Summary:  Little Joe thinks he’s found the perfect way to raise money to help Virginia City’s needy orphans, while providing a few side benefits for himself and his friends.  Originally published in Bonanza Gold.

Rating:  K  (7,470  words)

Another Fine Mess 

“Hey, Pa!”  Little Joe Cartwright bounced up from the settee to greet his father at the door.

“Hello, son,” Ben chuckled, as always amused by the energy and enthusiasm of his fifteen-year-old.  He returned Joe’s exuberant hug and then acknowledged the more subdued welcome of his two older sons  with a warm smile.  “Sorry I’m late, boys.”

“How did your meeting go?” Adam asked with a quirk of his mouth that some might have read as a smirk.

Ben recognized it as the empathy of a man who had also suffered through a meeting with three nuns.  “Oh, you know,” he drawled with a shrug.  “With  ninety youngsters to look after, there’s always someone needing their attention more than they need mine!”

The boys all laughed.  Then, tumbling one word after another like stones in an unrelentingly rockslide, Little Joe asked,  “But you got things all settled, didn’t you?  We’re still havin’ that grand to-do, ain’t we?  I want to hear everything you got planned!”

“Yeah, me, too,” Hoss agreed, “but cain’t we do that ‘round the supper table?”

“Hoss, how can you think of your stomach at a time like this?” Joe complained, though he dutifully moved toward the dining room.

Hoss grinned broadly.  “I ain’t thinkin’ of my stomach, little brother.  I’m thinkin’ of yours, ‘cause you’re sure ‘nough gonna skinny down to nothin’ if Hop Sing heads back to China!”

“I’m sure we’re all eager to avoid that,” Ben said as he pulled out his chair at the head of the table.  “And we’re all eager to enjoy the wonderful meal you’ve prepared, Hop Sing,” he added with a significant glance toward the empty doorway to the kitchen.

The Chinese cook, who had predictably been eavesdropping just out of sight, popped into the doorway.  “You lucky this time,” he said.  “Loast beef not all burned up.”

“Then serve it,” Ben suggested pointedly.

With a harrumph Hop Sing disappeared, soon returning with a platter piled with roast beef, potatoes and carrots.  Ben helped himself to a hearty helping and then passed the platter to his right, where Little Joe sat.

“So it is gonna happen, ain’t it?” Joe asked as he dragged potatoes and carrots into his plate after a slice of beef.

“Why wouldn’t it?” Adam inquired as he received the platter from Joe.

Joe shrugged.  “Well . . . nuns, you know . . . they might think a good time is . . . well . . . sinful or somethin’.”

Adam laughed.  “Considering your definition of ‘a good time,’ that’s a distinct possibility, but I can’t imagine the sisters disapproving of any sort of good, clean fun, especially since it’s intended to benefit their orphanage.”  He passed the platter on to Hoss.

Hop Sing put a bowl of peas and a plate of sliced bread on the table and slowly left again, ear stretched to catch the ongoing conversation.

“That’s right,” Ben said, taking a helping of the peas, “and I think we have enough fun lined up even for your capricious taste, Joseph.”

Little Joe crinkled his nose.  He knew Adam had just insulted him, even if only in jest, and he suspected Pa had, too, but couldn’t be sure without consulting a dictionary.  “So, what’s on tap?” he asked.

“For you, sarsaparilla,” Adam twitted.

“Pa!” Joe protested.

“All right, all right.”  Ben spread his hands in an appeasing gesture.  “That’s enough teasing.  As I said, there will be a number of activities available, and the fair for the Nevada Orphan Asylum is being well supported in town.  Merchants have generously donated prizes for the contests, restaurants are giving the profits of their food booths to the orphans, and the ladies will be supplying baked goods for sale.”

“What kind of contests?” Hoss asked.  “I know Adam and Ross are running a shootin’ gallery, and I heard, maybe, there was gonna be a pie-eatin’ contest.”

Joe snickered.  “We all know which one you’re most interested in!”

“Joseph,” Ben chided, “when I said ‘enough teasing,’ that included your brother Hoss.”

“Yes, sir.”  Joe lowered his head and looked suitably chagrined.  At least, he hoped so.  He took a side peek at his father and deemed it safe to continue.  “Shooting and pie.  Anything else?  Anything I’d be interested in?”

“Racing and roping,” Ben replied, adding with a twitch of his lips, “and a kissing booth.”

Little Joe’s head bounced up.  “It’s gonna be great!” he declared.

“For the orphans, you mean,” Adam said with a wink at his father.

“Oh, yeah, them, too,” Joe said quickly.  “Them, especially,” he added in response  to the arch of his father’s eyebrow.  He bobbed his chin in rapid emphasis.

“I’m glad to hear that, Joseph,” Ben said.  “And just what is it you plan to do for Virginia City’s orphans, young man?”

“Me, Pa?”  Joe’s pitch rose almost to a squeak.  “Why, just support all the booths and contests I can.”  He turned a charming smile on his father.  “Of course, I could do more if I had a little extra cash.”

Ben looked severe.  “Are you asking me for money, young man?”

