Summary:  What can happen on a short cattle drive? The Cartwright brothers have a tale to tell.

Rated K  Word Count:  9262

As Luck Would Have It

a challenge answer by the Tahoe Ladies

The boat was late pulling into the dock. With its deck crowded with passengers it seemed to take forever for the crew to make their way forward and extend the gangplank. Patience, he kept telling himself but by the time his feet hit solid ground – if one could call the sagging dock of Sacramento solid- Ben Cartwright was about out of patience. He signaled for a hansom cab and shouted his destination up to the driver who was bundled against the cold fall rain. Only when he was rolling did Ben take a deep breath and let it out slowly. Maybe, just maybe, if things went well, he would make it in time.

The cab slowed and Ben glanced out the window, checking on their progress. Two blocks, he muttered to himself. He was about to tell the driver that he would walk the rest of the way when they lurched into motion again. Patience, he reminded himself and tried to take a calming breath, squaring his shoulders and resettling his hat. It didn’t work. His heart was still beating at a trip-hammer rate when he paid off the driver and slipped into the Palace Hotel, his soggy carpet bag thudding against his leg.

“No, sir,”the bright young man behind the check-in desk said once more, running his finger down the page of signatures. “Only a gentleman from Stockton, a Mister Long, has checked in since yesterday. And I don’t see your sons’ names any earlier.”

A tiny sliver of thankfulness edged into Ben. He’d made it in time. “You received my wire from San Francisco? The rooms are available?”

“Of course,” the young man’s smile was also bright, something Ben found suddenly irritating. “You did say for three nights, correct?”

He tried to match the smile but tiredness and relief made it fleeting. “I’d like fires laid in them; if you would see to it, I would appreciate it. Also, please take my bag up to one. I need to go out immediately.” His fingers were cold as he signed the registration book, making his signature look cramped and crabby – close to what he felt like.

Back out on the street, he again summoned an enclosed cab and when one obliged, directed it towards the stock yard in South Sacramento. Every few moments, he found himself glancing out the window, checking on his progress and looking for them. Not a sign of them. As the cab pulled up to the office of the Imperial Sierra feedlot, Ben felt both relieved and anxious. For now the thought had come to him that they should have been here but weren’t. Had something happened? Patience, he once again reminded himself, was a virtue to be mastered – especially when one had adult sons.

“Ben!” a hearty voice called out in the dusty office as Ben entered it. A corpulent gentleman in a dark business suit came from a back office. “You slipped in on me! Must be getting old. Didn’t hear your cattle, nothing! Come on back.” Ben followed the gesture and went with the man into his office.

“I didn’t come with the herd, Stuart. My sons are bringing the cattle down. I had some other business in San Francisco. In fact, I thought they’d be here by now.”

Stuart Dalton, the head of Imperial Sierra Stockyards, lifted a cut glass bottle of amber liquid and silently offered a glass. Ben nodded his acceptance and let the brandy warm him.

“Don’t tell me you’re getting too old for a cattle drive, Ben Cartwright! Even a short one like this?” Dalton teased. He settled into his chair behind the desk as Ben also sat down.

“No,” Ben smiled as he said the word but wondered if he were lying since every bone in his body seemed to be complaining at that moment. “Not at all. Like I said, I had some business in ‘Frisco to take care of. Besides, if my sons can’t get two hundred head of cattle down out of those mountains and deliver them here, my being there wouldn’t help matters.” He didn’t add that there were also five drovers, a remuda tender and Hop Sing as cook to help the sons and the two hundred cattle make the hundred and thirty mile trip. “Our deal still stands, doesn’t it? I checked your pens and they looked pretty empty to me so there isn’t a shipment headed out anytime soon, is there?”

For a while, the men handled their business in an easy-going fashion. A bit of banter, a twist of phrase to tease an old friend. The cattle Ben had spoken of would soon have three new owners – the most prestigious restaurants in Sacramento. They would be held here at Dalton’s lots until needed for the menus. The deal had the potential to profit all involved. The Ponderosa had raised the beeves on green pastures, fattening them over two years. The restaurants had paid well for them sight unseen but the Ponderosa had a reputation for fine animals. Dalton made money feeding them – the restaurants liked their beef well marbled with fat. He also got a percentage of the total for accepting the responsibility of two hundred head of cattle – thefts from his yards were kept in check but still occasionally occurred.

“So where are they?” Dalton asked. To that, Ben only shook his head. “They probably slowed down to make sure the beeves’ll be in top shape when they get here. They’ll be along in a day or so.”

Ben agreed and with a quick handshake, returned to his waiting carriage and his warm hotel room. He wouldn’t worry, he told himself as he luxuriated before the crackling fireplace. The wind speckled the windows with rain but he told himself that they were grown men and could handle just about anything. A little rain wasn’t a problem. He was just likely to get in the way, he warned himself silently as he slipped between the sheets, pulled up the blankets and fell into an easy doze.

Yes, his sons could handle anything.

There was nothing to be concerned about.

After breakfast the next morning, Ben took a long walk around the grounds of the state capital buildings. Their gardens still showed color despite the steady light rain and the cooling temperatures of autumn. He breathed deeply, enjoying the smell of autumn. At home, the smell was usually of pine burning in the Ponderosa’s massive hearth. Here it was the tang of oak leaves now gone from green to gold, the maples to red. The leaves did give off a different scent and the once New England child in Ben delighted in hearing them crunch beneath his feet as he walked through the fallen ones.

