The Easterner

By Harper

“So, Joe, I’ll expect your help with our visitor,” Ben said, stretching his legs toward the fireplace.

“Me, Pa?” Joe looked up, startled. He had been staring hard at the checkerboard balanced on the settee between his and Hoss’ knees.

“Martin is closer in age to you than to Hoss or Adam.”

“Martin who?” Joe said, moving his black checker to the far side of the board. “King me, Hoss!”

“Martin Lindsay, our visitor for the summer.”

“We’re having a visitor for the summer?” Joe looked up from the game.

Adam rolled his eyes and leaned back in his chair.

“Pa’s just been telling us—his friend, Mr. Lindsay, wrote asking if his son can stay with us for the summer. He feels his son’s health may benefit from a change of climate.”

“Oh.” Joe turned back to the checkerboard, barely listening as he planned a complicated series of jumps.

“When is he arriving?” Adam shook his head at his youngest brother, and turned back toward his father.

“On Saturday’s stage from Denver. School is out after tomorrow, so I expect Joe will be able to introduce Martin to his friends, take him fishing, show him the ranch—all the things that he may not get to do living in the city.”

“Is he able to get about all right?” Adam glanced at the two heads bent over the checkerboard. “Joe and his friends can be, well, lively, to say the least.”

“Well, his father writes that although he was sickly as a child, his disorder is more of the nervous variety. He has no real restrictions on his activities now. His father asks that I treat him as one of the family, including assigning him regular chores. He intends this to be a working visit for Martin. His letter hints at some, well, some trouble, and he feels the discipline of ranch work may help. He also asks if we’d see to it that he maintains his studies. He is to attend college in the fall.”

“I’d be happy to help tutor him, Pa.” Adam eyed his younger brother. “Joe could benefit from extra studies as well, and studying along with Martin will help keep him company.”

Suddenly Joe was hearing every word of the conversation.

“Aw, Pa, schoolwork is over! This is my summer to work with Charlie breakin’ horses!”

“There will be time for studying, Joseph, and for showing Martin around. The horses are not going anywhere. And Hoss, maybe you can help me with determining which daily chores best suit Martin’s abilities.”

“Sure thing, Pa. HA!” said Hoss, jumping three of Joe’s men. “King me, Little Joe!”

**********

Joe slouched in the buggy, watching the horse in front of him twitch away a few flies. The stage was late, as usual; he sighed and tied off the horse, deciding to stretch his legs as he waited for Martin Lindsay.

Martin had written a letter to Joe’s father, a letter that had so impressed Ben that he gave Joe a lecture on manners and maturity. In his letter, Martin had spoken admiringly of the Ponderosa and his father’s memories of his friendship with Ben, even quoting some famous poet or something, according to Adam. Ben told Joe he could benefit from the influence of this charming, well-spoken, polite, young man. Martin Lindsay’s not even here yet, and Pa already thinks I’m not measurin’ up, thought Joe.

Late spring was a busy time on the ranch. Adam and Ben were needed at the timber camp, and Hoss was working with the cattle crews, so Joe was to be the sole Cartwright welcoming their guest. Joe had received another lecture this morning from his father, and later one from Adam, on how to treat Martin and not to be late and to mind his manners. It’s like they expect me to get in trouble, he thought.

Joe wished for the hundredth time that he had been paying attention and had protested more during that initial conversation. Martin Lindsay was sixteen years old—two years older than Joe—and obviously much more interested in books than horses. Joe didn’t think they would have much in common. Plus, Martin had some kind of ailment; Joe wasn’t clear on what Martin’s health problem was, but it sounded like he wouldn’t be much fun to be around.

Joe usually relished a trip to town, but as he wandered around his usual haunts, his mind was on the horses Charlie would be working. Showin’ Martin around is already takin’ more time than I planned, thought Joe. If the stage doesn’t get here soon, I won’t get back in time to help Charlie today.

**********

The stage finally pulled into Virginia City three hours late. Joe had been killing time in Sheriff Coffee’s office, poring over the latest wanted posters, warrants, and other official papers. Joe was sure this knowledge would come in handy some day—he had imagined recognizing and single-handedly capturing a bank robber or a rustler, and pictured the admiring looks on his brothers’ faces as he collected the reward.

Roy Coffee stepped away from the window.

“Joe.”  

Joe turned over another poster. The sheriff smiled at the boy’s intent study. In a while, he thought, my “junior deputy” will be too old for my stories and wanted posters.

“Little Joe.”  He nudged Joe’s knee. Joe was reading an old warrant, wondering how a simple piece of paper could lock a man up for years.

“Hmmm?” he looked up at the sheriff, who for some reason seemed amused.

“The stage is in. Ain’t you waitin’ to meet someone?”

“Oh. Thanks, Sheriff.” Joe grabbed his hat and bolted out the door. Roy followed at a more sedate pace. He usually met the stage when he could, keeping track of the comings and goings of the people of his town. From the lack of enthusiasm displayed by the youngest Cartwright, he was curious about their visitor.

**********

Joe hurried down the street, his boots thumping across the boarded sidewalk. Pa wouldn’t be happy if he wasn’t there to greet Martin Lindsay. Ahead of him, he could see the stage passengers were already stepping out of the vehicle and collecting their baggage.

The stage had been full, and Joe winced in sympathy. He’d ridden on the floor of a crowded stage before, and remembered the stiff muscles and bruised backside from that trip. He counted seven passengers, two women and five men, and looked them over as he approached. Although he hadn’t really expected to have much in common with the king of manners and education who had written the flowery, high-falutin’ letter to his father, he had hoped that the real life Martin Lindsay would prove more likeable than the stuck-up, proper gentleman suggested by the letter.

Of the five male passengers on today’s stage, there was only one who was the right age to be their visitor. Joe’s footsteps faltered a few yards away, until he came to a complete stop, and he tightened his mouth in disappointment. Martin was worse than he could have ever imagined.

Martin was tall, as tall as Adam, but much, much thinner and paler. Everything about him was pale—his face, his hair, and as Joe got closer, he could see pale gray eyes, too. Martin was being helped out of the stage by one of the lady passengers—that alone made Joe stare—and he held a snowy white handkerchief to his mouth as he thanked his benefactress for her help. He was thin, and moved deliberately, as if he considered every motion before he performed it. His clothes were dusty, as were all the other passengers’ and Mrs. Cooper, who had helped him down the steps, was brushing him off solicitously. He wore a pale gray knee-length coat and matching trousers, a white shirt trimmed with ruffles at the neck and wrists—Ruffles! thought Joe in disgust—and a daffodil-yellow waistcoat. He looked much older than sixteen, but there was an air of fragility about him.

The driver, pausing while tossing the luggage from the roof of the stage, spit a well-aimed stream of tobacco-juice near Martin’s foot, a sure indication of disapproval, but Martin seemed not to notice as he gazed at his surroundings. Martin reached into his waistcoat pocket, pulled out a small lens on a long handle, and gazed through it, surveying first the driver, then the dusty Virginia City street. His head tilted back and his nose wrinkled. He’s not impressed, thought Joe.

