Enter Sam Clemens

A What Happened Instead for “Enter Mark Twain”

 

By Harper

 

Author’s Note (1): Samuel Clemens’ marvelously witty quotes provided the ideas for scenes in this alternative view of the episode “Enter Mark Twain.” Many of those quotes are sprinkled throughout the story. See if you can find all 52 of them.

 

Hint: I took some liberties; some of Twain’s original sayings may be slightly altered or spoken by other characters in this story.

 

 

The pressroom of The Daily Territorial Enterprise hummed with activity. A dozen shirt-sleeved men were scattered at desks around the cluttered room, and several boys dodged between the press and a row of desks against the far wall. No voice was silent; on the contrary, most were raised in an attempt to be heard over the din.

 

Above the sound of the bustle and the press, two voices rang louder than the others. In the center of the room, two men stood toe to toe, each of them waving tightly gripped copy sheets in the other’s face. The bustling employees stepped carefully around the gesturing two, with only a rolled eye or a shaken head giving any indication that they noted the verbal combat.

 

The outside door opened and the tinkle of a bell was added to the din as Adam Cartwright stepped into the pressroom. He blinked to adjust his eyes to the dimness after coming in from the bright midday street.

 

“As long as I’m the editor of this paper, you will accept my corrections!”

 

Adam’s eyes snapped toward the authoritative voice. He sidestepped around the counter and strode toward the speaker.

 

A second voice, tinged with the cadences of the South, shouted back. “In the first place, God made idiots. This was for practice. Then he made proofreaders!”

 

The editor threw his pages to the floor and very deliberately stomped on them. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you misspelled words on purpose, just to aggravate me!”

 

“Maybe I did!” The Southerner shouted back, throwing down his own sheets as if tossing down a gauntlet. “I don’t give a damn for a man that can only spell a word one way!”

 

A burst of laughter erupted from the corner, but it was quickly smothered when the editor’s glare swung that direction.

 

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” Adam said stepping forward, “I’m looking for the editor.”

 

The editor, a short, dark-haired man with ink-stained cuffs rolled above his elbows, looked relieved to be interrupted.

 

“I’m Joe Goodman,” he said, stepping around the man he had been arguing with. “How can I help you, sir?”

 

“I’d like to know who is responsible for this,” Adam said, holding up a copy of the newspaper and pointing to the sensational, large-font headline “Petrified Man, Denizen of the Ponderosa.”

 

The editor scowled. “Him,” he said, cocking his thumb at the man he had been shouting at. “He’s the writer, known to our readers as ‘Josh.’”

 

Adam raised an eyebrow, looking at the tall young man standing behind the editor.

 

He looked to be in his early twenties, and his dark hair, curly and thick, tumbled about his ears. He stood, head up, rocking back on his heels, thumbs hooked in his waistband. His twinkling eyes sparked from beneath dark bushy eyebrows, revealing just how much he was enjoying his argument with the editor. The editor was probably right about intentional misspelling, Adam decided. This ‘Josh’ looked like a practical joke was mother’s milk to him. Adam sighed. Just like Joe.

 

“I wanted to talk to you about this story,” Adam said. “About the Petrified Man.”

 

“Ah, another admirer,” ‘Josh’ said. “Sorry—I cannot write to order. As a newspaperman, I must adhere to ethics at a level above the common man.”

 

Adam blinked. “Ethics? Your story is the biggest piece of claptrap ever written! A set of complete and utterly preposterous lies! As for ethics, well, I’m not sure how they figure in—you don’t appear to have any!”

 

To Adam’s surprise, the writer burst into laughter.

 

“You’re right in supposing that some of the story was exaggerated! Some of it was invention, pure invention! As for ethics—well, I did look into the truth of the rumors, so I resent—just a little—your assumption that I invented the whole story.”

 

“I see no adherence to ethics in a story that contains no facts whatsoever!”

 

“Wait, sir, your accusation is somewhat unfounded. I did collect facts; they just weren’t as interesting as I’d hoped. But I do believe that a good newspaperman should get his facts first. Once he has the facts, he can distort them as much as he pleases.”

 

Adam’s mouth fell open slightly as he stared at the man. “What is your name?” he asked after a long, long pause.

 

“Sam Clemens, at your service.” The writer bowed slightly.

 

“Well Mr. Clemens, do you have any idea the trouble you’ve caused with your wild story? You are either the most despicable liar in town, or the cleverest manipulator of the true facts.”

 

“Do I have to be one or the other?”  Sam Clemens replied. “It’s so much more efficient and gratifying to be both.”

 

Laughter sounded again from the corner.

 

“Get back to work!” Editor Goodman shouted.

 

Adam stared. “Do you even know what the facts are anymore?”

 

“Of course not,” Sam replied. “I don’t try to remember the facts, once I learn what they are. I am not one of those who, in expressing opinions, confines themselves to mere facts. Besides, if a person cannot deceive himself, the chances are against his being able to deceive other people.”

 

Adam pushed back his hat and crossed his arms over his chest. “So deception is your goal? Well, you’ve achieved your goal many times over. Do you know how many people are even now combing the hills of our ranch for the Petrified Man?”

 

Sam Clemens eyes twinkled even more. “No, please tell me! I’ve never made an actual count to support the success of any story.”

 

Adam snatched off his hat and slapped it hard on the desk in front of him, an echo of the gesture the editor had made earlier with his copy sheets. “I want a retraction in the next issue, stating that the entire story is a hoax, and an apology to the citizens of Virginia City!”

 

“Apology!” The twinkling eyes suddenly grew hard. “For what, sir? For encouraging some fools into letting their imaginations run amuck? For crafting perhaps the most entertaining story this territory has ever seen? I refuse to write an apology just to please a local, unimaginative citizen who fails to appreciate…”

 

Adam grabbed Sam’s shirtfront with both hands.

 

“Now gentleman,” the editor said in a soothing voice, pulling Adam’s hands away and stepping in between them. “There’s no need to…”

 

“No need!” Adam said, his voice rising. “Your employee here—I wouldn’t dignify his work by calling him a newspaper man—your employee has published the most outrageous, inflammatory…”

 

“No, sir!” The editor thundered. “I published the story! He merely wrote it! And no—no farmer…”

 

“Rancher,” Sam said helpfully, the twinkle back in his eye.

 

“…No rancher is going to tell me how to run my newspaper!”

 

“Does that mean you will not print a retraction?” Adam said, his voice low.

 

“I will not! Good day, sir!” The editor stomped toward the press, but he turned back after about three steps. “And Clemens?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“You’re fired!”

 

**********

 

Adam waited in front of the Territorial Enterprise office until Samuel Clemens emerged a short time later, carrying a carpetbag. Clemens paused in the doorway and turned back, shouting, “Mr. Goodman!”

 

Adam heard the editor answer faintly from deep within the office, “I thought I fired you! Why are you still here?”

 

Drawing a deep breath, Sam set down his carpet bag and pulled at the bell that hung over the door, making it ring again and again until the noisy bustle of the office ceased and all eyes were on him.

 

“I am not the editor of a newspaper,” Sam shouted, punctuating his words with a grand sweep of his arm, “and I shall always try to do right and be good so that God will not make me one!” With that, he slammed the office door behind him.

 

“Mr. Clemens.”

 

Sam, bending to pick up his bag, turned, and seeing Adam, raised an inquiring brow.

 

“I didn’t mean to—I was unhappy about your story, but I never intended for you to lose your job over the matter.”

 

Sam Clemens did not seem the least downcast. “That’s very kind of you, Mr.….”

 

“Cartwright. Adam Cartwright.”

 

“That’s very kind of you, Mr. Cartwright. But Joe Goodman fires me about once a week. I’m sure my job will be restored after a few ‘Josh-less’ issues go to press. It always is.”

 

Adam let out a breath in relief. “I’m glad to hear it. Is there anything I can do to help smooth things over with your editor?”

 

“He is very put out with me this time.” Sam looked back over his shoulder at the office door. “I believe that he should look upon my absence for a while, until his temper cools. Since I’ve been renting a room above the pressroom, I think it would be wise to find alternative lodging for a few days. If you could suggest a place for me to hang my hat…”

 

Adam looked at the threadbare sleeves and well-worn boots, the skinny frame of the young man in front of him. “I hate to be the cause of additional expense. I’d like to help tide you over until you can return to your regular lodgings.”

 

Sam stood stock-still. He looked carefully at Adam, and it was as if he was seeing him for the first time.

 

“You are very generous, sir, but I have some funds set aside for just such an emergency, and I cannot accept…”

 

“Oh, Mr. Cartwright!” A voice trilled from across the street. Adam winced at the sound, and then pasted a painful smile on his face as he turned to face the owner of the voice.

 

Sam looked curiously at the source of his new acquaintance’s discomfort. A tall, red-haired woman with a long, pinched face was approaching. Her sharp steps and unblinking gazed revealed all the single-mindedness of a hunter sighting its long-sought prey. Her perky bonnet quivered with feathers and ribbons, and their vibrations added to the general impression of intent determination.

