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?”

Martin stared back at Joe.

“Look, I ain’t got all day. You comin’ fishin, or not?”

Martin could not think why Joe was including him. They had hardly spoken to each other since the incident with the bull. His father had dominated last night’s dinner conversation with his praise of Joe’s “heroic deed.” Martin had cringed in embarrassment; Joe had asked to leave the table without finishing his supper. Martin knew he owed Joe something for his help, but couldn’t bring himself to raise the subject.

Martin thought quickly about ulterior motives for the fishing outing, and then remembered Hoss saying, “It’s Joe’s way of sayin’ he’s startin’ over.”

 “All right,” Martin said, warily. “I’ll go.”

Joe nodded. “I’ll get the poles and lunch, you saddle the horses.” And with that, Joe headed toward the kitchen.

Who does he think he is, Martin fumed, telling me to saddle his horse? He started after Joe, and then paused. His father had said he was to be treated like one of the Cartwright brothers. Joe and his brothers would have split the tasks needed to prepare for fishing; it made sense to do so to get things done more efficiently. Joe had just spoken to him as he would have spoken to Hoss or Adam, nothing more. Maybe he really was just trying to start over.

Martin’s felt mixed up and uncertain. His father had made it clear that he wanted him to change his ways. But why should it matter what he wanted? His father had been gone, both physically and emotionally ever since Harry—his thoughts skidded away from that topic. Why should his father suddenly have a say in Martin’s life, when he had chosen to ignore him for so long? And then what happened yesterday…

He wondered if his pocket flask still had any whiskey left in it. His flask was in his saddlebag; since he was expected to saddle the horses, he would get a drink while he worked.

Joe came whistling into the yard, and set down the fishing poles and the saddlebags containing Hop Sing’s lunch. Martin must still be in the barn, he thought. Martin had accepted the idea of saddling his own horse, but saddling Joe’s? Joe had known he was pushing at Martin’s limits and had been surprised when Martin had not argued with him.

He started toward the barn, but Martin appeared before he reached it, leading Cochise and Slow Bob. Both horses were saddled and bridled. Martin was carrying his flask, and Joe watched with narrowed eyes as he handed over Cochise’s reins. Martin looked straight at Joe in defiance, took a drink from the flask, and then placed it in his own saddlebag.

“Ready, Martin?” was all Joe said.

Martin nodded. Joe waited until he mounted his horse, then handed up the fishing poles. He threw the saddlebag lunch behind his own saddle and swung himself up. He reached across for the fishing poles.

“How do you do that?” Martin asked, curiosity getting the better of him.

“Do what?” Joe asked.

“Swing into the saddle like that without touching a stirrup,” Martin said.

Joe looked puzzled for a moment. “I don’t know,” he said. “I just do it. Never thought about how.”

Joe walked Cochise out of the yard. Martin shook his head and followed.

They headed through the trees, the shaded trail cooler than the sun-baked yard. Martin took off his hat, enjoying the feel of the breeze through his sweat-dampened hair.

“Does it help?” Joe asked.

“Does what help?” Martin said testily.

“Drinkin’. Does it help you feel better?” There was no judgment in Joe’s tone, just curiosity. “I’ve tried straight whiskey before, so I figure you must get somethin’ out of it to put up with that taste.”

“It helps for a while,” Martin said.

Joe nodded. “I figured it did.” The horses’ clip-clop was the only sound for some time.

“Is it because of your pa?” Joe asked.

“Pardon me?” Martin said.

“Your drinkin’. Is it because you and your pa don’t get along?”

“That’s none of your business!” Martin said.

“’Cause I know what it’s like to be worried about what your pa thinks of ya,” Joe said. “It makes me feel real low when my pa’s disappointed in me. Maybe drinkin’ would help me feel better, too.”

Martin looked at Joe. “You’re not seriously considering—you’re only fourteen years old!”

“I’m not that much younger than you,” Joe pointed out. “You poured whiskey in the punchbowl at the Co—Cotil—dance, and I had some then.”

“That was meant as a joke, for the older men there, not for you or your friends. And I—I shouldn’t have done it.”

Joe tried not to look surprised at Martin’s admission.

“Besides,” Martin continued, “your father and brothers care about you. You have no reason to consider drinking as an escape.”

“Is that why you do it? To escape thinkin’ that your pa don’t care about you?”

“I told you, that’s none of your business!” Martin snapped.

It was quite a while before Joe spoke again. “Martin?”

“Yes?”

“Next time you’re in town to pick up some of your ‘medicine’,” Joe nodded toward Martin’s saddlebags. “Would you pick up a bottle for me, too?”

“I most certainly will not!” Martin seemed horrified at the idea.

“Why not?” Joe asked. “I get feeling down sometimes. And my pa’s still punishin’ me for playing those pranks on you and Hoss and Adam. A drink or two might make me feel better for a while, like it does for you.”

Martin looked at Joe’s face, trying to decide if the younger boy was serious.

“Drinking is not the answer!” Martin said at last. “I will not buy you any whiskey! You are far too young, and besides you have no real reason—you haven’t suffered any real loss—you have everything in the world—your family…” Martin’s voice trailed off.

“I know what it’s like to lose somebody,” Joe said quietly. He had not meant to go so far into his own heart with this conversation, but there was no turning back now. “I was only five when I lost my mama but the memory of her laying so still on the ground is scorched into the back of my eyes. And I remember every crease in my pa’s face when he tried not to break down in front of us. I remember the smell of the funeral lilies when Adam pulled me away from her grave. I remember the sound of Hoss crying into his pillow late at night when he thought everyone was asleep.” Joe took a shaky breath. “I remember waitin’ and waitin’ for Mama to wake up and come home.

“I know about your brother,” Joe continued. “And I see how you deal with the hurt of it, and I thought I could do that, too. Maybe drinkin’ could help when I’m rememberin’ the day my mama died.”

Martin stared at Joe, emotions warring within his chest. How did he know about Harry? And how dare he compare their situations—but even Martin realized that wasn’t fair. Although he felt the pain keenly, Martin knew that he wasn’t the only person who ever suffered a loss. But even more than resentment at the intrusion of his privacy, he felt appalled that a naive fourteen-year old boy would want to emulate him by drinking away his sadness.

“You can’t—it’s not right…” Martin began, but with a sudden clarity of thought, he realized that all his objections to Joe’s request for liquor applied to himself as well. Why wouldn’t the younger boy think drinking was a solution? It was what he was doing himself, wasn’t it?

“I am not buying you whiskey,” Martin said firmly. “And don’t bother asking for a drink from my flask!” He reached back, and took the flask from his saddlebag. Removing the cap, he emptied the contents onto the trail.

Joe watched impassively, and then turned back to the lake trail. They rode in silence for a long time.

“I’m sorry about your brother,” Joe said quietly. “I – uh – overheard your pa tellin’ my pa about it.”

Martin’s head snapped around. “My father spoke of it?”

“Yeah. Sounded like it was real hard for him to talk, but he told Pa all about it.”

Martin turned his gaze to the trail again.

“Your brother sounds like he was a lot of fun,” Joe said.

“He was,” Martin said, keeping his eyes forward, and he urged his horse into a trot, ending any further conversation.

**********

Mitch met them at the lakeshore, carrying his own fishing gear. He and Martin greeted each other cautiously, and Joe pretended not to notice. Taking his cue from Joe, Mitch pretended he didn’t have good reason to be mad at Martin, and Martin relaxed, watching Joe prepare his line to catch fish.

“Where’s your pa from, Martin?” Joe asked, threading a hook onto the end of his line. “He sure talks different.”

“He was born in England. He’s the younger son of my grandfather. Only the oldest son inherits, so my father came to America when he was about Adam’s age, to seek his fortune in the new world, or something like that. I forget how he usually tells it.”

Joe paused at the bitterness in Martin’s tone. He had been going to ask if Martin had ever been to England, but instead he asked, “Where were you born, Martin?”

For a moment, Joe thought he might have again stepped over some invisible line, some privacy barrier that Martin didn’t want breached. But then Martin let out a long breath and said, “St. Louis.”

Joe stared. “You ain’t from any further east than St. Louis?”

Martin shook his head. “I went to school in Boston, but I was born in ‘the West.’ Make fun of that if you like.”

Joe didn’t say anything for a long moment.

“Well, it don’t seem right to say you’re an Easterner, anymore, that’s for sure. What’ve you got for bait, Mitch?”

**********

Dozing in the afternoon sun, belly full of Hop Sing’s fried chicken, Martin didn’t hear Joe’s offer at first.

“I said, why don’t I do it slow a few times, and maybe you can see how it’s done and figure it out?”

“What? What did you say?”

“You asked how I do the swing-mount,” Joe said with exaggerated patience. “Maybe if I try to do it real slow, you can see better how it’s done and try it yourself. Fish ain’t bitin’ anyway.”

“All right,” Martin said. Joe walked over to saddle his horse.

“I never could get the hang of it,” Mitch said to Martin, pulling his snagged line free from under a partially submerged log. “Joe’s such a show-off; he practiced it for hours, along with all them other ridin’ tricks. He makes it look easy, but it took him a long time to get it that smooth.”

“He said he couldn’t explain how he did it, that he just did it,” Martin said.

Mitch grinned. “Like I said, a show-off.”

Martin wasn’t sure why, but he was determined to be as good as Joe at something by the end of the summer. He watched carefully as Joe swung into the saddle two or three times, then he tried it himself. Cochise tolerated the repeated attempts without moving. To Mitch and Joe’s surprise, Martin caught the knack of the swing-mount fairly quickly. After about a dozen tries, he could do it most of the time without falling off.

