The Westerner

By Harper

Third story in series begun with “The Easterner” and “The Tenderfoot,” but it is not necessary to read those stories first.

OH, East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet,

Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God’s great Judgment Seat;

But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor Breed, nor Birth,

When two strong men stand face to face, tho’ they come from the ends of the earth!

“The Ballad of East and West” by Rudyard Kipling

Martin Lindsay pulled his horse to a stop in front of the Ponderosa ranch house and dismounted, wearily wiping his dusty face with his bandana. Appears that I’m the first one back, he thought with satisfaction.

The yard was quiet and the barn empty. He unsaddled and brushed out Slow Bob, and then, with the stealth of a hunter, he checked for signs of any Cartwrights. As he approached the house, he could hear the muttering and clanking of Hop Sing and his pots in the kitchen. He smiled—so far, so good. The first one back got the first turn in the bathhouse, and he had been anticipating a long soak in the tub all afternoon.

Twenty minutes later, he relaxed back into the hot water, closed his eyes, and sighed with pleasure.

Twenty-two minutes later, an icy blast of water shocked him from his reverie, and he shot to his feet in the tub, gasping and dripping.

He didn’t need to hear the characteristic giggle to know who was responsible.

“Joseph Francis Cartwright!” Martin shouted, automatically imitating Joe’s family in the use of his full name. He sputtered, flinging the water out of his eyes as he stood and glared at the youngest Cartwright. Joe stood in the doorway, holding the handle of a bucket with one hand.

“Hop Sing said you might want more hot water,” Joe said. “So s-sorry, Martin, I must have grabbed the wrong bucket.”

Martin’s face twisted and he brought his leg over the side of the tub. Joe prudently dashed from the bathhouse. Funny as it might be to be chased through the yard by the furious, naked Easterner, Joe had learned the hard way that Martin’s long legs made him the winner of any footrace. Besides, their fathers would be home soon, and Joe was well outside his father’s good graces these days. Better not escalate this particular prank.

Martin Lindsay had arrived at the Ponderosa early in the summer, reluctantly spending time on the ranch of his father’s old friend. Although Martin, at sixteen, was close in age to fourteen-year-old Joe Cartwright, the animosity between the two boys and Martin’s lazy arrogance threatened to make everyone’s summer miserable. Joe’s attempt to shorten Martin’s stay backfired, resulting in Martin’s return to the ranch, accompanied by his father, Elliot Lindsay. Elliot, in an effort to reclaim his relationship with his son, declared they would finish out the summer as working guests, much to Martin’s disgust.

Likeable, congenial, British-born Elliot Lindsay had thrown himself into ranch work with gusto, working hard to relearn his skills as both a ranch hand and as a father. As a result, Martin and Elliot came to understand each other better, and Martin became more tolerable to be around.

To everyone’s surprise, Joe and Martin slowly became friends. To everyone’s dismay, the two boys began an exchange of tricks, pranks, and general shenanigans at a level previously unheard of, even in the Cartwright household. If they weren’t fooling each other, they seemed to be competing to see who could perform the most tricks on others.

No one was immune. Each and every ranch house or bunkhouse resident became a victim sooner or later. Everyone walked warily these days, glancing carefully at the tops of doors as they stepped into rooms, searching their bed linens before settling in for the night, sniffing their food before eating. To Martin’s surprise and annoyance, his father seemed to take particular, disloyal enjoyment anytime Martin was the brunt of a joke.

The last few days had seen a remarkable amount of laundry drying on the clothesline. Hop Sing’s larder was raided more than once, only to have the missing item turn up later cascading over the victim’s head. Buckets suddenly became scarce, turning up on the tops of partially open doors, balanced on the hayloft ladder, or perched on the edge of the porch roof. One bucket was found hanging precariously by a rope over Martin’s bed.

And of course, there was water—ditch water, pond water, wastewater from the kitchen, water from the horse trough—dropped from the roof, dripped from the rafters, splashed from around corners. Anything wet was a potential weapon in the prank war.

Martin pulled his foot back into the tub and sat down. Joe Cartwright was begging for his comeuppance, as Hoss would say. And Martin fervently wanted to be the one to bring it to him.

**********

The next day, Martin stood near the corral, coiling his rope.

“Hey, greenhorn! Lindsay!”

Marin’s head turned.

Shorty, one of the Ponderosa cowhands, was standing around the corner of the bunkhouse, furtively gesturing.

“What do you want?” Martin said warily.

Shorty looked around, and then gestured again. “Come ’ere for a minute!” he hissed.

Curious but wary, Martin stepped closer. Shorty backed up, until they both were hidden from the main yard.

“What do you want?” Martin said again. “If this is some trick...”

“No,” Shorty said in a low voice. “I wanna ask a favor.”

“A favor?” Martin said. “You’ve got nerve, I’ll grant you that! You’ve done nothing but make life difficult for me, and you want me to do you a favor?”

“I—I’ll pay you,” Shorty said, scuffing his boot in the dust. “I’ll give you ten dollars next payday.”

Martin just stared. He knew very well what Shorty earned, even as a top hand, and for him to offer to pay for a favor...

“What kind of favor?”

“I need—you’re educated, right? You been to a fancy school and all?”

Martin nodded. His ‘schooling’ had been a source of ridicule all summer.

“I want you to help me write a letter,” Shorty burst out the statement, as if he had been holding back a wild animal.

“What kind of letter?” Martin said. If it were something ordinary, Shorty wouldn’t be sneaking around to ask him.

“A letter to…” Shorty’s eyes darted back and forth, checking for any nearby listeners. Satisfied, he continued. “A letter to a girl.”

Martin glared. “A love letter? You want me to help you write a love letter?”

“Keep it down,” Shorty growled.

“Why me?” Martin said, not bothering to lower his voice. “Why not one of the Cartwrights? Adam’s been to college. Hoss – well, maybe not Hoss - but even Joe could put down the words…”

“And I’d never hear the end of it if they did! I know you can keep your mouth shut! Besides, you won’t be around after the summer’s over.”

Martin didn’t reply. The silence stretched out for several minutes.

Shorty pulled his hat off and threw it down in frustration. “If you don’t want to, just say so, but say somethin’, one way or t’other!”

Martin looked at Shorty, considering. “All right,” he said. “But I don’t want money. I’ll help you on two conditions.”

It was Shorty’s turn to look suspicious. “What conditions?”

“The first is - you stop calling me greenhorn.”

Shorty nodded. “All right, greenhorn.”

Martin turned and started to walk away.

