73. Of Bows and Chicken 

“What’s he doing there?” Hoss Cartwright reined in his horse and squinted at the lonesome figure that slowly wandered about on the open range, leading his mount behind him. This part of the range was otherwise empty, the still smouldering heaps of burnt carcasses nearby bearing the ghastly reason for that being so. It made the lone wanderer out there look even stranger.

“That’s Henry…” Little Joe exchanged a clueless look with his brother as they watched the old rancher squatting down and brushing over the ground with his fingers. It certainly was an unusual sight. “Maybe he’s looking for something.”

“Let’s go see!”

The brothers nudged their horses to a canter and approached Henry Miller who just got up again, regarding something he had obviously picked up in his cupped hand. He barely looked up, even though he should have heard the horses long before.

“Morning, Henry.” Joe halted his horse and stretched his neck to see what the old rancher had in his hand. It wasn’t more than a few crumbs of dirt, but strangely enough Henry poured it in the pocket of his vest before he turned and greeted the brothers.

“Morning, Joe…” Henry mustered a somewhat tired smile. “Hoss, good to have you back from the lumber camp.”

“Eh…” Hoss grumbled. “Had I known what sorta mess’s a-brewin’ ’round here I’d rather wished I’d stayed up there.” He only spoke half in jest. It hadn’t been particularly uplifting to come back to a house that was reeking with foul moods; back to a father who was as charming as a powder-keg whose fuse had burnt down to a tenth of an inch, back to a pouting little brother who didn’t help anything with his occasional quips about how Adam had said this or that, usually the opposite of what their father wanted to hear. Adam really seemed to have lashed out this time, had apparently forgotten that his brand of know-it-all-sarcasm was sizzling oil in his father’s fire, and had added a bunch of sheep for good measure. Sheep! He could as well have announced to breed pumas on the northern pasture. And Hoss was angry with all of them. It made him sick to his stomach to see his family so at odds. Speaking of stomachs, even Hop Sing was under the weather and spat bile wherever he went.

And when he thought of it, even Henry Miller looked like gloom and doom, as if he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. Maybe the smouldering carcasses had gotten to him. It was a sight to drag any rancher’s spirits down.

“Everything alright on your part, Henry?” Hoss asked on sudden alert. “Your herd’s alright?”

“Oh, yes, yes…” Henry seemed absent-minded. “All’s fine with my cattle. Not a whiff of any disease anywhere.”

“Thank God!” Little Joe breathed a sigh of relief. “I guess you know what had happened to ours here on the range.”

“Yes… I’ve been told.”

“In fact, Hoss and I are on our way to the rest of the herd, to see if any of them… to see if there are more sick animals. Care to join us? If nothing, we’ll get a coffee at the new camp.”

“No, Joe, but thanks for asking. And your cattle are fine, I’ve just been there myself. I wanted to have a word with that… veterinarian, but couldn’t find a trace of him.” Henry seemed to shake off whatever had occupied him and mounted his horse. “Strange enough, apart from being a tad underfed, the cattle just looked as if nothing had happened. Say my best wishes to your father, boys!”

“Sure…” Joe pushed back his hat and scratched his temple as he watched the old rancher cantering off. “Eh, Hoss… is it just me or is Henry acting… weird?”

“Sure ain’t just you, Joe.” Hoss wrinkled his brow in thought. “Come on, I wanna see them longhorns.”

* * *

The remaining cattle rounded up at the farthest end of the open range were exactly in the state Henry had described – slightly underfed as they had been for weeks, skinnier than they should have been, but other than that healthy. The cowboys guarding them reported no further case of sickness, no incidents of any kind since they were driven there.

Hoss’s eyes narrowed as he slowly rode through the herd, attentively scanning the beasts. Finally he dismounted and began probing single animals, checking on eyes and nostrils, opening mouths and taking closer looks at butts.

Little Joe stayed in the saddle, watching his brother’s darkened face. “If I wouldn’t know any better I’d think you’re disappointed they’re not ill.”

“Nah, that ain’t it, Joe.” Hoss slapped an older cow on the behind. “But it ain’t normal that none of them is. There shoulda be at least some that ain’t well. Blackleg jest don’t pop up for a day and then disappear into nowhere. Can’t think of any other disease that would do that.”

“We’ve separated the sick ones real fast and drove the rest of the herd away,” Joe replied. “Pa thought that if we’re lucky, the unaffected ones hadn’t caught the disease, and it seems he was right.”

