It was raining again. To the inhabitants of northern Nevada, situated as it was on the western edge of the Great Plains, it seemed as if it had been raining, without respite, for the best part of forever. Following a deceptively short but severe winter, the thaw had come early to the eastern foothills of the Sierra Nevada Mountains. It was turning out to be a long, cold, and dismal spring. Rain had fallen, unfailingly, every day for the past five weeks. When the wind blew out of the mountains it brought a driving rain that beat diagonally into a man’s face, stung his eyes, and soaked through his clothes until he was drenched to the skin and chilled right to the marrow of his bones. When the wind failed to blow the rain fell straight down out a leaden sky. The result was much the same.

Ben Cartwright rode into Virginia City at about midmorning. His big, buckskin horse was coated in mud all the way to his shoulders; the goo hung down from his belly like the exudation of some dread disease. Ben’s legs were plastered as well, all the way up to his knees.

Keeping close to the edge of the boardwalk where the mud was little more than hock-deep, he allowed the horse to pick his own way. Out in the centre of the street, where the mule teams and the heavy-duty freight wagons ploughed back and forth, the mire was a good deal deeper. ‘C’ Street, inevitably, had turned into a quagmire. Yellow mud, grey mud, black mud, it was all much the same: wet, sticky, clinging, and most of it stank.

Roy Coffee, venerable, kindly and authoritative upholder of the law, leaned on the upright post of the veranda outside his office and watched the rain slant down into the street. He was quietly digesting breakfast and contemplating lunch. Seeing his long-time friend approaching, his weather-beaten face broke into a grin, and he raised a hand in greeting,

"Howdy, Ben. Come on down fer a spell."

Ben drew rein at the rail. He touched a gloved hand to the dripping brim of his hat.

"Roy, I don’t mind if I do." He stepped out of the saddle into the pale mud of the street.

The expression on his dark-eyed, not unhandsome face spoke entire volumes of what he thought of the morning, the weather and, in particular, the mud. Any invitation to get out of it, even for a brief while, was very welcome. Climbing the steps to the boardwalk he took off his hat and ran a hand through his silver-grey hair. A big man in every respect, he stood half a head taller than the sheriff though Roy, at six feet tall and broad with it, was no lightweight milksop himself.

Roy made a beckoning gesture with his head and led the way into his office, "Sit you down, Ben."

The coffeepot that sat perpetually on top of the pot-bellied stove contained a strong, black brew. Roy poured generous measures into chipped china mugs. He carried them back to the equally battered - and paper strewn - desk.

Ben had shed his coat and gloves, despaired of removing any of the mud from the legs of his pants, and settled into a chair. For a few moments the two men sipped hot coffee and shared that companionable silence that only old friends enjoy.

Roy set his cup down. His professional responsibilities nudged him firmly. "I hope you’re not here on official business." He couldn’t help a trace of anxiety seeping into his voice, "No rustlers? No squatters? No horse thieves?"

"No, no. Nothing like that." Ben shook his head with a wry smile, "I think that this year, it’s too darned wet for the whole passel of them."

Roy put on an expression of mock ferocity, "Well, I’m real’ glad ta hear it!" He had been hoping that Ben would answer in the negative. Roy had no desire whatever to go riding the range in the rain. Strolling to the café for breakfast and to the Cornerhouse for lunch were about the longest excursions he cared to make. Then another thought occurred, "You ain’t got no one sick out there at the Ponderosa, have you? No one with bright pink spots?"

"Spots? No." Ben looked at him in surprise.

"I sure hope you don’t want doc Martin fer nothin’ He’s got his hands full with a typhoid outbreak over on the eastside of town. It’s all this dang rain. It just ain’t healthy."

Ben frowned, "Typhoid? That’s bad, Roy."

"It sure ain’t good."

"The only sick man I’ve got out at the ranch is Sam Haynes. He smashed his arm coming off of a bronc. Won’t be good for much before the autumn."

"You just be careful you don’t take the fever home to Jenny and the boys."

Roy got up and offered a refill. Ben declined. Pleasant though it was to sit in Roy’s untidy, warm and, above all, dry office and chew over the fat, he had business in town. "I’ll be careful. I have to call over at the Freight Office with some messages for Kingdom Jones, and then to the Draper’s Store. Jenny’s given me a list for the boys to pick up next time they’re in town."

"More fripperies for the baby, eh?" Roy chuckled.

"We have to keep them happy."

Roy hooked a thigh over the edge of the desk, "And how are things out at the ranch?"
 
 

"Fine, fine." Ben hid his scowl behind the rim of the mug. If he told the truth, things at the ranch were not fine at all. Most of the immediate problems could be put down to the weather. The Cartwrights, father and sons, had met their commitment to that year’s timber contract by the skin of their teeth. Hauling the massive pine logs out of the forests in the torrential rains and through rivers of mud had been an experience to be revisited only in nightmare. In the end, they had been scrambling for the deadline, working every daylight hour the good Lord provided and well into the night as well, their muscle-cracking efforts lit by storm lanterns and torches when the rain relented enough to let them burn.

The prolonged bout of logging had put them a long way behind with the spring round up. The unrelenting rain was slowing that still more. The rivers were swollen to, and beyond, bursting point; the ranges were sodden and the cattle, recalcitrant. Several horses had come down with an attack of thrush, a fungus that rotted the soft tissue of the foot, and more had picked up red-worm from the perpetually wet ground. Ben, as always, was short handed, and the hired men he had were wet, frustrated, and morose. He and his sons were putting in long, hard hours in the attempt to catch up. Sometimes he wondered how long they could keep up the pace.

He set the mug on the desk in the only available spot and standing, reached for his sodden coat. Roy walked with him to the door. Outside in the street the rain was still falling with relentless determination. The two men gazed at it with resignation. Ben knew that if it kept on going the way it was, the floods would be out in the lowland pastures again, and that would mean more work, moving cows and calves to higher ground.

"I almost fergot ta tell ya," Roy said as a laconic afterthought, "There’s a bunch ‘o fellas over at the Silver Dollar threatening ta ride on out ta your place an’ sign on the pay roll. Just as soon as the rain lets up enough ta let ‘em."

Ben raised his eyes and looked at the sullen sky. The solid grey overcast showed no signs of breaking any time soon. He muttered something profound about ‘not holding his breath’. Aloud, he said, "I sure could use some extra hands right now. I’ll call in there and talk to them about it before I head for home. Thanks for the coffee, Roy."

"Anytime."

Roy resumed his station at the veranda post and watched his friend climb back aboard his horse. Ben rode across the muddy street to the Freight Office and then along to the Draper’s Store with his wife’s amazingly long list. Then he went to the bank and the General Store with the grocery order. His errands completed, he headed for the Silver Dollar.

Pushing through the bat-wing doors he found himself hoping that the men Roy had mentioned could at least rope and ride. The fact was, he was so desperate for hired help he would have employed anyone that could sit on a horse.

Despite the weather, or more probably because of it, the saloon was proving to be a very popular place. The men who couldn’t - or wouldn’t - work outside in the rain had gravitated to the town’s most popular drinking hall. All the tables were filled and there was a press of men at the bar. The atmosphere was warm and dank with the steam from men’s clothing and breath from their mouths. The large barroom was loud with the grumble of conversation, the harsh bark of masculine laughter, and the occasional shouted expletive. It smelled of sweat, beer, cigar smoke and, of course, the ubiquitous mud.

Peeling off his gloves again, Ben bellied up to the bar.

"Make that a beer, Josh."

"Sure thing, Mister Cartwright."

"Mister Cartwright?"

Ben turned at the mention of his name. The soft, Midwestern drawl had been familiar. The smiling, gap toothed face that went with it was more so.

Ben's face broke into an answering smile and he stuck out a hand, "Auron Prior!"

The cowboy hadn’t changed at all in the year since he and his brothers had ridden for Ben. He was still tall and spare to the point of thinness. His misty blue-grey eyes sparkled constantly with incipient amusement. His face was pleasantly amiable and he had overly long, wavy hair.

The two men shook hands, slowly and sincerely.

Prior was a man Ben was truly delighted to see, "Auron Prior, you’re a sight for sore eyes. What are you doing in Virginia City?"

Prior pushed his hat to the back of his head and hooked his thumbs behind the buckle of his belt. It was a stance Ben remembered well. The smile remained, "You said to stop by anytime we were passin’ by an’ needed a job. I sure hope you meant it!"

Ben laughed, "I meant it all right! And right now I can use every man I can get. With this weather and all, we’re way behind with the round-up." The smile faded a fraction, "You don’t mind working in the rain?"

Auron Prior threw back his head and laughed, "After all this time in Arizona, Mister Cartwright, working in the rain will be pure delight!"

Ben didn’t believe his ears, or his luck! "By any chance, would your brothers happen to be with you?"

If it were possible the gap-toothed grin widened still more, "They surely are. C’mon over an’ join us."

Ben retrieved his beer from the bar and followed the lean cowboy through the press of damp people to one of the larger tables. He claimed himself a seat, looking around and putting names to the circle of faces.

They were, in fact, several variants of the same face. Ben’s own sons, each born of a different, and strikingly beautiful woman, had faces as individual and distinctive as their characters. The sons of Abel and Mary Prior had all inherited the same, regular, rather rounded features, and all of them had the same blue-grey eyes and the same ready-to-wave sable-brown hair.

Auron Prior, at thirty-three years old, was the eldest, and acted as spokesman for the family group. Astley Prior, the next in order of age, was a man of similar size and build to his brother, long-legged and lean. Quieter by nature and generally content to let Auron do his talking for him, he usually wore a pleasant, sometimes, sleepy expression. He had so far avoided any such encounter as the one with the mean steer that had cost his brother his front teeth. The sleepiness, Ben had learned, was an illusion.

Ashley Prior, while sharing the common family features, was an altogether shorter, stockier man, quick eyed and alert; his movements were the sharpest and fastest of all. He carried a Colt .44, the same gun favoured by Ben's eldest son, and again like Adam, he wore it tied very low down on his thigh. Arthur Prior was taciturn and huge; he was a man of carefully controlled power - as all big men must be. He was as strong and as far around as Hoss Cartwright, if half a head shorter. Both were the men to be avoided in a fistfight.

The youngest Prior was Asia. Of all of them he had changed the most. A year ago, when Ben had seen him last, he had been soft skinned and boyish. He was fast maturing into a tall, fine looking young man. He wore the family hair long and tied back behind his head, neatly plaited. Like Joe Cartwright, he wore his gun left-handed.

Sitting at the table with the Priors were the two friends who had ridden with them before. Peter Nash, his dark hair now receding apace, was a gambling man. Wryly, Ben recalled that after sitting in a game with him few of the trail crew had retained anything but empty pockets. Peter Barnes was the smallest man of the group. An expert trail cook, he produced the best bacon, beans and biscuits Ben had ever eaten. He would be as valuable on the trail drive as any of the others.

Each and every one could ride and rope, tie and brand as well as any man Ben had known. Both the belated spring gather and the drive to the railhead were likely to be a lot smoother with them on the payroll. He bought another round of beers while they negotiated terms.

