The Tenderfoot

(Sequel to “The Easterner”)

By Harper

This story has many references to events in “The Easterner.” (There are also references to events in “Holdin’ the Cut,” but it is not necessary to read that story before this one.) If you have not read “The Easterner,” or if it’s been a long time since you did, here’s a summary:             

Martin Lindsay comes to spend his summer on the Ponderosa for his health. Joe and Martin, although close in age, don’t get along, and the spoiled and selfish young man repeatedly gets Joe into trouble. Martin does as he pleases, frequents saloons, drinks, and feigns illness to avoid work. Ben seems to believe Martin over Joe.

Joe decides the only way to get rid of Martin is to scare him away with the western violence he abhors. Joe and Mitch Devlin stage a fake shootout that results in Mitch’s “death,” and Joe says he will blame the “murder” on Martin. Martin can’t get away fast enough, but when Adam and Hoss find out about Joe’s prank, Adam asks the sheriff to “arrest” the boys to teach them a lesson. Joe figures out Adam’s counter-prank, and has Mitch tell his brothers that he was shot trying to escape. Ben comes home and explains why he seemed to favor Martin, telling Joe that Martin will be back and Martin’s father will be joining them for the summer. Joe’s punishment for his prank will include helping Martin and his father learn ranch work.

**********

“A sadder reunion I have yet to see — there’s Martin, trying hard to look, well, you know that snooty way he has, and there’s his father, not even recognizin’ him!” Hoss leaned further over the end of the Lindsays’ rented buggy, pulled another traveling bag off the top of the pile, and tossed it to Adam.

“They haven’t seen each other in over a year, and Martin might have changed a lot,” Adam said, his voice muffled behind the various bags he was balancing. “You need help with that trunk, Hoss? Martin and his father must own every piece of luggage west of St. Louis.”

“Nah, I got it.” Hoss picked up the trunk with both hands but paused as both brothers started carrying their burdens toward the house.

“Adam, Pa had to practically introduce ’em to each other! Then they just kind of stared at each other, and shook hands. I gotta tell you, if our Pa ever greeted me that way after a long trip, I think I’d sit right down and cry! I felt sorry for Martin; if that’s the way he and his Pa are, it’s no wonder he’s been wandering through life like a man with a broken compass.”

**********

Martin and Elliot Lindsay, working summer guests at the Ponderosa, did not resemble each other in any way. Where Martin was pale, thin, and languidly elegant, Elliot was dark-haired, robust, and casually energetic. Martin had a knack of earning people’s distant sympathy. Elliot could establish an immediate rapport with a complete stranger.

The eventful evening of Elliot’s arrival was spent settling several things: Martin and his father into their rooms, Joe into the details of his punishment for his elaborate prank on Martin, and Hop Sing into the idea of yet another mouth to feed.

After a lively dinner, during which Elliot Lindsay’s charm and colorful stories dominated the conversation, Martin retired to his room. Joe, conscious of the terms of his on-going punishment, followed him upstairs. Hoss and Adam made themselves scarce, offering Ben and Elliot a chance to catch up on old times.

The two friends’ conversation was punctuated with laughter and “remember the time...” as they enjoyed their brandy by the fire. Eventually, the reminiscences dwindled, and Ben and Elliot sat companionably until Elliot broke the silence. “Martin wasn’t my only child.”

Ben could hear the shifting logs as the fire burned lower. He waited, not wanting to push for information that might be painful to impart.

“We had an older son, three years older than Martin.” Elliot Lindsay ran a hand over his face. “Harry was precocious, always ahead of his age, pushing forward, fearless.”

Elliot stood, restlessly poking at the dying fire. “When he was the same age as your Joseph, he—he died.” Elliot’s voice was harsh, ragged-edged. “My wife has never been the same since. Bloody hell, I’ve never been the same, either. And Martin…” his voice trailed off.

“How did your son die?” Ben asked softly. He didn’t want to pursue this conversation, didn’t want to think about a fourteen-year-old boy dying, or about losing a son, but his friend needed something from him.

“We were living in Boston at the time. It was an accident, a senseless, stupid accident. He was out with his friends when he should have been in school. Playing hooky, I think you call it. They were daring each other, as boys do, and someone, maybe it was Harry himself, came up with the idea of going the length of a waterfront pier by hopping from one support post to another. A childish notion, not necessarily dangerous on the face of it. The boys thought if someone missed his jump, he was simply in for a ducking. But when Harry fell, he struck the edge of a floating raft, and went under. It was high tide, and he—well, we found him the next day.”

Ben closed his eyes, trying to rid himself of the picture of a father receiving his young son’s body from the sea. “I’m so sorry, Elliot.”

Elliot took a deep breath, and tried to steady his voice. “It was five years ago, but the amount of time that’s passed makes no difference in…” He paused, running his hand idly along his chin. “I needed to get away and I began to travel, staying away longer and longer with each venture. My wife turned to her religious pursuits to the exclusion of all else. Martin—I’m not sure what Martin needed, but he didn’t get anything much from his parents in all that time.”

“Was Martin with his brother when—when it happened?”

“Yes.”

Elliot set down his brandy snifter and stood staring into the fire. They both were quiet for a long while.

“I’m telling you this by way of explanation, rather than to excuse my and Martin’s behavior,” Elliot said. “And to ask for your help in trying to get Martin to see beyond his own pain and salvage whatever remnants I can of my relationship with my son.”

Ben set his glass down, too. “We haven’t had much luck in getting through to Martin so far. And I fear I showed rather poor judgment in thinking he and Joseph would be good companions. I’m afraid I’ve been rather hard on Joe, and too easy on Martin. Those two dislike each other more than ever after all that’s happened.”

Elliot’s shoulders drooped. “You think it’s too late, then? I’ve left it too long and there’s no hope of getting my son back?”

Ben shook his head. “I really don’t know, Elliot. Ultimately, it is up to you and Martin to find your way back to each other. When I wired you, I felt that if the two of you spent some time together you might get to know each other again. But knowing what you just told me, well, there are some hurts that can never be gotten over. I just don’t know.”

Elliot turned saddened eyes to his friend. “I’d like to try. Will you help me try?”

“Certainly,” Ben said. “How would you like to start?”

“I have very fond memories of the summer I spent doing ranch work, and Martin always seemed to like those stories,” Elliot said. “If Martin and I could work together, maybe we can work on trusting each other again.”

“The discipline of hard work, fighting a common enemy?” Ben said with a smile.

“Something like that,” Elliot agreed. “Am I too much of a dreamer in thinking I can overcome five lost years?”

“Well,” said Ben, “You have nothing to lose by trying. And everything to gain if it works.”

Elliot sighed in relief. “Thank you, my friend.”

“I’d suggest the two of you take on the same types of chores and responsibilities that my sons have. This time of year that means branding, moving cattle, tending horses, mending fences. It means getting up early, working hard, getting dirtier than you have probably ever been in your life. And Elliot, your experience all those summers ago notwithstanding, you’ll be considered a tenderfoot, taking orders rather than giving them. As such, you’ll risk the possibility of looking ridiculous in front of your son.”

“I’d work the ranch naked if I thought it would help mend things with Martin.”

