Summary: Despite intentions, a good deed turns deadly and the Cartwrights must grapple with the outcome.
Rating: T
Word Count: 4,632
The Road to Hell
Through slit eyes I see Pa pacing back and forth at the foot of the bed while a doctor pokes my ribs, runs his hands over my bruised body, thumps my back, and probes my nether regions. Teeth clamped shut, I endure the assault without a sound lest I be confined to bed for another week.
“Will he be able to give testimony tomorrow given his condition?”
“Fine,” I mumble.
“Wasn’t speaking to you, Joseph!”
The sharp tone takes me by surprise, and I open my eyes wide only to see Pa’s angry face. What did I do?
“Don’t see why not since the interview can take place here,” the doctor answers, “if the Sheriff gives him latitude to tell what he knows at his own pace, it shouldn’t impact his recovery.”
“Just look at him! He’s concussed, he has broken ribs and is black and blue from head to toe!”
“It’s obvious he’s still hurting but he is aware of his surroundings, and his thoughts are clear.”
Clear as the mud that buried me alive. Coughing to suppress a laugh, I keep my thoughts to myself as that part hasn’t been told yet and Pa always says I shouldn’t put the cart before the horse. God knows if he knew the truth I might not get out of my room until Christmas, much less be allowed to leave the ranch.
Hoss ushers my Pa out of the room and closes the door behind them. Sinking back into the multiple pillows on my bed, I close my eyes and try to think what I will say to the… Sheriff? Just what the hell happened to me in California? And how much should I tell?
*****
Two months ago, Pa received a letter from an old friend, Ida Jorgensen. Ida and her husband Sigurd had crossed the prairie with Pa and Adam nearly 30 years ago. Sigurd had recently died, and his widow was in some financial difficulty. Although her letter was vague, the implication that she needed immediate help was clear.
Breakfast was a silent affair as Pa stewed over the news, first raising his cup of coffee, then setting it back down and re-reading the letter again and again. Expecting a different message, I suppose. Finally, he pushed his untouched plate of congealed eggs and cold toast away and sighed. No explanation to me was necessary.
As chairman of the Nevada Territorial delegation, Pa was spearheading the request to Congress to move the eastern boundary of the Territory from the 37th Meridian to the 38th Meridian. The task was too important to ignore, and he couldn’t leave town. Normally, Pa would have sent one of my brothers to represent the family in his stead, but Adam was busy negotiating a lumber contract with the Ophir and Waycross Mine and Hoss was up at the timber camp overseeing the felling of trees in anticipation of said contract. Talk about the proverbial cart before the horse! If I’ve learned anything in my nearly 17 years, it’s that rules applicable to me often don’t apply to anyone else in the family. Case in point, Pa doesn’t always wait for chickens to hatch before he counts them.
“Ida Jorgensen needs help, Little Joe, and I’m counting on you to leave straight away for Murphys New Diggings.”
Before I could respond, Hop Sing thumped me on the back.
“Clear table.”
The sharpness of his tone indicted this was a command, not a request. Without retort, I gathered up the plates and silverware and followed him into the kitchen. After I scraped food remnants into a bucket and placed the dishes in the sink, he said “mianze,” while passing an open palm over his face. This particular Chinese word was unfamiliar to me, but I understood the gesture. The Cartwright name is respected in these parts, and this was Hop Sing’s way of telling me I have been charged with saving Pa’s face. In other words, I must preserve the Cartwright image while avoiding behaviors or situations that could cause embarrassment, shame, or loss of respect.
There was no way I could turn down the request, nor did I want to. Opportunities to prove my worth without help from my family didn’t come along very often. Whatever it took, I would save face despite being unaware then that the face that needed saving would be mine.
*****
While I finished up morning chores, Pa wandered into the barn with his hands in his pockets. That posture usually meant I was in for a few words of advice. I hoped to head off any impending lecture by asking in jest if “new” Murphys Diggings meant there was an “old” Murphys Diggings. To my surprise, he said yes, turned over an empty feed bucket and sat down.