That afternoon, after checking down at Dalton’s and not finding his cattle – nor his sons- he took a secret pleasure in playing a few rounds of billiards. The gentlemen he played against smiled broadly when he returned the wagers they’d lost to him. It was, as he explained, just a game and he’d been lucky to get the good breaks.

With the continuing misty rain, the sun had never broken through the cloud cover so sunset that evening was more like a fading than a setting. And to Ben it seemed as though it had faded quickly as he watched the street from his fourth floor rooms. His smile for the butler who lit the fire was out of habit, not enjoyment. He dressed for dinner carefully, slowly, then made his way down the grand staircase to the hotel’s restaurant. For dinner, he decided as he made his way to the table, he would have the roasted chicken. Dessert? Perhaps they would have apple pie still warm from the oven.

He tried to take delight in his meal but the chicken was a touch dry. A healthy portion of gravy ladled over it seemed to help. The green beans were limp and the rolls soggy. As was the crust on his slice of pie. No matter, he told himself, the waiter had been solicitous and the coffee superb. Maybe he had been spoiled by Hop Sing’s attention to the finer details in his cooking.

Ben finished the evening by reading that day’s newspaper in bed. He finally let the half-read-paper drop to the floor and turned out the bedside light before he pushed his head into the soft pillows. He could still hear the rain pecking at the windows. He huffed, suddenly not quite so tired any more. To soothe himself, he once again told himself that to worry about his sons was foolish. They were grown men.

They could handle just about anything.

Then why was he concerned?

When the watery, weak sunlight hit his hotel windows, Ben Cartwright was out of bed and preparing to do what he should have done when he hadn’t found his herd- and his sons- upon arriving from San Francisco. He checked at the hotel front desk for messages. There were none. Glad that the rain had stopped at least for a little while, he made his way to the telegraph office and asked there. There were no messages for him. He decided that a walk would do him some good – work up an appetite and work off some anxiety. Dalton’s was more than a mile away but he walked it anyway. Just before the rain began in earnest again, he saw that the pens were still empty. No cattle, no horses. Just a growing muddy sea.

Stuart Dalton offered Ben coffee. “Two days late ain’t something to worry yourself over, Ben. Like you said: your boys know their way around cattle. They been herding cattle for as long as I can recall doing business with the Ponderosa. Why the first time I ever laid eyes on that youngest of yours, he was propped up in the saddle in front of you. He couldn’t’ve been more than two years old at the time. Chewing on the reins as I recollect. Won’t forget the way you yelped when he accidently gnawed into your hand neither.” Dalton wheezed as he laughed. Ben dutifully chuckled then sipped his coffee.

“That was back when I could see over Hoss’ head, too! No, Ben, you got nothing to worry over. Probably the weather slowed ’em down. They’ll be here directly.”

“I can still worry a little, can’t I?” Ben’s eyes twinkled as he assumed an otherwise hurt expression.

“As a father or as a business man?” shot Dalton back with the same hint of play.

“Both,” was Ben’s answer but a little niggle of anxiety crept into his mind and ate away the businessman, leaving only the father part.

Dalton offered the use of one of his saddle horses so Ben could go looking for his cattle – and his sons. Ben thanked him for his generosity but did ask for a carriage and driver to return him to town. The businessman chortled and teased some more about Ben getting old. He took it in good stead but this constant teasing was beginning to wear a touch thin.

Again, he spent the afternoon playing billiards and once more, beating his adversaries. With each click of the balls, colliding, caroming off the table bunkers then dropping into the pockets, Ben felt his emotions rise and fall. First, the stab of the cue was a release of the pressure growing in his mind. His sons were fine. Next the cue ball rolling purposely toward its target ratcheted that niggle of doubt into full grown agitation. The herd was fine, just a little slower than they had planned. The cue ball slammed into one of the balls, sending it hopefully into a bunker then a pocket, echoing Ben’s consternation. If his sons were fine, and the cattle were fine, where the devil were they?

He kept his winnings.

Dinner that evening was poor fare. If anything, the roast chicken was drier. So dry, he thought, a boat load of gravy wouldn’t allow him to swallow a mouthful without choking. After just a glimpse at the rolls mushed into the covered breadbasket, he decided to forego any pie for dessert. To make matters worse, he had trouble getting the waiter’s attention to let him know that he wanted coffee. He should have saved himself the effort. The coffee was bitter.

Out of sorts, he retired early. The sheets were damp and chilly and the pillows seemed to have acquired a few lumps that couldn’t be beaten into submission. Ben sighed after another turn. Nothing seemed to be working that night to let him fall asleep. He thought about getting a glass of warm milk but decided against it. Perhaps a bit of reading? He glanced at the fire as he thought about the newspaper he’d tossed to the flames earlier in a fit of temper. There was nothing else available.

To the darkened ceiling he finally spoke aloud. “The boys are fine. The herd is fine. They are just a little late. That’s all. Quit worrying, Ben Cartwright!” Yes, after all, his sons were grown men.

They could probably, most likely, handle just about anything. Couldn’t they?

So why was he so worried?

That third morning he awoke to another drizzly, damp morning. He only glanced at the breakfast tray room service delivered. The paper folded there with it was even wet. Limp as the toast, too. And the coffee tasted burnt.

The streets were so muddy he decided to not go down to the stockyards until after lunch. Surely, he told himself as he wandered the Sacramento streets, his sons would have the herd into Dalton’s today. He praised his own ability to stay patient by attending the early matinee performance at the Eagle Theater. It was a silly little production about a man with too many daughters that he couldn’t seem to get married off. Ben found his mind drifting, then refocusing, then drifting again. While making his intermission escape, an overdressed dowager cornered him and asked how he was enjoying the show. Ben’s hasty response was that he knew how the male lead felt since he had sons he couldn’t seem to get married off either.