“And all the other ones dropped dead just like that, all within a day, huh?”

“Most of them were shot… Pa himself started shooting them.”

“But he sure didn’t shoot any cattle for nuthin’ but a snotty nose!” Hoss swung himself into the saddle again.

“No… they all were real bad off, cramping and all…” Joe began chewing on his lower lip.

“Where’s that blue-speckled bull?” Hoss’s eyes glided over the cattle.

“The what?”

“That big, blue-speckled bull with the giant horns. The one that came with the Henderson herd.”

“Oh, that one. Pa had to shoot it – that was particularly hard on him.”

“Yeah, I reckon it was…” Hoss gloomily stared at his horse’s mane. “That was a fine bull, Joe. A strong bull!” His head snapped around to his brother while his big finger pointed to a cow. “And now looky at that skinny ole cow over yonder, so weak it barely can stand! And that wee lil calf over there, nuthin’ but skin’n bones ’cause it’s momma cow ain’t got no milk, them weakly measly critters still hang about and that big, strong bull drops dead! Whadd’ya make of that, little brother?”

Little Joe didn’t get to an answer as a loud commotion flared up at the cowboy camp. An agitated rider drove his exhausted horse through the herd towards them.

“Hoss! Joe! You’ve gotta ride back to the ranch at once, immediately! The boss needs you there! He found out where your brother is! He said you’ve gotta ride back as fast as you could!”

Joe motioned his pinto towards the cowboy. “He knows where Adam is? Where?”

“He didn’t tell, but he was mighty mad. Honestly, he was purple in the face. I gotta ride into town to get the sheriff and the posse ready. The boss wants to start first thing tomorrow, before sunup.”

“You better change that horse first!” Hoss threw in. “You’ve ridden the poor beast half to death.”

“I’ll change it for one of them replacements.” The cowboy turned his mount to ride back to the camp. “You better hurry up. I wouldn’t let the boss wait if I were you!”

“Here we go again,” Joe mumbled, only for his brother to hear. “Round two in the battle of the giants.”

Hoss let out a humorless laugh and nudged his horse into a jog, and Little Joe followed. It wasn’t exactly the fastest gait, but given that it was a two-hour ride to the ranch it seemed wise not to push the horses.

Yet Hoss stayed on the way to the ranch only for a short while before he swerved to head for the southern part of the open range in a canter – exactly for the spot where they had found Henry Miller.

“Hoss! Hoooss!!” Joe sped up his horse. “He said we’d better hurry to get home!”

“Won’t take long, little brother.”

“Hoss, you’ve got no idea how bad things’ve become while you’re gone. Pa’s not quite like himself these days. One wrong word and he shoots through the roof like a barrel of dynamite!”

“Dadburn, Joe, think of that ole bony cow, skinny half-starved critter that barely keeps alive, and them skinny calves that barely can stand, and that big strong blue-speckled bull just died and they didn’t. It ain’t right, Joe, it jest ain’t right. Sumthin’s fishy goin’ on here!”

“What’ya mean – fishy?”

“Joe, I want you to describe each of them critters that died. Weight, age, condition, everything, each single one of them!”

“What??”

“Just do it!”

“Err… well… one bigger calf, male, yellowish brown, maybe ten months or a little more, about 500 pounds…” Joe worked down the list as good as his memory allowed, and he kept on recalling the stricken animals long after they had reached the spot where Henry Miller had squatted on the ground and Hoss dismounted. Joe knew that look in Hoss’s face, he knew what it meant when those bright blue eyes turned a shade darker. His big brother was on to something.

“Those are all I can recall right now.” Joe stayed in the saddle and watched his brother slowly walking in circles, eyes fixed on the ground. “There were more, but somehow they all looked the same after a while. What are you looking for?”

“Don’t know…” Hoss continued his wandering about. “Joe, what happens when any disease strikes a herd? It’s always the old and the weak that get the worst of it and go down first, while the sound and strong ones last the longest. Ain’t it so?”

Joe’s eyes narrowed. “Yes.”

“Now ain’t this disease a weird one then? The biggest and strongest bull’s struck down, that orange cow you’ve just described, then a wily youngster of 500 pounds – but a lot of weakly critters that would drop dead after a midge bite right now got away with it. If that ain’t odd, Joe, I don’t know what odd is.”

“Pa said anthrax is something else, and it can strike just about anything. Even a strong bull.”

