Summary: The vignettes contained within were written and posted in the long-gone Bonanza World website. Individually, they are too short to post in the Brand Library as stand alone stories, so we have created this anthology to help preserve these stories.
Dear Readers — These vignettes were written over ten years ago for my own pleasure, and I’m happy to share for others to enjoy. I know some readers may wish there was more, but this is how I saw fit to write these scenes. Since I no longer write Bonanza fan fiction, I ask that you honor my request to not post comments asking for the story to continue.
A HORSE NO MAN CAN RIDE © 2003, 2017 as allowable
— A dialogue challenge, let your imagination paint the rest of the picture.
“I’m tellin’ ya, Adam, ya cain’t ride him!”
“I can ride anything on four legs!”
“Well, ya cain’t ride this one! He’s for Joe.”
“Joe’s too young.”
“Nope. Not this time.”
“Are you telling me that our little brother can ride better than me?”
“I ain’t sayin’ that, an’ you know it, but this time, Joe’s gonna be the first to try.”
“My own brother . . . turning on me . . . and after all I’ve done for you . . .”
“Hold on, there. You ain’t even seen him yet.”
“Well . . . I guess that’s fair.”
“Here he is!”
“Yep. Just right for a six-year-old.”
Probability © July 2003, 2017 as allowable
— the complications of mathematics.
“Okay,” mumbled Adam to himself, “if ‘a’ is the first set of assumptions and ‘b’ is the second set, then the probability of having it come from either ‘a’ or ‘b’ is . . .”
“What’s he doing?” Joe asked, waving the apple he’d just picked up from the bowl on the table at his brother. Adam was hunched over their father’s desk writing on one of several pieces of paper that were strewn all over the top. Books were open to pages of what looked like chicken scratches to Joe, held in place by various items from an inkwell to another apple, and two pens were saved from rolling onto the floor only by the framed portrait of Elizabeth Cartwright.
Appropriate, thought Joe, as only Adam’s mother could possibly have understood what her son was up to.
Hoss shook his head and went back to the bridle he was repairing. “I dunno. He’s been sittin’ there for nigh on to three hours, workin’ his way through that new book he got.”
“. . . so the probability of picking one ball out of a hundred numbered balls that’s either odd or between eighty and one hundred . . .”
“It’s fun?” Hoss hazarded a guess.
Joe raised his eyebrows and glanced sideways towards the desk again. “Fun for him, maybe. Seems like a lot of work to me.” He wandered over, munching on his apple.
“. . . so P, the probability, of A intersecting with B is P of A (one half) plus P of B (one fifth), minus P of A (point five) times P of B (point two), which is point seven minus point one, equals—”
“Three in five,” inserted Joe.
“Huh?” asked Adam, his head coming up with a glazed expression on his face like he’d just been woken from a dream.
“Three in five chance,” Joe repeated.
He could see the calculations running through his brother’s mind. “You’re right.” He looked down at his numbers, up at Joe, and his eyebrows drew together in confusion. “How did you do that? You hate mathematics.”
“It’s easy. Half the numbered balls are odd, and another ten are between eighty and a hundred. That’s sixty balls out of a hundred, six in ten, three in five. Why d’you make it so hard?” He tossed his apple core in the ash can and sauntered outside.
Adam’s gaze followed Joe, then swung a bewildered look back to Hoss. “Because it’s fun?”
The Honor of Cochise
(Why Adam got shot instead of Joe)
A flight of fancy by BeckyS
I’d heard that the script was originally written with Joe shot, and Adam as the rescuer. This makes a certain amount of sense, as a writer would probably be more likely to think of Adam carrying Joe than Joe carrying Adam (actually, it was Pernell’s stand-in, Betty Endicott).
Although I think the story works better with Adam (he wouldn’t have half the internal conflict Hoss and Joe had), I still just have to wonder when and how the script change came about . . .
~ * ~ * ~ * ~
MIKE [flipping through the script]: Here we go again, I’m gonna get shot and I’m gonna have to spend the whole week lyin’ on the ground groaning and moaning. No lines, nothing to say, nothing to do.
DAN: Yeah, I remember when I got shot in the back that one time and just laid around in bed all week. [thoughtful pause] You know, Pernell hasn’t gotten shot lately . . . Hey, Pernell! Wake up!
PERNELL: Huh? What?
MIKE: Asleep again. That’s the third time today. This is supposed to be a script meeting, Pernell.
PERNELL: Well I’m tired. I still haven’t caught up from that location shoot last week in the desert. Dragging Lee around, carrying buckets of rocks, hammering, hammering, hammering . . . [starts to whistle “John Henry”]
LORNE: That was a tough one, all right, and this one isn’t going to be much easier. You have to carry Mike around this time.
PERNELL [breaks off whistling to groan]: Why can’t I ever be the one to lie around? Why can’t someone carry me once in a while?
DAN [smirking]: ‘Cause Mike, here, couldn’t do it.
MIKE: Hey, I could, too! See? [flexes arm muscles]
LORNE: Now, Mike, no one’s casting aspersions—
PERNELL [interrupting LORNE, with smirk]: Now that I’d like to see.
MIKE: All right, I’ll show you then. How much you want to bet I can carry you from your chair to the door? [about ten feet]
PERNELL [thoughtful]: If you can carry me that far, I’ll trade parts with you. I could sure use the break.
[MIKE & PERNELL shake on it while LORNE looks on with concern and DAN with glee.]
DAN [searches through the script for the right page]: Pernell, you have to get down on the floor — Mike’s gonna have to pick you up all the way from the ground, just like in the script.
LORNE [shaking head, speaks to himself]: I’m sure glad David isn’t here today . . .
MIKE: Uhnnn. Ahhh-hnnnn. *&%^, what’ve you been eating lately???
PERNELL [from other side of the room now]: Watch out . . . watch out . . . UMMPH!
LORNE [looking down at PERNELL and MIKE, tangled on the floor]: You two all right?
PERNELL: I think we ought to use Betty . . .
~ * ~ * ~ * ~
And so history was made. Sort of.
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