“You don’t think somethin’s happened to your herd, do you?” Dalton asked, pouring Ben a second glass of brandy. This one he filled to the brim since Ben’s hand had been chilled and shaking when he’d taken the first glass.

“I don’t think so, Stuart. I checked the telegraph office before I came down. Nothing. And Adam would surely wire me if something terrible had happened.” Even Ben could hear the doubt in his own words. Or was it fear? Anxiety, certainly, and nothing more.

“Like I said yesterday. You’re welcome to a horse and saddle if you want to go huntin’ for them.”

The second glass of brandy burned in his empty stomach, and made his vision flutter momentarily. It made him regret drinking it so fast but the deed was done. He thanked Dalton for the second offer.

“Maybe if they haven’t shown up by tomorrow afternoon?” Dalton asked, pouring a third glass for his friend.

“Maybe,” Ben allowed. “I can imagine what those boys would say when their old man comes tearing up the trail looking for them. Call me an old mother hen behind my back.” He could see the expression on Adam’s face – that perturbed look he would try to hide quickly from his old man but wouldn’t be completely successful. Hoss would grin at him, slap him on the back to add to his loud “Hi, Pa!” Then the grin would fade as fast as it had come. Joe? He wouldn’t even try to hide his annoyance. He’d want to call his father an old worry-wort and it would show in his every movement. But at least age and experience had finally taught him not to voice the words. Aloud. Ben chuckled at the thought of seeing his sons.

“No,” he said resolutely and declined another shot of brandy. “They can handle things and if they couldn’t, they would have telegraphed me by now. There’s any number of things that could have held them up and I would just be putting miles on a good horse. No,” he repeated the negative and echoed it with a shake of his head, “They’ll be along.”

He shot billiards alone that afternoon. It wasn’t near as much fun as when he had an opponent but there were no takers to his offer. To make matters worse, the cue ball kept finding the pockets before the other balls, causing him to scratch. Probably a good thing I’m not playing against anyone, he muttered to himself as he returned the cue to the rack. I’d have lost the Ponderosa by now.

The clerk at the reservation desk called to Ben as he headed up to his room. He whirled about and bounded down, suddenly all care and worry gone. Surely the man was going to tell him that there was a message from his boys! The broad smile faded when the clerk told him that he would have to vacate three of the rooms tomorrow morning. Other guests had them reserved. Ben patted the counter and asked about other rooms – adjoining if possible. The clerk said that he would check come tomorrow as there would be checkouts but otherwise the hotel was booked solid.

“But your room is yours for as long as you need it, sir,” the clerk called to Ben’s slumped shoulders as he stomped up the stairs.

Forgetting that he’d not eaten at all that day, the evening bottle of brandy put him to sleep as he sat in the chair before the fireplace. Just before the glass tumbled from his numb fingers and oblivion claimed him for the night, Ben Cartwright muttered once more, “They are grown. They can handle the job – I know they can. But why am I so damnably worried?”

He was about to swing into the saddle of Dalton’s proffered horse when he heard mooing from a distance. Ben finished his mounting and turned to find where the sound had come from. White faced Herefords? Yes, but what was that in front of them as they made their way down the fenced roadway?

Ben had to shake his head. Was last night’s inadvertent -and ill-conducted- drinking binge playing tricks on his vision? No, it was what he thought it was: Hop Sing astride a dark horse with a balky pack mule and four other horses in tow. Behind his cook, Ben could see the white faces of his cattle, their hides made deep red by the soft rain and their legs muddy to the hocks. He waited, watching.

Finally, towards the end of the parade of cattle, he saw Sport and a rain-slickered rider that had to be Adam. The world lifted from his shoulders as he made out Hoss’ tall white hat and Joe’s pinto. He fought with himself then decided that the right thing to do was simply open the pens – not go against the flow of the beeves just so he could get his hands on his boys. He could wait patiently.

He sat the rangy horse and did a rough count as the cattle made their way into the pens. There should have been two hundred head – maybe a few less as trail driving hazards were known to lose a few no matter how carefully they were driven. By Ben’s count there were only a hundred and twenty. They looked good, no thin ones in the lot. A couple of calves had even made the trip successfully.

“Hi, Pa,” was Adam’s subdued greeting. To Ben, despite the rough dark beard that his son now sported and the slouched, tired composure, his eldest looked just as good as the cattle now finishing their long walk. Yet there was something wary in Adam’s body-language that Ben picked up on right away. Was it as though he was mentally bracing himself?

“This part of the herd looks great, son. The men bringing in the rest of them behind you?”

There it was, Ben saw. Adam lifted his chin, stretching his neck and looking anywhere but at him. He pursed his lips and seemed to struggle with what he had to tell his father. As if to distract his father, he corrected his horse but the worn out Sport wasn’t dancing at all – a first for the big red animal. Whatever had happened on the trail, Ben now knew his son didn’t want to talk about it.

The warning bells in Ben’s head never got the chance to chime once before Adam said, “This is the herd.” At that, the last white-tipped tail went into the pen and had the gate closed behind it.

An explosion in Chinese caught Ben’s attention – as if the tugging on his trouser leg wasn’t enough. He dismounted before Hop Sing could pull him off. His cook continued to rant in his native tongue, alternating his finger pointing between the pack mule and Ben’s chest.