“Maybe, Joe, but that doesn’t explain why so many of the weaklings got away, and why the whole thing struck like lightning and didn’t come back. I say it’s odd, and I reckon it struck ole Henry as odd, too. Woulda struck Pa as odd if he was thinking straight, but he’s jest so plum all-fired upset over Adam right now he jest ain’t thinking nuthin’ reasonable at all.”

“That’s pretty much what Adam’s said. Pa wasn’t pleased to hear it.”

“Adam knows about this?”

“Don’t think so. He said it when they had their verbal shootout at the former rangecamp at the waterhole where those sheep were. Pa’s never really calmed down after that.”

“That was just a day before them cattle started keelin’ over, right?”

“Right.”

Hoss suddenly squatted down, his fingers brushing across the ground. “What do we have here?”

Joe was quicker off his horse than he could have fallen off, hastening to squat beside his brother. “What is it?”

Hoss picked up a handfull of dirt and moved it in his cupped hand with a finger. “It’s grain, Joe. Did we feed them cattle any grains here?”

“Sure we did, you know that! Pa had a couple grain sacks brought down every once in a while to add to the feed. You yourself…” Joe broke off.

“Sure.” Hoss’s finger parted the few grain corns from the dirt. “But we poured it on the ground at the side of the camp. Not in the middle of the range.”

“Cattle might have dragged it about…” Joe didn’t sound very convinced and he could see his doubts mirrored on Hoss’s face. “You think it’s… poisoned?”

Hoss shrugged his shoulders. “Don’t know, little brother. It’s probably just bad… but we’ll find out.”

“We could bring it to Doc Martin!” Joe was suddenly very excited.

“What should he do with it? Eat it and see what happens? Nah, I know sumthin’ better than that.” Hoss rose to his feet. “Let’s go, Joe. We’re late already and Pa’ll be madder than a burned hornet.” He carefully stored the few grain corns in his pocket and mounted.

Joe followed suit. “Do we tell Pa about it?”

“Only when we have proof. For if we talk about it without proof, he’ll plum think we’re tryin’ to take Adam’s side and that’ll drive him right up through the roof again.”

The brothers turned their horses and started their ride home to the ranch.

* * *

The longer the day proceeded, the more Adam relaxed, less and less wary that at any given moment his father’s posse could come charging up the hill. It was a good six-hour-ride from the ranch, eight hours from the next settlement besides that, and most of the way meandered uphill through thick pinewoods that were dim enough during the day, but pitch-black dark at night. It was more likely for his father to choose a time frame that would allow him to ride back in daylight – particularly with any sizable posse in tow.

Still his senses were on high alert, keenly listening to any sound coming from the undergrowth where he and Pico had ventured to collect brushwood for the cabin’s roof, hauling their findings back to the promontory on a makeshift barrow pulled by one of the cobs.

“Hey, wait!” Adam laughed as he noticed Pico fighting with another big piece of loose brushwood and hurried to help the boy, using the axe to hack the wood into more manageable parts. Together they dragged them to the barrow.

“That’ll be the rest of it,” he remarked contentedly as they loaded the pieces on top of the big heap of brushwood and loppings they had already gathered. “That’ll cover the remainder of the roof.”

“Then we’ll only need rocks and stones to weigh it down so no storms can blow it off, right?” Pico threw the last few twigs on the load.

“Right!” Adam confirmed and took the bridle of the cob. “Come on, Bobby! Pico, take care nothing falls down.”

“Alright!”

Adam led the horse back to the promontory, his eyes scanning over the shrub-covered rocks lining the way. There were some good hiding spots from which one could see anything coming up.

The wide grassy meadow itself lay in peaceful tranquility – at least as long as one was willing to accept the constant bleating as some form of natural madrigal complementing the pastoral scenery. He smiled as he spotted Mariah rolling in the grass, amidst all those sheep, lying flat on her side for a moment and then starting to roll around again as if she couldn’t get enough of it. Even from the distance and with all that bleating he could hear the mare squealing with delight.

Inevitably, his gaze searched for Lilyah. She had been plucking berries with Ruby when he and Pico had started on their last trip to the woods, but she wasn’t at the bushes anymore. Nor could he see her at the fireplace or near the cabin where Esma was busy. His eyes wandered to the pasture again, looking for Chai – and as usual, the stallion wasn’t far from his mistress. Adam’s brow furrowed as he realized what she was doing.

