SUMMARY:  With Christmas just around the corner, Little Joe Cartwright learns exactly how far his Yankee Granite Head of a big brother will go, just how much he will do, in order to keep him safe.

RATING: PG

WORD COUNT: 10,301

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Bonanza
~*~*~ Advent Calendar ~*~*~
Day 1

You Can Bet On It 

 

“How long do you think you’ll be gone?” asked Adam, eyeing the amount of clothing and gear his father was rolling up for his valise. Normally a spare packer – having been shipboard all those years had taught Benjamin Cartwright the art of traveling light – Adam was a tad surprised by the volume of items on the bed.

 

Here it was, just a little over a week before Christmas, and Ben was heading out to Fort Genoa, formerly a Mormon Missionary encampment and now a fully rebuilt stockade and trading post to supply pioneers heading further west to California. It was here that a meeting had been set between representatives of the Army and several local horse breeders to bid on a big Army contract to provide saddle and dray horses. When Ben had been invited to bid, he’d initially planned to turn down the opportunity. But his youngest son, Joe pushed him to consider it, as the boy had certain knowledge of a herd of mares, their stallion and young stock that were currently inhabiting a sort of winter quarters in a high box canyon, protected from the worst of the winter winds and weather.

 

“Well, I know it will be at least four, perhaps even five or six days,” Ben admitted, ruefully, glancing back at his eldest. “I really am sorry to put keeping an eye on your brothers on your shoulders so close to the holidays.”

 

Adam shrugged. “Oh, I’m not concerned about … “ he stopped, then scratched an ear, chuckling ruefully.  “Well, I suppose I am,” he amended, thinking about trying to corral both Hoss and Joe while keeping the place going during winter weather.   He shrugged, however, shaking his head. “But, at least the heaviest of the winter work is done until after the New Year. It’s really just maintenance work now. Do you feel as though you have a good chance at the bid? Whom do you believe will be our biggest competitor?”

 

“Actually, I do. I don’t think Neville Granger’s going to be able to come in with as low a bid as we will. It will cost dear in terms of men… you, Bob and probably young Ed will have to break most of the horses, with Joe perhaps working with the gentlest ones after they’re broken. Your salary and Joe’s can be absorbed by Ponderosa Enterprises, where Nev’s hands all need to be paid. I really can’t think of any outfit with nearly the manpower nor the raw stock to even come to close to meeting the numbers we can likely turn in. That most recent round up of mares from the buttes was especially advantageous for us. Good bit of spotting on Joe’s part.”

 

“Yes, it was,” Adam admitted, grudgingly. He had to give the kid his due.  Joe had been so adamant that they could gather up the wild horses that he’d played hooky from school for two days tracking the herd. Along with one of the ranch hands, he’d managed to scout out exactly where they were, earning Adam’s grudging respect. He also earned his father’s ire, until Ben saw the stock and realized there were some truly sound animals in that group that could sway the Army to their side.

 

“He’d just better not pull any more nonsense between now and the holiday, or he’ll find himself standing up for his Christmas dinner,” grunted Ben, rubbing the back of his neck in exasperation. Keeping Joe in school was becoming a full-time job and his father was heartily sick of it! He pointed a finger at his oldest son. “Don’t you let him get away with it again, you hear? He’s only got four days left before the school holiday, so you make sure he gets there each and every day!”

 

“Well, short of literally hogtying him, dumping him in the back of the buckboard, and then driving to Eagle Station with him personally,  I really can’t see how I can ensure that happens,” responded Adam in mild exasperation, a black eyebrow raised dubiously.

 

His father harrumphed, shaking his head, and gestured toward the supplies on the floor by his bureau. “Do me a favor and hand me those, will you?”

 

Adam followed the older man’s gesture, and his other eyebrow rose in question. But he handed his father the boot black, buffing cloth and boot trees without comment. The effort to control his smirk wasn’t lost on his father, however.

 

“Yes, yes, I know,” muttered Ben, irritated at Adam’s questioning look at his supplies. “But the chances are I’ll need to attend church while I’m there, and … well…”

 

Adam chuckled, a droll expression on his face. “I know, Pa,” he reassured, with a grin, remembering the comely widow woman who ran the boarding house in Mormon Station that his father liked to frequent on business trips there. “You want to look your best… for the Lord.”

 

“Watch it, young man!”  But even Ben couldn’t keep a stern face in this instance. He coughed and put his eyes back to the shirts and spare trousers he was packing. “I should be back by the 23^rd at the very latest, barring any bad weather. So, God willing, I’ll be home for the party Christmas Eve, more likely a day or two beforehand.”

 

Adam glanced his way. “Joe would never forgive you if you didn’t,” he said, with a smile, handing him the five pairs of rolled socks and drawers from the pile on the bed.

 

Ben sighed. “I know,” he said, softly, and raised his eyes to his eldest. “I’ll do my level best, but you know how important -”

 

Adam nodded, patting the air. “Pa, I know exactly how important this contract could be, and Joe’s not a child. He’s fifteen. He’ll understand, even if … well, if something happens and -” But he couldn’t finish.

 

“You hold that party anyway,” ordered Ben, sternly, putting a hand on his eldest’s shoulder and gazing into the young man’s hazel eyes. “Don’t let business get in the way of our usual family gathering, all right? And make sure those brothers of yours get to services come Christmas morning. No nonsense.”

 

“I will, sir, of course,” nodded Adam, praying for a timely snowstorm. “Don’t you worry.”

 

“Well,” sighed Ben, strapping shut his valise, and buckling his saddlebags. “I’d best go break the news to your younger brothers.”

 

“Better you than me,” muttered Adam under his breath, imagining the uproar Pa’s news would evoke.

 

“What was that?”

 

“Oh, I just said ‘ I agree,’ Pa.”

 

~-o0o-~

 

Lugging the large woven laundry basket upstairs, Hop Sing mentally made lists of what last-minute supplies would be needed for holiday feast in three days’ time. Boss had invited the honorable Doctor Martin and his wife, Isaac Roop (widowed about five years after Ben himself), and Sheriff Coffee to join them for dinner on the night before their Christian holiday. These good family friends had been part of the celebrations of the Cartwrights for several years, some since before Marie Cartwright had died, and all indications were that the weather should hold. Hop Sing kept a mental tally of what he knew was in his pantry and compared it with that which he knew he would need to pick up this afternoon from Eagle Station when he drove the wagon in.

 

Hop Sing mechanically opened each of the boys’ bedroom doors and retrieved their laundry. He was pleased to note that, as always, Mr. Adam’s room was neat as a pin, and that Mr. Hoss had his things ready for him by his bureau. To his pleasure, even Mr. Little Joe had done what was expected of him and had his dirty clothes in the basket next to his armoire.