Auron Prior retained his amiable nature and pleasant smile, but he was a tough talker. Ben had to agree to pay top rates and a bonus at the railhead if the herd was on time. In the end, he was glad to do it.

And to lighten his mood still further, when they stepped out of the saloon they found that the sky was a paler shade of grey. The rain had slackened from downpour to steady, persistent drizzle. Ben had hopes that by afternoon it might even stop for a while. The Prior brothers and the two Peters fetched their saddle horses and the string of sturdy pack animals that carried their belongings, and the whole party set out with a will for the Ponderosa.

********

Despite the wet and soggy start to the season, in spring the ranch was a beautiful place. The wide, open ranges that rolled unbroken from horizon to horizon were green with grass sprung fresh from the tussocky roots of the old. The shoots were sweet and tender, tempting and full of nutrition for the winter-hungry stock. The broad-leaves that clothed the hillside and stood as solitary shade trees, sentinel across the land, were unfurling new leaves in all their different shapes and shades. On the rare occasion when the rain stopped and the cloud lifted, the forested hills appeared through the mists. Each hill was a little greyer, a little less distinct, as they rose, rank on rank, towards the mountain peaks. In the high hills and on the broad shoulders of the Sierras, the snow still lay deep and undisturbed. There the majestic, slow-to-stir Ponderosa pine reigned supreme and winter lingered on.

The vales and spinneys were noisy with birdsong and alive with bob-tailed deer. All the wild things had eaten well of the lush spring growth and reproduced in rare abundance. There were more squirrels and rabbits and lop-eared hares than anyone could ever remember.

If the wildlife had done well, then the domestic stock had thrived, Jenny Cartwright’s Jacob’s sheep had multiplied to the point where Ben had become alarmed at their fecundity. Jenny had laughed and explained to her scowling husband that now they could turn the wool and the meat into a cash crop for the ranch instead of using them for home consumption only.

Following a slow beginning, Joe Cartwright’s plans for raising purpose-bred horses were showing promise. Monarch, his coal-black three-quarters bred Morgan stallion was proving to be an effective sire. His first crop of yearling foals, separated from their dams, frolicked belly-deep in grass in the water meadows below the big house.

And of course, the cattle, mainstay of the ranching empire that Ben Cartwright had built, had proliferated. The short, sharp winter and early spring had meant minimal losses to the cold, the cougar, and the single marauding wolf pack that had come down from the mountains. ‘Most every cow had a calf at her side, and the yearling steers had grown fat on the spring fodder. The two-year old stock, destined for this year’s market, were well-grown, muscular animals that were more flesh than fat. The trick was in gathering them up and delivering them to the buyers without working all the weight off them.

It had all the promise of being a good year - if only it would stop raining!

As if in response to a heartfelt prayer the rains eased, and then slowed to a fine drizzle.

A wet wind blew across the range and into the faces of the horsemen. Shortly, a watery sun glimmered through the clouds. Ben reined the buckskin to a halt at the top of the rise. His newly hired help, homogenous in yellow oilskins, fell into line on either side.

"The boys were gathering steers from this section to add to the main muster."

They looked down into a wide, shallow valley. There was a small herd of cattle gathered in the bottom. A watercourse, glutted with rainfall and running full spate, flowed through. The creek twisted its way between banks that rose and fell with the landscape. A wagon and horses stood next to the usual watering hole, together with several saddle horses. Ben touched his heels to the buckskin’s sides and led the men down to the waterside.

Despite the cold wind, Joe Cartwright was sweating with the sheer effort of hard work. As soon as the rain stopped, he shrugged out of the heavy, waxed-wool overcoat and dumped it in the back of the wagon. He wiped the sleeve of his shirt across his forehead. Seeing the approaching horsemen, he walked to the back of the wagon and waited, squinting against the weak sunlight. He recognized his father’s big buckskin gelding at once, but a frown clouded his face as he wondered who the other men might be.

Even when the faces were close enough to be seen it took a long moment before recognition struck home. Joe let out a wild whoop and a holler.

"Hey, Hoss! Look who it is!"

Joe’s older brother, caught in the act of collecting a coil of rope from the wagon bed, joined him. An uneven, but sparkling-white grin split his amiable, broad-featured face.

The horsemen pulled up and stepped down, and within moments the Cartwright boys and the Priors were exchanging handshakes and mutual greetings. Joe was especially pleased to renew his acquaintance with Asia Prior. The two were of a similar age and a year ago had formed an enduring friendship.

Ben looked towards the gathered cattle. A frown gathered over his brow. "I thought you boys would have moved those steers half way along the valley by now."

Hoss harrumphed, trying not to exchange glances with Joe who was looking just too innocent. "We’re workin’ on it, Pa. We was moving ‘em along just fine when we found three - four critters stuck in the creek here."

"We was haulin’ ‘em out when you rode over the hill," Joe grinned.

Ben looked around with an air of puzzlement. "Where’s your brother?"

As if on cue, a somewhat irate, baritone voice carried from over the bank, "Hoss, are you comin’ back here with that rope?"

Joe and Hoss looked at one another and said, with one voice, "Adam."

Everyone climbed to the top of the bank.

Sure enough, there were three steers still deeply mired in the bend of the creek. In there with them was Adam Cartwright. Ben’s eldest son, in open shirt and pants and little else, was hip deep in mud and river water. He had a rope around his chest that ran up over the bank and was tied to the wagon wheel. It secured him against the tug of the current. He was cold, soaking wet, and plastered from head to foot in black, clinging mud. He was also considerably put out at his brother’s abandonment. He gazed up at the row of faces above him.

Following Adam’s close brush with death from a bushwhacker’s bullet, Ben was still fiercely protective of him - a fact he tried, unsuccessfully, to hide. He frowned at Hoss, "Why is Adam in the creek?"

"I guess he volunteered, Pa."

Joe’s grin widened, "Adam kinda drew the short straw, Pa." The two brothers exchanged looks and secret smiles. They were far more prepared than their father to take at face value their brother’s claim that he was completely well again. Neither one of them was going to explain to their father exactly how they had manoeuvred Adam into the creek. Ben looked from one to the other, well aware that they had been up to something. Their faces were totally without guile. Looking at the sorry state of his eldest, he couldn’t keep the glimmer of amusement out of his own eyes. He leaned forward against his knee.
 
 

"Just how did these two manage to get you into the creek?"

Adam wasn’t about to explain the trick that had been played on him or to confess that he had walked right into it with his eyes wide open. Instead, he planted both hands theatrically on his waist. He heaved a mighty sigh and raised a hand in a gesture of high drama, "How oft shall my brother sin against me, and I forgive him? ‘til seven times? I say not unto thee, Until seven times: but Until seventy times seven"*

As if in critical acclaim of his rendition, thunder rolled low across the land. The sky opened, and the rain deluged onto his head in an unwanted and unwelcome blessing.

Amid the general laughter Adam’s expression changed from pained to resigned. He ran a muddy hand through his wet hair. Through clenched, white teeth he said to Hoss, "And now, brother dear, will you please throw me down the rope?"

Hoss laughed and tossed down the coil of rope. While Adam secured it around the horns of the nearest steer, Arthur Prior cheerfully stripped to shirt and pants and waded in to help push.

Two
 
 

Far away to the south, the rainstorms that swept the ranges of the Ponderosa had also fallen upon a motley collection of shacks that bore no official name, nor were they marked on any map. Locally, and to those who frequented it, the spot where the wagon track ended on a river bank, was know as ‘Ma Hoffer’s’, or, more simply, as ‘Ma’s’. The buildings, weathered to drabness and in a sorry state of repair, had slumped into the background of trees and underbrush until they were almost indistinguishable from the landscape itself. They comprised a combined store and drinking house, where basic commodities and raw liquor were available for purchase, and a barn, in somewhat better condition than the main building, together with its associated corrals. Further along the riverbank were a number of tumbledown shanties inhabited by ladies of dubious pedigree. They were places where certain personal services were always available to gentleman travellers and local inhabitants alike. The only acceptable currencies were gold and silver, in coin, bullion or dust. Credit was not available. It was the last stopping place between civilization and the Wilderness Mountains, otherwise know as God’s Back Doorstep.

At this early hour, in the first, filtered, grey light of the morning, two men were working in the yellowish mud of the yard. Both were big men, made to look bigger still by their bulky waterproof coats. Both wore their hair long and had been unshaven for many days. The beginnings of beards were sprouting from their faces, one as midnight-black as a raven’s wing, the other mousy brown and sprinkled liberally with grey. They worked methodically, tightening straps and securing loads on to the backs of a dozen sturdy mules. They were glad that for an hour or so at least, the rain had stopped.

The youngest and tallest of the two, he with the black hair and the deep set, brooding brown eyes, leaned his forearms on the broad back of a mule. He gazed across the river towards the forest and the foothills that were emerging, as the mists cleared, one behind the other against the distant backdrop of the mountains. The tops of the Sierras, standing high above the panoramic vista of hills and forest, were already bathed in sunlight.

"You think," he said to his companion across the animal’s back, "There’s really any money to be made trapping in these hills?" His tone was harsh and abrasive; his nasal accent placed his origins somewhere in the eastern states, perhaps Pennsylvania or New York.

The older man also stopped and turned. Pushing his soft felt hat to the back of his head he raised his face to look in the same direction. His eyes, a faded brown in a heavily tanned, leather-skinned face, squinted almost closed against the dazzling sun-brightness of the peaks. His expression was thoughtful, speculative. It was his habit to consider carefully everything that he said. "I think perhaps, so," His voice was heavily accented with the French of the far northeast. "They haven’t been so heavily hunted as the eastern hills."

The younger man’s mouth twisted sourly. "I still say, we should have gone north."

"’Bel, you are an impatient man," The Canadian’s laugh was short and humourless. "You are in a hurry to make a fortune, eh?"

"I’m in a hurry to make my fortune, yes!" Corbel Lighterman returned to harnessing the mules with unnecessary vigour. His eyes remained fixed, for the most part, on the bright peaks. His expression was one of intense dislike and bitter determination. "I hear the rivers up there are thick with beaver. So thick a man doesn’t have to move more than five miles in a season, and he ends up with more pelts than he can carry out."

"That may have been true once." The Canadian went on smiling as he worked, but his face held a certain regret, "Not so now. Unless you go far, far to the north. And for that the season is already too late."

"Too late?" Lighterman’s dark eyes were hard, angry; always, his eyes were angry, "What do you mean, too late?"

A shrug, a smile, "It is spring now. By the time we have ridden half way across the country, it will be mid-winter. Too late to reach the northern forests before they are cut off by the snow."

"The best time to take beaver is in the coldest part of the winter, when the pelts are thickest!"

"What you say may be true. But the winter is not the best time to be trekking north. By the time the first snow falls, a man wants to be safely installed in a log cabin, with all his trap lines set and a good log fire burning."

Lighterman jerked a strap tight with unnecessary savagery, "You make it sound almost cosy!"

"Cosy it is not. But it is - was once – a good life for a man." Jules Perriot, sometime trapper, logger, woodsman and guide, finished with the last mule and rubbed the stoic, dark brown animal on the muzzle.