“Whooee, you’ve got it, Martin,” Mitch hollered. “I think he figured it out faster than you did, Joe!”

Joe tackled Mitch, easily knocking him to the ground, and the two wrestled for a few minutes. A week ago, Martin would have sneered in disdainful superiority at Mitch and Joe’s roughhousing, but today, watching from Cochise’s back, he felt oddly left out.

**********

When Martin and Joe returned from fishing, they met Elliot and Ben in the yard on their way back from town.

“Mr. Lindsay!” Joe shouted. “Wait’ll you see what Martin can do!”

“Be quiet, Joe!” Martin said in a low voice. Joe ignored him.

“Get down, Martin! Show him how us westerners get on our horses.”

“Go ahead, Martin,” said Ben, trying to go along with Joe’s notion. “We’d like to see what you can do.”

Martin glared at Joe in pure malevolence, but Joe had endured the glares of older brothers for years, and it didn’t affect him at all. “Go on, Martin, show him!”

Martin dismounted, head low, glancing over at his father. Elliot waited expectantly. Joe winked at Martin.

With a smooth, fluid movement, Martin swung into Slow Bob’s back without touching the stirrups.

“Well done!” said Ben. “The swing mount’s not an easy maneuver.”

“Yes, well done, Martin,” said Elliot. “Or should I say ‘well done, Joe?’ For it was you that taught him that, wasn’t it?”

In the silence that followed this statement, Elliot realized he had said the wrong thing.

Martin dropped off his horse, grabbed Cochise’s reins from Joe and led the two horses to the barn.

“I’d better put these poles away,” murmured Joe, and headed toward the kitchen. He could hear his father’s “Elliot, you’ve got to go talk to him…” and he walked faster, away from the Lindsays.

**********

“Pa?” Joe said, swinging his leg with studied casualness as he perched on the edge of Ben’s desk.

“Yes, son?”

“Do you think a father can dislike, or—or even hate—his own son?”

Ben looked up sharply from lighting his pipe. Joe was turning the bronze sculpture on the corner of the desk around and around. “Why would you ask such a question?” Ben felt a sudden chill—he had been rather strict with his youngest son lately—or at least, it might seem that way to Joe. “Joe, you don’t think that because I punished you for your prank…”

“What? No, sir!” Joe looked startled, and Ben relaxed. “I knew what the likely consequences would be when I done it. No, I was thinking of Martin and his pa. They seem—cold, like they don’t care much about each other. They ain’t tried to see each other in over a year. Martin says he didn’t even write to his pa. When his pa decided he should come here, he had his lawyer write to Martin to tell him.”

“You think that they hold themselves distant from each other due to hatred?”

“Well, maybe if a father blamed a son for the death of his other son…” Joe’s eyes widened. Too late. He had given himself away.

“You’ve been listening to things that don’t concern you again, Joseph!”

Joe couldn’t tell if his father was angry with him or not.

Joe swallowed. “Yes, sir. But I just wanted to understand more about Martin and his pa.”

“And did that knowledge aid your understanding?” No doubt about it now, there was anger in Ben’s smooth tone.

“Yeah, it did, a little,” Joe said, trying out his I’m-just-a-kid-I-don’t-know-any-better look. “I guess I can see why Martin might act the way he does, if his pa blamed him somehow for his brother’s…” Joe couldn’t bring himself to complete the sentence.

Ben’s tone softened. “Elliot doesn’t hate Martin, Joe. He’s struggling to deal with something that no father should have to deal with—the death of a child.”

“I know he lost his son, but he still has Martin! He and Martin never—they just don’t act like a pa and son should act.”

Ben’s heart warmed a little at this, and he forgot his anger about the eavesdropping.

“And how should a pa and son act?” Ben asked, his eyes twinkling a little.

“Well, not like that!” Joe said. “I mean, even when you’re punishin’ me I know you care about me. You’re punishin’ me because you care about me. I can’t tell if Mr. Lindsay cares about Martin. And I don’t think Martin can, either.”

“There’s nothing that bonds a father and son together better than the father correcting his son’s misdeeds,” Ben said, smiling a little.

“You’d know that better’n anyone!” Joe said, rubbing his backside. “You must feel like my father a hundred times over!”

 Ben laughed, and got up to lean on the desk beside Joe.

“Martin and Elliot have some things to work out,” Ben said, nudging Joe with his shoulder. “But I do think they care for each other. They just need to find their way back to some kind of common ground.”

“They haven’t been able to find their way so far,” Joe said.

“Give them time, son,” Ben said. “Give them time.”

 

**********

For the next few days, Joe thought about getting into trouble.

Joe considered the idea carefully. He was still working off his punishment for his own prank; if he got into any more trouble, his punishment would be stretched out all summer. Worse than that, it might make his father very angry, and he hated it when his father was angry with him. But he couldn’t think of a better way to help Martin.

Martin’s reaction to the good-natured comments from the hands made it clear that he wasn’t used to jokes or seeing the funny side of a situation. Martin’s idea of a joke was to pour whiskey in the punchbowl—a mean-spirited, sneaky trick with no humor behind it, to Joe’s way of thinking.

From what Elliot had said, it hadn’t always been that way. Joe thought that maybe Harry had taken all the family’s fun and laughter with him when he died.

His father said to give the Lindsays time, but they’d been on the ranch for a month now, and he couldn’t see any changes in the way they were with each other. After Elliot’s reaction to seeing his son in danger, Joe had thought maybe Elliot did care about Martin. A lot. But they couldn’t seem to bridge the gap that five years and Harry’s death had created. To make matters worse, Elliot kept praising Joe’s ranch skills and horsemanship to the point of embarrassment.

His father’s words, “there’s nothing that bonds a father and son together better than the father correcting his son’s misdeeds,” repeated themselves over and over in his head. It sure has been true for Pa and me, Joe thought. Why not Martin and his pa?

**********

The opportunity came up sooner than he expected.

Ben sent Martin and Joe into town one morning to pick up the mail and some supplies for Hop Sing. They rode in silence nearly all the way into town, Joe on Cochise and Martin on Slow Bob.

“Well?” Joe said as they entered C Street.

“Well what?” said Martin, irritated.

“Are you gonna just mope all day? For someone who’s supposed to be so mannerly and refined, you sure are ornery.”

“Ornery! Just because I choose not to speak to you…”

“Oh, so I’m good enough to show you how to do your work, but I’m not good enough to talk to?”

“I just don’t feel like talking…”

“You think you’re better than everyone, don’t ya? You think just ‘cause you went to a fancy academy that you’re better than folks with schoolhouse learnin’.”

“What are you talking about? I never said—I’ve had some advantages, but…

Joe saw Mitch outside the mercantile, and headed that direction. With Mitch as an audience, Joe hoped to push Martin to the point of recklessness.

“But nothin’! You been tryin’ to show me up since you got here. You and your eastern saddle and your ‘ridin’ kit’! I’ll bet you did some fancy ridin’ in that school, didn’t you?”

Martin looked bewildered. “I’ve participated in some competitions, yes…

“And I’ll just bet you won every last one of them, too!” Joe’s sarcastic tone caught Mitch’s attention, and he walked over to the other two boys.

They stopped their horses, and Joe dismounted.

“I did win some! Those competitions require skills that you never even thought of in your seat-of-your-pants western riding!” Martin said, his pride stung. He stepped down from his horse and leaned toward Joe, pointing his finger into the younger boy’s chest. “There’s more to riding skills than working cattle! Precision riding and parade drills require polished technique and exact timing! Skills that mounted soldiers have perfected for hundreds of years!”

That got to him, Joe thought.

“You think you’re so all-fired good at riding, let’s find out if it’s true,” Joe said. “We’ll see who’s better on a horse. Eastern or western styles don’t make no difference—we’ll have a straight out test to see who’s the better horseman.”

“What kind of test?” Martin said warily. “A race?”

“A race just shows who’s got the fastest horse. No, I’m talking about somethin’ hard, that shows ridin’ skills.”

“You mean trick riding?” Mitch put in, eager to be in on any contest. “Like maybe ridin’ without your saddle?” Joe winked at Mitch; he could always be counted on to escalate a challenge.

“We had horsemanship competitions in school that required a rider to grab a ring from a post as he passed at a gallop,” Martin said. He had won prizes in those contests, and saw his chance to prove he was better than Joe at something.

“Well,” said Mitch, “that’s a little more interesting, but it don’t seem all that hard.”

“It is if we do it down D Street,” Martin said, and he stuck his chin out, glaring at Mitch and Joe.

Joe nearly smiled. Careful, he’s hooked, now we need to land this fish, he thought.

“D Street—what about those banners they put up for Founder’s Day?” Mitch said. He couldn’t have been more helpful if Joe had planned it out with him ahead of time. “The Founder’s Day Committee hung ’em on either side of D Street, but nobody’s taken ’em down yet. What if you had to grab ’em as you went by? They’re high enough off the ground that you’d have to stand up on the back of your horse to do it.”

“Now, wait a minute,” said Joe. He didn’t want to seem too eager, but this was turning out better than he hoped. “My pa don’t want me goin’ anywhere near D Street. And runnin’ our horses through town? While we’re standin’ up on their backs?”

“Your pa don’t need to know anything about it. We do it between mining shifts, when there ain’t as much horse and wagon traffic,” said Mitch, with all the confidence of a non-participant. “Besides, with people watchin’ it’ll be that much harder to do.”