 

“Miss Jones!” Adam said faintly. “This is a, er, pleasant surprise.”

 

“I am so fortunate to finally catch—that is to say, accidentally, of course—meet up with you! I have been meaning for some time to ask you…”

 

Looking around frantically, Adam quickly grabbed Sam’s arm and pulled him forward, interrupting the lady’s high-pitched flow of words. “Miss Jones, allow me to introduce Mr. Samuel Clemens, a writer for the Territorial Enterprise. Mr. Clemens, Miss Abigail Jones, Virginia City’s school teacher.”

 

Miss Jones’ eyes fluttered. “How do you do, sir?”

 

“Ma’am,” Sam said, looking at Adam speculatively. Adam’s eyes darted toward the street, and he edged away from Miss Jones as Sam took her hand.

 

“A newspaper man!” Miss Jones said, feathers quivering. “How fascinating!”

 

“Ah find it so,” Sam drawled. One corner of his mouth quirked as Adam took another step further away from the enthusiastic Miss Jones.

 

“You may have read his stories—he writes under the pen name ‘Josh’,” Adam said.

 

“You’re Josh? Why, I’ve read every one of your stories, sir, and I must say I have enjoyed every one! They are a cut above the rest, true diamonds in the midst of dross! At last, another person of education and refinement! It is so refreshing to meet a true man of letters in this uncouth place!” Miss Jones said. “I would very much like to discuss my curriculum with you! I find it an uphill struggle to impart the even the simplest lessons of literature and history to the recalcitrant children of Virginia City!”

 

Sam scratched his head as he seemed to consider this statement, and the twinkle in his eyes became pronounced. “Now that you mention it, Miss Jones, I know what you mean. I have observed that many school children seem to know only two dates—1492 and 4th of July, and as a rule they don't know what happened on either occasion.”

 

“Oh, Mr. Clemens, I’m afraid that may be true! But every child should read about our country’s illustrious history! Children need to learn, to appreciate the wonders of Literature—the shining light that is Poetry!” Miss Jones’ feathers vibrated violently.

 

“Well, perhaps it’s a task that cannot ultimately succeed,” Sam shook his head mournfully. “Everything has its limit—iron ore cannot be educated into gold.”

 

Miss Jones gaped at Sam, and then a knowing look straightened her features. “I see—you are being Ironic! How droll! Not everyone in this place can appreciate such Sophisticated Wit, but I can see that you and I have much in common!” She took his arm and tucked it into her own. “You must tell me about your journalism studies, where you went to school!”

 

“I found that school and I were not good companions,” Sam said, leaning toward her confidentially. “I did not attend school beyond age twelve.”

 

“You cannot be serious, sir!” Abigail Jones said, pulling her arm from his grasp. “Why, I believe that school is the most important part of a person’s education!”

 

“Ah, Miss Jones, there’s where our opinions diverge. I believe that all schools, all colleges, have two great functions: to confer, and to conceal, valuable knowledge. Therefore, Miss Jones, I have never let my schooling interfere with my education,” Sam said with a slight bow. “My education consists mainly of what I have unlearned.”

 

“Well!” Miss Jones huffed. “I cannot—I never…”

 

“I’m quite sure you haven’t,” Sam agreed.

 

Miss Jones’ face reddened to an unbecoming scarlet. With a small gobbling sound, she turned abruptly and stomped away.

 

“Whew! That’s brought her up short! She’s entirely forgotten her reason for coming over in the first place,” Adam said.

 

“A delightful woman,” Sam murmured. “She acts just as if she’d stepped out of the New Testament, and hadn’t got used to her surroundings yet.”

 

A short bark of delighted laughter escaped Adam’s lips at the description of the critical teacher, causing Miss Jones to glare back over her shoulder. He quickly adopted a polite smile and nodded to her retreating figure.

 

“I’m afraid she did not appreciate your opinions,” Adam said.

 

Sam sighed. “And that’s a pity—our opinions do not really blossom into fruition until we have expressed them to someone else. I am saddened to see that you are correct—Miss Jones certainly does not appreciate mine. However, I am stalwart and resolved. I will endure her disapproval with a straight back and determined jaw.”

 

Adam burst out laughing, and he bent to pick up Sam’s bag. “Despite your inflammatory story, Mr. Clemens, in distracting Miss Jones, you’ve done me a good turn today. Let me return the favor. My family and I will be most happy for your company at our ranch until your editor cools off.”

 

“I thank you, Mr. Cartwright, and I appreciate your hospitality.” Sam said. “My circumstances are such that I will take advantage of your kind offer.”

 

“Believe me, the pleasure will be ours,” Adam grinned in anticipation of the evening’s dinner conversation. Without waiting for further discussion, he placed the bag in the back of the wagon. “And Mr. Cartwright is my father. My name is Adam.”

 

“Please call me Sam. By the way, what was the question Miss Jones was so keen to ask you, and you were so keen to avoid being asked?”

 

Adam’s face reddened slightly. “I have no idea. And I’d like to keep it that way.”

 

**********

 

“Pa, I’d like you to meet Sam Clemens, also known by his pen name, ‘Josh.’ Sam, this is my father, Ben Cartwright,” Adam said. He had decided to make Sam’s identity clear to his father from the start to avoid any misunderstandings, but he felt as if he had just set a fox in front of the hounds.

 

Ben’s dark eyebrows rose abruptly. “Josh?” he said. “The Josh who writes for The Territorial Enterprise?”

 

“The very same.” Sam’s brows rose also, inquiring.

 

Ben’s brows descended, shading his dark eyes. “Your stories have caused a great deal of trouble, Mr. Clemens.”

 

Sam nodded. “So your son has told me, and I am gratified to hear it.”

 

“Gratified to hear it? Gratified?” Ben said. “Well, I was not gratified to read it! I was not gratified to find my summer graze overrun with monster hunters!”

 

Hoss and Joe exchanged wide-eyed glances.

 

“Well, suh,” Sam said, his drawl suddenly more pronounced. “I would not like to cause you trouble. But any writer would be lyin’ if he said he wasn’t glad to find his words influenced such a reaction.”

 

Ben glared in silence; Sam stood still, shoulders back, meeting Ben’s gaze squarely.

 

“My story was intended as a diversion—a seed of truth expanded to meet the needs of my sense of humor. And although some parts of that story were outright fabrications, I admit I am somewhat amazed at its acceptance as fact—and its speed in traveling throughout the territory.”

 

Ben made a growling sound and leaned toward Sam.

 

Hoss stepped forward, his hands raised, palms facing Ben. “You know he’s right, Pa,” he said soothingly. “A lie can travel halfway around the world while the truth is still putting on its boots.”

 

Sam grinned. “Well said, sir.” Hoss’ face reddened and he grinned back.

 

Sam turned to face Ben squarely. “You may be interested to know, Mr. Cartwright, that tomorrow’s Enterprise will report the sudden and tragic death of The Petrified Man. He will die of loneliness, pining for a Petrified Woman.”

 

Adam, Hoss and Joe burst out laughing.

 

“Well,” Ben said, straightening a little. “I suppose you aren’t responsible for the gullibility of your fellow man, even if you do provide the ammunition.”

 

Joe and Hoss visibly relaxed. Adam merely smiled.

 

“Despite this—incident—I am glad to meet you, Mr. Clemens,” Ben said, good manners winning over indignation.

 

He took a step back and waved his arm. “This is my middle son, Hoss.”

 

Hoss held out his large hand, a beaming smile on his face. “Pleased to meet, you, Mr. Clemens.”

 

“Call me Sam, please, Hoss.” Sam said, as his hand disappeared into Hoss’ grip.

 

Adam stepped deliberately in front of Joe as he moved forward, pretending he hadn’t seen his younger brother.

 

“Move it, Big Brother,” Joe said, pushing playfully at Adam’s shoulder, trying to step past him. Adam stood solidly, resisting Joe and after a good-natured bit of shoulder tussle, Joe managed to push past Adam to greet their guest. Sam smiled, and looked toward them, but his smile faltered and he took a sharp, audible breath as Joe stepped forward.

 

Joe looked up curiously, still smiling from Adam’s teasing. Sam’s face was pale, his expression frozen.

 

“Sam?” Adam said. “Are you all right?”

 

Sam’s eyes darted to Adam’s, and he nodded his head slightly. “Y—yes, I’m fine.” He took a deep breath. “This must be another brother?”

 

“This is my youngest son, Joseph,” Ben said, watching Sam intently. Joe held out his hand, and after a long, long moment Sam took it, his eyes locked on Joe’s face.

 

Joe’s forehead creased. “Something wrong, Mr. Clemens?”

 

“Call me Sam, please,” Sam said absently. “No nothing’s wrong, you—you just remind me of someone, that’s all. The resemblance is rather—startling.”

 

They waited, but Sam did not say anything further.