Martin’s gaze eventually came to Joe, passed over him, as it had over the other uninteresting objects on the street, then came back to Mrs. Cooper.

“Thank you, dear ma’am.” Martin bowed slightly. “Your attentions are most appreciated.” 

Mrs. Cooper preened and fluffed. Joe continued to stare. The driver spat again.

Joe stepped forward.

“Mister Lindsay?”  Joe just couldn’t call this gentleman by his first name.

Martin Lindsay turned and, bringing his lens to his eye, looked down to focus on Joe’s face.

“Yes?” One word, but it held all the refinement, disdain, and weariness in the world.

Joe suddenly felt dusty and clumsy, even though his clothes were clean and he was standing still.

“I’m Joe Cartwright. Welcome to Virginia City.” Joe held out his hand, but realized too late that it was ink-stained from reviewing the wanted posters.

Martin Lindsay looked at his hand for a moment, and then said gently, “Pardon me if I do not shake your hand, Master Cartwright,” and he waved his glass and handkerchief as if to indicate his hands were occupied.

Joe flushed.

A flowered carpetbag landed in the street at Martin’s feet. Martin made no attempt to pick up the bag.

“You wanna catch these bags, Little Joe?” the driver called down.

“Sure, Hank.” Joe stepped forward to catch an unending number of bags and small cases, even a small trunk. All of them, it seemed, belonged to Martin Lindsay.

“I hope I will see you at the social gatherings this summer, Mister Lindsay,” Mrs. Cooper said, twirling her bonnet string. “I’m sure the Cartwrights will be happy to bring you to the Spring Cotillion, won’t you, Little Joe?”

Cotillion? thought Joe. What’s a Cotillion?

“Er, um, yes ma’am,” Joe replied weakly. He picked up as many bags as he could carry as Roy Coffee introduced himself to Martin.

It took Joe three trips to bring all the bags to his buggy, and several more minutes to tie them all down. Martin did not seem to notice Joe’s activity, chatting politely with the Sheriff and a few other curious townsfolk.

When Joe was ready, he headed back to the small group surrounding Martin.

“Uh, excuse me, Mister Lindsay?”  Joe didn’t like the sound of his voice—uncertain and tentative. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Ready to head out to the Ponderosa?”

Again, Joe was on the receiving end of that disdainful gaze. “Of course. Ladies, gentlemen, I hope to see you again soon.”

Joe pushed his hat back and watched as Martin kissed Mrs. Cooper’s hand. Martin Lindsay sure is polite, Joe thought.

**********

Joe headed the buggy out of town, providing cheerful descriptions of what he felt were the prominent sights of Virginia City. Martin spoke only to ask how long it would take to arrive at the ranch. After a few minutes of this one-sided conversation, Joe lapsed into silence.

Joe was normally outgoing, and usually enjoyed showing visitors his home. He nearly always found some common topic of discussion with most people, but somehow he felt that he had nothing to say to Martin Lindsay. He wished his genial brother Hoss were here with his friendly smile, or better yet, Adam, with his sophisticated ideas and conversation.

He’d have to talk to Pa about someone else showing Martin around. Though they might be close in age, this elegant stranger made him feel very young and inexperienced. He had caught snatches of conversation as he was loading the buggy—Martin had apparently just returned from Paris, France, and had lived in New York, Washington, and San Francisco. He would be attending college in the fall. Joe had never been farther east than Carson City. Joe tolerated school only because his father made him attend. He felt more at home outdoors than indoors, and where Martin enjoyed “the life of the mind” as Adam sometimes called it; Joe liked nothing better than the physical side of ranch life.

“Do you ride, Mister Lindsay?”  Joe asked at last, trying for a subject he felt comfortable with.

“Of course, Master Cartwright,” Martin Lindsay replied. “And you may call me Martin. I brought my kit.”

“Call me Joe. Uh, what kit would that be?”

Martin looked at him in surprise. “My riding kit, of course.”

“Oh.”

The silence continued long enough for Joe to wonder what was included in a riding kit, and the lack of conversation became uncomfortable again. He gave it another try.

“You can have your pick of the remuda for your riding horse, if you like.”

“I take it that 'remuda' is a group of horses? That would be satisfactory.”

Silence again.

“Do you like fishing, Mister—um Martin?”

“Perhaps. I have never been fishing, so I do not know.”

“How about swimming? When the weather is warm my friends and I like to swim in Lake Tahoe…”

“I’m sure you and your friends find this activity entertaining, but I have a health condition that does not allow exertion and requires quietude.”

Joe wasn’t sure what quietude entailed, but he was sure that it wasn’t something that he and his friends ever spent time doing.

“What to you do for fun? Back home, I mean?” Joe was curious.

“I enjoy reading, and I attend social functions, like the opera, plays, soirees.”

Joe let “soirees” drift past him. “Virginia City has an Opera House….”

“Yes, you pointed it out as we passed. However, I don’t expect that this—this wilderness will provide any of the entertainments to which I am accustomed.” Martin’s bitter, abrupt tone did not invite further discussion, but Joe kept trying.

“Well, we don’t often get much in the way of theater here, but we do have dances and picnics and Founder’s Day, and the Fourth of July celebrations….”

“I see.”

Joe looked down at his hands—hands roughened by chopping wood and mending harness and handling branding irons, dirtied by working with horses, and currently, ink-stained. Martin’s hands were thin and white, like the rest of him, and looked like they had never, ever been dirty.

“I hope you enjoy your stay,” was all Joe could think of to say, but his tone implied this was doubtful.

**********

Martin spent the remainder of the afternoon in the bathhouse and his room, and when he emerged for dinner he wore a dove grey suit and smelled of subtle cologne.

“Very elegant,” Adam whispered in Joe’s ear as Martin stepped deliberately down the stairs. Ben stepped forward to greet Martin.

“I hope you are rested after your journey, Martin,” Ben said, smiling and motioning him towards the dining table. “Hop Sing has prepared something very special for dinner to welcome you.”

Martin smiled a sweet smile, and sat down in Joe’s chair. Ben lowered his eyebrows as Joe opened his mouth to object. With a scowl, Joe settled into the “guest” chair.

Martin, Ben, and Adam carried on a lively conversation about sights back east, and Hoss interspersed admiring comments and questions. Normally, Joe would have been eagerly questioning a guest who had seen as much of the world as Martin, but the condescending tone in reply to Joe’s initial questions dampened any curiosity he had for Martin’s travels. The awkwardness that Joe had felt when he met Martin at the stage returned, and Joe didn’t raise his eyes from his plate until Hop Sing brought in the dessert.

By the time they carried their coffee cups to the living room, Martin had agreed to call Ben “uncle,” and he and Adam were deep in a laughing comparison of eastern and western styles of riding, and the merits of the English vs. the western saddle. Hoss listened and watched, then winked at Joe. Joe grinned in response and immediately felt better.

“There are so many things that are different between the East and the West. The newspapers and novels all document a wildness, a—barbarity—that I am not accustomed to,” Martin was saying as Ben passed the cream.