“Hold it, hold it, I was just funnin’ - come back here, gre…Lindsay!” There was just a touch of desperation in Shorty’s voice. “I promise, I’ll stop callin’ you that. What’s the other condition?”

Martin told him.

Shorty’s face changed with dawning understanding. “Sure thing, gre…Lindsay. I can do that.” Shorty’s grin stretched his face wider.

“Then I will help you,” Martin said.

Shorty eagerly reached picked up his hat and pulled a paper from the inside. “Let me show you what she wrote to me.”

**********

It took just one evening in the bunkhouse to draft Shorty’s letter to his Emmalou. Bunkhouse life clashed with Shorty’s desire for secrecy, so it wasn’t long before the other hands learned what Martin was doing. Instead of the ridicule Shorty expected, however, other hands asked Martin for his help writing letters, too. Martin discovered a hidden world of love letters flying between ranch and town. The more sentimental drivel he could come up with, the better the hands liked what he wrote.

“Thanks, Professor,” one of them said in an awestruck voice after he provided a flowery sentence about, well, flowers. That was all it took. He was “Professor” to the bunkhouse crew from that moment on.

“There are worse nicknames,” Adam pointed out, when Martin complained about his new moniker over dinner. He nudged Hoss’ elbow. “Like the hand that had the run-in with a skunk. He’s been “Stinky” ever since. I honestly can’t remember his real name.”

“You could be stuck with a name like Little Joe,” Joe grumbled. Adam and Hoss exchanged a grin.

Hoss reached across the table to ruffle Joe’s hair with his big hand. “Remember when the preacher’s wife came across Bernard Hawkins takin’ a bath in the stream? She hollered ‘blessed saints above!’ when she saw him in all his glory, and he’s been Blessed Barney ever since!”

Easy laughter rumbled around the table. Martin had come to associate the dinner table with good-natured laughter, and he suddenly realized that he would miss this very much when he went back to school. 

“But why do the hands seem intent using nicknames for everyone? It’s quite common here in the West. Some of the men don’t even admit to having surnames,” Elliot said.

“Many hands would rather not have their real names known,” Ben replied. “They’ve come west to escape their pasts.”

“Out here, if a feller’s given his real name a decent burial,” Hoss said, “it’s likely he don’t want it resurrected any time soon.”

“A nickname is also a sign of acceptance,” Adam added, his eyes twinkling. “You should feel honored, Martin. By giving you a nickname, the hands have accepted you as an equal.”

Martin straightened in his chair, struck by this thought.

“Pretty soon you’ll be so equal, they’ll be offerin’ you a chaw of tobacco and invitin’ you to their poker games!” Joe said.

The horrified look on Martin’s face caused more laughter to rumble around the table.

“Don’t worry, Martin,” Hoss said. “With a name like ‘Professor’, they won’t expect you to learn to spit!”

**********

The next morning, Adam, Hoss, Joe, Martin, and Ben surveyed the breakfast table with disappointment. Oatmeal again.

Mindful of his sons’ scrutiny, Ben sat down without comment, reaching for the sugar bowl.

Hop Sing bustled out of the kitchen and snatched the bowl from his hand.

“No use, no use! Funny joker put sugar in salt shaker and salt in sugar bowl!” Hop Sing said. “No use on oatmeal! Hop Sing bring sugar back from China if he ever return!” He ran back into the kitchen. The men around the table winced at the crashing and muttering that followed.

“I’ve had just about enough of these idiotic pranks!” Ben shouted, slapping his palm on the table. “You, Joseph, and you, Martin, will cease and desist any further dowsings, startlements, or attacks involving inappropriate use of food! Get up to your rooms, both of you! Elliot and I will be up to deal with you later!”

Both boys left without protest, sealing their guilt in Ben’s mind. He waited until they had gone up the stairs and he heard the closing of two bedroom doors. “And you, Hoss…”

“Me, Pa?” came the startled response from a partially filled mouth.

“Yes, you!” Ben glared at his middle son, pointing his spoon for emphasis. “Don’t think I don’t see your encouragement, in the form of nudges, winks, and laughing!”

“Aw, Pa, I’m just an on-looker; Little Brother has brought this on all by himself.”

“Just an on-looker!” Ben roared. “Joseph seems to have made it his mission in life to draw that laughter out of you—he sees it as a form of approval, and you egg him on every step of the way!”

A suspicious smothered sound was heard from Adam’s direction.

“And speaking of eggs, who was it that pelted those two ruffians with nearly a week’s supply from the henhouse? Adam, we all have you to thank for the monotonous breakfasts for the last few days!”

A clatter a pans and a rush of Chinese words were heard from behind the kitchen door.

“Wait a minute, Pa…” Hoss said, with a glance toward the kitchen. He lowered his voice, trying to stave off any worsening of the breakfast situation.

“Adam was a might put out because Joe and Martin sawed partway through the rungs of the ladder he was using to fix the chicken coop roof. You’d’ve been mad too, if’n you ended up sitting in Henrietta’s layin’ box! He just grabbed the closest weapon to hand.”

“Why, thank you, Brother,” Adam’s deep voice sounded sincerely grateful, if muffled, behind his newspaper.

“Well, there is going to be a laying down of all weapons…” both brothers smirked at this… “or I’ll tan the lot of you!”

A sound like a snort came from behind the newspaper. Ben snatched the paper away, revealing his unrepentant, smirking oldest son.

“Pa,” said Adam, “I don’t think you are being quite fair to Hoss…”

“You’re not innocent of inciting those two, either, young man!” Ben waved his finger at Adam. “I’ve seen you consulting with Martin, whispering into Joe’s ear, pointing out the latest trap to one or the other of them. You and Hoss are bent on keeping these childish pranks seething all summer, and I’ve had enough!”

Adam was openly laughing now, and Hoss admired his older brother’s bravery in the face of their father’s wrath.

“Pa, you can’t tell me you haven’t enjoyed the jokes, too,” Adam said. “You thought it was hilarious when Hoss and I were coated with flour as we walked through the kitchen doorway last week. You said we looked like the walking undead. Did you warn us what was coming, or put a stop to it? No! You and Mr. Lindsay deliberately set your chairs facing the doorway to enjoy the show as we came through! Even Hop Sing laughed!”

Ben’s frown lightened, remembering. “I have to admit you looked like wonderfully startled ghosts!” He schooled his face back to its previous stern, lay-down-the-law expression. “However, I will not have my household continually disrupted, and Hop Sing upset!”

Adam smirked. “Upset? Who do you think supplied the flour? He’s getting just as much enjoyment of the pranks as you are.”