“Slow down, Hop Sing! And can you make all that into English? I can’t understand you.” Ben’s hands on the Celestial’s shoulders were shrugged off.

“Trust me, Pa. You don’t want to hear that in English,” said Joe as he wrapped the reins of his horse over the top railing of the pen. He followed it with a few phrases that Hop Sing understood – understood but didn’t care for obviouslly. With a huff, the cook returned to the pack mule, snatched a parcel – it looked to Ben like Hop Sing’s bag- and with a few more choice phrases, stomped back down the road he had just come. When Joe called something after him, Hop Sing stopped, turned and came back. He didn’t stop at the four Cartwrights now gathered together. Instead he went on, coloring the air with fierce Chinese explosives.

“Don’t worry. He’ll be back.” Joe called again after the cook but got no response other than a fist jerked in his direction.

“You better hope so, little brother or I’ll…Hi, Pa!” Hoss’ hat brim drooped in the rain. Like Adam, he hadn’t shaved in a while and while the facial hair gave his brother a slightly rakish look, it only made Hoss look unkempt. Or was it more the muddy smears on his shirt and trousers? The torn vest pocket? The missing buttons on the shirt?

Ben held up his hands and tried another smile, this one more genuine. “As glad as I am to see you boys – and you will never know how glad I am – would one of you like to tell why you’re so late getting here? And where are the men? Did you pay them off already? And what happened to the herd? How did you lose – what?- maybe seventy head?” The demand for tolerance and compassion inside the part of him called father warred with the businessman part of Ben Cartwright.

“It’s a long story, Pa,” sighed Adam. He looked to his brothers for help but both of them seemed to find greater interest in the mud at their feet. The very words pleaded with Ben, asking for a slight reprieve.

“It can wait until you boys are cleaned up and have something hot to eat. Come on, let’s see what we can do about that. Joseph, you look like a drowned rat. Where is your hat?”

“Same place his boots are. Somewhere in the Sacramento River,” Adam explained as he remounted his tired horse.

Hoss snorted as he followed suit. “Think they might be in the ocean by now, Adam?”

“Not with as much mud as they had in ’em,” Joe replied and swung onto a groaning Cochise, his bare toes flexing in the stirrups.

Ben was gladdened by the teasing going on around him. It told him that whatever had happened, the brothers had hung together and worked their way through it. Likewise, it told him they were tired. He would be true to his word. He would let them eat and rest before he pressed again for details. But it appeared that it was going to be a good story. Had be to cover the seventy head of cattle, chuck wagon, the other half of the team of mules, five drovers and a remuda-boy, a hat and a pair of boots all missing. Oh, and a temporarily disgruntled cook now headed for only God knew where.

Ah yes, a real whopper of a story. Ben could barely wait.

It did not surprise Ben Cartwright one iota that after they’d stabled their horses and stepped into the hotel lobby the sun broke through the low clouds. Its gentle gold filled the big room and his heart, warming both. A sign of good fortune headed their way, he told himself, because they were all together once more.

But that was as far as luck would take them that day.

“I told you, sir, that the other room reservations were good for only three nights.”

Adam drew a deep breath and looked away. Hoss planted his large arms menacingly on the register, the damp fabric leeching away at the ink. Joe groaned aloud and Ben knew it wasn’t because the last raindrop had fallen from his hair onto the tip of his nose.

“Do you have any other rooms?” Adam asked but there was a certain degree of warning in the words – warning that the clerk took personally.

“As it is, yes.” The young man smiled that irritatingly cheerful smile that Ben had the urge to physically wipe away. “But they are not adjoining. In fact, they are on different floors.”

“Good,” answered all three of Ben’s sons at once, taking him aback.

“Which one is the closest to the kitchen -er- the restaurant?” Hoss asked quickly.

“Which one is the quietest?” piped up Joe.

“Which one is the furthest away from these two?” queried Adam, his thumbs jerking in the direction of his brothers.

Consulting his board of keys, the clerk continued, picking out a key and holding it up. “This is for room 325. It’s all the way to the back of the hotel and should be plenty quiet.” Joe all but launched himself over the counter to snag the dangling key. “And this is Room 112. You have to pass it to get to the restaurant.” Hoss’ hand swallowed it whole. “And last but not least, this is for Room 200. All the way-” He never finished his sentence.

“I’ll find it,” Adam nodded once and key in hand turned from the family knot.

“Wait a minute!” the clerk protested as the brothers turned to depart. “You have to register!”

This made the three younger men pause a moment, then with a lift of their shoulders and a shake to their heads they went on.

“Our father knows how to write our names,” responded Adam, halfway up the stairs.

Ben huffed, watching his sons’ backs depart. Perhaps he has been wrong in his assumption of how well his sons had worked together. There was an undercurrent of uncomfortableness to the way they–no, he would not even consider that. They were just tired, he muttered to himself as he signed their names to the register. It made the little clerk happier and the plastered-on smile a little easier to take.

He was about to follow his sons when the clerk touched his sleeve timidly. “Mister Cartwright, sir?” His voice trembled and he had to clear his throat to go on. “Your sons do know that shoes are required in this establishment, don’t they?”

The afternoon was once more spent alone but Ben Cartwright filled it with the small chores of parenthood: reservations made in the hotel dining room for the four of them, a shopping trip for a pair of boots that turned fruitless because he didn’t have the foot along with him to test out the ones he found. Instead, a pair of slippers would have to do until said foot – and son- were available. He also found a decent price on a ready-made jacket that he was sure Adam would appreciate. With these little errands and chores done, he returned to the hotel.