“You’ve heard me talk about the number of people who migrated to California in the early 40s?”
“Back when you were at Sutter’s Fort, right? At the beginning of the gold rush?”
“Actually, about five years before the rush. In 1844 Martin Murphy and his extended family—which numbered over 20 if I recall correctly—were a part of the first wagon train to cross the Sierra Nevada—“
“—led by two mountain men through the 40-mile dessert where there was no water for the livestock but saving 85 miles and seven days off their journey,” I said by rote. Pa frowned at my interruption, so I explained, “Miss Jones lectured us repeatedly.”
The corner of his mouth twitched upwards slightly. “That’s because she and her mother were a part of that wagon train and the experience was enough to cause them to abandon their plans to travel to California and settle here instead.”
“Lucky us,” I mumbled.
“What?”
“Nothing. What happened next?”
“When the wagon train encountered heavy snow in the Sierras, six people split off from the group and travelled by horseback to Sutter’s Fort to get help. Meanwhile, the rest of the party continued until they reached Truckee Lake.”
“Doesn’t the snow get pretty deep up there?”
“It does and it did that year. They were able to haul five of their wagons up the cliffs using pulleys, but not the other six.”
“They abandoned their stuff?”
“Not permanently. Three men returned and built a cabin planning to live in it until the snow melted and they could move the wagons.”
“But they didn’t.”
“No. It was bitter cold and there wasn’t any game. When it became clear that it was going to be impossible to survive the winter there, the men fashioned some makeshift snowshoes and set out after the others. After the first day, the youngest of the three, a boy named Moses Schallenberger, could not continue and went back to the cabin.”
“How old was Moses?”
“Eighteen.”
“Wow! Is that why you insisted I learn how to make snowshoes?”
“One of the reasons, yes. The mountain men I’ve met over the years have shared their knowledge freely and I’ve passed on to you and your brothers everything I’ve learned.”
“So, what happened to Moses, did he survive?”
“Only by trapping foxes for food. When Martin Murphy Jr. heard about his friend, he went back up the mountain to find Moses, taught him how to construct proper snowshoes and they both made it down to the Central Valley of California.”
“Is the cabin still there?”
“As far as I know. The Donner Party followed the same route two years later, but they started way too late in the season. The snow was even worse for them, and they were stranded at the cabin. Half the party died before a rescue group could save them.”
“What happened to the Murphys?”
“Brothers John and Daniel were merchants by trade but when the Gold Rush began, they started prospecting.”
“And they struck it rich!”
Pa chuckled, “Well, they did, but not the way you think.”
“How then?”
“By selling supplies to the miners at their mining site. A tent city sprung up around it and the area became known as Murphys Diggings. John left at the end of 1849 when it became too crowded. He took his share of their earnings—worth a couple of million dollars I heard—and never returned.”
“Where did he go and what did he do with all that money?”
“Settled in San Jose, California and held the office of sheriff, treasurer, recorder, and mayor all before 1858.“
“And Daniel?”
“Struck out on his own and founded Murphys ‘New’ Diggings up near Ebbetts Pass. That’s where you’ll find Ida. She’s staying with a family by the name of Michelson.”
*****
Although it was mid-August, there was still lingering snow in the higher elevations above the ranch. That worried Pa some but Hop Sing shared news, via Cousin Number 4, that unlike Mt. Rose, the California Emigrant Trail and Big Trees Road over Ebbetts pass had no reported snowfall.
After a pre-dawn breakfast, Pa and I went over the map on which he had marked the route I would take. The journey would take eight to ten days in good weather and Pa cautioned me to allow the animals to forage and water frequently due to the steep elevation change. He also insisted I check in at Kirkwood’s in Hope Valley and with Webster Shoals at the Sheep Creek stage stop on Big Trees Road where I could get help if needed.
“You must know everybody, Pa!”