 

As he bore his load back downstairs to the washhouse, Hop Sing pondered the wisdom of making a large charlotte russe for dessert this year or sticking with the family’s usual favorite, mincemeat pie. Perhaps both this time? Missy Cartwright had loved charlotte russe, as did Mr. Adam, though the Boss always insisted on this ‘mince’ of fruit and nuts for a pie. Strange customs, these… 

 

In the washroom, Hop Sing set the white items to soak in water and lye, and began sorting the more soiled items to be washed, and noting what needed mending. He never bothered to check Mr. Adam’s trousers, as he was always careful to empty his pockets. He’d do a cursory check of the Boss and Mr. Hoss’ pants, but without fail turned Mr. Little Joe’s pockets inside out. Thankfully, he’d reached an age when it was unlikely to find rodents or worms in them any longer. Hop Sing shuddered to remember some of the plunder he’d unexpectedly unearthed in years gone by.

 

As he mechanically thought through what would be needed at the trading post, he turned the pockets out on Joseph’s school clothes, and stopped his ruminations as a hook and fishing line, and a folded piece of paper fluttered to the floor. Frowning, he leaned down and picked up the paper, setting both the fish hook and line to the side. Hop Sing recognized that type of paper. He thought a moment, remembering:  Boss had left for Mormon Station the day before Little Joe’s final week at school before the holiday. And yet this note, a note from his teacher, was dated the Friday before then. The Chinese man recognized the stationery Miss Jones used. That meant the boy had not given the note to his father before he left. That didn’t bode well.

 

Frowning, he studied the note, and his frown deepened as he read. The side door opened and Joe, himself, came in lugging an armful of logs and a bucket of kindling for the washhouse fire.

 

“Hey, Hop Sing!” he greeted, a big smile on his face. “D’ya want more kindling than this for in here? Or should I just bring it into -”

 

Joe’s eyes caught the sheet of stationery Hop Sing held up, his expression inexorable, and the boy’s face fell. Uh oh…

 

“What this?” demanded the Chinese man, setting aside the pile of mending and stalking over to the youngster, shaking the letter under Joe’s nose.

 

“Uh…”

 

“It letter from Missy Jones! You play hooky! Number One Son hear about this, him warm Number Three Son’s britches!” declared Hop Sing. “You velly naughty boy!”

 

“Now, Hop Sing, don’t go gettin’ all hot an’ bothered,” protested Joe, trying – unsuccessfully – to calm the Chinaman down.

 

“You no tell Hop Sing calm down, him tell you! You lie to honorable father!”

 

“I did not!” protested Joe, hotly, dropping the logs by the kitchen hearth, and setting down the bucket with a clang!

 

“You no tell! Same as lie,” scolded the Chinese man, again waving the letter under Joe’s nose. “You know this! Yes?!”

 

Glaring, Joe saw that this wasn’t one of Hop Sing’s blusters; this was ‘for real.’  He sighed, deflated a bit, and scratched his head, pushing his hat a little further back. “Well, I -”

 

“No, ‘well!’ Is lie!” Hop Sing, for the life of him, couldn’t recall the English phrase Mr. Adam used to name this transgression but knew it had been placed at Number Three Son’s feet more than once. The boy was slowly learning that a falsehood didn’t have to be spoken to have been perpetrated.

 

The boy sighed, caught. “Yes,” grunted Joe, shamed faced.

 

Hop Sing nodded sternly. “So… why then Hop Sing not tell Numbah One Son? You disobey! Boss be angry. Numbah One Son be angry. Hop Sing angry! All because small boy not speak truth!”

 

Joe winced.

 

“Hop Sing, it ain’t that I wasn’t gonna tell him, it’s just… well, I didn’t want Pa to worry before he left,” he murmured, peering up at the cook under a fringe of dark lashes.

 

Hop Sing raised an eyebrow in an uncanny resemblance to Adam…

 

“Boy do as Hop Sing say,” he ordered, sternly. “Boy bring note to Numbah One Son. No more foolishment!”

 

“But -”

 

“No more foolishment!!!”

 

The gargantuan sigh that emitted from the wiry boy’s frame could have shifted the Sierra Nevada Mountains. Hop Sing nodded firmly, glaring, and handed the boy the note. Unhappily, Joe took the note and sighed. “Yes, sir,” he murmured.

 

Hop Sing studied him, knowing this boy better than he knew himself. He remembered many conversations with the Boss’ late wife about this young one. “You good boy when try,” he said, grudgingly. “Missy Cahtlight know you well. Teach Hop Sing to watch you. To know when plan naughty things.”

 

Embarrassed, Joe glanced up, guiltily, at the man, then flushed in discomfort, eyes dropping once more to his boots. “I don’t really mean to be bad, Hop Sing, truly I don’t.”

 

Sighing, Hop Sing shook his head. “Hop Sing know this. Boy get… get carry away.”  The man rubbed the back of his neck. “You promise… you no do again?”

 

Joe’s eyes came up, hope making him suddenly have more life.  He opened his mouth but clamped it shut once more when Hop Sing raised a finger.

 

“Hop Sing no take more foolishment! No lie! You no lie to Hop Sing’s face while honorable fatha gone and Numbah One Son in charge!”

 

His black eyes held the boy’s emerald-green ones, relentless. Joe had never lied directly to his face. Never, in all his fifteen years. There was just something in those eyes, in that face, that made it impossible for the boy to bear false witness to him.

 

His shoulders drooping, Joe nodded. “Yes, Hop Sing,” he muttered.

 

“Yes, what?” demanded the Chinese man, adamant for compliance. “You say!”

 

Rolling his eyes for a moment, then firming his lips and respectfully gazing at the man, Joe voiced his promise. “I promise not to lie to your face while Pa is away and Adam’s in charge.”

 

Hop Sing frowned, realizing there were countless ways Joseph Cartwright could get around the loopholes in that promise. He irritably snapped a couple of sentences in Chinese, then gestured toward the bucket. “Put kindling in bin, neat.”

 

Sighing, Joe bent over pouring the kindling into the wood bin for that purpose beside the fireplace and then straightened yelping in surprise and pain when he felt the incredibly fast and sharply painful connection of Hop Sing’s wooden spoon – twice! – to his posterior.

 

He looked reproachfully at the houseman as he rubbed at the sting in his hind end, but the Chinese man stared him down. “For say lie to honorable fatha,” the man sternly intoned. He harrumphed and gestured at the note, and peered at the boy, now far more subdued and penitent. “Hop Sing… Hop Sing no tell Numbah One Son. But you be good boy!”  he warned, waving the spoon under the boy’s nose.

 

Joe nodded emphatically, wincing as the sting continued to burn.

 

As Hop Sing stalked toward the sideboard in the dining room to set the table Joe sighed, and winced again, rubbing his backside. Doggone, but he’s downright lethal with that spoon! Glumly he pondered his options. Well, no matter what, I can’t lie to Hop Sing. I just can’t. I gave my word. And like Pa says, a man ain’t nothin’ without his word and his good name. So, I’m gonna have to figure out how to pull this off without that.

 

And suddenly, he brightened.

 

He wouldn’t lie.

 

He’d get Hoss to do it.

 

~-o0o-~

 

“Nope, I ain’t gonna do it, Little Joe.” Hoss’ blue eyes were narrowed into irritated slits as he glared at his little brother.

 

“Aw, Hoss, c’mon!” begged Joe, gripping the taller young man’s sleeve. “It ain’t like it’s forever, it’s just one day.”