At the door to room 112 sat a pile of empty plates. At room 325, the “Do Not Disturb” sign hung from the door knob. Room 200 was locked and silent. He leaned against the wall and sighed deeply. “Well, at least they’re all under one roof.”

He checked his pocket watch once more. A little after eight in the evening and still Ben sat alone at the elegant restaurant table. Across the room from him, a lovely young lady had been openly flirting with him, making the wait a touch more bearable. It still galled him, though. His notes slipped under his sons’ doors had been clear: dinner was at six-thirty in the hotel dining room. Try as he might he couldn’t seem to resurrect that pleasure he’d felt earlier in the day when he’d first seen his sons. The joy kept slithering away from him with every diner who came and left before him until only Ben and the young woman remained.

She stood, the candlelight sparring with the diamonds in her ears and glinting off the dark satin dress she wore. There were a few words shared with the maitre ‘d, making each laugh softly then she floated across the floor towards Ben. His throat tightened as he watched her advance. She wasn’t as young as he’d taken her for previously yet she had a youthful air about her. Just as he was about to rise, a dark figure came between them, forcing Ben’s attention back to the here and now.

It was Adam. Seating himself, there were words of apology for being late from his eldest that Ben barely heard. The woman continued towards them but seeing Adam, smiled and nodded once faintly before waltzing out the restaurant’s doorway. A parting glance over her shoulder made Ben smile for the promise it held. For that moment, he wished she’d been around earlier, when the pressing matter of parenting wasn’t so damning.

“Pa?” Adam asked, peering into his father’s slightly bemused expression. “Like I said – sorry I’m late to dinner but I was just…Pa?” He started to turn, to see where – and at who- his father was looking. Ben’s hand on his arm stopped him, the forgiving words for being late all but lost in the wistfulness. “I guess Hoss and Joe have come and gone.”

Ben beckoned for the head waiter and ordered a bottle of chardonnay.

“No, I’ve seen nothing of your brothers. And I’ve been waiting patiently.” He wanted to add that he’d been waiting for three days and that his patience had been worn down like an over-used hatchet.

A bit too quickly, Adam offered to go and get them. “What? Don’t want to face your old man alone, son?” teased Ben, holding Adam’s arm to the table and noting the grimace it brought. “Besides, here comes Hoss now.”

“Hi, Pa. Adam, you got to try the roast chicken at this here place. It is so juicy and tasty, it almost puts Hop Sing’s to shame. Almost.”

“You’ve eaten already?” Ben asked, brows rising.

“A body just can only go for so long without eatin’, Pa.” His napkin snapped open and dropped to his ample lap just as Hoss reached for a roll from the table’s basket.. “And this is just about my limit on not eatin’.”

“Didn’t know you had a limit when it came to eating,” Joe added, dropping into the last empty chair at the table and picking up his own napkin. “Thanks for the slippers at the door, Pa. Was wondering how I could sneak in here barefoot and not get tossed out.”

“Have a good nap?” Adam joshed, knuckling his youngest brother’s shoulder.

The easy, playful banter between the brothers continued throughout the meal. Ben didn’t interrupt, it felt so good to hear. There was talk of slipping out to a local bar but Ben clearing his throat as he accepted the end-of-dinner cup of coffee put a halt to that.

“So,” he started and felt the air around him suddenly electrify. “What happened on the way down? Adam?”

Adam found his cup empty and spent an extraordinarily long time in filling it.

“Hoss?”

Hoss grinned from ear to ear for his father but remained silent.

“Joseph?”

Joe toyed with his scrunched up napkin. “Well, Pa, it’s like this. It is all Adam’s fault.”

The goodwill, camaraderie and brotherly love disappeared far faster than the proverbial scalded cat. Suddenly Ben found himself raising his voice and demanding his sons to settle down. He slapped at Hoss’ finger pointed in Adam’s direction only to have to snag Adam’s sleeve to keep him at the table. Joe, on Adam’s other side, was swatting at Hoss.

“Enough!” roared Ben. Mortified at having been part of such a scene he checked the room and was pleased to find that they were alone. “One of you,” he hissed, his words barely audible, “tell me what has happened. I don’t care which one but one of you will.” Or what? he thought, there’d be no dessert?

Adam growled threateningly when Joe repeated that it was his fault. “As you will recall, Pa, the plan we had was to get the cattle here on the twenty-fourth. With a day for problems, I figured that we needed to leave the Ponderosa on the thirteenth.”

Joe was quick to interrupt. “Friday,the thirteenth.” A stern look from his father and Joe settled back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. Defiance was written all over his face.

“The men didn’t like the idea – whether because it was a Friday or because it was the thirteenth I am not sure. Anyway, we got a good start.”

There came a high-pitched snort from Hoss that Ben would have likened to a trapped mouse’s squeal. “Go on,” he encouraged Adam but kept his eyes pinned on his middle son.

“Well, we were two days out. Sunday. The men said they were not pushing cattle on a Sunday. I told them that they would either push cows or find another job. There were some words and the men decided that they would seek employment elsewhere.”

“But first you had to pay them for the two days they had worked.” Hoss’ thick finger bounced on the table, marking his point.

“And that was when Adam discovered that he’d forgotten the cash box back at the Ranch,” Joe interrupted, a smirk now half-hidden behind his coffee cup. “Now, he could have sent one of us back. It would have taken only a day but he didn’t want to lose that day with the cows. So what does Mister I-know-what-I-am-doing-because-I’m-the-oldest do? Offers to pay them in cows.”