A smothered laugh was heard from the confines of the blue chair. The three Cartwrights got up from the dining room table and circled around the chair to find Elliot Lindsay, his hand pressed over his mouth.

“Elliot, not you too!” Ben said. “It’s difficult enough to maintain any, any…decorum with this pack of mule-headed, smart alecks without providing an appreciative audience!”

“Pot calling the kettle black, I think, Ben,” Elliot said, laughing back at his friend. “You can’t enjoy the joke one minute and be outraged the next.”

“He’s got a point, Pa,” Hoss said bravely.

“Be quiet!” Ben roared.

Hoss retreated back to the dining table.

“The pranks have all been harmless,” Adam pointed out. “Nothing to lose any sleep over.”

“Not yet!” Ben said, heading towards the stairs and his youngest son’s room.

**********

Ben stalked into Joe’s room without knocking, closing the door so carefully behind him that Joe’s heart sank. When Pa was this deliberate, it did not bode well.

Ben said nothing at first; he merely paced back and forth from the door to the window. Five steps, turn, five steps. After ten or twelve turns, Joe couldn’t stand the silence any longer. “Pa, I’m sorry…”

Ben stopped, hands on hips, and glowered from under dark, pinched eyebrows. “Joseph, you have gotten into so much trouble this summer, and if I didn’t know the reasons behind most of it, I would start to think you were trying to provoke me on purpose! This latest trick at the breakfast table may be the last straw!”

“No, Pa, I didn’t mean—it’s not you, please don’t think…”

Ben held up a hand. “Stop before you strangle on your own tongue. I know your initial purpose was to involve Martin in family games, but isn’t it time to stop with these ridiculous pranks?”

“Pa, most of the time, it ain’t me!” he said, turning pleading eyes to his father. “I done some of them, sure, but after the first few, everything kind of snowballed. Like that sugar bowl this mornin’—I don’t know who done that! I won’t say I wouldn’t have tried it if I had thought of it, but that wasn’t me!”

Ben looked hard at his son. “I acknowledge that you are not responsible for all the pranks, but be warned, young man! My patience is just about at its limits! Now get out to the barn and start your chores!”

**********

A similar conversation was taking place across the hall.

“I have to admit, on the whole, these pranks are undignified and childish, Pa,” Martin said a trifle self-consciously. He had begun to copy the Cartwright sons’ way of addressing their father, but it was still new to his tongue. “Three months ago, I would have been appalled if anyone suggested I would perform such base tricks. But Pa, they are such fun!”

Elliot smiled at the youthful glee in his son’s tone.

“I know I’ve been acting like a mischievous twelve-year-old,” Martin rushed on, before Elliot could reply, “but…well, if only you could have seen the look on your face when you sat on Hop Sing’s pincushion! Once I start at the university, I don’t know that I will ever…” and his voice faltered.

Elliot grinned at his son. “I’m just delighted to see you laughing again, Martin. Although some of these tricks your mother would definitely not approve of.”

At the look on Martin’s face, he hastily added “Not that I approve of them, either! But I understand that you want to be carefree and maybe a little silly before you must enter the rarified academic atmosphere.”

“About that, Pa,” Martin said, hesitating. “I was hoping to talk to you about delaying the start of my studies.”

Elliot looked at his son in surprise. “I thought that starting in the fall was important to you. You worked so hard to gain early acceptance, a year ahead of your classmates at the Academy.”

“I know,” said Martin. “But this summer I realized that I’ve been missing out on some important things.”

Elliot smiled, and sat down beside his son. “I’m actually quite pleased to hear you say that,” he said, his voice gravelly with emotion. “I think the time you have spent here this summer has been—well, beneficial for both of us.”

 

Their eyes met, each in complete understanding of the other.

“I’d like to stay a while, and join Joe and his brothers on their fall hunting trip. Besides, there’s something I need to finish…” Martin stopped, unsure of how much more to say.

“The culmination of The Great Prank War?” Elliot guessed.

Martin smiled, a smile that grew larger and more boyish as he realized his father was merely observing, not disapproving.

“I’d like nothing better than to see the results of your scheme,” Elliot said. “I am afraid, however, that I will have to persevere with my own plans and begin my journey home at the end of the week. I have some fence-mending to do with your mother, and some business obligations that cannot be put off any longer.”

Martin’s faced dropped.

“I’d like it if you could spend some time with your mother and I before going on to university,” Elliot said softly. “We have not been together as a family in a long time.”

Martin nodded. “I’d like that, too.”

Elliot cleared his throat. “So, tell me what you have in mind for poor Joseph.”

“The preparations are nearly complete,” Martin said eagerly. “I’ve set everything up very carefully, and I have nearly all the participants prepared. I’ve been calling it The Big Dowse....”

**********

Elliot’s last evening on the Ponderosa was celebrated with a dinner that rivaled the best any San Francisco restaurant had to offer. Hop Sing worked hard all day, cooking and chasing Cartwrights out of his kitchen. The result: a feast of various roasted fowls, seasoned garden vegetables, corn roasted on the cob, and the lightest, most delicately crusted cherry pie for dessert. For once, the meal was not affected by any pranks.

The Cartwrights and Lindsays lingered over their coffee, content with their full stomachs and the congenial conversation.

“Being a Westerner is a hard thing to define,” Adam said, in answer to Elliot’s question. “There’s a certain attitude that Westerners have that sets them apart from the folks back east. It’s more than just using a different vocabulary, like calling the corral a barnyard.”

Adam winked, but Martin’s face reddened at this; he had just used that term yesterday.

“Take the typical cowhand, for example,” Adam continued. “When a man rides for the brand, he is loyal to that brand, no matter what his personal opinion is of the owners’ decisions. They take self-sufficiency for granted; they expect hardships and they look down on anyone who complains about a difficult task or a minor injury.”

Elliot nodded. “I think we’ve all seen examples of that. Why, just the other day, Lem broke his collarbone, but the only concession that he made to his injury was to switch jobs with another rider, so that he became a drover rather than a roper.”

“Well, you can carry that kind of thing too far,” Ben said, picking up his cup and glaring at Joe. “It’s next to impossible to get any hand, or any of my sons for that matter, to admit to any hurt or pain that would stop them from riding. Spartan soldiers could learn a thing or two from a Ponderosa cowhand.”

“I’ve certainly found that to be true,” Martin said ruefully. “I made the mistake of saying that I thought completing a section of fence before dark was a near impossibility, given how tired we all were, and Charlie let me know I was, well, inappropriate.”

“Inappropriate?” Joe said. “Charlie never said a word like that in his life!”