“Well,” said Hoss, with another wink at Joe, “What may be a serious offense back east might be just a little mix-up out here.”

“That is exactly what I mean, Erik!” Martin dabbed at the corner of his mouth. “The degree of lawlessness increases the further west one travels. Suddenly everyone is armed. Gunfire is commonly heard in the streets. Arguments that would be viewed as a falling out of friends in Boston may cause an armed battle west of St. Louis!”

Ben laughed in an attempt to lighten the mood.

“It sounds like your impressions are colored by dime novels,” he said.

“Well, I note that, with the exception of young Joseph” — Joe scowled — “you and your employees wear sidearms. One would suppose that a man wearing a weapon is prepared to use it? And, considering the unrefined types I have met so far in my journey, it is hardly surprising that simple arguments result in bloodshed. I find the possibility of daily violence very—well, daunting.” Martin sipped his coffee. “My father is concerned about my health, as you know. While the dry climate is agreeable, I’m not sure the, well, the society, is quite the best for my nerves.”

Adam kicked Joe’s ankle and Joe’s mouth snapped shut abruptly. Joe glanced at his brother, ready to protest, but Adam merely raised his eyebrows at Joe, his eyes dancing with suppressed laughter.

“Many people do come west for their health,” Adam said in a mild tone that did not match the merriment in his eyes. “Many people wear sidearms for protection. But I’m sure you will find that our everyday society does not reflect the violence you may have read about in novels.”

Hoss sipped his coffee.

“You won’t be in any danger, Martin,” he said kindly. “Now tell me about this new sugar plum candy you was mentionin’ to Hop Sing.”

**********

“Would you like me to show you the lake, Martin?” Joe asked the next day at lunch.

“I’m sorry, Young Joseph, what did you say?” Martin gazed at Joe in a kindly way that made Joe grit his teeth. Joe was well aware of his father’s expectations of him, and had spent the morning waiting for Martin to come down from his room so he could show him around the ranch. However, between sleeping until eleven and his insistence on calling Joe “Young Joseph,” Martin wasn’t making it easy.

“I asked if ya wanted me to take you to see the lake.” Joe saw his father glance his direction, and kept a friendly look on his face.

“Oh, the lake. Well, actually, I’d rather not spend too much time in the harsh wind today. Perhaps a trip into town?” Martin addressed his answer to Ben. “Mrs. Cooper asked me to tea if I wasn’t too worn out from traveling.”

“You may ride in with me, Martin,” Ben said. “Joseph, since you won’t be showing Martin around, you can get started on cleaning the tack room.”

“But Pa, I was gonna meet Mitch at the lake....”

“Now you don’t need to go to the lake,” Ben said. “Martin can see the lake another day.”

“But...”

“You wanted to earn some money this summer, as I recall, Joe. That means you work according to what needs to be done, not your own whims.” Ben’s tone was mild, but the rebuke felt worse because of Martin’s smile.

“It’s all right, Joseph,” Martin said in a kindly tone. “You can introduce me to your little friends another day.” 

Joe nearly bit through his cheek holding back the reply he wanted to make. Instead, he mumbled something about getting started on the tack room, and left the table.

**********

Ben’s assumption that Joe would be the most likely companion for Martin proved to be incorrect; for the first few days of his stay, Martin spent time with Ben or Adam every afternoon, reviewing ranch operations. Ben seemed quite taken with the Easterner, and included Martin in some of his business meetings as an expert on “the state of things back east.” Adam introduced Martin to the prominent families of Virginia City, and the resulting invitations promised a busy social life for the Easterner. Martin also seemed to like Hoss; he even bought lunch for him in Virginia City one day. However, Martin somehow never spent any time with Joe.

Joe was used to being liked by most folks; he even knew how to deal with outright dislike. But Martin ignored him. When Joe tried to talk with him, Martin brushed him aside as if Joe were dust on his sleeve. Joe, used to the attention lavished on him as the youngest member of a loving family, didn’t know how to react.

I guess he figures I got nothin’ to offer, Joe thought.

**********

A few days after Martin’s arrival, Adam established a regular study time for Joe and Martin, with readings and assignments. Joe argued and whined about study time, but he sat with books in front of him most days. In the evenings, Adam reviewed his papers, corrected his math problems, and then assigned more work.

Martin’s studies consisted of reviewing the newspaper and lecturing Joe about literature. He hadn’t brought any textbooks with him, and all Adam’s efforts to interest him in his old textbooks fell flat. In a low-voice comment to Adam, Martin made it clear that he felt that Joe’s assignments were too elementary for him. Adam adjusted the lessons; Martin began to skip the study sessions entirely.

When Adam confronted him at dinner about the lessons, Martin stated that his nerves required that he rest periodically throughout the day, asking if “Uncle Ben” didn’t agree that his health was more important than studying. Uncle Ben agreed, ignoring the glares from Joe and the “Pa, don’t you think...” from Adam. After that, Joe sat down to study alone.

**********

At breakfast on Sunday, Joe offered to take Martin fishing after church. With a glance at Ben, Martin agreed enthusiastically. However, once Adam and Ben had headed off to the Watson’s to look at a stud they were trying to sell, Martin suddenly changed his mind, stating he needed to “review his correspondence.” Joe shrugged. Martin hadn’t been there long enough to receive any mail, but Joe accepted Martin’s choice gratefully, and went off on to meet Mitch at the lake.

No one but Joe seemed to notice that after a week of what was to be a “working” summer, Martin was rising each day at whatever time suited him, and spending his time any way he wished.

**********

“Joseph!”

Joe’s head snapped up from his books. He had taken the arithmetic book to the front porch so he could listen to Adam play his guitar as he studied. He could not suppress the automatic guilt he felt at his father’s tone. He rapidly reviewed his recent behavior, trying to find the source of his father’s displeasure. He caught the look on Adam’s face, and knew from the amused smirk that his brother knew exactly what he was thinking.

“Joseph! Come in here!”

Joe stood quickly, but hesitated.

“Better get in there,” Adam said, reaching for one of the tuning keys on his guitar. “He doesn’t sound like he wants to be kept waiting.”

Joe stepped gingerly through the front door and around the corner to his father’s desk.

“Yes sir?”

“I thought you were going to take Martin fishing today?”

“Yes, sir, but—”

“Then imagine my surprise when I am told that you and your friends were racing your horses on the Virginia City Road, interfering with traffic and causing Mrs. Henry’s horse to bolt—”

“Aww, Pa, Mrs. Henry’s horse never bolted, just sort of woke up a little. That old horse knows the road so well it sleeps on the way home—”

“That’s not the point, and you know it! You were supposed to be watching out for Martin, not running wild with your friends!”

“But Martin—“

“And Martin, left to his own devices, nearly got lost trying to find his way through Virginia City by himself!”

“But Pa, Martin said he didn’t want to go fishing—”

“Just because Martin is too polite to insist on the outing doesn’t mean you can shirk your responsibilities! I know how much he was looking forward to that fishing outing, yet as soon as I am out of sight, you go off with your friends and do as you please! If Adam and I hadn’t come along, Martin would have ended up on D Street, exposed to—” he paused as he considered his young son’s knowledge of the seedier parts of Virginia City, “—to who knows what!”

