to keep the damn lid on when we walk outta here.”

Clifford dutifully proceeded to pack as many dollar wads into the bucket as he could fit, and he threw in a couple of gold bars to top it off. He looked at Marge, then at the safe. “That’s about it, Margie…”

Marge stood by the window, nervously checking the activity in the street. “We gotta git, Cliffer. We walk outta here with our arms fulla dough one o’ them fools out there might get to thinkin’.” Clifford joined her at the window, and Marge lifted the lid off the bucket and studied the contents. “Plenty. Oughta get us to Boston easy. And iffen it don’t, there’s more banks along the way. How’s grampa?” She carefully replaced the lid.

“Out cold, Margie. Ye scaired him right outta his wits.” 

“Ain’t that cute. Less go, Cliffer.” And she strode confidently out of the door and across the muddy street. Clifford scurried at her heels, bucket in hand. They climbed onto their wagon, and Clifford set the bucket firmly between his feet. “Don’ worry, Margie, I’ll keep a real good eye on this here bucket!” he said loyally.

“You better,” Marge snorted and took up the reins.

Ben Cartwright closed his eyes and savored the first bite of his lamb chops. After his visit to the bank, he had stopped for an early lunch at the hotel, and to his delight had discovered that lamb chops were now a staple on the menu. Maybe the advance of civilization wasn’t such a worrying thing after all if it brought about some culinary pleasures such as this. His secret fondness for lamb chops was not something he wished to be universally known; after all, cattle barons and sheepherders were generally expected to rip each other’s throats out rather than to savor each other’s goods. But, oh well. After the events of the morning he felt he deserved a little guilty pleasure.

“Ben! Thank god!” Ben looked up startled to see an overheated Doc Martin charge straight towards him through the room. He was still in his shirtsleeves, with his garden’s dirt on his fingers and smeared across his forehead, as if he had rubbed there a lot. Not at all the way Doc Martin usually presented himself at the table. “Ben, where’s the arm?”

“Paul?” 

“The arm, Edgar Jericho’s blooming arm! You walked off with it!”

Ben stared at him blankly. “Slow down, Paul. I did what?”

Paul closed his eyes and propped his hands on the tablecloth, leaving dirty finger marks. He forced himself to speak slowly. “I gave you the wrong bucket, Ben. Your chicken grain is now residing in my carrot patch. Now where’s that arm?”

Ben frowned. “Oh no. I gave it to Joe. He’s on his way to the ranch and…”

“The ranch! I gotta go!” He turned on his heel. 

Ben stood. “Wait, Paul, why don’t you leave it alone. We’ll…we’ll dispose of it at the Ponderosa. Don’t worry about it.”

Paul shook his head at him, appalled. “Ben, you don’t understand. I can’t have my severed limbs riding around the landscape. It’s unprofessional! They’re my responsibility. Just finish your lunch; I’ll go after Little Joe.” And with that, he rushed out of the restaurant.

Ben sat heavily back on his chair and stared at his crisp, bleeding cut of lamb chop. Somehow it didn’t look nearly as appetizing anymore. He shook his head and listlessly continued his lunch.

About a hundred yards into her trip to Boston, Marge hauled on the reins and smacked her lips. She looked at Clifford, an odd expression on her face. “Cliffer, ye ol’ rat, you done well in that there bank,” she said generously out of the side of her mouth and petted him on the top of the head.

Clifford froze and held his breath. Marge’s rare benevolent moods were always very fragile and couldn’t be trusted.

“Gonna be a long ride to Boston,” Marge continued philosophically. “Kinda feel like getting’ watered up a tad afore we go.” She nodded her chin at the new saloon across the street.

“Margie, that’s a real fine idea,” said Cliffer carefully.

Marge hopped from the wagon. ”Less have us a whiskey, Cliffer”. She pointed her finger at him. “You better take that bucket with ya an’ glue yer eyeballs to it!”

Ignoring the ‘closed’ sign on the swinging doors, they entered the new saloon and stood in the door for a second, overwhelmed by the splendor of the decorations. Marge whistled through the gap left by her missing front tooth. “Whaddaya say ta that, Cliffer. Like we was already in Boston!”

They moved towards the bar and looked around. Nobody was there. Marge called, but got no answer. She couldn’t know that Horace had taken Oscar to his home to get him cleaned up for his big role during the evening celebration. Not that Marge cared if anyone was there. The whiskey was there, and that’s all that mattered to her. She pulled Clifford behind the bar, found a bottle and some glasses and poured generously. 