 

“One day, my Aunt Tillie!” blustered Hoss. “You ain’t been to school but one day – one day, mind! – since Pa’s been gone! And it ain’t like there’s a whole week left to account for!”

 

Joe winced. That was true. He’d skipped day before yesterday, unbeknownst to Adam. Hoss knew, only having been in town that afternoon and spotted the boy talking animatedly with an itinerant peddler  off to the side of Dutch Pete’s. “But you know I gotta find some way to earn enough cash to get Pa his Christmas present! You won’t lend it to me, so -”

 

“It ain’t that I won’t lend it to ya, an’ you know it! It’s that I ain’t got none left to lend, little brother! I already done bought my gifts, unlike some people I know who always wait until the very last minute!” argued Hoss, shaking his head. “An’ this ain’t nothin’ little. You’re askin’ me to lie for ya, Joseph, and I jest plain ain’t gonna do it!”

 

Joe rolled his eyes. He sure picks the most inconvenient times to get all big brothery…

 

“It’s just this last day before the winter vacation, Hoss! You know nothin’ really gets done today! We’ll only be singin’ dumb songs, and cleanin’ the blackboard, and cleaning the erasers, and makin’ sure books are tidy, and slates and slate pencils are accounted for,” groaned Joe. He flung his arms up. “She’s gonna make us read some goopy, romantic nonsense, like she always does before a holiday! Hoss, c’mon, please?! Take pity on a brother!”

 

Hoss almost groaned himself, considering what he knew of Miss Abigail, and thought how Joe’s estimation was probably spot on. Ever since Miss Abigail Jones had been hired to teach in a thrown-together building beside the trading post in Eagle Station two years back, all the Cartwrights had heard was the never-ending moaning and groaning of their youngest member, grousing about the unfair leaning toward romance and chivalry that this new female teacher embraced so whole-heartedly in plays and literature.

 

Trying a different tack, Hoss turned on his little brother. “Why ain’t you asked Adam for a loan?”

 

Joe rolled his eyes. “You’re kidding, right? Old Pinchpenny Cartwright?”

 

“Aw, Joe, you know he’d -”

 

“He said no.”

 

Hoss stopped, abruptly, his eyes widening. “Really?” Hoss was surprised. Normally Adam was their ‘friend in need.’

 

“Really!” snapped back Joe, not bothering to mention that it had been the third or fourth time in the last two months he’d “borrowed” money from Adam, money that was yet to be repaid.

 

“Not a chance, younger brother,” Adam had said breezily, as he replaced the pen in Pa’s pen holder and carefully blotted the ledger to make sure the ink was dry. “I am not a bank.”

 

“Just a loan?” wheedled Joe.

 

Adam chuckled and eyed the boy sitting on the edge of their father’s desk with a slight pout on his handsome face.

 

“That’s what you said four weeks ago, and again ten days ago. Dream on, sweet prince.”

 

“But I have to get something nice for Pa for Christmas!”

 

“Should have thought of that before.” Adam rose to his feet, closing the ledger with a sharp snap and firmly nudging the youngster off the edge of the big mahogany desk. “Excuse me, please.”

 

“Well, I know I should have, but it just creeped up on me, surprising-like…”

 

“Really,” commented Adam dryly as he reshelved the ledger behind the desk in his father’s usual place, then turned back to his baby brother, eyebrow raised and shaking his head, clicking his tongue in an exaggerated tsk! tsk! “They moved Christmas from December 25th again?  Those dastardly calendar makers…”

 

“But doggone it, Adam, you’re my brother!” complained Joe, desperate now, all but stomping his booted foot.

 

“Key phrase in there being ‘brother.’  Not ‘bank.’”

 

“But -”

 

“Nope. Figure it out.”

 

“Well, see if I get YOU anything nice!” snapped Joe, hands on his hips in frustration.

 

Adam snorted, crossing his arms over his chest and grinning at the boy. “You haven’t bought me a Christmas gift of your own volition since you were born, Little Joe, so you can forget that line of attack.” He tipped his head to one side. “You could always sell something, you know.”

 

“Like what?”

 

“That rifle of yours?”

 

Joe blanched as though Adam had suggested selling his mother.

 

Adam chuckled. “Ah, well, you’ve got a good head on your shoulders. I’m sure you’ll think of something,” he said with a grin, patting the boy’s cheek on the way by. He was sure that if he turned just then he’d be treated to some remarkably rude mimicry of him – likely accompanied by an obscene gesture – so he decided to just keep heading out to the kitchen to beg a cup of coffee from Hop Sing…

 

“So, you can just forget it,” grunted Joe. “You see I ain’t got any options left, don’t’cha?”  he further begged.

 

Hoss nearly moaned aloud; there was them cow eyes of Joe’s, the ones he never could seem to hold out against…

 

~-o0o-~

 

“Is he ill, Hoss?” asked Miss Jones, concerned. “He seemed fine day before yesterday, if a little too … erm… active.”

 

“No’m, Miss Abigail, he ain’t sick,” Hoss reassured hurriedly. “It’s just that… well, it’s just that with Pa gone, Little Joe and me, we’ve gotta do the work of three, if you know what I mean. And Pa figgered that since this here was the last day before vacation, it wouldn’t be too bad if he missed just this’un.”

 

Abigail’s eyes narrowed with suspicion as she watched the big youngster’s face get redder and redder as he struggled to meet her eyes (and failed miserably, she noted).

 

If Little Joe Cartwright is working today, I’m Marie Antoinette. “Erik Cartwright, are you telling me the truth?” she demanded, sternly.

 

He gulped, panic filling his features, and she sighed, shaking her head.

 

“Never mind. I’ll bring this up with your older brother when we see each other at the Christmas Social tomorrow night. He is still planning to attend, is he not?” she asked, anxiously, her eyes boring into Hoss’.

 

“Oh, yes’m!” Hoss nodded energetically. Relieved to be no longer being under her scrutiny, he began edging his way toward the door.

 

“All right, then. Adam and I will discuss it then. Thank you, Hoss,” she sighed, dismissively.

 

“Yes, ma’am, Miss Abigail. You have a good day now, ma’am,” he nodded hurriedly, scooting out the door before she could say anything further.

 

Once outside, in the cold winter breeze, Hoss finally felt able to breathe normally once more.

 

Dadburn yer ornery hide, Joseph! he fumed, shaking his head as he stalked toward the trading post to pick up the supplies Adam had sent him in to procure. Well, boy, you’re on your own with Adam once that lady gits hold o’him and bends his ear at the social!

 

He stopped short, his eyes widening at first in horror, then wincing, his face falling as he realized that he, too, would be in Adam’s line of fire after Abigail Jones finished haranguing him at the social. Oh, drat you, anyhow, Little Joe!

 

~-o0o-~

 

Wearily, young Joe Cartwright rubbed his mittened hands together as he leaned against the porch upright of the Widow Gantry’s boarding house, morosely trying to figure out what else he might try to come up with to find the actual to make Pa’s Christmas present possible. So far, he’d come up empty with every single idea he’d had.