"So what are we gonna take out o’ these hills?" Lighterman threw another hostile glance towards the forests.

Perriot shrugged, "We will take anything we can get. A few beaver perhaps but not many: wolf, fox, bear. Bojun is a hunter. I have worked with him before. He is – efficient?" He shrugged eloquently, "Whatever he finds, he kills. One long sweep through these hills and there won’t be very much left alive."

"Just so long as these mules are loaded down with pelts when we ride down outa there."

Perriot smiled at the younger man’s angry enthusiasm, "Why are you so very eager to make money so quickly?"

"You bet your butt I’m eager!" Lighterman slapped his hand down hard on the rump of a mule. The dust flew and the animal’s hide flinched, "Eight Goddamn years I’ve been west of the Ohio, tryin’ ta get a Goddamn stake!" The angry eyes flared, "I’ve done everything there is for a man to do! Loggin’, gold-pannin’, silver minin’, gamblin’. Even tried raisin’ steers, one time. Until Goddamn rustlers burned me out. Nothin’ ever works out fer me!"

Perriot pursed his lips. It was his opinion that the younger man was not the type to apply himself for long to anything that resembled hard work. Upon consideration, he decided to keep his thoughts to himself. Instead, he said, "I hope you’re not going to be disappointed. The English no longer prefer to wear the beaver hats when they ride out in their carriages. The price of skins is not so good as it used to be."

Scowling darkly, Lighterman finished by tying the lead rope of one mule to the packsaddle of the next. Side by side the two men slogged their way through the mud to Ma Hoffer’s store.

Herricule Bojun was the third member of the little party. He was a man whose name had once been well known throughout the western states, although many now believed him to be dead. He had gloried in a reputation for single-minded determination bordering on the ruthless, and a total disregard for all living things. He stepped now from the dark interior of Ma’s store into the brighter light of the morning. He stood for a moment on the veranda while his eyes adjusted. Wiping his sleeve across his mouth, he surveyed the scene in the yard. The mules with their canvas-covered pack saddles stood waiting patiently, hock deep in the mud. Three saddle horses, tough, rugged, dark-coloured and longhaired, selected to cope with rough terrain, were ready at the rail. He lifted his eyes, an intense blue, to the vista beyond. Bojun saw none of the beauty. He saw only possibilities.

Bojun tipped the jug he carried over his elbow and turned his head to take a long hard drink. He needed a good drink first thing in the morning. It didn’t numb all of the pain, but it sure as hell helped. The jug was empty. He pitched it far out into the mud. In two, long, limping strides he crossed the veranda. His right leg, almost useless, dragged behind him. A falling horse rolling over him years before had smashed his knee beyond any hope of repair. Now, the leg didn’t bend at all and it hurt constantly. It did nothing whatever for his affability. Without stepping down from the veranda, Bojun reached for his stirrup and swung his stiff leg over the horse’s back. Mounted, he looked, and functioned, much like any other man. Bojun conducted the bulk of his life from the back of a horse.

A large man, deep chested and lean-hipped, he rode with his bad leg in a long stirrup. With a full-lipped mouth that looked constantly moist amid a silvered, grey beard and thinning grey streaked hair that had once been thick and dark red, his face had the hard, weathered appearance of an old leather mask. After a lifetime in the wide outdoors, trapping, hunting, killing, he was about as hard and as tough as a man could get. Like the others, he was bundled into a heavy coat and wore high boots and thick weatherproof pants. A black-handled Navy Colt revolver rode in a holster on the horn of his saddle and a long-nosed saddle gun under his knee. He settled himself into the saddle and gathered his reins.

A mountain man of the old fashioned sort, he squinted at the sky, sniffed the wind, sampled the flavour of the air. He looked down at Perriot and Lighterman. "Reckon it’s gonna rain ag’in ‘afore midday," he said, in a flat, monotone drawl. He rubbed at his stiffened knee in an unconscious, habitual gesture, trying to ease the pain out of it. "You git yore-selves mounted up, an’ we’ll git some miles a’hind us a’fore we gits wet."

Perriot moved stoically to his horse while Lighterman hesitated. His hands clenched and unclenched. It was as if he were still undecided whether to make the trip or not, even now. Finally, he snatched the reins from the rail and swung aboard. Both men were glad to get their feet out of the mud.

Bojun led the way down to the riverbank and urged his horse forward. The water, flowing straight from the mountains, was icy cold, and his horse was reluctant. It fought the bit. Bojun forced its head round and kicked hard. The animal splashed in. The current ran fast and deep and the water came up to the horse’s shoulder - almost to the top of Bojun’s boot. Angling across to the far bank, it waded across the river in a series of lunges and emerged, dripping on the other side. Lighterman, sitting tense and erect in the saddle followed. His dark eyes were alert; his glance darted everywhere. Perriot, more relaxed, more patient, brought up the rear. He led the first of the mules on a long line. With Bojun leading the way and the others following in Indian file, they started to wend their way northwards into the hills.
 
 

********
 
 

Ben Cartwright called down the blessing of his God upon his household and felt it descend like a mantle of peace about his shoulders. He offered up thanks for the food that graced his table and said a silent prayer for those assembled to eat it. As the meal began, he took his customary moment to consider each of the familiar faces.

The only woman at the breakfast table, seated immediately to Ben’s left, was Jenny Cartwright; his much loved fourth wife, mother of his infant son, and light of his life. She had striking, sea green eyes in a lively, animated face that followed the ebb and flow of the conversation around the table. This morning she wore her lustrous, dark hair in a cascade of tight ringlets, tied back with a ribbon and tumbling about her shoulders. Her skin was flawless, and if her high cheekbones were just a fraction too wide for conventional beauty, and her chin a little to pointed, that didn’t matter to Ben one little bit. To him, she was the loveliest woman alive.

Jenny was picking, birdlike, at the food on her plate. Ben had a suspicion that her lack of appetite had more to do with the corsetry that she laced herself into each morning than with any natural disinclination to eat. Ever careful of her needs, he offered her bread before it all disappeared from the plate. Jenny declined with a bright smile and a "Thank you."

Right across the table from Jenny was an appetite of an entirely different order.

Slow to anger, swift to forgive, Ben’s second-born son was a small mountain of a man. Hoss was cheerfully munching his way through the first of two, or possibly three, helpings of breakfast: hot corn bread, ham, eggs and fried potatoes, followed by fresh biscuits spread with butter and black-strap molasses. At the same time he was carrying on an animated conversation with his brothers. The subject, of all things, was the jumping prowess of bullfrogs. Hoss had broad, open features and the ice-blue eyes and fine fair hair of his beautiful Swedish mother. Ben noticed, not for the first time, that the hair was noticeably thinning.

At Hoss’s elbow sat Joe Drury. Not a family member, he was a young man Ben had brought from the streets of Silver City to learn the trade of a cowboy. In the few months he had lived and worked with the Cartwrights and eaten at their table, Jody had grown like a weed in a garden patch. Now he stood taller than Joe and showed every sign of broadening into a big, powerful man. He was the only man Ben knew who could challenge Hoss in a straight eating contest and stand any chance of winning. He had an unruly mop of pale hair and the most startling eyes; they were a bright hazel-brown flecked with emerald green and gold.

Opposite Jody, and taking an enthusiastic part in the discussion, was Joe – still known affectionately upon occasion as ‘Little Joe’, although his position as the baby of the family had been usurped. Joseph was slight of build and light boned in a world where big men ruled. He had retained his boyish good looks into manhood, and relied upon his charm, his ready wit, and, just occasionally, his fast, left-handed gun to keep him out of trouble. Joe’s youthful, expressive face contained a pair of lively, hazel eyes and a wide mouth that was always ready with a smile and a not always carefully considered reply. His hair, brown and wavy with a distinct tendency to curl in the nap of his neck, needed cutting yet again.

Finally, almost with reluctance, Ben’s dark gaze settled on his eldest son. It still made his innards creep to think how close he had come to losing him. In his accustomed place at the far end of the table, Adam was slowly but surely demolishing a meal of scrambled eggs and bread, and, Ben was pleased to observe, a reasonably sized portion of ham. It gave him immense satisfaction to see his oldest son eat. A tall, broad shouldered man with a big, physical frame, his injury and the long period of recovery that had followed, had left him gaunt, wasted. Paul Martin, the family physician, had warned that he might never fully recover his robust appetite, or indeed, his full health. Watching him now, Ben was, at last, prepared to dismiss that prognosis. Throughout the winter, Hop Sing’s careful feeding regime and the ceaseless encouragement of his family had reconstructed Adam’s superb physique, rebuilt his sculptured muscles, and even filled the hollows of his cheeks.

With the coming of spring, Ben was beginning to accept that Adam had truly recovered. The knot of fear that had been resident in his gut for so long was starting to unwind and the worry lines that appeared every time he looked Adam’s way were fading. His undeniably handsome, black haired son moved fluidly with his old, panther-like grace; his skin glowed with regained health, and his deep-set, hooded eyes had gotten back their sparkle. Adam had also recovered his sharp and sometimes cynical humour.

"The next time I find myself in the creek," he was telling his brother in precise, clipped tones, "I shall make a point of introducing you to my friends, the bullfrogs, personally!"

Joe grinned at him, "You and what army?"

Adam drew a breath and there was a dangerous glitter in his eyes. His voice was developing an edge, "I don’t need an army to give you a dunking, little brother." He gave the word ‘little’ just enough emphasis to make it an insult. Visibly, Joe bristled.

"That’s enough," Ben said firmly. "Unless it’s absolutely necessary, I don’t want to find either of you back in the creek." He knew these two well enough to step in before banter became battle. "If there’s not enough work around here to use up your surplus energies, I’m sure I can soon find you some more."

The brothers exchanged glances that hinted of un-concluded business and duly subsided. Both knew better than to continue, at the table, an argument that their father had forbidden.

Ben favoured both of them with an extra glare for good measure. With a more pleasant expression, he addressed his wife,

"Is everything prepared for your trip, my dear?"

"Indeed," Jenny smiled at him and her green eyes sparkled with excitement, "Our boxes are all packed, and I have a ticket for Friday’s stage to Reno."

A little frown of concern flickered across Ben’s face as he considered the journey his wife and his small son were about to undertake, "Are you sure it’s a wise thing? It’s a long and difficult journey, even in the best of weather."

"Oh, Ben," Jenny sighed, "We’ve been all through this at least a dozen times. The road through the mountains is perfectly safe. Once we get to Sacramento we can take the paddle-boat down the river all the way to San Francisco."

Ben was unconvinced, "You make it sound a great deal easier than it is. With all the rain that’s fallen in the hills, the rivers will be swollen. The roads…"

"The stage has been getting through without any difficulty at all. There’s no reason to suppose that will change, simply because Daniel and I are aboard."

"Couldn’t you put it off for a month or two?"

Jenny’s lovely face took on a fiercely stubborn look that could only have been learned from a born Cartwright, "I will not put it off!" she said, hotly. Unlike Ben’s sons, Jenny had no compunction about arguing with him, at the table or anywhere else. "You know very well that I’ve been planning this trip for the whole of the winter!"

