CHAPTER EIGHT

Nothing Short of Murder

With a bounce of enthusiasm, Hoss pointed at the line of blue-coated soldiers entering the Carson City plaza on the chilly Sunday morning of November 10th.  “There he is!”

Ben caught his son’s arm as he lunged forward.  “Sally first,” he chided.  “The troops won’t stop here long, and Mark will prefer to spend most of that time with his fiancé.”

“Reckon so,” Hoss said with a sigh.  He liked Mark Wentworth, almost as much as his sister Mary, and didn’t get near enough chances to see him, even with him being posted at nearby FortChurchill.   Now the Sixth Infantry was being marched off to fight in that war back East, so he likely wouldn’t see his friend again for a long time, same as Adam.  That “back East” had a way of swallowing up people he loved that Hoss didn’t care for one bit.  Sally planned to marry Mark, though, so she looked even sadder about his going away.  There were tears in her eyes as she threw her arms around Mark after he came running across the plaza, and that made Hoss feel like crying, too.

“Oh, I wish you didn’t have to go,” Sally moaned, as the others, including her father and the Thomases, as well as the Cartwrights, looked on in sympathy.

“So do I, sweetheart,” Mark said, “but that’s part of the bargain I made.”  Everyone knew he was referring to his original reason for joining the army, so that he could march with the rescue forces sent to Nevada at the height of the war with the Paiutes.  He’d done it for love and in Paul Martin’s mind had well earned the reward of his daughter’s hand.  There was a price to be paid for enlistment in the army, however, and the army was now set to collect it in wartime service.

Still holding Little Joe in his arms, Ben stepped forward to lay a supportive hand on the girl’s shoulder.  “At least, Mark will be serving as a surgeon’s assistant,” he reminded her.  “That’ll keep him behind the lines.”  He looked across at Mark, who nodded soberly.  The glance they exchanged communicated their mutual realization that service in the medical corps did not guarantee his safety, but at least he wouldn’t be quite as exposed to enemy fire as the combat troops.  “I’ll be praying for you, my boy,” he promised, “just as if my own Adam were going to war.”

“We all will,” Nelly Thomas put in.

“Adam?” Hoss asked, his brow crinkling with anxious thought.  “He gonna soldier, too?”

“No, no, of course not,” Ben assured him, bouncing Little Joe to soothe his sudden disturbance, for while the child had no understanding of war, he readily picked up on other people’s emotions, especially Hoss’s.  “Adam’s a student, far from where the battles are taking place.  I’ll show you on the map when we get home.”

“He’s right about me working behind the lines,” Mark was saying to Sally while Ben was settling down his boys, “and just think of the surgical experience I’ll get.”

“More varied than here, to be sure,” Paul Martin said, putting an arm about both his daughter and his future son-in-law.  “Invaluable experience for someone who hopes to become a skilled surgeon.

“Oh, I know,” Sally sighed, “but it’s hard to remember that when all I can think of is how much I’ll miss. . . .”  With determination she brushed at a tear moistening the corner of her eye.

Little Joe reached for the black visor of Mark’s blue forage hat, all he’d had eyes for since the young soldier had come over to them.  “I like that hat,” he hinted.  Laughter at the easy way he tossed worry aside and the frankness with which he expressed his desire chased away everyone’s tears.

Mark took the hat off and put it on the youngster’s head.  “I’ll need it back when I leave,” he warned.

“Okay,” Little Joe agreed reluctantly.  When Ben set him down, he strutted off across the green sward to demonstrate how fine he looked in the new headgear.

“Hey, don’t go far,” Mark called.

“Hoss, go watch him,” Ben ordered.  “See he doesn’t stray.”

“Can’t do a worse job than you,” Clyde cackled, for while they’d stood around waiting for the regiment to arrive, Ben had regaled them with his four-year-old’s solo excursion around Virginia City earlier in the week.  Nelly gave her husband a sharp jab in the ribs, while their daughter Inger snickered into her cupped hand.

Ben shuddered.  “Don’t remind me.”

“Sounds like a story I need to hear,” Mark observed, “but time’s short.  You’ll write me, sir?”

“I will,” Ben promised, “and you let us know how things are going with you back there.”

“If I don’t hear once a week, I’ll be frantic with worry,” Sally warned him.

“There’s an incentive!” her father chuckled.  “Mark, son, please spare me that.”

“I’ll write faithfully,” Mark said.

Hoss, who had stoically gone after Little Joe, dragged him back over to the group.  “I still ain’t had a proper chance to say good-bye,” he complained.

Mark thrust out his hand.  “Good-bye, then, Hoss.  Take care of my girl for me, okay?”

“Well . . . sure,” Hoss said slowly, not sure whether Mark was serious or funning with him.  “I wouldn’t let no harm come to Miss Sally.”

Mark chucked him under the chin.  “I know, but don’t you go stealing her heart away from me, either, you hear?”

Realizing now that he was being teased, Hoss grinned.  “I wouldn’t do that, neither.”  He motioned for Mark to bend down to his level.  “I wouldn’t trust that Billy too far, though,” he whispered just loud enough for everyone to hear.

“Oh, I know better than to trust him,” Mark said with a lopsided smirk.  “Billy and me go way back, you know.”

“Yeah, further back than him and me, even,” Hoss said, “so I reckon you know he’s plumb ornery.”  He tried to keep a straight face, but his shoulders shook with the effort to hold back his amusement at his own joke.

From behind, Billy hoisted Hoss up by the elbows and plunked him down again with a solid thunk.

“Hey!” Hoss protested.

“No more than you deserve, you backstabber,” Billy said with a forced growl.  Then he grinned at Mark.  “Don’t worry about Sally for one minute, pal.  I’ll see to it she don’t get lonely.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of!” Mark laughed.  “Now, if the rest of you don’t mind, I’ll let her walk me back over to the regiment.”

“So’s they can smooch some more,” Billy confided to Hoss, bumping the boy’s shoulder with his hip.

“Exactly!” Mark laughed, as he plucked his hat from Little Joe’s head and placed it on his own.  “Oh, here’s the books you loaned me, Dr. Martin.”  He offered three volumes to the doctor.

“Keep them, if they’ll be of any help to you,” Paul Martin urged.

Mark placed one in his other hand and extended the remaining two to the doctor.  “Just this one, if you don’t mind.  I haven’t finished it yet.”

“Study hard,” the doctor admonished with a smile.

“But first, go kiss that girl,” Ben ordered.  He pointed off in the direction of the regiment.  “Off with the both of you!”

Laughing, the young couple made a quick, arm-in-arm exit, Mark calling back good-byes over his shoulder.  Everyone waved wildly and shouted their wishes for him to keep safe and keep in touch.

“Lands, I’m gonna miss that boy,” Nelly said with a sniff.  “You all are comin’ by the house, ain’t you?  I’ve got a jelly cake set out and coffee ready to brew.”

Hoss smacked his lips.  “Jelly cake!  That’s one of your best, Aunt Nelly.”

“I want cake,” Little Joe chimed in.

Ben laughed.  “Count me in.  I was hoping to come by, anyway, at least long enough to drop a line to Adam.”

With a wry grin Clyde wagged his head.  “Thought you already wrote that boy once this week, when you sent him money for your schoolteacher friend.  Two letters in one week’s bound to spoil him close to rotten.”

Ben gave his friend a rough slap on the back. “I’ve had quite enough advice on that score this week,” he declared.  “In my opinion, you can’t spoil a boy by loving him.”

“Amen to that,” Nelly agreed.  “I’ll head on to the house, get the coffee started.  You younguns want to come with me or stay to see Mark off?”

“Stay,” said Hoss, who wanted to watch the soldiers march in step.

“Stay,” Little Joe echoed, well satisfied that his big brother would make the best choice possible.

“See you soon, then,” Nelly said, drawing her woolen shawl close, for the wind was picking up and turning sharp.  Inger trotted along at her side, eager to help her mother play hostess.

The others saw Mark march away and waited for Sally to join them before they all walked down to the Thomas house.  Ben slipped an arm around the forlorn girl.  “He’ll be in my prayers nightly,” he assured her, “and I’m sure God will keep him safe; he has such potential.”  He felt a momentary rebellion as his thoughts turned to a young woman with great potential who had nonetheless been taken from him.  He’d already struggled through his crisis of faith, however, and wouldn’t allow the things he could not understand to strip him of it again.  All of them here and all those they loved back East rested in God’s strong and loving hands, and to that conviction he would cling, as trustingly as Little Joe now held to his own hand.