Clifford set the bucket down and frowned. “Margie, it ain’t right to jus’ take. Thou shal…”

“Shet up, Cliffer, nobody ain’t takin’ nothing.” She shoved one of the glasses into his hand, fished a coin from her pocket and threw it onto the bar. “We’s honest folk, Cliffer,” she stated grandly. “We pay for what we take.”

Marge emptied her glass and turned it upside down on the bar. “Git, Cliffer, Boston’s waitin’,” she ordered and marched off, and Cliffer hastily swallowed his whiskey, set his glass down next to hers and ran after his wife.

When he scrambled up to the seat, Marge, reins already in hand, narrowed her eyes at him. “Cliffer, where’s the dough?”

Clifford’s face fell.

“You fergot the bucket in there, didn’t ya! You ain’t got no more sense than a newborn puppy, ya stoopid little runt. You sit tight; I get it myself.”

She cuffed him on the head and stomped back across the street and into the saloon. Looking around, she saw the lidded tin bucket sit under one of the nearby tables. Jus’ like Cliffer to drop the thing halfway to the bar, she thought. She should have known better than to let him have the bucket. She carried it back to their wagon, climbed the seat and set the bucket securely between her feet. Scowling at Clifford, she gave him one more good whack to the side of the head. Clifford shrunk into his seat and thought it wise to say nothing. So much for Marge’s good mood.

“Here I come, Boston!” Marge sang out and flapped the reins. The horse opened his only eye and trudged wearily forward.

Ahead was the grassy ridge from where he would get the first sight of his home: a magnificent view of the stately ranch house nestled between tall, venerable pines swaying elegantly in the wind, a view he always looked forward to when coming from town - well, maybe not today. While the horses climbed laboriously up the steep path to the ridge crest, Joe longingly eyed the soft grass speckled with wildflowers. He was wondering whether he shouldn’t forget all about Adam and chores and instead stretch out for a pleasant midday snooze in the sunshine, when he heard the frantic hoof beats behind him.

He turned to see a rider on a fat bay horse charge up the hill. The animal was blowing like a steamship, and its rider flopped pitifully up and down in the saddle. Joe recognized Doc Martin, and his eyebrows drew together in concern. The good doctor was a famously unskilled rider, and there were few emergencies dire enough to get him up on a galloping horse. Joe had a brief troubling vision of his brothers in a heap on the ground, their heads cracked open, and his heart skipped a beat.

“Joe!” Paul called out and yanked his horse to a halt next to the buckboard. He had lost a stirrup and had slid to one side of the saddle, hanging on to the saddle horn like a drowning man, and Joe looked politely away while the doctor took a second to rearrange himself into a more dignified position. “Joe!” he said again, gasping for air.

“Is it Hoss or Adam?” Joe asked anxiously, but Paul shook his head. 

“No, no, I’m after you.” He dismounted clumsily, which was just as well, because his overweight mare was wheezing loudly and looked ready to drop to her knees.

“What did I do?” Joe wondered if he had somehow managed to get on Paul’s bad side, too.

“You did nothing, son, nothing at all.” Paul bent over and braced his hands on his knees, still trying to catch his breath. “Lord Jesus, I’m getting too old for this.” He straightened up and looked at Joe. “No need to look guilty, son, I’m the one who bungled things up.” He proceeded to explain about the bucket switch and just what he believed Joe was carrying home in the lidded tin bucket in his wagon. 

Joe blanched. “Oh! Please, Doc, take it. Just…take it away. It’s all yours.”

Paul grunted and lifted the tin bucket from the buckboard. He removed the lid to peek inside and gasped. “What the…what the hell is this, Joe?” 

Joe craned his neck to get a careful look, only to yelp in surprise when he found that the bucket was filled with tiny white flowers, sadly wilted in the midday heat. “Oh no,” he managed after a second, when it dawned on him what had happened. “This ain’t good. I musta grabbed the wrong bucket! I was…I guess I was distracted!” Girls, Joseph! You were thinking about saloon girls, he heard his father’s voice boom inside his head.

After listening to Joe’s stuttered explanation, Doc Martin rubbed a hand over his tired eyes. “You’re telling me that Edgar Jericho’s severed arm now sits in a bucket in the new saloon?” He stopped rubbing and stared at Joe through the fingers of his hand. 

Joe shrugged apologetically. 