“We don’t want anyone else to get hurt just to prove a point,” Joe said, meaning it sincerely.  He liked the idea of people watching; that made it sure that Pa would find out, and that meant Martin’s pa would find out, too, which was the whole point. But he didn’t want any innocent folks getting in the way.

“Well, if you are afraid…” Martin said.

Joe’s eyes snapped up. “I ain’t afraid. It’s midshift right now. Let’s go.” They grabbed their reins and walked two blocks over to D Street.

The Founder’s Day banners were there as Mitch described, small colorful pieces of cloth tied randomly to balconies and signposts.  Most of them were about eight to ten feet off the ground, snapping brightly in the wind.

“No practice run,” stated Mitch, the self-appointed contest judge. “We’ll be lucky if we can do it once without the sheriff hearin’ of it. I’ll draw a Finish Line in front of the Bucket of Blood—that’ll give you enough distance to get up some speed and six or seven banners a-piece, looks like. You start out here, on foot, mounting up when I wave my hat. No saddles. You each ride on one side of the street, snatchin’ banners as you go. You get one pass at a banner—no turnin’ back if you miss one. The winner is the one that crosses the line with the most banners. If there’s a tie, the fastest one across the line wins.”

Joe and Martin looked at each other. Each of them wore smugly defiant expressions, but for entirely different reasons. Mitch watched them, eyes bright.

“And just to spice up the challenge,” Mitch said, pausing for effect. “Swap horses.”

“What?” said Joe.

“Wait a minute!” said Martin.

“It’s a test of horsemanship, ain’t it?” said Mitch, clearly relishing his role as rule-maker. “If you’re a good rider, you can do it with any horse.”

“But Cochise…”

“And don’t try to tell me about your one-man-horse, ’cause Martin was just riding him the other day when you were teachin’ him the swing mount.”

Joe’s mouth snapped shut. He glared at the smiling Mitch, no longer pleased with his assistance.

“Mitch is right,” Martin said, a little too smugly. “A good horseman can handle any horse. We’ll switch horses.”

“Yeah, you know who’ll have the faster horse,” Joe said bitterly. He had forgotten for a moment the purpose of the contest.

“Ain’t a matter of speed,” Mitch said airily. “Slow Bob’s real steady, and that might be an advantage in this type of contest.”

Martin and Joe glared at each other. Joe looked away first, reminding himself that he had to swallow his pride. But, he thought, if he’s got Cochise, I won’t have to let him win, he’ll beat me fair and square.

“All right,” Joe said. “We’ll swap horses.”

“Whooee!” Mitch shouted. “We’ve got ourselves a contest!”

**********

They unsaddled the horses and dropped the saddles near the livery. Both Joe and Martin studied the street and the flapping banners.

“Heads or tails?” said Mitch.

“What are we flippin’ for?” Joe said warily. Mitch was having a little bit too much fun in his role as contest judge.

“Which side of the street you get,” Mitch said. “Call it, Martin.”

“Er—heads,” Martin said.

“Heads it is. North side or south side?”

“South.” Martin had considered this already: if Joe had the south side, he would have an advantage, being left-handed. All the banners would be on the left. If Martin took the south side, they would both have to reach with their ‘off’ hand, and there would be no advantage for either rider. Joe grimaced; he had understood the reason for Martin’s choice.

There’s more to this than just riding, Joe Cartwright, Martin smiled to himself.

They led their horses to the starting point, Joe on the north side of the street, Martin on the south.

Joe sat down and began to take off his boots.

“What are you doing?” Martin said.

“I’m riding without my boots,” Joe said. “Ain’t no rule against barefoot, is there?”

“Barefoot is okay,” Mitch said. “Now let’s get going. We don’t have much more time and the mine shift will be over.”

Martin removed his boots also. Both boys stood beside their horses, tensely ready to mount.

Mitch rode toward the other end of the course, shouting, “wait for my signal!”

Mitch’s loud voice brought the contest to several people’s attention. Folks began to gather along the walkways, idlers and saloon patrons carrying their beers, shopkeepers and working girls.

While they waited, each boy reviewed his strategy. Joe decided his best hope was to leap onto Bob’s back and get him moving fast before standing up to try for his first banner. It might mean that he would have to pass by a banner or two, but Cochise was faster than Bob in a straight race. He figured he needed to get some speed up as soon as possible; Bob’s steadiness would allow him to stand up and pluck the banners once he set a good pace. Martin decided his best strategy was to stand right away, allowing Cochise to get used to his position, and then depend on his speed to pass Joe further down the street.

In the distance, Mitch drew his line in the dust of the street, and raised his hat above his head.

None of them considered the freight wagon turning into view just beyond the Bucket of Blood.

With a wide sweep of his arm, Mitch waved his hat.

Joe swung onto Bob’s broad back and laid his heels into the horse, who leaped like he was shot out of a cannon. He leaned low over the horse’s neck racing away toward the far end of the street.

Martin swung up, urging Cochise into a trot, then a lope, and gathered his reins. He stood gingerly, finding his balance as Cochise danced uneasily under his feet. Martin urged him faster with his voice, letting the horse feel the reins lightly, and Cochise responded smoothly.

The first banner was right in front of him and he reached up, noting that Joe had raced past his first without trying for it. Martin grabbed the flapping red cloth, and yanked it free, nearly overbalancing. He righted himself, setting his feet wider and bending his knees, but Cochise had swung wide, into the middle of the street. By the time he got Cochise back near the edge of the street, he had passed the second banner.

Meanwhile, Joe was struggling to stand. Bob had a steady gait, but a stubborn view of where he should be in relation to the sides of buildings. Joe coaxed him closer, crouching on his heels on Bob’s broad rump, balancing lightly. Bob got used to his weight, back farther than the saddle usually sat, and began to respond to his voice commands. He approached a banner and snatched it free, stuffing the yellow cloth into his shirtfront. Cheers resounded as he did so and Bob veered away from the walkways again.

Down at the finish line, the teamster stopped the freight wagon across from the Bucket of Blood and went inside. Mitch didn’t even glance at the wagon; he was intent on the progress of the race. The teamster came back out with Smitty, the proprietor of the Bucket of Blood. They both began to unload a long, wide, flat crate. After some discussion, the teamster produced a claw hammer and began to pry open the crate.

Martin managed to get Cochise back near the edge of the street and stood straight up, reaching toward another banner. He grabbed it, but it proved to be more securely fashioned than the previous one, and he had to let go before his grip yanked him off his horse. He crouched down and pushed on to the next banner, more determined than ever to catch up with Joe. He didn’t even hear the sounds of the cheering on-lookers.

Joe forced Bob over also, but the horse misunderstood his signal and jumped right up onto the wooden sidewalk. Joe had to duck frantically to avoid being knocked off by the extended roof, and the idling cowhands leaning on the rail were suddenly forced to leap out of the way or be run down. Joe dropped down to sit on Bob’s back, steadying the horse as he guided him off the sidewalk and back onto the street. He quickly stood again, not giving Bob a chance to think about anything, and snatched down his second banner.

Martin rose up and grabbed a green banner, and this one came free in his hand. Several cheers rang out, but he too had to drop quickly to his seat before he lost his balance entirely as Cochise swerved to avoid a cheering cowboy.

Smitty and the teamster pulled the packing crate away from a large, ornately framed mirror, and leaned it up against the wagon, arguing about how to carry it into the saloon. Each man finally took an end, and holding the mirror upright between them, they crossed the street toward the saloon.

Joe had snagged one more banner, fighting to keep Bob near the hitching rail, but was too near the finish line to try for any more. He dropped back to his seat, startling Bob, who took a short leap sideways. Joe sat through the horse’s leap easily, but Bob’s head had turned, and he came face to face with his own reflection in the Bucket of Blood’s new, imported, special order, over-the-bar, one-of-a-kind mirror.

Steady, reliable Slow Bob lost his head entirely and bucked, cow-hopping from one side of the street to the other.

Martin, standing to snatch another banner, did not look up until Bob leaped in front of Cochise. Cochise shied violently and Martin smacked down hard on his seat, gripping frantically with his knees as Cochise horse reared up. Bob leaped back the other direction.

Smitty and the teamster, seeing imminent disaster, quickly ran forward to get the mirror away from the frantic horses. Bob’s unexpected leap took them straight into his path. Bob, now completely panicked, turned and kicked out at the wild-eyed horse reflected in front of him.

Glass shattered, glittering and flashing in the midday sun. The teamster abandoned his end of the mirror, jumping for the relative safety of the sidewalk. A stunned Smitty was left standing in the middle of the street, holding one end of the empty frame, glass scattered in the dirt all around him.

Frantic shouts scattered the closest on-lookers. Bob continued to buck, really wound up now, and Joe clung with his legs as best he could. The sound of shattering glass had sent Cochise dodging toward Mitch, and Martin gave the startled horse his head. They crossed the finish line, passed Mitch, and kept on going.

A cowboy tried to grab Bob’s bridle and the horse shied again. This time Joe wasn’t ready for it and he slid sideways, grabbing too late for Bob’s mane, and tumbled into a horse trough.

The helpful cowboy grabbed at Bob again. Relieved of his burden and with a steady hand on the bridle, Bob settled down abruptly, and stood calmly, as if nothing had happened.

“Little Joe!” One of the watching cowboys hollered. “Who won?” Raucous laughter sounded from the sidewalk.

“Shut up!” Joe hollered back, standing up in the water.

Martin came loping back, Cochise snorting and sweating, but untouched by the glass, Joe noted thankfully. Martin’s eyes widened at the site of the Smitty, still standing in the center of the street holding the mirror’s empty frame. He turned and saw Joe, sopping colored banners trailing from the front of his shirt as he stood in the horse trough, waiting for Mitch to bring him his boots. And Martin, the proper and haughty eastern tenderfoot, doubled over in laughter.