“Well, not everyone Little Joe, but I have been blessed to make the acquaintance of many people over the years, and their knowledge and friendship has been more valuable to me than gold. That’s the real wealth in life, you know … friendship.”
*****
Just after daybreak Cochise and I along with a pack horse named Boozer headed down the mountain toward Carson City. In a secret pocket inside my saddle bag was $2,000 cash for the widow Jorgensen and Pa instructed me not to take no for an answer should she refuse it.
Admittedly, I am a bit nervous because I’ve never been entrusted with this much cash before. Ever sensitive to my moods Cochise snorted her displeasure and skittered sideways so I made an effort to relax my jittery legs.
And that was when the trouble began.
A cougar dropped into my path from a tall tree but skedaddled when Cooch reacted by rearing, pawing the air and screaming, causing me to lose my seat and I fell, rolling down the hill and crashing into boulder. Boozer just stood there, either scared stiff or too drunk to care. I think that’s when I may have cracked a rib or two.
*****
The weather in Carson City was pleasant, although temperatures at night were beginning to drop a bit. The sun felt good on my shoulders and even though the road was rutted and muddy from recent rains, I made good time getting through the slosh and continued south towards Dangburg Ranch. The plan was to stay the night before turning west into the mountains after passing through Genoa.
Even though I hadn’t been to the ranch in a few years, Pa had assured me Heinrich would welcome my unannounced arrival with open arms and he did. I’d never spent much time with him on previous visits as he’s six years older than me and we didn’t have a lot in common. Now that I’m almost 17, maybe that will change. Contrary to my sketchy memories of a tall, thin, rather broody type like Adam, I found him to be muscled, good-natured and funny like Hoss.
Because Heinrich was a single man, I expected to see a small cabin perhaps a mite larger than a line shack. While not huge, what I found was a whitewashed one-story frame home larger than what a single man needed. It was well built with one large bedroom off the great room both of which were furnished with beautifully carved cabinets and furniture.
After seeing that Cochise and Boozer were tended to, Heinrich took me on a tour of the ranch where I was a bit taken aback by the condition of his stock and I said so. Half of his cattle appeared healthy and strong, the other half was rather sickly looking. His explanation was that after building the house, it had taken him some time to clear and irrigate the land. Only then did he begin growing his herd which he did by exchanging emigrants’ cattle, oxen, and horses—pretty much in sad shape after crossing the 40-mile dessert—for the supplies they needed to make it over the mountains to California. Heinrich assured me the newly acquired stock would soon fatten up with all the good grass and water.
As we walked his property, I admired the sturdy fences and outbuildings, and my appreciation grew for this hard-working man who built everything by hand. It made me think about what it took for Pa to build the Ponderosa with just Adam and baby Hoss at his side.
When the sun dropped quickly behind the mountains, Heinrich rubbed his belly and said, “Time for food, ja?” Laughing, I was again reminded of Hoss.
After a hearty meal of pork shoulder, potatoes, and sauerkraut—along with a large stein of a dark beer he called stout—Heinrich shared stories of his youth in Germany and travels to America.
Given the large bed I had seen, I asked Heinrich if he had a missus. He winked and said he had an eye on a young lass but was waiting for her to grow up some before he asked for her hand.
“How much is ‘some’?” I asked, quickly adding, “Not that you need to tell…ah…just curious…ah…well…there ain’t that many gals around here, you know!“
Heinrich laughed. “Ja, ich Weiss. That is why I staked my claim early. Maggie’s nigh but twelve.”
Guess my eyes widened because he laughed again, patted me on the arm and said, “Your time will come. Her Vater says we must wait until she is sixteen. So, I have plenty of time to add a nursery, ja?”
Choking, I declared that I’d better get some shuteye.
“Das ist wahr. Sunrise ist early und das bedroom faces east.”
Despite my offer to sleep in the barn, Heinrich said no.
“Nein. Hard ground until Murphys. Enjoy the feather bed while you can. Maggie herself plucked the geese and made the quilt as well.”