Elliot laughed and looked pointedly at Martin. “I believe his exact words were ‘You better swallow your troubles, boy; no one wants to hear about your half-digested problems.’” Elliot mimicked Charlie’s accent and tone so perfectly that the Cartwrights erupted into laughter.

Martin squirmed in his chair. “Just when I think I understand how to talk to the men, something like this happens,” he grumbled.

“Just keep doing your job, Martin. The men respect an honest effort and hard work more than anything,” Adam said.

“That and skill,” Ben added. “You are becoming quite adept at driving cattle and mending fences, according to Charlie.”

“Charlie said that?” Martin’s boyish delight in the praise made him lose his usual languid tone.

“He did. Although if you ask him, he will deny it,” Ben said.

Elliot nodded. “Taciturnity. Another western characteristic.”

“Charlie ain’t tassi—whatever it was you said!” Joe said hotly. “He ain’t got a mean bone in his body!”

“Doesn’t have a mean bone in his body, Joe,” Adam said. “And taciturn simply means Charlie doesn’t talk much.”

“Oh,” Joe said, sinking into his chair. “Sorry, Mr. Lindsay.”

Elliot’s eyes flashed with humor. “I think Charlie would be glad to hear that you defend your friend.”

Joe gazed at his plate, embarrassment tingeing his cheeks.

Martin quickly changed the subject. “I understand an autumn hunting trip is an annual Cartwright tradition. I was hoping to join in if I might, before my return to Boston.”

Ben set his cup in its saucer. “We haven’t talked about it yet, but yes, we usually plan a trip into the mountains in the fall, hunting deer, or bighorn sheep, or even bear.” He looked around the table, his brows tight over his nose. “As a matter of fact,” he said, “I think now would be an excellent time for the four of you to go hunting. I could certainly use a break from these ridiculous pranks!” He glanced over at Elliot, who was grinning like a smug, canary-filled cat.

“If you weren’t leaving tomorrow, Elliot, I’d send you with them,” Ben said. “You’ve been enjoying these pranks a little too much, to my way of thinking.”

Elliot merely laughed, and winked at his son.

 

**********

They retired to bed late, each reluctant to end the evening. Eventually, quiet settled over the ranch house. Until…

Bam, bam, bam, bam!

Slam!

“What on earth…”

Slam!

“Hey! Stop it! Lemme out!” Hoss yelled.

Slam!

“Stop pulling on my door!“ Adam shouted.

Ben’s bedroom door flew open, and he stood in his dressing gown, lamp in hand. “What is going on?” he shouted. “Do you realize it is three o’clock in the morning?"

Slam!

“Stop slamming those doors and get back to sleep!” Ben bellowed.

“I’m not…” Adam shouted from his room, and yanked his door partially open. Hoss’ door promptly slammed shut.

“I ain’t slammin’ it, Pa; someone else is pullin’ it out of my hand!” Hoss shouted from his room.

“Why was someone pounding on my door to wake me in the first place?” Adam said through the open few inches.

“Someone was pounding on my door, too!” Hoss shouted from behind his closed door. He cautiously turned the knob and gently pulled. Just as gently, Adam’s door swung shut. Adam cautiously opened his door, and Hoss’ door swung shut.

Ben raised his lamp, revealing a slackened rope stretched across the hall, tied to the doorknobs of both Hoss’ and Adam’s rooms. As each tried to open his own door, he would pull the rope taut and yank the opposite door shut. 

Ben glanced around the hallway. Elliot was leaning against the doorframe of Martin’s room, laughing silently. Joe’s door was closed.

“Joseph!” Ben bellowed.

Adam’s door slammed shut again.

“Hoss!” Adam said with muffled exasperation. “Just hold on! Stop trying to come out until I can get my door open.”

Ben strode to Joe’s door, but before he got there, the door opened and a yawning and tousled Little Joe blinked out at them.

“What’s going on?” Joe said.

“Joseph, are you responsible for all this banging?”

“What banging?” Joe said.

“Uh-uh, definitely overplayed, Little Brother,” Adam said, reaching around to untie the rope from his doorknob. “An innocent person couldn’t sleep through all that racket. You should have come out with the first slam.”

“I didn’t hear anything!” Joe protested. “At least, I heard Pa yellin’ for me. That’s what woke me up.”

“Joseph, I have had about enough…” Ben began again.

“But I didn’t do anything!” Joe protested.

“Pa, you know how hard it is to wake Joe once he’s asleep,” Hoss said, finally able to open his door wider than a few inches. “Besides, Joe ain’t the only one pullin’ pranks around here lately.”

“Yes, where IS Martin?” Ben asked, looking around. 

Joe shrugged. “He and his pa switched rooms tonight. He’s sleepin’ in the room downstairs.”

Four pairs of eyes turned toward Elliot.

“One of the b-benefits of an English P-Public School Education!” Elliot gasped, nearly doubled over with laughter. “Dormitory pranks!”

“You, Elliot?” Ben said, holding his lamp higher to peer at his friend more closely. “We are all awake because of your…your…this was your doing?”

Joe’s giggle was quickly muffled behind his hand. Adam rolled his eyes and grinned across the hall at Hoss.

“You—you’ve made a point of telling me to make your home my own,” Elliot gasped. “That Martin and I were to be treated just like one of your boys.” His eyes danced in the lamplight.

“I meant as far as work was concerned,” Ben growled. “And this is hardly setting a good example…” but all three of his sons grinned.

“I think it’s a great example!” Joe said, assessing the length of the rope for future reference. “Martin’ll be sorry he slept through this!”

“I didn’t,” Martin’s voice called from the stairs. “Well done, Pa.”

Joe, Hoss, and Adam burst into laughter.

“That were a good ‘un, Mr. Lindsay, no doubt about it,” Hoss guffawed, holding out his hand to Elliot. “You got us all good with that one! Especially Pa!”

“You are all the most…I’ve never seen such…oh, go to bed!” Ben strode back to his own room, and slammed his door behind him.

**********

 

Elliot Lindsay had left that morning, and Martin, who never used to worry over separation from his family, had felt sad and irritable all day.

Ben, after seeing his friend off, strongly suggested that his sons plan their hunting trip. “Now.” Adam, Hoss, and Joe immediately began preparations for the trip, beginning with tasks that would keep each of them out of the house for the better part of the day. Adam went into town to complete some last minute business, Joe went to the barn to sort out the packs and equipment they would need to carry, and Hoss took several rifles and a shotgun to the front porch, settling in to clean and check the weapons.

