Rating: K

Word Count=2049

Summary: Virginia City’s Annual Independence Day Festival, as reported by Sam Clemens.   Written for Round 1 of the Ponderosa Paddlewheel Poker Tournament. My words were: Roy Coffee, Dr. Martin, politician, engagement, and ledger.

Disclaimer: I don’t own the Cartwrights or Bonanza. No copyright infringement is intended. Original plot and characters are property of the author. This story is for entertainment and no money was made from it.

Reviews from the Old Library are on the last page.

Jubilee

Virginia City’s Annual Independence Day Festival is the most widely-anticipated public celebration in this area of Nevada. Families pack lunches in picnic hampers, a politician or two (or frequently half a dozen) recites a speech praising the generosity of the Great Provider, and folk of all political persuasions co-exist in peace. There are games for children of all ages, feats of strength, and races for both two- and four-legged critters. The grand finale is the spectacular fireworks display that lights our fair city brighter than a blazing desert sun.

This year, the festival was an unforgettable commemoration of our Nation’s freedom. 

Everyone gathered at Lake Tahoe to share fried chicken, cabbage slaw, thick slabs of ham, fresh-baked bread, and jars of the purest honey. The first hint of Trouble arrived with the pie contest. Judge Harrison, a man charged with impartiality within the confines of the courtroom, declared Clementine Hawkins’ cinnamon apple concoction the winner. This reporter believes the judge will not experience marital harmony for some time as he declared the pie his wife had labored over to taste of apples gone sour from a long, bumpy wagon ride over the mountains. Fortunately, apple pie is not as easily thrown around as lemon meringue; unfortunately, the heavy pan collided with Hank Myers’ nose. His wife, the delicate Abigail, was restrained by Hoss Cartwright when she hoisted a croquet mallet to avenge her husband. Doctor Paul Martin prescribed bed rest for Hank so the wounded man retreated to the shade of a tree where he reclined and slumbered with his head pillowed in his bride’s lap. 

Following the pie judging, there was a pony race for the children and a horse race for the adults. The ponies were reluctantly led to the starting line, their jockeys young misses in bloomers and young masters in knee trousers. At the starting signal, most of the mounts returned their attention to grazing while others took a few halting steps before dislodging their riders. Adam Cartwright cajoled young Peggy Dayton’s steed into a trot with the lure of discarded apple pie. Miss Dayton was disqualified when she pushed Jeremy Parson from his pony within sight of the finish line. For a child of the tender age of nine, Miss Dayton packs a punch, as evidenced by Mitch Devlin’s black eye.

Once the ponies and children were cleared from the course, the men led their horses to the starting line. Money surreptitiously changed hands with hard-earned wages entrusted to Reverend Griggs for safe-keeping. The Cartwrights’ steed, a compact sorrel gelding obtained from the Paiutes for three steers, was presumed to be the fleetest by bettors. Jibes were traded after the riders mounted and jockeys tugged the reins to keep their eager steeds at bay. Sheriff Roy Coffee fired his pistol into the air and the horses leapt into action. An eagle, struck by the bullet, dropped from the sky and knocked Enos Milford from his horse. Despite the lack of a jockey, Mr. Milford’s steed won the race, leading the pack as if it were Pegasus winging across the field. The Cartwrights’ horse made a valiant attempt to keep up but finished dead last. As a riderless horse could not be awarded the winner’s ribbon, the honor was received by Lord Percival Jameson Wentworth, an English aristocrat touring our fair country.

Protests were raised that it was unpatriotic for an Englishman, and a lord at that, to win a horse race on the day of America’s independence from Great Britain. Those who had placed their money on a Kentucky-bred horse ridden by a foreigner were rewarded with a substantial payoff as the odds had been seven-to-one. As tempers rose in the summer heat and fisticuffs threatened to break out, Reverend Griggs persuaded cooler heads to prevail as he proclaimed the Lord provided Mankind with the free will to place bets on the horse of choice; therefore the losers had had the misfortune of backing the wrong jockey. This news was not well received by those whose money was lost. Judge Harrison, avoiding his wife, announced that all money should go to the Miner’s Fund to support the widows and orphans left penniless by fate’s capricious hand. To avoid the insinuation of cold-heartedness, winnings were handed over to the reverend for safe-keeping. Lord Wentworth was even persuaded to fork over money to show there were no hard feelings between the Mother Country and her unruly child. 