Recognizing the danger signals, Joe swallowed hard.  “Well, no . . . not exactly.”  With renewed courage he plunged on.  “I was just thinkin’ that you’d want to donate some yourself to the orphans, but you’re gonna be busy runnin’ the whole to-do, and Adam’s gonna be busy with the shootin’ gallery, and Hoss is gonna be busy eatin’ pie, so that sorta leaves . . . me  . . . to do the spendin’.”

Adam grabbed his napkin and coughed into it.  When he regained control, he commented, “What you’re saying, then, is that you are volunteering to help the orphans by having a high time for yourself.”

Joe sincerely tried, but he couldn’t see a thing wrong with that.  “Well . . . yeah,” he admitted.

Both Adam and Hoss burst out laughing, and even Ben couldn’t keep a straight face.  “Well, at least, he’s honest,” Adam conceded, buttering a slice of bread.

“And inventive,” Ben agreed.  He cleared his throat.  “However, I would suggest, Joseph, that you use that inventive mind of yours to come up with some way to earn your own money to spend at the fair.”

Worry wrinkles creased Hoss’s forehead.  “Uh . . . Pa?”  Though he spoke to his father, his anxious gaze was riveted on his brother Adam.

Adam nodded his understanding of Hoss’s plea for help.  “Pa, are you sure you want to unleash that inventive mind on the unsuspecting citizens of Virginia City?  Given Little Joe’s propensity for mayhem when in pursuit of financial gain . . .”  He let his voice trail off in a manner suggestive of impending catastrophe.  Hoss, having been the most frequent victim of that “propensity for mayhem,” nodded in vigorous agreement.

“Now, just a doggone minute!” Joe squawked.

“Well, I admit some of your younger brother’s schemes can be a little . . . well, ill conceived,” Ben said, “but since any project benefiting the fair must meet the approval of the committee chairman”—he tapped his own chest—“that should head off anything too outlandish.’”

“Wanna bet?” Adam suggested dryly, chin resting on his curled fingers.

Joe glared at Adam, but struck out at an easier target.  “What about Hoss?” he demanded.  “He ain’t doin’ nothin’ but eatin’ pie!”

“At least, I’m payin’ my own entry fee, little brother,” Hoss snorted.

“Besides which, he’s helping me set up the shooting gallery first thing that morning,” Adam declared.  “Face it, Little Joe: you’re the only one making no contribution to this project.  But, then, all play and no work is your sworn motto.”

Joe’s nostrils flared, and he half rose from his seat before Ben ordered him to sit down.  “Your brother’s point is well taken, Joseph,” he said sternly, “and if you wish to prove him wrong, do so with your actions.  You’ll have plenty of time to mull over some appropriate way to help the orphans while you’re catching up on your chores tomorrow.  Don’t think for one minute that I didn’t notice the ones you neglected, young man, and don’t forget to wash and polish the surrey for church the next day.”

Joe slouched down in his chair.  “It can’t be my turn for that again,” he protested, though feebly, for he knew Pa tended to keep accurate record of that sort of thing.

Adam and Hoss again joined in laughter at their brother’s expense.  “Oh, it’s your turn, Shortshanks; I guarantee it,” Hoss cackled.

“And even if it weren’t, it might insure you stay out of mischief for at least one afternoon,” Adam threw in with a maddening grin.

Joe looked toward his father, but finding no sympathy there, he picked up his fork and with determination dug into his supper.  He’d show them.  He’d come up with the best doggone money-making scheme Virginia City had ever seen!

* * * * *

            Though Little Joe felt obliged to complain about any extra chore, especially on a Saturday, he didn’t really mind washing and polishing the family surrey.  It was a big job, of course, but since he’d started taking notice of girls, he relished driving into town in a sharp-looking rig.  Besides, this June morning was sunny and warm, and the gentle breeze off the pines pleasantly brushed his bare torso as he wiped the seats clean of dust and sloshed soapy water over the dirt-caked wheels and running gear.  It was the kind of job, too, that left a fellow’s mind free to think.  Joe was supposed to be thinking about ways to raise money for the orphans, of course, but his mind kept wandering to more enticing subjects, like how a light wind like this would ruffle Belinda Bartlett’s golden-brown curls across her porcelain shoulders.

Loud ejaculations in caustic Cantonese interrupted Joe’s reverie, but Belinda’s angelic image still floated before his eyes as he turned toward the ranting cook and tried to sort through the intermingled Chinese and broken English.  “Why you all-a-time make mess in yard?” he finally made out.

Casting a glance at the mud puddle spreading out from the surrey in all directions, Joe shrugged nonchalantly.  “Aw, come on, Hop Sing.  You know I need water for this job.”  He gestured toward the nearby pump.

Hop Sing wagged his finger at the boy.  “Mr. Adam always take bucket to side of house, not make mud where family must walk.”

“Adam’s got longer legs,” Joe argued, “so it don’t take him so long to haul water around the house.”

Hop Sing snorted.  “Mr. Adam got longer brains, you mean.  He no make mud for track in on Hop Sing clean floor.”