 

He’d gone to the trading post and talked to George Jollenshee^[i] about working for them, sweeping floors, stocking, tidying, whatever they needed, in order to earn some money, but the man regretfully said that they were just about depleted anyhow from everyone coming to get their supplies before the big snows that usually hit around this time of year, so there was nothing really to help with.

 

Joe then got the idea to ask Mr. Jollenshee about work needed at the livery stable that he and the Hall brothers also owned but came up dry there as well.

 

“I’m that sorry, Joe,” the man said apologetically if a little hurriedly as he tried to find a way to get rid of this persistent kid. “Ain’t got no horses in place right now. Frank rented out the last one, so there ain’t gonna be no curryin,’ muckin’ or feedin’ to do for at least four days… likely until after Christmas.”

 

Joe had tried talking to Mrs. Gantry, here at the boarding house, with the offer to chop wood, lug things, whatever she needed, to earn a little money. He even threw caution to the winds and played a little on sympathy, telling her it was to buy his father a nice Christmas present.

 

Foiled again.

 

“Oh, Joe, that’s kind of you, but honestly two of the men I have boarding here do all that for me to help save on their rent,” she’d said apologetically. Seeing his downcast face, she sadly offered him a couple of cookies. “Wish I could be o’ more help, honey.”

 

“Thanks, ma’am, that’s all right. I appreciate it,” he’d said disconsolately, nibbling on the treats, and racking his brain to come up with something, anything, to end his broke financial status. Well, he wasn’t actually broke.  He had exactly two bits in his pocket.

 

And this situation was made all the worse because he’d found the perfect gift for Pa! It was interesting and real tasteful and different, that was for sure! Joe was positive his father’s friends wouldn’t have anything like them…

 

The peddler had ridden into town two days back with his mule drawing the wagon, its bells jingling with the excitement that accompanied treasures not usually seen in these parts. And Joe had been as enthusiastic as the other youngsters and adults to get a glimpse of the man’s wares. The peddler was a jovial individual, with a face that looked remarkably foxlike with his longish nose and red hair, Joe thought, smiling to himself.

 

For the most part, Joe was mildly interested in the gloves, pots and pans, books, lengths of cloth, candle molds, knives, and various other bric-a-brac that the man had to offer, but then he spotted something, and his green eyes widened.

 

There, in a bed of black velvet, was a pair of men’s cufflinks, silver from the look of them, and with a small gold cloisonné fleur de lis emblazoned on each. The sight of that design, the motif something that his mother had loved and which was on several of her own pieces of jewelry as well as the back of her treasured silver comb, brush and mirror set, evoked a longing in young Joe Cartwright that he couldn’t truly explain. Couldn’t truly account for. Other than to know that it would be a connection between his beloved pa and his lost and cherished mother.

 

And Joe knew he had to have them.

 

He stood to the side, waiting for the crowd to thin, anxiously praying that no one would ask about or claim them. When the crowd cleared and the peddler cheerfully counted his take, Joe drew in a breath and stepped up.

 

“Excuse me.”

 

The fox-faced man looked up, keen eyes studying the youngster. Decent quality clothes… ain’t no miner’s kid, this.. might actually have some scratch. “What can I do for ya, son?”

 

Joe gestured to the cufflinks. “How much are you askin’ for those?”

 

The man followed Joe’s pointed finger, then chuckled and looked back at him, his brown eyes twinkling. “A bit dandified for you, ain’t they?”

 

Joe flushed. “Not for me. I want to give ‘em to my Pa. For Christmas.”

 

The man’s eyebrows rose. So, more depth to this youngster than I figured. “Well, they’re silver, mind, and that’s good workmanship, even if they are used. Got ‘em off a riverboat gambler down on his luck.”

 

Joe clamped his mouth shut and continued to gaze at the man, making him chuckle again. “Three dollars, son.”

 

Joe paled. “Th-three whole dollars?” He sagged, sighing. “Well, that’s more than I can do. Thanks, anyway.”

 

The boy started to turn away, and the peddler reached out a hand, gently touching his shoulder. “Why those?” he asked, softly.

 

Joe shrugged. “My ma… my ma was from New Orleans. That design on ‘em…

 

“The fleur de lis.”

 

Joe nodded. “It reminds me of her. She liked it. I thought he’d like to be reminded, too.”

 

The man nodded, thoughtfully. “She passed, eh?”

 

Joe nodded, looking away. “Ten years ago.”

 

The peddler looked again at the haul he’d made… far better than he’d expected in this little trading post, to be honest, and he was still here for a couple more days. “Well, I’ll tell you what… what’s your name, boy?”

 

“Joe.”

 

“I’ll tell you, Joe, that’s a right nice sentiment, to want something for your pa that he can remember your ma by… though I dare say just lookin’ at you’ll remind him of her, eh?”  He smiled at the youngster.

 

Joe blushed a little and shrugged his shoulders. “That’s what Pa says,” he murmured, figuring the man wasn’t going to budge.

 

The man pursed his lips and nodded to himself. “I can go down to two dollars, ‘cos I’m feelin’ in the Christmas spirit.”

 

Joe sighed.

 

“Still too dear?”

 

The boy nodded.

 

“Well, I’m gonna be in town right up to Christmas Eve, so if you change your mind, I’ll be around, son.”

 

“I appreciate the offer, mister,” Joe shrugged, “thanks anyway.”

 

Now, as Joe leaned against the porch upright, he gazed disconsolately out at the street. Suddenly, his eyes lit on the door to Dutch Pete’s. His mittened left hand was in his pocket, absently rubbing his two bits together. Maybe… maybe he could get some work there? Pa’d bust a gut if he knew he was in the saloon. Frankly, Adam would do the same. Maybe even bust his tail for it. But Joe was out of options.

 

Grimly setting his mouth in resolve, the fifteen-year-old strode across the muddied street and toward the batwing doors.

 

~-o0o-~

 

Joe sat quietly, assessing the men at the table with him, trying to read the room. He had a feeling that Bob Franks didn’t have jack for a hand; otherwise, he wouldn’t look so pitiful. And Mr. Henderson, too, was trying too hard to look like he was comfortable, all the while sweating in forty-degree weather. Joe was pretty certain his hand could beat the two of them. But this other fella, this miner, Norm Sanders… him, he just wasn’t sure of.

 

After asking the bartender if there was any chance of work he could do, and been rebuffed, the boy sighed, scratching his head. Then his eyes lit on the pile of coins and paper money in the middle of the table where there were several men playing poker.

 

“Got ‘em off a riverboat gambler, down on his luck.”

 

Joe hesitated, feeling again the two bits he had in his pocket.  Fate, maybe? He  then walked toward the poker table.

 

Just last week, Adam had tried to help Joe understand his math lesson on ratios and statistics by reminding him of the game he’d taught him to play the winter before when Joe’s cabin fever had become unbearable.

 

“See, Joe, those numbers that Miss Jones is teaching you, the single number, then a full colon, and then another number? That’s how you write a ratio.” Adam raised an eyebrow, his expression asking if Joe understood.

Joe nodded, glumly. “It’s a comparison, she said.”

