Summary: WHI for The First Born and WHN for The Last Viking.    Can Hoss protect his younger brother when Clay Stafford reveals he’s Marie’s first born?

Rating: K     Word Count:  8114

Family Ties

Family ain’t all it’s cracked up to be.  Especially when breakfast is a sulky affair.  Joe’s usually as noisy as a firecracker, telling us what he’d been up to the night before without so much as giving anyone else a chance to get a word in.  He don’t wait for anyone’s food to settle or for coffee to perk up their ears, he just yammers on.  But this morning is different.

A new hand by the name of Clay Stafford killed a miner over a game of cards last night.  The miner accused him of cheating and, instead of proving he didn’t, Clay just up and shot the man.  Then, cool as you please, he scooped up the money on the table.

Sheriff had no choice but to arrest him.  Pa and Joe went along to the jail while I rode herd on the rest of the hands to keep the peace.  Miners spoil for a fight after a long day of working underground, probably because the owner ain’t around to punch in the jaw.  One wrong look from one of our hands was all it would’ve took to set off a tinderbox.  It would’ve been better if Clay was a thief—Pa would’ve docked his pay to cover what was missing from the table and that miner would still be alive.

When Pa and Joe came back to the saloon, Pa said he’d agreed to pay Clay off in the morning—this morning—and encourage him to look for work elsewhere in the territory.  Fine by me.  Joe didn’t like it one bit but wouldn’t say why he took Clay’s side.  Maybe he figured he’d a done the same in Clay’s place but I know that ain’t true.  Joe would’ve used his fists, not his gun, and after spending his anger he’d have soothed ruffled feathers by buying a round of whiskey before playing another hand.

“You made the right decision, Pa,” says Adam.  “We can’t have the hands watching their backs instead of the cattle the rest of roundup.”

Adam always sees the practical side of things.

“I don’t agree,” says Joe.  “Clay’s earned his place here.  And he’s worked harder than anyone else.”

“Joseph,” says Pa.  It’s a sure bet Pa’s gettin’ his dander up when he uses Joe’s full name.

Joe goes back to shoving food around his plate while Pa and Adam talk assignments.  I pour another cup of coffee and hope Joe won’t pout and take his temper out on everyone.

The sound of a horse carries in from the yard and Joe jumps up so fast my coffee splashes onto the tablecloth.  Hop Sing ain’t gonna like that one bit.

“He’s in a hurry,” says Adam.  He’s rubbing his mouth like his fork stabbed his lip.

“Pass me them flapjacks,” I say.

“Leave some for your brother,” says Pa.

I only take one off the stack and drop it on my plate.  “He shouldn’t have left if he wants ‘em.”

Shouts are followed by the door opening so hard it slams against the wall.  Joe trots over, looking as excited as a kid on Christmas morning.  Clay follows in his wake but he don’t look near as happy.

“Clay is . . . he’s . . . .”  Joe’s voice trails off and he looks to Clay before fixing Pa with a charming smile that brings to mind his ma.  “Clay’s my brother.”

Pa takes the news mighty calm, wiping his mouth with his napkin before clearing his throat.  Me?  I nearly choke on flapjack.  Adam just catches my eye and raises an eyebrow before he turns around to get a better look at our brother.  Or is it brothers?

“Hoss, Adam—would you please excuse us?” Pa asks.

“Wait a second,” I say.  “We have as much right as Joe to hear Clay’s story.”

Pa fixes me with one of those looks that says I ain’t too old, or too big, for a necessary talk.  Adam slaps me upside the arm and jerks his head towards the door.  Fine.  I toss my napkin on the table and follow Adam out to the porch.

I don’t like being banished when there’s a family discussion to be had.  Especially where new family is concerned.  A new brother, technically Joe’s half-brother through his mother, is in there spinning a yarn or telling a tale Pa already knows.  I think about prying open the porch window but I know Adam won’t allow me to eavesdrop.  As far as Adam is concerned, this is none of our affair and something for Pa, and Joe, to puzzle out.

All I can do is pace back and forth like a caged lion and try to puzzle out why Clay didn’t tell Joe, or us, his secret when he hired on.  Maybe that’s why he was such a beaver for work, spending more time in the saddle than everyone else, offering to run errands when needed, but I’d figured he was just trying to establish his place in the pecking order.  Now, my gut says he only sprang the news because he’s worn out his welcome and is sure Joe will plead his case so Pa will keep him on.

“You’re gonna wear a hole in your boots,” Adam mutters as I make another pass.

“It’s family. I don’t like to be left outside.”

“How do you know it’s about family?” Adam asks.

“When a brother shows up from nowhere it ain’t family?”

Joe comes out of the house looking like his favorite toy has been taken away.  “Pa wants to talk to Clay alone.”

At least Adam and me ain’t the only ones left out.

“Did my mother ever mention another son?” Joe asks.

Adam and I exchange a look.  I only know what I overheard as a youngster, and that wasn’t too awful much.

