He savored the peace and quiet, but he didn’t fool himself. It wouldn’t last long. Soon enough, men would be brawling again, and the girls would be laughing too hard, and some poor soul would be plunking out his heartbreak on the piano. In the morning, though, a man could hear himself think. A few of the more desperate types made their way in as soon as he opened the doors in the morning, but most folks didn’t trickle in until lunchtime.

Sam polished the last of the glasses and set them on the shelf behind the bar. He squinted at the mirror behind the shelf. Clean it today, or tomorrow? If he cleaned it today, he’d have to take down all the glasses he’d just put up. Tomorrow, then. He’d make sure of it.

A handful of folks had already settled in. The fellow at the corner table wore a suit and tie and looked impatient; the Silver Dollar was way too quiet for him. Probably a gambler looking for a game. Sam could have told him just to bide his time. The poker players didn’t usually come in until afternoon. But Sam knew how to keep his mouth shut. Other folks’ business was their own, and he didn’t interfere.

It was part of the bartenders’ code, and he’d learned his lesson the hard way. In his early days tending bar, back when he was in Utah, Sam had made the mistake of volunteering information one time, and one time only. He’d been happy to help the nice young man who’d sidled up to the bar, looking for a certain lady with red hair that hung past her waist. Had Sam seen her? Sure, he had, he’d said, but the fellow was going to have to wait a bit. She was upstairs in the blue room getting acquainted with her gentleman friend, like she was every afternoon around this time. They’d been “getting acquainted” for months.

His helpfulness would have been all fine and good, except that until Sam opened his mouth, the fellow had had no idea that his pretty little red-haired wife was stepping out on him. And before the beer could go flat, the wife and her lover were dead, and the nice young fellow from the bar was in a cell, and they hanged him two days later.

After that, Sam never volunteered information again. Led to far too much trouble. Mind your own business. That’s what he’d tell anyone who asked him.

The saloon was still peaceful, and Sam was still reflecting on the error of his youthful ways, when the Cartwright brothers, Little Joe and Hoss, pushed through the swinging doors. They were at each other again-that much was clear-but that wasn’t anything new. Little Joe would argue with a fencepost, especially if he thought he’d get a dollar or a girl out of it.

“I’m telling you, Hoss, it’s a sure thing!”

Sam never showed his opinions of customers’ “sure things,” but inwardly, he rolled his eyes. His peaceful morning had clearly come to an end. Why on earth didn’t Hoss just up and haul Little Joe back to the Ponderosa right then and there? Sure thing, my foot, thought Sam. He’d heard Little Joe introduce so many schemes as “sure things” that if he sold tickets to the spectacle that would surely follow, he could become a wealthy man.

“I don’t know, Little Joe. . . .” Hoss was hedging, and Sam couldn’t blame him.

“Aw, come on. Just think about it-that’s all I’m asking! Two beers, Sam.” Little Joe rarely let his money-making ideas interfere with his enthusiasm for other pleasures-namely, beer, poker, and girls. “All you’ve got to do is pull the wagon a hundred feet. A hundred feet! It’s nothing! You do something like it every day. It’s-it’s-it’s only from here to the corner!”

“Which corner?” Hoss narrowed his eyes as Sam set the beers in front of them. Little Joe tossed a couple of coins on the bar.

“Doesn’t matter,” said Joe smoothly. “The point is, everybody knows you’re as strong as an ox. Heck, you could probably haul that wagon the whole hundred feet with just one hand!”

Sam collected the coins and pocketed them. Hoss was going to give in. He always did. It was only a matter of time and a couple more beers. Hoss was a pushover for any lost cause or impossible scheme, especially when Little Joe was behind it.

Hoss had been on the heels of that kid ever since Sam came to Virginia City, back when Little Joe was only about six years old and Hoss was twelve. Sam remembered hearing about the Cartwrights as soon as he came to town, how Ben Cartwright had lost his pretty young wife the year before and had just sent his eldest son off to college. Ben was a good man, but it was pretty obvious to everyone that he was struggling to keep his head above water, and so Sam took it on himself to keep an eye out when he saw Hoss and Little Joe come into town. Back then, they were too young to come into the saloon, so he didn’t consider it breaking the bartenders’ code when he mentioned to Roy Coffee that he might just want to tell Ben not to let the boys run around with Matt and Albert Newsome. The Newsome boys were up to no good, that was for sure, and Sam would have hated to see the Cartwright boys heading down that same troubled path.

Eventually and conveniently, the Newsome boys went off to jail, and Adam Cartwright came home from college. Adam’s return was big news back then, and it overshadowed the news of the Newsome boys’ unfortunate prospects-Virginia City had its share of convicts, but Adam was the town’s first college graduate.

Sam had never been all that sure about Adam Cartwright. Not that Ben Cartwright’s oldest son wasn’t a nice enough fellow, but Sam couldn’t imagine what would tempt an honest man to spend that much of his life in school. It almost wasn’t decent. What could Adam possibly have learned in his fancy eastern college that was going to help him out here in the west, on the Ponderosa?

“Who else is signing up for this contest, anyhow?” Hoss was asking. Sam moved down to the end of the bar to straighten the bottles. So Little Joe had won. What else was new? Did the sun go down in the west? Now, with his father or Adam-well, that would have been a different story altogether. Sam would have paid for a ticket to that conversation.

Right on cue, Joe was pulling Hoss close and saying in a low, conspiratorial voice, “Now that we’re agreed, let’s keep this between you and me, Big Brother. No need to tell Adam about it, or Pa neither.”

“You look here.” Hoss had extracted himself from the brotherly grip and was glaring at Little Joe with an expression that would have made Sam take a few steps back if he’d been in Joe’s boots. “If this here contest is on the up and up like you said, why can’t I go and tell Pa and Adam nothin’ about it?”