Still chattering Cantonese castigations, the Chinaman hitched up his loose blue pantaloons and made his way back to the kitchen, practically on tiptoe.  Joe giggled.  With his pants hiked up to reveal bare ankles above soft blue slippers, Hop Sing looked like a girl guarding her hemline.  If only he had been!  As the image of his latest heartthrob melded with that of the cook, a wistful smile curved Joe’s lips.  If only beautiful Belinda could have been here, instead, lifting her skirts to protect them from the accommodating mud and showing a bit of shapely ankle as she did.

Little Joe’s eyes snapped wide as inspiration hit.  That was it!  The perfect idea for making money—and creating a bit of luck for himself to boot.  Tripping over the water bucket, Joe tromped through the sudsy rivulet now rushing toward the front door and charged into the house.  “Pa!” he yelled as he careened around the corner into the alcove, where his father and Adam were going over the books.  “Pa, I’ve got it!”

“Well, take it outside,” Adam ordered brusquely.  “You’re tracking mud everywhere.”

Joe looked at the muddy footprints in his wake.  “Oh, sorry,” he said.  “I’ll wipe it up in a minute.”  He spun back around to face the desk.  “Pa, I got a great idea for the orphans!”

“Well, that’s fine, Joseph,” Ben said with the gruffness that customarily edged his voice when he was working on the books.  “I’ll be glad to hear all about it—after I’ve finished here.”

“Oh, no, Pa,” Joe insisted, shaking his head with determination.  “You said I had to run it by you, remember?  And it’s got to be now so’s I can get started on planning and getting things together and—”

Ben spread his palms to cut off the stream of words.  “All right, all right.  What is this wonderful—”

“And hopefully nonfatal,” Adam contributed.

“Idea,” Ben finished with a stern glance at his eldest.

Adam prudently pursed his lips and perched on the corner of the desk.

Joe spared a flickering sidewise glare at Adam, but excitement quickly replaced it.  “A horse and buggy cleaning enterprise,” he announced and rocked back on his heels to await the accolades sure to meet this marvelous money-making proposition.

They were slow in coming.  Ben looked at Adam; Adam looked at Ben; they stared deep into each other’s eyes and into their own souls.  “I don’t . . . see . . . anything wrong with that,” Ben finally said.

“Of course not!” a clearly perturbed Joe cried.  “Why would there be?”

“Because it’s coming from you,” Adam said bluntly, “and you have a genuine knack for dragging us into one fine mess after another.”  He looked at his father.  “There has to be a catch somewhere.”

“Why?” Joe demanded.

Adam scratched behind his ear.  “We have to hogtie you to make you do that chore here, but you’re volunteering to spend an entire day doing it for someone else?”

Joe’s face fell for a moment.  “The whole day?” he asked, voice quavering.  Just as suddenly, his countenance lifted.  “No, of course not.  It’s the fair folks’ll want their rigs lookin’ nice for, see?  So I’ll just be offerin’ this service in the morning, say ‘til about eleven.  That’ll give me time to get cleaned up for lunch and ready for my own fun in the afternoon.”

Ben looked at Adam; Adam looked at Ben.  “I know there’s a catch,” Adam said reluctantly, “but I can’t find it.”

Ben leaned back in his padded chair and surveyed his youngest son.  “I’m afraid you might be biting off more than you can chew, Little Joe.  It’s a mighty big undertaking for one young man.”

Joe waved the concern aside.  “Oh, I’ll get help.”

“And what will convince your little friends to spend their morning sloshing in mud and suds when they could be lined up at the kissing booth?” Adam inquired with a skeptical arch of his eyebrow.

Joe resisted the temptation to plow his fist into Adam’s nose.  “No problem,” he said tersely.  “Once I point out the benefits, they’ll be lining up to help.”

Ben rocked swiftly forward in his chair, suspicion resurfacing on his face.  “What benefits?”

Joe turned a beguiling countenance of cherubic innocence upon his father.  “Why, the benefit of helping the orphans, Pa.  What else?”

Adam rested a palm on his brother’s slim shoulder.  “You said ‘benefits’—plural.  That implies more than one.”

Joe’s lower lip puckered and he looked hurt.  “I ain’t never been good at grammar, Adam.”

“Well, that’s the truth,” Adam conceded with a sigh.  He would later wonder why he had let himself be so easily distracted, but now he only admonished, “Communication skills are important, Little Joe; you should study harder.”

Joe was seething inside, but he only said, with appropriate meekness, “Yeah, I’ll do that—next term.”

Adam gave the boy’s shoulder a pat of approval and shrugged at his father.  “He probably can line up enough help.  He is a persuasive little fellow.”

“Yeah.”  Like everyone else in a radius of fifty miles from Virginia City, Ben had reason to know—and frequently regret—how persuasive his youngest could be.  This time, however, those persuasive powers appeared to be channeled in a beneficial direction, and he saw no reason to withhold his consent.  “All right, Little Joe.  Provided you can get others to help, you may run your horse and buggy cleaning enterprise.  Now, wipe up that floor!”

* * * * *

            Little Joe’s eyes widened with incredulous shock.  “But, Hoss, how can you possibly say no?”

One ankle crossed over the other, Hoss lolled against the side of the barn.  “Oh, it’s easy, little brother.  I seen enough of your schemes to smell a trap.”  He thrust his nose mere inches from Little Joe’s.  “And I ain’t gettin’ caught this time.”