Joe gritted his teeth and looked away from his father’s anger. Martin was standing near the kitchen, a slight smile on his face.

“That is not the behavior I expected from you!” Ben continued. “Mrs. Henry could have been seriously hurt! I am ashamed of you! You will apologize to Martin, and to Mrs. Henry, and from now on, when you are not working, you will place yourself at Martin’s disposal for whatever he chooses to do!”

Joe hung his head to hide the tears that sprung to his eyes. He didn’t trust his voice, so he remained silent.

“Joseph! Did you hear me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I suggest you get your horse and head over to Mrs. Henry’s now, before it gets dark. You can speak to Martin once you get back.”

“Yes, sir.”

When Joe went out to saddle his horse, he realized that Adam’s position under the open porch window had allowed him to hear the entire conversation.

**********

Mrs. Henry clearly regretted getting Joe in trouble with his father. She offered to speak to Ben on Joe’s behalf, but Joe was sure that would only make his father angrier, so he declined the favor. He felt a little better having made the visit, though.

The sun cast his shadow a long way in front of him as he walked his horse home. He couldn’t ever remember his father saying he was ashamed of him before. Pa thinks Martin is better than me, he thought. Martin’s manners are polished and he never raises his voice; somehow he seems sad and weak so that folks start doin’ for him all the time.

Joe spent the trip back thinking about what it would mean to be at Martin’s “disposal.” The smile on Martin’s face made him sure that Martin would not receive his apology as graciously as had Mrs. Henry.

**********

“Thank you, Joseph. I’m sure you will do better.” Martin’s tone made Joe clench his fists. “Meanwhile, I have some errands in town, and I need you to accompany me so your father won’t question the details of those errands.”

Joe narrowed his eyes at this statement, but went out to saddle the horses.

Martin appeared after an hour or so, dressed in riding clothes—“kitted out” he called it. Joe had never seen shinier boots or a tighter jacket, and he had to admit Martin looked impressive. He felt like calling him “Mister Lindsay” again.

Martin swung calfskin gloves from one hand. “Ready, young Joseph?”

Joe had saddled Bob for Martin, using the English saddle that had been part of Martin’s luggage. Bob was a gentle gelding that Hoss sometimes called Slow Bob, more for his tendency to need lots of signals from his rider than a comment on his speediness. Martin had no trouble making the horse understand what he wanted. You’d have to be a good rider to sit that saddle, Joe thought, reluctantly. Martin’s pretty good on a horse.

When they reached town, Martin led the way unerringly to D Street.

“Um, Martin, that’s the wrong way,” Joe said, but Martin dismounted in front of the Bucket of Blood saloon.

“I have some medicine to pick up,” Martin said, looking serenely at Joe. “For my nerves. You may wait for me outside.”

Smirking at the look on Joe’s face, Martin stepped into the saloon.

Time passed; time in which Joe was subjected to comments from laughing cowboys and miners passing by—comments he didn’t quite understand, but that made his face turn red anyway. He couldn’t leave without Martin and risk another punishment from his father, but he sure couldn’t go inside and hurry Martin along. So he waited, worrying and fuming, until Martin finally appeared.

Martin’s smile indicated he was quite pleased about something, and he carried a silver flask as he strolled toward Joe and the horses. He placed the flask in Joe’s saddlebag “so as not to spoil the line of his coat.”

“Let’s go, Young Joseph,” Martin said jauntily, but instead of heading out of town as Joe expected, he turned toward another saloon, further down the street.

Martin visited three different establishments on D Street that afternoon with a confidence that made Joe sure that he had been to all those places before. After the third stop, Martin was stuffing money into his pocket as he came towards Joe. He agreed readily to return to the Ponderosa, much to Joe’s relief.

“I expect you will not speak to your father about where we have been today. I wouldn’t want him to think that you have led me astray.” Martin smiled at Joe—a very unpleasant smile.

To Joe, a visit to D Street could mean a tanning. Besides, he was never one to carry tales. As uneasy as it made him feel, keeping quiet about Martin’s activities seemed the best way to keep himself out of trouble.

**********

The next day and several days after that found Joe sitting through unending teas with members of the Ladies’ Society, listening to Martin’s stories of Eastern Society. Joe, who usually welcomed opportunities to visit the young ladies of his acquaintance, found himself in Martin’s shadow, ignored in favor of the exotic Easterner. He’d had to listen to Martin’s cultured voice, doing what amounted to fancied-up bragging—all about what a good horseman he was, how accurate he was with a rifle, and all the exclusive parties he held. All his talk, it seemed to Joe, compared Virginia City unfavorably to every other place Martin had seen. And the worst of it was, the ladies lapped up Martin’s stories like kittens lap up buttermilk.

After each tea party, Martin led the way to D Street, and Joe again waited for him outside various saloons. Then they would return to the Ponderosa in time for dinner.

**********

“Joseph!”

“Uh oh, Joe,” Charlie said. He and Joe were leading horses toward the corral, where Joe had spent the morning. “Your Pa sounds mad. Did you forget a chore or something?”

“Something,” Joe said. Tired of Martin’s “social activities,” Joe had left before Martin made his appearance that morning. Joe had decided that Martin was on his own today.

Ben strode toward them, anger showing in every staccato step.

“Joseph! I thought I told you to stay with Martin!” Ben took the halter rope from his son and handed it to Charlie. Charlie and the horses moved discreetly out of earshot.

“Pa, he doesn’t need my help any more—”

“He needed your help today! I found him in the barn with a sprained ankle!”

Joe stared, not sure what to say.

“He needed to ride to town for his medicine, and you were no where to be found. He attempted to catch and saddle that brute of a horse himself!”

Brute? thought Joe. Bob? Joe wondered at his father’s choice of words. Sounds more like something Martin would say.

“Martin doesn’t feel it is serious enough to require a doctor, but he must stay off his feet for a few days. I want you up to the house to apologize to Martin, and then you are to help him with anything he needs, including his chores.”

“Pa, that ain’t fair!”  Joe burst out. “I been doin’ for Martin! I helped him get his medicine every day this week! Hoss already does his chores for him! Martin’s the one who— “

“Joseph, I will not argue with you about this! Your first responsibility is to Martin! Now get up to the house!”

“But Pa, he’s been...”

“Joseph! Another word and you will spend the rest of the day in your room!”

“No, Pa, you gotta listen; Martin’s been...”

“You leave me no choice, Joseph.” Joe shut his mouth at his father’s low tone. “Get up to your room until I tell you differently.”

Breathing hard, Joe stared back at his father, then strode angrily back to the house, muttering under his breath.

**********

Between not being allowed to leave his room and the demands of Martin’s ankle, Joe never left the house or yard for the next three days. He endured Martin’s superior smile, helped him to and from the settee, fetched his meals to his room, and even brought him the flask from his saddlebag when his father wasn’t looking. He wasn’t surprised when Martin sometimes limped on the wrong foot.