“What!” Little Joe recoiled as if mightily shocked and offended. “And ruin the surprise when we come home with two thousand dollars? I expected more from you, Hoss.”

Joe was good. Real good. Sam noted that Hoss was even beginning to look a little guilty. But then he gathered himself together and retorted, “Dadburnit, Little Joe. I just know I oughta say no to you.”

Yes, you should, thought Sam as he counted the whiskey bottles beneath the counter. He was going to need to bring out some more before the night. Probably a dozen would do.

“Repeat after me, Hoss. Two thousand dollars.” Joe gazed dreamily at the mirror behind Sam’s head, as if it were glazed in gold.

“Two thousand dollars,” Hoss repeated, also looking past Sam into the gilded future. He swallowed and looked back at Joe with renewed determination. “All right, Little Joe. I’ll do it. But what do you think Adam’s gonna say when he finds out that we’re using his-”

“He won’t say anything,” Joe proclaimed happily, wrapping his arm around Hoss’s shoulders with a satisfied grin. “He’ll be too impressed with the way we pulled this off. Just think what he’ll say when we hand him his share of the profits!”

“I reckon you got something there,” Hoss said. He looked over at the barkeep. “Sam, another beer. I betcha I’m gonna need it before Shortshanks here gets through with me.”

Sam wasn’t a betting man, but he was downright comfortable with those kinds of odds. He reached for Hoss’s glass, but Joe had Hoss by the arm and was pulling him towards the door.

“We don’t have time for another beer,” Joe was saying. “I’ve already arranged it with Jeb Nelson to borrow his millstone.”

Hoss gulped. “Millstone?”

“Just leave it to me.”

Those were the last words Sam heard before his two least profitable customers disappeared beyond the swinging doors. How such a simple sentence could sound so reassuring, and yet so much like a threat, was beyond him. He chuckled, shaking his head, as he retrieved the other empty glass. The Cartwrights weren’t much for morning drinking. But they did keep things interesting.

He’d forgotten about the well-dressed stranger sitting alone at the table. It was easy to forget about anyone else when the Cartwrights were in the room. Little Joe, especially, always drew more than his fair share of attention. But at the Cartwright brothers’ departure, the stranger stood. He regarded the still-swinging doors with a peculiar smile as he made his way over to the bar.

“Nice place you’ve got here,” the man announced pleasantly. “Nice town, too. Make it a whiskey.”

Sam was happy to oblige. He bought his whiskey in barrels from a ramshackle still near Placerville. After he poured it into the fancy bottles he kept behind the bar, the dandified swill brought in some of his finest profits. Sam slid the glass back to the well-dressed stranger.

“Those boys that were in here a minute ago,” the stranger said. “They seemed all-fired worked up when they were leaving. What was it the little one said? Something about two thousand dollars?”

Sam narrowed his eyes at the stranger. Well dressed, nicely groomed. A nice enough face, but easily forgettable. There was no doubt about it. This man was some kind of a gambler, but Sam didn’t know what game he was playing.

“I don’t know anything about it,” Sam stated impassively. He turned his back to the man. Back to business. More than enough said.

In the mirror, Sam watched. The stranger stood for a minute without drinking a sip of his whiskey. Then, as if he were walking down Main Street on a Sunday afternoon, the man strolled out the swinging doors. He was whistling an unfamiliar tune, and he waved his hand diffidently at the barkeep as he traded the shadows of the saloon for the streaming sunlight outside.

Mind your own business, Sam reminded himself, clenching his fists anyways. Trouble. This could only mean trouble. He hadn’t thought of the Newsome boys in years, but for the second time that morning, he was reminded of Matt and Albert Newsome trying to talk Hoss and Little Joe into some prank that was a whole lot more than schoolboy fun. He was tempted to go the sheriff, but what would he say? A man came into the saloon and ordered a whiskey but didn’t drink it? Roy would think he was plumb out of his mind. He’d probably say that Sam and Virginia City would both be a whole lot better off with more of that kind coming through these parts.

“Mind your own business,” he repeated to himself, forgetting for the moment what his business was.

* * * * * * * * * *

“Well, I guess I was wrong,” said Adam Cartwright. “I thought for sure they’d be in here.” He leaned on the bar. “Two beers, Sam.”

Ben Cartwright looked exasperated. “We don’t have time for a beer,” he told his oldest son. “We need to find your brothers and get back to the ranch.”

“Pa, I’m sure they’ll come strolling in any minute,” said Adam languidly. He tossed a couple coins on the bar, just as Little Joe had done an hour earlier. “Thanks, Sam.” He picked up the beers and carried them to a table. Little Joe and Hoss tended to drink at the bar since that was where the action could usually be found, but Ben and Adam preferred to sit and relax with their drinks.

With a predictable sigh, Ben stared darkly at his beer. “They’re up to something,” he said and shook his head.

“Of course, they are,” agreed Adam. “And of course, we’ll have to bail them out of it in the end. But they don’t usually work up to that level of excitement until the end of the week, and it’s only Tuesday, so they’re probably still only about knee-deep in whatever they’re messing with. Wait until Saturday. That’s when they’ll be in over their heads.” Adam took a long drink of his beer and set the glass down with a satisfied plunk.

Glaring at his oldest,” Ben replied, “We don’t have time for this nonsense. I need those two to get up to Black Wolf Canyon and see what’s going on with those strays.”

Adam shrugged. Sam never cared for that shrug. It was just a little too superior for his tastes. Ben Cartwright was no fool, and Sam wasn’t at all convinced that Adam, even with all his book learning and his shrugs, was any match for his old man when it came to brains and common sense.