 

Ben gestured toward the dining room. “Dinner is ready, and Hop Sing will be getting impatient. Let’s sit down.”

 

The Cartwrights stood until their guest was seated, then took their places around the table.

 

“Sam’s had many different careers,” Adam said, “Licensed riverboat pilot, apprentice printer, temporary soldier, prospector…

 

“Spectacularly unsuccessful prospector,” Sam interjected.

 

“Spectacularly unsuccessful prospector,” Adam agreed, nodding at Sam, “Before becoming a newspaperman here in Virginia City.”

 

“I considered gun fighting for a while, too,” Sam said. “I actually carried a gun on my travels to this territory.” Seeing he had a rapt audience, he continued. “I was armed to the teeth with a pitiful little Smith & Wesson seven-shooter—but I thought it was grand. It appeared to me to be a dangerous weapon. It had only one fault—you could not hit anything with it. One of my fellow stagecoach passengers practiced awhile on a cow with it, and as long as she stood still and behaved herself she was safe, but as soon as she went to moving about, and he got to shooting at other things, she came to grief.”

 

Laughter rumbled around the table, and Ben began to see why Adam had invited their guest to stay.

 

“Sounds like you’ve lived a life of adventure, and perhaps even adversity,” Ben said.

 

“Adventure, tragedy, comedy, adversity—what man has not? By trying, we can easily learn to endure adversity,” Sam glanced around, pausing for effect. “Another man’s, I mean.”

 

Another round of laughter answered this statement, and Sam smugly reached for the potatoes.

 

“I can only think that all your experiences, both good and bad,” Ben said, laughter lingering in his voice, “would provide fuel for a writer’s fire.”

 

“I have been writing about them,” Sam agreed. “It is from experiences such as mine that we get our education of life. We string them into jewels or into tinware, as we may choose.”

 

He paused to dab his napkin deftly at the corner of his mouth. “And when I re-read what I have written, my experiences amaze even me. According to my stories, I have been through some terrible things in my life, some of which actually happened.”

 

Joe grinned as Adam tossed him a wink across the table. Adam passed a platter of steaks to Hoss, who burst out a loud laugh as he took the offered meat.

 

“I’d sure like to hear some of those stories,” Hoss said. “And with the way you have of talkin’, I don’t even care whether the things you tell are true or not!”

 

**********

 

They took their coffee to the living room, still laughing over Sam’s description of playing pirates as a boy. Joe was the last to leave the table. Sam sat on the settee, but when Joe crossed in front of him to sit beside him, Sam stood and moved over to the fireplace.

 

Joe glanced over to Adam, and he saw that Adam had noticed Sam’s move, too.

 

“Sam’s stories remind me of some of the scrapes you boys used to get into when you were young. You should tell Sam about George Washington, Adam,” Ben said, reclaiming Adam’s attention.

 

Sam rocked on his heels, and cocked an eyebrow.

 

“Pa, he doesn’t want to hear about that,” Adam said.

 

“Maybe he doesn’t, but I do,” Joe said.

 

“I take it you are not referring to our first president?” Sam asked.

 

Ben’s eyes twinkled. Adam sighed, resigned.

 

“Hoss and I were kids,” he said. “We had a frog jumping race—kid stuff, but at the time, it felt like the whole world depended on the results.”

 

Joe sipped his coffee, watching as Sam took a notebook from his pocket and sat on the hearth, waiting for Adam to continue. Hoss stood behind Joe, grinning.

 

“I was about fourteen or fifteen, Hoss was eight or nine. Anyway, we challenged Tom Claggett to a race, our frog against his. Tom was the meanest, most ornery kid in town, and even Hoss, who’d never hurt a flea, wanted to see him get his comeuppance.”

 

“Our frog was named George Washington, and he was a prime jumper,” Hoss said.

 

Adam nodded. “But Tom’s frog Hercules was bigger than George Washington, and likely to jump farther and faster.”

 

“That’s the only time I ever remember Adam being, well, less than honest, about something,” Ben said.

 

“Less than honest!” Hoss said. “He cheated!” Hoss easily dodged the sliver of kindling Adam tossed at him.

 

“What did he do?” Sam asked, curious. All eyes swung to Adam, and to Joe’s amazement, Adam’s face was turning pink.

 

“Hoss…” Adam said in a warning tone.

 

“He made it so that Tom’s frog couldn’t jump, even if he wanted to,” Hoss said, grinning, unafraid, back at Adam.

 

“How?” Joe asked, watching his sophisticated, eastern-educated brother.

 

“He filled Hercules’ gullet with quailshot.”

 

There was as silence so deep they could hear Hop Sing’s muttering from the kitchen.

 

Ben, Joe, and finally Sam began to laugh. The mix of Joe’s high-pitched laugh and Ben’s rumble grew to guffaws, and Adam ducked his now red face and glared at them as they laughed.

 

“It isn’t that funny!” Adam said, but that just added Hoss’ laugh to the mix, which in turn, made the others laugh harder.

 

Adam shook his head and stood up. “You sound like a flock of common magpies. On that note, goodnight, gentlemen.” With a dignified lift of his head, he strode up the stairs.

 

Sam filled a page in his notebook, writing furiously, while the remaining Cartwrights laughed.

 

**********

 

Breakfast was a quiet meal. Hoss had eaten early and gone out to start the yard chores, while Adam and Ben discussed the day’s agenda. Joe made his usual late appearance. When he did stumble over to the table, blinking like a scruffy owl, and sat next to Sam, Sam quietly stood up and walked out the front door.

 

Adam and Ben exchanged glances; Joe didn’t seem to notice. Adam picked up his coffee cup and followed Sam out.

 

Sam was standing at the porch railing, smoking his pipe. Adam strolled over and stood beside him. A few minutes later, Ben joined them.

 

“Let me, let me!” A piping voice sounded from near the henhouse.

 

The door behind them creaked open as Joe joined them on the porch, carrying a coffee pot. Sam stepped around Ben, moving deliberately away from Joe. Joe paused, opened his mouth to speak, but apparently thought better of it and merely lifted the coffee pot inquiringly. Adam and then Ben held out their cups for refilling. Sam concentrated on the view of the henhouse.

 

“Thank you, Joseph,” Ben said.

 

“Who’s over at the henhouse with Hoss, Pa?” Adam asked curiously.

 

Ben glanced up. “Petey Watson,” he said absently. “Bill Watson’s little boy—you remember the Watsons? They’ve moved into Strickland’s old place. Hop Sing agreed to keep an eye on Petey while they take care of some business in town, but he’s been following Hoss around all morning.”

 

“Let me take a turn, Hoss!” Petey hopped from foot to foot as he tried to reach the whitewash brush Hoss held high above his head.

 

Hoss eyed the little boy, squinting slightly. “No-o-o, I think you’d better stay back. This ain’t a job for little kids.”

 

“Who’s a little kid?” Petey said indignantly. “Gimme that brush!”

 

“Now, Petey, you need to be careful. This is a tough job. Not everyone can do it. It takes, well, it takes a lot of know-how. I think you need to wait until you are older.”

 

“Ho-oss!” Petey wailed. “Please! Let me just do these boards. I can do it, you’ll see!”

 

“Well…”

 

“Please, Hoss? Please?”

 

“Hoss has got him bamboozled,” Joe said. “Petey’s begging for a chance to do a chore!”

 

Ben smile as he passed the coffee pot to Sam. “Keep your voice down, Joe. Hoss will see that the henhouse gets white-washed, and I have a feeling Petey will never realize he’s doing most of the work.”

 

Sam refilled his coffee cup and watched the eight-year-old Petey as he tugged on Hoss’ arm.

 

“I shouldn’t even be thinkin’ about this,” Hoss mused, stroking his chin. “Some jobs you just need to be older to be able to do…”

 

Petey snatched the whitened brush away from Hoss’ hand.

 

“I’ll show you!” Petey said, tightening his mouth and standing taller. “I’m old enough to do this, you’ll see!”

 

Petey dipped the brush into the bucket, and holding it carefully, began to apply it carefully to the rough boards of the henhouse’s south wall. Hoss stepped back, watching, and pointed out a spot that Petey missed. To the surprise of the group watching from the porch, Petey merely bit his lip and dabbed at the spot.

 

High-pitched laughter escaped Joe; when Petey paused in his work and looked over at him, he turned the sound into a cough. Ben patted his back solicitously. Hoss looked over and winked at his father, and then turned back to eyeing the henhouse wall.

 

After a few minutes, Hoss said “I think I can let you do this wall—if ‘n you keep on the way you’ve started. I’ll be back in a while to check on ya.”

 

“You’ll see, Hoss,” Petey said earnestly. “I’m big enough to do this. You’ll see!”

 

Hoss patted Petey’s shoulder, noting that a smear of whitewash already accented his plump cheek. “We’ll see,” was all he said.

 

He turned and sauntered over to the porch, quirking his eyebrow at Sam, who was scribbling on a paper at the porch table. Joe and Adam grinned, and Adam raised his coffee cup in a mock toast.