 

“Yep, that’s right. Now let’s say you’re sitting down at a table playing poker. The pot has ten dollars in it… with me so far?”

 

Scrunching his eyes to imagine this, Joe then nodded and looked back at his brother. Adam saw the interest begin, to build. “Good. Do you remember what it means to call a bet?”

 

Joe nodded enthusiastically. “Yes,” he replied, leaning forward. “You’ve got a decent hand and want to stay in, but you don’t have somethin’ like a full house, somethin’ you think is REALLY good. At least, not enough to raise the bet. Still, you want to see the first better’s cards. So, you call.”

 

Adam grinned, nodding. “Exactly. So, let’s say you had to put in two dollars in order to call. The pot has ten, and you need to call a two-dollar bet. That makes your pot odds 5 to 1, written 5, full colon, 1.”

 

Suddenly, what had seemed like inscrutable Egyptian hieroglyphics to Joe made perfect sense. Adam had gone on to explain the basic odds of drawing the different hands, the odds of placing a bet based on what other players had, and more over the next hour or so. By the time they were finished, Joe had won a pile of matchsticks, and Adam grinned at him, clapping him on the shoulder, commending his quick thinking and good judgment.

 

 

That lesson served him well today. The boy had slowly but gradually built his pot from the two-bit stake he’d started with to nearly three dollars – kind of shocked him, truth to be told. Adam was right; school does have some useful bits to it! But all he needed was two dollars, according to the peddler, and if he could get that out of this hand, he’d be a happy youngster.

 

~-o0o-~

 

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Hoss!” Adam growled, eyeing the distinctive pinto tied up in front of Dutch Pete’s, then looking balefully at his shamefaced younger brother. “How in tarnation could you let him come in here on his own?!”  Shaking his head in frustration, he trotted Sport up to the hitching rail and dismounted, glaring at the younger man. This nonsense was going to really play merry hell with his ability to get back home, cleaned up and ready for the Christmas social tonight at the Lawrence ranch, about two miles outside of Eagle Station.

 

Hoss, despite his worry over what Adam might say, had finally spilled the beans about the situation with Joe to his older brother. After a period of worrying, he’d become very concerned about the kid and what lengths he might go to in order to procure the wherewithal to purchase a gift for their father. Knowing Joe, just about anything was possible, after all.

 

“Well, Older Brother, first of all, I didn’t have no notion a’t’all that he’d be headin’ into Dutch Pete’s!” protested Hoss, defensively. “And second, I’d give a lot to see you try to stop that young’un in anything he’s of a mind to do,” Hoss sighed, miserably, as he, too, dismounted, and slapped Chubb’s reins around the rail. “Oh, dadgum it, Adam, I know, I know… But the little feller was just so dadburned set on getting enough together to get Pa somethin’ special for Christmas.”

 

“Let’s just hope his body and soul are still together, occupying the same space, and he’s not providing Pa with a funeral for Christmas!” grunted Adam, his brows knit together in a black scowl. Then he took pity on his younger brother, seeing how wretched he looked. “Oh, forget it,” he sighed, shaking his head. “C’mon, then. Let’s go pick up the pieces.”

 

Inside, Dutch Pete’s was as boisterous and rowdy as ever, with a few arm-wrestling matches going on in different locations, and a scuffle working its way up from pushing match to fist fight in the farthest corner from the door.

 

“Maybe we’d best split up and find him before something happens,” suggested Hoss hopefully over the roar of the crowd, rather wanting to be away from Adam’s ire as much as he wanted to find Joe and get the devil outta there. He was going to have enough misery to contend with once Abigail Jones was finished with Adam after tonight’s Christmas social.

 

“Fine,” grumbled Adam, gesturing Hoss to head to the right-hand side of the make-shift saloon while he himself went to the left.

 

As Hoss scanned the crowd, he turned suddenly at the sound of a raucous bray of female laughter. His eyes widened at the rather remarkably low-cut (and thoroughly ineffective) bodice on one of the girls from which her ample – er, distinctly feminine charms – were threatening to spring forth like that there Venus from the clamshell in Adam’s fancy art book, holding his attention so much he all but tripped over a pair of scrappers threatening to maul each other…then him. Well, that is until they looked up into the 6’4” frame of the youngster apologetically helping them right themselves. They decided to let their ire go pretty quickly at that point.

 

Adam’s eyes, on the other hand, landed on a middle table in the room, where six men – or rather, five men and one fifteen-year-old wanna-be – were playing poker, and the dark young man nearly groaned aloud to see that Norm Sanders was one of the players.  Sanders was an ornery miner who was always one strike short of a big haul for all of his attempts to find gold in the gold fields nearby. Adam and Sanders had run afoul of each other numerous times over the last few months, usually because young Cartwright had beat him at poker, but lately because one of the younger chippies preferred Adam’s aroma to Sanders’ rank stench and favored Cartwright’s company.

 

Groans of dismay and “not again!” went up from the rest of the players as the smallest of the bunch offered a big smile and splayed his hand down on the table for all to see. “Three pretty ladies,” the boy grinned, laying down the queens of hearts, clubs, and spades, “and two l’il ol’ sevens to keep ‘em company.”  His infectious giggle was not endearing to the rest of the players… particularly not to Norm Sanders.

 

The man swore, slamming his hand on the table, making the glasses and coins bounce merrily. “It ain’t possible! You thievin’ little scallywag, you cheated! Has to be! Ain’t nobody’s got luck that good!!”

 

“Now, wait a minute,” protested Joe, looking worriedly to the other men at the table. “You all watched me! You know me! You know I’m not a cheat!”

 

Hearing this, Adam rolled his eyes and sighed, making his way to the table to try to smooth some ruffled feathers.

 

“Well, maybe you ‘ere and maybe you ain’t, but you sure got lousy taste in brothers!” spat Sanders, lumbering to his feet – more quickly than the amount of drink he’d guzzled could have led the others to expect.

 

He towered over the boy by a good twelve to fourteen inches. As the huge, drunken miner staggered to his feet, the rest of the table scattered backward, out of the way, having a pretty good idea of what might be coming next.

 

“Well, that’s a matter of opinion,” said Joe with a nervous grin, trying to diffuse the situation with charm, and failing utterly. He squeaked out an alarmed, “Whoa! Hang on!”  as the grungy, drunken miner pulled out a huge, old-fashioned dog-leg pistol and aimed it at the boy’s gizzard.

 

“On top o’ that you’re just too darned purty fer yer own good, boy!” the drunken miner sneered. “Think we need to do somethin’ ‘bout that!”

 

Joe wanted to argue that being good lookin’ was hardly his fault, but his throat all but closed up as his wide green eyes stared, shocked and scared, into the barrel of the gun.

 

Simultaneously, his view of that gun barrel was blocked by the sudden lunge of a large, yellow-coated figure and his ears rang with the loud bang of a poorly primed but still booming gunshot, silencing for a moment the noise of the saloon.