 * * * * *

             The rest had all gathered in the parlor after enjoying jelly cake and coffee together and had left Ben alone at the dining table to compose his letter to Adam on a sheet of borrowed stationery.  As he considered how to begin, he chuckled at Clyde’s notion that two letters in one week would spoil his son.  Ridiculous idea!  regular communication of love was the best antidote to spoiling that he knew.  Besides, the territory was changing, almost daily it seemed.  Adam would not only be interested in that, but would feel less a stranger when he finally returned if he’d been kept abreast of those changes.

With that in mind, Ben started his letter with general news.  He told Adam about recent acts of the Territorial Legislature.  Just this week they’d passed a bill permitting construction of a railroad across Nevada.  “Wouldn’t it be wonderful, son,” he wrote, “if that were completed by the time you returned to us?  Your journey would be so much faster and more comfortable than your recent trip back East.”

Next, Ben mentioned talk he’d heard recently about plans for a new private school, to be called Sierra Seminary.  “It will be located in Carson City and will offer elementary courses, with some advanced work.  Don’t you wish you’d had that available when you were so eager to learn?  Hoss, of course, doesn’t have your zeal for learning—well, book learning, that is.  He seems to absorb information about the outdoors and animals and ranch work, but still struggles at times with his three R’s.  His friend Pete Hanson is a good influence, though, and Hoss seems to benefit from their studying together.  Maybe it’s just that having someone to share the lessons makes them more enjoyable and, therefore, more likely to stick in his head, but his marks have shown steady improvement this year.”

He hadn’t meant to get into family news so soon, but decided he might as well proceed with Little Joe’s latest antics, including that frustrating chase through Virginia City earlier in the week.  “Next time, I take a rope,” he vowed to his eldest, who would know an idle threat when he read one.

Ben wrote, lastly, about the arrival of volunteer forces from California to take over FortChurchill.  “That means that Mark is headed back East.  After he leaves San Francisco, he’ll be stationed in Washington, D. C., but who knows what the future holds for a soldier in a nation at war?  Keep him in your prayers and write to him, son—Sixth United States Infantry, Company H.  You well know what it’s like for a young man to be away from home, alone, for the first time, and I hope, at least, that our letters have eased that separation for you.  I know yours to us make all the difference, though we continue to miss you.”

Nelly Thomas came to the doorway.  “Hate to rush you, Ben, but you might want to finish that up and head for home.”

Ben’s mouth quirked up at one corner.  “Worn out our welcome, have we?”

Nelly flapped a reproachful hand at him.  “You know better, but it’s starting to snow, so it might be a case of leave now or stay the night . . . which you’re more than welcome to do, of course.”

Ben stood and hustled over to the window.  Snow was coming down, though not heavily, as yet.  That could change quickly, though, as he knew from experience.  “You’re right.  We’d better leave right away.  I’ll just add a line or two in closing and address this.  Could you get Little Joe bundled up for me?”

“That’s right: give me the hard job,” Nelly laughed.  Then she said, “Be glad to, and Clyde can post that letter for you.  You just might have a race on your hands with them snowflakes.”

Ben hurriedly told Adam that it was starting to snow and closed the letter with more assurances of his love.  Then he sealed and addressed it and left it, with a few coins to cover the postage, on the dining table.

Good-byes said, Ben bundled his boys into the buggy.  Sliding a package of jelly cake slices beneath the seat, he climbed aboard and directed the horses out of town.  They’d barely passed the edge of Carson City when Hoss spoke up.  “I just don’t understand, Pa.”

“What don’t you understand, son?” Ben asked.

“Why the army didn’t just send them Californy soldiers back East and leave Mark here, instead of switchin’ everybody back and forth.”

Ben chuckled.  “Doesn’t seem to make much sense, does it?”

“No, sir, it sure don’t,” Hoss declared.

“It’s because we’re dealing with two different kinds of soldiers, Hoss,” his father tried to explain.  “You see, Mark’s with the regular army, which is supposed to be more trained for battle, while the soldiers from California are volunteers, most of whom haven’t been soldiers for very long.”

“Mark ain’t, either,” Hoss alleged.

“Better than a year,” his father corrected.  “With the volunteers, it’s more like a few months or even just weeks.  I guess the army figured they’d do better close to home, fighting Indians, if need be, while freeing up the professional soldiers to fight back East.”

Hoss shook his head.  “Still seems like a powerful lot of marchin’ around for no good reason.”

Ben reached behind Little Joe to rub Hoss’s back.  “That’s the army for you, son.  Might as well try to argue with the weather.”

“It’s snowing, Pa,” Little Joe put in at the mention of the weather.  “Lots of pretty snowflakes.”

“Yeah,” Ben agreed, “and starting to come down heavier, too.  We’d better make tracks for home, boys, before we get snowbound in WashoeValley.”

 * * * * *

             Seven days later the snow was still falling.  The flurries hadn’t been heavy enough to keep Hoss from school the previous week or to keep them from attending church in WashoeCity that morning, but he hadn’t been surprised when the Thomases didn’t join them, as they generally did on alternate Sundays.  Carson City was a long, cold drive when snow lay on the ground.  Sometimes they braved it anyway, as he and the boys did on their turn to visit Carson City, but little Inger had shown signs of coming down with a cold last Sunday.  He hoped it hadn’t grown worse, but even if not, her mother wouldn’t want to risk the frosty air for a recovering child.  What did surprise him was the knock at the door after he’d sent the boys upstairs to change after church.  He was even more surprised to see who stood at his door when he answered.  “Sheriff Coffee!”

Coffee awkwardly twisted his hat in his hand.  “Thought I was invited to dinner.  Did I get the wrong Sunday?”

“No, no, not at all,” Ben said, opening the door wider.  “I’m surprised, though, that the prospect of a long ride in this weather didn’t dampen your enthusiasm for a home-cooked meal.”  To tell the truth, he had forgotten the invitation he’d extended that frenzied day in Virginia City, but he blamed his lapse of memory on the weather, too.  It had kept him so busy, finalizing preparations for winter, that he’d had little time to think of anything else.

Coffee grinned.  “Nothing dampens that!”

“Good!” Ben said enthusiastically, as he closed the door after ushering the sheriff in.  “Come over by the fire and warm up.  I’ll get us some coffee.”  And warn Hop Sing that we have a guest!  No doubt the cook would rant in Cantonese, but he wouldn’t really mind.  He would have planned food with the Thomases in mind, anyway, so there’d be plenty.  There always was.

Little Joe clattered down the stairs, with Hoss right behind him.  “Howdy, Sheriff,” he called as he jumped on the lower landing with both feet.

“Howdy,” Roy Coffee chuckled.  He cast a mischievous side glance at Ben.  “I see you’ve managed to keep a rein on him for a mite over a week now.  Sure would’ve hated to chase after the youngun in this weather.”

Ben moaned.  Everyone of his acquaintance seemed determined to remind him of his failure to keep track of Little Joe.  “Keep it up,” he warned, “and I’ll manage to misplace your share of dessert.”

“Yeah, you’re right good at misplacin’ things,” Roy snickered; then, seeing Ben’s glower, he decided he’d pushed his luck far enough for a new acquaintance.

Hop Sing soon called them all to dinner, and after eating a good portion Roy raved about the tender roast beef.  “How’d a Chinaman learn to make Yorkshire pudding?” he asked when the cook was out of the room.

“Goodness only knows,” Ben laughed.  “I think he’s a regular recipe thief.  Just mention a yearning for some dish in his hearing, and it’s likely to turn up on the table within a week.”

Roy grinned.  “I’ll keep him in mind the next time I need some detective work done.”

Ben leaned toward his guest with a conspiratorial whisper.  “I think it only works for recipes.  The only crime he’s interested in is failure to appreciate a good meal.”

“Not appreciating this meal would be a felony,” Roy declared.

“I fell on my knee once,” Little Joe announced.  “It bled and everything.”

“Little Joe!” Hoss scolded.  “It ain’t proper to talk about bleedin’ at the table.”

“He did,” Little Joe accused, pointing a finger at the sheriff.

“That’s enough, boys.”  Ben shook his head as he worked to keep his mouth from twitching.  “Never underestimate the ability of a four-year-old to misinterpret anything you say,” he muttered to Coffee.

The sheriff grinned.  “I’ll take your word for it.  He’s a fine little fellow.”  He smiled across the table at Hoss.  “And his big brother’s a good, strapping boy, too.  The oldest one ain’t around today?”

“That’s right, you wouldn’t have heard,” Ben said.  “Adam’s back East, attending YaleUniversity.”