“Trap!” Joe squealed, jumping back.  He spread his palms in indignation.  “I offer you a chance to do something for a bunch of poor orphans and you call it a trap?”

The mention of the orphans niggled at Hoss’s conscience, but he steeled himself against a ploy he’d seen Joe use before.  “I’m already doin’ plenty for the orphans.”

“Plenty,” Joe scoffed.  “Just stuffin’ your face with pie.  Like Adam said, all you’re doing is havin’ a high time for yourself.”

“He was talkin’ about you,” Hoss reminded his younger brother, but he winced under Joe’s disdainful eye.

“He’d’ve said it about you if he heard how you’re tryin’ to weasel out of a little real work.”

“Weasel!” Hoss protested.  “That’s a hoot, comin’ from you!  And I’m already helpin’ Adam with the shootin’ gallery, remember?”

“That’s early,” Joe argued, “and then you ain’t got nothin’ to do ‘til two o’clock.  Plenty of time to help out . . . if you really care about those orphans.”

Hoss wilted.  “Now, you know I do.  I care a lot about those poor little tykes.”

Little Joe folded his arms and fixed his brother with an indicting stare.  “I don’t know no such a thing.  All I see is me askin’ for help and you turnin’ me down, when you’re the best man for the job.”

“It don’t take much know-how to wash a buggy,” Hoss grunted.  “Any of your friends can help with that.”

He started to walk off, but Little Joe grabbed his arm.  “And they will,” he assured his brother earnestly.  “You don’t have to do any buggy-washin’.  What I need you for is skilled labor.”

“Huh?”

Little Joe’s hands began to wave with wild excitement.  “This isn’t just any old horse-and-buggy washin’ service, see?  This bein’ a special occasion, folks’ll want their rigs lookin’ extra nice, so we help ‘em with that—for an extra price, of course.  That’s where you come in, big brother, ‘cause when it comes to plaitin’ hair on ponies, ain’t nobody in this whole territory got you beat!”

A bashful blush crept over Hoss’s face, but his smile said he relished the compliment.  “Aw, you’re just soft-soapin’ me.”

Little Joe punched Hoss’s broad shoulder.  “It’s the truth, brother!  You got a touch with horses that’s a regular gift.  Everybody says so.”

Hoss’s smile spread wider.  “Yeah?”

“It’s the talk of the territory, I swear.”  Little Joe crossed his heart with one hand.  He leaned close.  “Besides that, you got to think of the benefits.”

Hoss nodded.  “To the orphans.”

“Them, too, but”—Joe lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper—“I meant the benefits for you . . . and me . . . and all our workers.”

Hoss blinked blearily.  “You lost me.”

Little Joe cast a cautious glance around, to make sure he wouldn’t be overheard.  “What always happens when we wash the buggy, Hoss?”

Hoss’s face scrunched in thought.  “It gets clean?” he asked hesitantly.

Joe exhaled with gusty exasperation.  “I meant to the ground.”

Still not following his younger brother’s drift, Hoss shrugged slowly.  “It gets wet?” he ventured.

“Exactly!”

“And that’s a benefit?”  Hoss slowly shook his head.  Sometimes there was just no understanding the way this youngun’s mind worked.

“Not by itself,” Joe explained, with what he felt sure was admirable patience, “but think, Hoss.  All the ladies of Virginia City will be decked out in their finery, and when they pass our operation—which we’ll put at a real busy corner of town—they’ll see this mud puddle they got to get past—we’ll make sure it spreads real wide—and they won’t want to get their skirts all muddy, so they’ll hike ‘em up and we’ll see some mighty fine-lookin’ ankles.”  He gave Hoss a cunning wink.  “Maybe . . . if we’re lucky . . . we might even see a little more.”

Hoss stared straight ahead, clearly visualizing the picture Little Joe was painting.  “Yeah,” he murmured dreamily.  He shook himself and plastered a serious look on his face.  “You’re right, Joe.  I should be doing more for those little homeless waifs.  I reckon I could help you out a mite, so long as I’m through by two, for the pie contest.”

The noonday sun was no brighter than Joe’s approving smile.  “You’ll be through way before two,” he promised.

* * * * *

            Little Joe smiled across the surrey seat at his father as they drove into Virginia City.  “Sure is a fine day for the fair, ain’t it, Pa?”

“A beautiful day,” Ben agreed, as he noted the cloudless sky and the mild breeze that gave promise of a day ideal for outdoor pleasures.  “Heaven is surely smiling on our desire to help the orphans.”

Joe stopped the surrey in front of a newly constructed grandstand on C Street.  “Here you go, Pa,” he said cheerily.

“Thank you, Joseph.”  Ben reached over to pat his son on the arm.  “And thank you for driving so carefully and stirring up so little dust.”

“Had to keep the rig lookin’ its best,” Joe said with a grin.  At sight of his father’s arched eyebrow, he added quickly, “And your good clothes, too, of course.”