“Marie was a widow when Pa met her in New Orleans,” says Adam.

“Did Pa not want her son?  Is that why she left him behind?” asks Joe.

The silence stretches before Adam says, “She’d had a baby, but it died.”

Joe shakes his head and points at the door.  “You’re callin’ Clay a liar?”

“No one’s calling anyone anything,” says Adam.  He uses that tone that always gets Joe’s dander up.  Then he says, “Marie would have lied about a lot of things to get away from New Orleans but she wouldn’t have lied about a baby.”

Oh, Lordy—now Adam’s done it.  Little Joe’s temper is rising like the creek when the snow melts.  Pa don’t need us fightin’ amongst ourselves.

I try keeping the peace.  “What Adam means is Ma wasn’t happy with the hand life dealt her.  When Pa married her she got the chance to start over.  If she’d had a little boy, you could bet a year’s pay she would’ve fought tooth and nail to bring him with her.”

Joe turns his temper on me.  “You don’t believe Clay either?”

“Now, Joe, it’s not that me and Adam are sayin’ his story ain’t true; we’re just sayin’ this is gonna take some getting used to.”

We hear the door latch and Clay comes out walking as slow as an old timer.  “Your pa asked me to move my things into the house,” he says.  He puts his saddlebags over his shoulder and goes back in.

Pa believes him?  I don’t much care for this.  We’re gonna have to keep an eye on Little Joe—I sure don’t want him taken in by a lie.  Trouble follows that boy like a shadow.

“Well, the chores aren’t going to get done on their own,” says Adam.  He rises but doesn’t walk away from us.

Joe’s anger has fizzled out and he shoves his hands into his back pockets.  “We’ll have to keep Clay away from town.  The miners will tear him apart if they get their hands on him.”

“He’s a grown man,” I say.

Joe glares daggers at me and says, “We stick together, protect each other.”

“I’m sure Clay can take care of himself,” says Adam as he takes the reins of Clay’s horse and leads it to the barn.

Ain’t no sense hanging around to argue with Joe so I head for the bunkhouse to make sure the hands are ready to get back to work tomorrow.

*

Since we have the day off from roundup, we all linger around the house.  Joe perks up once Clay’s settled in and the two of ‘em ride off to the lake.  I want to join ‘em but Adam holds me back, saying Joe’s probably gonna take Clay out to Ma’s grave.

There’s plenty of chores that need doing but I sit at Pa’s desk and study Ma’s picture.  When I was a boy, I’d heard her and Pa talk of a baby that died back in New Orleans.  I figure that’s why Joe was spoiled rotten from the moment he came into the world.  Sure, Adam and I had a hand in giving Joe whatever he wanted but we also put him in his place when he got too big for his britches.

Joe don’t remember much about Ma, so Clay’ll have to ask Adam, Pa, or even me if he really wants to know what she was like.  Pa says she was like having spring in the house year-round but she wasn’t all wildflowers and warm sun.  She had a temper to rival Pa’s, and when she made up her mind about something, nobody could persuade her different.  Joe’s his mother’s son, no doubt about it.

Heavy footsteps on the stairs bring me back to the present and I look up to see Pa.  He comes over and takes the gold frame from me.  One side of his mouth turns up like a half-smile as he puts it back in its place beside my mother’s picture.

“You believe him?” I ask.

Pa sits on a corner of the desk like Adam tends to do.  “There are too many facts to his story, things he couldn’t have made up.”  He sighs like a man carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.  “We’ll have to give him a chance.  For Joe’s sake.  And hers.”  He touches Ma’s picture as he says that.

I leave him to his thoughts, letting the door latch click into place behind me.  As I settle into one of the porch chairs, Joe and Clay round the barn.  They’re laughing as they tie their horses to the hitching post.

“That lake’s quite a sight,” Clay says as he takes a seat at the table and leans back.

“Yeah.”  Can’t argue with that.

“I showed him our best fishing hole,” Joe says, a big smile splittin’ his face.  “Maybe we can go next time we have a day off.”

“Poker’s more to my taste,” says Clay.

Joe gets into enough scrapes playin’ cards in town.  If Clay sticks around, him and Joe will likely be regulars in Roy’s jail.  Pa won’t like that one bit.

“Those miners will have to cool off before we can get into a game,” says Joe.

Pa pokes his head out the door and tells us to get cleaned up for supper.  Joe and Clay head off to the wash house but I go inside for an apple to whet my appetite.

Clay does most of the talking while we eat.  He says his father’s folks raised him and they told him Ma died from the fever.  What he don’t say is when he left New Orleans or why he went back; he says when he found out Ma wasn’t buried there, he sent out some feelers for information.  A couple of folks told him about Pa fightin’ a duel to defend her honor and her marryin’ him after.  He showed us a yellowed newspaper clipping that said she was married and leaving for a Western ranch called The Ponderosa.  That explains how he found out about us but it don’t explain why he’s really here.