“That won’t be necessary,” said Ben dryly.

“I’ll speak with him before I retire, so he knows what will be expected of him.”

“Speaking of clothing, did you pick up some work clothes in town?”

“Yes, for both Martin and myself. We should blend right in with your crew.”

Ben shook his head, smiling. “Don’t expect miracles, Elliot.”

**********

Joe, sitting just out of sight on the stairs, rubbed his face with his hands. What would it possibly be like to see your brother drown? He remembered the time that Hoss was injured at round-up, how scared he had been, how distraught his father had been. He stomach lurched at the thought of one of his own brothers actually dying. His face burned with shameful regret at having frightened his brothers with yesterday’s prank.

Knowing that Martin suffered such a loss helped explain the cold, stuck-up picture Martin presented to the world. Adam and Pa were right, Joe thought, getting to know more about someone does change the way you look at him. But I don’t think that Martin would appreciate me knowin’ about his brother. Martin had never talked much about his family; that had merely underscored his apparent self-centeredness, to Joe’s way of thinking. Now Joe saw a different possibility. If Martin had mentioned his brother, he would have been subjected to all kinds of painful memories and unwelcome intrusions into his private grief.

Although he had only been five when his mother died, Joe remembered the well-intentioned comments, the pity of people who were “only trying to help.” No, since neither Elliot nor Martin Lindsay wanted it known, he had to keep this knowledge to himself.

Besides, if Pa knew he’d been eavesdropping again… He heard Elliot coming toward the stairs and he slipped off to his bed.

**********

Elliot stood outside Martin’s door for a long time, trying to think of what to say.

Ben’s telegram had shaken him to the core. A man he respected had objected to his son’s behavior, and in so doing, pointed indirectly at his own neglect as a father. The succinctly worded telegram had affected him as nothing else had: Losing Martin to selfishness and despair STOP He needs his father STOP Please come END.

And when he saw Martin for the first time in a year…

His son had changed so much. Thinner, yes, and taller, but there was coldness to him that hadn’t been there before. His expression spoke of weariness and apathy. His lips curled in a parody of a smile that implied he expected the worst of people, and was never, ever disappointed.

I’ve done this, he had thought, and had nearly given in to his feelings right there in the dust of C Street. Ben had held his arm, talking through the wrenching moment, introducing his son Hoss and explaining to Martin that he would be returning to the ranch.

Martin had objected, acting the martyr, citing how he had been Deceived and Betrayed. Elliot might have laughed at the boy’s unconscious imitation of his mother’s histrionics, had he not felt so ashamed. Ashamed of himself, and ashamed of the cynicism and self-centeredness he had forced onto his son.

He took a breath, then knocked on his son’s door, but walked in without waiting for an answer. Now was not the time for uncertainty.

**********

The next morning, Ben sipped his coffee, mentally planning his day. He already discussed business matters with Adam, and found several issues that needed his immediate attention this morning. Adam had just gone to the bunkhouse to sort out the day’s work orders with the hands. Ben glanced over at his middle son. “Hoss, would you remind your brother and Martin of the proper time to arrive at the breakfast table?”

“Both of ’em?”

Ben nodded.

“Sure, Pa.” Hoss mopped up the remaining gravy with a fluffy biscuit and headed up the stairs to wake the younger boys. No small task, thought Ben, knowing Joe and observing the time that Martin had been used to rising in the morning.

Ben felt a little pang of guilt asking Hoss to supervise the younger boys. Both he and Elliot had agreed that Elliot and Martin would both participate in ranch chores along with the hands. Realistically, it would fall to Hoss and Adam to make the work assignments and see that they were carried out.

Ben was also a little worried about how having Martin and Elliot around would affect Joe. He seemed to be truly sorry for yesterday’s pranks, but Ben knew the remorse would soon wear off. Continued day-to-day dealings with Martin were bound to chafe. Elliot Lindsay was there to watch over his son’s behavior, but he seemed so wounded himself that Ben wasn’t confident of his ability to control his son.

“Good morning, Ben,” Elliot Lindsay said, taking his place at the table.

“Good morning, Elliot, I hope you slept well.”

There was a commotion upstairs: muffled shouts and thumps, and “Oh, no you don’t!” clearly heard from Hoss. Ben continued to sip his coffee, reaching for additional papers in front of him. At the sound of Martin’s “What do you think you are doing?”, Elliot started up from his chair, but then sat back down when he saw the lack of reaction on his host’s part.

Hoss appeared at the top of the stairs, dusting his hands as he came down.

“The boys’ll be down directly, Pa. Morning Mr. Lindsay.” Hoss came over to the table, sat back down, and poured himself another cup of coffee. Ben merely nodded, silence settled over the table.

After a few moments, Elliot spoke. “Pardon my curiosity, Hoss, but was that Martin’s voice I heard a few minutes ago?”

“Yessir. He’s gettin’ dressed.”

Elliot took his timepiece from his waistcoat, and opened the cover. After a moment, he cleared his throat. “Hoss, I wish you would impart the technique you used to get that young man out of bed before seven o’clock in the morning.”

“Same one I been using to get Joe up for school.” Hoss glanced up, and there was a distinct twinkle in his eye. “I’ll admit I don’t know Martin’s likes and dislikes all that well, but most folks don’t like a pitcher of water thrown on them first thing in the morning. Joe sure don’t. Turns out, Martin don’t either.”

Ben smiled involuntarily, and then smoothed his features—after all, Martin wasn’t his son, and his father might not appreciate the more rough-and-ready methods of the Cartwrights.

For a moment, Elliot looked somewhat stunned at Hoss’ words, but then he saw Ben’s expression, and smiled somewhat reluctantly. “Well, I did ask your father to treat Martin just as he would his sons. I meant what I said. I suppose that also means that you treat Martin as you would your brothers. I’ll admit to feeling somewhat at a loss as to just how to approach this… this…campaign to improve my son.”

Ben allowed his smile to grow again. “Let’s see how tried-and-true techniques work, Elliot. We didn’t expect too much of Martin before; now that you are here to express those expectations, we can begin the campaign in earnest.”

Elliot nodded.

“So I’m to treat Martin like I treat Joe? Givin’ him work orders and such?” Hoss asked. “’Cause I gotta say, he don’t seem too keen on any of the types of work we have to offer. And, ’scuse me for askin’, Mr. Lindsay, but what’s in it for Martin? Why should he do anything he don’t want to do?”

“I discussed it with Martin last night. I’d like to say that he acceded to my wishes out of respect for me, but I have no illusions about my influence over my son’s behavior. I have made working this summer a condition of his attending college in the fall,” Elliot Lindsay replied. “I also think there’s a little lost pride that he would like to recover. Martin has agreed to abide by the rules you establish, and to work to the best of his ability.”

“Where do you want to start yourself, Mr. Lindsay?” Hoss asked.

“Well, it’s been a long time since I performed any ranch chores,” Elliot said. “What would you suggest?”

“We need as many hands as we can get moving cattle to the summer grazing. We’ve left it kinda late this year, ’cause we had such a hard winter.” Hoss scratched his head. “Tell you what. Why don’t you go with Adam this morning over to the south meadow? He’s tallyin’ the number of cattle to be moved and lookin’ over the trail. That’ll give you a chance to get reacquainted with a saddle. I’ll have Joe and Martin come with the rest of the brandin’ crew this mornin.’ You and Adam can catch up with us.”