“We miss him,” Hoss added.

“I can see as how you would,” Coffee said kindly.  “All the way to the east coast, huh?  Reckon he’ll be gone a good, long time, then.”

“Too long,” Ben agreed and quickly changed the subject.  “Did you save room for dessert?  I believe we’re having dried apple pie.”

The sheriff poked his stomach with two fingers.  “Yep, there’s a spot right there, so bring it on!”

“I got a spot, too,” Hoss said with a grin, imitating the sheriff’s gesture.

Roy Coffee chuckled.  “I figured you would!”  He reached over to poke a tickling finger into Little Joe’s tummy.  “And I reckon there’s another pie-sized spot right . . . about . . . there!”

Little Joe giggled.  “Pie spot, Pa!”

“Yes, that makes it official,” Ben said and called, “Four pieces of pie, please, Hop Sing.”

“Hop Sing hear plenty good without yell all-a time,” the little cook muttered from just beyond the doorway, his favorite spot for eavesdropping during meals.  He quickly produced the pie, however, serving the sheriff first with an approving smile, for he had heard the compliments to his cooking.

After the pie was consumed and more compliments issued, Ben requested coffee by the fire.  “Do you play chess, by chance?” he asked Roy.

Roy shook his head.  “Never could get the knack of that, but I play a fierce game of checkers, if you got a board.”

“We got one!” Hoss cried, springing up to fetch it.

“Do you have time for a game?” Ben asked as Little Joe clambered up into his lap.

“I reckon it won’t take long to wallop you a time or two,” Roy replied with an almost wicked grin.

“We’ll see about that!” Ben retorted to the challenge.  What he soon saw was that the new sheriff from Virginia City was more than a match for him, defeating him soundly in two games.

Hoss, who had settled companionably next to their guest, proclaimed, “You’re ‘bout as good as Uncle Clyde.”

“Didn’t know there was any more Cartwrights hereabouts,” Roy said as he set the board for a third match.

Ben laughed.  “No, just a friend who’s close as kin.  Perhaps you met him when you were deputy in Carson City—Clyde Thomas.”

Roy’s mouth screwed up in concentration.  “Red-haired fellow?  Walks with a limp?”

“That’s him.”

Roy nodded.  “Knew him to speak to, but that’s all.  Wish I’d known he was a checkers player.”

“Checkers master,” Ben declared, “and I’d love to watch a match between the two of you.”

“Have to be here,” Roy said.  “I ain’t in Carson much these days.”

“You’re welcome any time,” Ben assured him, “and if you come on a Sunday, you might find Clyde here, as well.”

“I’ll look forward to it,” Roy said, “and to more of that fine cooking.”

With a smile of satisfaction, Hop Sing peered around the corner from the kitchen and disappeared back inside to wash the dishes.

 * * * * *

             Ben pulled the collar of his sheep-skin coat up around his neck, thankful for the warmth of its wooly lining.  Snowflakes drifted slowly earthward on the mercifully light wind to join the six inches already there.  He viewed it as a harbinger of fiercer cold to come and felt an urgency to get the weaker cattle and particularly the newly weaned calves into feed lots nearer the house.  The handful of men he was keeping on over the winter had fanned out across the Ponderosa, searching out animals in need of critical care for that purpose.

Something—an unexpected sound or perhaps just instinct—made him look toward the south, and his eyes squinted as he spotted a group of riders moving toward him.  Too many to be his own men, but he couldn’t imagine any reason for anyone else to be on the Ponderosa, especially in this weather.  The haze in the air at first kept him from distinguishing individual riders; when he did, he felt even more concern.  Sheriff Coffee?  Yes, that was him, with Clyde and Billy Thomas among the group of nine behind him.  He had a fleeting thought that his two friends had met up and decided to hold a checkers match at his house.  Then he shook his head at the ridiculous notion.  A group this large, led by a sheriff, could only mean one thing: official business.

He waited for the men to reach him and then, to forestall what he was sure was more serious, teasingly asked Roy, “Couldn’t go more than two days without Hop Sing’s cooking?”

“Wish it were that,” Roy said. “We’re here on—”

“You’re not in charge here,” another man with a badge pinned to his coat snapped.

“True enough,” Roy conceded, keeping his voice civil, although Ben could detect a note of irritation at the younger man’s interruption.  “Ben, let me introduce you to Deputy Tim Harrison of Carson City.  Deputy Harrison, Ben Cartwright of the Ponderosa, the land you’re riding on.”

“I know that,” Harrison growled and then turned to Ben, “and I’m acting sheriff of Carson City, Mr. Cartwright.”  He emphasized the more prestigious title with a glare of offense at Roy.

Ben’s forehead wrinkled with misgiving, but he asked, more hopefully than expectantly, “Sheriff Blackburn resigned?”

“Murdered,” Clyde Thomas spoke up, and Billy chimed in, “We saw it!”

The furrows in Ben’s brow deepened.  He had a thousand questions, but most of them he preferred to ask his friends in private.  To Harrison, he asked only, “You’re after the man who did it?  And you think he could be on my land?”

“He headed this way,” Harrison said and then asked sharply, “You friendly with William Mayfield, Cartwright?”

“I don’t even know the name,” Ben answered honestly.

“Gambler,” Clyde inserted.

Ben chuckled.  “That explains why I don’t know him.  I’m not attracted to games of chance.”

“All well and good,” Harrison said brusquely, “but the last word we had placed him this direction.  Of course, the snow’s covered any tracks now.”

“Have you seen any sign of strangers on your land, Ben?” Roy Coffee asked.

“Just this posse,” Ben responded.  “I can ask my men, when I meet up with them this evening.”  He glanced up to note the position of the sun, whose light filtered weakly through the cloud-covered sky.  “About three hours ‘til then.”

“We’ll be using those hours of daylight to search your land,” Harrison announced.  Then, seeming to remember his manners, he added, “Assuming you have no objection.”

“I have no objection; in fact, I welcome it,” Ben said, “but I would like to ride with you, if only to ensure than you don’t mistake any of my men for this Mayfield or his accomplices, if there were any.”

“Looking for three men,” Coffee offered, “and I’m sure we’d welcome another posse member, eh, Harrison?”

“Right,” Harrison agreed, although clearly perturbed with what he considered the other sheriff’s preemption of decisions rightfully his.

Realizing what time it was, Ben felt a sudden concern knot his stomach.  “Billy, would you do me a favor?” he asked urgently.

Billy moved forward.  “Sure . . . I reckon,” the young man said a little hesitantly, for he had a feeling this favor might be of the sort to interfere with his own plans.

“Would you ride over to the Franktown school and see Hoss home safely?” Ben asked.  “I don’t like the idea of him riding home alone with armed assassins lose on my land.”

“Aw, Uncle Ben,” Billy protested weakly, for he knew in the long run he’d have to do as he was asked, much as he preferred staying with the posse.  Grown man though he now considered himself, he would be expected to show respect for his elders, especially for one as close in affection as Uncle Ben.  “It’s just that I was hopin’ to earn a share of the reward, me bein’ without a job now.”

“You’re welcome to my share if we find the fugitive before you get back,” Ben offered.

“Ain’t necessary,” Clyde said firmly.

“No, not necessary,” Billy agreed quickly, wanting to forestall any further display of parental authority.   He knew full well that Ben would keep any promise he made, so he squared his shoulders, and mostly so the other posse members wouldn’t think he was just giving in to his pa, like a blame kid, he said, “Yeah, you’re right.  Protecting the innocent is more important than catching up with the guilty.  I’ll see to Hoss and then join back up once he’s safe in the house with Hop Sing.”

“Good thinking, son,” Ben stated firmly, quite willing to feed the young man’s need for esteem in return for the favor.  “Make sure Hop Sing knows the danger, and tell him to keep both Hoss and Little Joe inside—oh, and tell him there’ll be extra mouths to feed for supper.”

“Right!  Be back soon,” Billy announced and took off.

 * * * * *

             Ben knew his boys were safe because Billy had returned to report a mission successfully accomplished, but he still felt a surge of relief when his two younger sons charged out the front door as he rode into the yard at dusk.

“Did you catch ‘em?” Hoss asked, clearly excited by the prospect of bad men on the Ponderosa.

Ben scooped an equally animated Little Joe up in his arms.  “No, not yet.  We’ll be going out again tomorrow, so I’d like you to stay home from school, Hoss, and look after your little brother.”

Looking after Little Joe did not top Hoss’s list of favorite activities, but skipping school certainly did, so he readily agreed to accept the responsibility.