Joe presses Clay for stories, but Clay keeps steering the talk back to the Ponderosa.  He talks some about riverboat life and workin’ a ranch in Oregon Territory but not much else.  Seems like he don’t want us to know too awful much.  Joe yammers on like a squawkin’ jaybird; might as well give Clay the combination to Pa’s safe while he’s at it.

Pa don’t press Clay for too many details but he keeps lookin’ between Clay and Joe.  Maybe he’s trying to convince himself that Clay favors Ma enough to be Joe’s brother.  Half-brother.  But it don’t seem the same as me and Adam or even Joe and me bein’ half-brothers, maybe because we were raised without the half part.

After supper, Adam and I head for the barn to see to the horses.  I run the curry comb over Chubb in short, choppy strokes, thinking about Joe making a case for Clay stayin’ on even though Pa had agreed to send him on his way.  For all we know Clay heard some talk and put together a story he knew Joe would swallow hook, line, and sinker.  Clay’d have to be mighty crafty to get one over on Pa, though.

If Adam don’t stop interrupting my train of thought I’m gonna have to pound him.

“Do you have to hum that dadblasted song?”   Early One Morning is a pleasant enough tune but now it’s downright irritating.

Adam clears his throat, kind of his way of apologizing.  “Out with it.”

I stop with the currying and rest my arms on Chubb’s back.  My horse don’t seem to care for it and he shifts his weight; I leave him be and lean against the wall instead.  “It just don’t seem right.  A brother can’t just appear without us or Pa knowing about him.”

“Marie, and Pa, believed her son was dead,” Adam says.   “There was no reason for either one to think otherwise.”

That ain’t good enough.  “Clay said he didn’t ever care about his mother—our mother—until he’d been away from New Orleans for some time.  Think he figures to claim an inheritance?”

Adam makes a noise that sounds like he don’t agree with that question.

We go back to working.  Now I kind of wish Adam was humming that stupid song.

I break the silence.  “He ain’t asked once what Ma was like.”

“Let him get used to the idea of having a family.”  Adam forks hay for a few moments.  “Give him some time.”

“How much time?  Days?  A couple a months?  Maybe a year or two?”

Adam stops and leans against the pitchfork.  “What’s eating you?”

“Why’s he here?”  I jerk a thumb in the direction of the house.  “Did he find out about the Ponderosa and set his hopes on getting money?  He don’t strike me as the type to hold onto a dollar, even if it’s pinned to his shirt.”

Adam looks down to hide his smile.  “That sounds an awful lot like our younger brother.”

I shake my head because that don’t prove anything.  Lots of people let money slip through their fingers.  That don’t make all of ‘em kin to us.

Adam asks, “Remember how excited you were when Uncle Gunnar was here a couple of years ago?”

“That was different.”

“How?”

I don’t like the way he asks that.  “It just was.”

Adam buries the head of the pitchfork in a stack of hay and leans against a support post.  He tucks his thumbs into his belt like he always does when thinkin’ and he studies me like I’m a fish he’s gonna clean for supper.

“What’s really bothering you?” he finally asks.

I set the curry comb back in its place and give Chubb a gentle pat on the rump.  Then I sit on a nearby bale of hay.  After picking at the corner of the bale for a few minutes, I pull out a piece of hay and put it between my teeth.  While I think on what’s got my hackles up I watch a dung beetle roll its prize across the floor.

“It’s as if Joe’s got a shiny new marble he wants to show off.”

Adam nods like he understands.  He crosses one foot over the other and settles in for a long talk.

“When your shiny new marble was here you wanted to spend as much time with him as you could.  You asked Uncle Gunnar to tell you stories about Sweden, Illinois, his travels.  He told you a few things about your ma you hadn’t heard from Pa or me, but he didn’t tell you much more.”  Adam shrugs one shoulder.  “Maybe that’s all Clay wants—to know a thing or two about Marie.  And us.”

I feel like a caged lion again and I pace the length of the barn a couple of times before facing Adam.

“Why?  He could have asked around New Orleans if he’d wanted to know anything about Ma.  How come he didn’t ask those folks who raised him?”

Adam shrugs again, this time it’s both shoulders.  “Maybe Clay heard a few things in New Orleans but believes they were lies.” Adam blows out his cheeks as if he’s got a few secrets to unload, too.  “If I hadn’t gone back East for college I might not have learned many of the things I know about my mother, things her father told me.”  He raises an eyebrow.  “Can you blame Clay for wanting to put his past to rest?  Maybe he hoped to find Marie alive and well and hear her side of the story.”

I slap my hand against my leg and pace again.  “You already knew the truth about your mother.  It’s not as if Pa hadn’t told you anything about her.”

“My point is, I’d always wanted to know more and how I was like her,” says Adam.   “Clay has had to speculate about the kind of person Marie was and maybe he’s wondered if there’s any of her in him.”

“That’s assuming he is her boy,” I point out.

“Maybe he hopes to see some of himself, and Marie, in Joe.”