“What kinds of wildlife can we expect to see in the mountains, Hoss?” Martin watched Hoss deftly push the cleaning rod and patch through the barrel of the rifle with in the well-practiced ease of someone who’s done it all his life.

 “This time of year, deer or elk. All kinds of varmints, like weasels, otters, maybe a beaver or two. Doubt we’ll see a bear, but you never know.” Hoss set the rod down and peered down the rifle barrel.

The sound of a crash, a splash, then Shorty’s voice shouting from the barn “Consarn you, Little Joe!” made Martin and Hoss smile at each other.

“Do you think the pranks will be over once we go hunting?” Martin asked.

Hoss grinned. “Don’t you believe it. Pa’s tired of ‘em, and wants to sleep one night without doors slammin’ or someone hollerin’ about a snake in his bed. But he don’t expect miracles by sendin’ us off—he just wants a good night’s sleep. Pranks might be worse than ever once we’re out of Pa’s sight.”

Martin smiled. “Then Joe’s promised ‘snipe hunt’ really is as I suspected --another excuse to ridicule the tenderfoot.”

Hoss grinned knowingly. “Have snipe hunts back east, do you?”

“Yes, but I was usually the one arranging them, not the victim of them.” Martin tapped his fingers on the table absently. “Joe doesn’t know that, though.”

Hoss laughed. “I’ll just bet you did. I can’t help but think that Joe don’t know what he’s in for, settin’ up a snipe hunt for you.”

Martin produced his haughty, holier-than-thou expression. Hoss wasn’t fooled.

“See how much you’ve learned this summer, Martin?” Hoss winked an eye. “Besides learnin’ a new profession, you’ve learned to read Little Joe. You’re one step away from arrangin’ your own snipe hunt for my little brother.”

“Oh, I’ve got something in mind for Joe, all right,” Martin said. “And if it works, everyone will get their revenge.”

“Don’t tell me about it,” Hoss said. “I’d rather enjoy the surprise.”

“I’ll need your help when the time comes,” Martin warned. “This is Joe we’re talking about! This is not a one-man job!”

“I’ll be ready,” Hoss said solemnly, and then spoiled it by grinning widely.

Hoss set the rifle down and picked up a shotgun, separated the barrel from the stock, and began applying the cleaning rod and patch.

“You got a warm jacket and gloves, Martin?” Hoss asked. “It gets pretty cold up in the mountains this time of year. Wouldn’t be surprised if we got some snow while we’re up there.”

Martin looked around at the lengthening shadows of the sultry September afternoon. “Is this another joke?” he asked warily. “It’s as hot as it was on the fourth of July.”

“Nope, I’m dead serious. You’ll need warm clothes. If you ain’t got anything suitable, then we’ll make a trip to town. I don’t think anything of Joe’s will fit you.”

“I have suitable clothes for the trip. But if I come downstairs in the morning decked out in woolens to find you all in your shirtsleeves...”

Hoss set his cleaning rod on the table. “The pranks have made you a suspicious man,” he said mournfully, shaking his head. “You’re startin’ to think everything anyone tells you is a trick. It’s a sad, sad thing to be so cynical—especially sad to suspect your ol’ friend Hoss.”

Alarmed, Martin’s eyes darted to Hoss’ face. “I didn’t mean any disrespect…”

Hoss’ belly laugh stopped any further apology, and Martin relaxed.

Hoss winked. “You just keep on suspectin’. It’s the only way you’ll survive my little brother’s friendship.”

**********

Martin spent the better part of Saturday assembling the participants for The Big Dowse.

Shorty, called upon to repay his letter-writing debt, did not need to be prevailed upon to participate. As a matter of fact, he practically demanded to be included after he walked into the bunkhouse, dripping and shivering, a three-time victim of the bucket-of-water-on-top-of-the-barn-door prank in as many days.

Charlie was “happy to oblige” after spending hours searching for his favorite saddle, only to find it high in a tree near the corral.

Hoss merely grinned and nodded at the role Martin proposed to him. No persuasion needed—he’d just discovered all his shirtsleeves had been mysteriously sewed together.

Adam was harder to convince. Not because he didn’t think Joe deserved it, but he felt an obligation to set an example for the younger boys. Until a fistful of butter mysteriously appeared in his boot. Joe’s denial and overly innocent face locked in his oldest brother’s participation.

The irony, a very delicious irony to Martin’s way of thinking, was that none of these pranks were actually Joe’s doing. Martin had carefully engineered them to throw the suspicion on Joe and gain the others’ cooperation. The more Joe protested his innocence, the guiltier he seemed.

Martin made the rounds of all the assigned hiding places, checking that his warriors were in position. By the shadowed side of the barn, he handed a jug of honey to Charlie. He glanced toward the house, where Adam saluted mockingly from beside the porch, a pillow — Joe’s, no doubt — in each hand. Hoss peered out from behind the bunkhouse door, stirring a mixture of molasses and melted lard that he’d kept just warm enough on the back of the bunkhouse stove to maintain a runny, liquid state. Shorty stood waiting near the corral with a bucket of oats, ostensibly feeding the horses, the only participant in plain sight.

When he was satisfied that all was ready, he rode out of the yard to await Joe’s return.

About fifteen minutes after Martin rode out, Joe rode in. His appearance signaled Martin’s soldiers to take the next steps.

Hoss took his bucket off the stove, dipping his finger in to make quick sure the contents weren’t too hot.

Adam crouched lower, using his knife to slit open the end of each pillow.

Charlie yanked the cork out of the jug with his teeth, his eyes intent on Joe’s position.

Shorty shook his bucket, making sure the oats were loose and unclumped, then waved Joe over.

“Everyone set?” Joe called to Shorty as he dismounted.

“Yep,” Shorty said. “The Professor ought to be returning real soon.”

Joe glanced around the yard. He could see Adam, Charlie, and Hoss in their various positions, and he grinned in anticipation.

“You sure had a good idea for gettin’ back at ol’ Martin,” Joe said, watching Shorty carefully.

“Gettin’ dowsed for the third time was what you might call inspirational,” Shorty said, his gaze steady.

Joe smiled. “All right, I’ll call him over, and keep his attention. As soon as he’s facing away from the others, you give the signal to attack.”

Shorty nodded.

A few minutes later, Martin rode into the yard, whistling innocently as he ambled toward the corral.

“Oh, Martin,” Joe called, as Martin stepped down from his horse. “Could you come here for a second?”

 

“Certainly, Little Joe,” Martin said amiably, and Joe nearly smirked. Both boys had the same thought: Everything is going exactly according to plan.

Shorty stepped back as the two boys approached each other. When they were only a few feet apart, the plan suddenly changed.