"I know you have…"

"And you’re not about to talk me out of it now!"

"I’m not trying to talk you out of anything!" Without his realizing it, Ben’s voice was rising in volume, "I’m merely suggesting…"

"Daniel’s already eleven months old, and my sister hasn’t set eyes on him yet!"

Momentarily thrown by the abrupt change in the direction of the argument, Ben floundered.

"Perhaps I should come with you."

Jenny was incredulous, "Come with me? Just listen to yourself! Can you see yourself sitting in my sister’s parlour sipping tea when you have trees to fell here? And calves to brand? And a herd to drive to the railhead?"

Ben was aware of a suppressed snigger from somewhere around the table but didn’t have time to track it down, "I could send one of the boys."

"Daniel and I are going on Friday’s stage." Jenny stood up with an air of finality, "We’ll be gone for about six weeks. And, thank you, but we won’t be requiring any company!" Without giving any of the men time to do more than start from their seats, she flounced up the stairs in a flurry of cream and gold skirts.

The boys settled back into their chairs, and Ben, aware that he had been bested by his diminutive wife although not quite sure how, glowered ‘round at them. He found a variety of expressions on their faces. Hoss was plainly embarrassed beyond belief, fiddling with the last buttered biscuit on his plate and only the thinning top of his head to be seen. Jody was flushed to his ears and wishing furiously that he was somewhere else – anywhere else! Joseph was frantically trying to conceal his amusement. Ben suspected that the snigger had been his. The look on Adam’s face, as he met his father’s eyes squarely across the rim of his habitual, extra cup of coffee, was, frankly, speculative. It was an expression Ben had seen a number of times in recent weeks - it made him uncomfortable.

"Don’t you men have any work to do?" he growled.

There was a general pushing back of chairs and the three younger men headed for the door. Adam, as was his habit, remained at the table sipping his last cup of coffee. He was looking into his cup now, rather than at his father, but the look on his face was the same. Ben felt another wave of unease. He hesitated.

"Adam."

Adam’s hazel-brown eyes lifted. His expression was one of inquiry, tempered with – no, Ben was sure he hadn’t mistaken it – just the faintest tinge of defiance.

In the months that had passed since his wounding, and especially in the last half of his long, slow convalescence, Adam’s feelings towards his family, and in particular towards his father, had undergone a sea change. Unquestionably, he still loved them without reservation. But his self-image had been severely tested by his long period of incapacity and his emotions battered. It had been a trial by fire that had led him to make that final, if considerably delayed, leap into adulthood. Of course, he still looked upon his father as a man to be respected - a man whose opinions and advice were always there should he wish to avail himself of them. Nonetheless, Adam saw him now, more than ever before, as a man - sometimes fallible, sometimes weak and sometimes wrong. He was no longer a demi-god to be obeyed without question or a paragon before whose anger he quailed. For Adam, Ben’s word was no longer absolute law. Adam had, at last, come to understand that his lifelong idol had feet, not of clay, but of flesh. The principle dilemma he faced now was how to assert himself without a catastrophic confrontation.

"Pa?"

Still, Ben hesitated. For some reason he couldn’t account for he felt almost as if he were talking to a stranger. This dark, brooding man sometimes bore little resemblance to the son he knew, and now was one of those times. It was as Adam were watching him through hostile eyes, waiting for him to trip up. Ben scarcely knew how to address him any more. "I’d like you to check the final tally with Charlie before we move the herd out."

Adam gave that some swift thought, "You’ve always trusted Charlie’s count before."

"That’s as may be," Ben walked round the table, his thumbs hooked into his belt in a familiar attitude, "This is the largest herd we’ve ever driven off the Ponderosa. If you remember, we estimated about fourteen hundred head."

"We’ve got more than enough men to handle them."

"Hmm. Yes. That’s not what I’m worried about. I want to talk to you, Adam."

A frown on his face, Ben walked across to his desk. Adam followed him with his eyes that same look of speculation on his face. He was well aware that his father was trying to say something to him; he wasn’t at all sure he was going to like it. After a moment, he put down the cup, scraped back the chair and followed his father across the room.

"What is it that you’re worried about?"

Ben turned, looking up at him from under lowered eyebrows, "Adam, I might not be taking you with me on the drive this year."

Adam opened his mouth with an instant, angry retort, and then closed it again as he considered a more measured response. He wondered just what bee his father had in his bonnet this time. Was he still fretting over the gunshot wound that was now no more than an ugly scar on Adam’s belly and a memory of pain? It was an episode in a past that Adam wanted very badly to put behind him. Above all, he was sick and tired of being treated like and invalid, or, worse, a child not yet out of soiling- rags.

"I’m quite capable of riding herd. Pa," he said, more testily than he had intended. His hands were on his hips and his eyes were angry.

Ben was surprised by the snap in his voice. "I know you are. But, as you said yourself, having the Prior brothers on the payroll gives us a surplus of men for the drive. There’s something else I want you to do for me."

Watching his son’s face closely, Ben saw the play of emotions: surprise, irritation, curiosity, and again, that fleeting glimpse of resentment, swiftly masked. There was something going on in Adam’s mind that he didn’t understand. He worried at it.

Adam was considering the possibilities. While he was determined not to be manipulated, he had no wish to offer the outright refusal of a petulant child. He decided to hear his father out.

Deliberately relaxing his aggressive stance, he asked, "What do you have in mind?"

Ben settled back into his chair, "It’s your brother."

"Joe?"

Ben smiled wryly as Adam jumped to the inevitable conclusion. "Your brother, Hoss." he elaborated.

"Hoss." Adam couldn’t help the edge of exasperation. Why the heck couldn’t his father come to the point he was trying to make instead of following this tortured, circuitous route, "I thought Hoss was doing just fine, sparkin’ with that Mary Fletcher."

"That’s right." Ben allowed himself a small chuckle. "They make a fine couple. I’ve hopes that they might even make a match of it before too long."

Adam let go of his anger and smiled, "That’d be real’ swell, Pa."

Ben enjoyed the rare moment of companionship. He leaned forward onto the desk. "Hoss has been promising himself a trip into the Reserved Section for a good long time now. Every time he makes plans, something seems to come up to get in his way. I thought now might be a good time for him to go - and that you might like to go with him."

Adam thought about it. Certainly the idea had its attractions, and the way his father had put it, as if he would be doing his brother a favour, made it hard to refuse.

And, abruptly, he didn’t want to refuse. A trip into the high hills in springtime was a pleasant prospect; it would be nicer by far than following steer’s backsides all the way to the railhead, and Hoss would be amiable company. He would value his brother’s advice on the management of the land. And besides, the fresh air blowing straight down out of the mountains just might serve to clear his thinking, enable him to get a few things straight with himself, and perhaps come to some decisions.

"All right, Pa. If Hoss wants to go, I’ll be happy to ride along with him."

"That’s good." Pleased, Ben sat back.

Adam had another thought, "Why don’t we take Jody with us? Half grown, he wouldn’t be a whole lot of use on the drive."

Ben made a gesture of agreement. "I can spare him, if you’d like to take him along."

"Then I’ll go find them and tell them."

Adam headed for the door, and Ben sat and watched him go. His breath sighed softly out. Wise in the ways of the world, Ben Cartwright reckoned he knew now what his son’s trouble was. He was well aware that in order to keep the things he loved the most, a man sometimes had to be willing to let them go. Adam wanted his freedom at last, and Ben wasn’t about to risk driving him away by clinging too tightly. He found himself hoping that this trip into the hills might help his son decide exactly what form he wanted his freedom to take.
 
 

The sorrel mare shifted restlessly and flicked her ears back and forth. She was a finely bred, high-spirited animal, and she had little time for the man’s painstaking examination. Asia Prior made a soft, soothing sound with his tongue, and, for a moment, she quieted. He took his own good time, moving his hands slowly, almost sensuously, over the polished red hide. Beneath his palms he felt the smooth, flat firmness of her neck, the harder, bunched muscles of her powerful shoulder, the taut tendons in her long forelegs. He moved back over her withers, along the lightly ribbed barrel of her body. He ran his hands across her loins and over the broad expanse of her rump, looked under her tail, and worked his way back along her other side. The mare snorted and stamped her foot with impatience. There was fire in her eye. Asia laughed and rubbed his hand up and down her nose. He looked up, and the smile on his youthful, wolfishly handsome face was wide. Like all the Priors, with the exception of Auron, he had a full set of large, startlingly white teeth.

"She’s a beautiful animal, Joe. A little too high and mighty for ranch work I’d have thought."

Joe Cartwright, perched on the wall of the stall with his knees wide apart and his feet dangling, grinned,

"She’s surely no rope an’ tie cow-pony! I bought her from a friend of Adam’s. The fella breeds some mighty fine horses on a big spread east of Sacramento." His pride in the animal was obvious.

"What do you plan on doing with her?"

"Next time she comes onto heat, I puttin’ her up to Monarch. We should get some nice, light boned stock out of her."

Asia Prior stepped back and took in the mare’s general appearance. "She looks like she’s got a turn of speed in her. Have you tried her out yet?"

"Not yet." Joe slid off the woodwork and walked over to give the mare a pat. "Adam tells me she comes from some pretty fast stock."

A speculative look came to Asia Prior’s face. "Let’s give her a run, then. Your mare against my gelding. The loser pays for a night on the town."

It was an idea that appealed instantly to the competitive side of Joe’s nature. "Hey, you’re on!"

Joe swung a saddle onto the mare’s back and reached underneath for the cinch.

Asia Prior’s black gelding stood half a hand shorter than the mare. He had a shorter, altogether stockier build and massively powerful quarters - the ideal cutting and roping horse. Asia swung easily into the saddle and settled himself, waiting for Joe to mount.

Joe brought the mare into line. She was sweating and throwing her head about, "We’ll race to the lone oak in the water meadow."

Asia flashed him another wide, white smile, "Get ready to put your hand in your pocket!" He dug in his heels and let out a yell. The black gelding took of in a flying gallop.

Left standing, Joe cried out to the mare and kicked hard. She leapt in pursuit.

The two horses, with their excited young riders bending low over their necks, galloped flat out along the road that ran beside the corrals. Then they veered sharply right, running downhill through the trees and across the wide, shallow place in the stream. At first the black horse led, maintaining his flying start - even improving on it as they splashed through the water. Joe felt the power of the mare’s shoulders surging beneath him, felt the thrust of her quarters. She carried her head high as she ran which made it difficult for him to see where they were going-*98 and harder still to keep from losing his teeth. She didn’t flatten out in the same way as Asia’s gelding. But she knew what was required of her, and she didn’t like to be beaten. Pulling away from the river, she drew level with the black. They raced neck and neck into the water meadow.

The pounding of the horse’s hooves jarred through the young men’s bodies, even though the grass muffled the sound. The sigh of their blood was loud in their ears and the taste of excitement sharp in their throats. The wind of their passage whipped tears from their eyes. Each of them got their open mouths and their eyes full of coarse, ropy mane.