“Pico… Wouldn’t you think you should have another look at the barrels again before we proceed with the roof?” He gave the boy a wink and Pico beamed all over his little face. After all, the empty barrels were now placed at the pools to be cleaned out, and the pools were Pico’s favorite place to be. He used any chance he could get to jump into the water and splash around in it.

“Oh, I think you’re right, I really should!” Pico already jumped off, but turned around again, hopping on the spot. “But I’ll be back for the roof!”

“Sure.” Adam smiled and watched him running off. Leaving cob and barrow where they were, he swiftly crossed the pasture to the far right where Lilyah was.

“Lil!”

Lilyah lowered the bow and turned around, smiling brightly at the sight of him. “Adam! You’re finally taking a break?”

“Sort of.” He had reached her and put a hand on her shoulder. “What are you doing?”

“I’m practising with my bow,” she explained the obvious. “After all, I’ve promised Walking Deer to do so, didn’t I?”

“Sure…” He squinted at the strange contraption she evidently used as a goal – a couple of sheep skins fastened into a bush, fronted by a threadbare sheet adorned with a drawn cross on it. Very close to the cross the end of an arrow stuck out, several tears and holes in the sheet indicated that more had been fired already, likely plunged in the dense bush behind as the sheep skins must have slowed them down considerably. Even though the purpose of the contraption wasn’t hard to guess, he still asked her, “Wouldn’t a tree trunk have done?”

“I don’t want to ruin the arrow tips.” The bow in one hand, she flung her arms around him and rose on her toes, rubbing her cheek on his chin. He had shaved in the morning and yet the stubbles already announced their eminent return. “I’ll better use my chance before the wild sprouting starts…” She laughed softly as she searched for his lips.

Adam chuckled. “I’ll shave again this evening, I promise.” He bowed his head and pulled her closer, kissing her on the mouth. “And you don’t need to save your arrows. I can always make you new ones, I know how it’s done.”

“Oh, good!” She kissed him again. “Shall I get you a coffee?”

“Ah, no, the roof is almost done and I’ll take a break after it’s finished. I just… wanted to see what you’re doing.”

Lilyah cocked her head, a little bit bewildered by the tone in his voice. “Adam, you don’t mind me shooting my bow, do you?”

“Of course not. Why should I?” He flashed an innocent smile. “That reminds me that I always wanted to make you a sheath for it for your saddle. Go ahead – show me how good you are!” He expectantly crossed his arms.

Lilyah gave him a look and took an arrow from the quiver lying on the ground. “I’m pretty good when I have time to aim.” She put the arrow on the limb, raised it, took her time to aim and let it go. The arrow shot off with a swoosh, hitting the cross in the middle to disappear through the sheet.

“Great shot!” Adam was genuinely impressed. She had made good progress indeed.

“Thanks.” She smiled. “But as Walking Deer said, the real art is to shoot well when you don’t have lots of time to aim, and to shoot several arrows in quick succession.” She bent to take two arrows from the ground, placing one on the limb while keeping the other ready to follow.

Adam bit his lip, grappling his upper arms and trying to come to terms with his own thoughts. Of course he didn’t mind her shooting her bow, he had been and still was honestly happy for her to have received this gift that she enjoyed so much. And of course it was a good thing that she had at least one weapon she was really good with, since she was absolutely hopeless with guns – not to speak of her pompous Arab sword with which she was more likely to hurt herself than putting it to any use. But he loathed the thought that she was preparing for the upcoming confrontation with a posse, likely to throw herself in the middle of it should things go out of hand.

The first arrow shot off and hit the sheet a mere inch from the cross – the second, released only moments afterwards, missed the cross by three hands. It still hit the sheet, though.

“See what I mean?” She turned around to him. “And that was still slow. Walking Deer had shot off his second arrow while the first was still in the air – and they both hit their goal!”

“Well…” Adam shifted his weight from one leg to the other and tried a smile. “Walking Deer is an old battle-proofed brave with a lifetime of practise… Lil…” He inhaled a deep breath of air. “Lilyah, there won’t be a fight. More a repetition of what we already had, lots of shouting, lots of hard feelings and bruised pride, yes – but no fight. No dangers.” He laughed. “Maybe they won’t even come and there will be no confrontation at all. Maybe they’re just happy we’re out of sight.”

“Yes, maybe…” She stood very still, the look from her eyes was almost apologetic. “And, Adam, I don’t plan on any fight. But I just feel better if I can think I’m prepared. It makes me feel more comfortable… and less worried.” She hesitated. “… and less helpless.” She pointed out his gun belt with a slight movement of her chin. “You also carry your gun…”

“Yah… and I understand.” He closed in on her and placed both hands on her shoulders, softly kissing her on the forehead. “Guess I’m just stuck to that outdated idea of being the bull in the woods.”