There was a whsst! and a loop of rope settled around both boys. The loop slammed them together, belly-to-belly, arms pinned to their sides. The loop was tightened expertly before either boy could react.

Shorty set his bucket down, picked up a lasso, threw his own rope around the two boys from the opposite direction, and quickly tied it off to the corral fence.

It had only taken seconds. Martin and Joe were held helplessly immobile in the middle of the yard.

Joe twisted and pulled, trying desperately to see who had thrown the first loop. The roper stepped from behind a pile of hay and snubbed the rope around a post, leaning his weight back to keep the rope taut.

“Pa!” Joe said in utter disbelief. “What are you…How…?”

“Mr. Cartwright!” Martin said. “You…we…”

Ben calmly tied off his rope, and dusted his hands together. He waited as Adam, Charlie, Hoss, and Shorty strolled slowly toward the two boys, idly swinging their ‘weapons.’ Hop Sing emerged from the kitchen door and hurried over, carrying a cast iron pot with both hands.

“I hope you don’t mind, Shorty,” Ben said, “but I invited Hop Sing to participate.”

“The more the merrier,” Shorty grinned.

“Gentlemen,” Ben said. “They’re all yours.” Without a backwards glance, he strode into the house.

“Pa!” Joe called, struggling futilely against the rope, desperation taking over as the others surrounded them.

“There’s been a misunderstanding!” Martin said. “Adam, it’s all a mistake! Hoss, Joe’s the one who…! Shorty—you—you turncoat!”

“Oh, no, I’m followin’ the plan, just like you said, Professor,” Shorty said. “You said we would be getting back at the one doin’ all the pranks. And now, I believe the plan calls for you to go first, Charlie.”

“I believe you’re right,” Charlie said with a small bow, and stepped forward. He carefully removed each boy’s hat, and then dumped the contents of the honey jug liberally over the heads of the two boys.

Joe and Martin gasped, and then both closed their eyes, resigned to the inevitable.

“My turn!” Hop Sing said, and threw what appeared to be a mixture of dishwater and chopped cabbage over the two boys.

“I think you’re next, Hoss,” said Charlie.

“Thank you, Charlie,” Hoss said, and poured a steady stream of warm molasses and lard over Martin and Joe, circling around them several times.

“Very nicely done, Hoss,” Adam commented. “A very even distribution of stickiness.”

“Why thank you, Big Brother,” Hoss said. “I believe it’s your turn.”

Adam stepped forward, and waited. When nothing happened immediately, both boys opened their eyes. As soon as he saw they were watching him, Adam began to sprinkle the feathers from the first pillow over the boys, taking time to cover all sides evenly, then picking up the second pillow to go back over areas that he missed. He paid particular attention to the boy’s faces, patting a few loose feathers into place on Joe’s cheeks. When both pillows were empty, the two boys stood, leaning back as far from each other as the rope allowed, fluffy white feathers coating them from head to boot.

“Shorty?” Adam said.

Shorty placed two crates on top of each other, and stepped precariously on top of them.

“Little Joe, Professor,” Shorty said, nodding to each boy as if he were greeting him on the street in town. He sprinkled oats from his bucket, concentrating on the tops of their heads.

When his bucket was empty, Shorty stepped down. The five combatants shook hand all around.

“Well,” said Charlie, “I’ll see y’all later. Shorty and me got work to do.” He and Shorty mounted their horses and rode out of the yard.

“Hop Sing very busy, too!” The little cook headed back to the kitchen, carrying his pot.

“Adam, I was wonderin’ if you would help me with somethin’ in the barn,” Hoss said.

“I’d be happy to, Hoss,” Adam said, and joined his brother as he strolled to the barn door.

“Adam!” Joe wailed. “Hoss! Come on, turn us loose!”

“Please, Hoss!” Martin called. “Adam, please!”

The older brothers paused and looked back at the younger boys, held tight by ropes stretched in opposite directions, stickily coated with feather and oats.

“Adam, please,” Joe called, trying to sound as pathetic as he felt. “It’s startin’ to itch!”

“And there’s FLIES!” Martin said, shuddering.

Laughing, Hoss and Adam took pity and released the ropes. As soon as he was free, Joe bolted for the horse trough. Martin, batting at insects around his head, stepped out of the rope loops and raced after him. Each boy jumped into opposite ends and sank underneath the water.

Hoss began to coil the ropes, whistling as he strolled back to the barn.

**********

After much splashing, under-voiced cursing, and sneezing, Martin climbed out of the trough and headed dripping toward the bathhouse. Adam, lounging against the corral fence, carefully observed Joe, still sitting in the water trough. Joe was watching Martin walk away with an unguarded look of satisfaction on his dirty face.

When Martin disappeared into the bathhouse, Adam strolled closer to his youngest brother, who immediately began sputtering and splashing, grumbling as he attempted to haul himself out of the trough.

Wordlessly, he held out his hand to Joe. Joe eyed his hand for a moment, then grasped it and allowed Adam to help him to his feet. Something in Adam’s face made him wary.

“Thanks, Adam,” Joe said, pulling some feathers and oats from his dripping hair.

“We really got you with that one,” Adam said, but his mild tone and twinkling eyes held Joe’s gaze for a moment.

“Yeah, you got me good,” Joe laughed, wiping his face with the empty flour sack Adam held out.

“It was a near perfect set-up, too,” Adam continued, leaning back against the corral fence. “Well, I mean, except for Pa’s little surprise. Martin couldn’t have set it up better. As a matter of fact, if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I might’ve thought it was one of your schemes.”

“That Martin, he’s a quick study,” Joe said, avoiding his brother’s gaze. “He picked up on how to play the best jokes, and turned the tables on me.”

“Yes, I see that,” Adam said. “He certainly took advantage of his opportunity. You must’ve been careless, Joe, to give him the idea on how to set this up.”

“Well, you’re always sayin’ I’m not thinkin’, Adam,” Joe said uncertainly. The conversation was becoming slightly uncomfortable.

“Yes, that’s true,” Adam said, narrowing his eyes. “And it certainly seems to have been the case this time.”

“Yeah,” was all Joe could think of to say.

Adam grinned and ruffled his brother’s wet, oat and feather-filled hair.

“Good job, Little Brother,” he said.

**********

“I thought your father did not allow you to touch guns,” Martin said, watching Joe slide a small caliber rifle into his saddle scabbard.

Both boys were assembling their equipment for the hunting trip, saddles, saddlebags and various items spread on the floor of the barn.