Asia let out another wild, whooping yell, calling on the gelding for yet another huge effort. He responded with a will, laying back his ears and stretching his neck. He surged ahead again. Joe leaned close against the sorrel mare’s neck, urging her on with hands and heels, driving hard. The mare extended her long legs, reaching for a longer stride. Her belly lowered into the grass. She drew level, then pulled ahead as they sped past the ancient, solitary oak that graced the meadow.

Joe and Asia shortened their reins and pulled their mounts to a shuddering stop. They sat laughing, breathlessly, while their horses heaved and caught their second wind. Once the animals had recovered, they rode off through the grasslands at a much more leisurely pace. Their friendship was firmly re-established, and they were content in each other’s company.
 
 

With the rapid onset of maturity, Joe Drury’s speaking voice was breaking into a pleasant, light baritone. This morning, as he raced excitedly at top speed through the yard, shouting at the top of his lungs, to reverted to a high alto.

"A mud fight! A mud fight! Down at the duck pond!" Scattering squawking chickens before him, he vanished around the side of the barn without pausing to elaborate.

Adam and Ben, pausing in mid-conversation to observe his headlong flight, gazed after him, slack jawed.

"Did he say, a mud fight?" Ben asked his son, not quite believing his own ears.

Adam’s look of bemusement mirrored his own, "I’m almost certain that’s exactly what he said. At the duck pond."

Ben drew a long breath. "This, I’ve got to see." With a long stride, he set off in Jody’s wake. Adam, equally curious, quickly fell into step beside him.

There was a crowd already gathered around the pond when they arrived. In fact, every man not on a horse on the range was there - even Hop Sing, smiling broadly. There was an air of excitement, and money was changing hands as the hired help weighed up the comparative physical virtues of two big men. Ben and Adam had to push their way through to find out what was going on.

Hoss Cartwright and Arthur Prior, stripped right down to their long drawers, had already waded out knee deep into the water. Both were massive men: Hoss a little taller than Arthur - Arthur a little broader in the beam. Both had wide shoulders and vast barrel chests - Hoss’s very lightly furred, Arthur’s covered with a darker, denser mat of hair that disappeared below the waistband of his undergarment. They had huge hands and their bare arms bulged with muscle. Warily, they were circling one another, stirring up the rich, fragrant silt with their feet. The ducks and the geese, the usual inhabitants of the pond, had gathered up their feathered families and fled.

Ben looked at Adam, who arched a wry eyebrow and shrugged. He had no idea what had brought this on either.

The two giants slapped the surface of the water, splashing it into each other’s faces, each trying to break the other’s concentration. Their expressions, while grimly determined, were not overtly hostile. This was not a grudge match. Ben relaxed, folding his arms and settling back to watch. Adam, standing hip-shot on the bank with his lean, brown hand resting on the butt of his gun in a familiar, casual attitude was already smiling.

The men in the water made several small feints, attempting to catch each other off guard. From the banks came yells of encouragement, helpful suggestions and a number of ribald comments as the hired help entered into the spirit of the thing. Adam joined in with enthusiasm, and Ben was content to let the contest run its course. He remembered with amusement the last time there had been a wrestling match in the duck pond; that time, Hoss and Adam had been the protagonists. Inevitably - Ben grinned at the thought - it had been Hoss who had won.

Hoss and Arthur came to grips, clasping each other first by the forearms and then, closing with each other, above the elbow. Below the water, as they circled, they reached with their feet, each trying to hook the other’s legs out from under him. They pushed and pulled, trying to topple one another into the water.

Hoss, the taller, leaned back and tucked his heel behind Arthur’s knee. Arthur wasn’t about to go down alone. He shoved himself forward, twisting. Hoss went over backwards. Locked together, the two of them went down into the water with an explosive splash. Adam, leaning close enough to shout advice to his brother, was caught in the deluge and got almost as wet as they did. Ben laughed aloud at the sight of him and at the disgusted look on his face.

Hoss and Arthur rolled over in the water, floundering, smothered in mud. Each was grappling for the upper hand. Hoss got his feet under him and stood up, spitting out foul water and clawing mud from his eyes. Arthur Prior grabbed him from behind by the waist of his drawers and pulled him down. To the applause of the onlookers both men splashed back into the water.

The rain, which had been falling lightly and almost unnoticed from the lowering clouds, turned abruptly into a downpour. Suddenly, everyone was getting wet. The spectators headed for shelter, arguing loudly over which man had the moral victory and settling their bets. Hoss and Arthur, when they came up, spluttering, for air, found that their audience had disappeared.

It was the sound that attracted Joe Drury first of all. It was a curious little noise to be breaking the sleepy afternoon silence. It resembled the sudden rattle of raindrops on a shingle roof, or the rifling of the pages of a book. It came from somewhere right at the back of the horse barn. Ever curious, the young man went to investigate.

Peter Nash sat, wide kneed on a nail keg in an empty stall. He was shuffling a pack of playing cards in his aesthetic, thin-fingered hands. Nash was a man built on a deceptive scale: tall and very wide in the shoulders, lean in the hips and long legged. He was a man who, with his propensity for card playing, would have looked, and undoubtedly felt, more comfortable on a riverboat in a full skirted frock coat, than in leather vest and chaps on a ranch. A man in his middle years, it was impossible to say where his wide forehead ended and the smooth, evenly tanned skin of his scalp began. All that remained of a once superb head of black hair were the raven’s wings behind his ears. As a young man he had possessed the devilish good looks that can turn women’s heads; still he had a finely chiseled, pleasantly featured face. He looked up with a keen sharpness as Jody entered the stall, and then, when he saw that it was only the boy, he relaxed. His warm, brown eyes became amused at the look of rapt attention on the young man’s face. A friendly smile touched his lips.
 
 

"Come on in, kid."

Jody slid into the stall. His expression of intense fascination remained. His green and gold flecked eyes glowed.

Nash nodded towards an upturned box. "Sit yourself down."

Slowly, Jody sat. The movement of the cards transfixed him. They danced between Nash’s lean, brown fingers, back and forth in an intricate and seemingly endless series of patterns. So skilful were Nash’s hands that the cards might have been living things, trained to obey his commands.

Nash hardly glanced at what his hands were doing; he watched Jody’s face. The smile still played about his mouth. He was a skilful man and handling cards was the love of his life. He practiced it purely because it gave him pleasure. Finally, when he had been through his entire repertoire of tricks, he straightened the pack and handed it over. "Here, you try."

The tip of Jody’s tongue touched his lip. He took the cards into his hands. The thin pasteboards were cool and hard to the touch; their texture was velvet smooth. Red and black on creamy-white, their designs bewitched him: clubs and hearts, diamonds and spades. The queens, each clutching a flower, smiled at him with sad, sweet smiles. The kings glowered in regal majesty. But it was the knaves that whispered their wiles into his soul.

Jody bent and compressed the pack, as Nash had done – but clumsily. The cards leapt from between his fingers and scattered on the floor. Embarrassed, he scrambled to pick them up.

Nash laughed gently and helped him gather them. He faced them around, his fingers swift and sure, and automatically shuffled the pack. Jody watched the cards dance.

"D’you play, kid?"

Jody shook his head. He had stood behind men’s shoulders in the bunk house and watched them play all evening for a few dollars. He had seen a month’s pay change hands in a few hours in the saloon in town. Twice, he had asked Joe to explain the rudiments of the game to him, but Joe had been reluctant, wary of what his father would say when he found out. There wasn’t much Ben Cartwright didn’t find out, one way or another. Jody hadn’t dared to ask Adam. "No, sir. I don’t."

"Would you like to?" Nash smiled his warm smile and made the cards leap in his hands.

Jody leaned forward, "Yes, sir. I surely would."

Nash brushed the straw from an old packing crate and dealt out cards face up.

"Do you like to watch people?" Nash asked. "Try to get inside their heads and figure out what makes ‘em tick?"

Jody hesitated. "Well, sir, I guess I do watch folks. I’m tryin’ to learn most anything I can. Sometimes I can kinda guess what they’re gonna say or do."

The rangy hand had finished his dealing. A line of twenty-five cards lay between them on the crate. "That’s a good start, kid," Nash said with a grin. "You might not think it, but if you want to do more than throw away wages for the fun of a game, you got to be patient, and you got to understand folks."

"Patient?" Jody questioned. "Game seems to go pretty fast to me."

Nash leaned back and stretched his shoulders passing a long-fingered hand across his almost bald head. "Odds, it’s all about odds, and they are dead against you getting more than one or two good hands in any hour of play. You got to be able to set quiet and pitch in hand after hand until the cards come your way. Then you got to play ‘em smart ‘n that means you got to know the men you’re up against, or they’ll get the drop on you every time."

"Reckon we ought to start with some basics first though. Now you take these twenty-five cards I’ve just spread down here. Iffen’ I can’t make five pat hands outta any twenty-five card nine times out of ten, I jest ain’t half tryin’." His hands flew over the spread.

"Three Queens and a pair of tens – a full house is worth playing in damn near any game. You do know not to open unless you have a pair of Jacks or better, don’t you boy?"

"Yes, sir. I figured that out from watching."

He next selected a simple straight: the five, six, seven, eight and nine of mixed suits. "Nothing flashy here you’d think, but it beats two pair and three of a kind. If you been watching what the other players got showin’ and how they been playin’, it can win you a nice pot. Iffen you draw any four of those cards on the deal and both ends are open like in this here hand, you got one chance in five of improving it on the last card. Now an Ace at either end of them four straight card and you only got one chance in eleven of improving your hand."

Jody’s eyes widened in amazement, "Gosh, Mr. Nash, Adam’s been teaching me my numbers, but how in tarnation can you know all them things?"

"A good player’s got to know the odds agin him, boy." Nash nodded up and down several times agreeing heartily with himself. "You serious about larnin’ how to be a good poker player?" Nash’s piercing brown eyes bored into Jody.

Jody took a deep breath. "Yes, sir, reckon I am at that." He looked back and didn’t drop his gaze.

"All right then, I’ll scratch you out a chart of the hands and the odds on ‘em. You got to study it until it’s stuck in your head so hard it don’t never come out. Can you do that?"

Jody nodded. "Yes, sir."

"You find me tomorrow, ‘n I’ll have it for you. Now, look at the cards left here. What can you make of ‘em?"

Jody studied the fifteen cards remaining. He carefully picked out an Ace of Hearts and four other small hearts not in sequence and held them up for Nash to see. "I think I’ve heard the men call this an ‘Ace high flush,’" he said tentatively.

"That’s exactly right ‘n a respectable hand in any man’s game. If they were in sequence, you’d have a straight flush and likely a fistful of other folks money."

Nash made the remaining cards into a hand with two pair and another into one pair with an Ace kicker and discussed them both.