Joe’s dreams of working with Charley breaking horses were fading away. He had one bright spot to look forward to—soon Hoss and Adam were going to need every skilled hand available, and Martin would have to amuse himself when Joe joined the branding crew.

**********

Mrs. Cooper’s invitation to the Spring Cotillion arrived; remarkably, at the same time, Martin’s ankle began feeling better. Ben read the invitation aloud at lunch, to a mixed reaction. Adam smirked in amusement; Hoss and Joe looked at each other in puzzlement. Martin looked as if he were calculating something.

 

“What’s a Cotillion, Pa?” Joe said.

Martin said gently, “Don’t you know, Joe?” Joe’s face turned red.

 

“Hmmm? What’s that, son?”  Ben picked up some paperwork, glanced through several pages, and then handed the pages to Adam.

“We was wonderin’—what’s a Cotillion?” Hoss spoke up, after glancing at Joe’s hunched shoulders and downcast eyes.

“Oh, it’s a type of fancy-dress party, with dancing and food and such.”

“Hear that, Joe?” Hoss said. “Fancy dress and fancy food! When is it, Pa?”

“Oh, um….” Ben picked up the invitation again. “Saturday evening, at the schoolhouse.” Ben smiled at Hoss. “It appears that the ladies of Virginia City are anxious to meet our guest.”

There it is, Joe thought. For all the talk of Martin working like the Cartwright boys this summer, Pa still considers Martin a guest. There’s no point in resentin’ the fact that he gets to sleep late, or that Hoss does his chores. He’s Pa’s guest.

**********

Mrs. Cooper and her Committee would look back on the only Spring Cotillion ever held in Virginia City as less than successful.

First, although it was called a Spring Cotillion, it was held on a hot summer evening that dried throats and simmered tempers. Second, like Joe and Hoss, most people weren’t sure what a Cotillion was supposed to be, and therefore there was a wide interpretation of what constituted “fancy-dress.” Third, although it was held in the schoolhouse to rule out any alcohol and the livelier behavior that alcohol caused, alcohol and lively behavior somehow still found their way to the dance.

Saturday evening found all the Cartwrights, even the notoriously slow-to-get-ready Joe, sitting by the fireplace, awaiting Martin. Although they waited a long time, when he did finally appear at the top of the stairs, all thoughts of impatience went out of their heads at the sight of him.

He wore a beautifully cut black suit, with a long tailed coat and high collared white shirt. His waistcoat was elaborately embroidered in red and gold; he carried a walking stick with a gold handle, white gloves, and a tall beaver hat. Joe gaped in astonishment, but he noted the eye-rolling, suppressed grimace of Adam, and the wink Ben gave Adam in reply. That made him feel somewhat better; his father and Adam recognized Martin’s appearance as ridiculously overdressed, too. Hoss’ guffawed exclamation made Joe giggle, but it only made Martin stand straighter and brush an imaginary speck of lint from his sleeve.

“Everyone ready?” Ben asked, and without waiting for answer, added, “Let’s get into town before the dance is over.”

Joe rode into town, happy in the expectation that Martin would not fare well with the folks at the dance. Wearing that suit, Martin would be a laughingstock, and Joe leaned across his saddle horn to whisper as much to Hoss.

“He sure is purty,” Hoss agreed. “Too purty for Virginia City by a long shot. He’ll be like a peacock in a flock of jaybirds! We’ll have to ride herd on him to be sure that he makes it home in one piece.”

Joe laughed. “No one would dare tangle with him—that ‘purty-ness’ might be catchin’!”

Hoss’ delighted guffaw rang out again. Ben glanced his way from the buggy, clearly wondering what set off his sons’ merriment. Martin sat perfectly relaxed and still, his head high, his nose pointing straight ahead. Joe caught a glimpse of a twinkle in his older brother’s eye as Adam turned his horse to follow in the wake of the buggy.

**********

The music had started and schoolyard was full of vehicles when they arrived.

“Being late is a good way to make an entrance,” Adam commented dryly. “But I have a feeling no one is going to notice the Cartwrights once Master Lindsay walks in.”

“Speak for yourself, Adam. Bessie Sue is waitin’ for me,” said Hoss as he stepped down from the saddle and tossed his reins towards Joe with a broad wink. “You behave yourself, little brother.” And with that he walked toward the lighted open door of the school.

Ben and Martin were strolling towards the school by the time Joe unsaddled his and Hoss’ horses and turned them into the school corral. Adam grabbed Joe’s arm and held him back as Ben and Martin stepped through the door.

“Wait,” Adam said, and stopped just outside the door.

The noise of the crowd and the music suddenly stopped. There was a silence for several moments, then a squawking sound that Joe finally recognized as the excited greeting of Mrs. Cooper and several other Committee members. Feminine sounds increased in volume, and Martin was pulled inside, leaving Ben on the threshold alone.

Adam laughed and pointed out Bessie Sue among the women surrounding Martin.

“Looks like Hoss’ll have plenty of time to eat while Martin sorts out his dance partners.” 

Joe had been counting on seeing Lorena Gray, a girl from school, and was dismayed to see her amongst the ladies surrounding Martin. He looked past Adam at the remainder of the crowd around the room. The same stunned expression was seen on nearly every male face as the men watched all the females in the room join the group around Martin Lindsay.

“At least we had some warning,” Adam murmured. “They don’t know what hit them.”

**********

Joe didn’t get to talk to Lorena for quite a while. He bided his time, knowing that he wouldn’t do well in a comparison with Martin Lindsay if he approached her now. Mitch Devlin joined him at the food table, glumly watching the group of ladies near the punch bowl, buzzing around Martin.

“That’s the Easterner everyone’s been talking about?” Mitch asked.

Joe nodded.

“I was hopin’ to dance with Becky Watson, but she’s joined all the other moths flutterin’ around that—that overdressed lantern!”

“Yeah, looks like I won’t be talkin’ with Lorena anytime soon, either,” said Joe. “Might as well get somethin’ to eat. Once the dancin’ starts again, things will get back to normal. He can only dance with one girl at a time.”

Mitch brightened at that comment.

“Yeah, you’re right!” Mitch began to fill up a plate.

**********

Thinking about it later, Adam was pretty sure he knew about when it happened. He had tasted the punch soon after their arrival, and it was just fruit punch. By the time Martin had chosen his third dance partner, some of the younger men were laughing a little too loudly. Sometime before the music started again, someone had added spirits to the punch.

Adam watched the loud young men curiously, watching to see whether they were sneaking out to a bottle stashed somewhere outside. They never left the building, yet they were getting louder and louder. As soon as he realized the source of their “joy,” he looked around for Joe. Hoss he didn’t worry about. Hoss could be counted on to recognize spiked punch when he tasted it; besides, he could drink older men under the table. However, Joe was a kid, and probably wouldn’t recognize the bite of liquor mixed with fruit punch until it was too late.