**********

The three boys cleaned up the street, shoveling glass and bits of backing into a wheelbarrow borrowed from the livery. As they worked, they were forced to listen to the harangue of the furious Smitty.

“—all the way from Florence, Italy! Crossed an entire ocean without a scratch, and ten feet from it’s final resting space, ten feet from my front door—ten feet!—and it’s ruined! Ruined! Smashed to pieces by a bunch of delinquent schoolboys!”

“I’m very sorry, Mr. Smith,” Joe said, very much intimidated by the red-faced man’s anger. “We’ll pay for a new one.”

Smitty grabbed Joe by the shirtfront, shaking him so hard water droplets spattered those standing nearby. In the face of Smitty’s anger the crowd around the boys scattered, suddenly finding other things to hold their interest.

“You’re damned right you will pay for a new one!” Smitty’s face was inches from Joe’s. “Exactly like the one that was broken! And you’ll pay the shipping costs! I’ll see that your father covers every last cent!”

“Just tell us how much it was,” Martin said calmly, pushing in front of Smitty and prying his hands away from Joe. “There’s no need to involve Mr. Cartwright, surely?”

Standing to his full height, Martin was taller than Smitty, and he leaned toward the angry man, coolly staring him down. Smitty took a step backwards, and Joe breathed a sigh of relief. Joe had never appreciated Martin’s haughty stare until this moment.

“Two hundred dollars! Cash! Plus fifty dollars for shipping expenses!”

“It’ll take a while to…”

“I want my money by Monday, when I will be placing a new order. If I don’t have the money by noon, I’ll be talking to your father!” Smitty turned on his heel and stomped back to his saloon.

Mitch came around the corner from having dumped the last wheelbarrow-full of glass. Seeing Joe and Martin’s expressions, he misinterpreted the situation.

“Are you two at it again? The horse trough was on the wrong side of the finish line, Joe,” said Mitch. “Martin is the clear winner. Technically, you didn’t even finish the race.”

“Technically, you didn’t even finish,” Joe said mocking Mitch’s righteous tone.  “We got bigger worries than who won that gol-durned race!”

Quietly, Martin filled Mitch in on Smitty’s demands. At the mention of the amount owed, Mitch sank down onto the edge of the boardwalk.

“Now what are we gonna do?” said Mitch, holding his head. “We’re in about as much trouble as we can be in and still be alive. ‘Course, we won’t be alive for long, once our pa’s find out.”

Martin was staring at the saloon doors; his face seemed frozen in its narrowed-eyed, thoughtful expression.

Joe began pacing up and down near the hitching rail, muttering under his breath.

“Two hundred dollars plus shipping expenses from Florence, Italy!” he said. “That’s almost six month’s pay! I got about six dollars to my name! And I don’t even know where Florence, Italy is!”

“It might as well be two thousand,” said Mitch. “We’ll never raise that kind of money by Monday!”

“We!” Martin shook himself out of his trance. “What do you mean, we?” He glared at Joe. “This is all your doing, you over-bearing, clever little manipulator! If you hadn’t dragged me into your childish schemes…”

“Who suggested ridin’ down D Street? If you weren’t so all-fired, high-and-mighty, braggin’ on your ridin’, we never would have been out there in the first place! Precision riding and parade drills! Hah! Just ‘cause you think you’re the best horseman that ever saddled a horse—oh, I forgot, other people usually do that FOR you!“

“Shut up! Shut up! Both of you just shut up!” Mitch’s raised voice startled Martin and Joe to silence. “I’ve had about all I can take of the two of ya!”

Mitch stood up and stopped in front of Joe, who stopped his pacing. “Joe, you’re just gonna have to ask your pa for the money!”

“No!” Joe said. “I can’t do that! I’m already in trouble for…” He glanced at Martin. “My pa’s already so disappointed in me—I can’t tell him! The race was one thing. But two hundred dollars! There’s gotta be another way!”

Martin looked at Joe, taking in his despondent expression. He could probably get the money from his father’s lawyer with no questions asked. He wasn’t sure why, but that easy solution seemed like cheating somehow, and he kept silent.

Mitch sat down again, his head resting on his clasped hands.

“Did you hear the way those cowboys were bettin’ on you and Martin?” Mitch said. “Too bad we didn’t bet—at least somebody would’ve won something!”

Joe sat down beside Mitch, resting his head on his hands also. Both boys appeared to be in deep contemplation of their boots.

“Bettin’ is not a bad idea,” Joe said, after a few minutes. “If we had something that we could take bets on—a sure thing—we could make all the money in one Saturday night in town!”

“You mean like a prizefight or a horse race?” Mitch asked.

“No more racin’! Besides, with a race or a fight, there’s always the chance you could lose. Plus it would need too much planning, and we ain’t got that kind of time. We need somethin’ that they could do in a saloon, while they’re drinkin’ and more likely to bet.”

Martin sat down beside the other two, unconsciously mimicking their positions.

“What about a challenge of physical courage?” Martin asked, musing.

Joe eyed him speculatively. “What do you mean, Martin?”

“Well, on my journey to Virginia City, I saw—no, it would be too difficult to—never mind, it’s out of the question.”

“What?” Joe asked.

“The risk involved would be too great—locating and capturing—no, we’ll have to think of something else—”

“What?” Joe and Mitch said simultaneously.

“Of course, once the initial risk was past, there would be no danger, it would simply be a matter of keeping the betting book…”

“WHAT?” Joe and Mitch said again.

Startled, Martin stopped talking, and looked at the other two boys. “There’s no need to shout.”

“Tell us your idea,” Joe said, gritting his teeth.

“Well, perhaps we could think of something similar, but not as dangerous…”

“MARTIN!” Joe and Mitch said.

“It was a snake,” Martin said. “In a jar.”

“What’s so all-fired interesting about a snake in a jar?” Joe said. “No one’s gonna pay to see a snake in a jar!”

“Yeah,” agreed Mitch. “Everyone’s seen snakes.”

“It was a rattlesnake,” Martin said. “And they weren’t charging to see it, they were taking bets. The snake was in a large glass jar. All the bettor has to do is hold his hand against the jar without flinching while the snake strikes.”

“That don’t sound so hard,” Mitch scoffed. “Anyone can do that! The snake ain’t gonna hurt ya if it’s in a jar!”

“That’s what all the saloon patrons thought, too,” Martin said. “But nobody could do it. Every challenger surrendered to his instinctive sense of self-preservation.”

Joe and Mitch looked blank.

“They snatched their hands away,” Martin said patiently. “Each and every time.”

“You say you’ve seen this done before?” Joe’s voice held all the skepticism in the world.

“Yes. No one could meet the challenge. The proprietor made a small fortune, as did the man who sold him the snake,” Martin said.

Joe began tapping his fingers absently on his leg. Mitch looked at Joe with narrowed eyes.

“You lookin’ to go into the snake-catchin’ business, Joe?” Mitch said.

“Think about it, Mitch!” Joe said, eyes flashing with excitement. “Once we have the snake in the jar, all we have to do is convince Smitty to buy it. Why, with the bets alone he could replace that la-di-da mirror we broke.”

“Yeah, but…”

“You say it was in a big glass jar?” Joe said.

“Like the kind they use to sell sweetenin’s over at the mercantile?” Mitch suggested.

Martin nodded.

“Yeah, we could get one of those jars, and I know where we should be able to find a snake,” Joe said.

“We’ll need some mice or rats to feed it…” Mitch elaborated, warming to the idea.

“My skills as a raconteur may be of some help in convincing the saloonkeeper…” Martin began, desperate to be considered a part of the plan.

“Your skills as a what?” Mitch interrupted.

“Rat counter, Mitch, ain’t your ears workin’?” Joe said.

“Actually, I said—never mind. I could propose the idea to Mr. Smith, and you two could bet that it couldn’t be done. When you can’t do it, we will take other bets, and prove how much money he could make. By the end of the evening, he will be more than willing to purchase the snake, and we might raise enough to cover our debts with the betting profits alone.”

“Wait a minute, what makes you think we can’t do it?” Joe sounded insulted.

 

“Ain’t your ears workin’, Joe?” Mitch said. “Nobody can do it. ’Sides, we would just be bettin’ to prime the pump. Once those Saturday night cowhands see the challenge…”

“Only one problem,” Joe said. “I can’t be in a saloon, and especially not on a Saturday night.”

“Saturday night is the best time to make a good sum of money. We are trying to make the most money possible, aren’t we?” Martin said.

“He’s right, Joe. Saturday all them miners and cowhands would be trying to outdo each other—the cowhands would bet like there’s no tomorrow if they thought they could get one over on a miner. It’s gotta be Saturday night, or it won’t be worth doin’,” Mitch said.

“But—”

 

“It’s all moot if we don’t have a snake. First things first, gentlemen. Let’s get the makings of our little enterprise, then work out the details.” Martin brought all his father’s sales skills into play. Suddenly he wanted, more than the money, to work on this scheme with Mitch and Joe, to be accepted as their equal. They were listening to his ideas—he very much wanted to carry out this plan, no matter where it led.

**********

“How’d you get back here so soon? And you got it, too! It didn’t take you longer than ten minutes to get that old skinflint to part with that jar.” Mitch said.

“You have to know the right approach,” Joe said airily. “I said it was for Hoss. Hoss is one of his best customers when it comes to sweets. He’d do anything to keep his best customer happy.”

“What if he mentions it to Hoss?” Mitch asked doubtfully.