“The what?”

“The big gun!” He exaggerated his tone and took on an air of bossy smugness. “The tough guy who rules the place with an iron fist and goes it all alone!”

“Oh.” She wriggled closer to him. “But you’re married now.”

“Hm, yah… Guess that puts an end to any such flights of fancy. Or does it?” He closed his arms around her and hung his head low to bring his face very close to hers, so close that their noses touched. “Moo!”

Lilyah laughed and kissed him, her hand gliding to the back of his neck. He responded to the kiss and for long moments all bows, bulls and possible troubles were forgotten.

“Love you…” Adam reluctantly released her from his embrace. “I gotta go now, finish that roof. Won’t take more than an hour now.”

“You’ll have a break afterwards.” Her eyes carefully looked him over, with a wee trace of her old worries sneaking into her gaze. But he looked fine and well rested, even though he had been busy all day. Merely his hair was ruffled and his black shirt didn’t look as clean and as deeply black as it used to, rather telling of work in dusty adits and dried out undergrowth. With his sleeves rolled up almost to his shoulders, one of his bare upper arms showed a few light scratches from brushwood.

“Ugh…” Adam pulled a face. “I know that look of yours! I’d better run before you get out one of those one-dollar-bottles.”

“What?”

He laughed and took a few steps backwards. “And go on practising – I’d feel a lot better with a good shot covering my back.”

Lilyah’s heart made a little leap and the brightest smile spread across her face as she watched him turning to walk back from where he came. And with renewed determination she picked another pair of arrows from the quiver.

Adam’s laugh, however, faded as he returned to cob and barrow, his features darkening with a deep-rooted anger beginning to simmer inside of him. A woman relying on bow and arrow for comfort and safety – when she should have a doting father-in law carrying her on his hands, reading her every wish from her eyes, making her feel welcome and appreciated, telling her how she could turn to him with every problem she might have. Adam pushed the air through his nose and spat out. If his father wanted a war, he could have one.

* * *

“Hey Joe, wait!” Hoss urged his horse forward to cut off the way of Joe’s pinto, keeping his brother from riding into the yard. “This way.”

The brothers rode up to the side of the barn and dismounted, half expecting their father to come steaming across the yard in anger over what he would consider their idling.

“Pa’s got a visitor.” Hoss stretched his neck to get a look at the ranch house. “Good for us!”

“Some visitor, my foot.” Joe scowled after a look at Frank Miller’s distinctive palomino tied to the post in front of the house, next to their father’s buckskin. “He’s probably moved in by now. Follows Pa around like a puppy lately.”

“As long as he keeps him busy all the better. Come here, Joe!” Hoss covered the few steps to the hen house. “See if you can get one of them. I’ll look for some stuff to separate it from them others.”

“Ah!” Joe’s eyes lit up. “We feed it that grain and then we’ll know for sure if there’s anything fishy about it!”

“Right!” Hoss’s eyes already scanned across the various boards, frames and other objects lined up along the wall. A couple of old, sorted out doors seemed useful, unfortunately they were overgrown with all kinds of high-climbing sprouts. Muttering under his breath, Hoss began to tear the growth down. “Time that dadburn mess gets cleared up, doggonit!”

Meanwhile, Little Joe had entered the underrun of the hen house and tried to grab one of the feathered inhabitants. The hens, however, proved to be amazingly quick and swished from under his grabbing hands before he could get hold of any one of them. Grabbing hands, after all, rarely meant anything good, and Joe’s increasingly impatient “Here, heeeere, coo coo coooo” didn’t do much to convince them otherwise. Joe doubled his efforts, even throwing himself onto a hen just to have a hysterically cackling ball of whirling feathers all but exploding in his face – and fluttering away in the end. The panicked clucking, crowing and cackling in the hen house grew louder and louder, but at good last Joe grabbed a hold of a chicken wing and held on for dear life.

“Here, Joe, catch!” Hoss had freed one of the doors and hauled it over the high fence.

“Hoss, NOOO!” Joe kept the coming door with one hand from crashing down on him, but couldn’t prevent to fall on his back. The caught hen used its chance and fiercely picked at his other hand that clutched its wing.

“Oouuuw!” Joe inadvertently let go.