“This clearly ain’t my day.” Paul moaned and turned to his horse, which stood panting, her nose drooping almost to the ground. “Sorry, Mathilda, it’s back to town.” He climbed aboard, his right foot fishing in vain for the other stirrup, yanked her around with the reins and dug his heels into her flanks. Mathilda squealed in protest like a stuck pig and trotted off down the hill, her nose high in the air and her plump belly swaying precariously from side to side.

Joe sat for a while, then shook his head vigorously as if to clear it from all he had heard in the last five minutes. He dumped the wilted flowers and threw the bucket back onto the buckboard. Wincing, he imagined Oscar’s and Mr. Hunneker’s faces when Paul barged into the saloon and informed them what had happened to their flowers. Gosh, hopefully they didn’t find the arm before Paul did. Poor Oscar would probably have to go through the indignity of picking daisies all over again, right there in Hampton’s meadow in plain sight and broad daylight. Joe sighed. How did he ever manage to cause so much trouble for everyone, even without trying?

On the front porch of the Ponderosa ranch house, the unsuspecting target of Marge Johnson’s fantasies lazed in a chair, enjoying a moment’s rest along with a cup of pitch black coffee. Adam Cartwright stretched his long legs as far from him as they would go and closed his eyes under the brim of his black hat. He and Hoss had spent the morning out with the spring branding crew, roping, herding, throwing, and wielding the smoldering branding irons. The stench of burnt flesh still permeated Adam’s clothes, mingling unflatteringly with that of the coffee and his own sweat. Branding was just about Adam’s least favorite job. It was tedious, monotonous, and low-down dirty. 

Hoss hated branding, too, for the simple reason that he detested inflicting pain on any animal; even worse, because spring branding was also the time they castrated the yearling bulls. After the youngsters were roped and thrown, an experienced cutter would come in with a sharp little knife, grab the bull’s cojones and roll the egg-sized orbs out between thumb and forefinger. Two small cuts through the scrotum, a squeeze with the fist, and they would flop out and roll into the dust, joining scores of others which already littered the ground around the branding site like large discarded marbles.

Poor Hoss, Adam mused with a fond smile as he recalled how his big brother had flinched every time another pair of orphaned marbles bumped into the others already on the ground. Hoss flat-out refused to do the job – Nope, Adam, there’s things a man jus’ won’t do -and after all those years they had finally given up trying to convince him of its necessity. Joe was all thumbs when it came to knives near delicate body parts, and so the job of overseeing castration and teaching the art to new hands naturally fell to older brother. Takes a man with an engineering degree, Adam thought sourly. He estimated that he had unmanned about forty-five young bulls that morning. For a moment, he amused himself with the thought that if hell was a branding pit run by dismarbled yearlings, Adam Cartwright was earmarked to spend purgatory a few ounces lighter. 

Hoss and Adam had ridden home at noon dragging a young steer with their ropes whose fate that day was worse than being deprived of a few body parts; it was going to be slaughtered. Hop Sing had informed them that their meat supply was low and had spent the morning re-packing the root cellar with fresh ice he had hacked from a still-frozen mountain lake.

Their Chinese cook had greeted them, axe in hand and clad in his blood-stained butcher’s apron, and had ordered Hoss to drag the steer into the hay barn, where he had already spread a canvas tarp and set up various wide wooden tubs to catch the blood and meat. When Adam had tried to follow, Hop Sing had shoved him towards the porch and announced, “Hop Sing no need number one son. Go drink coffee. Only need number two son, he big strong. Too many Cartlight get in way!” Adam had shrugged and thrown his hands up - fine with him. He was happy to take a break and keep from getting his clothes bloody. Now nestled comfortably in his chair with his coffee balanced on one thigh, he gleefully listened to the sounds of the sorrowful scene unfolding in the barn.

"Ready? Mista Hoss throw down steer and tie legs.” The little Chinese’s commanding voice was surprisingly powerful. This was his show. 

There was a scuffle, a grunt from Hoss, and a pitiful bellow from the steer, then a loud thump. 

“Good good. Make tight knots. Now Mista Hoss grab head and hold over tub!”

Another grunt from Hoss, followed by the sound of a wooden tub being dragged a small distance, along with a strangled moan, which Adam was pretty sure came from the animal and not his brother. “Gee, Hop Sing, I don’t wanna hurt the poor critter none.”

“How gonna kill critter without hurt! You grab head, I chop. Gimme axe.” 