“I told him it was a surprise for Hoss’ birthday. He can’t mention it to Hoss or he’ll ruin the surprise.”

“Joe, I swear you could lie your way into heaven.” Mitch said admiringly.

**********

The snake took a little more doing.

Martin and Joe had been sent to check fences in the North meadow. Mitch stopped by for breakfast, as he sometimes did, and the three boys headed out together. By the time they found their way to the sun-washed bluffs where Joe was sure they would find ‘all the snakes they could handle,’ Martin was ready to abandon the scheme, money or no money.

As usual, Joe’s enthusiasm carried Mitch along for the ride, and Martin was distinctly outnumbered.

“How are we going to catch a live snake?” Martin asked for what seemed like the tenth time. He could hear his voice becoming shriller each time he asked, and he was marginally ashamed of the craven way he kept asking, but no one really seemed to answer the question.

“Martin,” Joe said. “Shut. Up.”

“He’s got a point, Joe,” Mitch said. “We should have a plan. Especially a plan for what we’ll do if someone gets bit.” Mitch watched Martin out of the corner of his eye, and was satisfied with the resulting expression on Martin’s face. He winked at Joe, whose mouth twitched in response.

“Don’t worry,” Joe said, patting his back pocket. “I’ve got a snake-bite stuff all ready—a tourniquet, a stick, and a knife.” He held up his other hand. “And a canvas sack for the snake. All we need is a forked stick to hold his head.” He began walking back and forth, looking about for a suitable stick.

“You ever catch a rattlesnake before?” Mitch asked, eying Martin again. Mitch had never gotten closer than a stone’s throw to a live rattler before, and he was pretty sure Joe never had, either.

“Sure,” Joe said, with just enough false enthusiasm to make the other two boys sure that he was lying. “And I’ve seen Hoss do it before, too.” The last part was probably true, Mitch thought. He saw Martin’s face, and began to feel a little remorse at scaring the easterner. Just a little, however.

“Got it!” said Joe, holding up a sturdy stick with a Y-shaped end. “Now all we need is a snake.”

An hour or so of peering under brush, checking sunny rock formations, and dusty tracks in the sand and they were rewarded with the peculiar hissing rattle of the biggest rattlesnake any of them had ever seen, just under the overhang of a cliff.

“OK,” Mitch whispered. “We found our snake. Now how do we get it?” Now that the plan was a reality and they actually saw the snake, Mitch was wishing this part were over. Joe was wishing his forked stick was a whole lot longer. Martin was wishing, not for the first time, that he’d never met Joe Cartwright.

Joe took a deep breath. “Nothin’ to it. I’ll sneak around to the side, and get his head pinned with this stick. Mitch, you get the bag ready. Martin, you got that hand-mirror your always preenin’ with? Yeah, that’s the one. You reflect the sun right into his eyes—he won’t see me sneakin’ up from the side. But keep your eyes on that snake—if he looks like he’s gonna strike, you holler.”  He looked at both boys, and satisfied that they seemed to accept their assignments, he crept forward.

Fortunately, the cooler shade under the rock made the snake sluggish, and it didn’t seem to pay much attention to them at all. In the end, it was Martin’s urge to do it and get out of there that made the difference. His sudden flash of light into the snake’s face pulled the snake’s attention in his direction, and he backed up abruptly. The snake reared back to strike and Joe leaped forward, accurately pinning the snake’s head with his stick.

“Get the bag, get the bag!” Joe shouted, hopping from foot to foot. Mitch leaned forward, holding open the bag.

“Wider, Mitch! I need to flip him in there on the first try!” The snake was writhing around the stick, its angry rattle causing Martin to back even further away. Mitch held the bag open wider, and Joe turned the stick, flipping both the stick and the snake with one remarkably smooth motion. The snake landed in the bag, and Mitch snatched the bag closed, tying it quickly with a piece of rawhide, before dropping it to the ground in relief.

Nothing was heard but the harsh sound of Martin’s wheezing.

“You OK, Martin?” Joe asked after a moment, nearly out of breath himself.

Martin nodded. “I didn’t think you could do it.”

“Wasn’t so sure myself,” Joe’s grin belied his words. “Let’s get back and get this snake in the jar—I’m itchin to start earnin’ that money.

*********

Adam waved as Reverend Miller’s buggy pulled out of the yard, frowning at the Reverend’s cool nod. He walked toward the barn, and as he neared, he heard loud, delighted laughter. Pa and Elliot Lindsay, from the sound it, he thought. He opened the door and stopped in astonishment.

His father was sitting on a pile of hay, where he had evidently collapsed, weakened and chortling. Elliot was not in much better shape; he was sitting on the milking stool, holding his sides, a rich, contagious laughter coming from deep within his belly. Adam couldn’t help it; he began to laugh just listening to them.

“What’s so funny?” He asked, grinning in appreciation of their state.

“Adam!” gasped his father. “We—we’re trying to think of a suitable—your brother—punishment…” but he couldn’t finish his statement.

Adam had no doubt which brother his father was referring to.

“What’s he done now?” Adam asked, sitting down on an upturned nail keg. It seemed likely that this explanation would take a while.

Elliot and Ben looked at each other and burst out laughing again.

“Tell me!” Adam demanded.

“We are supposed to be devising a suitable punishment for those two rapscallions!” Elliot said, wiping his eyes. “We really should try to be more serious!”

“Who?” Adam asked. “Well, obviously Joe, but who else? Mitch Devlin? Hoss?”

“N-n-no!” Ben said, threatening to go off into whoops again. “Martin!”

“Martin! A rapscallion?” Adam said, astonished.

“Reverend Miller stopped by to tell us what our sons were up to in town last week,” Ben said, wiping his eyes. “You won’t believe this, Adam.”

“Somehow, I think I will, if Joe’s involved,” Adam said. “But do you really want to listen to what Reverend Miller has to say? That self-righteous busy-body can’t wait to discuss Joe’s least step out of line.”

“I know, son, and in this case it seems like a harmless sort of disaster,” Ben said. “The kind your brother is so awfully good at!”

Ben told him about the ill-fated race down D Street, ending with the broken mirror, which was as much as the Reverend knew about the incident.

“I had the hardest time,” Elliot said, “when he said that it was a ‘poor reflection on their families!’ I almost lost control of myself!”

“He didn’t!” Adam said, and all three of them laughed.

“We assured the good reverend that the boys would be punished as they deserved,” Ben said.

“I hope you will not be too hard on Joseph,” Elliot said. “I’m so glad to hear about Martin participating in any kind of prank. Ever since—Martin has maintained his iron-willed self-control for so long, I was afraid that…“ He paused and took a deep breath. “Your Joseph has accomplished something that I hardly hoped would happen. Martin is being dragged into boyish, light-hearted scrapes, and I am heartily thankful for it. I’m inclined not to impose any punishment at all.”

“No!” Adam and Ben said simultaneously, and they smiled at each other ruefully.

“I suspect something I said to Joe set him on this course,” Ben said, “But the fact remains that property was damaged due to their carelessness. Where are the boys working today, Adam?”

“North meadow, checking fences.”

“Breaking a mirror of that size—that has to be a very expensive problem for our boys. Does Martin have any money of his own?”

“I don’t think he has much,” Elliot replied. “He was to wire my lawyer when he needed funds, and has yet to do so since he arrived here.”

“Good. Then I suggest we wait. I don’t see any option other than asking us for that kind of money. It may take a while for them to admit it, but I think we should give them a chance to come to us about what happened.”

“All right, Ben,” Elliot said. “I’ll be guided by your experience in this.”

**********

Sneaking out on Saturday night was easier than Joe anticipated. Martin went to bed early, acting sullen and refusing a game of checkers with Hoss—same as usual, thought Joe, sourly. Joe made a great show of yawning and fighting to stay awake, until Adam sighed in exasperation.

“Oh for goodness sake, Joe, go to bed! We’re tired of listening to your jaw-cracking yawns!”

“Yes, son, go to bed,” Ben said absently. He and Elliot were engrossed in a chess game.

“I guess I will,” said Joe. “’Night everyone.”

Martin scratched at his door a few minutes later.

“Did you fix your bed to look like you’re still in it?” Joe said.

“This is not the first time I’ve gone out after curfew,” Martin whispered. “And keep your voice down!”

They climbed out Joe’s bedroom window, to the roof and down the trellis, quickly and quietly. In a few minutes they were leading their horses from the barn, walking softly through the yard and out to the road.

They met Mitch as agreed on the dark cross-roads at ten o’clock.

“I brought ya the snake,” Mitch said without preamble. “But I ain’t comin’ with ya.”

“You’re chickenin’ out now, Mitch?” Joe asked. “We just gotta get the bettin’ started and we’re home free!”

Mitch clutched the large cloth-covered jar to his chest and wrung his hands. “I know!” he said. “But my pa got a visit from Reverend Miller this mornin’ and I’m restricted to the ranch. I could barely sneak out to bring ya the snake! If I ain’t in bed when he checks on me, I’ll never see the outside of the ranch until I’m thirty!”

“What did that old nosy britches have to say to your pa?”

“He told him about the race,” Mitch said miserably. “He knew all about it, like he had seen the whole thing. He was goin’ to tell your pa next, Joe, after he left our place.”

This was a blow, and Joe slumped in the saddle when he heard it.

“Do you mean our fathers already know about the race?” Martin said. “That can’t be. They surely would have said something.”

“Not if they want us to confess,” Joe said sadly. He was heartsick at causing more conflict with his father. “Pa’s likely giving us a chance to speak up about it.”