"There’s a lot more to learn, but reckon we ought to talk a little about bettin’," Nash mused. "The boys here mostly play draw poker, so we’ll start there. Before any cards are dealt the dealer will most generally call for an ante – don’t have to ante, but most games do. Can be anywhere from a penny to a thousand dollars depending on whose playing. Here on the Ponderosa most games start with a dime. You keep an eye on the dealer. He should keep his sleeves clear of the cards, shuffle them pasteboards good and pass ‘em to the fellow on his right for a cut. If you don’t see that happenin’, just get on out of the game and go about your business. You won’t want to be around when the shootin’ starts." Nash rubbed his hands together and made the motions of a deal.

" After the dealer gives everybody five cards, you pick yours up and look at ‘em real calm like. Don’t make no faces, or twitch and fidget. Good player can learn to read you real quick thata way. Fellow to the dealer’s left goes first. If he’s got an opening hand, he bets what it’s worth to him. Then each man-jack at that table has gotta meet that first bet, raise it or fold his hand and drop out of the deal. The bettin’ ends when all the fellows left in the game has put up the same amount of money. Now, you got to watch who checks and who raises real close, ‘cause it’s your first clue as to what they hold.

"Next thing, the dealer starts on his left and, one by one, asks everybody still playing how many cards they want. They throw down their discards, most likely one or two cards, face down in the middle of the table, and the dealer replaces them. Nobody should see any of them cards! No indeedy. If one turns up the dealer should call a misdeal and start fresh.

"Well, sir, you take up your new cards and ask yourself, ‘did I do myself any good here, or is this hand still a piece of crap?’ Dependin’ on what your answer is and what the other folks in the game did you get another chance to bet, raise or fold. When every player has met the last raise or folded, them ole’ boys still hangin’ on show their hands, and the one with the top hand takes the pot."

Jody nodded solemnly.

"Sound easy does it, boy? Not by a long shot! After the draw is when the real poker playin’ starts. For instance, if a man draws one card, he may be holding four to a straight or flush. But there is always the possibility that he has three of a kind and is holding a high kicker hoping for a full house. He might have two pair, sure enough, but he also could have four of a kind. Only what you know about the fellow you’re going up against and them odds I’m gonna give you, can help you thru this pass without losing your scalp.

"Iffen a man’s a fool and a plunger, chances are he’s drawin’ to an inside straight or flush." Nash broke off and shook his head in sorrow. "Don’t never do that foolishness, kid. Don’t never! Just fold your hand and wait for another deal.

A high-pitched voice calling, "Jody, Jody," broke their concentration.

"Cookie’s hollarin’ for you, kid. Better get a move on," Nash laughed. "You come stand behind me when we play tonight, and if you promise to keep your face real still, I’ll learn you some more about poker. One last thing though: don’t never play with somebody who can’t afford to lose and don’t play yourself if you can’t spare the cash. No game was ever worth losing your ranch, your horse, nor your wife over."

Hop Sing called again, and Jody spun around. "Thanks Mr. Nash," he shouted on his way out of the stall. "I’ll be there tonight." He disappeared through the door into the spangled sunlight of the yard.

Adam was slogging his way doggedly uphill through the mud, heading for the house, some well-earned coffee, and a bath! He was cursing himself for all sorts of a fool for not having the foresight to have taken a horse - if he had, he would have at least saved himself this unpleasant walk. Like most cowboys, he disliked walking when he could ride. It was a disagreeable end to what had been a disagreeable afternoon.

He had started it off by spending an hour treating the soft and decaying hooves of several horses that had picked up an unpleasant parasitic infection from the constantly wet ground. The sweet smell of the rot still lingered on his hands despite the scrubbing he had given them. Then he had drawn the job of sewing up an ugly gore wound in the shoulder of a frightened and foul-tempered cow. She had given him a hard time and had crowned it all off by standing on his foot. Adam knew he was going to have several, beautifully blue toes.

The afternoon had ended, in the pouring rain, at the pigpen where he had overseen what had, as it turned out, been a particularly messy slaughter. There were days, he reflected with sour philosophy, when nothing went right. He was spattered with a variety of colourful substances, none of them savoury, and he was well aware that he smelled of rather more than his own sweat.

A shadow fell across his path. Adam looked up. Four horsemen sat in front of him, barring his way. Adam felt a momentary unease, knowing that he had left his gun behind as well as his horse, and feeling naked because of it. The sun was setting behind a thin cloud layer and the sky was bright. Adam squinted against it, screwing up his face. He made out the forms and the faces of the Prior brothers. Only Asia Prior was missing. Adam didn’t doubt that he was off somewhere with Joe, either talking horses, or chasing women. They were the two things that they had in common.

The Priors were all dressed up in their best suits, with white shirts and silk string ties, and they were riding their Friday-night go-to-town horses. Gazing up at them, Adam wiped a none too clean forearm across his face, then he planted both hands on his hips.

"Something I can do to help you boys?"

Auron Prior leaned out of his saddle. His distinctive, gap-toothed grin split his face. "It’s more a case of what we can do for you."

"Oh?" Adam looked from one face to the other. "How’s that?"

"We’re heading inta town. Gonna pay a visit ta that fancy cat-house we heard all about." Big smiles spread across the other three Prior faces.

"Miss Lucy’s?"

"That’s the place." Auron Prior sat comfortably back, "Figured you might like ta ride along with us."

To a man accustomed to playing as hard as he worked, the prospect of spending an evening in the most sumptuous whore-house in the west had an instant appeal. Adam thought about it, but not for long. After the afternoon he had just worked through he reckoned he deserved a little rest and relaxation. Getting off the ranch for a while would be a pure delight, and he was man enough not to turn down an opportunity when it flew in his face. The close company of a perfumed, and undeniably pretty young woman was exactly what he needed. He felt a pleasant and familiar tightening in his body at the mere thought of it. A slow smile spread over his face.

"You boys give me ten minutes to clean up, an’ I’ll be right with you."

It took Adam rather longer to get clean than he estimated. It was some twelve minutes later when, washed down and smelling a good deal sweeter, dressed in a dark, long-coated dress-suit, silk shirt and tie, he came out of the house. He swung aboard the best horse in his string. By now he was really looking forward to an evening in town – hell, he might even spend the whole night at Miss Lucy’s, in one of her extra special rooms with a hot tub and all the trimmings - and a couple of lovely ladies to share it with him! He exchanged anticipatory grins with the waiting Prior brothers, and the whole bunch of them rode out for Virginia City.

Herricule Bojum stood stiffly erect beside the small breakfast fire. He took a long, slow sip from the battered tin cup in his hand - a last mouthful. It was trail coffee, black, and strong, and bitter, heavily laced with liquor. He swilled it ‘round in his mouth while, with faded eyes, he gazed calculatingly at the surrounding hills. Then, swallowing the mouthful, he turned and regarded the mule train, already standing harnessed and waiting. Only two of the packsaddles were loaded with assorted pelts, dried and salted and tightly rolled. Bojun’s face, bearded and weathered to the texture of old, brown leather darkened with a scowl. By now, he would have expected half the saddles to be full. The hunting in these forested foothills of the Sierra Nevada’s had been poor. The weather had been against them: wet as well as cold, with sudden storms blasting down at them out of the mountains. Game had proved elusive. Even the normally dependable trap lines, set along well used animal trails and beside watering places, had failed to produce their usual rich harvest. These woods, like others Bojun had hunted in recent years, were all but played out. If nothing else, Bojun was a realist. He was prepared to admit, phlegmatically, that, in this part of the world at least, the day of the fur trapper was done. What he was not prepared to do was to ride out of these hills empty handed.

Lighterman led his horse over to him on a long, slack rein. Bojun emptied the dregs from his cup into the embers of the fire. He thrust the cup into Lighterman’s hand and took the rein. He took one, long, awkward stride and stepped up to the saddle, swinging his straight leg over. He sat for a moment, rubbing the pain out of his thigh while Perriot brought up the mules. Lighterman kicked apart the remains of the fire.

"So," Lighterman said with an edge of impatience, "What happens now?" His visions of making money had started to fade away right at the outset. Time and again he had seen the trap lines come up empty. Of those pelts they had taken many were small and of poor quality. Once again his hopes had turned to ashes in his mouth. Always a vexed man, his anger had turned into scarcely masked, simmering resentment. It was only the awe in which he held Bojun’s reputation that kept his explosive temper in check. With Bojun’s ongoing failure to produce promised results, Lighterman’s awe was fading.

Bojun’s eyes swept over him, mildly contemptuous. In his sixty years the old hunter had encountered Lighterman’s kind before: impetuous, impatient and prepared to work - but not too hard and not for too long. Basically, Lighterman was a loser. Bojun raised his face to survey the hills again, turning in the saddle until the morning sun shone on his left cheek. They had come to the end of their trip, as originally proposed. They should be turning back, riding in a wide arc through the hills they had already hunted, clearing the last of their trap lines as they went. None of them were under the illusion that the snares would be anything but empty. In front of them were the higher ranges where the trees grew tall and the snows of winter still lay on the ground. "Reckon we’ll take a good long sweep through those hills," he said, indicating the way ahead with a nod.

Lighterman followed his gaze and didn’t much like what he saw. He turned back with an angry expression. "What makes you think we’ll find more up in them hills than we have down here?"

Bojun chose, for the time being, to ignore the irritation in the younger man’s tone. "I reckon we might just find somethin’ ta make it worth our while takin’ a ride up there."

Lighterman was unhappy and impatient. "I think we’re wastin’ our time!"

Regarding him thoughtfully from the saddle, Bojun said, "You want out, you c’n walk away right now. It’s a down hill ride all the way back."

"An’ what about my gear? Some o’ them hides we got ‘re mine!"

Bojun’s lips compressed into a thin sneer. Both men were developing a healthy dislike for each other. "You ride out, you go empty handed," he said. He lifted his reins, and, with the heel of his left foot only, he kicked his horse into motion.

Lighterman stared at his back with glittering resentment bright in his eyes. His big hands knotted into fists at his sides. Then he jammed his hat onto his head and climbed onto his own horse. Glaring for a moment at Perriot as if daring him to comment, he urged the animal after Bojun’s. Keeping his own council and leading the pack-mules, Perriot fell into line. The three of them let the horses pick their own pace, heading steadily north.

Ben drove Jenny and Daniel into Virginia City in the buckboard. The morning sun was shining weakly through thin cloud. It hadn’t rained at all in two whole days. It was warmer. It felt as if spring might just be getting under way at last. The mud of Main Street had lost its liquid consistency and had become thick and extremely sticky. It clung to the wagon wheels and to the legs and the bellies of the horses.

Someone, of necessity, had thrown some boards down outside the Wells Fargo Office. They were intended to keep clean and dry the feet of the passengers that boarded, and alighted from, the stagecoach. Ben pulled the buckboard up alongside and, stepping past Jenny, jumped down. He reached up to lift his wife to the boardwalk and steadied her, his hands on her narrow waist, while she regained her balance. She gave him an impish grin.

Jenny shook out the long skirts of her dark-red velvet travelling dress while Ben lifted out the baby. Ben handed the child to his wife. At Ben’s bidding, several men set about transferring Jenny’s boxes from the buckboard to the stage, loading them up on top. Side by side, Ben and Jenny walked along the boardwalk to the door of the coach.

"Have you everything you need for the journey?"