“You mean she knows about…”
“Ja. Think I would have asked her Vater without already knowing her answer?”
Not only did I stumble through my answer but into the bedroom as well.
The next morning, I found my head enveloped in a whipped cream cloud that smelled faintly of rose water. Inhaling deeply, I managed to open one eyelid enough to spy a little pink rosebud embroidered on the slip that covered a blue ticked pillow. Eyes wide and my heart pounding, I twisted towards the window to see that the sun was well over the Pine Nut Range on the eastern side of Carson Valley.
“Holy Toledo!” I croaked. So much for an early start.
*****
Heinrich was adjusting the tie downs on Boozer when I caught up with him at the barn and apologized for my late start.
Smiling, he asked, “Kopfschmerzen?”
“Huh?” Blinking twice, I pulled my hat down over my eyes against the bright sunlight.
“Headache?”
“A bit, yes.”
“Jawohl. Stout too strong for you. Next time I make lager.”
“Next time. Just don’t tell my Pa there was a first time.”
Heinrich laughed. “I packed ham, cheese and bread for you. It is in the larder. Fetch it while I saddle your paint.”
When I saw the size of the bundle he packed, I almost said I wasn’t Hoss, but I was sure glad I had it in the coming days.
Chapter Two —- The Ascent
South and below Lake Tahoe, Emigrant Road through Hope Valley was wide and crowded with merchant wagons, settlers and riders. After checking in at Kirkwood’s, I made the left turn onto Big Trees Road which would take me over Ebbetts Pass to Murphys New Diggings.
Cochise’s sure-footedness on the well-worn path upwards allowed me to focus on the scenery. The Ponderosa was beautiful but this trail—as treacherous as it could be at times—afforded views beyond anything I’d ever experienced. The pines—Ponderosa, Jeffrey, and Lodgepole—mixed in with California Black Oaks, poplars, willows, alders, and both red and white firs. To my right, the East Fork of the Carson River ran wild over boulders and rocks—fed not only by recent rains but the final traces of snowmelt from last spring. As I looked up slope to the north, I could see where fire had recently ravaged the area and I was sad to see denuded tree trunks standing straight up like matchsticks. Most likely the fire was caused by a lightning strike and not an unattended campfire… at least I hoped so.
The sun sets early in the mountains and soon after eating the last of the ham and bread for lunch, I began looking for a place to shelter for the night. With no grass on the trail, oats would have to do. Boozer turned his nose up at the coffee I made for Cooch, so I promised him a pint of beer when we got to Murphys. His response was a snort and a curled lip.
The next morning when I awoke, I was stunned to get my first look at Half Dome in Yosemite Valley. Pa had told me and Hoss about the Indian legend of a quarreling couple transformed into stone by the Great Spirit. Tis-sa-ack, the wife, became the Half Dome cliff, and her husband, Nangas, became the North Dome, forever facing each other as punishment for fighting. Adam, of course, had to ruin the legend with facts by saying it was a glacier that cut away half the mountain and weathering that rounded the top. Sheesh! Regardless, its size was unbelievable—especially considering it had to be at least fifty miles away as the crow flies.
Chapter Three — The Arrival
People, horses, and wagons filled the wide main street of Murphys New Diggings with everyone intent on getting somewhere fast. The post office in the middle of town seemed like a good place to find out where the Michelsons lived.
“Who wants to know?” said the skinny, semi-bald man who looked at me over the top of his wire-rimmed glasses.
“Little Joe Cartwright and I’m looking for Ida Jorgensen who’s staying with them since her husband died, or so I’m told.”
“Sig’s widow?”
“Yes, Ida Jorgensen.” Recalling Pa and Adam’s many lectures about giving away too much personal information, I said simply, “Just passin’ through and told my pa I’d look in on her. You know… since her husband died.”
The wizened old man didn’t say a word but looked me up and down with narrowed eyes. Puffing up a bit, I stared him right back without blinking. Musta worked because he shrugged and said,
“Four blocks east on Main, turn left at Three Finger Jack’s, right on Church. Michelson’s Dry Goods is the two-story yellow building.”