 

“Well done, Brother,” Adam said.

 

“Hoss, you have my complete admiration,” Ben said. “Getting Petey to willingly perform that awful chore, even fight for the chance—well, my hat’s off to you, son.”

 

“Learned that the hard way,” Hoss said, “When Adam tricked me into shoveling out barn when I was ten.”

 

Ben handed Hoss a coffee cup. “Now, if you can come up with a way to get Joe to enjoy cleaning the tack room…”

 

Sam’s deep chuckle sound around his pipe as his pen scratched across his paper.

 

**********

 

Adam and Joe headed over to the training corral to start the day’s work. Ben lingered over his coffee, reading a letter. Hop Sing called Petey away from the whitewashing to help in the kitchen, and Hoss ended up finishing the job himself.

 

“Do you raise a good many horses, Mr. Cartwright?” Sam asked, folding the pages he had been writing.

 

“Are you interested in horse-breedin’, Sam?” Hoss asked, walking back from the henhouse, wiping his hands with a rag. “Or horse breakin’?”

 

“I am interested in most things, Hoss,” Sam said, “As for horses, I can always tell which is the front end of a horse, but beyond that my art is not above the ordinary.”

 

Ben smiled. “We got some new horses we are breaking for the remuda, if you are interested.”

 

“I certainly am, thank you, sir.”

 

“Hoss, why don’t you take Sam over to the corral? I believe Joe’s working some green horses this morning.”

 

“Sure thing, Pa. This way, Sam.”

 

But at the mention of Joe’s name, Sam’s body stiffened. “I...er, I wouldn’t care to take you away from your work, Hoss” he said.

 

“No trouble,” Hoss said, eyes narrowing.

 

Sam glanced at him, then at Ben, noting their intent gazes, and realized he had paused too long.

 

“I appreciate your suggestion, Mr. Cartwright,” he said finally. “Lead on, Hoss.”

 

Hoss and Sam strolled around the barn and down the path toward the whoops and dust of the breaking corral. Sam fumbled for his pipe and relit it, uncharacteristically silent.

 

“Sam, can I ask you somethin’?” Hoss asked.

 

Sam puffed on his pipe a little nervously, but answered calmly. “Certainly, Hoss.”

 

“How do you come up with all them funny sayin’s?” Hoss asked. “I never heard anyone make people laugh as much as you do. What’s your secret? You must’ve had nothin’ but fun all day long, when you was a boy.”

 

Sam’s face froze, and Hoss’ smile faded.

 

“No, Hoss,” Sam said. “The secret of humor is not joy, but sorrow.” He paused to tap his pipe on his boot heel, and then strode ahead toward the corral.

 

**********

 

They could hear the argument long before they reached the corral.

 

“I don’t need your advice!” Joe was shouting. “I know how to ride!”

 

“Joe, I can see that you’re apprehensive about this horse, and rightly so. This horse needs special handling…” Adam was saying.

 

Keep using that know-it-all tone, Big Brother, and Little Brother’s gonna do just exactly what you don’t want him to, thought Hoss, and he walked faster toward the corral.

 

Sure enough, as he approached, he saw Joe stomp over to the chute, glance defiantly at Adam, and climb onto the horse. Joe settled into the saddle of a feisty blue roan that two wranglers were straining to hold steady.

 

“Joe!” Adam yelled from his perch on the fence. “That horse needs to be worked…”

 

But Joe had already nodded his OK to release the horse.

 

The roan proved to be hard-mouthed and smart, twisting and hopping as soon as he felt his bridle released. Joe lasted about fifteen seconds before the roan tossed him over his head.

 

Hoss leaped forward to grab at the roan’s headstall and push the horse back while Adam jumped down and ran over to bend over Joe.

 

“Joe!” Adam said, his voice tight. “Are you all right?”

 

“I’m fine,” Joe said, pushing Adam’s hands away. “I don’t need your help!” He picked himself up from the ground, and brushed the dirt from his clothes with short, impatient swipes of his hands.

 

“I tried to tell you. He’s savvy to most tricks,” Adam said, handing Joe his hat. “He’s been tried before, and he knows when a rider is nervous. It’s safer if you study his moves from the ground first, before sitting in the saddle.”

 

“Safer!” Joe said, and slapped his dusty hat against his thigh. “I’m not afraid of a green-broke horse!”

 

“It’s not a matter of fear…”

 

“Ain’t it? That’s what you’ve been sayin’—that I’m scared of him! I’ll get back on that horse and I’ll do it my own way!”

 

“No,” Adam said. “You’re done. You can ride again when you aren’t so angry.”

 

Adam signaled to Hoss and Charlie, and walked over to the roan. He stroked the horse’s neck, and then led him around, walking the horse until its skittering, jerking gait settled into a normal trot. He nodded to Hoss and Charlie who stepped up quietly to hold the roan. Gathering himself, he swung into the saddle, and then nodded his head. Hoss and Charlie released the horse.

 

The roan bucked again, but more deliberately this time. Adam moved with the horse, anticipating his twisting jumps and turns. He rode the horse to a standstill, and then kicked the horse into a controlled lope around the corral. Charlie grinned and ran forward to hold the roan as Adam dismounted. Hoss clapped his older brother on the shoulder as he stepped away from the horse. Adam headed over to where Joe stood. He stopped in front Joe, and looked at him for a long moment.

 

“If you’d listen, you’d see that I’m just trying to help you,” Adam said.

 

“I don’t need your kind of help!” Joe said between gritted teeth. “You can’t stand to let me do things my way, can you? No, you gotta show me that I’m not as smart as you, that I’m not as brave as you, and you gotta make sure every hand knows it!”

 

“Joe!” Hoss said in a low voice. “You’re the one makin’ a fool of yourself. You just better simmer down!” Joe deliberately looked out toward the holding pen, breathing hard. Adam slapped his hat back onto his head and stalked away, his heels digging into the packed down dirt. Joe started after him, but Hoss stepped in front of him, placing both big hands on Joe’s shoulders.

 

“Git over to the fence and sit down! I don’t want to hear no more out of you!” Hoss gave Joe a shove toward the fence, and then went back to help Charlie with the next horse. Joe clapped his hat down on his head and kicked the dirt with an angry swipe of his boot, then climbed onto the corral fence and sat down hard, elbows on his knees.

 

Sam watched Joe sympathetically. Streaks of dirt criss-crossed his face, and there was a tear in the left shoulder seam of his shirt. He was muttering under his breath. Sam caught only a few phrases—”hard-headed know-it-all” and “older don’t make ’em smarter”—and their familiarity made him smile. e was muttering to himself, He  When he heard Joe’s muttering tapering off, he walked over and stood next to him.

 

“Sure you want to stand so close?” Joe said childishly. “Whatever I got, it might be catching.”

 

Sam’s eyebrows flew up and then he glanced at the pipe in his hands. “I didn’t think I was being so obvious.” He took a deep breath. “I have nothing against you, Joe. You just—it’s just that you remind me of someone I used to know.”

 

They both watched as Adam rode another horse to a standstill.

 

“Few things are harder to put up with than the annoyance of a good example,” Sam observed.

 

Joe nodded, let a long breath out, and scrubbed his hand over his face.

 

“Yeah, and Older Brother has been ‘annoying’ me all my life.” There was no rancor in his tone, just regretful admiration. 

 

Sam smiled, and some of his reluctance to get to know this young man slipped away. “As both an older brother and a younger brother, I stand with a foot in both camps,” he said. “So you might choose to ignore what I’m about to say: your brother has only your safety in mind when he took over with that horse. He had no idea of making you look bad in front of the other hands.”

 

“You’re right,” Joe said, looking at Sam from under lowered brows. “I do choose to ignore what you say.”

 

Joe’s reply tugged at another memory, and despite himself, Sam laughed. “Suit yourself, Little Joe, suit yourself.” He patted Joe’s knee and walked over to where Hoss was standing.

 

Joe rubbed his sleeve across his face and gazed after Sam curiously.

 

**********

 

“Where is Joe?” Ben said, slapping a stack of papers down on his desk. “Dinner is ready, and once again, we are waiting on him.”

 

“Uh, I think he’s down in the barn,” said Hoss. “I’ll go get him.”

 

“If you don’t mind, I’d be happy to call him,” Sam said.

 

Ben nodded. “Thank you, Sam.”

 

When Sam walked into the barn’s evening shadows, he could hear Joe’s voice coming from one of the stalls. He peered over the top boards, to see who Joe was talking to, and smiled to see that there was no one there but a pretty pinto cowpony.

 

“How am I gonna prove I’m not scared if my brothers are always playin’ mother hen, Cooch?” Joe punctuated his statement with long, two-handed strokes of his brushes. “‘Watch out, Little Joe, wait a while, Little Joe, let me show you how…’”

 

Sam cleared his throat. Joe’s brushes stopped abruptly.

 

“Pardon me, Joe, but dinner is ready,” Sam said.