Jenny looked at the pile of luggage being lashed to the roof of the stage and a smile danced in her eyes. "Oh, I think so."

"And you have the letters I gave you for our lawyers?"

"I have them, Ben."

"And the bank draft I gave you – you have it safely put away?"

"Indeed." Jenny smiled openly, thinking of the slip of paper tucked securely away inside her corset. Ben saw the glow in her face and sighed inwardly. The draft was for a substantial amount of money, and he had an uncanny feeling that most of it would end up in the hands of the various dressmakers of San Francisco.

The door of the coach stood open, and several other passengers were already aboard. Jenny handed Daniel to Ben to hold while she climbed inside. Having said their more intimate goodbyes in the privacy of their bedroom, they parted with a chaste touch of lips to cheek. Ben looked at his youngest son. A well-grown little boy, Daniel Cartwright was more robust that either Adam or Joe had been at the same age, if not as sturdy as Hoss. His small head was covered in a shock of raven black hair reminiscent of Ben’s eldest son’s, or of Ben’s own as it had been in his youth. He had Ben’s own grave, dark eyes. At that exact moment he was earnestly engaged in trying to consume his own fist. Ben guessed that by the time he saw Daniel again, the baby would have several more brand-new teeth.

Ben whispered a blessing on him and brushed his lips against the baby’s head. He passed the child up into his mother’s waiting arms.

"You carry my affection to your sister, now," he admonished his wife.

Jenny gave a deep throaty chuckle. "Oh, Ben! You know full well how much you dislike my sister!"

Caught out, Ben reddened. "I do not dislike your sister. I merely think…"

Jenny’s chuckle became open laughter at his discomfiture. "Fie! Listen to yourself, fickle man!"

Ben bristled and blustered. To be truthful, he was not overly fond of Jenny’s sister. He was grateful when the coachman climbed up to the box. It saved him having to think of an answer. He slammed the door shut and stepped back, touching his hat to his wife. "Take care, my dear."

Jenny smiled and lifted her hand in farewell. The driver yelled to the horses and slapped the broad leather reins against their backs. As the coach pulled away, Ben wished his little family Godspeed and watched until it vanished from sight.

The sun was coming out in earnest now, warm and bright with the promise of so many better days to come. It warmed the town and all the people in it. The steeply canted roofs began to steam. For the first time, Ben noticed that the street smelled rank. The mud was liberally mixed with the droppings of horses and oxen. They were odours Ben was well used out at the ranch, a part of everyday life that he thought nothing about. Here in town, they merged with other, less wholesome aromas to create a more dubious miasma. It brought a frown to his face. It just didn’t strike him as healthy.

He climbed back aboard the buckboard and drove at a leisurely pace along Main Street to Eli Huxton’s General Store. There were a number of last minute but essential items that he needed to purchase for the cattle drive, and this was his final chance to do it. Winding the reins around the brake lever, he climbed down into the street. His boots sank a good way into the sticky surface. Ben pulled a face and set his hat firmly on his head. He was certainly looking forward to the longer, hotter days of summer when a man could walk on top of the ground instead of having to wade through it. Resolutely, he made his way though the mud to the steps and climbed onto the boardwalk.

Ben pushed open the door of the store. Immediately, a snarling, animated bundle of flying fists collided squarely with his midriff. Ben’s breath oof’ed out of him, and he staggered back a long step. The bundle resolved itself into a pair of very grubby young men, aged about eight. They were clearly brothers, if not twins. They were of a height, dark haired and dark eyed. Both of them were too intent on venting their frustrations on each other to notice Ben Cartwright.

"Come on now, young fellas," Ben extricated the boys from the region of his belt buckle and held them at arms length by the ears. "What’s all this about then?"

Both boys twisted and squirmed, but Ben wasn’t about to let go. He’d had a wealth of experience when it came to bickering boys. He looked them over, first one and then the other. They were not a savoury sight, although there was nothing wrong with them that a large quantity of hot water and some soap wouldn’t cure. And some new clothes, he added as a qualifier to the thought. The ones they had were dirty in the extreme, smeared with mud from the street outside and what looked like the remains of several meals. "What are you two fighting about?"

The boys looked shame faced and sullen. Neither was prepared to answer him. Satisfied that the battle, for the moment, was over, Ben let go of the ears. He put his hands on his hips and assumed the severe expression that he had found made a suitable impression on very young men.

"Sir? I am so sorry if my boys have inconvenienced you." The voice was low - a woman’s. It effectively defused the lecture Ben was about to deliver.

Ben looked up, his scowl fading. At about thirty, the woman had a face that had been pretty, once, and was now harassed and care-worn. Her formerly dark hair was streaked with grey. In addition to the two boys there were two more small children clinging to her skirts and, unless Ben missed his guess, another baby well on it’s way.

"Ma’am." He touched the brim of his hat and stepped aside to let her pass.

The woman thanked him and shepherded her brood out onto the walkway.

Ben handed his list over to Eli and took a moment to look round. The interior of the store was cool and vaguely damp. If Ben had been a gambling man, he would have laid odds that, right now, the whole of Nevada was damp. It smelled of leather boots and iron hoes, of lamp oil and soap. As a man concerned, in a very practical way, with firearms, he was interested to see the latest Springfield rifle in the gun-case on the wall.

As he was looking at it, the door opened, and Paul Martin came in. For once the doctor did not look his usually dapper self. His immaculate suit was a trifle rumpled. He appeared tired and pale, and there was a trace of stubble on his chin. Ben was concerned.

"Paul?"

"Ben." Paul held out his hand in greeting. There were shadows haunting his eyes, but his smile was genuine enough, if a little weary.

Paul and Ben had been friends for a very long time. Ben felt entitled to speak frankly. "You look as if you’re having a hard day."

"Hard day, hard month!" Paul shook his head, and a wry grin twisted his mouth. "We’ve got a typhoid epidemic running wildfire all over the east-side of town, and it’s headed this way.

"So Roy was telling me." Ben was alarmed to see the state of his old friend.

Paul pinched the bridge of his nose; it was a brief submission to weariness that he would not usually confess to. How could he explain to his prosperous and wealthy friend the horrors he was subjected to, daily, in the poorest quarters of the town? Could he even begin to describe the extent of the human disaster that was taking place? Could he talk about the sick children who died? About the children whose sick parents had died? About the parents who had lost all their children? While Ben was something of a philanthropist, he lived in a world apart from poverty and squalor. Although he had suffered himself and could understand tragedy at an individual and personal level, could he begin to comprehend the catastrophe that was taking place right on his doorstep? Would it be fair to tell him about it? At that moment, Paul looked more tired than Ben had ever seen him. "Is Jenny all right?" he asked, "And the baby? No fever? No spots?"

"They’re just fine. I just put Jenny and Daniel onto the stage for Reno. They’re going to spend a few weeks with Jenny’s sister in San Francisco."

"Well, that’s two I won’t have to worry about. The safest place to be right now is west of the mountains." Paul sighed. Ben felt he would have run a hand through his already disordered hair if it were a gesture he was given to. Paul looked at his friend critically. One thing he didn’t want was the epidemic spreading beyond the limits of the town. "And yourself, Ben? And the boys?"

Ben smiled reassurance. "Joe and I are trailing the herd out tomorrow. Adam and Hoss are heading for the high country."

"I’m glad to hear it. Here in town the fever’s reaching plague proportions. The further you are from people, the less likely you are to catch it."

"And what about you, Paul?"

For the first time in a long time, Paul laughed aloud. "Ben, I’m a doctor! I don’t have time to get sick!"

Eli Huxton came back at that moment to tell Ben that his buckboard was loaded up and ready to go. Ben and Paul shook hands and wished each other well. While Paul went to make his purchases, Ben decided on a bite of lunch before heading back to the ranch.

Outside in the street, the woman was still trying to bring her unruly brood under control. The two boys were tussling again, down in the mud, and totally ignoring their mother’s admonishments. Ben shook his head. She certainly had her hands full. And thinking of hands rather made him wish he’d had the chance to wash his own before eating – the ears of those boys had been none too clean. But that wasn’t to be. Unconsciously wiping his palms against his pants, he headed for the Silver Dollar.

The herd was the largest that the Cartwrights had ever assembled. It represented a huge investment of time and labour, and when delivered to the cattle pens at the railhead, would increase the family fortunes by a considerable amount. Most of the steers were the brown and white Hereford cross that thrived on the high, dry ranges. Interspersed among them were typical Texas longhorns, and animals of a hugely muscular type with black, slightly curly coats. They all wore the distinctive brand of the Ponderosa pine. They filled to capacity the wide, shallow basin in the land that God might have created specially for the purpose of gathering them together.

The cattle were all on their feet and the hired hands had them milling slowly in a great, animated cartwheel. Their restless lowing carried clearly to the rim of the basin where the Cartwrights, father and three sons, sat on their horses, looking down. It was an immensely satisfying sight for all of them - the culmination of three year’s grinding and sometimes grim, hard work.

The four Cartwright men sat in a row along the rim of the basin, sharing, just for a moment, the pride of achievement and of ownership. Every one of them had worked his guts out to produce this herd.

From below, a lone horseman started up the hill. Charlie rode up and pulled his dark, slightly shaggy cow pony to a snorting stop. He touched his hat to Ben and nodded to the younger Cartwrights. "Mornin’, Ben. Boys."

Smiling, Ben returned his nod. "Charlie. How’s it going?"

"It’s goin’," Charlie turned his head and spat amber coloured tobacco juice all the way to the ground. "Them steers has eaten jist about every blade o’ grass in that valley. ‘Time ta move ‘em out, boss, ‘afore they starve."

Ben drew a long breath of satisfaction. He looked again at the restless, slowly turning herd. Beyond the cattle, on the far rim of the valley, the small horse herd that would provide remounts for the drovers was already on the move. Along with them went two covered wagons drawn by two-horse teams. One was the cook wagon driven by Pete Barnes, the other, containing the men’s belongings, by a boy named Rolo that Ben had hired from town.

"Best get them started then, Charlie."

Charlie nodded again, turned his horse and set off back down the hill. Joe Cartwright grinned a final farewell at his brothers and kicked his pinto into motion, following the ranch foreman to work.

Ben turned in his saddle to look at his other sons. There was Adam, sitting hard by his stirrup on his favourite trail horse, and beyond him, Hoss astride his big, black gelding. Wearing their warm woollen coats and with gloves on their hands, they were all set to leave for the hills. The pair of packhorses that waited patiently alongside them carried all the gear they would need for the projected, month-long trip.

Hoss’s always-expressive face betrayed the excitement that he felt inside. Had he been asked, he would have confessed to being a happy man. For a good bit longer than a year he had been promising himself this adventure. Every time he had made plans something more urgent had come up to prevent him going. His brother had been shot and had taken a long time to heal. That had meant extra work for everyone, and especially for the family. All of them had been forced to stretch themselves thinly to cover the gaping hole Adam’s incapacity had left in the workforce.