 

Still gaping in shocked surprise, Joe stared up at the big figure blocking him, and he suddenly realized he recognized that coat.  He watched as Adam slowly, awkwardly turned around – and damned if Joe wasn’t glad as all get out to see him, no matter how bad the chewing out – or worse! – Adam might have in store for him.  Stunned, Joe watched as three other men subdued Sanders. He then tried to take in the stricken look on his other brother Hoss’ face from across the room. Dumbly, he observed Hoss parting the crowd like Moses parting the red sea, making his way toward his brothers. It was Hoss’ expression that made Joe shake himself and look back again at their older brother.

 

What he saw didn’t register at first. He just couldn’t quite make sense of the strange, surprised expression on Adam’s face, the odd looks of the people around them, until he looked down to where his brother clutched his side.

 

“Adam!” Joe blanched, seeing a very Christmassy-red stain bloom ominously quickly around the side of Adam’s tan shirt through his open barn coat – and through the fingers splayed there, dripping suddenly to the floor with a steady plick! plick! plick!

 

Joe rushed up and reached him just as his older brother’s legs began to buckle. The boy struggled with his brother’s greater weight but planted his legs and grimly held him upright.

 

Adam winced, gasping a moment in pain. “… oww…”  He blinked and winced again. “Damn you, Joe…” he panted, letting the boy support him, since he didn’t really have much of a choice in the matter. All the color seemed to be fading out of the world awfully damned fast, making everything turn to shades of gray, and growing fuzzier and darker around the edges. “You are… definitely… getting a switch… in your stocking…  this year… ”

 

Suddenly, a strong, broad hand and arm slipped around Adam’s other side, and he recognized the scent of his next younger brother’s shaving soap. He instinctively knew the very feel of that support. He didn’t know why it gave him a feeling of love that nearly brought him to tears… or were the tears from the burning pain now radiating from his side with a vengeance?

 

“Yeah, big brother, I’m with you,” grunted Hoss, taking the bulk of his weight. “And I’m gonna see to it ya live long enough to use it on him, too. Joe, c’mon, let’s get ‘im over to Doc’s… now!”

 

 

Hoss stood quietly at the doorway, sipping a cup of coffee and studying Joe’s face as he sat tensely beside the bed holding their pale, sleeping brother.  Doc Martin stood on the other side of the bed, holding Adam’s wrist in one hand, his pocket watch in the other.

 

Joe hadn’t left Adam’s side since he and Hoss had half-carried him into Martin’s offices. They saw Doc and Mrs. Martin sitting peacefully at supper in the room beyond the open door. Paul had looked up, spotted Adam sagging, his midsection covered in blood, and charged into action.

 

“In there!” Paul had barked, pointing through toward his examination room and rearing up from the table so fast he’d set his now-empty cup down too precariously, making it turn over and roll. Mrs. Martin had scrambled to save her china from twirling off the table to smash to the floor.

 

“I’ll get hot water,” she called to her husband, simultaneously righting the cup as she headed toward the kitchen, never breaking her stride.

 

That was almost three hours ago. Pa’s gonna have kittens when he finds out about this, Hoss sighed and wearily closed his eyes, shaking his head.

 

“He’s sleeping comfortably now.”

 

Hoss’ eyes snapped open at the doctor’s soft voice beside him. Paul glanced back toward young Joe. “You’ll sit with him?”

 

The youngster merely nodded, not taking his eyes off his brother’s pale face.

 

Paul smiled sadly to himself and, glancing up at the big man beside him, gestured him toward the outer office area and quietly closed the door.

 

“Well, it looks like we’re in the clear. I got the bleeding stopped and that’s two thirds of the battle with a gunshot wound. Means he’s likely not got any other organ damage. It didn’t look like it when I was in there, but you never know.”  Paul ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “I swear to God, you Cartwrights will be the death of me.”  He peered tiredly at the big young man beside him, who’d visibly sagged a little in relief to hear that it appeared his brother would live. “Joe says it was all his fault. He’s… well, he’s suffering pretty severely from guilt.”

 

Hoss’ lips firmed, caught between being glad Joe finally felt guilty about something, yet feeling sadness and pain for his little brother’s suffering. “Yeah, well, he ain’t completely wrong. But it ain’t all his fault. Norm Sanders is the one what pulled the trigger, Doc. But there ain’t no denyin’ if Joe’d just done as Pa said, or even as Adam said, Older Brother wouldn’t be in that there bed. At least not today.”  Hearing himself, Hoss winced and shook his head. “No, it ain’t Joe’s fault, not really. If it weren’t Adam on that bed, it’d be Joe himself. And there ain’t no way Adam would’a let that happen.”

 

“Big brother syndrome.”

 

Hoss raised an eyebrow at the doctor’s smiling sardonic comment and huffed a small laugh, remembering countless times Adam had put himself into danger, or shouldered Pa’s ire himself, in order to spare his younger brothers.“Ha… big brother syndrome. Yessir, Doc, I s’pose you’re right ‘bout that.” He smiled sadly looking at the closed door. “You ain’t got nothin’ on them shelves o’ yours to cure that, do ya?”

 

“No, I’m afraid not,” smiled the doctor, patting his arm and reaching for the decanter of brandy, and pouring them both a small tot. As he handed the glass to the younger man, he observed, “No, Hoss, to the best of my knowledge, no reliable remedy has been discovered yet for that ailment.”

 

“No, sir, and I don’t guess there ever will be, neither,” sighed Hoss, sipping his brandy, finally letting go of the weight of worry that had dogged him since that afternoon. He did as the doctor bid and finally sank down in one of the two armchairs flanking the potbellied stove in the doctor’s office and let his head hang back, releasing some of the stress he’d carried for the last several hours.

 

But he felt that tension ramp up again a few minutes later as he heard hoofbeats pounding up to Doc’s door, then bootheels beating a tattoo on the steps and porch. He could just guess who those boots belonged to.

 

The door flew open, admitting a snow-covered, intense Ben Cartwright, who stopped short, staring in shocked surprise to find his middle son and the doctor calmly seated by the stove, sipping brandy.

 

“What in tarnation -” he began, his roar imminent.

 

“Ben, if you’d be so kind as to shut the door before Mary has a conniption, I’ll tell you how well Adam’s doing,” Paul cut in quickly, gesturing toward the door, and at the snow blowing into the room.

 

Startled, Ben looked at the floor, and quickly closed the door, whirling back to calm scene in the room.

 

“He took a bullet, but it was a through-and-through. No organ damage, which is pretty astonishing, actually,” Paul admitted, still rather amazed if the truth were to be told.

 

“It was like a Christmas miracle, Pa,” offered Hoss, hopefully. He winced, hanging his head a little at the glare his father offered him.

 

Hoss’ hopeful observation made Martin nearly choke on his brandy, and he chuckled as Ben first glowered at his middle son, then tossed his hands up in the air.

 

“But he’s… he’s going to be all right? Adam?” The worried father demanded.

 

“I believe so, yes,” nodded Paul, pouring another glass. “We’ll know more in the morning. Now, have a sip of this. Medicinal.”

 

Ben’s brows relaxed slightly. He shrugged out of his sodden coat and hat, placing them on the doctor’s coat stand and came closer to the stove, shaking his head when Hoss gestured him toward the chair he’d just vacated. “Where is he?”