 

The brushes started up again. “I’ll be in shortly.”

 

Sam watched those brushes for a moment, trying to decide if he should say anything.

 

“I heard what you said about proving that you aren’t scared, Joe,” Sam said tentatively. “Sorry—I’ve always been one to eavesdrop shamelessly—you learn so much more than politeness provides.”

 

Joe, no stranger to eavesdropping himself, snorted in response.

 

Sam took that as encouragement, and continued. “And while I think to believe yourself brave is to be brave; it is also important to realize that courage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear - not abstinence of fear.”

 

Joe snorted again. “That sounds like something Adam would say.”

 

“Adam is a wise man.”

 

“Yeah.” Joe looked away. The brushes paused, then resumed. “Yeah, he is.”

 

“You don’t sound convinced.”

 

“That Adam is wise? Sure, I know that.”

 

“No, I mean you don’t seem convinced about courage versus fear.”

 

Joe shook his head. “I’ve seen courage all my life. Adam’s never been afraid of anything. Hoss neither. I’ve seen ‘em both face up to Bannocks and outlaws and pretty girls and even Pa, without blinking. That’s more than I can ever hope to—I can’t help but be scared sometimes…”

 

“Not flinching doesn’t mean not scared.”

 

Joe shook his head again. “I’ve never seen them scared.”

 

“I have.”

 

Joe’s head snapped up. “You have?”

 

Sam nodded. “Down at the corral today. When Adam stopped you from getting back on the roan.”

 

Joe shook his head. “You got it wrong, Sam. He wasn’t scared. He was mad.”

 

“He was mad because he was scared. He saw you fall from that outlaw horse. He was terrified that his little brother was hurt.”

 

Sam let this idea sink in.

 

“Hoss was scared, too. He forced that horse back so hard it sat back on its haunches like a naughty puppy.” Sam smiled slightly. “Never saw that before. Your brother’s a very strong man.”

 

Joe just looked at him. Finally he said, “You sure?”

 

Sam looked back, exasperated. “Are you telling me you don’t know that your brothers worry about you?”

 

Joe’s face turned red. “Well, worryin’ ain’t the same…”

 

“Worrying IS fear, you obtuse dunderhead! Are you so blind that you don’t see that?” Sam sounded angry. “Don’t you see that your older brothers would do anything to keep you safe…”

 

Joe stared at Sam in surprise. Sam snapped his mouth shut, and without another word, turned and walked out of the barn.

 

**********

 

“Sam?” Joe called from the hall. Sam had been shut away in his room since he had come to the barn to call Joe for dinner. “Sam? I think I done or said somethin’ to make you mad. I just wanted to tell you I’m sorry for whatever it was I said. I didn’t mean to.”

 

There was no answer.

 

“Hop Sing said to let you know that he’d be happy to bring you something on a tray…”

 

The door opened, and Sam looked back out. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to be alone for a while. Please give your family my regrets; I will not be joining you for dinner this evening.” The door closed with a quiet click.

 

Joe’s stomach twisted. He didn’t know what he had done, but for some reason Sam was upset. The only sure thing was that it was his fault. First Adam and Hoss, now Sam.

 

All I need to do is break Pa’s favorite pipe and drop one of Hop Sing’s plates, and I’ll have them all hatin’ me, Joe thought morosely. He turned around and walked back down the stairs, dragging his feet on every step.

 

**********

 

The breakfast table was unusually quiet the next morning. Joe arrived on time, hoping to have a word with Sam before the rest of the family came down, but Sam was the last to the table. No one commented on either occurrence, however. Ben looked around from under his lowered brows, surveying his sons and his guest. The same tension that had been present at dinner last night was just as strong this morning - seemingly magnified by Sam’s tight-lipped presence.

 

“Since today is Saturday,” Ben began, “I can spare Joe for that tour of the Ponderosa I promised, Sam. I’ve asked Hop Sing to pack a lunch for you. You will be sure, Joseph, to be back by late afternoon. We are expecting Reverend Miller and his wife for dinner. They are most anxious to meet our guest.”

 

Joe did not display the enthusiasm Ben expected when he was told he would spend an easy day riding around the ranch.

 

“It’s not necessary to entertain me this morning,” Sam said without looking up. “I’m sure that your sons have better things to do than show an eastern greenhorn around.”

 

“Pa, I’d be happy to show Sam the pretty places…” Hoss began, but Adam kicked him under the table. “Er, come to think on it, I am kinda busy with the herd…”

 

Joe lowered his eyes. “If you’d rather spend time doin’ something else, Mr. Clemens,” or with someone else, he thought “… I sure don’t mind.”

 

Sam’s head jerked up. He looked long at Joe, who refused to meet his eyes. He has no idea why I was so angry, he thought. I’m not so sure I know myself.

 

“Thank you, Mr. Cartwright,” Sam said slowly. “I’d be pleased to have Joe as my guide.”

 

Joe’s eyes snapped up to his and his jaw dropped open slightly.

 

“Although I’ll warn you,” Sam continued, his drawl very pronounced. “I am one of the poorest horsemen in the world. I never mount a horse without experiencin’ a sort of dread that I may be setting out on that last mysterious journey which all of us must take sooner or later, and I never come back in safety from a horseback trip without thinkin’ of my latter end for two or three days afterward.”

 

There was relieved laughter at this, and even Joe smiled reluctantly.

 

“Horseback is the best way to see the ranch,” Joe said, “But don’t worry. I’ll pick out an easy-goer for you.”

 

Sam let out his breath, relieved that the youngest Cartwright recognized and accepted the olive branch he had extended. “I’ll be ready.”

 

**********

 

“Are you sure this animal is agreeable to this endeavor?” Sam looked up at the big sorrel doubtfully.

 

Joe smiled. “There isn’t a more patient, easy-going animal on the ranch. Hoss named him Sweet Pea, but Charlie said a name like that would be too embarrasin’ for such a big horse, so he calls him Big Red. But I think Sweet Pea suits him better.” Big Red/Sweet Pea lowered his head and nuzzled the front of Joe’s shirt. “He doesn’t much care what he’s called, do you boy?”

 

Sam let out a slow breath, and prepared to mount the big horse. “If horses knew their strength, we should not ride anymore,” he murmured.

 

Joe smiled, and ran a gloved hand down the broad neck. “Yeah, I’ve often thought we are barely tolerated by some horses, but not this boy. This boy doesn’t have a mean bone in his body, do you Sweet Pea?” 

 

He held the bridle while Sam mounted, then swung into his own saddle and led the way out of the yard.

 

**********

 

They rode side by side, their horses meandering along the road, conversation sputtering and stopping as Sam struggled from topic to topic. When Sam asked about Joe’s favorite books, Joe threw up a hand in defeat.

 

“You should ask Adam about books, not me,” Joe said. “He loves books, especially poetry. He’s read the classics, like Shakespeare, and Milton and other names I can’t remember. I never could stand ‘em, myself—I’d rather read a good adventure in a dime novel.”

 

Sam smiled. “You know, Joe, you’re not alone in that. I’ve observed that a ‘classic’ is a book that everyone praises and no one reads.”

 

Joe laughed. “Don’t let Miss Jones hear you say that! She was my teacher when I was in school, and she thinks everything in the world can be explained by books. The older and mustier the book, the better.”

 

Sam shuddered. “Having met Miss Jones, I’m not surprised you have an aversion for the classics, if she was your guide to them. However, not all good books are saddled with the label ‘classic.’ And remember, the man who doesn’t read good books has no advantage over the man who can’t read them.”

 

Joe groaned. “Yeah, you and Adam are alike, all right. I’d rather play cards and have a good time than read.”

 

“By cards, I take it you mean poker?”

 

“What other kinda card game is there? There is nothing in books that compares to drawing to an inside straight.”

 

“Drawing to an inside—that’s the most foolish—haven’t you ever considered a little thing called odds? A book won’t give you the thrill of winning, but it certainly isn’t going to take your last dollar if you guess incorrectly about what’s on the next page.”

 

“It’s the long odds that make winning feel so good! There is nothing like winnin’! Nothing like it in the world, except maybe ridin’ a tough horse, or kissing a pretty girl.”

 

“How often do you actually win, playing the way you do?”

 

Joe looked off toward the woods. “Let’s take the river trail from here.”

 

“Joe? I believe you heard the question I posed. How often do you win playing such long odds?”

 

Joe ducked his head. “Well, I’m having a bad stretch right now, but my luck’s bound to change…”

 

“True. But as a new friend of your generous family, I feel a certain, well—obligation, to point out…”

 

“I know, don’t you think I know?” Joe said. “It’s only a temporarily loss, if it’s any of your business!”

 

Sam sighed. “How much do you owe?”

 

Joe looked away, and his face reddened. “My Sunday saddle,” he said. “But it’s just until next payday, then Stu promised I could buy it back.”

 

He turned his horse off the main road onto the twisting trail to the river, then stopped his horse, and turned in the saddle. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention it to my family.”