“Thanks. Um, is there a livery nearby?”
“T.J. Matteson Livery and Stable at Main and San Domingo,” the man said without looking up as he resumed sorting the mail.
“Um, is there a restaurant at this end of town?”
“Good grief, boy! I’m the postmaster, not the town crier!” Exasperated, he added, “the Burnt Skillet across the street. Don’t expect much.”
*****
After stabling Cochise and Boozer at the livery and paying in advance for two nights, I made my way back to the Skillet. The food wasn’t the worst I’d ever had but it wasn’t the best either, so I finished quickly and walked to the Dry Goods store where I found a crowd of people gathered around a water pump on the corner.
Images of an old, frail widow quickly vanished when someone pointed her out to me. Tall, straight, and strong as an ox even at her age—which I guessed to be about 60—Ida Jorgenson was a force of nature.
As the widow rushed by me on her way to the pump, I hooked her arm and spun her around.
“I’m Joe Cartwright. Pa sent me with the money—“
“—hush your mouth, boy, and either move out of the way or help!”
“Help with what?”
She gestured at the people all around me who were running helter skelter.
“Fire, boy! The Magnolia Saloon is on fire and this town’s a tinder box!”
*****
Returning to Main Street, I looked to the west end of the street and noted that the sky, blue just an hour ago, had turned an orangish brown and clouds of black smoke were roiling upwards. The smell of creosote, burning pine, cedar and rubbish, including animal waste and refuse filled the air.
Missus Jorgensen was right; the town was nothing but dry tinder and structure after structure along Main Street were igniting quicker than you could say Jack Robinson.
Chapter Four – Terror!
Transfixed, I watched in horror. Buildings on both sides of the street exploded one after the other as burning shingles, glowing shards of wood and merchandise were carried on the wind.
THE LIVERY!
Running as fast as I could despite the pain in my side from bruised ribs, I reached the livery just as a portion of its roof caved in. The squeals of the livestock overrode the roar of the fire. Ripping off my jacket, I dunked it in the water trough and ran into the building for Cochise.
Chapter Five – In Limbo
A name is usually the first thing we learn about a person. Couldn’t say for sure what mine is. Images of a black sky, flying geese and horses drift through my subconscious seekin’ a place to latch on…like a sightless newborn kitten lookin’ for its mama’s teat. And weak as a kitten I am that’s for dang sure.
The name of my tormentor is unknown. Grunts are all I hear in the darkness. Occasionally he slaps my arm or leg as if he is trying to figure whether I’m alive. At least I am for the moment. For how much longer, I can’t say.
A wheeze accompanies every breath I take. Coughin’ hurts, though I’m not sure whether it’s my lungs that are poorly or my ribs. With a tremblin’ hand I inch my fingers across my chest feelin’ the bones beneath. A slow journey to be sure and I drift away from the task ridin’ a muskrat’s wake toward a distant shore.
This place—wherever it is—is a mite cooler than a line shack in the dessert would be, although damp and sticky. Maybe the stickiness is mine…urine or feces. Or blood.
*****
Oh, Lordy!
Blood. A river of black blood, thicker than molasses oozin’ out from beneath a white sea. Waves of nausea wrack my body and I wretch.
*****
Wet hard-packed soil cools my fevered cheek, and the smell of damp earth fills my nostrils. Don’t remember rollin’ over but it appears I’ve been turned on my side away from the stink. Is it him? My tormentor or savior?
“Who are you?” but there is no answer in the dark.
*****
Next time I wake —-there is a tin cup of brackish water next to my mouth. Who brought it? Doesn’t matter. All I care about is the wetness. Croaking my thanks, I manage a crooked smile which is no doubt lost in the blackness.
*****
Time has no meaning. Minutes, hours…days? … have passed. Can’t remember when I ate last which is of no never mind as Hoss would say. Adam, on the other hand, would use a five-dollar word like ‘inconsequential’. Either way I am more nauseous than hungry. The chuckle in my throat triggers a gag reflex and I vomit bile.