“Dadburnit, Lil’ Joe, stop damfoolin’ ’round ‘n put that door ‘gainst the fence in that corrner here in an angle like!” Hoss demonstrated an angle with his arms. “I’m gettin’ some more and that’ll do for a separation corner of sorts!”

Little Joe grumbled something not very nice in his nonexistent beard, placed the door against the fence and picked up his lost hat. Yet suddenly a witty glittering entered his narrowed eyes. “Heeere, coo coo coo heeeeere…” The brim of the hat firmly in both hands, Joe approached the agitated chicken. “Coo coo cooo…” He leaped like a frog towards the hens, landing flat on his belly in the midst of them, but managed to pull his hat over one that didn’t flutter up fast enough. “Gotcha!!” Beaming triumphantly, he carefully reached for the legs of the chicken.

“Hey, you got one!” Hoss entered the underrun, carrying two doors one of which he placed next to the first one against the fence while he put the other one on the ground. “Wait a moment.” He fell on his knees and crawled into the makeshift compartment, hastily brushing over the earthen ground.

“What the heck are you doing?” Joe stood there with the legs of the haplessly fluttering and clucking hen in his hand.

“Cleanin’ up, what else?” Hoss’s frantically brushing hands produced a cloud of dust welling up. “We gotta be darn sure it ain’t got nuthin’ to pick but the grains from the range.”

“Good thinking.” Joe nodded his head approvingly.

At long last they had the compartement ready, carefully placed the grain corns from the open range in the middle of it and put the hen in before quickly shutting the corner off with the third door. The brothers contentedly left the underrun and squatted outside its fence to watch the singled-out delinquent.

“It doesn’t eat…” Joe pulled a worried face.

“S’gotta calm down first,” Hoss remarked. “You wouldn’t eat either if someone had swung ya ’round on yer feet for a while. Hey Joe – you noticed that’s the only sand colored chicken in the bunch?”

“And that’s important?” Joe threw his brother a queer look.

“Sort of. See, if for some reason this contraption falls down or crumbles or sumthin’, we still know which one was that special chicken. We can tell it apart any ole time!”

“Oh, yeah?” Joe’s voice got a tad discordant. “And why all that fuss with catching it and building that corner and all?”

“So we can make sure no other chicken picks them corns!”

“Ah, yes…” Joe crinkled his brow. “But we better make it pick them now, we don’t have all day. Let’s try to calm it down…” Pursing his lips, he went on, “Coo coo coo…”

“Hop Sing makes put put put when he feeds the chicken,” Hoss pointed out.

“Yeah, you’re right. Put put put put put… Come on, Hoss, join in – it’s working already! Put put put put put put…”

Hoss pursed his lips and cooed in his sweetest falsetto, “Put put puuut put put puuut…”

“Put put put put…”

“WHAT IN TARNATION are you two DOING???”

The brothers froze in place.

“Have you NOT been TOLD to HURRY, that I’m WAITING?? You should’ve been here HOURS AGO!!”

Hoss sighed and scrambled to his feet, Joe did likewise. “Pa…”

“WHAT??” Ben Cartwright’s face was a livid mixture of boiling anger and sheer disbelief. “We are in a DIRE situation, facing a SERIOUS RISK to have our water sources POLLUTED and losing ALL the southern pastures AND our cattle and you two RATTLEHEADS are… are… are…” He ran out of steam and had to catch his breath.

“Uhm, Ben…” Frank Miller stood a few yards apart, holding his palomino by the bridle. He seemed to have some trouble keeping a straight face. “I could ride to the Simmons ranch for you, in case you’re… err, busy here… would be one way.”

Ben visibly forced himself to calm down. “No, Frank, I’ll do that myself, but thanks all the same.” His eyes glowered over his bedraggled sons. “Say my best wishes to your father, and tell him I ENVY him!”

Frank preferred not to answer and mounted his horse, sending a commiserate half-smile to the brothers. Hoss didn’t notice for he was busy studying his boots, Joe returned a rather miffed look.

Ben waited until the young Miller had cantered off. Noisily drawing in a deep breath of air, he thrust his fists to his hips. “So! WHAT in the blue blazes are you two KNUCKLEKNOBS thinking? Do you have ANY…” he didn’t get any further, as another shrill scream sounded through the yard.

“The beans! Hop Sing’s beans! Oh! Oooh! Hop Sing quit!” The Chinese cook ran across the yard to the barn and stared up its side, shocked and aghast, wringing his hands. “Ooooh! Vandals! Balbalians!! What cluelty! Those good, wondelful beans! Hop Sing planted himself. Hop Sing back to China!”