“Well, maybe you should,” said Mitch, sounding relieved. “There’s no point in goin’ through with this snake thing now.”

“No!” said Joe. “I can’t cause my pa to have to pay for something like that. If I tell him what happened, I want to be able to say I took care of the expenses on my own!”

“But Joe, if he finds out how you took care of ‘em, you’ll be in worse trouble than ever!” Mitch’s voice rose in pitch. “D Street on Saturday night? It’s bad enough that we were there in broad daylight!”

“He don’t need to find out!” Joe said. “We can get the money and get back, and he never needs to know! I’ll just tell him I worked something out with Mr. Smith.”

“Well, good luck, that’s all I have to say!” Mitch handed Martin the cloth-covered jar and turned his horse around. “I’m headin’ back before my pa finds out I’m gone!”

Martin and Joe listened to the sound of his horse’s hooves until they faded out of hearing.

“He’s right, Joe,” Martin said. “There’s no point in doing this now.”

“You backin’ out too?” Joe said bitterly. “I might’ve expected you’d run at the first sign of trouble!”

“I’ve been in this from the beginning, so don’t call me a coward!” Martin said, angrily. “But there’s no purpose in it anymore. Our fathers already know about it. They probably know about expenses we incurred also. Face it. Our little enterprise is over.”

Joe turned on Martin, and the younger boy’s eyes flashed in the moonlight.

“I ain’t quittin’! If there’s any chance that I can come out of this without my pa havin’ to pay for my mistake, I’m takin’ it!”

“Joe…”

“My pa said he was ashamed of me once, and I ain’t never hearin’ that from him again! He’s already so disappointed…” and to Martin’s astonishment, there were tears in Joe’s eyes. Joe looked quickly away, breathing hard.

“I’ll do it by myself if I have to,” Joe said at last. “Give me the snake.”

Martin looked back at him for a long moment.

“No,” said Martin. “I’ll carry it.”

He turned his horse toward town.

**********

Joe had never been to the seedier parts of Virginia City on Saturday night. He was astonished at how noisy it was, and that the lanterns and lampposts lit the street up brighter than moonlight. Like other boys his age, he had peeked under the batwing doors or through the windows of the saloons in sheer curiosity about a forbidden place, but he and had never actually been inside the Bucket of Blood. However, Martin had thought they should go there first, since it had a reputation for being the rowdiest saloon in town. He felt they could count on the clientele to provide the most reckless betting, and he hoped to earn the money they needed quickly, in one establishment.

Joe dismounted, took the jar from Martin, waited while Martin dismounted, and then handed the jar back to him. Shouts and laughter sounded from the saloon, accompanied by the sound of breaking glass. Before they could move, Smitty appeared, holding a drunken miner by the collar and the seat of his pants. Moving quickly across the sidewalk, he tossed the miner into the street at the boys’ feet, where he lay groaning.

“And stay out until you can pay your tab!” Smitty shouted.

Joe stepped behind Martin. For all his bravado in the snake enterprise, he had been sorely intimidated by Smitty’s anger after the race, and didn’t want to be the subject of his anger again. If Martin noticed his move, he didn’t say anything. Smitty returned to the saloon without a backwards glance.

“I’ll go in first, like we planned,” Martin said calmly. “You come in a few minutes, and listen to me spin the challenge. You’ll be the first one to try—hopefully seeing a kid try it will spark their pride. I’ll keep the book. With any luck at all, we’ll get the amount we need all in one place.”

Joe nodded. His face was pale, and Martin studied him for a moment.

“We don’t have to do this,” Martin said.

“No,” Joe said, clenching and unclenching his teeth. “We’re doing it.”

Martin nodded, and pushed through the batwing doors.

**********

Joe waited for what he figured was ten minutes, until he heard a change to the raucous noise coming from the saloon. The voices got gradually quieter, and he could soon hear Martin’s voice above the din. He took a deep breath and stepped into the saloon.

He was prepared for the sounds, but not the smells and certainly not the sights. He felt his jaw drop at the sight of the short dresses and bare shoulders of the women present. He breathed a heavy smell of tobacco, and a cloud of smoke forming near the ceiling that dimmed the yellow light of the lanterns. More than one patron was unsteady on his feet, and loud laughter erupted as a miner stumbled and fell, overturning the spittoon.

Martin was standing near a table, the snake displayed prominently, and he was making great gestures toward the jar. Joe glanced quickly around—he didn’t see any Ponderosa hands present. Several cowhands were idly listening to Martin as he spoke about exotic India, or some such stuff. Joe edged closer, glad to be ignored by the crowd.

“—the greatest test of manhood,” Martin was saying as he came closer. “To stand steadfast in the face of Certain Death. Now, in this civilized establishment, we don’t need to worry about Certain Death…”

“How about uncertain death?” someone shouted, and there was a roar of laughter.

“But who wouldn’t like the chance to test themselves—risk free? How will you face down Certain Death, if that is your fate? How will you react to danger that stares you in the face?”

And he pointed again to the snake, which reared back in the jar, startled at his gesture.

“Here is the test,” Martin said, and Joe watched him curiously. He looked like he was enjoying himself!

“Simply place your hand against the jar, and hold it there without flinching, as the snake strikes.”

There were a few more shouts, but no one came forward to try it.

“There is no risk, gentleman,” Martin said. “The snake is safely inside the jar, a half-inch of glass between its venomous bite and you. Who will test themselves?”

Joe waited a moment longer, then stepped forward. “I’ll try it.”

Laughter erupted as they realized who had spoken.

“You better go back home, little boy; it’s way past your bedtime,” someone shouted.

“Since you are the first to step forward, I’ll waive your fee,” Martin said. “Step up, and put your hand on the jar.”

“Ten bucks on the kid,” someone shouted and Martin took out a little notebook.

“Place any bets, gentlemen, before we begin.” Several more bets were shouted, and Martin studiously wrote them down.

When it seemed that all bets were placed, Joe came forward. Martin caught his right hand and placed it flat against the jar, directly across from the snake.

The saloon grew suddenly quiet, and the muffled sound of the snake’s rattles could be heard through the jar. Joe bit his lip and stiffened his fingers, determined to hold his hand still.

The snake leaped forward and Joe leaped back, snatching his hand away as fast as he could.

Shouts and laughter erupted. “Too bad, kid,” someone shouted, and there was a surge forward to be the next to try it.

Joe watched as contestant after contestant tried their luck. With the one dollar ‘entry fee’ and the bets being placed, he thought they were well on their way to the two hundred dollars they hoped to raise.

Joe let himself be pushed backwards, away from the table. He looked around for a safe spot to stand, and moved toward a dark corner. However, the corner was already occupied by a cowboy with a girl on his lap, and the cowboy was pulling down the top of her dress, kissing the skin that he uncovered.

Several other men were similarly occupied, and Joe’s face turned red at seeing so much feminine skin and blatant lovemaking. He looked into the eyes of one of the girls being kissed, and he saw her empty eyes, and realized she was about the same age as Martin.

He backed around closer to Martin. Martin might need me for something, he told himself. Martin had the enterprise well in hand, however, and so he just stood nearby as bets were placed, trying not to look at much of anything.

Suddenly he heard a shouted, swearing exchange as another cowboy approached the dark corner. The newcomer hollered at the seated cowboy, yanking the young woman off his lap as he swore at the seated man. The seated man suddenly pulled a knife from his boot and lunged at the other man. Before there was any bloodshed, however, two men nearby pulled them apart and sent one of them outside, while the other was taken to the bar for a drink.

Joe watched, wide-eyed, nearing panic himself. He moved over to Martin and tugged on his arm.

“I don’t think I’m old enough to be here,” Joe said in a shaky voice. “I want to go home, Martin.”

Martin looked down at Joe’s shocked face. He had seen the knife too, and was a little shocked himself. He reminded himself of Joe’s age, and felt a flood of guilt at exposing the younger boy to such sights. He quickly counted the money in his hand.

“We nearly accomplished what we needed to,” he said gently. “Let me settle up with Mr. Smith and we’ll go home.”

Martin turned back to the crowd, holding up his hands.

“Let’s give Old Lucifer a break, gentleman,” Martin called, and placed the cloth back around the jar. The betting patrons drifted away toward the bar.

Smitty approached, having watched, amused at the boys’ attempts to win what they owed him.

“Mr. Smith. Here is your two hundred dollars for the mirror we broke,” Martin said.

Smitty looked at the money and the betting book in Martin’s hand.

“What about the shipping expense? I had that mirror imported…”

“I know, I know from Florence, Italy, and you were taken advantage of if you believe that. However I’ll tell you what,” Martin said lowering his voice conspiratorially. “I’ll give you the snake if you will drop the shipping expenses from our debt.”

Smitty looked hungrily at the wad of bills Martin held.

“You can see that the snake is worth a great deal more than fifty dollars,” Martin said, waving the bills in his hand.

“All right,” agreed Smitty. “I’ll drop the shipping expense. That snake’s turned out to be quite a moneymaker.”

Martin reached for the jar and began to remove the corked stopper.

“Wait a minute,” said Smitty, “what are you doing? You take off the top and that snake’s liable to get loose!”

“I said I would give you the snake,” Martin said. “I didn’t say I would give you the jar.”

“Hold on, hold on! You can’t take that snake out of the jar!”

“Are you saying you would like to purchase the jar?” Martin said.

“Yes, kid, you know damned well I need the snake and the jar! I’ll give you five dollars for the jar.”

“Fifty,” said Martin.

“Fifty! You are out of your mind! Fifty dollars for a glass jar that’s a dime a dozen at the mercantile?”