On the other hand, Sam had to admit that Ben had a tendency to worry over his boys more than the average father. Maybe it was because he’d already lost all their mothers, and he was afraid the boys might be next. Not unreasonable, when you thought about it. Besides, worrying about Little Joe would be a full-time job for pretty much anybody. Sam still remembered last year, when the kid fell in love with Julia Bulette. Little Joe was barely seventeen when he took up with the beautiful saloon owner who was twice his age and had a reputation for selling more than just whiskey. Sam had thought old Ben would pull his hair out over that one, but somehow, it had seemed as if it was all going to work out. And then she got killed by the fellow she’d dumped, Little Joe moved back out to the ranch, and the Cartwrights seemed to go on as if nothing had ever happened.

A handful of miners burst through the swinging doors. They were tired from working the night shift, and they were blowing off steam in some of the most colorful ways. Sam never ceased marveling at the things men said out here that most definitely hadn’t been learned at their mother’s knee. Not that he ever commented, of course. He just served the drinks and didn’t cringe at boisterous stories of fights and girls that left nothing at all to the imagination, except maybe the question of how much was true.

With all the commotion, Sam lost track of the Cartwrights’ conversation. After the miners had been served and were settling down, Sam moved down the bar to get in hearing range again.

Ben’s voice was getting louder, and Sam couldn’t tell if he was trying to be heard over the miners or if his temper was rising. One thing Sam had realized early on about Ben Cartwright: you didn’t want to be the one who made him angry. There was no question where Little Joe got his temper. That night last spring when Hoss beat up John C. Regan after Regan had beaten Little Joe to within an inch of his life-the look on Ben’s face would have made anybody with a lick of sense run for cover. If there was one thing people in Virginia City knew, it was that you never, ever hurt one of Ben Cartwright’s boys. If you did, Ben and the other boys would see that you paid for it in spades. Not that any of them were greenhorns; the Cartwright brothers could all handle themselves just fine, thank you very much. Whether it was a barroom brawl or a gunfight, you’d much rather have them on your side than against you. But that was different from a washed-up prizefighter pounding the daylights out of a skinny seventeen-year-old kid. Sam still remembered hearing about how nobody’d been sure at first if Little Joe had been blinded by Regan’s fists. He hadn’t, of course, but it was a long time before he’d recovered well enough to come into town. The first time Little Joe came into the saloon after that night, Sam poured him a whiskey and shook his head when the kid tried to pay him. Little Joe grinned and held it up in a toast before he tossed it back. He understood.

Sam shook his head and wiped his hands on his apron. Time to get back to business. His own business. The Cartwrights were nothing if not distracting.

“And I’m not planning to wait around until your brothers get themselves into trouble that you and I can’t get them out of! It’s not like they have anyone else watching their backs!”

It was no use. Sam wasn’t going to be able to restock the whiskey or polish the glasses or get anything else productive done while they were still in his saloon. The Cartwrights were too entertaining to watch. He’d been to music hall shows that didn’t hold his attention as well as Ben and Adam getting Hoss and Joe out of one of their scrapes. Not that he’d put his two cents in. He would definitely be safer breaking up a brawl between drunken miners rather than getting involved in another of the Cartwrights’ squalls.

Adam was losing his patience. Sam could have predicted that. It was part of the routine: when Adam couldn’t get his father to laugh off his brothers’ antics, he always got edgy, because everybody knew who was going to have to pick up the pieces. Price of being the oldest. Adam snapped, “Pa, I’m not about to spend the my entire life tracking after my brothers. They’re grown men. They can take care of themselves, for God’s sake!”

“Watch your language.” Ben glared, and Adam backed off like he always did.

Grown men indeed. Sam fought off the urge to roll his eyes. Ben’s boys. What was it about the Cartwright boys-Hoss and Little Joe especially-that made Sam think of them as boys at an age where most men had started families and had little ones of their own? And yet, Sam had to chase off his own misgivings about the scene he had witnessed earlier that morning. The gambler at the bar? Trouble, with a capital T, and it was heading straight for the Cartwright boys.

Still, Adam was right. Hoss and Little Joe weren’t boys. They were grown men. They could handle themselves. Sam turned away from the Cartwrights, determined to get his own job done.

And then, it happened. A crash so loud it rattled Sam’s silver fillings and shook the building, as if the devil himself had come to claim their souls. The glasses on the shelves clinked against each other, and one bottle that was too near the edge tumbled to the floor. At first, as he grabbed for the other bottles, Sam thought it might be an earthquake, or maybe an explosion from one of the mines. Whatever it was, everybody froze. The miners’ cussing and tall tales came to an abrupt halt. Ben and Adam were silenced. Just like that, the Silver Dollar was absolutely and blessedly quiet, like a peaceful Sunday morning. For a second, a man could almost breathe again.

In the next instant, an unearthly caterwauling arose outside. Horses neighing, men shouting, women screaming. It sounded like absolute and utter chaos out there, like the judgment day had finally arrived and Virginia City had been found wanting. Sam reached under the bar to bring up more glasses. Whatever it was, when it was over, people would need drinks while they swapped stories about it. Inside the saloon, the miners were pulling each other up from their chairs, staggering drunkenly towards whatever entertainment lay outside those swinging doors. Whatever could have caused a crash like that just had to be good.

“What the-? They didn’t-they couldn’t-you don’t think-?” Ben Cartwright was sputtering as Sam straightened and saw the look of dreadful certainty in his eyes. Sam knew in that moment that, whatever had happened, it had something to do with Hoss and Little Joe, and quite probably Jeb Nelson’s millstone.

“You don’t think that Joe and Hoss-?” Adam was starting to ask, but Ben was halfway out the door.

“I don’t know,” Ben snapped. And the last words Sam heard as they shoved through the swinging doors were, “Are you still so glad it’s only Tuesday?”

* * * * * * * * *

“I’m telling you Sam, it was a mighty hefty water wheel.” Roy Coffee sat at the bar, shaking his head as if haunted by the memory. “Made a gully out of C Street. It’s a downright miracle, sure enough, that it missed the granary and only took out the side off the livery. How could somethin’ that big go flying like that? Old Bill Sanders said it went soaring through the air and then came down to rest on a bale of hay like God Almighty had a hand in it. . . .”