“Beans??” Hoss pulled in his head and shrunk a couple of inches. “Didn’t look anything like beans…”

“Mistel Hoss???” It was a shriek. “Mistel Hoss killed Hop Sing’s beans??”

“But… but… but…” Hoss’s helpless stammering drowned in the Chinese wailing.

“I don’t believe it! I don’t believe it!!” Ben walked in circles, rolling his eyes. “My oldest son turns against me and sets out to destroy the ranch, and my two other sons, my GROWN-UP sons, are crawling about on all fours going put-put-put while ripping out beans when the Ponderosa is in its greatest DANGER!!”

“I didn’t even touch any beans…” Little Joe mumbled, which earned him a deeply reproachful look from his brother.

“Into the house!” Ben’s forefinger shot into the direction of the ranch house, stabbing the air several times. “THIS INSTANCE!!”

The brothers hastened to do as they were told. “Pa, one word…”

Ben didn’t listen; still fuming, he marched along and passed his sons before they even reached the door. Not looking left or right, let alone waiting for them to unbuckle their gun belts, he stomped to his desk and hauled around a large map spread out on it.

“Here!” His forefinger hit a spot on the map as if he wanted to leave a dent in the desk.

Hoss and Joe bent over the map. “The promontory of Zephyr’s Mountain?” Hoss asked with doubt in his voice.

“The very same.” Ben’s voice was a thundering growl. “It’s the only spot up there where he can find any grass at all, and as far as I remember, that whole promontory was lush with grass.”

“You mean Adam?” Joe asked. “How should he’ve gotten up there? It’s impossible.”

“Of course I mean Adam! And he went up there!” Ben indicated another spot on the map. “That’s the Ox-Bow valley near the open range where he first holed up with those sheep. We know he went up here on that mountain side. That brings him here to that very spot…” His finger followed the line on the map. “From that spot there is no other way than either back down, or into the barren rocks, or up here and here and here to the promontory. He has horses with him, he has those blasted sheep, he needs water and grass – and he finds both right there!”

“He’d never get a flock of friggin’ sheep up them mountains.” Hoss shook his head.

“FIDDLESTICKS!” Ben’s fist crashed on the map. “He got those confounded sheep up THAT mountain side, or else they’d still be in the valley. There’s no steeper mountain side than that, and if he’d gotten them up there, he got them up the rest of the way, as well!!”

Hoss and Joe exchanged an uncomfortable look.

“And you remember the trouble we had when those land grabbers holed up on that promontory, fouling up the water source there with their blasted mercury?” Ben went on in a rage. “Our whole southern pasture land depends on that water source, and he has the impunity to drag those infected sheep up there! The GALL of it! My own son!!”

“Pa, Adam said those sheep were sound.” Joe tried, even though he knew his father didn’t want to hear anything about it.

“Sound!” Ben spat the word. “But left death and decay in their wake!”

“Pa, we’ve been thinkin’…” Hoss straightened out. “There’s sumthin’ that ain’t quite right with them dead cattle of ours, sumthin’s fishy about it. Some of the strongest critters in the herd dropped dead just like that, while some of the weakest ones survived. It ain’t natural like that.”

Ben heaved a deep breath. “It’s anthrax, son. One of the most feared livestock diseases there is, and there’s nothing ‘fishy’ about it.” He gave the map an angry push that nearly sent it slipping from the desk. “Besides, it’s official that it’s anthrax, Hoss. Joe obviously forgot to tell you that we had a veterinarian checking the stricken cattle, and Dr. Dawson confirmed my every suspicion.”

“Joe done told me ’bout that feller, Pa.” Hoss shoved his thumbs in his pocket. “We saw none of him on the range. Fact is, ole Henry Miller was lookin’ fer him and couldn’t find nuthin’ of him either.”

“Of course not!” Ben’s face darkened again. “He’s at the Simmons ranch. There was another outbreak there, luckily it affected only a few head.”

“The Simmons ranch? When?”

“This very morning!” Ben growled. “Frank reported it to me. He has his eyes and ears open on what’s going on in the area, very much unlike you two, I’m sorry to say.”

The brothers didn’t quite know how to respond to this.

“That reminds me I’ve got to ride to the Simmons ranch myself now, the least I can do under the circumstances. And we might need their help.” Ben pulled the map back to the middle of the desk. “Look at this – now would you PLEASE pay attention! This is important!!”