“Well, if you don’t want it…” and Martin reached for the stopper again.

“Ten dollars! Damn it, get your hand away from that cork!”

“Fifty,” Martin repeated.

“Oh, all right, twenty,” said Smitty acting like he was conceding a great deal.

Martin’s hand went to the cork stopper again.

“Thirty! That’s ten times more than you deserve!”

“Fifty,” Martin said again.

“All right, fifty,” Smitty said. “And I’ve half a mind to tell your pa and young Cartwright’s pa all about you how you held me up tonight.”

Martin narrowed his eyes. “You tell them anything and I’ll tell the sheriff how you sold liquor to a minor child.”

“I didn't sell any liquor to the kid!”

“You know that, and I know that, but the sheriff doesn’t know that. Who do you think he will believe, you, or the son of one of Virginia City’s most prominent citizens?”

“All right. But you both get out of here now! And I never want to see you in here again, you little con artist!”

Martin smiled, and led Joe out the door.

**********

It was very late when they got home, and the house was dark. They had not spoken much on the way home, and they put their horses away silently as well.

As they turned from the barn, Joe grabbed Martin’s arm.

“Martin,” Joe said. “Thank you for comin' with me tonight. I couldn’t have done it alone, and I sure couldn’t have done what you done.”

Martin looked down at his feet for a moment.

“Joe, I never thanked you for stopping that bull the other day,” Martin said. “It was the bravest thing I’ve ever seen, and I didn’t know how to say it then, but I want to thank you now.”

Joe looked at him in surprise.

“I done it without thinkin’, Martin,” Joe said. “Not like you tonight. You thought about what the risks were and you done it anyway. And I thank you for the chance to square things with Pa.”

“You’re welcome, Joe.” Martin said, and there was a smile in his voice. “But I think you knew the risks the other day as well as anyone.”

They said no more, but climbed back up the trellis, and through Joe’s window.

**********

“Adam, I’ve got your order completed,” Hiram Muncie said on Monday morning, gesturing toward several items piled on the boardwalk.

“Thank you, Hiram,” Adam said absently. He and Hoss had come into town for supplies, and were to meet up in half an hour to head back home.

“You just let me know when Hoss’ big day is, and I’ll lay in a supply of the sweetenings he likes,” Muncie said.

“Big day?” Adam asked. “What big day?”

“Why, his birthday, of course. Joe said it was coming up soon.”

“Joe did? When did he say this?”

“On Friday. He came in asking about the glass jar where I keep the licorice whips. He’s very persuasive, your boy. He talked me into giving him the jar for Hoss’ birthday celebration.”

“Yes, he’s quite the charmer,” Adam said dryly. Just what are you up to, Joseph?

**********

“Adam, come on, I’ll buy you a drink,” Hoss said. “Let’s head over to the Bucket of Blood—I hear there’s a new contest or something at the bar.”

“Thanks, I could use a beer,” Adam said.

They walked into the Bucket of Blood, and stood at the bar. The barkeep obligingly headed their direction.

“Barney?” Hoss asked, nodding toward the other end of the bar. “What’s that all about?”

On the bar stood a large glass jar, with a snake coiled in the bottom. A crudely lettered sign next to the jar said, “Test your courage - $1. Hold your hand steady on the glass while Old Lucifer strikes and win $50!”

“Wait and see,” Barney said.

They watched as two cowboys argued over who would try first. The winner of their coin toss plunked his dollar on the bar, pulled up his sleeve, and placed his hand flat on the jar, directly in front of the snake.

Even through the glass, the warning rattling could be heard. The tense cowboy appeared to be holding his breath.

Suddenly, the snake threw its body toward the threatening hand. The cowboy leaped back, snatching his hand and entire body away from the striking snake. The snake hit the glass and coiled back, tongue darting from its mouth. The cowboy’s friend roared with derisive laughter.

“He showed you, Hank! He sure showed you!”

Barney leaned over toward Hoss conspiratorially.

“An eastern kid sold it to Smitty. Smitty said he talked a blue streak, didn’t understand half of what he said, but he and that other boy proved their claim—no one can hold their hand still for a striking snake. Made a whole lot of money Saturday night, between the bets and the drinks and the entry fees.” Barney grinned. “Smitty says it’s the best $50 he ever spent.”

“You say an eastern kid sold it to him?”

“Way I heard it, he brought it in, and bet a kid that he couldn’t do it. Before long, they had the whole saloon tryin’ it, drinkin’ and bettin’ like mad. Town folks against miners, miners against cowhands, Diamond C hands against ever’one. No one could do it, but that just made ‘em try harder. The eastern kid kept a betting book—he must have taken in a couple hundred by the end of the night.”

Adam stared at the snake in the jar, unable to move, Hoss tense beside him.

“Adam, you don’t think he means Martin?”

Adam’s eyes were black with anger. “Oh, I know exactly who he means.”

**********

 

Martin and Joe decided to wait until Monday to confess about the race, for two reasons: first, because there wouldn’t be time on Sunday to catch their fathers away from the church social, and second, because they wanted to be sure there was no inkling suspected of their Saturday night’s activities. But it seemed they were safe; Sunday went by without a hitch.

On Monday, just before lunchtime, Joe and Martin sought out Ben and Elliot, and admitted to the race through town and the broken mirror.

Ben and Elliot listened gravely, but Joe could tell they were not hearing this for the first time.

“I’m glad you decided to tell us yourselves, boys,” Ben said, and Elliot nodded. “I’m sorry, but your reckless actions do require punishment, however. How much will you need to pay the damages you’ve done?”

“We worked payment out with Mr. Smith,” Joe said, and although it was true, it felt a little like a lie.

His father’s surprised, and then warmly proud look lasted for a few seconds. Until the door opened, and Adam and Hoss came in. They looked at Martin and Joe, standing before Ben’s big desk, with Ben and Elliot seated on the other side.

“Oh, Pa,” Adam said. “I’d like to speak to you about something, if I may.”

“Just a moment, Adam,” Ben said. “I’ve got to take care of something first.”

“This is very important,” Adam insisted. “It concerns Mr. Lindsay as well.”

“All right,” Ben said, slightly puzzled. Looking at the two boys before him, he said, “You two wait here.”

“We will confer about your punishment and discuss it when we come back.” Elliot said, trying to sound like it wasn’t the first time he had ever said such a thing.

Adam didn’t even look at the two boys as he and Hoss led the way out of the house.

**********

Martin and Joe stood before Ben’s big desk, awaiting their punishment. Joe, having been in this position many times before, was deliberately casual, whistling between his teeth.

“Will you stop that?” Martin said at last.

“Stop what,” Joe asked innocently.

“Don’t try that with me anymore, Joe Cartwright! I know your tricks now. That ‘sweet little me’ look is useless, so don’t bother.”

Joe merely grinned. Baiting Martin was better than worrying about the punishments that might be in store.

“So what kind of punisher is your pa?” Joe said.

“What?” Martin looked startled. “What do you mean?”

“Well, your pa and my pa are outside, conferring or consulting or whatever your pa said. I figure they’re putting their heads together to come up with our punishment. I know what my pa is likely to deal out, I was just wonderin’ if your pa was goin’ to give my pa new ideas, or if he would maybe talk him into just a tannin’.”

“A tanning?” Martin said, clearly appalled.

“Yeah, I figure Pa will think I got at least that coming. But if your pa has other ideas, Pa might decide to get creative. Last time, he said ‘let the punishment fit the crime,’ and that’s about the worst punishment I ever had.”

“My father’s never, I mean, he wouldn’t—he would certainly never strike me!”

“Well, what kind of punishment does he give you?”

“My father’s never punished me.” His tone held all the haughtiness that Martin had exhibited the first day he arrived on the Ponderosa.

Joe stared at him. “Never? Not even when you were a kid?”

“I have never…”

“And don’t try to tell me that you never done anything that needed punishin’, ‘cause I won’t believe you.”

Martin took a deep breath. “My behavior always meets my family’s high standards. Besides, my father’s never been so involved in my activities that he would be aware….”

“Well,” said Joe. “Sounds like all they know about is the race. They don’t know about the snake and us sneakin’ out Saturday night. And they won’t find that out if I can help it.”

**********

“He did WHAT?!” shouted Ben. Ben sat down on a saddle stand. Adam had led them out to the barn, anticipating such an eruption.

“You heard me, Pa,” Adam said grimly. “Smitty wasn’t talking, but I checked with Smitty’s employees and sure enough, baby brother was in the Bucket of Blood Saturday night, along with Martin, making book on a snake in a jar.”

Elliot stood, stunned. “I can’t believe that Martin…”

“I can’t believe that after all the trouble Joseph has been in this summer, he deliberately, defiantly, does something so—so…” Ben lost any further power to describe his youngest son’s actions.

Elliot wrung his hands. “I fear that Martin’s influence brought this all about…”

“No Elliot,” Ben said, calming a little. “I think I know what Joe originally had in mind with that ridiculous race. What I don’t understand is his compounding his complicity with this—this... Why wouldn’t he come to me for the money to pay the damages? And where on earth did they get a rattlesnake in a jar?”

Elliot did not reply. His voice seemed to have dried up in his throat.

“Elliot?” Ben said, leaning forward.

Elliot shook his head. Adam saw pain and regret in his expression, but Elliot suddenly smiled and stood up. “I won’t shy away from this,” he said. “If I never felt much like a father these last few years, I certainly do now.”

He took two strides toward the house, and then stopped. “I’d like to speak to Martin alone, if you don’t mind. I’ll send Joseph out to you here.”