Elliot looked somewhat disappointed. “Don’t you think it would be best if Martin and I worked together?”

“You will, later on today,” Hoss replied. “But I need some time with those boys, to make sure they reach an understandin’ about workin’ with each other. Right now, Joe and Martin would just as soon take a poke at each other as work on the same crew.”

Ben eyed Hoss regretfully. “I’m sorry that this falls on your shoulders, Hoss,” he said. “I’ve got a meeting with the mine manager and…”

“It’s okay, Pa.” Hoss grinned. “I’ve got some fun in mind for those two, should they start in on each other. Besides, I still owe my little brother for scarin’ the he—heck out of me yesterday.”

Ben smiled. “All right. But if Joseph doesn’t behave himself, I want to know about it.”

“Yessir.”

Taking his cue from Ben, Elliot added “And if Martin doesn’t behave himself, I would like to be informed also.”

Hoss looked at Ben, but only said “Yessir,” and setting his cup down, excused himself and left the table.

A few minutes later, Joe finally appeared at the breakfast table, sleepy-eyed, clothes rumpled. His curly hair was wet and there was a mark from his pillow still creasing his cheek. Ben had to remind himself that his youngest son was 14 years old, not six. By contrast, although Martin’s hair was wet, too, his trousers and work shirt looked neat and impeccably clean. He seemed much older than his 16 years. Ben glanced at Elliot over his newspaper, curious to see the father-son interaction.

“Mornin’, Pa,” Joe said, yawning. “Mornin’, Mr. Lindsay.”

“Good morning, Little Joe,” Ben said, the childhood nickname slipping out automatically.

“Good morning, Joseph,” Elliot said.

Everyone seemed to be waiting.

“Uh, good morning, Mr. Cartwright, Father,” Martin said.

Joe glanced up, wondering why Martin was no longer calling his father “Uncle Ben.” No one else seemed to notice.

“Good morning,” Elliot murmured. His eyes returned to his plate. If I didn’t know better, I’d think that world-traveling entrepreneur was shy of his own son, Ben thought.

Ben gathered up his papers and stood. “Good morning, Martin. Hoss has your work assignments. Joseph, keep in mind, you are still working off your punishment for yesterday’s pranks. Martin, we expect that you are turning over a new leaf. It’s a new day for both of you. Let’s hope you make the most of it.”

Joe squirmed under his father’s gaze; Martin was staring outright, eyes wide in surprise. Elliot Lindsay’s mouth twitched at the boys’ expressions.

“Yes, sir,” Martin and Joe said in unison.

“Elliot, you’d better get a move on if you are working with Adam this morning,” Ben felt a certain satisfaction when Elliot’s eyes mirrored his son’s surprise.

To his relief, Elliot seemed to recognize that he had to set an example. Glancing at his son, Elliot dabbed at his mouth and rose also. “Er, yes, of course, Ben, I’m on my way.”

Ben turned toward the door, and retrieved his hat from the wall peg. Maybe there was some hope for Elliot and Martin after all.

**********

“Here’s a curry and a slicker brush, Martin,” Hoss said. “You’ve been ridin’ Slow Bob, haven’t you? If’n you need a change, let me know. Bob’s a good trail horse, but he ain’t much of a cow pony.”

 

Martin stared at the implements Hoss had pressed into his hands. Hoss watched him from the corner of his eye as he began to groom his own horse. When Martin made no move to tend to Bob, he looked over at him. “Martin? You thinkin’ you’d like to try another horse?”

Martin shook his head absently. “No, I just—is it really necessary that I groom and saddle my horse myself?”

“Who should do it if you don’t?” Hoss asked.

“One of the ranch employees, I suppose. Isn’t it their job to ‘tend to the horses,’ as you say it?”

Hoss laughed. “You’re forgettin’ you and your Pa are ranch employees this summer. Every hand tends to his own horses.”

“You expect my father to saddle his own horse?”

“Already done—he and Adam headed out a little while ago. They’ll be joinin’ us ’bout midday. Hurry up, now, get that horse saddled.”

Martin was no stranger to horses, but had always had grooms to take care of the dirtier or labor-intensive chores. He watched as Hoss groomed his horse, then took up the curry and began to scrub at Bob’s ample flank.

Joe came around the doorway, carrying two saddles, staggering under their weight.

“Here’s your saddle, Martin,” Joe said quietly, dropping a western saddle near Bob’s stall. “I thought you might like a Western saddle for working cattle.”

It was the first time Joe had spoken directly to Martin since Martin had returned to the ranch. He looked at the saddle in surprise.

“Thank you,” Martin said, somewhat warily. He wasn’t expecting any consideration from Joe, and certainly not any help. He was prepared for Joe to lord it over him, make fun of his attempts at ‘chores’ and generally make this summer the most miserable of his life. It was what he would have done himself. Was Joe trying to lull him into a false sense of security, only to spring another prank later? Martin felt the way he had the first time he had gone ice-skating: off-balance, skidding, wobbly and nervous.

Joe nodded and went back to the tack room for bridles.

“He don’t mean nothin’ by it,” Hoss said softly, accurately reading Martin’s expression. “Joe ain’t got a mean bone in his body. This is his way of tellin’ you he’s startin’ over. You might consider startin’ over yourself. You might even find Joe can be a good friend.”

“After what he did? I’m very certain we cannot be friends!”

Hoss shook his head, and then a thought occurred to him. “Ain’t you never had a trick pulled on you before, Martin?”

“Where I come from, we do not take advantage of our guests’ fears! We do not treat people to mean-spirited charades meant to frighten…”

“Where I come from,” said Joe from behind him, flinging down the bridles he was carrying, “we don’t make folks feel like they ain’t good enough to talk to, and we don’t sneak around, lyin’ about being sick so that someone else does the work we’re responsible for, and we don’t complain every time somethin’s a little hard to do.”

“You little—you aren’t worthy enough to look at, much less talk to, you or your delinquent friend Devlin…”

“Joe,” Hoss said. “Looks like you forgot your jacket. Head on up to the house for it.”

“Aw, Hoss, I don’t need a jacket today…”

“Get goin’ Joe. Get your jacket and get back here to finish saddlin’ up. We’re late gettin’ started as it is.”  Joe knew better than to challenge that tone, and turned back to the house without another word.

“Martin, I got some advice for you, no, quiet, I just want you to listen for once.” Hoss leaned over Martin, silencing him with a glare. “You and Joe got good reason not to like each other, and that maybe can’t be mended. But I ain’t gonna put up with arguments from either one of ya. If you can’t keep your conversation polite, then shut up. Understand me?” Hoss hoped that jumping on this behavior early would head off future problems; it was a tactic that usually worked with headstrong ponies and headstrong little brothers.

Martin nodded, startled at vehemence from the amiable Hoss.

“Now let me show you what you need to do to tend your horse.”