“If I hadn’t done that, Joe, they would have simply come back and gotten a few head. As it was, by paying them in cattle, they were too busy herding them to return for more. Besides, it was only five cows. And I made sure that they were the skinniest ones, Pa. Probably would have lost them anyway.”

Ben nodded, accepting his son’s wisdom. “Go on.”

“Well, I thought that the first town we went close to, I’d ride in and find us some hands.”

“Only one problem with that plan, wasn’t there? Seems that the town wanted to tax us for the grazing our cows were doing on town property. Joe, you ‘member how many cows that was we give ’em? Was it two or three?” Joe held up three fingers to answer Hoss’ question. Hoss wasn’t finished. “And did we find any drovers?”

“No.” Adam’s single word was short and snappish. He went on. “We managed all right, didn’t we?”

Joe’s eyes rolled and he turned with his back to his brother. “Oh, yeah. We managed all right. ‘Cept for night hawkin’ we did just fine. And riding drag?”

“Least the rain cut down on the dust for you, little brother,” teased Hoss. He chortled and that made Adam smile as well. “And seein’s how Adam and I needed all the rest -”

“You two ugly mugs still need your beauty sleep! Pa, you know what they did? They took the first and last night shifts! I got the middle one. Two weeks worth!” The wounded attitude might have been justified, Ben thought, for it meant that Joe had not had more than four hours sleep at a time.

“We drew straws,” explained Adam, his words more like a sigh.

“Okay, boys.” Ben took on a placating tone and reached out to touch his youngest’s shoulder, telling him nonverbally that he was sympathizing with him. “That’s eight cows and five drovers accounted for.”

“No, Pa,” corrected Hoss with a wag of his head. “See them drovers did come back and helped themselves to five more cows one night while Joe was nappin’ in the saddle.”

“Can’t prove that!” Joe defended himself. “Could have been on your watch that they come back!”

“Okay. I stand corrected. That’s thirteen cows. Rough count says seventy are missing. Where did the rest of them go? The drovers again? Why didn’t you get the law involved?”

Once again Adam shook his head and picked up the thread of their story. “No, the drovers left us alone after Hoss put a few bullets over their heads the next night. Only problem was that started a stampede.”

“And the only problem with that was the herd went right through this farmer’s barn.”

“And another one’s chicken coop.”

“And a third one’s barley field. Thank God it missed his house or we could have turned around and gone home without a cow to our names.”

Ben fought down his rising temper – or was the urge to laugh? “And how much did this cost us?” He emphasized the ‘us’ so that his sons would feel that he was not finding them at fault.

Each son held up five fingers.

“Total?”

“Each,” the three said together.

Fifteen plus eighteen. “Thirty-three is not seventy. You are still shy thirty-seven cows.”

“And I’m getting to that. See, by this time it has started raining. The rivers were running pretty full so instead of the three of us-”

“And Hop Sing in the chuck wagon with the extra horses tied to it,” interjected Hoss.

Adam went on with a scowl. “We decided not to try and ford the cattle ourselves. You know that’s a dangerous job when you’re not short-handed, Pa.” Ben’s nod urged him on, telling him he was right. “But we didn’t have any money for the ferry.”

“How many cows?”

“He gouged us, Pa. That bargeman, he gouged us. Said he counted more than we started out with!” Oddly enough, it was Joe coming to Adam’s defense but Hoss wasn’t far behind when he claimed that the bargeman had charged twice for the mules – once as livestock and again with the chuck wagon.

Ben lowered his voice. “How many?”

“And twice for each of us when we were just loading and unloading the ferry!”

“How many?”

The silence stretched thin around the table as Ben studied each son in his place. Then, “How many?”

“Ten,” Adam finally answered. “I would have jewed him down but he pulled out a shotgun and I decided that ten was fair enough.”

Ben agreed. “Wise move, son. Okay, by now you are where? And what about the chuck wagon? And the mule? And Joseph, I have yet to hear about your boots and hat.”

The silence stretched among the four men, broken only by the tinkle of silverware on china and unseen restless feet shuffling beneath the table. Ben knew that if he could see those feet at that particular moment, how they would be: Adam’s would be displaying his solid practicality and being flat on the floor; Hoss’ heels would be caught on the center rung, toes pressed to the floor; Joe would be using his to anchor himself in place with his ankles twisted around the chair legs. Predictable, Ben thought to himself, so the rest of the story must really be a tale and a half if his sons were trying to hide in their own style of secrecy. He would have to force the issue.

“I’m waiting,” he urged, taking another sip of his cooling coffee.

After one last round of feet shuffling and trading slightly sheepish looks around the table, Adam found his voice only to drown it in his coffee. “That one was all Hoss’ fault, Pa.”

“Weren’t neither!” the big man protested sharply and looked to Joe for support but there was none to be had from that quarter. Just a sly-cat smile and a half shrug. “I had lots of help, Pa. Lots of it!” He pinned the younger brother with narrowed eyes.

Ben picked up his spoon and studied it for a moment as though it were the Magna Carta and he was King John, forced against his will to sign it. It wasn’t and he wasn’t but apparently the matter of the misplaced cattle was just as momentous to his sons. He tried clearing his throat and that seemed to break the log jam as Hoss began to tell what had occurred.