I stop in front of Adam, annoyed with how calm he is about all this.  I wanna hit something and for a second I think Adam’ll do.  But I hold back.  “Clay ain’t the same as Joe.  Only thing they might have in common is the same mother.”

“Here’s something for you to think about,” says Adam.  “Maybe Clay wants to know what it’s like having blood family, see if that makes a difference.”

“That don’t make sense.”

Adam unhooks a thumb from his belt and scratches behind his ear.  He’s got one of those minds that tries to see both sides of an argument but I think he’s having a hard time now.  “Even though Marie died when he was a boy, Joe’s had us and Pa his whole life.  Clay didn’t say when he found out it’d been his father’s folks who took him from Marie.  Why wouldn’t he want to know what it’s like to have family who want him?”

“Then why’d he sign on as a regular hand?  How come he didn’t tell us right away?”  I can be logical, too.

Adam shakes his head like flies are buzzing around inside of it.  “Put yourself in his position.  Wouldn’t you want to take your time, check the lay of the land, see if you’d be welcome?  You ought to give Clay the benefit of the doubt, not be so suspicious.”

Now I know why Adam don’t understand and I feel my temper startin’ to rise.  I still want to hit something, or someone, but I just poke my big brother’s chest instead.  “I thought my Uncle Gunnar was an honest, upright man because he was my mother’s brother.  You weren’t there when Carrie came runnin’ through the woods, scared for her life, ‘cause she thought Little Joe was dead.  I nearly killed my own kin right then and there because everything I’d dreamed Gunnar to be wasn’t true.  I won’t have Clay hurtin’ Joe like Gunnar did me.”

Adam wipes a hand over his face and steps to the side, just out of my reach.  “Gunnar didn’t hurt Joe. Or you.  Besides, people never live up to our expectations.”

Can’t argue with that.  I did put Gunnar on a pedestal because we shared blood.

Adam heads out but stops in the doorway.  “Tell you what, I’ll encourage Pa to send a telegram to Judge Wharton down in New Orleans.  If Clay’s story checks out, will that satisfy you?”

I rub my palms together and nod.  “If Clay’s story checks out I’ll accept him. For Joe’s sake.  I ain’t sayin’ I’ll trust him more than a rattler but I won’t ride him too hard.”

When the barn darkens with the fading light I head to the house.  I try to read as Joe and Clay pass the time in a game of checkers but I keep peeping over the top of my book to see if Joe’s up to his usual tricks.  If me and him were playing I know my little brother would be cheating, sneaking the pieces I’d captured into his palm, then setting them on my side of the board like they’d been there the whole time.  Most times I catch his tricks and he just laughs as he puts his piece back in my pile, where it belongs.  I hate to admit I’m more than a mite disappointed that Joe and Clay pass the time in an honest game.

“How about I play the winner?” I ask.  They look at me as if I’ve grown a second head.

“It’s time you boys got to bed,” Pa says.  “It’s back to work tomorrow.”

Clay wishes us all goodnight before heading off to his room.  Joe watches him with a longing in his eyes that roils my stomach.  After Joe heads upstairs I give Adam a look to remind him of his promise to give our concerns to Pa.  Instead, he goes on up.

“Something wrong?” Pa asks me.

I want to tell him I fear Clay is up to no good, that he’ll lead Joe into some kind of trouble that’ll just get him hurt.  But I just shake my head and tell Pa goodnight.

Adam’s door opens while I’m settling into bed and I know he’s gonna have that talk with Pa.  I try counting steers but sleep won’t come.  After a while Adam opens my door and says, “He’ll do it.”

Once we know the truth maybe we’ll know why Clay’s really here.  The breeze flutters the curtain and I’d swear I hear Ma’s voice whispering to look out for her son.  She don’t have to worry—I’ll keep a close eye on him.  And Clay, too.

*

In the meantime, we settle back into a routine of hunting strays and branding cattle.  I keep Clay at arm’s length, treating him more like a distant cousin than a brother.  Sometimes, when Adam and I tease Little Joe, I notice Clay gets a wistful look on his face, like he wishes he’d had older brothers picking on him.

The hero-worship in Joe’s eye gnaws in my craw when Clay tells stories of fortunes won and lost in high stakes card games on riverboats or battles fought down in Mexico.  Joe eats up every word like a puppy handed dinner scraps from the table.  Every so often I feel a pang of guilt for wishing Joe would get sick from those scraps and everything would go back to the way it’d been when Clay was just another hired hand.  But then I think on my own happiness during Gunnar’s visit and the jealousy eases up a bit.   That don’t stop me wishing Joe’s shiny new marble ends up at the bottom of the privy, though.

In every story, Clay paints himself in the best light—always the man Lady Luck smiles on, never the man she betrays with false promises.  Well, I don’t believe most of it.  And neither does Pa.  But Pa says to leave Joe alone so he can get to know his brother.  So I do.  But I stay close enough to pull Joe away from the fires of temptation in case the flames lick a mite too close.