“And you think the Cartwright boys had something to do with it?” Despite his resolution to stay out of it, Sam couldn’t help asking. More than twenty-four hours since yesterday’s uproar, and still the town folk didn’t seem to be exactly sure what had happened.

“That’s what I’m tryin’ to find out,” Roy grumbled. “Can’t find them, but folks say they was seen ridin’ out of there quicker than a flea hoppin’ off a wet dog. Ben Cartwright was fit to be tied when he saw all that damage. Jeb Nelson’s talkin’ about skinnin’ them alive, and Ben ain’t far behind him. Ain’t got no idea what they were thinking. Word is they had Hoss all tied up to the millstone, tryin’ to turn it, or some such nonsense. Then Little Joe opened the sluice gate and let out so much water, that dang water wheel snapped off, like a broken wagon wheel. Went flyin’ across tarnation. . . .”

Sam knew all about that. He’d heard every retelling of the story under the sun, and he had no doubt that there would be other stories to follow. That’s how it was with the Cartwright boys. Before sundown, the basic story would be spun into something out of a dime novel. Lucky for Sam, most of the tales would be spun right here, over a few warm beers. The more he poured, the wilder the accounts of their shenanigans would grow. By midnight, they’d probably have Hoss throwing the water wheel one-handed all the way from the river, with Little Joe riding on top of it, waving his six-shooter in the air and bellowing like a banshee.

Roy narrowed his eyes. “Lookee here, Sam. This here’s my town, but I know that you hear things,” he said to the barkeep. “You hear anything about this that I should be knowing?”

Mind your own business, Sam told himself yet again. Roy should know better than to ask, anyway. It was like asking Father Callahan what he’d heard in the confessional.

But these were the Cartwrights, and there seemed to be different rules for them. Ever since Sam’s timely warning about the Newsome boys so many years ago, Roy had acted like they were co-conspirators to keep Ben’s boys from doing anything they’d regret later. Well, no more. Like Adam had said, Hoss and Joe were grown men, and they had the same right to their own business as the rest of the fellows who spent their money in this saloon.

Before Sam had to figure out an answer, he was distracted from Roy by someone strolling into the saloon. With a sinking heart, Sam recognized the man. It was the same fellow who’d wanted to know about Hoss and Little Joe yesterday.

Damn. He’d been right all along. While folks had told tall tales about the water wheel last night, Sam had spent some time lecturing himself about how he’d been overreacting. So the man wanted to know about the Cartwright boys? Lots of people did. So he hadn’t downed his whiskey? Hardly a hanging offense in Nevada territory. But now, eying the man afresh, Sam knew that his instincts were serving him well, and for the briefest of seconds, he wanted to turn his back on the bartenders’ code and tell Roy everything.

Unlike most men, who leaned on the bar and hollered his name, this fellow just stood, fencepost straight and quiet, his eyes boring into the back of Roy’s head, before he shifted his gaze to Sam and nodded. Without a word, Sam poured him a whiskey, and the fellow dropped a coin on the bar.

Roy’s brow furrowed. He peered at Sam, who met the sheriff’s gaze, saying nothing. Roy made a big show of shifting his position, hand resting casually on his holster, as he said, “Howdy, stranger. What brings you to Virginia City?”

The gambler hadn’t touched his whiskey. He favored Roy with a peculiar, book-learning look, sort of like Adam Cartwright might have done. Sam wondered what kind of learning this fellow’d been up to.

“Just passing through,” said the stranger. Sam watched as he looked Roy over. This was a fellow who’d sized up a lawman or two in his time. Sam moved down the bar a bit and rested his hand on the hidden shelf were his own Colt .45 was tucked out of sight.

“See that you keep on passing, mister,” said Roy. “We don’t need no card sharps here.”

“Card sharp?” The man raised his eyebrows, and his hands followed in mock surrender. “I don’t play cards, Sheriff.”

“Whatever you play, we don’t need it here,” said the sheriff. Roy had seen what Sam already knew, that this fellow was trouble waiting to happen.

“Not a very friendly town, is it?” The stranger fingered his glass, but he still didn’t drink.

“Nope,” said Roy. “It ain’t. So I reckon you oughta finish your drink and head on out.”

Sam pretended to polish a glass while he watched the stranger. Roy wasn’t usually this blunt with people who hadn’t done anything. There was something going on, all right.

The stranger picked up the glass and held it up in a mock toast. “To your very good health, Sheriff,” he said. Roy and Sam waited. After a moment, he set the glass down. “The thing is, I’m not sure I want a drink right now. I think I’ll let it set out a while-that is, if it’s all right with you, Barkeep.”

Sam nodded, grunting. He hated the uncertainty of this kind of situation. He liked life to be nice and predictable, and the threat of disorder made him feel worse than unsettled.

Just then, a flurry of gunfire out on the street grabbed everybody’s attention. Swearing under his breath, Roy Coffee ran out of the saloon. The man watched him go, and a smile spread over his face.

“Looks like the law will have something better to do than worry over a stranger passing through,” he said to Sam. He tossed back his whiskey. “You haven’t seen those boys around, have you?” he asked casually.

“Boys?” Sam shrugged. “I see a lot of boys around these parts, mister. Have another whiskey?”

“Certainly,” said the man. As Sam poured, he said, “The boys the sheriff was asking you about. I’m assuming they were the same ones who were in here the other day, talking about some easy money they had coming to them.”

“I keep out of other folks’ business,” said Sam. He pulled out a fresh flour-sack towel and wiped down the bar beside the stranger’s drink. “Tend to my own.”