 

Sam studied Joe’s young face, and his earnest, pleading eyes struck a sharp stab of familiarity through his belly.

 

“All right,” Sam agreed. “Your secret is safe with me.”

 

They continued in strained silence down a twisting, pleasant path that reminded Sam of his childhood wanderings along the Mississippi. He glanced ahead at the stiff-backed youth ahead of him, and then around at the muddy shore of the Truckee River.

 

“Joe,” Sam asked, spotting a few logs stranded on the riverbank. “Have you ever tried rafting on your river?”

 

The lifting of Joe’s head and the light of interest in his eyes warmed the cold pang of memory in Sam’s heart.

 

**********

 

Several hours later, Sam and Joe stomped in through the ranch house front door, laughing and pushing at each other like boys half their ages. Joe, dripping wet from the untimely end to his brief attempt at river rafting, stopped short when he saw his father’s guests. Oblivious to the disapproving silence that greeted Joe’s entrance, Sam continued on into the room, muddy boots squelching across the floor.

 

“Hello,” Sam said, holding out his hand. “I’m very sorry to be so noisy; I didn’t realize Mr. Cartwright had guests. My name is Sam Clemens.”

 

“This is Reverend and Mrs. Miller, Sam,” Ben said, coming hastily to his feet. “They heard about the illustrious newspaper man staying at our home, and stopped by expressly to meet you. Joseph! I thought you were going to be showing Sam around the ranch. You look like you’ve been swimming behind your horse rather than riding it.” Ben’s tone was mild, and Joe grinned, cracking the dried mud on his face.

 

“I had a little run in with the river, Pa. I’d be glad for a little something warm to drink before I get cleaned up.” Joe picked up a cup and saucer from the dining room table, sipping the hot tea, sighing in relief as the warmth spread through his middle.

 

“He is a little dirty,” Sam laughed. “Excuse me, Reverend Miller, Mrs. Miller, but you understand, some things, like a chance to show Joe how a Mississippi River pilot maneuvers a log raft on a river, just cannot be ignored. Of course, we never really got that far, since Joe’s acrobatics took him into the water before the log even had a chance to grow into a raft…”

 

“Next time I’ll go barefoot. But I still say I could have balanced just fine if you hadn’t…” Joe began, but Adam caught his eye and shook his head.

 

Reverend Miller held his head high, and pursed his lips. “Well, Young Joseph” he said, glancing down his nose at Joe’s dirty coat and muddy shoes. “You certainly seem to be the worse for it. I must say I am surprised at you. It would have been better manners to change your apparel before joining your father’s guests. You may be singularly uncaring about your appearance, but you’d be well advised to remember—and I’m sure Mr. Clemens will agree with me when I say it—‘Clothes Maketh the Man.’”

 

Silence greeted this remark, a silence that made Joe wince and drove the good humor from Sam’s face.

 

“I do indeed most heartily agree with you, Reverend,” Sam said, dropping the hand he had extended to Reverend Miller. He turned toward Joe, and shook his finger at him. “Joe, Reverend Miller is absolutely correct. Clothes do make the man. It’s been my experience that naked people seem to have very little influence on society.”

 

Mrs. Miller uttered “Ooh!” and set her cup and saucer down abruptly at the word “naked.”

 

“Do you find that to be the case, too, Mrs. Miller?” Sam asked innocently.

 

“Sir, I would ask you to mind your tongue!” Reverend Miller said, holding his wife’s bag as she searched for a handkerchief. “Speaking of such a subject to my wife! I’m surprised at a man of letters acting the fool!”

 

“You’re again correct, Reverend,” Sam said mournfully. “It is better to keep your mouth closed and let people think you are a fool, than to open it and remove all doubt.”

 

Joe spit his tea into his cup, coughing and sputtering. Hoss pounded him on the back.

 

“Joseph!” Ben said. “Step outside if you need to cough that way.”

 

“Yes s-sir,” Joe said gratefully, and fled the house.

 

“Well, I never!” Mrs. Miller said.

 

“Did you just call me a fool, Sir?” Reverend Miller demanded.

 

“I did not, Sir,” Sam said, matching his tone. “If I had, I would have called you a damned fool, and I don’t believe I said that.”

 

Mrs. Miller set down her cup and rose majestically to her feet.

 

“I must say that I don’t appreciate your—your levity or your language, Mr. Clemens!” she said, stepping in front of her husband. With her superior height and enormous hat, she completely obscured the Reverend from Sam’s view. “Our illustrious host’s home is not a place for profanity! Especially under these circumstances—in the presence of my husband—a man of prayer!”

 

“Under some circumstances, madam,” Sam said, “profanity provides a relief denied even to prayer.”

 

Adam’s coughing fit and strangled excuses sent him following after Joe out the front door.

 

Ben looked after his sons, who one by one seemed to be deserting him in his time of need. Sam stood, legs braced, mud caking his boots from his knees to his toes, ready for battle. Hoss looked bewilderedly from one person to another, uncertain as to what had just happened.

 

Reverend Miller picked up his hat, took his wife by the elbow, and stepped to the door.

 

“I will wish you good day, Mr. Cartwright. I feel that to remain any longer would expose my wife to—to rank and uncouth behavior.” He put on his hat, threw back his head, and ushering his wife before him, marched out the door.

 

“Let us be thankful for fools,” Sam said, under his breath. “But for them, the rest of us could not succeed.”

 

Ben glared at Sam. “I’d suggest you get yourself cleaned up for dinner,” he said pointedly, and turned toward the door, only to pause and look back. “It is a pity that there is no bath that will cure people's manners,” he added. “Perhaps only drowning would help!” He quickly followed after the Millers, and his soothing voice could be heard through the open door, apologizing for the treatment they had received.

 

Hoss listened to his father’s voice, head cocked. “Pa’d almost make me believe he was sorry for the Millers,” he said, looking at Sam with narrowed eyes. “But he ain’t so sorry for you, swearin’ at a guest in his house, even if you are a guest yourself. I wouldn’t care to give odds on who’d come out ahead if you and Pa went head to head. If I were you, I’d make myself scarce.”

 

Sam’s bravado disappeared like air from a deflating balloon. “I believe I’ll—uh, I will retire to the bathhouse and try to scrub away some of those bad manners,” he said, and hurried out through the kitchen just as Ben’s footsteps could be heard on the front porch.

 

**********

 

“Mr. Clemens,” Ben said as Sam and Joe, both chastened and much cleaner, appeared at the top of the stairs before dinner.

 

Sam looked up and glanced about as if seeking a way out.

 

“Uh-oh,” Joe said under his breath. “You’re ‘Mr. Clemens’ again, not ‘Sam.’ You’re in for it.”

 

“I’d like a word with you,” Ben said. “Please join me in a stroll to the corral.”

 

Adam winced in sympathy, and handed Sam a drink as he passed through the great room.

 

Ben stood at the door, waiting for Sam, his eyebrows lowered in disapproval. Sam waited until the heavy door shut behind them, and then plunged into speech.

 

“Mr. Cartwright, I most sincerely regret losing control of my tongue,” Sam said. “It is a very egregious thing to insult a guest in another man’s house—especially when I am a guest there myself. But when the good Reverend chastised young Joe for a mishap that was entirely my fault—well, I was reminded of my own younger brother, and jumped, inappropriately it seems, into the breach.”

 

Ben’s eyebrows retreated a little. “You seem to do that quite often,” he said. “Lose control of your tongue, I mean.”

 

“Alas, that is an observation made often by my own mother as well,” Sam shook his head mournfully and sipped his drink. Whiskey. Bless you, Adam, Sam thought.

 

Ben’s eyebrows bridged his nose again. “She has my most profound sympathy.”

 

“My mother had a great deal of trouble with me,” Sam said, and leaned forward conspiratorially. “But I think she enjoyed it.”

 

Ben threw his hands up. “I am coming to believe are a lost cause. My sons’ laughter only seems to encourage you to more outrageous statements. I only ask you to try to mind your language and levity in the future.”

 

Sam nodded. “I’ll try, sir, but I’ll warn you, it is my custom to keep on talking until I get my audience cowed.”

 

Ben smiled in spite of himself. “I’ve seen the proof of that today.”

 

They strolled across the yard, each a little bit more content with the other.

 

“You said Joe reminds you of your brother,” Ben asked as they rounded the corral. “In what way?”

 

Sam smiled slightly. “Henry was the youngest and the darling of his family. He had curly hair, and a sunny, introspective nature.”

 

“Well,” Ben smiled, “Although I would hardly call Joe introspective, there’s some resemblance in the rest of the portrait.”

 

“He’s about the same age, or maybe a year or two younger, as Henry was when…” he hesitated, then finished in a rush, “…the last time I saw him.”

 

If Ben noticed the hesitation, he did not remark on it. “Were you and Henry close?”