When we’re sitting around the campfire one evening, Pa says someone has to head into town for supplies.  I say I’ll go, I’m rarin’ to get away from the stink of cattle for a few hours.

But things don’t work out in my favor.  Morning finds steers tangled up in brush and none of us can be spared to run to town.  When I realize Clay’s nowhere to be found I ask around and one of the hands says he heard Clay say he was going after the supplies.  Joe saddles his horse faster than a deer outrunning a wolf pack and is out of sight before Pa can stop him.  Best we can hope for is Clay will end up in one of Roy Coffee’s jail cells for a few days instead of pounded into a bloody mess by miners bent on vengeance.

We work through the rest of the day and neither Joe nor Clay is back by nightfall.  Pa looks around every time he hears a horse whicker and he settles into disappointment when no one rides into camp.

“You know how Little Joe is,” I say, tryin’ to lighten Pa’s mood.  “He so much as sees a pretty gal he practically forgets his own name.”

Pa snorts and refills his cup with hot coffee.

“I bet they’re holed up at the house, enjoying soft beds while we shiver in our blankets,” says Adam.

“You’re probably right,” says Pa as he empties his cup in the fire.

The fire’s hiss brings to mind the steam whistle that announces the shift change at the mines.  For Pa’s sake, I hope Little Joe is safe and sound at home.

I give my goodnights to the hands and head for my own bedroll.  As I settle into my blanket I think of Uncle Gunnar.  I’d asked him to stay on with us but he’d said he had places to travel to.  I suppose I would have wanted to go with him if I’d been as young as Little Joe, ready to seek adventure with kinfolk I hardly knew.

It has to be well after midnight when I’m awakened by loud singing and a hollered, drawn out “Roseeeeta,” with a long, rolled “r.”  Little Joe and Clay are back and, by the sound of it, well in their cups.   Pa yells at them to quiet down and get to sleep.  I sure hope they’re ready for a long, hard day tomorrow.

In the morning, Joe looks the worse for wear but Clay’s rarin’ to go.  As Adam fills up a plate, Clay says he and Joe stopped to share a jug of pulque.  Joe ain’t exactly a lightweight when it comes to liquor but I don’t know a single man who can be as perky as a ground squirrel after drinking most of the night.  I take that back—Clay’s mighty spry this morning, but he’s likely had practice drinkin’ pulque down in Mexico.

Joe splashes down by the river like a duck gettin’ its feathers clean. I load up a plate with fatback and beans and settle down next to Adam and prepare to enjoy the lecture I know Pa will deliver.

Joe staggers up looking as sick as a man with food poisoning.  He gets a cup of coffee and gingerly sits down on an upturned crate, as if he’s afraid he’ll shatter like a vase if he moves too fast.

“After a night of chewing the fat, there’s nothing like a big breakfast to get you back in action,” says Clay.  He almost sounds like family.

“That’s right,” I say.  “Speaking of fat, I’m gonna have me some more of that fatback.  Really ain’t nothin’ quite like some good ol’ salt sowbelly.  Right, Joe?”

Little brother turns about as green as his jacket while Adam hides his smile in the ladle.  Joe better eat and get his strength up—he’s gonna need it when Pa gets wound up about the evils of drunkenness.

Adam tosses the ladle into the water bucket with a clang that might just raise the dead.  Or turn Joe’s stomach inside out.  Adam pretends he’s concerned as he asks Joe if something’s wrong.

Joe claims he’s rarin’ to get to work.  I’ll have to find the orneriest steer for him to tackle.  Won’t be nothing as fun to watch as Joe and a steer in a tug o’ war.

“Too bad we drank all that pulque,” says Clay.  “You’d like it.”  I’ve had tequila but don’t believe pulque would suit my taste.

“Now me, I personally prefer a great big glass of hot whiskey, about a hundred proof,” I say.

Joe lurches over to the barrel I’d sat on before I get another helping of fatback.  He don’t even look fit to button a shirt.  It’s a shame Pa’s missin’ all the fun.

“Guess we’re just unlucky,” says Adam to no one in particular, but Clay and I both laugh.

Pa finally comes around the side of the wagon and tells us all to get to work.  Guess I won’t get to hear that lecture after all.  But he does stop to get a good look at Joe.  And he uses Joe’s full name.  I bet Pa’s gonna wind up for a long talk.

“I’ve never seen you look better,” he says to Joe.

“Oh, I’m feelin’ real good, too,” says Joe.  He sounds about as convincing as me trying to spin a lie to Pa.

Pa slaps Joe, hard, on the back as he says, “We’ve got a lot of work to do today.”

Clay steps out from beside the wagon and Pa notices him for the first time this morning.  Pa don’t look too pleased.  Maybe he’ll give both of ‘em a stern talk.

“You boys had quite a drink last night,” says Pa.  Now that he sees the kind of influence Clay has on Joe, Pa might just give Clay his wages and send him off the Ponderosa to find work elsewhere.  That’d suit me just fine.