“He doesn’t let me carry a sidearm,” Joe said. “I can carry a rifle or bird gun when I’m working. I’ve been huntin’ with my brothers since I was ten.”

Joe looked over at Martin’s pile of equipment. “You gotta have a rifle, too, Martin.”

“Yes, and I’m looking forward to shooting. It’s been a while since I’ve fired a rifle.”

“Let me guess. You won prizes for shooting in school?” Joe smirked.

“Yes, as a matter of a fact,” Martin said. “I was long-target champion my last year at the Academy.”

“We’ll have to have a little contest, then,” Joe said. “But I’ll warn ya, nobody hits what they’re aimin’ at better than Hoss.”

“We’ll see,” said Martin, a wide grin on his face.

“You ever been huntin’ before?”

“No, but I can hit a moving target with near perfect accuracy at fifty yards.”

“It’s a little bit different shootin' at a living target rather than a paper one,” Joe said.

“I’m sure I am up to the challenge,” Martin said, and there was a touch of his old arrogance in his tone.

Joe shook his head. “It might not be what you expect,” was all he said.

Joe began to tie his bedroll onto the back of his saddle. “Are you sure you want to take Slow Bob huntin’?”

“I’m sure,” Martin said, slinging his saddle onto Bob’s back.

“I don’t see why you are so attached to that horse,” Joe said. “He’s thick-skulled when it comes to workin’ cattle and he’s as stubborn as the day is long. He’s a good trail horse and a pretty fast runner, once you convince him to run, but there’s lots of other horses that don’t need convincin’.”

“He’s taught me quite a bit since I’ve been here,” Martin said.

“Slow Bob taught you?” Joe’s voice rose in disbelief. 

“He doesn’t mind that I don’t know what I should,” Martin said, rubbing his palm over Bob’s nose. “He waits for me to figure things out. He doesn’t correct my mistakes. He does exactly what I ask him to do, and he just makes mistakes right along with me.”

Joe thought about this. He knew what it was like to be in tune with his horse. He nodded. “Well, a man should choose his own horse,” he said, and began to lead his pony into the yard.

“Good boy, Bob,” he heard Martin say in a low voice behind him, “That’s a very good boy.”

Joe smiled to himself. He never liked Martin more than he did at that moment.

**********

The first night, they set up camp early, near the lakeshore. The site they chose was a favorite, at the top of a steep rim, about eight or ten feet above the water. Adam made a fire and started water boiling for coffee, while Hoss set up a tie line for the horses. Joe and Martin wandered toward the edge of the lake, drawn by the picture of pine-framed blue water studded in the center by green-wooded island.

“One of the best views in the whole world,” Joe said, reverently, almost to himself. Martin mentally agreed. He’d never seen anything as beautiful in his life.

“Hey Joe,” Hoss’ voice called from the campsite. “Water might be cold, but swimmin’ might clean some of this trail dirt off’n us. What do you say we try it out?”

“Sure thing, Hoss.” Joe smiled toward the sound of his brother’s voice. “Now, Hoss,” he said to Martin, in a quiet tone, “one of my favorite things to do with him isn’t fishin’ or swimmin’, although we like to do that. No, my favorite thing with Hoss is to make him laugh. When he’s got a big belly full of laughin’—I don’t know—I just feel good.”

Martin smiled to himself. He remembered a similar conversation with Hoss, who claimed that hearing Joe laugh was one of his favorite things. He looked down at where Joe stood at the edge of the drop, then at the water. From the corner of his eye, he could see Hoss approaching.

“Well,” said Martin, and waited until Joe turned toward him to hear the rest of his statement. “Let’s enjoy one of your favorite things, then.” He pushed in the center of Joe’s chest. Joe, overbalanced, leaned backwards over the lip of the jutting shoreline, just as Hoss came up behind Martin.

Joe’s arms wind milled dramatically in a futile attempt to stop his tumble. He teetered on the edge, wavering for a full 2 seconds before falling backward into water.

“I meant after we had a chance to strip down,” Hoss called to Joe, winking at Martin. “Joe, what are you doing, boy? Looked like you was trying to signal somebody.”

Splashing and sputtering was the only reply.

“Maybe while you’re down there,” Adam said, raising his voice above the splashing, “you can look for your balance — looks like you lost it around here somewhere.”

Hoss’ guffaw caused the splashing to stop, and then a reluctant giggle was heard from the water. 

“Come on in, Hoss,” Joe said. “It’s not all that cold.”

“Now, why don’t I believe him?” Hoss mused.

“Oh Martin, could you give me a hand up?” Joe called sweetly.

“Oh, no, I think you can climb out by yourself, Joe,” Martin called back.

“Gettin’ wise to the ways of Little Joe, ain’t you Martin?” Hoss winked broadly. “I do love to see folks learnin’ new things.” He stepped closer, and with no further warning, grabbed Martin’s belt and collar and tossed him into the lake.

“Looks like he still has a thing or two to learn about you, though, Hoss,” Adam said.

The splashing and sputtering magnified, with muttering and “give me a hand up, will ya?” followed by another round of splashing.

“Martin, consarn you, you did that on purpose!”

Martin’s laugh carried above the bank’s edge. “Yes I did, Joe, both times! Look out, oomph!” and there was yet more splashing.

Hoss turned back to the campfire. “On second thought, I think I’ll wait on my dip in the lake,” he said. “There’s some noisy critters disturbin’ the water.”

“Yes,” said Adam, handing his brother a cup of coffee. “You never know what wildlife you’ll run across up here.”

**********

“What kind of signs are we looking for?” Martin asked. He watched as Hoss scraped the remains of their evening meal into the fire. “Come to think of it, what exactly are we hunting for?”

“We’re hunting for a way to stay out of Pa’s hair for a few days,” Joe said.

Adam and Hoss grinned.

“We’re hopin’ to see some grouse, or pheasant, maybe mule deer, or an elk,” Hoss said, stirring the fire to life. “Pa sure likes Hop Sing’s way with grouse. He likes a venison steak in the winter, too—makes a change from beef. It would go a ways toward makin’ him forget about all them pranks if we was to pack home meat for the smokehouse.”

Adam smiled. “I think he’ll be satisfied with our absence.”

“If Pa has his way,” agreed Hoss, “we should stay gone for at least a couple of weeks.”

“We might see a big cat, or even a bear,” Joe said, looking at Martin from the corner of his eye. “There’s a pack of wolves with a territory in the high meadow, too.”

“Ain’t too likely to see a bear,” Hoss said. “This time of year they’re starting to look for a place to hole up for the winter. And most big cats and wolves skirt around people rather than meeting up with ’em.”