Since he knew exactly what inspired the easy compliance, Ben smiled, but then turned his attention to the other men dismounting in the yard.  “Sheriff Harrison,” he said, using the title he knew the man preferred, justified or not, “your men are welcome to the use of my bunkhouse, but I can offer you a bed in the house.”  Frankly, he would have preferred to relegate Harrison to the bunkhouse, too, but the man’s position did dictate a little more consideration, even if his presence would add nothing to the congeniality of the rest of the house party.  “There’ll be hot food for everyone soon,” he added and was rewarded with warm smiles and expressions of thanks from the rest of the posse.

He moved close to Roy Coffee, so that he could say quietly to him, “You’ll stay inside with us, as well, unless you’d prefer the company in the bunkhouse.”  He winked at the sheriff from Virginia City.

Roy winked back his understanding of Ben’s poke at the almighty “acting sheriff” of Carson City.  “I reckon the company inside will be mostly to my liking,” he whispered back.

“And you’ll definitely tip the balance to my liking,” Ben chuckled back.

To his surprise, however, Harrison proved a perfectly pleasant dinner guest.  After the meal was finished, the youngsters were sent upstairs for baths and bed; and even then, as the men began to discuss the incident that had brought them to the Ponderosa, Harrison did not exhibit the need to take charge, seeming willing to let Clyde and Billy describe what had happened two nights before in a Carson City saloon.

“Pa and me’d been patchin’ the roof on the barn.  Took most of the day, but we finally finished up a mite before supper time,” Billy related.  “To take the chill off our bones, he suggested we traipse over to the St. Nicolas for a drink.”  He tossed his adopted uncle an impish grin.  “Reckon you know how rare it is for Pa to treat to a drink, so, of course, I said yes right quick.”

“It’s only rare to you, you young scalawag,” Ben snorted.

“And you can see why,” Clyde chipped in.  “Ungrateful little wretch.”  He grinned when he said it, though, so even those in the room who didn’t know him well realized that his son was actually the proverbial pride and joy of his life.

“Is that where the killing took place?” Ben asked, surmising that Sheriff Blackburn must have been dealing with a rowdy drunk.

“Yeah,” Clyde said.  “Me and Billy was in the back corner, at a table by ourselves, and didn’t realize what was happenin’ at first.  Heard later that Blackburn had tried to arrest this Mayfield earlier in the day.”

“Not exactly right,” Harrison put in.  “Man he was trying to arrest was a fugitive murderer from California, name of Henry Plummer.  We’d heard that Mayfield might be hiding him out, so we’d gone to search Mayfield’s cabin earlier that day—that’d be Monday, Mr. Cartwright.”

Ben nodded.  He’d gathered as much from the brief conversations exchanged while they’d been searching for Mayfield that afternoon.

“Mayfield admitted that Plummer had been there, but left,” Harrison continued.  “Then he commenced to taunt the sheriff about it, saying he’d never find Plummer.”  He shook his head with dismay.  “We should’ve arrested him then and there, while we had him outnumbered.”

“For aiding and abetting?” Roy asked.  “Might have held up in court; might not.”

“At least, he’d’ve been behind bars,” Harrison grunted, “not free to—”

“Might have just come for Blackburn later, all the more set on harming him,” Ben suggested.  “Never possible to predict where a different road will lead. . . at least, so I’ve found.”

“Reckon you’re right,” Harrison conceded.  “Still, I keep asking myself what would have happened if I’d been with the sheriff that night in the saloon.”

As the man stared soberly into the fire, Ben wondered if his brusque manner throughout the day had been motivated more by the guilt stirred by that unanswered question than by the prideful assertion of his new mantle of authority, as Ben had presumed.  With Clyde or Billy or even Roy Coffee, he might have felt free to speak the thought directly and hopefully provide a fresh perspective to release that guilt, but since Harrison was still a stranger to him, he hesitated and the opportunity was lost.

“Wouldn’t have mattered,” Clyde said.  “Blackburn had too many friends in that saloon as it was.  Would you have done any different than them?”

Harrison looked up sharply.  “Yeah, I think I would!” he snapped.  “I had more reason to suspect Mayfield of foul play than them others did.”

“Sorry.  Wasn’t meaning to cast blame,” Clyde said quickly.  “Everything happened so fast that everyone was just actin’ on pure instinct . . . and their instincts was bad.  Yours might’ve been better, but it still might not have made any difference.  I was there, and there wasn’t a thing I could’ve done to stop it.”

“We was trapped back in that corner,” Billy explained.  “Heard some sort of argument goin’ on, and when we looked up, Blackburn was reaching for his gun, hollerin’ that Mayfield was under arrest.”

“The friends with him grabbed his arm, though,” Clyde said.  “Reckon they meant to prevent a fight, but all it did was give Mayfield a chance to come at the sheriff with a Bowie knife.  Stabbed him four or five times before Blackburn got loose and tried to shoot, but he couldn’t before he fell over.”

“And all those friends weren’t able to prevent Mayfield’s escape?” Ben asked, incredulous.

“Mayfield had friends, too,” Clyde said.  “They kept the rest of us hemmed in while he got away.  After that, most of us focused on getting help for Blackburn, though it did no good.  A few tried to follow Mayfield, but dark came on and they had to turn back.”

“Funeral was yesterday morning, and no one would hear of forming a posse ‘til that was past,” Harrison said sourly.  “No tracks to be found by then, of course, so we just headed this way ‘cause that’s the direction he took when he left Carson.”

“Fittin’ and proper for folks to show their respect for Sheriff Blackburn,” Roy put in.  “That’s what brought me to Carson.  We’ll get Mayfield, Harrison.  Too many respected Blackburn for them to rest easy ‘til his killer’s brought to justice.”

Ben nodded his agreement.  While he hadn’t personally known John Blackburn well, he knew that, at least earlier in his career, he’d been a respected lawman.  Lately, he’d lost some of his sharpness, due to excessive alcohol consumption, but he’d died in the line of duty and merited the honor due such a man, especially when he had served faithfully for so many years.  “He had a wife, didn’t he?” he asked.

“A girl of just twenty,” Roy responded, “and a baby girl, no more than seven or eight months old.”  He shook his head, grieved for the man under whom he had once served and for the family left behind.  “It’s a shame,” he said and could say no more without losing control of his emotions.

Wanting to lighten the atmosphere, Ben turned to Clyde, “My friend, I’ve discovered that our new sheriff from Virginia City just might be able to take you at checkers.”

Clyde’s eyes lit up with the spark of challenge.  “That so?  Well, now, if’n he ain’t too tired, I just might let him take his best shot at it.”

The competitor in Roy couldn’t resist.  “Best two of three?” he suggested.  “Then the winner takes whoever wins between Ben and Harrison here?”

Ben looked over at the acting sheriff of Carson City and saw an awkward frown form.  Correctly guessing that Harrison wasn’t much of a player, he said, “They won’t drag us into this, will they, Harrison?  We’ll leave this battle to the masters.”

Looking relieved, Harrison readily agreed and settled back to root for Roy, out of loyalty to a fellow lawman.

* * * * *

             After showing his guests to their respective rooms, Ben checked on his sons before turning in himself.  Little Joe was sleeping soundly, his blankets in typical disarray.  Ben untangled them, tucked the boy in snugly, dropped a kiss on his forehead and then moved to the room next door.

Hoss rose up on his elbows as his father entered.  “Hey, Pa.”

“Hey yourself, young fellow,” Ben said.  “Having trouble sleeping?”

Hoss shook his head.  “I—uh—wanted to talk to you, Pa.”

A son who needed to talk always took precedence over his own need for sleep, so Ben sat down on the edge of the bed.  “What about, son?”

Hoss twisted the sheet between his fingers.  “Well—uh—it’s about Little Joe.  He’s—uh—kind of worried ‘bout you trackin’ down them bad men.”

Recalling the peacefully sleeping child he’d just left, Ben raised a skeptical eyebrow.  “He is?”

Hoss bit his lip.  “Um, yes, sir; you know how he gets when you’re away.”

Ben smiled.  “I’m not away, Hoss; I’m right here on the Ponderosa.”

“Yeah, but . . .”

Ben took his son’s hand.  “I’m not going to take any foolish chances, son, but I can’t let a man like that run around loose on my land.  None of us would feel safe.”  He chuckled as he patted his boy’s soft cheek.  “And you don’t really want to be trapped in the house with Little Joe on a permanent basis, do you?”

Remembering how hard it had been to keep his restless little brother occupied that afternoon, Hoss winced.  “Not forever . . . just ‘til them men leave.”