“Yeah, I guess we over-did it,” says Clay.  At least he owns up to it and isn’t tryin’ to make any excuses.  He fetches his horse and gets down to business.

“Well, I think he’ll live,” Pa says with a fond look at Joe before telling us he has to go back to the ranch.

I guess Joe ain’t gonna get that lecture after all.

Adam says, “That Clay sure is a likeable fellah.”

“Yep, sure is,” I say.  “You know if me or you, either one, brought Joe home in the condition he was in last night we wouldn’t have heard the last of it.”

“That’s for sure,” says Adam through a chuckle.

Pa would’ve tanned our hides for it, meanwhile tellin’ us that we’re supposed to set an example for our younger brother to follow.

“What do you mean the condition I’m in?” asks Joe.  “I’m not in any kind of condition.  You heard what Pa said; let’s get started.”

So now he’s the head man when Pa ain’t around?  Cocky pup.

Adam leaps to his feet, sending the other end of the board straight to the ground and Joe lands flat on his butt.  I bet that hurt his head something fierce and I can’t help but laugh.  Bein’ an older brother has its benefits.

Me and Adam head off for our horses and get to work.  We don’t give Joe any special treatment but we both know he’ll outwork every man today to prove a hangover can’t hold him back.

Word comes during lunch that Pa wants to see Adam and me back at the house.  Must be bad news.  We push our tired horses to get home.

Adam leads the way into the house and tosses his hat across the room.  Pa’s at his desk, a piece of paper in his hand, and he don’t look happy.

“What’s the matter?”  Adam asks.  “We heard you wanted to see us.”

“Yeah, I got that telegram back from New Orleans.”

“What does it say?” I ask.

“His story checks out,” says Pa.

“What’s the matter then?”  I ask.  Clay is who he claims to be.  Maybe Joe’s shiny new marble won’t be as much trouble as I’d feared.

“Alvin Wharton is a very good lawyer,” says Pa.  “He investigates and gets all the facts.  Marie was his mother, he was born in New Orleans, raised by his grandparents, and so forth.”

“What’s the trouble, Pa?”  I ask.  Seems he’d be glad to know Clay isn’t after money.

Pa takes a deep breath and reads from the telegram.  “Something that Alvin found out happened two years ago.”

“Two years ago?” Adam asks.

Looks like alarm bells are goin’ off in Adam’s head.  Maybe I shouldn’t quite yet welcome Clay into the family.

“Yeah, in a town in Texas, Chico Wells.  Seems there was a card game, Clay was winning a lot of money, a man accused him of cheating, reached for his gun . . . .”

“And Clay killed him,” Adam says, finishing what Pa was gonna say.

“Sorta stretchin’ the long arm of coincidence, ain’t it?” I ask.  Guess history does have a way of repeating itself.

“I’m afraid that’s how a lot of people will look at it,” Pa says.

“How do you look at it?” asks Adam.

The way he asks it sounds like he’s thinkin’ up an explanation the sheriff and the miners will believe when they find out Clay ain’t gone.

Pa just shrugs.  He’d wanted Clay off the Ponderosa after that miner was killed.  Now it’s as if he’s afraid of breaking Little Joe’s heart.

“What are you gonna tell Little Joe?” I ask.  Somebody’s got to tell him before Clay brings trouble to our doorstep.

“Well,” says Pa, “he’s gonna have to face the fact there can be weaknesses in people, even those we care about.”

Little Joe will just have to accept that newfound kinfolk ain’t always like us.  My Uncle Gunnar sure wasn’t, even there at the end when he was dyin’ in my arms.

“You gonna let Clay stay around?” I ask.  By the battle waging on Pa’s face I can see he’s having a hard time makin’ up his mind.

“Guess we’ll have to give him the benefit of whatever doubts we have about him,” Pa finally says.

I look over at Adam.  He don’t look too pleased.  Clay attracts trouble like honey attracts bears.  Those miners would like nothing better than to plant Clay six feet under.  And Clay would likely drag Joe down with him.  If I have to tie Joe up and hide him in one of the line shacks to keep him away from Clay I just might do it.

“You boys get on back to the herd.  Tell Little Joe I want to talk to him.”

“Yes, sir,” I say and I wait for Adam to stand.  I hope he ain’t going to make an argument for Clay stayin’ on through the end of the roundup.

We collect our hats and head back to the herd.  I don’t feel much like talkin’ so we ride in silence.

Little Joe rides out to meet us and he pulls Cochise up so fast the horse dances sideways.

“Pa wants to see you,” says Adam.

“Something wrong?” he asks.

I’m about to snap off a reminder to respect his elders but Adam says Pa wants to talk to him about Clay.

Little Joe urges Cochise forward and they disappear in a cloud of dust.

“Well, let’s get back to it,” says Adam.

Sometimes older brother can be a mite too practical.

Clay’s a gambler and a killer, and he’s proven to be a cheat as well.  That miner wouldn’t have made that accusation without cause.  And that shooting back in Texas was because someone had accused Clay of cheating.  When word gets out that Clay’s stayin’ on here, folks will likely say we think we’re above the law, giving a known killer refuge.