“An admirable philosophy,” said the stranger, approvingly. “The world would be a far better place if more folks held to the same.” He took his glass and headed over to a table, leaving Sam with the uneasy feeling that he’d passed some sort of test.

The shouting and laughing and off-key singing grew louder as day wore into evening. When Sam was satisfied that nobody seemed to need him for anything, he picked up a bottle and headed for the back room. He knocked twice and then opened the door.

“Thought you boys might need a refill,” he said simply.

Hoss and Little Joe were seated at the table, bleary-eyed, half-drunk, and absolutely miserable. The bottle Sam had brought in earlier was empty, and he swapped it for the new one. “You want something to eat?”

The two of them exchanged looks. “I could do with a steak,” said Hoss, glumly.

“Might as well eat something,” said Little Joe, almost cheered at the prospect of fine dining, even if it wasn’t under the best of circumstances. It never took all that much to make Joe happy, but Hoss kept glaring at him, so he settled himself down. With a nonchalance that was almost convincing, he said, “Hey, Sam. Uh-Pa hasn’t been in, has he?”

Sam considered the pair before him. You couldn’t help but feel sorry for them. After all, they hadn’t set out to hurt anybody, and miraculously, they hadn’t harmed a soul. Everything they’d done could be fixed. Apart from costing somebody-probably themselves-a whole lot of money, they hadn’t done any real harm.

So, Sam bent the bartenders’ code, just a little, and let a bit of information slip by. “Nope,” he said. “Only one looking for you fellas so far has been the sheriff.”

“But you didn’t tell him we were here.” It wasn’t quite a question-Little Joe Cartwright knew who his friends were-but Sam heard the prayer behind the words.

“Nope,” said Sam again. “Didn’t say a word. I’ll get those steaks.” He turned to go.

“Hey, Sam.”

Sam turned back. The two sinners, woeful and hungry, were watching him. They even had the grace to look guilty.

“Thanks,” said Little Joe gratefully, and Sam closed the door behind him. He shook his head. Mind your own business, he thought sarcastically. He’d do well to take his own advice.

* * * * * * * * * *

“Make it two beers, Sam.” Then, Adam Cartwright turned to face his father, effectively dismissing the barkeep.

Sam didn’t bother with an answer. He knew the two men wouldn’t really hear him anyway. It was nothing personal. Just business. His business was handing over two beers and pocketing the coins they gave him. Theirs was to find Little Joe and Hoss as soon as humanly possible. Simple as that. If only they knew how close his business was to theirs, the whole thing could have been cleared up pretty fast. But Sam was a man of his word-he’d given his and that was that. His word and the bartenders’ code meant that Hoss and Little Joe were safe from the wrath of Ben Cartwright, at least for now. So he handed over the beers without meeting Ben’s eyes. Not that the old man would have noticed. Sam couldn’t remember Ben looking quite so distressed.

“Think of it this way,” Adam was saying, waving his glass for dramatic effect. “From what we know now, they had no intention of destroying Virginia City’s one and only granary. Now that’s got to be a good thing, isn’t it?”

Ben Cartwright looked weary. Very, very weary. He took a sip of his beer before setting it down on the bar and running his hand over his eyes.

“A good thing,” he mumbled. “Adam, how can you tell me that it’s a good thing that my two younger sons have been collectively responsible for more destruction in this city than the dynamite fiasco of ’51?”

“Pa, I’m sure they didn’t mean for it to happen,” Adam offered, but his father cut him off.

“They didn’t mean for it to happen.” Ben Cartwright had a way of repeating perfectly reasonable statements that made them sound downright ludicrous. “What on earth does that have to do with this? Let me ask you this: why haven’t we heard from your brothers since this happened? Answer me that, Adam. Do you think it’s an accident that no one-not Roy, not Jeb Nelson, not the two of us-have seen hide nor hair of your brothers since that water wheel went sailing one hundred feet into the air?”

Adam grinned. “That really would have been something to see, wouldn’t it? Those two outdid themselves this time. . . .”

“Adam!”

“All right, all right, Pa. But you’re not looking at the bright side. Nobody got hurt, first of all. And in terms of sheer monetary terms, since the water wheel came down on Nelson’s hay stack and it missed the granary, the wheel itself wasn’t actually damaged.”

“Not too bad, anyway,” Sam corrected, and the two Cartwrights turned to stare. “At least, that’s what Jeb said,” he finished sheepishly.

“I suppose the whole territory knows about this by now!” Ben turned to glower at the bartender.

“Well-Jeb Nelson did come in last night,” he said, but the Cartwrights had already turned back to their argument.

The fact was that poor Jeb had been in the Silver Dollar until the doors closed, and after that, one of the girls took him upstairs. Poor fellow had ordered a whole bottle of whiskey and shook off everybody who wanted to hear the story first-hand. Sam felt so sorry for the man that he handed over the good stuff, not the cheap swill from the back barrel, and he shooed away all the drunks who wanted to hear Jeb’s story so that they could embellish it later.

As the whiskey took hold, Jeb let loose with the whole sad tale. It seemed that Little Joe had talked him into letting them use the millstone for practice. Jeb had watched, highly amused, when Joe harnessed Hoss to the shaft with what looked for all the world like a fancy pair of suspenders lashed into a horse harness, and Hoss slowly turned the millstone, one miserable step at a time, round and round. Jeb had even joked that, if the river ever went dry, Hoss could have himself a job. Little Joe laughed amiably, but Hoss looked like he was going to wring his brother’s neck as soon as he was out of that contraption.

The whole thing might have turned out as harmless as Little Joe had promised, except that Ben Cartwright’s youngest got the bright idea to turn the lever that controlled the water. He wanted to make Hoss’s training more of a challenge, he said. And even that wouldn’t have been so bad except for one little thing: Little Joe Cartwright turned the lever the wrong way.