Ben laughed as he climbed down.  “I thank you on behalf of my good clothes, even though I know they weren’t your chief concern.”  He had at first objected to using the family surrey for just the two of them, but had bowed to Joe’s insistence that their sparkling vehicle would be the best advertisement for the horse-and-buggy washing enterprise.  It was polished to a gleam and the horses, bedecked with ribbons braided into their manes and tails, were groomed to perfection.  Little Joe had painted banners to hang on each side, proclaiming where and when similar splendor might be purchased.  “You’ve worked hard, setting up this project, son,” Ben said.  “I’m proud of you.”

Joe flashed a smile even more dazzling than the surrey in all its glory.  “Thanks, Pa!  Well, I guess I better get to advertising.”

“Yeah.”  A flicker of concern crossed Ben’s face.  “You drive real careful, Joe.  You know how crowded the streets in town can get, especially with all that’s going on today.”

“Oh, I will, Pa,” Joe assured him.  “Driving slow gives people more time to read the sign, you know.”

Ben nodded his approval.  “Slow is what I like to hear.  You keep that thought in mind, boy.  And, Joe, you might drive down and see if your brothers need any help setting up the shooting gallery.”

“Aw, Pa,” Joe whined, “They should have that all finished by now.”  Adam and Hoss had driven the buckboard, loaded with needed supplies for building and stocking the shooting gallery, into town much earlier.

“That may be, but it won’t hurt to check,” Ben admonished.  “People on that end of town need to see your advertisement, too,” he added with a chuckle.

Joe grinned then.  “Yeah, that’s right!”  He drove off, whistling and wondering, every time he passed a pretty lady on the street, how she’d look navigating a soon-to-be prominently placed mud puddle.  When he arrived at the end of the street, where Sheriff Coffee had deemed it safe to use firearms, Little Joe bragged profusely about the job his brothers had done on the shooting gallery.  Since Adam accepted the praise without demurring, Joe assumed neither his services nor Hoss’s were needed.  He offered his middle brother a ride back up to their work station.

“How’d you talk Mr. Cass into lettin’ you set up right in front of his store?” Hoss asked as they drove slowly up C Street.

“Easy,” Joe said.  “It’s good for business.  When folks see how fancy you fixed up our horses, they’ll want ribbons braided into their horses’ hair, too, so we send them to Cass’s store for the ribbon and we braid it in, no extra charge.”

“No extra charge!” Hoss objected.  “How we gonna make money that way?”

“No charge for the ribbon,” Joe explained.  “We charge for your braiding, of course, ‘cause that takes real craftsmanship, brother.”

“Yeah?”  Typically, Hoss’s face flushed rosy at the compliment.  “Well, I’ll do my best, little brother . . . for the orphans.”

“Yeah, for the orphans,” Joe quickly agreed.  “Hey, Hoss,” he asked pensively, “you reckon you can tell anything about how a gal looks under her skirts by how she looks above ‘em?”  In his mind, this wasn’t even a change of subject, since helping the orphans and helping himself to a peek under some girl’s skirt was one and the same mission.

“Joseph!”  Crimson began to creep up Hoss’s neck..  “I just cain’t believe the places your mind goes, boy.”

“It don’t go no places yours ain’t been first,” Joe alleged with a pout, “and I was just askin’ your opinion.”

Hoss was now red as a beet.  “I ain’t got no opinion about such things.”  With a challenging jut of his chin, he declared, “If you need an opinion so bad, you could ask Adam, but I’m bettin’ you won’t.”

“Cinch bet!” Joe laughed, and Hoss caught the infection.  Both boys were almost doubled over when Joe pulled up before Cass’s general store, where three of Joe’s closest friends leaned against the wall, awaiting his arrival.

Followed by Mitch and Tuck, Seth jogged down the three steps to the street.  “What’s got you two so frisky?”

Joe grinned broadly as he greeted each of his friends with a hearty handclasp or a clap on the back.  “Just lookin’ forward to a mornin’ of hard work.”  He gave them a saucy wink and added, “and its rewards, of course.”

“Yeah,” Mitch drawled with his best attempt at a sophisticated leer.  “I hear those rewards’ll be substantial.”

“I sure hope so,” Tuck put in with a nervous chuckle.  Of them all, he was the most shy and awkward around girls, but just as interested as the others in today’s promised scenery.

“Well, before you get lost in contemplatin’ the rewards,” Joe said, “help me unload the surrey.  Then I’ll drive around and do a little more advertising.”

Hoss pinned his brother in place with an iron grip.  “Joseph, you ain’t  leavin’ all the work to us, while you traipse around town.”

Little Joe pressed his palm to his chest.  “Hoss, how could you think that of me?”

“Maybe ‘cause he lives with you,” Seth suggested with a smirk.

“Preach it, brother!” Mitch exclaimed, and Tuck piped in with an energetic amen.

“Ha ha,” Joe said.  “Look, I do have to drive down to the orphanage and drop off the signs the kids are gonna carry around for us, but I’ll just make one turn around town, and then I’ll do my share of the sloppy work.  Honest!”

“This I gotta see,” Hoss snorted, but his characteristic grin broke through.  Joe was noted for shirking work whenever he could, but between the four of them, they could probably make him toe the line today.