Once the roundup is over we’re gonna have to find a way to encourage Clay to move on, that life in one place ain’t for him.  Joe’s fast with a gun and he likes nothin’ better than a game of poker in one of the saloons on a Saturday night.  If he stays under Clay’s influence he’s likely to wind up at the end of a rope.

*

Over the next couple of weeks, Pa tries talking to Clay like he does Joe.  Clay don’t much look like he enjoys fatherly advice.  Clay’s a grown man and set in his ways, like me and Adam, and he don’t need a father like Joe does.

Joe talks about the things he and Clay are gonna do after roundup—fishing, hunting, dances, card games.  Clay don’t strike me as the type who lingers in one place too long and he don’t seem particularly interested in the idea of staying around.

The only home Joe’s had is here on the Ponderosa and I doubt he can imagine living anyplace else.  His roots are planted deep, fertilized by the blood and sweat we’ve all shed in making the ranch one of the biggest, and richest, in the territory.  And his mother’s buried here, her grave a place he visits when he needs advice from on high.

Uncle Gunnar and Clay are more alike than I care to admit—no ties or roots.  Both are what my uncle called a Yucatan turtle, having to move around with the tide and turn of things instead of settling down.   Despite me and Pa encouraging Gunnar to stay on the Ponderosa, the urge to move on was too strong to keep him in one place for long.

Like Clay, my uncle was a cold-blooded killer.  When Gunnar saw something he wanted, he took it, even if he had to pry it out of a dead man’s cold hands.  I think back to that night in the saloon when Clay cared more about collecting the money on the table than about the life he’d just snuffed out.

I got a bad feeling Joe’s bacon is gonna end up in the fire and someone will have to pull it out before he burns up to nothing more than a crisp.

*

The last steer is counted and the men are ready to spend their hard-earned wages on a celebration.  Joe says he’ll buy the first round at the Silver Dollar.

Pa and Adam double-check the numbers while I lean on the fence and watch with half-interest.  Joe pops up at my elbow like a prairie dog.

“We couldn’t have done it without Clay,” he says.

I pull my hat down a mite lower and roll my eyes.  We would’ve done just fine without him.

“Now that it’s over I’m thinking on traveling a while.  Maybe head down to Mexico.  Clay says the girls down there are pretty things.  Pulque and a señorita on each knee, now that’d be the life.”

He laughs but I don’t join him.

The breeze tickles the back of my neck and I shiver like someone is walking on my grave.

“Joseph!” Pa yells.

Joe’s over the fence like he has wings and I see Pa hand him a slip of paper, probably for the bank so Joe can collect the payroll and the bonus Pa promised each man who signed on.  He swings up into the saddle the same way he went over the fence.

Pa walks over to me but I don’t feel much like talking.

He looks across the corral and asks, “What do you think of Clay staying on?”

I pick at the fence, careful to avoid jamming a splinter in my finger.  “Fine by me, if that’s what he wants.”

Pa makes a low noise in his throat.  “That’s what Adam said.”

“You’ve tried making him feel welcome but I don’t know if he really wants a family.”  That’s the most diplomatic answer I can think of.

Pa looks long and hard at the other side of the corral before he walks over there.  As he strikes up a conversation with Clay, I see to my horse and listen to the hands talk about spending their pay on whiskey and women.

*

While Joe’s in town we head back for the house and wash off the trail dust.  After, Pa works on a ledger while Adam sets up the chess board.  Clay paces the room before he picks up a book and lights on the settee.  I sit on the hearth and gnaw on an apple to tide me over ‘til suppertime.

Adam’s pondering the board when there’s an echoing clang from the supper bell.  It ain’t yet time to eat.

Pa’s first out the door and I hear him yell Joe’s name.

Adam and I rush out of the house.  Joe’s layin’ near the porch, out cold.  The tightness in my chest eases up—there’s a big ol’ bruise on his face but no blood on his jacket.

Clay hangs back as we carry Joe up to his room.  He sure don’t seem too awful concerned about his brother.

We get Joe settled on the bed and I hold him up so Pa can get the jacket and shirt off.  I wince at the bruises darkening Joe’s belly.

“Get some cold water and bandages,” Pa says.  Adam obeys the order and runs for the stairs.

“Had to be those miners, Pa.  Me or Adam should’ve gone for the money.  They wouldn’t have taken on one of us.”

“Because Clay’s not your brother?”

I meet Pa’s eyes and nod.  We knew those miners were spoilin’ for revenge and we let Joe walk straight into the lion’s den.  Meanwhile, Clay sits downstairs without a mark on him.

Adam comes back with a basin, towels, and bandages.  “Clay found the payroll in Joe’s saddlebag.”

“Had to be a message for Clay,” I say.  “He killed one of theirs and they ain’t going to forgive and forget ‘til he pays.”