The Ponderosa was a working ranch, and, as the seasons rolled on, one essential job followed hot on the heels of another: the gathering, branding and castrating of cattle, the felling and transportation of timber and the replanting of small trees to replenish the forests. Then there was the maintenance of fence lines that stretched for a hundred miles and more, the breaking of horses and the clearing of scrub land for new pasture. They were all jobs that required the supervision of a Cartwright at some stage, if not his actual participation.

And then there were the incidental problems. The silver mine in which Ben had a substantial stake had inexplicably flooded; it had taken weeks to pump it dry, and no one was sure it wouldn’t happen again. Kingdom Jones, Ben’s partner in the freight business, had been hit by a series of robberies in which no one had been hurt, but which had cost the business a lot of money. He had asked for help, and Ben had been glad to provide it, in the shape of Hoss, even if it had made things more difficult at home. The heavy rains had washed out a long stretch of road, which had to be repaired before the timber contract could be completed.

Work had started, and had continued intermittently, on the fancy new bathhouse Adam had designed and seemed to have set his heart on having. They had been required to provide two men to ride on a sheriff’s posse, and on Christmas Eve, Jenny’s Jacob’s sheep had broken out of their pasture and his Pa had had apoplexy until they were all rounded up again. Hoss’s lips jerked into a little smile at the memory. He had even been required to take a trip to San Francisco to negotiate with the buying agents and to sign the contracts for next year’s timber and beef. It was a job Adam had always undertaken. Good experience, his father had said. Now, having done it himself, Hoss understood the quick wits and iron-hard nerves that it required. He had an even greater appreciation of his brother’s agile mind.

Looking across at Adam, Hoss was very glad to have him fit and well again. Adam sat tall and straight in the saddle. There was no trace of the terrible, hunched attitude that had characterized the early days of his recovery. His handsome features wore a slight frown of concentration as he studied the cattle, but otherwise, they were serene.

Hoss was glad to have him along on this trip. The Reserved Section was, by the common consent of the family, Hoss’s domain. He looked forward to asking the advice of his much admired and respected brother concerning the management of the land and of the wildlife that inhabited it. A trained and accredited engineer, Adam had poetry in his soul, and he would appreciate the way Hoss felt about all the wild places. And more, even, than that, Hoss was going to relish, pure and simple, the pleasure of his beloved brother’s company. Hoss knew for sure that he was really going to enjoy this trip. And when he got back, well - Hoss smiled a small and secret smile - when he got back, Hoss had very specific, personal plans.

Adam caught his eye and smiled - a sudden rare expression that lit his face like sunlight and dimpled his cheeks. He was looking forward to this trip as well, and for some of the same reasons. Hoss beamed back at him, and Ben smiled benevolently on them both.

Below them, under the careful control of the drovers, the cattle were starting to move in a slow stream towards the mouth of the valley. The men’s whistles and shouts of encouragement mingled with the bellowing of the steers.

Adam clasped his hands together on his saddle-horn and sat way back in the saddle, stretching out his arms. "Ain’t that the sweetest little herd o’ doggies you ever did see?"

"Take a good long look, boys," Ben said, chuckling, "It’s the last you’ll see of them."

The entire herd was moving now, an undulating tide of brown and black backs, stringing out across the range. Behind them they left the denuded pastures to regenerate and re-grow to feed next year’s steers. For the Cartwrights the time had come for more farewells.

Leaning well forward, Ben reached out and shook hands with Hoss across the withers of Adam’s horse. "Have a good trip, son."

"I shore will, Pa." Hoss beamed a gap-toothed smile. Turning in his saddle, he spoke to the younger man beside him, "C’mon, Jody, let’s make some tracks for the high hills."

Together, the two men turned their horses and set off at a steady walk, the pack animals trailing along behind them.

Adam and his father regarded each other. Instinctively, both of them knew that this was an ending - possibly a parting of the ways. Adam had some very serious thinking to do. By the time they met again, he would be a different man with a whole new set of dreams and aspirations. Both of them hoped that they would find it possible to like each other. They tried to hold the moment, but, as moments will, it slipped away.

"Adam." Ben held out his big hand, iron hard, roughened and scarred by a lifetime of hard work.

Adam took it in his own: strong, lean, browned by the sun and the wind, pink palmed and pink padded. "Pa."

The handshake lasted for an extended time. The two men gazed into each other’s eyes. Ben’s were as deep a brown as a man’s eyes could be, solemn, intense, deeply caring. Adam’s eyes, with the sun in his face, were a light, bright hazel. Ben had a feeling that they were already fixed on the future. Each man etched the other’s features indelibly in memory.

A smile touched Adam’s face. It moved his mouth and lifted his cheeks and put sparkle into his eyes. He backed his horse several steps, and then, with a last nod of respect, he turned the animal and rode to where his brother and Jody waited for him on a rise in the ground.

Ben sat his buckskin horse on the rim of the world and watched the last of the cattle move out. He felt hollowed out inside. There was a dull ache of loss in his heart. Already, he was missing his son with his lively, razor sharp intelligence, his insight and his intuition, his ready wit and sometimes acutely cynical humour, his rare, welcome laughter. He could only hope that, while today had indeed been an ending, it might also herald a new beginning.
 
 

Adam took the lead, following familiar trails that climbed through the higher pastures into wooded hills. He rode with an erect, alert posture, his head up and his fine shoulders well back; his lean, horseman’s hips were pushed well forward in the saddle. He set a steady pace, moving easily and with an unconscious grace to the horse’s long stride.

Hoss was content to follow his brother. The big man wore a smile that, in recent days, had become permanently embedded in his face. He had selected his favourite, sturdily built, black trail horse and he quickly adjusted to the loping, ground covering pace that Adam had chosen. Born to the saddle, he rode well for such a heavily built man, swaying with the animal’s gait. He trailed one of the packhorses on a long lead rope.

Leading the other packhorse, Joe Drury brought up the rear on a stocky bay that Adam and Hoss had picked out for him. It was an animal well suited to the steep hills and rough terrain of the hill country.

Jody had been surprised when the Cartwright brothers had asked him to ride with them. He had expected to go as a trail hand with the herd. Jody enjoyed the company of Hoss Cartwright. The big man had a sunny, easy-going disposition, and if he was a little slow with words, he had a deep insight into the natures of men and beasts alike. Jody’s relationship with Adam Cartwright was altogether a more complicated affair. Adam was a very complex man and hard to know. Intelligent and educated, articulate and artistic, Adam sometimes seemed out of place on a cattle ranch. There were moments when he was aloof from, even contemptuous of, the life that he and his brothers led. Nonetheless, he was friendly in his own, reserved manner, and he had put himself out, even when very ill, to give Jody the learning that he lacked. Jody regarded the big-built, darkly good-looking man with some awe and a shy liking. He was hoping that during this trip, he would get to know the elder Cartwright better.

By silent, common consent, Adam led the way, first, to the shores of the greater lake. On that particular morning, the vast expanse of fresh water, whose name meant ‘Big Water’ in the native tongue of the Washoe, was placid, disturbed only by dancing cats-paws and the inevitable flocks of waterfowl. It was an intense blue. With its surface more than six thousand feet above sea level, most of its twenty-two mile eastern shoreline constituted the western boundary of the Ponderosa. Although they regarded it with a proprietary interest, the Cartwrights lay no claim to the lake itself. The water that lapped the stony shore was clear and cold, and it belonged to no one.

As was their habit the brothers, Jody along with them, sat their horses and feasted their eyes upon the familiar but always changing panorama. Fed by numerous small streams and drained in the north by the Truckee River, the lake lay in a cleft in the hills. Its surface reflected perfectly the azure sky and the surrounding hillsides.

With very little shoreline to mark the boundary of water and land, the hills rose steeply. Widely spaced and sentinel, the trees that clothed them were the omnipotent Ponderosa pine. In all, it was a prospect of unbelievable beauty. It possessed a mysterious serenity that had the power to work magic in a man’s soul – especially if the man’s name happened to be Cartwright. Even Jody, who was not a Cartwright, felt it softly stirring.

Adam rode on a way, keeping close to the water’s edge. He allowed his horse to pick its own way among the stones and the huge white boulders that littered the shore. Hoss and Jody followed, the big man pointing out the details of the landscape as the sculpted hills revealed themselves, one behind the other.

At about midday they turned away from the water and shortly afterwards, Adam brought down a small mule deer with his saddle gun. He selected a young male animal that would yield tender meat and leave no dependent young to starve. They made short work of cleaning and skinning it, bundling the waste up in the hide and burying it in the ground. Wrapped in thick canvas, the muscle meat and internal organs would provide all the fresh meat the men needed for several days to come.

Now, Hoss took the lead. Eagerly he turned the head of his horse towards the higher hills. They followed less well-known paths and, sometimes, no path at all, urging the horses straight up the sheer hillsides. Hoss had been here before on other, shorter trips, and he knew the way he wanted to go. Adam was prepared to sit back in the saddle and let his brother cut the trail. This was, after all, Hoss’s trip.

Hoss guided the little party over the shoulder of a hill and into a small densely wooded valley. A crystal stream tumbled musically over a ledge of exposed rock and into a sheltered pool. Several ancient, half-decayed logs partially jammed the outlet – the remnants of an old beaver dam. Behind them, the water was dark and deep - a secret pool hidden away in the cusp of the hillside.

Hoss stopped his horse and looked back with a big grin. He waited while Adam and Jody rode up alongside,

"Hey, Adam, ain’t that the prettiest little spot you ever did see?"

Adam leaned forward in the saddle to ease his butt and pushed back his hat. He looked around with narrowed eyes and an expression of amusement. Knowing Hoss as well as he did, he had a very good idea what his brother was thinking.

Sunlight danced on the shifting surface of the water. Trees jostled each other right up to the water’s edge - tough broad-leaves surviving against the odds in this secluded spot. The grass beneath the horse’s hoofs had been nibbled to green velvet by the teeth of visiting deer. Adam returned his brother’s smile, "It surely is."

Hoss looked at the water and mischief sparkled in his eyes. "Are you thinkin’ what I’m a thinkin’?"

"Could be that I’m way ahead of you." Adam’s smile widened.

As one man, the two of them swung out of their saddles and started to strip off their clothes. Jody watched in open-mouthed amazement as two fully adult men raced with each other to see who could get out of his clothing the quickest. Hat, coats, boots, shirts and pants all came off in hurry; most of it hung, with the gunbelts, from the saddle horns. Unashamedly naked, they were a pair of huge, powerfully built men with bodies made hard and muscular by the lives that they led. Hoss was decidedly the larger: taller, broader in the shoulders and wider in the girth. His pale skin was finely furred in light coloured hair.

Adam was of a more compact build and altogether darker. His superb body was deeply bronzed above the belt line, less so below. His body hair was thicker and darker, a mat of tight black curls that covered his chest, narrowed over his lean belly and then widened again. It was easy to see why the ladies took such delight in his company. Even relaxed, Adam was a magnificently built man.

To the right of his navel, the scar on his belly was puckered and still purpled where the skin was thin. A slight frown touched Hoss’s wide face at the sight of it. It was a sharp reminder of how very close he had come to losing a much-loved brother. It still made him shiver deep inside.

Adam