After the horses had been returned to the makeshift corral, this reporter adjourned to the patch of ground staked out by Mrs. Cora Milford. Mrs. Milford is one of the finest cooks this territory has ever seen, even if her husband claims her culinary curse is pie burning. Before a single morsel of food was lifted to lips, the reverend offered an invocation to the Almighty in thanks for a right beautiful day and peace among citizens of both sides of the Atlantic. 

While folks dined upon chickens that had uttered their final cluck by yesterday’s sunset, Mayor Hooper arose to speechify. A politician can’t help himself when a captive audience is at his disposal. However, many a citizen was heard muttering that the mayor should have saved his breath for an engagement in which his inconstant droning may have been far more tolerable.

Polite applause met the end of the mayor’s speech and all supposed it was time to adjourn to places more suitable for a post-meal rest. Instead, the mayor held forth a copy of the Declaration of Independence and proceeded to remind Wentworth why King George was far less favorable in public opinion than our own Mr. Lincoln. 

Wentworth, bearing insult on behalf of his long-deceased monarch, countered that Yankees should not be surprised Southerners have turned to the same tactic in order to free themselves from the yoke of repression. Wentworth’s, “A nation born of bloodshed begets a nation by bloodshed,” was met with a call for tar and feathers. Fortunately for Wentworth, tar was nowhere to be had. Joe Cartwright challenged Wentworth to a duel to defend America’s honor and, while many men offered to second, Hoss Cartwright intervened. Sizing up the opposition, Hoss told the Englishman to pick on a man of larger stature or take his leave. Wentworth wisely excused himself. 

As tempers calmed, drowsy citizens packed up their baskets and headed for cooler parts. The majority of the men adjourned to Virginia City’s drinking establishments to toast America’s birthday with stronger beverages than lemonade. This reporter ensconced himself at a corner table in the Gold Nugget to enjoy a game of poker. 

Joe Cartwright sat three tables away, inspecting his hand. By his expression, this reporter surmised Joe may have wished Lady Luck had distributed the cards instead of Jigger Thurman. 

Adam stood at the bar, nursing a beer as he engaged Will Cass in conversation. The stony look upon Adam’s countenance suggested to this reporter that the details of the Cartwright account in the store’s ledger may have been under discussion. 

Near sundown, Wentworth entered our cozy haven and loudly admonished our fair citizenry for failing to choose a side in the ongoing Eastern conflict. Nevada is by no means neutral in the current war but her citizens manage to get along. Faces reddened as Wentworth, evidently in his cups, made the unfortunate mistake of pointing at Joe Cartwright and calling him a pig-headed Yankee. Everyone knows that honor belongs to Adam Cartwright. Adam reached forth an arm to draw Wentworth to the bar but the Englishman mistook his intent for aggression. Wentworth’s knowledge of the Marquess of Queensberry’s rules did not serve him well when he was tackled by a mob of angry cowhands and miners.

Joe Cartwright surfaced from the melee with a hand grasping Wentworth’s collar. A well-placed punch sent the aristocrat careening through the saloon doors. 

A witness informed me that at that moment, Hoss Cartwright was outside the saloon, lighting the first of a string of firecrackers.

No two people, not even Hoss or Wentworth, are certain what happened next. What is known is that patrons dodged for cover as what sounded like the Battle of Bunker Hill raged outside. 

When the Gold Nugget caught fire, presumably from an errant firecracker, a stampede jammed the doorway. As the last man staggered through the billowing smoke, an enormous fireball arose several feet in the air and parts of the saloon rained down over several blocks. Windows throughout Virginia City were blown out by the explosion. Window panes are likely to be in short supply in the foreseeable future. 

Doctor Martin rushed to the scene to assess the injured, but was soon handing bandages out so folks could tend their own wounds. The last folks saw of Wentworth, Sheriff Coffee was dragging him down the street. 

The stagecoach emerged on C Street as ash rained down upon upturned faces. The stage had been delayed two days by a rockslide and fortunately arrived after the fireworks were over.

Ben Cartwright emerged from the vehicle with a scowl that may have curdled every milk cow’s supply from here to California. As his sons tried to explain they weren’t at fault, bystanders turned an ear in hopes of overhearing an outburst of righteous indignation. They weren’t rewarded with an explosion of Cartwright temper. Ben was last seen striding purposefully towards Sheriff Coffee’s office. This reporter wonders if Wentworth will praise the virtues of America and her citizens, especially those of Yankee persuasion, rather than renew hostilities between our two countries when confronted by the Patriarch of the Ponderosa. 

Even though the committee’s plans for a patriotic celebration went awry, the fireworks were spectacular. 

Sam Clemens
Territorial Enterprise 

The End
June 2013