When Joe returned, however, he plunged into the work with the eagerness he could always muster when excited about any project.  He directed where each aspect of the operation was to set up and assigned each man his role.  “Hoss, you and Tuck take care of grooming and prettifying the horses right in front of the store, where folks can see your fine work.  Me and Seth’ll wash the rigs back here in the alley, and, Mitch, you can tote water for us.”  He nudged his friend in the ribs.  “Be sure to slop some out where folks—and you know what kind I mean—gotta step down into the street to get across the alley.”

Seth scowled.  “You and me ain’t gonna get much of a look-see, working back in the alley.”

“We’ll trade off, so everyone gets a fair shake,” Joe promised, “and whoever’s on water duty needs to keep a sharp eye out and give skirt alerts to the rest of us.”

“Okay, that’ll work,” Seth agreed.  “Get to sloppin’ water, Mitch.”

“Soon as we get a customer,” Mitch vowed.

The first customer soon arrived, and before long the boys had buggies and horses lined up to receive their service.  It wasn’t long, either, before Mitch hissed, “Skirt alert!”

Work was suspended as a dainty boot stepped down from the boards in front of Cass’s store.  “Oh, dear,” said a buxom young lady as she lifted her red calico hemline above her bootlaces.  The mud puddle wasn’t too wide yet, though, and she managed to step across it with only the heel of her shoe touching the slime.

“Not bad,” Joe assessed after the lady had passed, “but we could use a bigger puddle, Mitch.”

Mitch nodded and dutifully sloshed water over the rim of the next bucket he toted into the alley.  The puddle spread promisingly.

The boys worked on, ears open for skirt alerts and bodies in sudden need of rest breaks every time one was announced.  As the puddle widened, the skirts rose higher and with them the satisfaction of the work crew.

Seth was on sentry duty when a tartan taffeta skirt swished down the walkway.  When he softly called, “Skirt alert,” Hoss raised his head and stared, entranced, at the honey-gold ringlets peaking out beneath a feathered bonnet.  Like every girl before her, this one gazed with dismay at the mud in her path, but before she could lift her skirt and take a tentative step, Hoss rushed in front of her and said, “Let me help you, Miss Marty.”  He circled her slender waist with his strong hands and swung her clear of the mud puddle to safety on the other side of the alley.

“Oh, you dear thing!” Marty cried and rewarded her knight in shining armor with a kiss on the cheek.

“That ain’t the way this is ‘sposed to work,” Seth hissed in Joe’s ear.

“Hoss is sweet on Marty Lou,” Joe whispered back.  “It won’t happen again.”

“Better not,” Seth grunted and went back to work.

It was business as usual for the next fifteen minutes, and the boys got quite nice looks at a couple of raised skirts.  The next lady, however, paused at the step and batted her blue eyes pleadingly at the big man braiding ribbon into a horse’s mane.  “Hoss Cartwright, be a darlin’ and help me across, won’t you?” she asked in a syrupy southern drawl.

“Why, sure, ma’am,” Hoss said.  As before, he walked over, circled her waist and swung her to dry ground.

“The perfect gentleman, just like Marty Lou said,” the young lady sighed as she leaned forward to kiss Hoss on the cheek.

Joe strode briskly over to his brother as soon as the girl was out of sight.  “Hoss, this ain’t the way we planned it.”

Hoss was still staring, dreamy-eyed, at the latest recipient of his gallantry.  “I ain’t got no complaints,” he said.

“I reckon not!” Joe snorted.

Hoss shook himself and turned his attention back to his brother.  “Well, what was I supposed to do, Joe?  She asked me, straight out.”

“Yeah, I guess it couldn’t be helped,” Joe conceded, “but that had better be the last one, brother!”  He stomped back into the alley and started scrubbing a buggy wheel with fire-fueled vigor.

A glint hardened in Hoss’s alpine blue eyes.  Though generally easy-going, he had a temper, too, and no one could ignite it as easily as Little Joe.  I’m a grown man, he growled inwardly.  I don’t take orders from some snot-nosed kid!  And to prove it, when the next skirt alert was given, he planted himself at the edge of the alley and without waiting to be asked, lifted the lady across.

For the next half hour Hoss made himself available to every lady who passed that way, and most rewarded him with a kiss or a squeeze of his brawny shoulders or, at the very least, a grateful smile.  While he reveled in the adulation, however, the temperature of the other four young men rose beyond correlation with the thermometer that warm spring day.  “Some of them ladies been past here more than once,” Tuck whispered to Joe

as he set down a bucket of water.  “I think they’s doin’ it deliberate.”

“They ain’t the only ones,” Joe groused, giving Hoss the evil eye.

“He’s spoilin’ everything,” Mitch complained.

“Selfish, purely selfish,” Joe said, loud enough to be heard on the street.

Hoss tried to tell himself he didn’t care, but he did.  A little voice inside kept siding with Joe in those accusations of selfishness.   Hoss finally decided that he wasn’t being fair to the others, who deserved to have their hard work rewarded, too, and he determined that, unless asked, he wouldn’t save any more girls from having to lift their skirts.  Just in time, he thought, when he saw the next skirt headed their way.  It belonged to an older woman with rigidly erect posture and a prim face.