Ben nodded, sending up a small prayer asking for guidance for his friend and patience for himself.

**********

After Joe left, Martin and Elliot looked at each other, standing a few feet apart. Elliot noted Martin’s light tan and straighter posture, and compared it to the way he had looked the day Elliot had arrived. He thought that his son looked younger than he had then, but maybe that was his imagination.

Martin waited tensely, wondering what his father was thinking.

“Martin, I must confess to be somewhat at a loss as to how to handle this situation,” Elliot said at last. “Perhaps if you told me what you were thinking about, how you felt about what happened, I could understand…”

“Understand?” Martin said sharply. “You want to understand? Why, after all this time, do you even care what I think?”

Elliot winced, and Martin was glad.

“You have a right to be angry with me,” Elliot said. “I can’t begin to tell you how I regret—but we have to go forward, and I would like things to change between us, to be better. I have seen what a real family can be like these past few weeks, and I want us to try to be a real family again. The question is, do you want this, too? Or is it too late to start again?”

“It’s not that simple, Father!” Martin said. “You can’t ignore me for five years and then expect us to be a ‘family’ again!”

Elliot looked down. “I can’t undo what I’ve done,” he said quietly. “But I’d like to start again, try again, learn about each other again…”

“Why?” Martin said harshly.

“Because you’re my son!”

 

“Am I?” Martin said. “Or am I just a consolation prize for having lost Harry?”

Elliot’s hand swung and slapped Martin across the face. Both of them stared at each other in astonishment.

“It’s ironic,” Martin whispered, almost to himself. “I just told Joe you would never strike me, thinking you never cared enough to be angry with me…”

With a sob that sounded torn and ragged, Elliot gathered his son into his arms.

“You are not, and never have been, a substitute for Harry!” Elliot said fiercely. “Never say that again, never even think it!”

“No, I’m not much like him,” Martin said against his father’s chest. “I know you miss him very much, and I’m sorry…”

Martin stopped abruptly.

“Sorry about what, Martin?” Elliot said gently.

“I’m sorry it was him and not me,” Martin said quietly.

Elliot thought for a moment that his heart stopped. He pulled away a little, and put a hand on either side of his son’s face, forcing Martin’s gaze to meet his. “Oh, son you truly believe that, and I am so sorry that you do!” he said, not even aware of the tears running down his face. “Harry’s death was a tragic accident, but I never, ever wished that!”

“But he was your favorite!” Martin said, and he felt like the statement would tear him in two. “I was never as good as he was, not at anything!”

“You were both my favorites. Of course you couldn’t do what he could. You were simply younger, Martin, that’s all,” Elliot’s tone was gentle. “And do you think that Harry never got into trouble? Because he did you know. You were the one who steadied him, kept him from being too reckless.”

“But he said…”

“What? What did he say?”

“It was my idea, to jump on those pylons. Right before he fell he said it would be my fault if he got in trouble!”

“Oh son!” Elliot said, and tears fell again as he pulled Martin tight to his chest. “Have you felt all this time that Harry’s death was your fault? It was just an accident! Not anyone’s fault, certainly not yours!”

Martin was crying now, too, painfully sobbing from deep in his chest. Elliot let him cry, simply holding him close.

“I miss him so much!” Martin whispered, when he could speak again. “So very much. And I missed you, too, father, and mother’s been so...” He started sobbing again.

“We’ll start again, you and I,” Elliot whispered. “And we’ll try harder this time, and listen better, and stay with each other rather than running away.”

Martin listened, and heard it with his heart as well.

“Father,” Martin said. “Since we are starting again, would it be all right if I called you Pa?”

**********

“I didn’t really plan anything, Pa,” Joe tried to explain. “I remembered what you said about feeling like a father when you had to correct your son’s misdeeds…”

There was a sound suspiciously like a snort from the place where Adam and Hoss were standing.

“Do they have to be here, Pa?” Joe whined.

“No, you’re right, son, this is between you and me.” Ben glared at his older sons. “You two make yourselves scarce. I’ll see you at dinner.”

Joe thought they were laughing as they left the barn, but he told himself he wasn’t going to think about them. “I thought if Martin got into a little bit of trouble with Mitch and me, and if you and Martin’s pa found out about it, he’d have to do some correctin’ just like you said. And maybe that would help things with the two of them.” He looked at his father, to see the effect these words had, but Ben had that inscrutable expression he used when dealing with his son’s misdeeds. It could go either way, thought Joe.

“But the race got out of hand, and we got into a whole wagonload of trouble over that high-falutin’ mirror!” Joe shuddered, remembering Smitty’s red face as he yelled at him in the street.

“I understand about the race, son, and I know you thought it would be a harmless prank. What I don’t understand is,” Ben said, “when the damage happened, why didn’t you simply didn’t come to me?”

“Mitch and Martin wanted me to, but…”

“Well, why didn’t you listen to your friends?”

That’s the first time anyone’s said Martin is my friend, Joe thought. I guess he really is, after all this.

“Joseph?”

“I couldn’t let you think—I didn’t want you to be ashamed of me again!” There. He’d said it. He closed his eyes in relief.

“What? Ashamed of you!” Ben said. “I’m not ashamed of you! Exasperated, frustrated, bewildered, but never ashamed! What on earth makes you think I’m ashamed of you?”

“That day when Mrs. Henry’s horse shied ’cause Mitch and I was runnin’ our horses on the Virginia City Road—you said you were ashamed of me.”

Ben sat down abruptly. He remembered saying it, now. We never know the power our words have to wound or heal, he thought.

“I’m ashamed of myself,” Ben said, “for saying such a hurtful thing to you. I’m very sorry, son. And I am sorry that you felt you had to go to such lengths to avoid making me ashamed.”

Joe sighed, a deep, deep sigh. “I’m sorry, too, Pa. Sorry for everything.”

“I’m going to have to think all this over,” Ben said. “I know what you did, and I know why you did it, but I don’t think the ends justified the means in this case.”

“Yes, sir.”

A long pause.

“Pa? Do you think all this helped Martin and his pa?”

Ben hugged Joe to his chest. “I hope so, son. I hope so.”

**********

After everything that happened, all the revelations and the pending punishments, the mood at the dinner table was surprisingly lighthearted.

“You pushed me into that race,” Martin said. “I see that now. You started an argument that you knew would provoke me.”

“Well,” said Joe, “Much as I’d like everyone to think I’m a great planner, I really didn’t know what was gonna happen. I’m sorry we took chances, but I’m glad we done it—it was worth the little bit of risk to see Martin havin' fun.”

“Fun!” exploded Martin. “Fun! Do you call catching a live rattlesnake fun? And what about sneaking out of the house and going to that wretched, degenerate excuse for a saloon…”

He stopped talking, seeing Ben’s eyes on him. There was a heavy silence.

“Mr. Cartwright,” Martin said. “I would never have let anything happen to Joe in that saloon.”

“And Martin wasn’t even close to that snake, Mr. Lindsay,” Joe said, turning on the “Sweet Little Joe” smile. Adam looked at Hoss and rolled his eyes.

“So, who won the race?” Adam asked.

Joe and Martin looked at each other.

“Well,” said Joe, “we each got three banners, but technically, I never finished the race. I fell off Bob before we crossed the finish line.”

“You fell off?” Adam said, clearly astonished. “You fell off Slow Bob?”

“Well, he was spooked by his own reflection in the mirror, and when he broke the glass, he kinda went a little crazy.”

“Were you hurt?” said Hoss, worried. “All that glass and such?”

Martin started to laugh. Everyone looked at him in astonishment, as if he had suddenly gone crazy himself.

“Tell them where you landed, Joe!” Martin said at last. Four pairs of eyes swiveled to Joe.

Joe mumbled something.

“What’s that Joe? I didn’t hear you,” said Adam.

“I said I landed in the horse trough!” Joe said. Loud laughter erupted.

“Shut up, you all just shut up!” shouted Joe.

“Joseph!” his father bellowed.

“Sorry Pa,” Joe said contritely.

*********

Epilogue

“Hey Joe! Hey Martin!” Hoss called. “I got some news for ya, from town.”

Joe and Martin looked up from the hay pile, and rested their pitchforks.

“What kind of news?” Joe asked, glancing at Martin. He was not sure he liked the look on his older brother’s face.

“I stopped by the Bucket of Blood, to see that imported mirror Smitty’s so proud of. And guess what?”

“What?” said Joe.

“Your snake died.”

“What?” Martin and Joe said.

“Your snake, the one in the jar. It died.” Hoss’ eyes were twinkling awfully suspiciously.

“How did it die?” Martin said.

“Some drunk cowboy got mad when he couldn’t keep his hand on the jar, so he shot the jar! The snake started a-crawlin’ across the bar, and Smitty had to shoot it.” Hoss started laughing.

“What’s so funny about that?” Joe said.

“When he shot the snake, he shot the mirror, too! Smashed that special, all-the-way-from-Florence-Italy mirror to smithereens!”

*****End*****

 

Author’s Note: Tailing, also known as Mexican houlihaning, is described in several texts (most colorfully by a sixteen-year-old in A Vaquero of the Brush Country by John D. Young and J. Frank Dobie). It was considered a quick way to turn a rebellious animal. Joe used the Mexican vaquero’s method by throwing his leg over the tail, which was felt to be the more reliable way to accomplish the feat.

The snake-in-the-jar challenge was described in We Pointed Them North by E.C. “Teddy Blue” Abbott. Funnily enough, a recent issue of Outside Magazine also described a bar in Montana that today, 130 years later, takes money from tourists with the same snake-in-the-jar challenge. And they still can’t do it.

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