Ben stood up.  “They’re going to do that a lot sooner with encouragement, my boy.”  He tucked the covers up to Hoss’s chin and bent over to kiss him good night.  “You tell Little Joe not to worry,” he said with a wink that told Hoss his father had figured out who was really fretting.  “Tell him his pa knows how to take care of himself.”

“Yes, sir, I will,” Hoss said.  “Just—just do a good job of it.”

Ben again promised that he would, gave Hoss another kiss and slipped quietly out.  Smiling and shaking his head, he made his way down the hall to his own room.  Hoss’s protectiveness for him seemed so out of the natural order of things that he found it almost comical, and the thought that his tiny youngest son might share the sentiment bordered on ludicrous.  Still, he mused as he changed into his nightshirt, perhaps it was understandable when he was all his boys had.  He slipped into bed and gently touched the empty pillow at his side.  “I’ll take care of myself . . . for them . . . for you,” he promised.

 * * * * *

             Following Ben’s proposed plan, the posse split up the next morning.  He had suggested that the miserable weather might have influenced Mayfield to hole up somewhere, and the snug line shacks of the Ponderosa represented the best shelter near to hand.  “I’ll send one of my men with each pair of posse members,” Ben offered.  “They know where the line shacks are, and that way, there’ll be three men in each group, in case they do run into Mayfield’s bunch.”

“Even odds,” Roy Coffee said with an approving nod.

Harrison also agreed.  “A solid plan.  Much obliged for the idea and the help, Cartwright.”

After assigning each of his hands a line shack to check, Ben teamed up with Sheriff Coffee and a man named John Bartholomew, who had a ranch west of Carson City.

“Sure hope we find ‘em today,” Bartholomew said.  “Work’s pilin’ up back at my place.”

“Same here,” Ben commiserated, “but I won’t feel comfortable going back to it until I’m certain the ranch is clear of danger.”

“I’d feel the same, if it was my place,” Bartholomew assured Ben.

“Can’t stay away from Virginia City much longer myself,” Roy put in, “so we’re all in agreement: this needs to end today.”

Ben smiled ruefully.  He’d learned, by oft-experienced frustration, that things didn’t necessarily get done just because they needed to.  He hoped it would prove otherwise today, though, and could only count his blessings that the busier seasons of the ranching year had already passed.

His group rode north into a biting wind that snaked down their mufflers and up the sleeves of their jackets.  Typical November weather, if weather in Nevada could ever be described as typical, Ben mused.  November temperatures could range from the seventies down to single digits, and skies could vary from clear to the deadly obscurity of a sudden blizzard.  Today was relatively moderate, except for the sharp wind that blew snow from the ground into the air, making it appear to still be falling, when it was actually just being redistributed.

Knowing that any tracks would long since have been covered by the snow, they didn’t bother looking, but kept their horses to a steady pace as they rode straight for the northernmost line shack.  Ben never wanted it said of him that he had asked another man to do what he would not, so he’d assigned himself the longest ride.  Sheriff Coffee had offered to ride with him, and Bartholomew had just accepted the fact that someone had to make the harder ride and it might as well be him.

Conversation was held to a minimum because all of them had their mufflers pulled up over their mouths and noses.  During a brief halt, however, Ben pulled his down so that he could take a drink from his canteen.  He started to put the woolen scarf back over his face; then his nose wrinkled as he caught a faint whiff of wood smoke.  He reported it to the sheriff, adding, “It looks like they are holed up in that line shack; it’s about a mile from here, as the crow flies.”

“How close can we get without being seen?” Roy asked.

Ben exhaled gustily.  “Well, we try to keep the surrounding trees cut back, to lessen the fire hazard, but we could get fairly close if we came in from the west.  Take longer that way, but probably safer, especially as we’d be coming in at the back side of the shack.”

“Door on the opposite side?” Roy asked.

Ben nodded.  “And one window on that side, too.  With a bit of luck, we should be able to get right up to the back wall without being seen.”

“Sounds good.  Let’s circle around to that side, then,” Roy said and both ranchers concurred.  Though willing to do their civic duty, neither of them were gunmen, and Ben, in particular, was mindful of his promises to Hoss and to Marie to take no foolish chances.

They altered their course to detour through the trees.  When they drew close to the shack, they dismounted and tethered their animals, for fear that they might scent the fugitives’ horses and reveal the posse’s presence with an ill-timed neigh.  Moving cautiously forward, they came to the edge of the trees and huddled together beneath that final shelter.

“Walk easy ‘til we get to the back of the shack,” Roy directed.  “Then we’ll move slowly around to the front, the two of you on one side and me on the other.  Is there a lock on that door, Ben?”

“Just a latch,” Ben replied, “but it can be drawn in.”

Roy shook his head.  “Might be hard to bust through, if they did that . . . and they probably did.  Wish there was some way to draw them out in the open.”  Neither of the other men suggested anything, so he shrugged.  “Well, at my signal we rush the door together, then, and just pray it gives way quick enough to catch them off guard.”

Realizing the risks of such a plan, Ben took a deep breath and exhaled a prayer for their safety.  Then, softly and silently, the three men made their way through the cushioning snow to the back of the shack and, once there, began to move around both sides.  Just as they got into position, Ben heard Bartholomew begin to whistle “Dixie” behind him.  “Shh!” he cautioned, but Bartholomew persisted.

As the door opened, the posse members pulled back to the side, so they wouldn’t be seen.  A man came out the door and looked around.  “No one in sight,” he called back inside, “but I’m sure I heard whistling.”

Another man appeared in the doorway.  “Aw, you’re hearin’ things,” he snorted.

“Ain’t, neither!” the first man snapped.  “I heard ‘Dixie.’”

Gun drawn, Roy rounded the corner.  “Hands up!” he ordered.  “You’re not in the land of cotton, mister; you’re under arrest.”

Seeing only one man, both of the fugitives slapped leather, but not fast enough to outshoot the sheriff, who winged one man.  Ben fired a warning shot into the air.  The other man swung around to fire on him, and Ben pulled the trigger, hitting the man in the shoulder.  A third man crouched in the doorway, firing first one direction and then the other.

“You’re surrounded, Mayfield,” Coffee called.  “Give yourself up and we’ll see to it you get a fair trial.”

A few more shots were exchanged before Mayfield realized the futility of his ammunition outlasting three opponents and threw his gun out the door.  Snapping on a set of handcuffs as Ben and Bartholomew wrestled the wounded men to their feet, Roy asked, “Which one of you had the bright idea to whistle ‘Dixie’?”

Bartholomew grinned.  “Me, but I wasn’t sure if it was a bright idea or suicide, to be honest, sheriff.  Kept thinking about what you said about getting them out in the open.  Then I suddenly remembered that Mayfield was secesh—no secret to anyone who ever gambled with him—and figured, maybe, if he heard ‘Dixie,’ he’d think it was friends and come out less suspicious.”

Roy chuckled as he secured the other prisoners.  “You’re right, Bartholomew.  Could just as easily been suicide.  As it is, though, you read them right and we’re alive to tell the tale.”

Alive to tell the tale.  Ben shook his head a bit ruefully.  As entertaining as the boys would probably find the story, he doubted that this was a tale he’d be telling his sons—at least, not before they turned twenty or thirty.

 * * * * *

             Predictably, the boys rushed out the door the minute the posse rode into the yard, prisoners in tow.  Hoss’s eyes widened at the sight of real, live bad men right in the front yard.  “That them?”

“Yes, son, that’s them,” Ben said, dismounting and lifting Little Joe into his arms.  He waved to Clyde and Billy and another man, who had followed the youngsters out the door.

Hop Sing scurried out the side door.  “Hot coffee all ready,” he said.  “Sorry not see you in time for stop boys run out.”

“I’m not sure that’s ever possible,” Ben said with a smile.  “Can you put some sandwiches together quickly, Hop Sing?”

The cook pointed at the handcuffed men.  “Them, too?”

Ben glanced at the sheriff.  “Any objection?”

“Harrison probably would have,” Roy replied with a wry smile, “but I believe in feeding prisoners.”

“Go in and help yourselves to some of that hot coffee,” Clyde said.  “Me and Billy and the minister here can guard these three.”  He was referring to the third member of his segment of the posse, the man who had preached John Blackburn’s funeral and had been largely responsible for inspiring so many men from Carson City to join the search for the lawman’s killer.

Ben carried Little Joe inside and headed toward the stairs.  “Come up with me, Hoss,” he said.

“Doncha want a sandwich, Pa?” Little Joe asked.