“No, no!” poor Jeb had hollered, but it was too late. Water exploded out of the sluice gate in a violent cascade, making the wheel turn faster than God or man ever intended it to. Jeb lunged for the lever, but it was too late. The sheer volume and power of the water won out over a mere wooden water wheel, and the fifty-foot wheel was launched a hundred feet in the air. It was something to behold, that was for sure. . . .

Sam had listened to the mill owner’s story sympathetically. He even told Jeb to put his money back in his pocket. The mill would likely be shut down for a couple weeks, and Jeb needed his money almost as much as he needed that whiskey.

Still, as he listened and said “uh-huh” at the appropriate times, he couldn’t help wondering what Jeb had been thinking. What kind of fool would go along with Little Joe and Hoss in one of their harebrained schemes?

Then, Sam remembered his two “guests” in the back room. What kind of fool, indeed?

While Sam was thinking on all this, Adam was giving him one of those unnerving looks that Sam didn’t much care for, like he could see right into a man’s head if he looked long enough. “What did Jeb tell you, Sam?” he asked gently.

“Just what everybody’s else is saying,” Sam said quickly. It was true; it just wasn’t the whole truth, and it sure as shooting wasn’t the part Ben and Adam cared about. Still, it might serve to distract them, if only for a few minutes. He turned away and began polishing his glasses. That Adam Cartwright with all his book learning and his knowing ways . . . that was all Sam needed, having Adam Cartwright’s attention focused on him right then.

“Did he tell you where Hoss and Little Joe went?” demanded Ben.

“No, sir, he didn’t,” Sam replied honestly enough. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw someone approach the bar. Gratefully, he turned his attention to the newcomer, only to have his gratitude fade fast when he saw that it was the stranger. The last thing he wanted was for this fellow to start talking with the Cartwrights. Blast it all. In a town full of saloons, why did everyone have to choose this one?

“Another whiskey, friend?” asked Sam, reaching for the bottle. His own words unsettled him. Sam was no liar. And this man was no friend.

“Sure.” The stranger didn’t bat an eye at the designation, and Sam knew in that second that he knew exactly what the barkeep was up to. “Thanks, friend,” the stranger said, with only the slightest emphasis on the last word as he tossed his coin onto the bar.

“Hey, Sam!” Millie, the cook, stood in the doorway across the room. She held two plates, each bearing a steak.

The stranger favored Sam with the briefest of glances. “Ah, my dinner,” he said. At Adam Cartwright’s raised eyebrow, he said, “It’s been so long since I’ve had good beef that I went ahead and ordered two steaks. Probably more than I can eat, but I’m willing to try.” He sauntered over to Millie and took the plates from her. “Thank you, ma’am,” he said. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.”

And as casually as the sun comes up in the morning, the stranger slipped into the back room where the Cartwright brothers were waiting for their steaks, and all Sam could do was watch and hope that the boys were still hungry. He sure as hell wasn’t.

* * * * * * * * *

It felt like hours before Ben and Adam gave up on the idea that Hoss and Little Joe might just come strolling through the swinging doors. After listening to Ben carry on like that, Sam was half-ready to tell them where to find the guilty pair, just to get them out of his bar. Between the Cartwrights and the stranger, he could feel a whopper of a headache coming on. Besides, Ben in a temper was downright bad for business.

As soon as Ben and Adam finally finished their beers and left, Sam started for the back room. He might have even made it back there in time, but a miner who’d been playing poker with a couple of the cowhands decided that one of the hands had been cheating. Next thing Sam knew, there was a dead miner and a dumbstruck cowboy standing stock-still with his gun in hand. The hangman was going to be awfully busy in Virginia City. . . .

So, Sam had to send for the sheriff and the undertaker and keep everybody away from the stiffening body until they got there, and then he had to tell Roy what he’d seen, which wasn’t much, but it was the way things were done around those parts. By the time the dead miner and the doomed cowhand had been hauled out and the blood had been cleaned up and the table nailed back together again, Sam had honestly forgotten all about Hoss and Little Joe and the stranger in the back room.

It was almost closing time when Sam finally did remember. He dropped his dust cloth, charged to the back, and opened the door, only to find-

Nobody.

Lord of all creation, he was getting tired of this. Mind your own business, he told himself. They’re grown men. They can take care of themselves. Damn Cartwrights. . . .

But looking at the empty glasses and greasy plates, he had a sudden sense of what Ben Cartwright must be feeling, that sour, queasy feeling in his stomach that said that something was going all wrong.

Forget about it, he told himself sharply. What was it to him, anyway? He was just a bartender. His job was to keep the party going, day and night, not to worry about what might happen when the party was over.

“Hey, Sam, one more round!” called out one of the miners at the other end of the bar. That bunch had gotten over the death of their buddy awfully fast. The dead man had been drinking with them all week, but Sam would have bet all the coins in his apron pocket that the others hadn’t known his name. It was the way miners were: worked hard, played hard, drank hard, and didn’t ask questions. Not a bad way of life, in Sam’s opinion.

The girl in the fellow’s lap was a young lady who usually favored Joe when he was around. Sam found himself wondering if she’d seen Little Joe leave. Thinking on it, the answer to his question was fairly obvious. If she’d hadn’t seen Little Joe leave, she wouldn’t hardly be sitting on a second-rate lap, now, would she? She’d be waiting for her first choice.. . .

All right, then. Fine. Uncle. He flung the dishcloth on the bar in self-disgust. It was true: he shouldn’t have cared, but he did. There. He’d said it, if only to himself. Bartenders’ code be hanged-what good was a code if you couldn’t tweak it every now and then? Even though this whole fiasco was very obviously not his business, Sam was suddenly determined to see everything resolved and send the Cartwrights back to the Ponderosa. He had to, if only so that he could get some work done.