“Now, you’ll remember how I told you that we should have a team of horses instead of those mules.” With his face pushed forward there was no mistaking what he’d thought of the mules but he went on anyway. “Them mules were the most hateful cantankerous critters God ever created. Why just hitchin’ them up – putting the harness on ’em – walking towards them with a halter…. anything they thought was gonna be work and they’d turn right hateful. After the first morning when Hop Sing had trouble just getting them to the chuck wagon…it took him over an hour to get them brutes ready. One of them even tried to take a bite out of him and that really made him mad.”

Adam chuckled softly and turned to an equally bemused Joe. “When he nailed that brown one with his cast iron skillet, I could hear it over on the other side of the clearing.”

“Yep,” agreed Joe. “Got him right between the eyes but it didn’t faze that old boy one teeny tiny bit. He just wasn’t gonna let Hop Sing harness him up.”

“Good thing you were there to help him.” Adam pushed his coffee back further on the table and crossed his arms. He turned his eyes to where Hoss sat ready to continue his story.

“No, the good thing was that Hop Sing doesn’t carry a gun or we’d have been one mule down right then.” Joe followed Adam’s example. “Go on, Hoss.”

“Well, like I said, there was problems with them mules. After that, Hop Sing wouldn’t have nothing to do with them. Once breakfast was over and he’d cleaned up and packed up, he’d just go sit on the wagon seat and wait for one of us to hitch up the mules. And at night it was the same thing in reverse. He just weren’t gonna have nothin’ to do with them.”

“So that means that one of you is responsible for the loss of one of them.” Ben smiled faintly behind his coffee cup as he emphasized the pronoun ‘you’.

“Yes, sir,” Hoss admitted softly, his stubby fingers stroking the white linen tablecloth. “And I guess it would be me. See, that morning after we ferried the cattle and all across the river, we was all feelin’ pretty low. It had rained durn near ever’ day. The trail we was on was nothin’ but mud, and sleepin’ at night-”

“Least you got some decent sleep,” interrupted Joe sourly but Ben waved his complaint off.

Hoss went on, barely missing a beat. “And sleepin’ at night was sheer misery. Wet blankets and soggy ground…. The only bright spot of the day was Hop Sing’s cookin’. And that’s what really caused all the problems.”

Ben’s brows climbed into his hairline at the suggestion that a rift had formed between his middle son and the little cook. In truth, that would be serious but somehow Ben sensed that it wasn’t nearly as serious as the suggestion seemed. “Oh, really,” he drawled out slowly.

All three of them nodded but it was left to Hoss to supply the rest of the story. “That morning, the big brown mule – what’d we name him?”

“Not in front of Pa,” warned Joe softly.

“That fella just wouldn’t back up to the wagon. He started dancing to the side, running into the other. Stuck out them ugly yellow teeth like he was aiming to take a bite outta me. So,” he paused dramatically and took faith in the enraptured silence. “I hit him. Square ‘tween the eyes with my fist. That settled him for a moment, but Hop Sing chose just that minute to go by with that big ol’ dutch oven. He’d started stew for lunch in it, got it all red hot and was headed for the back of the wagon to hang it so it’d cook some more. It kind of distracted me- that smell, you know.” Just as it had then, Ben could see how the mere thought of the cooking food could side track Hoss because he smiled half-dreamily and sighed briefly.

“And the mule chose just that moment to start kickin’. When his hooves hit the wagon, it sounded like a gunshot, Pa.” Joe, leaned forward onto the table, single finger pounding his older brother’s arm viciously. “‘Fore any one could do anything, that old mule – now joined by the other one since they were hooked together- started in, commencin’ to take the wagon apart with their feet.”

“I was tryin’ to get them to stop,” Hoss defended his actions. “I had the other one all but down on his knees but your caterwaulin’ set them off.”

“Wait. Wait!” Ben held up a hand and turned his attention to Joe. “What did your…caterwauling…have to do with this? Where were you, Joseph?”

“I had been sittin’ on the tailgate of the chuck wagon. I was having a drink of coffee.”

“Why didn’t you go and help your brother if you knew he was having trouble?”

Apparently Ben’s probe had hit a nerve for Joe bristled. Adam chuckled low and let a devilish smile run across his face before he answered. “Our beloved little brother wasn’t entirely dressed at the time, Pa.”

“I was changin’ out of wet clothes into something a little drier.” The heat in his explanation normally would have gotten him rebuked but Ben let it pass. Watching his father for the reproval that wasn’t coming made Joe settle down a bit. “I was down to my long johns.”

“That wasn’t what Hop Sing said you were down to,” Adam muttered. “Must have surprised you when the wagon took off right in front of you. Did me, and I was across the herd from all this. Just imagine, Pa. There goes the chuck wagon down the trail, with Hoss hanging onto the mules’ heads out if front, bellowing and shouting like the all fiends of hell are after him. In truth, it was only Hop Sing, his pot full of stew flying into the air, and Joe screaming like a naked banshee because all of his clothes are flapping from the tailgate as the wagon disappeared down the trail.” Adam’s descriptive painting of the scene was humourous and Ben, like Adam, couldn’t keep a straight face.

Adam continued, much to his brothers’ discomfiture. “Since Hoss had gone with the mules – reluctantly, I think, but he went- and Joe wasn’t exactly dressed for riding, it was up to me. The trail was clearly marked by what had come off of the wagon. A cup here, Joe’s gun over there – you get the picture. Needless to say, Pa, by the time I caught up to them, the wagon was in at least a hundred pieces – most of them not repairable. Hoss had the mules stopped all right. They’d wound up hip deep in a fast-running stream. And hip deep on Hoss is deeper than most other hip deeps. The wagon – or what was left of it- was turned on its side, and washing downstream was our flour, our coffee, our everything that was edible that hadn’t come loose and been strewn all over the muddy trail. I rescued Hoss and the mules but as for the food, it was all lost, I am afraid.”