 

Sam looked off to the view of the setting sun, and did not answer for a long, long moment. “Not when we were children,” he said. “Henry was a good boy, never offended anyone, always walked the straight and narrow. He was my mother’s favorite, although she will deny it adamantly; doubly so when our brother Ben died of an illness when he was ten.”

 

Ben closed his eyes. “I can only imagine your mother’s grief,” he said. “Losing a child of such a young age…”

 

Sam continued as if he hadn’t heard. “Being a good boy, Henry was the perfect little tattle-tale, and I fell victim to his moral standards more than once. But a good pelting with dirt clods usually reminded him of the error of his ways.”

 

Sam turned his now empty glass round and round in hand. “As we grew older, I learned to…appreciate him, understand him. He listened to me better than anyone ever has, even to this day. He had a talent for reading—discernment, I would call it—that surpassed all his older brothers’ gifts.”

 

“Where is your brother now?” Ben asked gently, suspecting the answer.

 

“He…” Sam took a deep, shuddering breath. “It’s been nearly two years since…since he died. He was only nineteen.”

 

“I’m so very sorry,” Ben said. “I’m sure you miss him very much.”

 

Sam ran a hand across his face, recovering his composure a little. “I’m sorry to be so maudlin, but…”

 

“But Joe’s resemblance to your brother stirred up painful memories?” Ben said softly. “Grief lurks below the surface, triggered by a mere scent or the glimpse of a shadow. Sometimes the pain is so sharp it’s as if the loss has just occurred.”

 

Sam stiffened. “I respectfully submit that you don’t know what the hell you are talking about, sir! You don’t know anything about my…my brother. You don’t know anything about what I’ve lost.”

 

Ben stepped back, and sighed. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t mean to presume. But I do know how it feels to lose someone you love. You want to protect yourself from further hurt, keep people at a distance, perhaps by using flippant words or distracting jokes. But to really feel again, to be happy, you need to be with people. Grief can take care of itself, but to get the full value of a joy, you must have somebody to divide it with.”

 

Sam looked back at him solemnly, like an owl, unblinking. “What did you say?”

 

“Don’t use your humor to wall yourself off, Sam,” Ben said quietly.

 

Sam’s eyes sought Ben’s, and the grief and pain shone deep and dark. “I see you are not a stranger to that kind of grief yourself, Mr. Cartwright,” he said softly.

 

“No, grief and I know each other well,” Ben said.

 

The two stood in companionable silence, each sailing deep into his own private harbor of memory.

 

***********

 

“Boys, I believe we have a thief on the Ponderosa,” Ben said mildly at dinner as he buttered a biscuit.

 

“A thief?”

 

“What do you mean, a thief?”

 

Sam looked around the table thoughtfully as Adam and Hoss bristled with indignation. Joe, however, sat frozen-still.

 

“Reverend Miller said he had thought Joe was in town today, because he saw a horse with a fancy saddle just like Joe’s tied outside the livery. But we all know that Joe was showing Sam around the ranch all day.”

 

“The saddle we got Joe for his birthday? I didn’t think there was another’n like it in the whole territory,” Hoss said.

 

“I didn’t either,” Ben said, “but he said it was there, plain as day.”

 

“Pa, if there’s one thing that saddle ain’t, it’s plain,” Hoss said.

 

Joe smiled wanly.

 

“Well, I checked the tack room while you two were cleaning yourselves up, and Joe’s saddle isn’t there. Now I know that you only use it for special occasions, so I’m sorry to say, Joseph, that I think that your saddle must have been stolen.”

 

Silence. All eyes turned to Joe.

 

“I…I’ll just check for myself, Pa,” Joe said, avoiding everyone’s gaze, especially Sam’s, and he nearly bolted from the table.

 

Hoss rubbed the back of his neck. “There’s somethin’ up with that boy,” he said. “I would have expected him to throw an almighty blue fit over that saddle.”

 

“Yes,” Adam agreed. “And I would have expected him to notice it was missing before anyone else did. There isn’t a day goes by that he doesn’t give that saddle an extra shine.”

 

“Don’t push,” Ben said. “He’ll balk like a nervous colt.”

 

“Maybe he’ll talk to me,” Sam said. “Sometimes it’s easier to tell someone who’s not so close to the situation.”

 

“What situation?” Hoss asked, leaning toward Sam. “You know something about a situation? What ain’t you tellin’ us?”

 

Sam held his hands up, palms toward Hoss. “I’m just saying Joe may tell me what’s bothering him, that’s all.”

 

“Sorry, Sam.” Hoss looked down at his plate. “It’s just that me and Adam have been responsible for that boy his whole life.”

 

“I know what it means to be responsible for a younger brother,” Sam said quietly. “I had younger brothers, too.”

 

“Had?” Adam asked.

 

Sam glanced at Ben, who nodded encouragingly. “I, uh, I have one brother still living. Orion, ten years older than me.” Sam took a deep breath. “Of the seven children my parents had, three died in childhood. My…my younger brother Henry…” He took another, deeper breath. “Henry died when he was nineteen; he was working on a steamboat on the Mississippi when the boat exploded.”

 

Hoss closed his eyes briefly, and then placed a gentle hand on Sam’s shoulder. “I’m right sorry to hear that,” he said quietly. “You’ve had a whole lot of sorrow in your life, that’s for sure. And I reckon you do know about protecting little brothers.”

 

Sam smiled again, but it was a bitter smile, his lips twisted in self-derision. “I didn’t protect my little brother, Hoss. I sent him to his death.”

 

He stood up from the table, laid his napkin down deliberately, and walked out the front door, leaving the others to stare after him in surprise.

 

**********

 

Sam found Joe on the front porch, slouched deep into a rocking chair. He sank down on the step next to him and sat in silence for several minutes. Joe did not seem inclined to speak, however.

 

“So, when are you going to tell him?” Sam said when he could endure the silence no longer.

 

Joe looked at Sam in feigned confusion.

 

“Your father,” Sam elaborated. “When are you going to tell him about losing your saddle?”

 

“Keep your voice down!” Joe hissed. “He thinks it was stolen. No one knows I lost it in a poker game. If I keep my mouth shut, no one ever will.”

 

Sam shook his head. “Always acknowledge a fault,” he said. “It will throw those in authority off their guard and…” he leaned forward and spoke for Joe’s ear only “…it will give you an opportunity to commit more.”

 

Joe glared at him, and clenched his teeth in an effort to keep his voice from carrying to the open front window. “You’re as bad as Reverend Miller! You got an answer for everything, don’t you? I got enough keepers around here; I don’t need you tellin’ me what to do!”

 

“It’s best to get it over with,” Sam continued, as if Joe hadn’t spoken. “Remember, don’t try to make the story sound better with lies or half-truths. When in doubt, tell the truth. If you tell the truth, you don’t have to remember anything.”

 

“I suppose you always tell the truth?” Joe asked, his voice sarcasm-heavy.

 

Sam sighed mournfully and placed a hand over his heart. “Even I am dishonest. Not in many ways, but in some.” He paused, ticking the fingers of his right hand with his left. “Forty-one, I think it is.”

 

Joe smiled despite himself. Somehow, Sam managed to make him feel better about disappointing his father yet again. “I suppose you’re right about speaking up about it. Pa will find out sooner or later anyway. He always does.”

 

“That’s the spirit,” Sam said, clapping him on the back. “It’s good to obey all the rules when you're young, so you'll have the strength to break them when you're old. Tell you what: I’ll go with you. Your father’s less likely to reprimand you in front of a houseguest, isn’t he?”

 

Joe snorted. “Not Pa. He believes in letting you know right away what you done wrong. No, I’d better do this on my own.”

 

Joe stood, and took a deep breath. “Just so you know—I’ve learned my lesson. No more gamblin’. I aim to be nothing but good from this day forward.”

 

Sam shook his head. “Joe, Joe, don’t overdo. Be that good and you will be lonesome. No one expects that.”

 

Joe laughed out loud, as the front door opened and Ben stepped out onto the porch. Joe watched his father breathe the fresh evening air, and then, squaring his shoulders, said, “Pa? Can I talk to you for a minute?”

 

Sam raised a finger to his brow in salute, then stood up and quietly walked toward the barn. He felt a sudden need to visit a saloon.

 

**********

 

Sam returned several hours later, swaying back and forth on Big Red, who patiently stopped in the yard, one rein dragging in the dirt. Sam leaned forward and fell rather than dismounted, mumbling about wild horses as he lay on his back on the ground.

 

Adam had been waiting for him, reading by lantern light on the porch. The rest of his family had gone to bed hours ago, once the whereabouts of Joe’s saddle was resolved.

 

Adam reached a hand to Sam, pulling him to his unsteady feet.

 

“Thank you, sir,” Sam said. “I believe there is a high wind this evening that plucked me right off that fiery steed.”

 

“No doubt,” Adam said dryly, “and the fact that you have been drinking doesn’t factor in at all.”

 

“Drink? Don’t mind if I do,” Sam said, pulling a flask from his pocket. “Would you care to join me?”