 

“He’s asleep and Joe’s with him,” soothed Paul, placing the brandy in Ben’s hand. “Now drink that down. I mean it.”

 

“Where?”

 

“Ben.”

 

The two older men glared at each other, until finally Ben relented.  That was only because he knew Paul would have hustled him directly into Adam’s room if the boy had been in any real danger at all. Almost weakly, Ben finally sank into the chair and had a sip of the brandy. He closed his eyes as the wine carved a heated, healing channel down his frozen innards, frozen both with cold and fear since hearing of the shooting.

 

~-o0o-~

 

At the knock on his bedroom door, Adam tiredly glanced up from his book and called, “C’mon in.” He saw Joe enter carefully with a loaded lunch tray and set his book aside.

 

The boy’s eyes were circled, and he looked dreadfully subdued. “I … uh… I brought your lunch,” he offered softly. “You want me to set it here on the table? Or do you want it on your lap?”

 

Adam studied him, and shook his head, gesturing – and flinching, making Joe wince almost as much as Adam did – toward the bedside table. “There. Then sit with me for a minute.”

 

Uneasily, Joe glanced at him, but did as he was asked, then perched uncomfortably on the chair beside the bed. “You… you need something?”

 

Adam nodded. “I need you to stop.”

 

Surprised, Joe’s head came up and his emerald eyes, wide, looked into his brother’s amber ones. “Stop? Stop what?”

 

Frustrated, Adam clamped one hand to his side and waved the other at his baby brother’s face. “This! The hangdog, shamed, guilty, pitiful…” he sputtered.

 

Joe’s cheeks bloomed, and he dropped his eyes again. “Adam, I really am -”

 

“Sorry!” Adam said, irritated. “I know, Joe! You’ve said it no less than eight times today, and that doesn’t count the seven or eight times yesterday -”

 

“Well, I am!” the boy cried out, earnestly.

 

Adam stopped sputtering, and looked at Joe, eyes narrowed. “You know, I think there’s only one thing I really want for Christmas,” he said slowly.

 

“I can imagine,” the boy muttered, glumly. “Can’t say I blame you.”

 

Adam smiled despite himself. “I want my baby brother back.”

 

Joe’s reaction took a moment. He frowned as he stared at his boots, then, trying to make sense of Adam’s words, he looked up into his brother’s face, his head tilted to one side as though he hadn’t heard properly.

 

Adam nodded. “I want my pain-in-the-butt, noisy, cocky, fierce, funny, devil-may-care baby brother back.” He lightly tapped his bandaged side. “Joe, this will heal,” he said gently. “And I know you never meant for me to be hurt. I know that.”

 

Joe shifted uneasily in his chair.

 

“You also didn’t do anything I wouldn’t have done at your age. Only difference was that there wasn’t much of a settlement here when I was fifteen…. Well, no,” he frowned, thinking a moment and then scratching his ear. “I have to admit you’re pretty damned original with your wrongdoing…”

 

Joe winced a little and sighed, shoulders drooping disconsolately.

 

Adam then waved his hand, dismissively. “The premise is still the same. I have a feeling that if there’d been something like Dutch Pete’s here when I was your age, I’m pretty sure I’d have got into as much trouble as you do.”

 

Joe searched his brother’s eyes. “You mean it? You ain’t still mad at me?”

 

“I mean it. Oh, I’m still plenty mad,” Adam observed, with an irritated grin, “but we can work that out later between ourselves. Right now, I just want you to…” he waved a hand, helplessly, “I don’t know, be yourself. And…”  Taking a breath to steel himself he managed to sit up and lean forward, gently squeezing his brother’s knee. “I want you to enjoy Christmas,” he finished gently. “All right?”

 

His face pale and crestfallen, Joe studied his brother’s eyes, troubled, looking for any lie in the words or expression and found none. He sniffed, suddenly, and looked down, nodding. “I… all-all right,” he conceded, softly. He looked up. “But I’ll make sure to get you anythin’ you need between now and the time you can get up and around, Adam, I promise,” he declared, earnestly.

 

Adam smiled at him. “I know you will. And thank you for that. Now go on, git.”

 

Uncertainly, Joe sniffed again, and nodded, getting to his feet and rubbing his hands on his pants legs. “You.. you sure you don’t need anything?”

 

“Nope,” assured his brother. “I’m fine.”

 

Joe nodded, and slowly, quietly, left the room.

 

As his bedroom door was quietly shut, Adam leaned back, and closed his eyes, shaking his head ruefully. He was sore, and he was worn out. God, save me from little brothers…

 

He heard the door handle turn again and braced himself to be subjected once more to his brother’s oversolicitousness. Sighing, he pasted a conciliatory smile on his face and opened his eyes.

 

Surprised, his eyes widened slightly. “Pa?”

 

Ben, inconspicuously, had watched Joe leave the room from down the hall, seeing the youngster’s step was lighter and that the boy was definitely more at peace with himself. He’d waited a few beats, then turned the handle and came into Adam’s room, seeing his pale oldest son leaning back against his pillows, obviously feeling a bit peaked after the recent interchange with his youngest sibling.

 

Ben smiled and seated himself by Adam’s bed, taking over the chair Joe had vacated.

 

“Do you need some help with that?” he asked quietly, nodding toward the lunch tray.

 

Frustrated, Adam sighed and grunted as he allowed his father to help him sit up and get settled more comfortably, then placed the tray on his lap.

 

Ben studied his oldest as Adam ate his meal, chatting with him over inconsequentials, and then, when the young man was through, took the tray and set it out of the way.

 

His father leaned back in the armchair, crossing his legs and studying his eldest son. For said eldest had a look on his face that truly was a “cat that ate the canary” expression.

 

Said eldest noted the observing expression and opened his eyes wider, gazing at his father. “What?” asked Adam, far too innocently.

 

“I’m just waiting for the other shoe to drop,” responded Ben, dryly.

 

Adam’s cupid’s bow mouth curved in a suppressed smile. “Pa, there’s only one thing I really want for Christmas.”

 

“You just told Joe you wanted him to be himself,” reminded Ben. At Adam’s start of surprise, he grinned. “I was out in the hall,” he admitted, raising an eyebrow and jerking a thumb toward Adam’s bedroom door.

 

“Oh.” Mischief danced in his eldest’s eyes like sugar plum fairies. “Well…I lied.”

 

Ben snorted. “All right, then, out with it. What do you want for Christmas?”

 

“I want you to put a lump of coal and a switch in Joe’s stocking. And I want you to tie a tag to that switch that says, ‘Adam will deal with you later’.”

 

Two pairs of eyes met… and two identical grins mirrored each other.

 

“‘Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night’?” chuckled Ben, dryly, eyebrows raised.

 

“Well, maybe not to all,” sighed Adam, contentedly, leaning back on his pillows.

 

“Torture doesn’t seem to be particularly in the Christmas spirit, son,” his father observed, giving his oldest a stern, if very amused – and, admittedly, understanding – look.

 

“Well, it was worth a try,” the young man sighed, and he settled himself down for a long winter’s nap.