Ben squeezed him tight as he reached the landing and made a left turn to ascend the rest of the stairs.  “I sure do, but they’re not ready yet.  Come up and help me pack.”

“Pack?” Hoss asked, clambering up behind them.  “You goin’ somewheres, Pa?”

“Yes, son, I am,” Ben said.  “I’m going to help escort those men back to jail in Carson City, and I’ll stay the night with Uncle Clyde.”

“Can I go, too?” Hoss asked eagerly.

“Me, too?” Little Joe pleaded.

Ben laughed as he made his way down the hall and into his room.  Setting Little Joe on the bed, he said, “No, Hoss.  You have school tomorrow.”

“I skipped today,” Hoss pointed out.

Ben shook his head, smiling with amusement as he chucked the boy’s chin.  “All the more reason to show up tomorrow, young fellow.”

As glum-faced Hoss sat down in a chair, Little Joe bounced on the bed.  “I don’t got school; I can go with Pa!”

“No, not you, either,” Ben said, wrestling the boy to the mattress and tickling his tummy.  “You are much too young to ride with a posse.”

Little Joe frowned eloquently.  “I’m much too young for everything,” he complained.

“I agree,” his father chuckled.  “Well, maybe you’re not too young to pick Pa out a shirt and pants to wear tomorrow.  Think you can do that, Little Joe?”

“‘Course, I can,” the boy declared and hopped off the bed to forage in his father’s dresser drawers.

“Just the one night, right, Pa?” Hoss asked.

“That’s all I’m planning,” his father said, “but something could come up in town.  Don’t fret if I’m not back tomorrow night, son.”

Hoss pointed at Little Joe.  “Tell him.  You know how he gets . . .”

“When I’m away,” Ben finished, recalling their conversation of the night before.  He sat on the bed.  “Come here, boys.”

When they had settled, one on either side, he put an arm around each.  “Now, listen to me good: there will be times when I’m away for a day or two.  It’s just the nature of life out here.  It doesn’t mean that anything’s wrong or that anything bad is happening to your pa.  It just means something has delayed me: bad weather or business I need to tend to or a dozen other things that come up unexpectedly.  But I will come back; I’ll always come back to you, because you boys are my life.  You understand?”

Both boys nodded, Hoss mostly for Little Joe’s sake and Joe because whatever big brother Hoss did must be right.

“Good,” Ben said.  “Now, give me your best hugs and kisses and let me be on my way.”

 * * * * *

             Ben had originally agreed to ride into Carson with the prisoners simply out of obligation to finish a job he’d started.  As he rode down the street toward the log building that served as the town’s jail, however, he began to realize that taking Mayfield and his accomplices into custody just might have been the easiest part of the job.  Crowds lined the way, cheering Mayfield’s capture, but some voices sounded a more chilling call.  “Why bother locking him up?” a man shouted above the roar.  “String him up to the nearest tree!”

“Echo the sentiment,” Harrison mumbled.

Though Ben knew the words hadn’t been loud enough for the crowd to hear, he felt a shiver run up his spine and a fervent wish fill his heart that Roy Coffee had not felt obliged to return to Virginia City that night.  Harrison was a decent man, but was he strong enough to resist the urge for revenge, especially when he had to do so at the risk of his own life?  Ben just didn’t know the man well enough to answer that, and the uncertainty was worrisome.

Perhaps it was unnecessary, he decided as the acting sheriff had the posse form a cordon flanking the path to the jail’s door.  Harrison prodded the prisoners between the ranks of armed men, who filed into the jail as soon as the lawman had passed inside.

“You think this place’ll hold us, once our friends get word we’re here?” Mayfield taunted.

“I think this’ll hold you,” Harrison growled, bringing over a set of irons.

“You’ll pay for this, Harrison, sure as your hero Blackburn did,” Mayfield snarled.

Harrison backhanded the man.  “Shut up!  Keep John Blackburn’s name out of your filthy mouth!”  He hit the man again.

Ben lurched forward to grab Harrison’s arm.  “Stop it, Harrison!  This isn’t the way to honor Sheriff Blackburn.”

“Rightly said,” declared the minister on the posse.  “I want justice for Blackburn as much as you do, Sheriff Harrison—we all do—but not at the price of injustice, even to such men as this.  That wasn’t Blackburn’s way.”

Harrison still seethed with anger, but he let himself be pulled away from the prisoner.  “Get him out of my sight,” he grunted, and a couple of posse members quickly put the irons on Mayfield and the other prisoners and led them back to the cells.

“Two of them need medical attention,” Ben said softly.

“They’ll get it,” Harrison snapped.  “Somebody fetch Doc Martin.”

“I will,” Billy offered and moved toward the door.

“I’ll go with you,” Clyde said, concerned for his son’s safety in the unruly crowd.  “You need us back here, Harrison?”

“Could use you later,” the acting sheriff said.  “You and the boy and your friend Cartwright can go have yourselves some supper and be back here by eight, if you don’t mind.”

“Glad to help out,” Ben said.

“Any of the rest of you willing to help out, stick around long enough for me to work out a schedule,” Harrison ordered.  “We’ll guard these men by shifts through the night.”

 * * * * *

             Ben pushed back from the table and patted his stomach.  “Nelly, a superb meal, as always, for which I give heartfelt thanks.”

Nelly blushed, as pleased with the compliment as if it had been her first.  Much as she liked to hear her cooking commended, however, she found it hard to accept high praise for such a simple meal.  “Sure you wouldn’t rather save your thanks for Sunday?” she asked lightly.

“You want me to stand up and testify to your excellence in church?” Ben teased.

She wagged her finger at him.  “I meant no such thing and you know it.  You are still planning to take Thanksgiving dinner with us this Sunday, ain’t you?”

Ben sobered.  “Still planning to, yes.  As I told the boys this afternoon, though, you never know what can intervene in this territory, whether from wild weather or wild men.”

“You worried about this Mayfield business?” Clyde asked.

“I don’t like the looks—or the sound—of that crowd,” Ben admitted.  “I think I’ll head back over to the jail, in case Harrison needs the extra help before time for my turn at guard duty.”

“Reckon we both should,” Clyde said with a sour scowl.  He didn’t favor leaving his warm hearth tonight, but he felt obligated.  Carson City was his town, so he had more responsibility to see justice done here than Ben did, though he’d be grateful to have his friend’s help.

“I want a second piece of pie first,” Billy put in, reaching for the pie plate.  “Then I’ll come on down and join you.”

“Now, don’t all of you need to go crowding in there,” Nelly protested.

Reading her concern for her son’s safety, especially with a husband already putting himself at risk, Ben agreed, saying, “No need to come before your time, Billy.  A couple of extra men is about all that jail will hold.”  He smiled mischievously.  “Stay here and help your mother with the dishes.”

Billy shook his head as he eased a slice of dried peach pie onto his plate.  “That’s Inger’s job.”

“Well, I wouldn’t mind sharing it!” the nine-year-old girl announced with a fling of one strawberry blonde braid over her shoulder.  “Wouldn’t kill you to help out; ain’t like you got any other job.”

“Hush, now, girl,” Nelly scolded.  “No need to be tauntin’ your brother ‘cause the Pony quit runnin’.  He’ll find work soon enough, and in the mean time he’s a big help to your pa in the smithy.”

“Right enough,” Clyde said.  “We’ll see you over at the jail around eight, son.  You ready, Ben?”

“Ready,” Ben replied.

The two of them bundled into their coats and walked out into the crisp, cold air of the November night.  The wind had died down, but the dropping temperature had formed a crust on top of the snow that crunched beneath their steps.  Carson City was usually quiet during the dinner hour, but tonight the air resounded with angry words, some hissed so low only the speaker’s closest companions could hear them, others shouted loud enough to be heard across the plaza.

As they neared the jail, Ben and Clyde could hear exuberant strains of “Dixie” from an off-key choir of sorts, assembled in front of the log building.

“Guess we know which side they’re on,” Clyde grunted.

“You knew Mayfield had southern sympathies?” Ben asked.

Clyde spat to one side.  “Couldn’t be around him long without knowing.”

Ben clucked his tongue.  “Have you been gambling, my friend?  And does sister Nelly know?”

“I ain’t, so there ain’t nothin’ for her to know,” Clyde snorted.  “Just seen the man around town enough to know who he pals with, and they’re secesh, every one.  Well, either that or fellow gamblers—or both.”

They pressed through the crowd, ignoring the protests of both factions: Mayfield’s friends calling them blasted Yankees, while the other side hollered for the killer’s hanging.  Ben banged his fist on the jail door and shouted, “Harrison, it’s Cartwright and Thomas.  Let us in.”