Hoss was a good teacher; like all good teachers, he let his student discover the way he was expected to perform. Martin was unfamiliar with Western saddles; Hoss explained each accoutrement, using his own horse to show Martin step-by-step. Martin copied him scrupulously, and in a few minutes he had Slow Bob saddled, had put the grooming tools away, and was leading Bob and Hoss’ big horse Chubb into the yard.

**********

“Hold ’im! HOLD ’im! Martin, you let go of this one and I swear to heaven I will pound you into the ground!”

It was their third try at flanking a calf, and Martin and Joe, as a team, had yet to get a calf successfully branded.

The day’s work had been well underway when Hoss, Martin, and Joe arrived at the camp. Riders were moving among the herd, snaking an occasional rope toward a calf. Martin could hear whistles and something that sounded like “hup, hup” from the riders as they passed. In the distance, someone was singing in Spanish, a monotonous, repetitive tune. Two men on foot seemed to be rolling on the dusty ground, wrestling with a calf, kicking up a small cloud and shouting. A man came away from the large fire, holding a glowing iron rod. Several other men clustered around the large fire, poking long-handled irons into the hot coals. Martin had tried to make sense of what he was seeing, but so many things were happening at once he wasn’t even sure where to look. He hadn’t paid attention to Hoss’ explanations the last time he had come to the branding camp, and now he was expected to take a part of this.

They dismounted, and Hoss had indicated that they should unsaddle their horses and turn them into the rope corral. As they returned to the fire, Joe had seen Martin’s darting eyes, and began to talk in a low voice.

“There’s three main jobs,” Joe had said. Realizing he would have to do one of those jobs, Martin listened. “Ropers catch the calves and lead or drag them out of the herd. The rastlers flank ’em, throw ’em, and hold ’em, so the iron man, that’s the third job, can put the brand on ’em. Hoss says you and I are one of the teams of rastlers.

“I’ll team up with Steve for the next one Shorty brings in,” Joe continued. “You just watch me this first time, so you can see everything you need to do.”

“We’re up, Joe!” Steve said, and ran forward. A rider was leading a small calf toward them by a long rope around its neck. “Shorty,” apparently, Martin thought, with a snort of disgust at yet another nickname. Steve reached over the calf’s back, and grabbed two handfuls of skin, one near the foreleg and the other at the rear leg. Keeping his strong hold on the calf, Steve leaned back, flipping the calf off his feet as he sank his own weight to the ground. Joe quickly released the rope to the waiting Shorty, and knelt on the calf’s neck, catching and holding a foreleg as it struggled. At the same time, Steve moved around to the calf’s tail, grabbed a rear leg with both hands, and braced both feet against the calf’s rump to stretch the leg back. Joe and Steve held their positions, keeping the calf immobile as a man with a hot iron applied it to the calf’s flank. They released the calf and stood as another rider escorted the bawling, freshly-branded calf toward the holding area. It all took less than a minute.

Another team of rastlers moved forward for the next calf, and Joe walked over to Martin.

“Think you can do what I did, Martin?” Joe had asked, handing him a pair of work gloves. Something in the way he said it irritated Martin. I can do anything you can, he thought, and gritted his teeth.

The first time they tried together, Joe flanked the calf, taking the calf down as he sank to the ground. But Martin held back too long, and Joe was barely able to hold the squirming calf with his body weight by the time Martin came forward. Martin freed the rope without actually touching the calf, neglecting to put his weight on the calf’s neck. Joe, thinking Martin was in position, moved around to pull back the rear leg, and the calf struggled free, racing back to its mama with a frightened bawl. Laughter sounded from the men at the fire.

If that little know-it-all laughs I will strike him! Martin thought, and was surprised at his own willingness to do violence.

Joe stood and brushed off hands. “That’s just your first try,” he said. “But you’re gonna get dirty, Martin, there’s no point in holdin’ back to try to stay clean.”

Martin glared at him. He almost preferred Joe’s ridicule to his patience.

Their second try was a larger calf, almost a yearling, and it was fighting hard against the rope around its neck. Joe glared up at Shorty; larger calves were usually roped by the heels rather than the neck, and dragged to the fire to save the rastlers the work of throwing them. Shorty was hazing the tenderfoot.

Joe leaped up and leaned over the larger animal, grabbing an ear and a handful of skin at the calf’s rear leg. He pulled and leaned backwards, trying to leverage his slight weight alone against the calf’s. It wasn’t enough, however, and he shouted to Martin. But Martin had tripped, falling forward onto his hands and knees several feet away. By the time he got to his feet, Joe had lost his hold, and was sitting on the ground, watching Shorty back his horse against the still roped yearling.

“You boys just gonna keep on not brandin’ them calves?” Shorty called. “Cuz if you are, I think it would be easier if I started not ropin’ ’em.”

There was good-natured laughter at this.

“Try heelin’ the big ones next time and we’ll try not to let ’em go!” Joe called, and he grinned over his shoulder at Martin. Steve stepped up and he and Joe laid the yearling down and held it ready for the iron.

Hoss, watching from the near the fire, had considered replacing Martin as a rastler, but laying out the calves for the iron was the least-skilled job. He had to start somewhere.

So they had tried again, Joe shouting continuously at Martin this time, until the next calf was somehow on the ground.

“Hold ’im! HOLD ’im!” Joe hollered again, and Martin felt a surge of fury at Joe—how dare he shout at him like that? Since he could not use that surge of anger-driven strength to wring Joe’s neck, he pressed harder with his knee on the calf’s neck, keeping its struggling head on the ground. Joe, one foot braced on the calf’s rump, both hands pulling on its tail, grunted in satisfaction.

“That’s it, now hold ’im. Hoss, hurry up with that iron, Martin and me ain’t got all day!” and Joe winked at Martin, angry tone gone the instant Martin tightened his grip.

Martin stared at Joe. I will never understand him, he thought. One minute he’s shouting and swearing at me, and the next he’s grinning like he’s sharing a great joke.

“That’s it, good job, boys,” Hoss said, leaning over the calf with the branding iron. Martin held his breath, trying not to smell the burning hair and flesh smell. He was fervently grateful that this one was a female and castration was not required. Joe nodded his head and they both let go. The calf jumped to its feet, bawling it displeasure, and ran towards its mother.

“That’s good, Martin. Whatever you did different this time, just do that again,” Joe said.

“I imagined the calf was you,” Martin said nastily, but Joe just laughed.

“If that’s what it takes, you can imagine they’re all Joe Cartwright!”

Being angry with Joe let him forget to be sick at the smell of burning hide and hair and the sight of the bloody castration knife wielded so casually. After he had helped with six calves, he realized the trick to the job was leveraging his own body weight with the weight of the calf, rather than applying brute strength against the calf’s weight. That was how smaller hands like Joe were able to throw calves that weighed almost as much as they did. He also realized his longer reach and stride gave him an advantage over the younger boy. After eight calves, he started to feel confident. He and Joe had reached an understanding of who would hold what and where; no more calves got away from them.

**********

At midday they queued up for lunch, and Martin suddenly realized how achy and tired and hungry he was. A man named Wilson presided over the cook pot, and from the undertoned comments Martin learned that Wilson’s cooking did not compare well to Hop Sing’s. When Martin’s turn came, Wilson filled his plate with beans and mysterious lumps of meat, and then slapped a piece of blackened bread on top. Martin looked at his plate.