“Aaw, mebbe we shouldna…”

“Mista Hoss wanna eat rabbit food?”

“Nah, Hop Sing, that ain’t fair. How come Adam ain’t doin’ this? He likes his beef as much as I do...he jus’ don’t wanna get his hands dirty.” Adam allowed himself a private little grin at this. 

“Mista Adam too puny to hold steer!”- Adam’s grin died on his lips – “Only Mista Hoss strong enough.”

“Cain’t we jus’ shoot the poor critter, like we usually do?”

“Mista Hoss wanna get fresh blood for horrible awful blood sausage?”

“Well, sure, but…”

“Then must chop neck. Gimme axe! Hold neck over tub and be quiet.”

There was some mumbling, and then a shifting, shuffling and grunting, as of some kind of wrestling match. Another soulful bellow arose, which was brutally cut off by a chopping sound and a martial grunt from Hop Sing. A strangled gurgling, then, into the silence:

“Dadblame you, Hop Sing, you done plum killed him!”

“No complain! Hold neck over tub! Not waste blood. Let all blood out into tub.” He made a gagging sound in his throat and ranted, “barbaric, disgusting, cannibal German sausage. Chinese people no eat blood. Chinese people civilized two thousand year!”

Aaaah, blood sausage, Adam mused, the reason for poor Hop Sing’s exasperation. A week ago, Adam himself would have crinkled his educated nose at the idea of eatingboiled blood squeezed into a piece of intestine. But then his father had invited the Kreutzers to a dinner party, a German couple who had recently opened a butcher’s shop in Virginia City. The Kreutzers had brought a sampling of their best sausages, and during an evening filled with laughter, good food and charming intercultural misunderstandings, the Cartwright family had been introduced to the high art of making ‘blutwurst’……

…… It had always been a Ponderosa tradition to invite newcomers to the area over to dinner. The Cartwrights were among the wealthiest and oldest residents in the Comstock, and Ben laid great emphasis on the importance of cultivating good relations with his neighbors. The couple, decked out in their Sunday finest, arrived in their squeaky buggy pulled by an elderly, well fed mule. Hannelore and Heinrich Kreutzer were an earthy, middle-aged couple from Westphalia who had immigrated to America and found their way to the Comstock over the pioneer trails. They had brought with them their homeland’s centuries-old traditions of sausage making, ‘Wurstmachen’, and had opened “Hanne’s Wurst Shoppe,” which soon became phenomenally popular, particularly among the poor hardscrabble miners who couldn’t afford the pricey cuts of meat sold at the town’s hotels. The Kreutzers, it was known, could take any parts of an animal carcass, even those that a half-starved hermit would hesitate to throw to his dog, and mix in some spices and secret little odds and ends and turn out the most delicious sausages imaginable. It was sheer magic. “Jus’ eat’em and enjoy’em, and better don’ ask what went in’em,” was the wisdom among the miners. 

To Hop Sing’s blistering annoyance, Frau Kreutzer cheerfully pushed his pork roast down the table to make room for her platter of sausages. “Good good good!” She declared and smacked her lips in demonstration. “Good wurst from ze pig and ze cow and ze wild stag.” She grabbed Hoss, who was sitting next to her, by the bicep with her large, fattish hand and cooed, “Oooh, strong strong! Big strong cowboy need much good strong wurst. In Westphalia, ze young mens grow big and strong from Mama’s good wurst.” Next she grabbed Joe’s bicep on her other side. “Ach, too skinny! Too little!” She stuck an end of liverwurst in his face. “Aaaaa” she commanded, and Joe, startled, reflexively opened his mouth. “Eat eat! Is good for making arms strong!” She pushed the piece inside his mouth and thumped him good-naturedly on the shoulder. “Is good?”

“Hmm” Joe managed, chewing busily.

Frau Kreutzer giggled with delight. “Yes, is very good, very good. But try zis, zis is most good wurst!” She handed out pieces of a thick, dark red variety and nodded enthusiastically at their chewing faces. “Good, yes?”

“That sure’s the best durn sausage I ever had, Mrs. Kreutzer,” commented Hoss sincerely. 

Adam’s eyebrows rose appreciatively. The sausage was rich, deft and spicy, quite unlike any other he had ever tasted. “Very good indeed.” He eyed his remaining piece with interest. It was made of a dark red ground mass speckled with chunks of fat and meat. “How is it made, Mrs. Kreutzer?”