The door opened a crack, and a hand reached out to pull Ben in, with Clyde pushing through in his wake.

“You’re early,” Harrison said.

Ben shrugged.  “Thought you could use the help, and I had nothing else to do.”

“Same here,” Clyde said.  “If you don’t want us, say so.”  Frankly, he wished that Harrison would say exactly that and give him good reason to go home.

Harrison relaxed.  “No, you’re more than welcome.  Thanks for coming in.”  He glanced out the front window.  “Sorry if I was abrupt.  The noise outside tends to make a man edgy.”

“Gonna get edgier before morning,” called Mayfield from his cell.

“Shut up!” Harrison hollered.  To Ben and Clyde, he said, “Noise outside ain’t bad enough, but I got to put up with that.”  He jerked a thumb in the direction of the cell block.

“You think there’ll be trouble?” Ben asked, just as a knock came at the door.

“Oh, there’ll be trouble—for you!” came the taunting yell from the cell.  “Blackburn couldn’t hold me, much less this sorry runt.”

Harrison stormed back to the cell.  “Shut your mouth, Mayfield, before I shut it for you.”

“Make me,” Mayfield said, spraying spittle into the acting sheriff’s face.

With his left hand Harrison reached through the bars to grab Mayfield by the shirt and slammed him up against the iron barrier.  Drawing his gun, he held it inches from the prisoner’s face.  “One word, Mayfield; one more word, and it’ll be your last,” he threatened.

“Harrison, no!” Ben cried, rushing forward.

“Stay out of this, Cartwright,” Harrison hissed.  “Mayfield’s been asking for this ever since we brought him in.”

“Stop at once!” rang out an authoritative voice, and Ben spun around to see the governor of the territory, whom Clyde had just admitted.  “I order you to release your hold on that man,” Nye demanded.

Harrison did, but his chest continued to heave.  “He had it coming, Governor.”

“A judge and jury will decide what he has coming,” the governor declared, “and if you think otherwise, you are not fit to serve as sheriff.  Give me your gun, Mr. Harrison, and turn in your badge.”

“You got no right,” Harrison protested.

“As chief executive of this territory, I have every right.”  James Nye held out his hand.  “Your gun and your badge, sir.”

Harrison looked around the room for support.  Seeing none, he tossed his gun onto a nearby table and unpinned the star from his chest.  “You’ll be sorry,” he warned.  “Good luck on getting Mayfield to that fair trial you’re so keen on without my help.”  He strode to the door, flung it open and stalked out, slamming the door shut behind him.

“Good riddance to bad rubbish,” muttered one of the posse members assigned to that guard shift.

“No, not rubbish,” Ben said quietly.  “He wasn’t all bad, just so loyal to Blackburn that he let it cloud his judgment.”

“Perhaps,” Nye said severely, “but that makes him unfit for duty.”

Ben nodded.  “For now.”

“Yeah, but . . . but who’s g-gonna be in ch-charge now?” asked a young deputy  named Baker, who had served under Harrison.  His anxious face and stammering tongue reflected his obvious concern that the duty would now fall upon his inexperienced shoulders.

A hush fell over the room, punctuated by the rising roar outside, and all eyes turned to James Nye.  His reflective gaze surveyed the group and finally came to rest on Ben’s face.  “Mr. Cartwright, would you accept the responsibility?”

Overwhelmed, Ben found his tongue almost as unmanageable as had young Baker.  “I—I’m not a resident of Carson City, you realize?”

“Only makes you more suitable, in my opinion,” Nye stated.  “No feelings about Mayfield one way or the other—am I right?”

“You’re right,” Ben agreed.  “He was found on my land, so I helped to bring him in, but that’s all.”

“Your only interest is in seeing justice done,” Nye reiterated, “and I remember how well you acquitted yourself on our visit to the Paiutes.  I believe you’re the man for this job, Cartwright.”  He stretched out his palm, in which rested Harrison’s badge.  “Will you accept this?”

Ben’s mind swirled.  To accept that badge seemed tantamount to turning his back on vows made to those most precious to him, but the governor’s deep, dark eyes pleaded so eloquently that he found his fingers, almost of their own volition, closing on the tin star.  “This can’t be permanent,” he said, his voice croaking a bit.  “I have obligations to my own home . . . and family.”

Nye placed a supportive hand on Ben’s shoulder.  “Just for the night,” he said with a smile.  “I’ve already sent to Ft.Churchill for military support, and I expect them by morning.  I should have told you sooner.”

“You certainly should have!” Ben laughed in relief.

“I’ll check back with you during the night,” Nye said as he reached out to shake Ben’s hand.  “You’re not alone.”

“Be careful out there,” Ben said as the governor prepared to take his leave.

Shrugging, Nye shook his head.  “No one will bother me.”

Probably right, Ben thought, as he followed the man out, ready to offer protection, if needed.  Nye was popular, and his previous experience as New York Police Commissioner heightened people’s respect, especially regarding law enforcement.  Suddenly, the weight on Ben’s shoulders didn’t seem as heavy, even though he could hear the crowd buzzing with questions like “Who’s that?” when they saw him sporting the sheriff’s badge.  He didn’t feel obliged to answer; in fact, if pondering that kept them from stewing over the Mayfield mayhem, so much the better.

A lanky young body pushed through the crowd while it was distracted by Nye’s departure and conjectures about the new lawman.  “What’s going on?” Billy asked, tapping the badge on Ben’s shirt.

“Get inside,” Ben ordered crisply.

“Yes, sir!”  Billy popped a sassy salute, but when he saw Ben glower at him, he sobered and moved quickly for the door.

Ben backed through after him, exhaling with gusty relief as the door closed behind him.

“What’s going on?” Billy asked again.

“Your Uncle Ben’s decided to turn lawman,” the boy’s father announced with a lopsided grin.   “He’s the new sheriff of Carson.”

“Acting sheriff—and only for one night,” Ben reminded him firmly.

“What happened to Harrison?” Billy asked.

After a brief explanation Ben addressed the men gathering around him.  “I’m sure any of you could have handled this job as well as I,” he said.

“Don’t know as I could have,” Baker admitted.  “I only signed on as deputy last week, and I ain’t never seen the likes of that crowd out there.”

“Out there’s where they’re going to stay, son, so don’t worry about them,” Ben advised.  “Now, does anyone know the schedule of guards that Harrison had worked out?”

“I do,” Baker said and proceeded to fill the new acting sheriff in on who was expected to return and when.

“Whatever else may be said about him, Harrison knew how to organize,” Ben observed.

“Harrison was a fool to think he could fill Blackburn’s shoes,” came a jeering voice from the cell, “and you ain’t even fit to walk in Harrison’s, rancher man.”

His two cohorts chortled with glee at the jest.  Imagine that fool governor thinking a mere rancher could hold them in line!  “Is he even fit to traipse after cows?” one hooted.

“I’d advise you to keep your mouths shut,” Ben warned.

“Or what, mister?  You’ll ram your gun barrel down it, like Harrison did?” Mayfield heckled.  “Don’t do it in front of the governor or you’ll get yourself fired, too, and then who’ll these brave souls get to lead them?”

Refusing to be baited, Ben smiled judicially as he shook his head.  “No, but I might consider putting a gag down your throat—and I doubt the governor would object.”

The laughter died down in the cells, and Mayfield threw himself down on his cot, feigning a sudden desire for sleep.

Sleep was a luxury not afforded Ben or his assistants throughout that long night.  The noise outside ebbed and flowed like waves on the ocean he used to sail, without the rhythmic comfort of their lapping against the sides of the ship.  Ben kept a steady watch through the window, while the others inside dealt with the tension in whatever way they could.  Restless Billy couldn’t sit still, even when his father sharply ordered him to “stop that confounded pacing.”  Baker handled his nerves by constantly talking about them, while others tried to relax by swapping yarns or retelling their favorite Dan Dequille quaint from the Territorial Enterprise.

“Sure wish there really was an ammonia tank hat like he wrote about,” one man said.  “Would have come in handy to keep my head cool, crossin’ the Forty-MileDesert.”

“Yeah, but you gotta remember what happened to the inventor,” Clyde reminded them.

The other man slapped his leg.  “Couldn’t shut the blasted thing off and froze to death, with an icicle drippin’ off his nose!”

“Even with it bein’ a hun’erd seventeen in the shade!” another recalled.

Loud as the hoots of laughter were, they couldn’t drown out the noise from outside, which suddenly rose to a level of frenzy unheard before.