“Excuse, me, Mr. Wilson, this piece of bread is burned,” Martin began. He looked up to see Joe’s frantic signals and several hands grinning in anticipation. He realized he was about to commit what they considered a heinous crime—insulting the cook.

Wilson picked up a cast iron fry pan suggestively. Martin added quickly, “But that’s just the way I prefer it!”

More laughter erupted. Martin looked around at the branding crew. Their smiles seemed friendlier than the last time he had been to the branding camp. Maybe, he thought, because this time I made the joke instead of being the joke. He sat down near the fire, smiling faintly back at the grinning hands.

**********

Shortly after lunch, Adam and Elliot arrived. Martin hadn’t seen his father immediately, but when he did, he suddenly seemed to lose all his hard-won skill, and he and Joe accidentally released another calf. He saw his father talking with Hoss, and then Hoss was calling him over to the fire. “Martin! Take a break! Joe, Mr. Lindsay’s gonna try his hand with ya!”

 Joe grinned in anticipation, and turned to share the joke with Martin, but Martin’s face was stony, and he was already walking away.

Elliot Lindsay remembered more of his long-ago skills than he expected, and soon he and Joe were working together well, throwing calf after calf, challenging the ropers to keep up with them rather than the other way around. Elliot proved to be a cheerful worker and, conscious of his son’s presence, he focused on performing well. After one particularly ornery calf was dealt with, Elliot threw his arm across Joe’s shoulders in triumph and looked around to see if Martin had been watching. But his son was sitting by the fire, his back to the herd.

**********

When late afternoon came, Hoss sent Joe and Martin home to complete the barn chores. They hardly spoke all the way home, and once the chores were done, they went their separate ways to await Hop Sing’s call to supper.

Joe found Adam had returned, too; he was on the front porch, making entries in a ledger.

“How’d you get along with Martin, today, Joe?” Adam asked, watching his little brother swing his legs back and forth as he leaned his belly over the hitching rail. The boy was never still, even after a long, hard day.

“Fine,” came the muffled response.

Adam raised an eyebrow.

“Well, as good as we ever will, I guess,” Joe said.

“Maybe working side-by-side will help you get to know each other better,” Adam said mildly.

“Maybe,” Joe said. “After meetin’ Martin’s pa and seein’ how it is between them, I—well, if he can’t even get along with his own pa…”

Adam smiled. “You’ve had your share of run-ins with your pa.”

“That’s different! I might get in trouble with Pa, but I never—he always—” Joe halted his swinging and looked Adam in the eye. “Martin and his pa treat each other like strangers. Strangers who don’t much like each other.”

“They are still finding their way,” Adam said. “Remember, they haven’t seen each other in a long time.”

“Well, that Martin, he sure don’t make it easy for anybody to get along with him!” Joe resumed swinging his legs back and forth under the rail. “He’s about as hard to talk to as an ornery old mule! He does everything his own way, no matter what anyone else wants. Like the way he keeps callin’ Hoss ‘Erik.’ That ain’t what Hoss wants to be called. He should use the name Hoss likes.”

“He’s so formal in his address I’m surprised he doesn’t call his horse ‘Slow Robert',” Adam said dryly.

Joe giggled, nearly losing his balance.

“But I think it’s up to Hoss to tell him what he wants to be called, don’t you?” Adam continued.

Joe reluctantly nodded, and pushed over the hitching rail so far that his head nearly met the ground and his feet swung high in the air to balance. “Hey, Adam,” he said, his voice somewhat distorted from his upside-down position. “Charlie says somebody who’s new to outdoor work is called a tenderfoot. If Martin and his Pa are both new, does that make them both tenderfoots? Or are they tenderfeet? Hmm, Adam, which is it, huh?”

There was no answer for a long moment. Then Adam said, “I’m surprised at you, Joe.”

“Hmm? Why, what’d I do?”

“I’m surprised you would ask me a question like that while cavorting so close to the water trough.” Adam made a half-threatening swat at Joe’s up-ended backside. Joe flipped completely around the rail and scrambled away, laughing.

“Come on, little brother, it’s time to wash up for supper,” Adam said, grasping Joe’s collar and pulling him toward the front door.

Around the corner of the porch, out of sight of the laughing brothers, Martin watched as they went into the house.

**********

Ben and Elliot went to town to meet members of the Cattleman’s Association for dinner. That left the fours boys at the supper table, and they dug into Hop Sing’s food with the hunger of hard-working hands at the end of their workday. Conversation was scarce, however.

Adam mentioned some entertainments he read about in the week-old paper he received from St. Louis, hoping to spark Martin’s interest.

“Opera!” exclaimed Joe in disgust. “Like that caterwaulin’ you made me sit through in San Francisco? Don’t listen to him, Martin; we don’t need that kind of entertainment here!”

“Well, to those whose tastes were refined on the entertainments of Boston or even St. Louis, Virginia City might seem very backward,” Adam said. “The Virginia City Theater has sat idle for lack of entertainment for nearly a year.”

“What do you mean, there ain’t no theater?” said Hoss, winking broadly at Martin. “What about the little play Joe and Mitch put on for Martin just yesterday?”

All three brothers grinned.

Martin, however, looked distinctly displeased. “I fail to see the humor in your so-called ‘prank!’” he said.

“Haven’t you ever had a trick played on you before?” Joe said. “I said I was sorry. I’ll say it again: I’m sorry I tricked you. You gotta let up on bein’ mad, or we ain’t ever gonna have any fun this summer.”

“Fun? Is that all you think about?” Martin glared and with a dramatic toss of his head, he threw his napkin onto the table. “You nearly killed me, shooting that gun at your friend, then tried to set me up as a—a murderer!”

Joe remembered the look on Martin’s face when he had announced he would place the blame for Mitch’s ‘death’ on Martin. He tightened his lips against the smile that threatened, and bit the inside of his cheek.

“Don’t you mean an Evil Murderer?” Adam said, and Joe lost control and burst into laughter, doubling over and falling out of his chair onto the floor. Hoss had told Joe about Martin’s incensed exit from the ranch nearly word-for-word, and hearing the phrase again was more than he could stand. His high-pitched giggle was a contagion impossible for Adam and Hoss to resist.

“Shut up!” Martin said, losing his usual composure. “Shut up, all of you! It wasn’t funny! I’m glad you were punished, and I’m glad your brother had the sheriff come after you!”

“The look on your face, Martin!” Joe choked out from under the table, nearly out of breath.

“I’d have given a month’s pay to see your face, Joe, when Sheriff Coffee came to arrest ya!” Hoss said, wiping his eyes.

Joe just laughed harder, his shrill giggle ringing up from the floor, where he rolled helplessly.

“I’m sorry, Martin, but looking back, it was funny,” Adam said, giving in to his own mirth. “The boys went to a lot of trouble, and succeeded better than any of us would have guessed. We were all fooled, at least momentarily. You might think it was funny too, if you weren’t taking yourself so seriously.”