“Along with all of Joseph’s clothes?” their father asked, the mirth in his voice hard to miss even though he had asked softly and with great severity.

“No,” sighed Joe and looked away. “I still had a change of ’em in my saddlebags. Well, a change of socks at least and on the way back, Adam found my pants.”

“I found your pants. Adam found your shirt. And we told you that we looked for your long johns and your boots but couldn’t find ’em.” Hoss was put out that his brother couldn’t seem to get the story straight.

“So that tells me what happened to the wagon and Joseph’s boots, but what about the mule?”

“Well, by now Hop Sing was ready to pound all of us- Hoss, Joe, me and the mules included- into the dirt- er, mud- and leave us there. He kept ranting about going back home-”

“And he didn’t use the word Ponderosa, either,” added Joe when Adam paused to take a breath. “You should be glad that you couldn’t understand half of what he was sayin’. Kept going on about how was he to cook when he didn’t have any pots nor pans nor anything to put in ’em.”

“We found him that bag of beans, didn’t we, Adam? Sure it had split open and there was some dirt and leaves in ’em but he managed to cook ’em okay.” Ben involuntarily shuddered, thinking of the fine cuisine Hop Sing had placed before him over the years and to have that skill now reduced to dealing with beans…

“You didn’t see the looks he was giving that mule. Fingering that big old butcher knife of his and just a’smilin’.” Joe also shuddered but it was not from thinking of fine cuisine lost but more likely of having to eat mule meat.

“By this time,” Adam commenced again, drawing them all back into the events of the day, “we’d lost half the day and I was determined not to lose it all but there was the little matter of Hop Sing riding. He’s a cook and a damned fine one, but we all know that he will never be a horseman. Having him walk wasn’t going to work, though, and we didn’t have an extra saddle. When I brought it up to him, he eyed the remuda horses and shook his head. I didn’t even have to mention the mules – knew there was no way he would ever get close to them again – or so I thought.”

“So what did you do?” After all, Ben reminded himself, he had seen Hop Sing ride into the stock yard.

“Hop Sing did it. He took Chub and those balky mules and disappeared down the trail. Left me to ride without a saddle, Pa.” The whine in Hoss’ tone hadn’t been there since he’d been old enough to speak in complete sentences. “I’d offered to make him a pad and such so it wouldn’t hurt so much aridin’ but he wasn’t gonna listen to it. Told me to use it then he just clambers up on ol’ Chub and leaves me grounded.”

Ben prompted. “But he came back, obviously.”

Adam’s one word answer of “yeah” was caught in between swallows of cooling coffee. He signaled for the waiter and asked for more all around before he went on. “When he came back, he had that mangy brown thing you saw him riding, a child’s saddle on it, and a rasher of bacon. Oh, and the gentler of the mules. Funny, that mule didn’t give him a bit of trouble after that. Think we could get him to train – no, never mind. Don’t even think it. He’d continue taking out his displeasure on us gastronomically.”

“That is if I can convince him to come home.” Ben shoved his napkin further onto the table. “That is if I can find him to convince him to come home.”

“He only went to Sacramento’s Chinese community, Pa. Said he had to deal with sane folks for a while.” The earnestness in Joe’s words made Ben believe that he was right.

“Okay, that explains the wagon, the mule, Hop Sing, Joe’s boots – and other missing pieces of clothing- but you still have thirty odd head of cattle to account for, gentlemen.”

“Don’t you think that’s a little harsh, Pa?” Adam pleaded uncharacteristically. “You always lose a few head on a drive.”

“Thirty isn’t a few head. Come on, out with it. What did you do? Trade them for magic beans?”

All three winced at their father’s reference to the old fairy tale of Jack and the Beanstalk. The motion didn’t go un-noticed. He prodded them a little more forcefully with a single “Well?” They remained silent, but it was Adam who squirmed in his chair first, followed by Joseph when he felt his older brother’s hostile stare land on his shoulders.

“Well, Pa,” all three began at once but Hoss was the one to finish it. “Remember when we said that Adam should have gone home that first day to get the money from the safe?” He paused for a few heartbeats – time that allowed both Adam and Joe to take on a decidedly sheepish look. “Iffen he had, he’d’ve seen that we didn’t leave with all the cattle we was supposed to’ve. Seems little brother over there didn’t open up a pasture gate that first morning and run in the yearlings we had separated out. It wasn’t until we was just outside of Sacramento here that we took a good long count and realized we’d left some and where we’d left em.”

“But at the ferry-”

“Adam told the ferryman how many head we had so that old buzzard got overpaid. So, like Joe said in the beginning, Pa, it was all Adam’s fault.”

Before he could form an answer, Ben stood. His sons all followed suit and he eyed them, his face void of all expression. Yet he couldn’t keep it that way and he finally smiled, his eyes twinkling with such serious mirth that he had to look down to keep them from seeing it and realizing that he was teasing with them.

“Then I guess you’ll just have to go home and get them. With the three of you working together, it shouldn’t take you more than a few days – a week at most.” As he finished, he looked up to find that his sons had vanished. He was certain that it was not because they were eager to do his bidding. “But I think this time, I’d better go along with them, just to make sure everything gets here.”

The end