He spotted Joe and Mitch chatting with Lorena Gray and Becky Watson. Joe and Mitch were holding two punch glasses each; all four of them were laughing a lot. Adam watched his little brother for a few moments, and decided that while he had undoubtedly drunk some of the spiked punch, he had not had enough to be anything more than very happy. Mitch was in a similar state. Adam didn’t know the young ladies well enough to make a guess as to whether they had drunk any of the punch, too.

Adam looked around for his father, and spotted him chatting with Mrs. Cooper and her Committee near the food tables. He didn’t seem to notice anything was amiss. Yet.

Adam started towards Joe and the others, but before he had taken more than two steps, Dave Watson, Becky’s older brother, knocked a glass of punch from Mitch’s hand before Becky could take it from him. Adam couldn’t hear what was said, but he saw Joe step up with Mitch to square off to Dave Watson. Dave was big, and a full five years older than Joe and Mitch.

Moving quickly, Adam placed himself between Dave Watson and the two younger boys.

“Whoa, hold on, Dave—” Adam began.

“Let go of me, Adam! This little b…“ Dave glanced around, “…boy tried to get my sister drunk!”

“Dave, I don’t think Mitch or Joe had any idea that punch was spiked.” Adam kept his voice low, and tried to hold his temper.

“Shpiked!” said Mitch. “That sh–spike isn’t punched!”

Joe giggled. Adam felt Hoss step up beside him.

“Look at ’em, Dave; these two don’t know firewater from ditchwater!” Hoss said with laughter in his voice. “Come on little brother, we better get you outside before Pa notices.”

“Mitch Devlin!” Becky Watson said through gritted teeth. “Do you mean to tell me you offered me punch with liquor in it?”

Adam glanced around. Any hope of keeping this encounter quiet was rapidly disappearing. Several people were watching them, including his father and Martin Lindsay. Ben glared at them, but stayed put; he had apparently decided to let Adam and Hoss handle it. Martin looked—well, odd, thought Adam, for a man who claimed to abhor violence. He almost looked like he was enjoying himself.

The room suddenly grew silent at the sharp crack of Becky’s open hand meeting Mitch’s astonished face. Hoss pulled Joe away toward the door, as Joe protested feebly. Adam pulled Mitch toward him, but released him when he saw Mitch’s father approaching. Dave Watson saw Mr. Devlin too; without any further words he grabbed Becky’s hand, turned on his heel and walked away. Once Mitch’s father had marched Mitch away, Adam was left with Lorena Gray, who stared at him in some bewilderment. She’s definitely had some punch, Adam thought, and offered the girl his arm to lead her back to her mother.

Slowly, the people remaining in the room turned back to their own conversations. Martin Lindsay continued to smile. Adam watched him as he gazed after Joe and Hoss as they made their way to the door.

The punch bowl was empty by the time Adam got back over to the table.

**********

“Joseph, if I thought for one minute you knew anything about how that liquor got in the punch bowl, I’d—”

Joe suddenly wondered if Martin’s flask was still in his saddlebag.

“Pa, how could Joe have known?” Adam protested. “He had no idea it was there, even after he tasted it!”

“Pa, Joe wasn’t all that drunk—” Hoss said.

“Hoss, you’re not helping!” Adam said in a low voice.

After Hoss had taken Joe outside, there had been two fights at the Cotillion, both caused by drunken cowhands. The second fight destroyed the food table, and knocked down the Cotillion Committee like dominos. Mrs. Cooper had no choice but to faint dead away of embarrassment.

“I don’t know about your behavior lately, young man!” Ben continued. “You don’t see Martin acting this way! He’s been a polite and respectful young man, as I expected you to be!”

Joe slouched miserably on his horse. Martin studiously pretended to ignore Ben’s praises.

“You’ve neglected our guest,” Ben continued, “Embarrassed us all, and to top it off, Bill Watson tells me he’s seen you on D Street, hanging around outside saloons! If I hadn’t known you were with Martin, I might think—”

Martin hastily interrupted.

“Joe can’t be expected to live up to eastern standards, when he’s never been exposed to them before. Consider what happened tonight!” He shuddered artistically. “If all Joe sees is barbaric behavior, then is it not surprising that he would behave like a barbarian!”

“Now hold on, Martin!” Hoss said angrily.

“I think you overstate—” Adam said.

Joe couldn’t listen to any more; he kicked his horse into a lope and headed home. He put up his horse and made it to his room and into bed before the others returned, feigning sleep when he heard his father’s step outside his room.

**********

In church the next day, the preacher spoke on the evils of drink. Joe slumped down in his pew and failed to look nonchalant. His head hurt, and his father’s lecture on the ride home still rang in his ears.

No one was sure who had spiked the punch, but during the preacher’s sermon, many glances were sent toward Mitch and Joe.

Once the disapproving looks turned away, Joe tried to think about who could have put the liquor in the punch. The punch bowl had not been very full when he and Mitch had taken their first glasses. Joe had been near the food table most of the time since they arrived, biding his time until Lorena was no longer in Martin’s group of admirers. He remembered everyone who had been nearby, and of all the possible choices, Martin seemed the most likely. Martin could have emptied one or two of his “medicine” flasks into the punch while waiting for the music to start.

Trouble is, thought Joe, no one would believe it. He’s got everyone, especially Pa, convinced he’s “polite and respectful.”

**********

On Monday, to his relief, Joe was allowed to join the branding crew. Like the other hands, Joe began riding at daybreak. Hoss, conscious of the 14-year-old’s slight stature as well as his pride in being asked to do a regular hand’s work, made sure that Joe’s work periods were broken by running errands and carrying messages. About mid-morning, Hoss sent him back to the house to pick up more supplies. Joe was loading a wagon with ropes, branding irons, and cook tools when Martin wandered out into the yard.

“Where is everyone this morning?” Martin asked, stifling a yawn behind his hand. Joe glanced up at the sun’s position before answering. It was obvious that Martin hadn’t been out of bed very long.

“We’re branding in the south pasture,” Joe replied.

Martin appeared to be considering Joe’s answer.

“I would like to see branding,” Martin said after a long moment, stifling another yawn.

He makes it sound like some theater piece or somethin’, thought Joe.

 

“It’s one of those aspects of ranch life my father mentioned. He used to participate in branding when he lived out here.” Martin looked at his nails. “He told me he got to be quite good at it. ‘A good hand,’ I think he called it.”

Joe wondered what Martin’s father was like. He couldn’t picture Martin doing any rough work; it was hard to imagine his father would be any different.

“I need to get back with these supplies. You can ride along with me, but I’ve got to leave now if I’m gonna get back there before dinner time.”

“I’ll change into my riding clothes, then, while you prepare my horse.”

Joe stared after Martin as he headed back into the house, startled by his statement. Not statement, order, thought Joe. He just ordered me to saddle his horse. I don’t think he’s saddled his own horse since he’s been here. He scowled in resentment, but his father’s expectations had been drummed into his head, so he turned back toward the corral to catch the gelding Martin had ridden last week.