***
Wake up!
A sense of urgency stirs within. How can I save face if I am buried face down? Hop Sing will be so disappointed in me.
*****
Wake up!
Is that Hoss? I steel myself against the ice-cold water that will surely follow.
*****
Bruised fingers dig into rocky soil as I scrabble up the crumbling slope using tree roots for purchase to boost my ascent.
At last, the sweet smell of mountain air fills my lungs and I laugh.
Guess you could say I’d finally clawed my way to the top—a perch older brother never thought I could achieve on my own.
Chapter Six —The Testimony
“Joseph?”
Blinking repeatedly, I force my eyes away from the ceiling down the wall to the foot of my bed where people I don’t recognize stand. My heart pounds like a thousand timpani drums.
“Joseph?”
Warily, I turn toward the sound uncertain who is calling. Slowly a face comes into focus.
“P-Pa?”
“Yes, son. You are all right.”
“What happened?”
“Fire burnt most of the town. The only buildings that survived were the ones built of stone. The hotel, livery, bakery, and one or two others.”
“Cochise?”
“Your horse is fine, little brother,” Hoss says. “Boozer, too. A little singed but you got them out before—”
“—Hoss,” Pa says softly, shaking his head.
“Before what?”
“You just rest now. Time enough for talk later’”
“It was dark. So dark. And I didn’t know my name.”
“We know, son. It’s all right. Hoss and I are here with you. And Mrs. Jorgenson and the Michelsons. We’re all here. And you’ll be just fine.”
“Said his name was Toby.”
Eyes dart all around, but no one utters a word. The expression “the silence was deafening” takes on new meaning as I look at each face surrounding me and see… what? shock?…concern?… disbelief?
Ida Jorgensen’s hand goes to her throat as she croaks, “Toby?”
“Toby Crooke.”
A cannon could fire without anyone in the room budging.
“Toby Crooke was the parish’s sexton,” she whispers.
Unfamiliar with the term, I stutter “S-sexton?”
Louder, firmer she replies, “A custodian charged with preparing the church for meetings, caring for equipment, ringing the bell and… digging graves.”
“That’s where Albert found you, Joe… in the graveyard… buried alive.”
“Toby disappeared 12 years ago,” Ida continued. “Never knew what became of him.”
“Still don’t, I reckon,” said Hoss.
—The End—
A/N
Written for the 2025 Michael Landon Birthday Literary Challenge, using a line from a 2024 Pinecone prompt from Sheridan LeFanu’s The Dead Sexton: “For 12 years he had disappeared, and no one knew what had become of him.” And incorporating Autocrit’s “Destination Unknown” challenge wherein we could not begin any sentence with a personal pronoun.
Noble Prize winner Albert Michelson was born December 19, 1852 and lived with his father and mother in Murphys New Diggings and Virginia City where his father owned a Dry Goods store. Season 3, Episode 26 “Look to the Stars.”
The fire on August 20, 1859, destroyed much of the town’s business district. Murphys hotel, built of stone and iron received some damage, though it was restored and reopened the following year for the tourist season. Famous people who signed the register included: Mark Twain, Horacio Alger, Thomas J. Lipton, President Grant, John J. Astoria, Henry ward Beecher, M.A. Rothschild, Black Bart.
Tourists came to see the groves of redwood trees in Calaveras County.
John Ebbetts, a fur trader turned guide for the gold rush forty-miners led a string of pack mules easterly over the pass in April 1851. He believed the pass would be suitable for the transcontinental railroad as he noted little snow at the time. He intended to survey the pass for a road but was killed in a steamboat explosion on San Pablo Bay in 1854. Although not officially named after him until 1893 by the U.S. Geological Survey, the pass was always known to locals as Ebbetts Pass.
Dangburg Ranch in Gardnerville still exists and is a wonderful place to visit, picnic, and attend outdoor concerts.