Rushing over to stand by Ben, Billy tried to see out the window.  “They comin’?” he asked anxiously.

Ben peered earnestly through the spattered window.  “No,” he said, “they’re fighting among themselves.”  He moved for the door.

“What you doin’?” Clyde demanded.

“Let ‘em kill each other off, if’n they’s a mind to,” said another man, who’d been as fidgety as Billy, if not more.

“I can’t do that,” Ben grunted, and he slipped through the door, shutting it behind him.  For a moment he stood, surveying the situation.  Too busy battling each other, the opposing factions ignored him until he pointed his rifle to the sky and fired.

As one, the crowd turned toward him.  “Neighbors, this behavior isn’t gaining any of you what you want, and it needs to stop now.”

“Who do you think you are, mister?” called a spokesman, pushing his way to the front.

“Just some rancher, mixin’ in where he don’t belong,” another man snorted.  “This is a Carson City matter, Cartwright, so why don’t you hightail it back to the Ponderosa afore you get hurt?

“Yes, I’m a rancher,” Ben agreed, “but there’s one thing you need to remember about ranchers.”  He paused until he had everyone’s full attention and then raised his rifle, though careful not to point it at anyone in the crowd.  “Ranchers grow proficient in the use of firearms, in providing both meat for our tables and protection for our land.  Mayfield learned that the hard way, and so will any man who tries to take him from custody—for whatever purpose.”

“Words I’d give heed to, gentlemen,” said Governor Nye as he mounted the steps to stand beside Ben.  “I advise you all to disperse and go to your own homes.”  He turned toward Ben.  “Shall we go inside, Sheriff Cartwright, and give our friends the opportunity to mull over your wise words?”

“I trust they will,” Ben said loudly enough for the crowd to hear him.  Matching the courage shown by the governor, he turned his back on the murmuring men below him, and they walked into the jail together.

He exhaled with relief as soon as the door shut behind them.  “Governor,” he said, stretching out his hand, “I was never happier to see you.”

“I said I’d be back,” Nye reminded him as he returned the handshake, “but it seemed to me you had the situation well in hand.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Ben said.  “Nevertheless, thank you for your timely intervention.”

Nye made his way to each man there, gave them words of commendation and encouragement and then took his leave again.  As promised, he returned every couple of hours to ascertain that all was well and to lend his support.  The crowd seemed to quiet down after Ben’s confrontation with them, and from his frequent observations through the window, he thought the numbers had dwindled, as well, especially as midnight approached.  The men taking turns at the guard post were able to enter and exit without hindrance.  Some elected to stay, once they arrived, catching a few winks by turn; but others, like much of the crowd outside, evidently decided that it was time to be in their beds and seemed content to let others decide the outcome of the night.

To Ben, the night seemed endless, and despite the people surrounding him, he felt alone—alone in the responsibility and alone with thoughts and feelings that sent him reeling from one extreme to the other, like a drunken sailor.  Fear battled with intrinsic courage, pride in the governor’s confidence in him with undulating feelings of inadequacy, hopes for a larger role in territorial affairs with the guilt of potentially leaving his children orphans.

Finally, the first faint light of daybreak disclosed a sight Ben’s eyes had searched for throughout the long, lonely night.  He turned from the window and smiled at the men who had stayed with him during those dark, tense hours.  “The soldiers from Ft.Churchill are here,” he said. “Rouse the others, so we can turn this responsibility over to them in an orderly manner.”

“Turnin’ it over to ‘em will be a pleasure,” Clyde said with a grin as he shook the shoulder of his slumbering son.

“Heads high, men,” Ben said as fifteen soldiers formed a line in front of the jail and a lieutenant stepped toward the door.  “You’ve done work to be proud of this night.”

The men, civilians though they were, formed a line almost as regimented as that of the soldiers.  Eyes shining with pride in them, Ben turned and opened the door.  “Lieutenant,” he greeted the man approaching him, “you are a sight for sore—and I do mean sore—eyes.”

The lieutenant stepped through the door and introduced himself.  “We are proud to assist you, Sheriff Harrison.”  He seemed surprised by the round of laughter that met his greeting.

“I’m not Harrison,” Ben explained.  “He—uh—had to resign suddenly.  Governor Nye appointed me to take his place, just until you arrived.  My name is Ben Cartwright.”

Looking dazed, the lieutenant absently accepted the hand Ben extended.  “Resigned?  But I was told to report to Harrison,” the lieutenant almost babbled; then military discipline reasserted his self-control, and he asked with an authoritative voice, “Is there no lawman here at all?”

“Just me,” young Baker admitted hesitantly.  “I’m the deputy—the new deputy.”  The very way he said the word “new” emphasized his lack of experience and confidence.

“The rest of us are just volunteers, lieutenant,” Ben explained, “and more than pleased to turn this responsibility over to the professionals.”

The lieutenant nodded crisply.  “The professionals will be more than pleased to accept the responsibility until such time as sufficient local law enforcement can be established.”

The turnover was handled efficiently, and soon the men who had guarded the three prisoners throughout the night were on their way home for some much-needed sleep.  At Clyde’s invitation, Ben borrowed a bed for a few hours’ rest, but he refused Nelly’s insistence that he should stay the night before returning home.  “The boys will be worried,” he said, and she let him go without further argument after obtaining his promise to return with his sons for a meal of Thanksgiving on Sunday.

 * * * * *

             “Pass me some more of that goose Billy shot, please,” Hoss requested.

“You are a goose,” Inger Thomas tittered.

“Mind your tongue, Inger,” her big brother ordered.

“You’re not the boss of me,” the girl declared, letting about a quarter inch of her tongue slip out in Billy’s direction.

“Well, I am,” her father thundered, “and I won’t have you sassin’ a guest.”

“It’s just Hoss,” Inger mumbled, so low that no one but Hoss heard her.  He just scowled at her and took the plate Billy was passing to him.

“Now, Clyde,” Ben said.  “She’s only teasing.”

“Manners is manners,” Clyde insisted and Ben nodded.  He would have demanded no less of his own boys, had this meal been held at the Ponderosa.

“Just don’t see why anyone would pick Billy’s old goose over that fat turkey,” Inger said.

“I’ve frequently wanted to cook Billy’s goose,” Ben observed dryly.

“Ma does a better job,” Billy thrust back with a saucy grin.

“I want ‘em both!” Hoss exclaimed with enthusiasm.  “Goose and turkey.”

“Me, too,” Little Joe chimed in.  “Goose and turkey, just like Hoss.”

“You’d best eat what’s already on your plate before asking for more, Little Joe,” Ben said with an indulgent chuckle.  He was so thankful to be safely back with his boys that either one of them could have gotten away with just about anything short of—murder, he might ordinarily have finished that phrase, but with Blackburn’s death and its dangerous aftermath so recent a memory, murder was nothing to joke about.

Ben counted himself among the most blessed of men.  It had been a difficult year, no denying that, but there had been bountiful blessings, too.  The nights still seemed lonely without Marie at his side, but he had his boys: here at home, Hoss and Little Joe with all their challenges and charms and Adam off at school, doing him proud.  He had life—vibrant, promising life—and family and friends to help him enjoy it.  If there were times he still yearned for more, he could only trust that God, in ways known only to Him, would satisfy every desire of his heart.

 ~ ~ Notes ~ ~

 In November, 1861, California volunteers replaced the regular army at FortChurchill, so the Sixth Infantry could be sent to the eastern battle zone.

John Blackburn was stabbed and killed on November 18, 1861, by William Mayfield under the circumstances described in this chapter.  Although Harrison is a fictional character, Governor Nye did have to disarm a former deputy and send to Ft.Churchill for a military guard, as depicted here.  Mayfield was tried and convicted on February 28, 1862, but escaped on March 15^th.  He was eventually killed in a saloon brawl in Montana.

Dan De Quille was the pen name for William Wright, a man more esteemed in his time than his colleague on the Territorial Enterprise, Samuel Clemens.  His “quaints” entertained the newspaper’s readers with a gentler humor.  A contemporary contrasted the two in this way:  “Mark Twain, with his droll humor, would lead his victim up to the shambles he had in waiting for him and the unconscious creature would never suspect what was going to happen until the ax fell.  But Dan had a softer way.  The intended victim would know all the time after the first ten lines that he was going to be sacrificed, but he was under a spell, enjoyed the process, and laughed after he was downed.”  Today, De Quille is best known for The Big Bonanza, his history of the Comstock Lode, although collections of his humorous works are also available.