Joe saw her, too, and a cunning smile lifted one corner of his mouth.  This time he was the one to hurry forward to the lady’s aid.  “Why, Miss Jones,” he said sweetly.  “We surely don’t want you getting your skirts all muddy.”  He raised his voice and called, “Oh, Hoss, come help Miss Jones, please.”  He leaned close to the schoolteacher and confided, “He’s such a gentleman; he’s been helping all the pretty young ladies like yourself.”

Abigail Jones’ hand fluttered at her throat.  “Oh, my!  Such chivalry!”

Hoss looked askance at his brother, but he knew the little conniver had him.  He just hoped Miss Jones wouldn’t reward him with a kiss; that was one favor he didn’t need.  Little Joe stood to one side, hoping the exact opposite.

Fear of that result may have distracted Hoss, or perhaps the mud puddle had simply grown wider than he remembered.  Though he’d successfully maneuvered a dozen ladies over the barrier that morning, this time, just as he hoisted Miss Jones skyward, his boot hit a slick surface of mud and skidded out from under him.  He landed on his back in the middle of the puddle and with a gasp of shock the schoolteacher flopped down on top of him.

Aghast, the others rushed to help her up, but since they pulled in four different directions, Miss Jones found her skirts dragged through the mud, first one way and then another.  “Let me go!” she screamed.  All four let go at once, and the schoolteacher fell crosswise over Hoss’s still-prone body. The big man’s hands circled her waist and lifted her up, but Miss Jones was wriggling so frenetically that Hoss couldn’t hold her, and suddenly she plopped, bustle first, down into the mud once more.  With a screech of outrage, she struggled to her feet and stood in the alleyway, wringing out her dripping skirt.

“Ma’am, I’m so sorry,” Hoss said as he clambered to his feet.

Hands held up to ward him off, Miss Jones backed away.  “Don’t you touch me, you— you womanizer!”

Hoss splayed the fingers of both hands across his chest.  “Womanizer?  Oh, no, ma’am!  You don’t think I did that on purpose, do you?”

“I do,” Seth accused harshly.  He scooped up a handful of mud and fired it at Hoss.

Mitch nodded in grim-faced agreement as he picked up ammunition of his own.  “Yeah, you been womanizin’ every gal that came by.”

“And ‘cause we complained, you pulled this stunt to get us in trouble with our teacher,” Seth continued, launching another mud ball.

Hoss ducked that missile, but the one Tuck threw hit him smack in the mouth.  Sputtering, he turned toward his brother, but Joe just stared back.  “Joe, I wouldn’t,” Hoss protested, seeing the doubt in his brother’s eyes.

Apparently, Joe either concluded that Hoss was guilty, one way or another, or felt his best interests lay in siding with his friends, for with a yell he joined the melee of mud slinging.

Feet tromping up and down, Miss Jones shrieked at them all to stop, but no one listened.  A crowd gathered, some egging the boys on, others yelling in protest of the mayhem.  “Someone call the Sheriff!”  Miss Jones screeched.

News spread fast and far, all the way to the end of the street in both directions.  A man ran past the shooting gallery, calling “Fight!  Fight  in front of Cass’s store!”

Adam instinctively knew who was involved.  “Hold the fort, Ross,” he called to his partner as he vaulted over the counter.  “I have a feeling the family honor is at stake.”  Legs pumping, he raced up the street, but pulled up short at the sight of both his brothers and Joe’s three friends wrestling in the mud, splattering it on any onlooker foolish enough to get too close.  Glancing up the street, Adam whistled as he saw Roy Coffee, with Ben Cartwright at his heels, pounding toward the fracas.  He stepped back, crooked his elbow across the back of a horse with half-braided tail and with a wry smile prepared to watch the show.

“Tarnation!” Sheriff Coffee bellowed when he saw what the commotion was all about.

“Hoss!  Joseph!” Ben roared.  “Stop that fighting!”

No one paid either of them the slightest attention.  With grim looks both men waded into the middle of the muck and started hauling boys out by the collar.

Little Joe swung around, prepared to smash a mud-filled fist into whoever had grabbed him.  “Pa?” he squeaked, fist falling to his side.

No one felt strong enough to handle Hoss, but once he saw the irate face of his father, no one needed to.  Mud dripping from nose, cheeks and chin, Hoss docilely got up and moved to stand sheepishly next to his younger brother.

“Would someone care to explain what’s going on here?” Ben demanded.

Several someones cared to explain—all at once, all at the top of their lungs, with wild gesticulations and stabbing of accusative fingers.

“Enough!” Ben shouted.  Massaging his aching temple, he glowered at his youngest son.  “I suppose I should have expected no better from you.”  His voice sharpened as he turned to Hoss.  “But I had hoped, young man, that you, at least, could be trusted to keep your mind on the reason you’re supposed to be here.”

“Hah!” Joe snorted.  “He started it!”

“No such a thing!” Hoss hollered back.  “You’re the one that wanted to look up girls’ skirts; I was just helpin’ ‘em get past your trap, you dadblamed little”—howls of laughter from the men in the crowd and cries of consternation from the ladies cut off his explanation.

Ben’s face reddened, whether with wrath or embarrassment at the public proclamation of his sons’ lechery none could have said.