 

 

 

As Ben headed down the staircase, still chuckling, he noticed the beautifully laid table, already set for tonight’s Christmas Eve meal. He reached the last step down into the great room and was a bit surprised to hear a knock at the front door. Who in the world could that be? Their friends knew that tonight’s originally planned Christmas Eve party had been postponed to next week, becoming instead a New Year’s Eve party. It was hoped that Adam might feel enough better by then to at least be swathed in a wrap on the settee to participate a little bit.

 

Ben saw that neither of his younger boys were to be seen, figuring Joe and Hoss must be out in the barn doing the evening chores. Christmas Eve or no Christmas Eve, the animals needed to be fed and bedded down. Hop Sing started to come out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on his apron and muttering in Chinese.

 

“It’s all right, Hop Sing, I’ll get it,” Ben smiled, waving at him. The Chinese man tossed his hands up and stalked back to his domain as Ben chuckled, shaking his head.

 

He opened the door to see a stranger on the doorstep. A rather colorful stranger, to be sure. A thin-faced man with a longish nose, twinkling brown eyes and bright red hair, dressed in what probably was every layer of clothes he owned for warmth.

 

Opening his eyes a little wider, Ben glanced out into the yard and saw what had to be the man’s huckster wagon, denoting the man to be a peddler.

 

“May I help you?” he asked, a little startled.

 

“Evening, sir,” the man smiled nodding at him, his cheeks and nose red with cold. “Do you by any chance have a youngster named Joe?”

 

Now Ben’s eyebrows climbed up to his hairline to join his widened dark eyes in surprise. “I do,” he answered, astonished, then suddenly remembered his manners. “I’m so sorry! Please, come in and warm yourself. You must be half-frozen.”

 

“Thank you, sir, I’m obliged, I’m sure.”

 

Once inside, the man removed his hat respectfully. “My name’s Linden, sir. Thomas Linden.”

 

“Ben Cartwright.”  Ben nodded toward the fireplace. “Come, have a seat by the fire and tell me how I can be of assistance?”

 

Linden nodded and headed toward the chairs and sofa grouped around the huge hearth flanked by the beautiful large pine tree, gaily decorated. “Oh, that’s nice,” he sighed, stretching out his hands to the fire, contented. “Chilly out there!”  He grinned. “Well, Mr. Cartwright, it bein’ Christmas Eve and all, I won’t be but a minute. But I heard what happened day before yesterday in town and… well, I thought… “ He hesitated, then shook his head and reached into his pocket, pulling out a velvet pouch.

 

“Heard…?”  Ben shook his head, wanting to be sure they were on the same page, so to speak.

 

Linden nodded, smiling. “I talked earlier in the week to your young’un, Joe. He’d stopped by my wagon, wantin’ to purchase somethin’ special-like.”

 

Ben nodded, still a bit mystified. He’d known that much, though he hadn’t got much more out of Joe than that.

 

“But when he realized he didn’t have enough money to buy what it was he wanted…he… well…” Linden hesitated, then smiled sadly and shrugged.

 

“He decided to emulate a riverboat gambler,” the older man sighed, rubbing his temples. “And ended up nearly getting his older brother killed.”

 

“But did he tell ya what it was he wanted to buy… and why?” asked Linden gently.

 

Ben’s eyes narrowed a little, and he tipped his head to the side. “No. What?”

 

Linden smiled. “These.”  He gently placed the pouch in the older man’s hand.

 

Perplexed, Ben opened the pouch and shook out the contents, his mouth opening slightly in surprise to see the cufflinks.

 

“He wanted these … for you,” said Linden, kindly. “He said the motif… the fleur de lis?”

 

Ben looked up, pale, gazing into the other man’s warm brown eyes.

 

“He said the design was somethin’ his late mother loved, her bein’ from New Orleans.” The man pronounced it “N’AW-lins,” the way Ben remembered many from that beautiful old city did. “And that he wanted to give them to you, to help you remember her.”

 

Ben closed his eyes, then, wincing. Oh, my poor boy…

 

Linden rose to his feet. “Well, I just felt the young’un worked purty hard for ‘em, even if you ain’t best pleased with the method he used.”

 

Ben firmed his lips, and returned the cufflinks to the pouch, drawing the string and starting to hand them back to the peddler. “I couldn’t possibly -”

 

“Yeah, you could,” said the man gruffly, looking into Ben’s eyes. “Ain’t often a youngster shows that kind o’ caring for his pa. It ain’t somethin’ to spit on, sir, if you’ll pardon me sayin’ so. Trust me… I know.”

 

The two men gazed at each other, some unspoken pain hovering in the air between them. Then the moment passed and Linden smiled, nodding. “And, t’be fair, ‘twas likely me as gave the lad the idea anyhow. After all, it was me as told him how I’d got these off a riverboat gambler who’d been down on his luck.” He chuckled, then, shaking his head.

 

Even Ben laughed lightly at that one.

 

Linden smiled, nodded and donned his gloves once again, then placed his hat on his head. “Well, sir, I won’t trespass on your holiday no more, I just felt beholden to bring those to the boy. And to wish you a Happy Christmas.” He turned toward the door.

 

Ben hesitated for just a moment, then smiled and put a staying hand on Linden’s arm. Surprised, the peddler looked back at him.

 

“Mr. Linden, can I safely assume you haven’t any plans for this evening?”

 

Startled, Linden looked at him. “Why, no, I -”

 

“Then, would you honor me and my sons by joining us for supper and then let me offer you the hospitality of spending the night? You can start out tomorrow morning for your next stop. If that’s agreeable, that is.”

 

The man gaped then, and a very troubled look crossed his face. “Well, I ain’t gonna deny that’s a real welcome thought, sir, but I surely don’t want you to think I come here with that in mind!” he protested.

 

“No,” Ben laughed, shaking his head. “No, not at all.”

 

As a result, though there was not the usual Christmas Eve party hosted at the Ponderosa that year, the ranch house was still filled that night with the spirit of the season, and the loving generosity and gift-giving that accompanies honoring the birth of the Christ Child.

 

---

[i] One of the state’s oldest towns was first established in 1851 as Eagle Station, a trading post and small ranch on the Carson Branch of the California Emigrant Trail kept by Frank and W. L. Hall and George Jollenshee. The station and surrounding valley took their names from an eagle skin stretched on the trading post wall.  From 1855 to 1857, Mormon colonizers under Elder Orson Hyde settled in Eagle, Carson and Washoe Valleys. In 1857, they were called back to Salt Lake City by Brigham Young.  (citation: Nevada Historic Marker 44: Carson City)

 

AUTHOR’S NOTE:  Thanks to both Charles Dickens and C. Clement Moore as I “borrowed” lines from their Christmas classics, “A Christmas Carol” and “A Visit from St. Nicholas.” And, my very special thanks to my beta reader, @CareBear , for her excellent eye and encouragement!

 

REQUIRED PROMPT: no reliable remedy has been discovered yet
CHARACTER: Adam

 

Bonanza Brand Advent Calendar – Day 2 – A Prairie Christmas – SJRCartwright