By the time Martin came back, Joe had caught Slow Bob, saddled him with Martin’s English saddle, finished loading the wagon, and was silently fuming at having to wait yet again. Joe watched as Martin adjusted the girth and mounted, then smiled pleasantly in Joe’s direction, waiting for Joe to lead the way. Joe clicked to the team, and trotted them to the south road at a brisk pace.

They didn’t talk during the hour ride to the pasture. Neither was enjoying the other’s company. Joe kept his eyes on the team, and concentrated on deciding how he was going to spend this summer’s pay.

Once they reached the branding camp, Joe unloaded the wagon, helped Hop Sing haul the cook pots over to the fires, and set out the rest of the supplies he had brought from the house. Then he re-saddled his cowpony and grabbed up a rope. He forgot all about Martin as he trotted back out to the herd.

Martin had a mild interest in the workings of the ranch, not because he wanted to perform any of the chores, but because of his father’s stories of his summers working as a cowhand. He admitted, only to himself, that he wanted to be able to match his father’s stories when he returned in the fall. Part of him also wanted to prove he was a better horseman than the style-less Cartwright brothers.

Martin waited at the camp for someone to guide him, but no one paid any attention to him. Everyone had a job to do, and everyone seemed to know what needed to be done. No one was giving orders; the men were just doing the work. He dismounted and walked toward the fire that seemed to be the center of activity.

Hoss was standing near the fire, occasionally handling a branding iron, but also checking a tally-book. Several cowhands, Joe among them, were riding among the herd, roping calves. Martin watched as Joe’s rope snaked around a bawling calf’s neck. Joe’s horse stood braced as Joe dallied the rope around his saddle horn, and then backed up, dragging the calf toward the fire.

A cowboy on foot grabbed the calf, flipped its legs out from under it, and knelt on its neck while another man pulled the calf’s tail out straight and braced his leg against the calf’s rump. Another cowboy held the hot iron to the calf’s left shoulder while yet another wielded a knife near the calf’s rump. Stepping closer, Martin realized the man with the knife was castrating the calf, and he quickly stepped back, his stomach lurching. Martin could smell burning hair and snatched his handkerchief to his nose, feeling the bile rise in his throat. Once the iron had been applied and the man at the calf’s rump had straightened up, the bawling calf was released toward the holding area, stumbling its way back to its mama.

Hoss finally noticed Martin, and strolled over to greet him. He took in the younger man’s posture and white face, but merely said, “Howdy, Martin.”

Martin nodded.

“I know you’ve prob’ly never seen brandin’ before, so you just stick here by me ’til you get the feel of it.”

Martin closed his eyes. Did Erik—he still couldn’t bring himself to call him “Hoss”— expect him to take some part in this—this gruesome task?

“Brandin’ don’t hurt ’em much,” Hoss said quietly, stepping closer to Martin’s side. “Leastways, not if you do it right. So I’m sorry but I can’t let you hold the iron. Takes a skilled hand for that job, and we got several ranches representin’ today—that means several different brands are needed.” Hoss added as he saw the lack of comprehension on Martin’s face.

When Martin did not reply, Hoss glanced around. He and his tally book were needed back at the fire.

“You just watch, for now,” Hoss said lamely. “Stay here by the fire and you’ll be outa the way ’til you get your bearin’s.” Hoss was sure that Martin would never “get his bearin’s” when it came to branding, but he kept that thought to himself.

Martin turned quickly, trying to concentrate on anything other than the sounds and smells of branding. His eye lighted on Joe as he hauled another reluctant calf toward the branding crew.

“Joe!” Hoss yelled as the waiting crew grabbed the calf and released Joe’s rope. Joe turned in the saddle as he coiled the rope.

“Git that one!” Hoss yelled, pointing toward the slight rise, where a yearling calf was running away toward the edge of the pasture.

Joe waved and wheeled his horse, racing after the calf. Martin watched as Joe swung his horse in a wide arc, not chasing the calf, but heading it off and redirecting it back to the herd. He rode fast, leaning over the neck of his pony, perfectly balanced with his horse. Despite himself, Martin was impressed—he was enough of a horseman to acknowledge the boy’s nonchalant skill as he turned that reluctant calf back to the main herd.

“Kid rides light and tight as a cocklebur, don’t he?” Hoss said from beside him. Martin glanced at the big man. Hoss’ face was split in an uncomplicated, joyful grin. He winked at Martin.

“Sometimes I send Joe after strays, even if he ain’t the closest, just to watch him ride.” 

Martin looked from Hoss to the now-distant Joe. Hoss turned back to the fire, his good humor spilling over to the crew as he rejoined them.

Martin clenched his fists angrily. His face burned as he remembered how he had criticized western riding styles that first night at dinner, stating how much more difficult the English style was to achieve. Adam had known, he realized now; Adam had to know the difference in styles and the subtleties of both, but had not commented other than to discuss the latest in eastern saddlery.

Martin had always prided himself on his horsemanship, had even participated in competitions at school, but he knew he could not have ridden after that calf the way Joe had. Joe’s boots hadn’t even been in the stirrups! What made him even angrier was Hoss’ admiration for his little brother—uncomplicated, heartfelt, genuine admiration. No one, especially his father, had ever praised Martin’s skill like Hoss had praised Joe’s, even when he had come home with a blue ribbon. Even though Joe hadn’t been near enough to hear his brother’s praise, Martin gritted his teeth in resentment.

**********

Hoss tried to interest Martin in branding by explaining the tallies and the various brands identifying the cattle of the Ponderosa and its neighbors. After a few more calves were branded and castrated, Martin’s sickly pallor made Hoss suggest he get on his horse and help hold the branded calves for one of the neighboring ranches.

“Holding,” Hoss explained, was merely keeping his horse in between the calves and freedom. But Martin found the task more difficult than he expected.

For one thing, his horse only sluggishly responded to his commands. Bob was a docile, reliable gelding, but he wasn’t used to thinking for himself, and therefore did not anticipate the moves of irritated, frisky calves and their angry mothers. It never occurred to Martin to ask for the use of a different horse, a trained cow pony, to work with the cattle.

For another, Martin himself reacted far too late to stop any escaping calf. He found himself concentrating on staying out of the cowhands’ way as they tore around him to head off calves he allowed past. They dodged so quickly, turned in such seemingly random patterns, that Martin more often than not turned right into a cowboy’s path rather than out of his way. After the third near-collision between Martin and an annoyed cowboy, Hoss asked Martin to come back into the camp and help keep the fires built up. Martin came back and sat near the cook fire, but made no attempt at any camp chores.

As the day wore on, Martin saw Joe rope calves, chase strays, hold cattle, ride various “green-broke” horses, and jump into the brush on foot to free trapped calves. Joe’s skills made the hands treat him as an equal, and he worked hard. He was small, but his size made him very fast, and he was willing to dart into the brush after the most “ornery critter,” as Hoss put it. He heard more than one hand remark on the boy’s “sand.” He watched as they took advantage of Joe’s eagerness by sending him out again and again to chase a calf or run a message out to the riders on the edge of the herd.

By contrast, once they recognized Martin’s lack of skill and unwillingness to try to learn, the hands ignored him, politely stepping around him to get their various tasks completed.