“It’s the truth,” Hoss plowed on.  “Just ask Miss Jones here.”

He seemed to have an unerring instinct for looking for help from all the wrong quarters that afternoon.  Miss Jones glared at him and then rounded on his father.  “Womanizers, the lot of them—you’ve raised a pack of womanizers, Mr. Cartwright.”

“They’re not all mine,” Ben argued, but he quickly drew the two who were to his side and marched them over to the schoolteacher.  “Both of you apologize right now for your disgraceful behavior,” he ordered.

“Ma’am, I really am sorry,” Hoss said at once.  “It was an accident, honest.  I didn’t mean to get your nice dress all dirty.”  He looked so sincere that no one, least of all Miss Jones, could have doubted him.

“I’m sorry, too,” Little Joe said in answer to the nudge from his father.

“And I apologize, as well,” Ben said.  “I will, of course, pay for having your garment properly cleaned, Miss Jones, and one of the boys will gladly escort you home so you can change and then accompany you wherever you might wish to go.”

“I don’t trust either of them near me,” Miss Jones declared with a flounce of her bedraggled bonnet.  Then from the corner of her eye, she spotted a tall man, clothed all in black, leaning against a horse just yards away.  “However, if your eldest son, whom I know to be a gentleman, would offer me that courtesy . . .”

Too late, Adam tried to make himself invisible behind the horse.  Ben jerked his head to order his eldest into service, and with a promise to himself to make his younger brothers pay later, Adam moved slowly forward.

“All right, show’s over,” the sheriff announced.  “Let’s all get back to the fair for some good, clean fun.”

Still laughing, the crowd broke up as Adam reluctantly offered the schoolteacher his arm.

Ben shook his head at the quintet of mud-coated culprits before him.  “This business is now closed,” he dictated.  Lips pursed in thought, he stared for long moments at his two younger sons, who shifted from foot to foot as they waited for doom to descend.  “I should give you both a thorough dressing down,” Ben said finally, “but due to other pressing responsibilities, it’ll have to wait ‘til later.  For now, I want all of you boys to get yourselves cleaned up, and then you can go on to the fair.”  He drew five greenbacks from his wallet.  “Here’s a dollar for each of you, every penny of which you will spend at the kissing booth.”

Surprised smiles broke out all around, with one exception.  Passing them with Miss Jones clinging cloyingly to him, Adam jerked to an abrupt halt.  “You’re rewarding them for this—this outrage?” he demanded.

Ben stepped close, so only Adam—and, of course, Miss Jones—could hear him.  “Not exactly.  Let’s just say I’m redirecting their boyish curiosity to a more appropriate part of a lady’s anatomy.”

Feeling that justice had departed from the face of the earth, Adam rolled his eyes and stalked down the street with his own personal ball and chain firmly locked onto his arm.

Left alone, the mud wrestlers made their way to the water trough and started scrubbing up with a cake of soap Mr. Cass had donated to the cause.  “So, who’d you think had the best ankles?” Joe asked as he lathered his face.

“Sally Jennings?” Tuck suggested shyly.

Seth shook his head.  “Rita Sanchez.”

“Rose Johnson,” Mitch offered.

“Marty Lou McPherson,” Hoss said with a wistful sigh.

“You didn’t even see hers,” Joe scoffed.

Hoss shrugged.  “Yeah, but I been thinkin’ about what you asked this mornin’, Joe, and I reckon you can sort of tell what’s under a skirt by what’s above it.”

As Joe rinsed his face, he mentally reviewed the ankles and faces he’d seen that morning.  “Yeah, you might be right.”  He flashed an impish grin at his friends.  “Soon as we change into clean clothes and get some food in our bellies, we’ll continue our study down at the kissing booth and see how the way a girl kisses compares to . . . other things.”

Mitch finger-combed his wet hair into place.  “Speakin’ of study, you reckon Miss Jones will lay into us once school starts up again?”

Joe laughed as he pulled clean clothes from the back of the Cartwright surrey.  “She’s more likely to kiss us for settin’ her up so pretty with Adam.”

Hoss shuddered.  “Sure glad I ain’t still in school.”

“Why, Hoss, I thought you liked kisses,” Joe teased.

Hoss snorted.  “Judgin’ by the face and ankles—which I got all too good a look at—not hers!”

“Maybe, after today, Adam’ll be able to tell us for sure,” Joe snickered.

Hoss grinned knowingly.  “I’m bettin’ you ain’t gonna ask.”

“Cinch bet!”  Joe cackled.  “I’ll be stayin’ as far from older brother as I can for about—”

“A week?” Hoss suggested.

“At least a month,” Mitch chimed in.

“Six to be safe,” Joe concluded, “but I’ll worry about that later.  There’s girls waitin’ to be kissed, fellows, and for once I aim to follow Pa’s orders to the letter!”

The End

Author’s Note:  This story is based on an 1864 Nevada newspaper article, decrying the embarrassment afforded ladies forced to lift their skirts ankle-high to avoid mud puddles created by the practice of washing horses and buggies on the corner of two main streets.  And now you know who started it!

Tags:  Adam Cartwright, Ben Cartwright, Hoss Cartwright, Joe / Little Joe Cartwright