Then, he heard Little Joe’s voice outside. So, Hoss and Joe were out on the street again. That meant that everything was finally out in the open. Sam would have been relieved, except that Little Joe sounded mighty angry. Hoss’s deep voice was somehow soothing and rumbling at the same time, like he was trying to keep a fight from starting. The third voice was far too easy, and it took Sam a second to realize that that was the stranger.

Just when he was about to go out and see what was happening, the three men practically tumbled through the swinging doors together. Sam cursed at himself for playing a fool. While he’d been trying to decide if there was trouble, the fight had already started, no matter if a single punch had been thrown or not.

“I said we’re not gonna do it!” Joe’s voice tended to get louder and harsher when his temper slipped its lead, and his eyes were already narrow slits. He was angry and didn’t care if everyone knew it. Sam watched, still as a stone. Things could get very dangerous when Little Joe had nothing to hide.

“All I said is that you boys would do well to think on my offer,” said the stranger. “All that damage you two caused is going to be expensive to repair, and if you were to lose on Saturday, you’d have nothing at all. This way, at least you’re guaranteed ‘winnings.’ I’d think you two would be grateful for the offer. From what I could tell, your father isn’t exactly the forgiving type, and you two don’t look like you’d do too well making your own way in the world.”

“Mister, you don’t know our pa at all,” Hoss said. His voice was so even that a man would have to know him well to recognize the fury that was burning underneath his words.

“You don’t know us either,” Joe said, squaring his shoulders to stand alongside his brother.

“But I do know the world,” the man said. “The way I see it, the two of you are just gamblers like me. You lost this one. No call to get all high and mighty about it. Take your loss, and make the best of it. This is the best offer you’re going to get.”

“We lost,” Joe snapped, “but we’ll own up to it. Just as soon as we see you out of town.”

“Think about it,” the stranger said. “Do things my way on Saturday, and you’ll see more money than you’d ever earn from any winnings.”

“Mister, we done told you what we’re gonna do and what we’re not gonna do, and we don’t need to think about nothin’ else,” said Hoss. “Now, I reckon you’d do well to get yourself some other fellows to help you, ’cause we ain’t desperate enough for the likes of you.”

“And I suggest that you reconsider your position,” said the stranger. “I strongly recommend you take my offer. You may find it to be in your best interests, especially if you wish to remain in your current state of health.”

“Look, the answer is no!” Little Joe’s volume was climbing. Without taking his eyes from the scene in front of him, Sam moved soundlessly toward the hidden shelf beneath the bar as the kid continued, “And I don’t think the sheriff isn’t going to take too kindly to your ‘business proposition,’ either!”

“I don’t expect that the sheriff is ever going to hear about it,” said the stranger with unnerving certainty, and as he started to make his move, so did Sam.

Gunfire exploded in the saloon. Miners and cowboys dove under tables. The girls screamed. And two men collapsed onto the floor, blood seeping out of holes left by bullets.

By the time Roy Coffee burst through the doors, Sam had already determined that the stranger was dead. Hoss was kneeling beside Joe, saying quietly, “You just stay still for a minute and lemme see what’s goin’ on.” Gently, he removed his brother’s jacket. Blood dripped from Little Joe’s left arm, just above the elbow. “There, now, that don’t look too bad,” Hoss said approvingly. “Just you wait, Doc’ll have you good as new in no time.” Hoss looked back over his shoulder at the sheriff. “Hey, Roy, how ’bout lettin’ the doc know we’re comin’?” His words sounded casual, but his eyes told another story.

“Is he all right?” Sam asked gruffly, as Roy headed out. He handed Hoss a clean towel, and Hoss wrapped it around the wounded arm.

“I’m fine,” managed Little Joe, not sounding like it. “Just a scratch. Nothing serious. Fellow had lousy aim.” He grabbed at Hoss’s arm with his right hand, pulling himself to a sitting position. “Wasn’t a good shot like you,” Joe added. “Ain’t Sam something, Big Brother?”

“Danged fine,” Hoss agreed. He met Sam’s gaze, respect and gratitude edged out by something darker. Sam saw it in the big man’s eyes: Hoss Cartwright knew what would likely have happened if Sam had been a hair slower. The barkeep nodded in acknowledgement. He’d seen that look before.

“Never knew you could handle a gun like that,” Little Joe continued admiringly.

“I expect there’s a lot about me you might not know,” Sam said. It was true, and it might have opened up a whole lot of questioning, but the Cartwright brothers weren’t paying attention. Joe was trying to get to his feet, heavily supported by Hoss, and neither one had any concerns besides keeping Joe upright.

“Okay, you ready?” asked Hoss, looping Joe’s good arm around his neck and holding his brother’s slim torso.

“I’m fine,” insisted Joe. He swayed a bit, and Hoss held him more firmly.

“Let’s get goin’ before Doc goes back to bed,” said Hoss. “We don’t want to go wakin’ him up for a little scratch like this.” He caught Sam’s eye, and Sam smiled at the big man’s protectiveness.

The Cartwrights staggered out the door in the direction of the doctor’s office, leaving Sam behind in his saloon. Even with the dead body still sprawled in front of the bar, things had started getting back to normal. The miners and cowboys had resumed their seats and their drinks. The girls were still a bit wide-eyed, but they’d get over it. It was life as usual at the Silver Dollar.

Sam regarded the room. It was wrecked again, but that was nothing new. He’d need to clean up all over again, and it was likely to be torn apart at least one more time before sunup. It was the price of doing business. Still, it wasn’t a bad way for a man to make his way in the world. Not bad at all.

Sam shined his revolver with his dishtowel. Then, he tucked it in his apron pocket and reached for his mop and pail.

* * * * * * * * * *

“Hey, Sam! Two beers!”

“Sure thing, Little Joe.” Sam filled two glasses and slid them across the bar. Joe fished in his pocket, frowning. “Hey, Hoss, you got any money?”

“I got it,” said Hoss wearily, tossing the coins on the bar.