“We can’t worry about that right now,” Pa says.  “One of you hold your brother so we can wrap this bandage around him.”  Joe moans softly and tries to push away from me but he’s too weak.  After settling Joe back on the pillows, Pa sits down on the edge of the bed and runs a damp cloth across Joe’s forehead.

Pa looks at me and Adam, standing there like bumps on a log, and tells us to pay the hands.  I don’t want to leave Joe’s room ‘til he comes around but Adam nudges me to follow.  On the way out, I notice Clay’s sunk down in the chair like he’s tryin’ hard not to be seen.  I’d like to give him some of what Joe got but Ponderosa business comes before pleasure.

I know Adam don’t want Clay around anymore than I do but how do we get Pa—and Joe—to understand he’s nothing but trouble?  Next time someone wants to send a message Joe may end up with a bullet or two in him instead of just busted ribs.   Joe shouldn’t have to pay for Clay’s sins; I know Joe won’t see things that way but he’ll have to see Clay for what he really is.

It’s dark when I get home; Adam stayed in town to keep our men out of trouble while they celebrate.  Chubb’s curried and fed in record time so I can check on little brother.  I take off my gun belt and it bumps in time with my leg as I go to the house.

Pa hurries over when I step inside and he looks past me, into the darkness.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“Joe’s gone.”

“Gone?” I repeat as if I’m a parrot.  My heart drops into my belly—Joe’s in no condition to sit a horse.  “Where’s Clay?”

“He cleared out while Joe was in bed.”  Pa shakes his head and says, “I should’ve lied when he asked for his brother.”

“I’m goin’ after ‘em,” I say as matter-of-fact as ordering another steak at the International House.  The memory of beating Uncle Gunnar near to death plays behind my eyes and I feel my jaw tighten with the anger coursing in my blood.  I’ll beat the life out of Clay slow-like, make him suffer for every bruise Joe got from those miners.

My gun belt is nearly buckled when Pa says, “Don’t.”

The weight of it drops to one hand at the pleading tone in Pa’s voice.  I search his face and note how old he looks—worry lines crease his brow and the wrinkles around his eyes seem deeper.  It ain’t just the beating Little Joe got at the hands of those miners, it’s also the way Clay’s run from the problems he created instead of confronting them head on.  No Cartwright tucks his tail between his legs and slinks off into the night like a frightened coyote.  Clay’s not worthy of the Ponderosa.  Or Joe.

“Your brother needs to see Clay for what he really is and make up his own mind.  He’ll make the right choice.”  I think Pa is trying to reassure himself more than me when he pats my shoulder.  “Go to bed.  I’ll wait up.”

I don’t share Pa’s confidence—I want to chase down Little Joe and shake him until he forgets Clay ever came into our lives.  I hesitate as the battle between obeying Pa and saving Joe from himself wages in my heart.

“Please, son.”  It’s almost a whisper.

The gun belt falls heavily onto the credenza and I lean against it for a moment before putting my hat on its peg.  I head for the stairs knowing Pa will make good on his promise to stay awake until Little Joe comes back.  For Pa’s sake I hope it won’t be a long wait.

I move the rocking chair over by the window to keep an eye out.  Joe’s a fighter and not one to let a few busted ribs keep him idle for long, but I wish he’d landed up at the doc’s instead of back home.  We should have tied him down but Pa trusted that Joe would do as told.

Hours later, the sound of hooves carries in through the window.  Cochise has brought Joe home.  Joe manages to get out of the saddle without falling down but he don’t look too steady on his legs.  He leans against his horse and buries his face in its mane for a minute or so before straightening and wiping his eyes with the heel of his hand.

Whatever Clay did to make Joe come home looks as if it’s nearly killed my little brother.  Those miners left a physical hurt on Joe that’ll heal up without a scar.  Clay’s left an emotional hurt on our brother that time may never fully heal.

I go to the corner near the stairs when the front door opens.  Joe falls into Pa’s arms, crying like a little boy.  All Pa can do is hold him tight, knowing Clay made the right decision for his brother’s sake.

Family ain’t just shared blood, it’s lookin’ out for each other and standing together to face challengers head on.  Nothing hurts worse than seeing kin for what they really are.  In the end, my uncle was just a man who’d taken a wrong turn and become a killer.  It took a long while before I forgave him for turning his back on me, his blood family.  Only difference between Gunnar and Clay is my uncle knew about us and chose never to visit, maybe so I wouldn’t know the hard side of him.  I hope the hurtful memories Joe may have of Clay fade along with the bruises and that maybe, someday, Joe can find it in his heart to forgive his brother.

I go back to my room and squirm under the quilts until I’m comfortable.  The curtain billows in the cool night air as if Ma sighs in relief that her son’s home, where he belongs.

 

The End

 

Written for the Ponderosa Paddlewheel Poker Tournament.

My words were:  lost, thief, food poisoning, telegram, (Joker)

 

Tags:  Clay Stafford, ESH, Family, Gunnar Borgstrom, Hoss Cartwright, Joe / Little Joe Cartwright