The more Martin watched Joe, the more his resentment towards him grew. He had amused himself at Joe’s expense, stirring up trouble for the younger boy with his father while making sure his own behavior appeared above reproach. Martin felt good when Ben Cartwright praised him, and felt even better when Ben praised him while he reprimanded Joe. Out here, however, among real ranch hands doing real ranch work, none of his usual ploys worked. Joe was well liked by men that Martin secretly feared. Out here, Joe was getting the praise and Martin was barely tolerated.

As the sun set and the hands wandered toward the fire for the evening meal, Martin suddenly realized they intended to spend the night at the branding camp. Aside from the comforts he would miss, Martin dreaded spending more time with men who were not impressed with his refined manners. He had never been ignored before, and did not like the feeling. He wasn’t sure why it mattered so much that these men were not impressed with him, but it did. He filled his plate and ate with the rest of them, not wanting to draw attention to himself, but as the twilight deepened he approached Hoss.

Joe heard the argument as he dozed over his supper plate. Hop Sing sure is mad, he thought, yellin’ at Hoss like that. He wondered what Hoss had done—tried to take an extra piece of pie, maybe? Hop Sing’s pie was worth tryin’ for, but the last thing Hoss wanted to do would be to make the feisty cook mad.

“No time to go back to house!” Hop Sing was saying. “Have to clean up from supper and get ready for breakfast! I have no time to show lazy boy way home!”

“Well, I am not staying out here overnight!”  Martin’s voice was a little shrill, and several pairs of eyes were drawn to him. “This night air is very detrimental to my nerves! I must get back to the house!”

Martin, Joe thought. Pa’s gonna kill me.

Joe jumped up, scraping his half-full plate into the scrap bucket.

“I’m sorry, Hoss,” Joe stammered. “I forgot that Martin needed to get back. I’ll take him.”

“Number three son needed here for help with breakfast! Up early! No time to go back to house now!”  Hop Sing tried to push Joe back to his seat.

“You’re tired, Joe. I’ll take him back,” Hoss said quietly, putting on his hat.

“You’re in charge, Hoss, you can’t leave the camp.” Joe was feeling very uncomfortable, seeing more and more trouble because he had forgotten about his guest. Now Hoss was suggesting special treatment for Joe that sounded suspiciously like he was being treated like a kid. In a lower voice, he said to his brother, “He’s my responsibility. Pa’s gonna be mad enough at me as it is for forgettin’ about him. The sooner I get goin’, the sooner I get back.”

Hop Sing began to protest again; he had seen Joe drooping in the saddle when he returned to the fire. Joe saddling up again and taking Martin back was not his idea of the solution to the problem. Martin’s whine joined the discussion and Joe stopped listening. He picked up his saddle, dropped it near the rope corral, and quickly caught and bridled Cochise and Bob.

Hoss came up behind Joe as he slung his saddle over Cochise’s back.

“I don’t like the idea of you comin’ back up here in the dark by yourself. You just stay home and come back up in the mornin’.”

Joe considered this, and then nodded. “OK. I’ll be in for another lecture anyway, from the sound of things. Might as well get it over with.”  He quickly saddled Bob.

Leading the two horses closer to the fire, he waited until Martin paused for breath, handed him the gelding’s reins, and said simply, “Let’s go.”

Hoss gripped the back of Joe’s neck briefly. “You be careful, little brother.”

Joe grinned and twisted free. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Martin glared at them. Hoss switch his grip to Martin, grasping Martin’s elbow and helping him mount his horse. He slapped the gelding’s rump and Joe led the way from the camp.

**********

Martin concentrated on following the white patches of Joe’s horse as they walked back down the trail. The wagon road had not seemed particularly steep or treacherous on the way up, but Joe led the way down a narrower horse-track, barely visible through the wooded hillside. Now that it was growing dark, Martin’s apprehension made him grip tightly with his knees and hands. Slow Bob, normally content to follow the tail in front of him, grew restive at his inconsistent signals.

“Ease up, Martin,” Joe said quietly. “The horses know the trail. Just let Bob do the work.”

Martin bristled, but did as Joe suggested. Bob settled back to walking the trail calmly.

“You did this on purpose, didn’t you?” Martin said, after a while.

“Huh?”  Joe replied. He was nearly asleep in the saddle.

“Keeping me so late that we would have to camp out overnight. That would have been very amusing for you!”

Joe tried to concentrate on what Martin was saying. “I just forgot about you, Martin,” Joe said wearily. “I didn’t mean nothin’ by it. We've just been busy today.”

“So busy that you forgot about your father’s guest?” Martin seemed to find this incredible. “I heard him tell you myself, several times, you were to be at my disposal. I’ve been ready to return to the house since this afternoon. But you were off somewhere, riding around, ‘too busy’ to notice that I might need help!”

“Well, you were at the fire, and Hoss was there, along with about ten other hands. What more help did you need?”

Martin became somewhat agitated. “That’s hardly the point. The point is, you abandoned me among those ruffians, and went off without a word!”

“Now wait a minute!” Joe reined his horse around to face Martin. “They ain’t ruffians! They’ve been nothin’ but polite to you. Besides, you wanted to see what branding was all about! You asked to come up here! If you wanted to go back, why didn’t you speak up? Hoss would’ve seen that you got back.”

“That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? To have your older brother let you off the hook?” Martin’s voice rose, and he stopped his horse completely.

“What?”  Joe stopped too. “I don’t get you. Was the only reason you came up here to get back at me in some way? ’Cause I don’t get why you’re so mad about this. We’re goin’ back, like you wanted. I’m gonna be in trouble when we get there, somethin’ else you wanted. You’re gettin’ everything you want, like usual, ain’t you?”

“Yes!” Martin shouted. His horse threw his head up, startled. “And you will be in trouble when we get back! I’ll be sure and tell your father just how you’ve treated me! My health has been endangered! Camping out could have been fatal! And this night air is very bad for my lungs!”

Joe could only stare. An angry child had replaced the sophisticated, disdainful Easterner. Martin was wound up and there was no stopping his ranting

“You’ve been riding around, enjoying yourself, and I was left to wait until you were good and ready to return to the house. And your brother, praising you to the skies while you do whatever you please! I see how it really is! I am not used to being treated this way!”

“Martin,” Joe said through gritted teeth. “I’m tired and hungry, and tryin’ hard not to remember that you are the reason I ain’t curled up in my bedroll right now with a full stomach! I’m headin’ down this trail now. You can follow me if you like, or you can sit there and whine about how I been treatin’ ya. I don’t much care which you do!” 

Joe turned his horse and started again towards home. Martin continued to complain, but when Joe continued down the trail, he allowed his horse to follow Joe’s, even more agitated at the thought of losing sight of his guide. His diatribe lasted until they reached the turn-off for the house.

**********

Adam heard the horses in the yard, and stepped out to see who was there. Ben had been delayed in town, and had just come in himself; he and Adam were sitting companionably by the fire. They had assumed that everyone else was spending the night at the branding camp.