“How’s the arm?” asked Sam.

“Coming along,” said Joe, adjusting the sling.

As it turned out, Carl Newsome’s aim hadn’t been bad at all: the bullet had broken the bone clean across. A couple inches to Joe’s right, and it would have gone straight into his lung. As things stood, word was that Little Joe wouldn’t be able to use that arm for at least six more weeks, on top of the two that had already passed. Being as how he was left-handed, that didn’t leave much for him to do, other than drink beer and tell tales about how he and Hoss had taken down one of the most notorious game-fixers in the West. The fact that Sam had been the one to do the actual shooting . . . the Cartwright boys were happy to give credit where it was due, but the truth was that Sam didn’t want any part of it. The last thing he needed was every hothead in the territory lining up to take potshots at him, just to see his sharp shooting in action. So, he’d asked Hoss and Joe to keep quiet about his part in the whole thing, and they were careful to gloss over that detail when they told the story. After all, they knew what they owed him.

Sam looked up suddenly, right into the intense eyes of Adam Cartwright. Damn, if that oldest Cartwright didn’t have some cat in him. Sam never did see him come in after the other two. Must be that college learning that done it . . . made a man get all private about his business.

“Make it a beer,” Adam said quietly, but Sam knew that wasn’t what Adam Cartwright was looking for. He was looking for information, plain and simple. Adam had almost lost his kid brother, and Sam knew very well that he was still trying to figure out how it had happened. However, Adam knew just about as much as he did. Sam shook his head as he reached for a glass. This, at least, was something he could understand.

As it turned out, the long-imprisoned Newsome brothers had a half-cousin that was just as much trouble as they were. Nobody but Sam had thought of them for years, and then one day, Carl Newsome came to town. According to Roy Coffee, Carl specialized in fixing boxing matches and the like. He had a trail that stretched out to the Great Lakes and back again, but his luck ran out in the Silver Dollar of Virginia City. As far as Sam could tell, when Carl had heard Hoss and Little Joe talking that morning, he’d figured there might be some profits in all Joe’s big talk. Then, when Hoss and Joe got themselves in all that trouble with Jeb Nelson’s water wheel, Carl had seized the moment and offered to pay for the damage and throw in an extra hundred for them if they would throw the contest. From what Hoss and Joe said, he just couldn’t seem to believe that two fellows in as much trouble as they were would say “no” to an offer like that.

He didn’t know the Cartwrights like Sam did, that was for danged sure.

“Kind of convenient that you were ready,” Adam said calmly, running his finger carefully along the rim of his glass. Sam’s expression was carefully noncommittal. “Having your gun out like that,” Adam clarified. “What made you think that things were going to get out of control like that?”

“Experience,” Sam said, looking Adam right in the eye. “In my line of business, a man stays alive when he learns from experience. That’s what I do around here. Mind my business.”

Adam was about to answer, when Joe’s voice drifted over to them. Both Sam and Adam went still, listening, and both cringed at what they heard.

“Y’know, Hoss, I’ve been thinking,” said Joe cheerfully.

“About what?” Hoss Cartwright had a way of making a question sound like a threat, but somehow, Little Joe never seemed to hear it that way.

“Well, we missed out on that two thousand dollars after you dropped out of the contest-”

“How was I supposed to concentrate on that dadburned contest with you all shot up and Roy and Pa and Adam all riled up at me for getting mixed up with that Newsome fellow?” demanded Hoss.

“Doesn’t matter,” said Joe with a wave of his right hand. “The important thing is that we don’t have the prize money, and the reward money for Newsome isn’t half of what we still have to pay Pa back for damages.”

“Not to mention paying Adam back for them fancy suspenders,” said Hoss darkly. “Why would anybody ever send to England for a pair of suspenders when you can get them at the mercantile for four bits?” Sam allowed himself a questioning glance at Adam, and Adam shrugged, bemused.

“Exactly,” said Little Joe, taking a swallow of beer. He clapped his hand on Hoss’s shoulder and announced, “Big Brother, we need to come up with a way to make some real money.”

“Like how?” This question didn’t sound nearly as much like a threat. In fact, Hoss sounded almost curious, and Adam straightened.

“Well, you see, I’ve been doing some thinking. . . .”

Sam felt a hand rest lightly on his arm.

“I believe it’s time to help those two learn from experience,” Adam said to the barkeep with a smile. “I figure that’s my business, don’t you?” Oddly enough, Sam felt like smiling back at the peculiar Cartwright, but Adam was already walking toward his brothers.

Little Joe was gesturing wildly with the arm that wasn’t in the sling, and Hoss wore that same longsuffering look that said that he was about to agree to whatever harebrained scheme his little brother had come up with. Just as Little Joe seemed to be reaching the climax of his argument, Adam came up behind them and placed a firm hand on either brother’s shoulder, stopping Joe in mid-sentence.

Sam chuckled as he began lining up the empty whiskey bottles on the bar, ready to be refilled for a brand new day. Hoss and Joe looked just as surprised to see Adam as he’d been, and a whole lot more worried. Sam couldn’t see Adam’s face, but he could tell from Joe’s wide eyes and hard swallow that Adam must have assumed a pretty fierce glare. From what he could overhear, Little Joe had completely forgotten his newest great plan. Instead, he and Hoss were falling all over themselves, trying to explain to Adam why they were having a beer when they were supposed to be at the mercantile, ordering supplies.

Sam shook his head, grinning to himself. Joe would eventually remember his plan, but hopefully, by that time, he and Hoss would be on their way back to the Ponderosa and their pa. Adam could ride herd over them, and Sam wouldn’t have to worry about any of it-at least, not until the next time they came strolling into his saloon, when the whole Cartwright ruckus would start all over and somebody would have to keep those boys out of trouble.

Not that it was any of his business, of course.

The end