“Seriously!” Martin stood up. “No one has taken me seriously since the day I arrived! I’ve been insulted, subjected to crude jokes, and—and endlessly persecuted by that—that Devil Incarnate…” He pointed dramatically at Joe, who had just climbed back into his chair. Joe whooped at this remark, falling again to the floor. “My only consolation was seeing Joe and Mitch knee deep in the horse trough…”

Loud laughter erupted from all three brothers. Martin looked around, startled at their reaction.

“Seems like no matter what I do, I end up in the horse trough!” Joe complained between giggles. Martin was astounded. Joe was laughing loudest at himself.

“It’s the lot of all Evil Murderers,” said Adam mournfully, and set them all off again.

Martin stared at the table, his anger draining away. Evil Murderer—well, perhaps his words did sound melodramatic and slightly ridiculous, looking back. Despite the remaining feelings of self-righteous victim-hood, Martin reluctantly smiled.

Hoss stood up and put a kindly arm over Martin’s shoulder. “That’s it, Martin,” he said. “If you see the funny side of things, you can’t be mad about ’em any more, can ya?”

Joe, his laughing eyes peering over the edge of the table, saw Martin’s smile, and he started to plan.

**********

The next morning, all the Cartwrights and Lindsays sat down to breakfast together. Hoss told Martin the story of the first time Joe had attempted to rope a calf, and his description of Joe falling out of the saddle after roping his father’s horse by mistake had set them all laughing. Hoss winked at Joe, whose indignant protests were only half serious. With a glance at Elliot, Joe gleefully recounted Martin’s close call with the camp cook. Martin’s face reddened, but he looked pleased.

“I was quite impressed with your work with Martin, Joseph and how well Martin was able to perform with your help.” Elliot buttered a piece of toast, unaware of the glances flying around the table, and Martin’s seething stare.

“Martin figured it out himself,” Joe said flatly. For all the times his father had compared his behavior to Martin’s unfavorably, he liked this comparison even less. “Anybody could’ve showed him.”

“You seemed to remember your old skills pretty quickly, Mr. Lindsay,” Adam cut in smoothly.

Elliot smiled. “I had a good rastler helping me.” He raised his coffee cup to Joe.

Joe mumbled “Thanks, sir,” and resigned himself to difficulties with Martin for the rest of the day.

**********

Ben headed off to Carson for a few days to sort out some problems with his mining interests, leaving Adam in charge. The others left the table to prepare for their various work assignments, but Martin lingered, sullenly stirring cream into coffee he didn’t really want.

Hoss was sitting on the low table near the fireplace, nearly doubled over, adjusting his boots when Joe came back in. Martin watched in surprise as Joe came up from behind his brother and draped his body over his brother’s broad back.

“Hey Hoss,” Joe said. “Mitch and his pa are here. Where’s that halter you was braidin’? I want to show it to Mitch.”

Hoss reached over his shoulder with practiced ease and pulled Joe over headfirst, flipping him so that his feet landed squarely on the floor.

“What do you want with that halter?” Hoss asked, swiping a big hand at Joe. “It ain’t finished yet. I don’t need you or Mitch to mess it up.”

“I just want to show it to him,” Joe said, hopping back out of his brother’s reach. “He was thinkin’ of trying to make one himself, and yours is the prettiest I’ve ever seen.”

“It’s up in my room. You can show it to him, but you bring it right back. And don’t you go droppin’ it in the dirt now, you hear?” Hoss cuffed his brother’s head as Joe dodged by, laughing as he headed up the stairs. Hoss looked around to see Martin staring at him.

“I love to hear that boy laugh!” Hoss smiled at Martin. “Makes me want to laugh myself. ‘Course, sometimes he’s laughing about somethin’ he’s done that he shouldn’t’ve, but I still can’t help but laugh when I hear ’im.”

Martin did not reply, but continued to stare at Hoss. Hoss’ gentle wrestling with Joe brought a sharp jab of memory that threatened his usual composure.

“What’s the matter Martin?” Hoss said kindly. “You feeling OK?” Martin’s face was pale, and his eyes were averted.

“Um, yes, thank you Erik,” Martin answered. “I was just—when I saw Joe just now—he reminded me of something, that’s all.”

“Doesn’t seem like it was something good, from the look on your face,” Hoss replied.

“Well, it was something I haven’t thought about in a long time,” Martin said, and there was a note of surprise in his voice.

“Martin,” Hoss said, standing up, stomping briefly to settle his boots more comfortably. “You think you might ever call me Hoss? Ever’ time I hear ‘Erik’ I look around to see who you’re talkin’ to.”

“Of course, if that is what you prefer,” Martin replied stiffly.

“Thank you,” Hoss said. Hoss watched Martin’s face for a moment. “Do you want to talk about it?” He added in a softer tone.

“Talk about what?” Martin’s back stiffened.

“Whatever Joe reminded you of. If he’s been troublin’ you, I can speak to him.”

“No, it’s nothing like that, it’s just…” Martin looked at Hoss, and Hoss waited while he struggled with something. “When Joe leaned against you just now, I—I remembered…” Martin looked away.

“A good memory, I hope,” Hoss said after a moment.

Martin smiled weakly. “Yes, I think it is. Joe reminded me of how my brother used to lean on my father’s back when he was putting on his shoes. Although Father never flipped Harry over his shoulder like you did to Joe.”

“I didn’t know you had a brother,” Hoss said.

Martin drew a shaky breath. “I don’t, not anymore. Harry died five years ago.”

Hoss’ face crumpled, and Martin suddenly wanted to tell him about Harry. He felt sure Hoss would understand, if anyone could.

“He—he drowned.” Martin’s voice was flat, but Hoss heard an extreme depth of emotion behind it. “He was my elder brother.”

It isn’t saying much, but it sure told a lot, thought Hoss. He had known loss in his own life and knew how the pain could come on unexpectedly.

“I’m sure sorry, Martin,” Hoss said. “You must miss your brother somethin’ fierce.”

Martin wiped a hand across his face. “To tell you the truth, Hoss, I haven’t thought about Harry in a long time. It—It’s been—easier that way.”

“I’m sorry if me and Joe made you feel bad,” Hoss began, but Martin interrupted.

“No, I feel good, remembering,” Martin said, and Hoss noticed that neither the usual polished diction nor the disdainful tone were present in his speech. “Harry would have liked wrestling with you and Joe.”

Hoss walked over and put his large arm over Martin’s thin shoulders. “I bet Harry’d want you to remember you and him havin’ fun.”

Martin wiped his eyes, and took a shaky breath, but he was smiling. “I think you are right, Hoss,” he said.

**********

They started the move to the high meadow, where the cattle would spend the rest of the summer. When it came to moving cattle, neither of the Lindsays had any experience and Hoss wanted to keep an eye on them to assess their common sense around cattle.

Martin was the better horseman of the two, so Hoss had him work the perimeter with Joe, turning back any cattle that attempted to stray. Joe tried to convince Martin to switch to a horse with more know-how around cattle. However, seeing the scruffy cattle pony offered, Martin thought it was another hazing tactic and insisted on riding Slow Bob. Elliot had not been on a horse in years, so Hoss had given him a trail horse also, rather than a more responsive cattle horse.

Elliot was having the time of his life, and although he was totally ignorant of the ways of cattle, he cheerfully accepted everything he was told to do. Adam asked Shorty to stay close to Elliot to keep that ignorance from causing any problems.