Hoss and Joe dutifully stepped closer to the desk.

“Do you remember when we had those land-grabbing miners holed up on that promontory? How it was near impossible to get them out of there? How we got sneered at by those thugs because we couldn’t get anywhere close to…”

“Hoss!!” Joe suddenly grabbed at his brother’s shoulders, his eyes fixed to the study’s window. “Look!”

“Dadburnit! Our chicken! ‘Cuse us, Pa…”

Ben sat dumbstruck as his two sons ran off and out of the house as if the devil were after them. His face turned to a darker shade of red and for a short moment it seemed like his seething fury would melt him into his chair. But then he was on his feet and paced after his sons.

“HOSS!!! JOSEPH!!!”

He stormed out into the yard and came just in time to see his sons cornering off a still very fractious Hop Sing.

“What’ve you done with our chicken?” Joe’s voice had taken on a pitch to the high.

“Tell us, Hop Sing, how did it die?” Hoss inquired with urgency.

The cook had taken about all he could take. His face forming into a fierce grimace, he held up a headless chicken with one hand and his kitchen hatchet with the other.

“Oh, no!” The brothers spurted down to the hen house.

“HOSS!!! JOSEPH!!!” Ben’s call thundered across the yard. “STOP horsing around and COME BACK HERE!!”

The brothers came sprinting back in full gallop, but passed him by to literally jump at Hop Sing who was already on his way to his kitchen. “Hop Sing, wait! Hop Sing!”

“Hop Sing, you can’t roast that chicken!” Joe grabbed the cook’s shoulder. “It picked up all the corns!”

“At least you shouldn’t use the stomach and the guts,” Hoss added. “Tell me, Hop Sing, did that chicken look sumthin’ ill like when you chopped its head off?”

The cook flew around so fast that feathers and little blood drops flew from the dead chicken and Joe had to jump backwards to get out of reach of the hatchet.

“Stomachs and guts? Stomachs and guts??” Hop Sing’s voice skipped over, his broad face had turned red. “Mistel Hoss saying Hop Sing cooking stomachs and guts like bad cook? Mistel Hoss saying Hop Sing not gutting chicken?”

“No, no, no, Hop Sing…” Hoss raised both hands as the cook threateningly approached him. “You got that all wrong… I sure ain’t sayin’ nuthin’ of the kind…”

“NOW would you PLEASE break this up!” Ben stepped up, ready to blow his top. “ALL of you! STOP it right there and now!”

But there was no stopping Hop Sing. “Hop Sing not take it anymore! Hop Sing quit! Hop Sing got hit on head by lumber thlown in hen house, Hop Sing got all the good beans lipped out and luined, and now Mistel Hoss says Hop Sing not gutting chicken? Is bad cook? Hop Sing quit! Hop Sing back to China!” he turned on his heel and stomped off to disappear into his kitchen, his angry rambling drifting off into Chinese.

“Oh dear…” Hoss mumbled.

“Oh dear!” Ben echoed sarcastically, eyes piercing one son after the other.

“Pa…” Hoss searched for words. “That chicken… it ate all the grains we fed it from the open range…”

“Yes, son.” Ben nodded his head with enforced calm. “I probably should’ve mentioned it while bringing you up, but. Chicken. Do. Eat. Grain!”

“Pa…” Joe threw in. “We found that grain on the open range. Where the cattle have been.”

“Yes, kinda suspicious like,” Hoss confirmed. “And since that whole anthrax thing just didn’t seem quite right, we thought sumthin’ might be wrong with that grain. Poisoned, perhaps…”

“Poisoned.” There already was a hint of a snarl in Ben’s voice.

“It shouldn’t have been there in …” Joe didn’t get any further.

“We BROUGHT it there!” Ben seemed to grow in standing, his eyes shooting flashes from one to another. “And I’ve just had about enough of your hairbrained tomfoolery! We’ve got more urgent things at hand!” He heaved a deep breath. “I’ll ride to the Simmons ranch, and you two clean out that MESS in the hen house and THEN you go and try to save what can be saved from Hop Sing’s beans!”

“Pa…”

But Ben had already marched off into the house, to reappear moments later with his hat and his gun belt. He mounted his buckskin and angrily maneuvered the horse towards the brothers.

“I’ll be back for dinner, and I DO hope that by then you MAY find it in you to focus on the things at hand!”

Hoss and Joe both sighed as they watched their father riding out off the yard.

* * *