“Well, we could see something else dangerous,” Joe insisted. “There’s Paiutes. They’d be real tempted to try for our horses on a dark night. And don’t forget about snipe,” Joe lowered his voice, trying for a menacing tone. Martin tossed his empty tin cup at Joe’s head. Joe deftly caught it as he fell backward off the log he was sitting on.

“Don’t try the snipe hunt on me, Joe Cartwright,” Martin said. “I might be new to hunting, but I wasn’t born yesterday. I’ve sent more classmates on snipe hunts than you have fingers and toes.”

Joe sat up, reached for the coffee pot, and poured. “Coffee, Big Brother?” he said mildly, holding the now-full cup to Adam.

“Thank you, Little Brother,” Adam said. Martin glared, and realizing he now had no cup of his own, reluctantly got up to search the supplies for another.

“What about wolverines, Hoss?” Joe asked, trying once more to impress Martin.

“Wolverine?” Martin asked. “That sounds like another made-up name to scare the easterner.”

“It’s somethin’ you don’t want to run into,” Hoss said, and there was no smile or lightness to his voice any more. “A wolverine’s a scavenger, meaner’n a bobcat, and smarter than a fox.”

“Hoss is right,” Adam said. “A wolverine is a relative of otters or weasels, but it’s fierce and vicious. For all our exaggeration of the dangers of the wilderness, that’s one animal that lives up to most stories. If there’s a wolverine in the area, put as many miles between it and you as you can.”

“What does it look like?” Martin asked.

“Well, it looks a little like a bear,” Hoss said. “Ain’t near as big, though - runs about thirty-forty pounds. Runs low to the ground, and is bolder than a two-tailed peacock.”

Martin looked skeptical. “That’s no bigger than a cattle dog.”

“Big don’t matter,” Hoss said, turning his stick to poke some life into the coals. “They’ve got long, sharp claws, and they’re as mean as they can be, owin’ to the fact that nothin’ hunts them in return. They’ve been known to take down deer. I’ve seen one take on a black bear and end up chasin’ the bear down the side of the mountain.” Hoss paused for dramatic affect. “That was right before it chased me near all the way home.”

Martin watched Hoss as he spoke, judging the veracity of his words. He glanced at Joe, who was intently listening.

“He’s serious,” Joe said, tossing an apple Martin’s way. “No foolin’ around when it comes to wolverines.”

Martin caught the apple and looked from one brother to the other.

“We ain’t likely to see one,” Hoss said cheerfully. “They stick to their own territory, up in high country. We’re goin’ high, but we ain’t goin’ that high. Our trail takes us around the base and lower slopes of Calhoun Mountain. We’ll likely get our fill of game without havin’ to go up toward the pass.”

“We’ll set up a base a few days from here in a cave we often use, and fan out from there,” Hoss continued. “If we get an elk, or sheep, or a deer or two, we’ll dress it out as best we can, and make a cache in the snow if there is any.”

“We’re mainly here to take a break, enjoy the mountains,” Adam added. “Any meat we can pack home will be secondary to a vacation for both us and Pa.”

“I bet Pa’ll be missing us before too long,” Joe said. “Much as he complains about the noise, he complains about the quiet more when any one of us is gone.”

“You’re right about that, Little Brother,” Hoss said. “Although I think it’s Adam’s singin’ of an evening he’ll be missing rather than your arguin’ about goin’ to bed.” He deftly caught the apple thrown towards his head.

**********

Martin had to admit their camping preparations kept them quite comfortable. Although the air was getting colder the higher they went, they had plenty of hot food when they stopped for the night. Hoss’ skill at choosing campsites kept them sheltered and dry. He showed Martin how to cushion his bedroll with pine branches, and Martin fell asleep each night, pleasantly tired, with the clean scent of pine filling his nose.

Martin found he woke promptly at sunrise without any assistance, gratefully sniffing fresh coffee and bacon. Joe still needed rousing, however, and by unspoken agreement, they took turns waking him each morning, two of them watching while the third chose his own method of rousing the youngest brother. Tickling his nose or ear with a twist of grass (Adam), slowly dripping water on his head (Martin), sliding his entire bedroll, with him still in it toward the lakeshore (Hoss)—all methods were variously successful and amusing to everyone but Joe. Splashing water in his face was an old favorite, and always worked when other methods failed.

They took an easy route because they were in no hurry, winding through a meadow at the base of the mountain before heading up a gradually climbing trail. Four to five days to reach the cave, four to five days of hunting, four to five days to return meant they’d be gone about two weeks.

Martin spent much of the trail time riding with Hoss. Martin had always like the amiable middle Cartwright brother, but he gained even greater respect for his wilderness skills and instinctive knowledge of the world around them. He listening raptly as Hoss pointed out signs: tracks, scat, antler marks on trees. He explained the habits of different game and non-game animals. Hoss is perfectly suited for this wilderness, Martin thought.

As they rode one afternoon, Hoss had Martin listening to birds, and talked about how to identify different types of birds by their songs. When Martin marveled about Hoss’ skill in birdsong identification over dinner that night, Hoss looked modest, but Adam and Joe laughed out loud.

“How would you prove him wrong?” Adam pointed out. “He could say any chirp was a yellow-bellied sapsucker or a red-breasted booby hatch and you wouldn’t be any the wiser.”

Hoss harrumphed and stomped away to check the horses, which only made his brothers laugh more.

**********

“Keep in mind the way the wind is blown’,” Hoss said in a low voice. They had paused on the trail in a stand of autumn-yellowed aspen for a little lunchtime target practice. Hoss wanted each of the younger boys to have a chance to get used to the rifles’ sites. He set up several small target pieces of wood on a fallen log. Adam rested against another log near the horses, leg stretched in front of him, reading a book.

Martin looked at the quaking tree branches, studying their movement in the breeze.

“Not only for shootin’ but considerin’ the animal’s nose,” Hoss added. “Most critters can smell you a mile off, if the wind is right. You’ll never sneak up on a deer that’s down wind from you.”

Joe and Martin eagerly took their rifles from their saddle scabbards.

“Hold on, Little Joe,” Hoss said softly, as Joe brought his rifle to his shoulder.

Hoss silently pointed into the wind, and sure enough, about thirty yards away stood a deer, eyeing them uncertainly.

“She don’t see as good as she can scent or hear,” Hoss whispered. “Wind’s blowin’ this way, so she ain’t too sure what we are.”

“Aren’t you going to shoot it?” Martin asked.

“Naw,” said Joe. “It’s a doe. Besides that, I don’t really have a shot.”