Martin, on the other hand, kept up such a litany of complaints that most of the hands stayed as far from him as possible. Although the hands from the branding crew had thawed toward him a little, Joe realized Martin still had a long way to go to gain any kind of respect from the Ponderosa hands.

As the morning passed, they added to the small herd, moving the cattle leisurely along the meadow trail. Billows of dust kicked up to veil the riders. The breeze was fitful, affording no real relief from heat of the mid-morning sun.

Martin was working the far northern edge of the herd, separated from the rest of the drovers. Elliot, caught up in the activity around him, lost sight of his son. He stopped his horse, letting Shorty and the others move beyond him. Removing his hat, Elliot wiped his brow with his new bandana and stood in his stirrups, peering through the dust to see where Martin was working.

Several yards away he saw Joe cutting a zigzag path to force a reluctant bull back toward the main herd. Elliot waved his bandana in greeting. His hat fluttered to the ground and tumbled away, caught by the capricious breeze. Elliot watched open-mouthed as his hat flew straight into the face of Joe’s bull.

That was all it took. With a bellow, the bull cut back past Joe, blindly racing away from the supposed threat. The bull scattered the cattle near him, and several joined him in his flight from the herd. Joe’s horse turned quickly, scrambling to head him off again. However, the unexpected change in direction slowed him down, and the bull and his followers gained ground as they dashed toward freedom.

Working the edge of the herd, Martin had grown impatient with Slow Bob’s uncharacteristic head tossing, and had chosen that moment to dismount and check his bridle to see what was irritating his horse. He stepped down from the saddle in an open section of the brushy field, unknowingly standing directly in the only clear path between the skittish bull and freedom.

Joe saw the danger before Martin did—so did lots of other hands. Their shouts cut through his inattention. Martin looked up to see a half dozen head of cattle charging straight towards him.

Trying to get back in the saddle quickly, he attempted the swing mount he had seen Joe do so effortlessly. Slow Bob mistook his intent and jumped sideways, then bucked when Martin’s spurred boot grazed his rear leg. Martin tumbled backwards to the ground, landing hard on his rump. He had the presence of mind to hang on to the reins, but he lost precious seconds scrambling back to this feet.

Joe raced after the bull at a flat out run, thinking rapidly through his options. The bull was well ahead of the other spooked cattle. If he turned the bull away from Martin, the others would likely follow. But how to turn him? He could put a rope on him, but landing a good loop on a longhorn running full out would be tricky. And if he did get a rope on him, he and Dusty might not be able to hold the big animal long for Martin to get out of the way.

He could ride his horse into the bull’s path, maybe swiping his rope across the bull’s face, but that required fast, hard riding and risked injury to both him and his horse from the cattle’s wicked horns. And the bull might still get away. As he rode, he saw the bull’s long red tail trailing out behind and it gave him a better idea.

He’d seen it done by Coop, one of the Texas cowboys; Coop claimed to have learned it from a Mexican vaquero. Tailin’, he called it. It looked deceptively easy, and was a dramatically effective way to stop an ornery longhorn. Joe had been awestruck at Coop’s skill and begged him to tell him how it was done.

“All’s you need is a fast, savvy horse and a saddle full of nerve,” Coop had said.

Joe was riding Dusty, and although Dusty was small, he was one of the fastest and cleverest cow horses in the remuda. He glanced ahead. Martin had his foot in the stirrup, hopping on the other foot as the uncooperative Slow Bob turned and turned and refused to let him remount. Seeing Martin’s difficulty, Joe knew he had to try it. If he did it right, no one would get hurt, not even the bull.

He laid his heels into Dusty, using the burst of speed to come straight up from behind and to the right of the bull, and leaning forward and pulling his left leg free of the stirrup.

Hoss, Adam, and Shorty raced toward the boys when they heard the shouts. Seeing how Joe positioned his horse, Shorty shouted to Adam “That boy’s gonna tail that bull!” Adam’s swearing reply was lost as he spurred his horse harder towards Martin and Joe.

Joe was edging up to the bull, weaving through the trailing cattle. He pulled his left leg back and ready. He was beside the bull’s rump now, near the long tail flying out like a ship’s pennant. Without hesitation, he leaned over and grabbed the tail. He dallied it around his saddle horn, at the same time and spurring Dusty faster. He threw his leg over the tail and the extra leverage pulled the bull’s rump closer to his horse. His horse, responsive as ever, put on a burst of speed, turning slightly against the longhorn bull’s weight.

The bull had no idea what hit him. Off balance, his back legs were yanked upward by the pressure on his tail. Joe quickly pulled his leg back and released the tail as the bull flipped spectacularly over his own horns, lying stunned on its back. After a moment it scrambled to its feet, one horn broken and dangling. It shook its head and turned back to the herd, bawling like a lost calf. The rest of the spooked cattle slowed and began to mill around. The threat of a stampede was over.

Dusty skidded to a halt, and Joe looked down at his hand, stunned at his success. It had worked exactly as Coop said it would. He had tear in his glove and a friction burn on his palm, but he could tell by the way his horse moved that Dusty was fine. He looked up to see Martin, still on the ground just ten feet away, white-faced and staring. He heard the distant whoop of one of the crew, and he couldn’t keep the grin off his face.

Hooves pounded behind him, but as he turned, a sudden push to his back took him completely off his horse. He looked up into the dark angry eyes of Adam, and Hoss wasn’t far behind him.

“Of all the reckless, idiotic, thrice-damned, foolish things to do!” Adam leaped off his horse and pulled Joe up by the shirtfront. “What the HELL do you think you were doing? Does this look like a circus show to you? You could’ve gotten yourself killed, or Martin, or worse yet, you could have injured that bull! You KNOW what an injured longhorn bull can do to a horse and rider!” Adam emphasized each word with a shake, and by the time he took a breath, he was shaking Joe so hard his teeth clacked together.

“That’s enough, Adam.” Hoss put his hands over Adam’s and began to pry them loose from Joe’s shirt. “Let him go now. He’s all right, let him go.”

Hoss placed his hand on Adam’s chest and pushed until he took two steps backwards. Hoss seemed angry too, and Joe could only wonder at this as he sank back to the ground.

More dust was kicked up as Elliot pulled his horse to a halt. He stepped heavily from his horse, knees wobbly. He strode over to Martin and grabbed the boy’s shoulders. “Are you all right, Martin?”

“Yes, sir.” Martin’s voice was barely more than a whisper.

“Thank God!” Elliot said, and pulled the boy into a fierce hug.

Hoss looked at Martin’s surprised face for a moment, and the tense lines between his eyebrows relaxed. Leaning down, he grasped Joe’s hand and pulled him roughly to his feet. Joe winced as Hoss grabbed his sore hand; Hoss saw the wince, but didn’t release his grip.

“You get back to camp and you pick out a better cow pony for Martin,” Hoss said. “Then both of you get your butts back here; you’re ridin’ drag for the rest of the day.”

Joe saw Elliot release Martin with an awkward pat to his shoulder. Martin managed to get back on Bob, Joe swung up onto Dusty, and both boys turned their horses toward camp.

**********

Both boys were silent as they headed toward the remuda. Martin, still somewhat stunned by events of the last few minutes, darted bewildered glances at Joe. Joe didn’t seem to notice, still stung by his brothers’ anger.

Joe caught up a steady cowpony with a casual toss of his rope while Martin unsaddled Bob and turned him into the rope corral. Martin transferred his gear to the new pony as Joe waited, staring off toward the herd.

“Joe,” Martin said. “I—you…”

“We’d better head back,” was all Joe said, and kicked Dusty to an easy trot.

*********

“Adam?”

Adam glanced up from the book he was reading. Joe was standing at the end of the porch, shifting from foot to foot, his face ruddy in the evening light. Adam pointedly turned back to his book.

“Adam, can I talk to ya for a minute?” Joe said in a small voice.

“Joe, I am trying to read.”

 

Joe stood silently, occasionally scuffing his boot toe on the porch step. Adam withstood the pleading gaze for a full two minutes. His set his book aside with a sigh. “All right,” he said coldly. “What did you want to say?”

“I just—I wanted to tell you—I know you’re mad at me for tailin’ that bull, and…”

“Mad at you? Mad doesn’t begin to describe it! Infuriated, livid, or enraged would be closer to the mark!”

“But I was just…”

“Just what? Trying to get yourself killed? Do you have any idea how dangerous that stunt was for a kid of your size?”

“Adam, I know how to do it! Coop showed me last fall. And I knew Dusty was fast enough and tough enough to do it. Martin needed help right then, and I didn’t think I had time for anything else!”

“Didn’t think—that’s how it is with you, isn’t it? You don’t think! You see something you want to do, and you just do it, consequences be damned!”

Joe winced. Adam rarely swore, and twice in one day, due to his actions, made remorse come up into Joe’s throat, threatening to choke him. “I’m sorry! But I don’t see why you’re so angry. I done it just right—everyone says so!”

“I’m talking about how your recklessness affects others! You take chances you have no business taking, with no thought as to what might happen, or who might be hurt as a result!”

“But Adam…”

Adam stood up, leaning tautly toward his brother. “No, Joe, I’ve heard your argument, and I can see that you don’t understand. And until you do understand, you are restricted to the ranch.”

“But…”

“Get out to the barn and finish your chores!”

Joe flinched at his brother’s tone. He turned and left without another word.

Hoss came out from the shadows, walking slowly towards his older brother. Adam was breathing hard, clenching and unclenching his fists.

“You OK, Adam?” Hoss said softly.

“Stay out of this, Hoss!”

“It’s hard to stay out of it when you’re shoutin’ loud enough to be heard in town.”

Adam took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. “I’m sorry,” he said.

Hoss moved to stand next to his brother. “Adam, maybe you oughta tell Joe the real reason you’re so mad at him.”

“I believe I just did—he doesn’t think before he acts! He just goes ahead without a thought as to who might be hurt by his actions!”

“Who’d be gettin’ hurt, Adam? Joe? Or you?”

Adam sent an exasperated glance toward his brother. “I wish you would just come right out and say what you mean, Hoss. I’m in no mood for riddles.”

Hoss took a step closer. “I think the real reason you’re so mad, is because you’re rememberin’ when Joe got hurt by a bull a few years ago, how you had to watch it happen,” Hoss said quietly. “Seein’ that bull charge today brought it all back.”

Adam looked down at his hands, clenched tight around the porch rail. “He scared the hell out of me, Hoss,” he said softly. “You’re right, I remembered him laying under that horse, waiting for the bull to charge again, and then today, seeing him ride after that bull…”

“It wasn’t Joe’s fault, that time he got hurt.”

“I know.”

“He was tryin’ to help Martin today.”

“I know.”

“What else could he have done?”

“He could have stayed out of it! Let the hands, full-grown men, take on that bull!”

“He was the closest. If he had waited, Martin might have been hurt, or even killed.”

“They both might have been hurt if he hadn’t been able to flip the bull…”

“True. But he done it right, and nobody was hurt. You say he wasn’t thinkin’, but sounds to me like he was. He took a risk, but in a calculated way. What you are so angry about is how scared you felt, thinkin’ he was gonna be hurt again like he was when he was ten.”

Adam let out the breath he didn’t even know he had been holding. “You’re right.”

“I’m not sayin’ a fourteen year old kid should be tailin’ a bull ass-over-teakettle, but he done it, and he done a good job at it, and he maybe saved someone’s life.”

“Yeah.”

“Adam?”

“Yeah?”

“I didn’t like watchin’ him do that either, but I gotta admit, it might’ve been the best choice available at the time.”

Adam nodded, his anger replaced by regret. “I’ll go talk to him.” He let go of the hitching rail and walked toward the barn.

**********

“I don’t understand, Hoss.”

Hoss turned to see Martin standing at the edge of the porch.

“He was so—I thought he was going to strike Joseph,” Martin said.

Hoss smiled faintly. “Nah. I won’t say that Joe don’t deserve it, but Adam’ll get straight with him before it comes to that.”

Martin looked unconvinced.

“That’s the way is it with Older Brother,” Hoss said. “He was scared that Joe would get hurt, and being scared makes him mad.”

“But Joe stopped the bull—I couldn’t get out of the way—those animals came at me!” Martin’s words barely made sense.

“It weren’t none of your doing, that bull chargin’,” Hoss asked. “You shouldn’t been off your horse, but nobody knew what that bull was gonna do.”

“How could Joe do it?” Martin asked in true bewilderment.

Hoss ran his fingers through his sandy hair. “Well, I think it never occurred to him that he couldn’t do it. He’s prob’ly been keepin’ it in the back of his mind ever’ since the first time he’d seen it done. It sure worked good, didn’t it? ”

“Yes, but I meant, how could he risk himself like that? He was so close to that animal’s horns. And if he’d come off his horse…” Martin ran his hand through his hair. “He doesn’t even like me.”

Hoss’ blue eyes flared with a little of their own anger.

“Is that what you think of Joe? That he’d let you get hurt, when he could do something to stop it, just ’cause he didn’t like you?” Hoss shook his head. “You don’t know nothin’ about Joe. You been callin’ him names and makin’ him look bad, and I guess you expect to get the same back. But Joe ain’t like that.”

Martin flinched. “I’m sorry, Hoss, don’t be angry. I don’t —Joe shouldn’t have—and now Adam is angry—my father doesn’t think I —I—everything is so confusing—I don’t understand!”

Hoss put his large arm over Martin’s thin shoulders. “You’ll just have to sort it out for yourself, Martin.”

**********

The next day was Saturday. At the breakfast table, Joe was his usual sleepy, somewhat incoherent self, and Adam seemed no more than normally exasperated with his younger brother’s late appearance at the table. Hoss announced that Joe and Martin would have the whole day to do as they pleased and Joe immediately sat up straighter, eyes wide open. Adam smirked and winked at Hoss. Martin shook his head slightly; it was as if the shouted argument yesterday had never occurred.

Joe immediately chattered about his plans for fishing, sure that Mitch would be at the lake if he had time off, too.

“Well?” Joe was looking at Martin impatiently.

“Well, what?” Martin said.

“You comin’ or not?”