 

“No. And I think you’ve already had too much,” Adam said.

 

“Sometimes too much to drink is barely enough,” Sam said, and took a long swig from his flask.

 

Adam studied the lines in Sam’s face, the determined set to his jaw. “Sam,” he said softly, “I am so very sorry about your brother. I’m sure that a loss like that…”

 

“Your brothers are tucked up safe in your big house,” Sam said bitterly, and he suddenly didn’t sound the least bit drunk. “Don’t presume to know anything about my losses, my griefs.”

 

“I may not understand exactly what you feel, but I can see you are in pain,” Adam said. “Perhaps if you could talk about it, or if that is too painful, write about it…”

 

“You suggest I write about my pain,” Sam said, his lip curling. “Damn you to hell! You don’t know what you are talking about!”

 

Sam lifted his flask, and finished the remaining contents in one gulp.

 

“I write to escape pain. Not to embrace it.”

 

Adam ran a hand across his eyes. He felt out of his depth; anything he said would seem a mere platitude in the face of Sam’s deep sorrow.

 

“I dreamed about his death, y’ know,” Sam said, looking off into the distance. “About a month b’fore he died. I dreamed I saw Henry in a metal casket with a bouquet of white flowers on his chest. He was wearin’ my suit. In my dream, his face was calm and white and perfect.

 

“It haunted me for weeks, that dream. It was so real, so vivid, that one morning I got up, got dressed, and looked for the casket in the drawing room, before realizing, with utter and complete joy, that it was only a dream, and Henry was alive and waiting for me at the docks.”

 

Sam tried his flask again, and when he discovered it was empty, he held it high, upended it, and shook it. Not a single drop came out. He blinked and blinked to focus his eyes, then recapped the flask with exaggerated care, like a near-sighted seamstress threading a needle. When the cap was tight, he nodded in satisfaction, and turned to look at Adam.

 

“I was apprentice pilot on the Pennsylvania,” he continued, “’prenticed to a—well, devil sounds too good for him. Of all the animals, man is the only one that is cruel. He is the only one who inflicts pain for the pleasure of doing it.”

 

Sam voice became as steely as his gaze.

 

“Mr. William Brown.” He spat out the name and gripped the porch rail with one white-knuckled fist. “Such a plain, everyday name for an extraordinarily evil animal. He tormented me, and then turned on Henry to torment me further, until he and I came to blows. I was forced to leave the Pennsylvania for another position. But Henry had to stay and endure Brown’s cruelty alone.

 

“Henry and I agreed to meet further down the river, in Memphis.” Sam’s voice quavered, and he took a deep breath. “Four days later, the Pennsylvania exploded while racing another boat. Henry was thrown against the boiler before landing in th’ water.”

 

Sam uttered a sharp oath and hurled the empty whiskey flask away into the dark. Adam heard it clatter against the horse trough.

 

“I found him two days later at the Memphis Exchange, where they had set up a sort of hospital for the survivors. His body was painfully, tragically, burned, but his kind, young face was unmarked.

 

“I knew as soon as I saw him there was no hope. I think he knew, too, but even in extreme pain, he was so polite, so uncomplaining. He became a favorite of the nursing staff. I watched him suffer for six days—six excruciating, hellish days!—before he was taken from me.

 

“When he—when he died—I came back to arrange to take him home. Just as in my dream, he lay in a metal coffin, with white roses on his breast, dressed in a suit of my clothes. The nurses had wanted to do something special for him.”

 

Sam sank down onto the porch step, his head lolling against the post.

 

“Ironically, sir, I did write about it.” Sam’s voice was calm, now, deadly calm, and he reached into his pocket. “The man of letters, the reporter. One more story to write, the worst possible story, written for the people that least wanted to read it.”

 

He flung a creased and well-handled paper toward Adam, and then leaned back against the post, staring out at the night sky.

 

Adam sat beside Sam on the step and reached for the paper. He opened it carefully, reverently, and bent his head to read it in the lantern light.

 

“My dearest Mollie,

 

Long before this letter reaches you, my poor Henry,—my darling, my pride, my glory, my all, will have finished his blameless career, and the light of my life will have gone out in utter darkness. O, God! This is hard to bear. Hardened, hopeless—aye, lost—lost—lost and ruined sinner as I am—I, even, I have humbled myself to the ground and prayed as never a man prayed before, that the great God might let this cup pass from me—that he would strike me to the earth, but spare my brother—that he would pour out the fullness of his just wrath upon my wicked head, but have mercy, mercy, mercy upon that unoffending boy...”

 

Tears blurred his vision, and raw emotion choked his throat. Adam couldn’t read any farther. He folded the letter with shaking hands, and placed it back near Sam’s limp hand.

 

“It is one of the mysteries of our nature that a man, all unprepared, could receive a thunder-stroke like that and live.” Sam’s voice was quiet, wondering. “There is but one reasonable explanation of it. My intellect was stunned by the shock and but gropingly gathered the meaning of the words. The power to realize their full import was mercifully lacking.”

 

“I don’t ‘member writing that letter,” Sam continued in a faraway voice. “My sister copied it for me later, thinkin’ it would help me. I recall every detail of the Memphis Exchange, the waiting, his pain—but nothing of the trip home. They tell me they sent someone with me when I took his body to St. Louis. I don’t remember. I know he lies beside my father, but I don’t remember that, either.”

 

Sam took a ragged breath.

 

“You know, when I was home in St. Louis, men came up to me on the street and congratulated me, and told me how lucky I was not to be on the Pennsylvania when she blew up. Lucky! They called me ‘lucky!’ God forgive them! I hated them for saying that.”

 

“Sam…”

 

Sam started a little at the sound of his name, then looked hard at Adam. “So you see, Adam, I am responsible for my younger brother’s death. I brought him to the river, I set him on his career, I ’prenticed him to a monster, then dodged free as he died in my place.”

 

He picked up the folded letter and stood, pausing to let his uneasy balance return, and then walked toward the front door. After he had taken a few steps, he turned back to face Adam.

 

“Nothing, nothing I could write will ever change that.”

 

**********

 

No one had objected when Sam did not get up in time for Sunday service. No one remarked on his appearance, either, when he stumbled down from his room shortly after the Cartwrights returned from church, although there would have been a lot to remark upon. His red-rimmed, blood-shot eyes seemed to barely tolerate the light, and he held his head with both hands as he sat blinking in the blue chair. His shirt was rumpled and misbuttoned, and he wore no jacket. His hair chose its own direction, apparently without the benefit of a comb. He declined all suggestions of food, sipping cup after cup of coffee held between shaking hands.

 

Ben had suggested the Cartwright brothers take Sam fishing after lunch. By the time the Cartwrights finished eating, Sam looked a little less ragged, and apathetically agreed to Ben’s suggestion.

 

No one commented that they were unlikely to catch any fish on such a sweltering afternoon.

 

“I ain’t never seen such a hot day!” Hoss said, wiping a bandana across his brow.

 

Adam smiled at Hoss, silently thanking him for setting such an obvious, irresistible opening before Sam. There’s more than one type of fish, and more than one type of bait, he thought.

 

“If the devil were set at liberty and told to confine himself to Nevada Territory,” Sam remarked, rising to the bait as expected, “he would get homesick and go back to hell again.”

 

The brothers smiled at each other in relief.

 

They stopped on the sandy riverbank, unsaddling the horses and allowing them to munch the short grass contentedly. Adam leaned back against a tree, hat over his eyes, while Hoss and Sam watched Joe work his way along the river’s edge.

 

“Down here, Hoss, here’s where Sam and I tried to make a raft the other day,” Joe called back. “I’ll bet with all four of us we can put together a real good raft, not like those two logs I tried last time.”

 

“A raft? I thought we were going fishing!”

 

“Yes, a raft! It’s too hot to fish, you said that yourself! Tell ’em, Sam!”

 

Sam nodded, then winced and rubbed his forehead.

 

“Well, I did tell Joe about the rafts I made as a boy,” he said, closing his eyes. “We’d tie logs, or whatever we had handy, together, and set off on adventures down the river. Of course, we could really only go down—the current was too swift to paddle against. Why, sometimes we’d get four or five miles down river before setting ashore and walking back home.”

 

“That’s what we were trying to do yesterday when—when I got wet,” Joe said, squinting out at the sparkling water. “C’mon, Hoss! We haven’t tried a thing like this since we were kids. Why, I’d suppose a fella could take a raft like that all the way down the Truckee to the Lake.”

 

“Supposing is good, but finding out is better.” Sam said, looking at Joe with narrowed eyes. These Cartwrights,   he thought, feeling an unexpected resentment towards Joe’s good mood. They act like they invented adventure.

 

“Of course, it might be that you’d have to grow up on a river to really be able to handle a raft.” Sam added diffidently.

 

Adam frowned behind his hat. There was a provoking tone to Sam’s voice that he did not quite like.

 

“Oh yeah?” Joe said, and he stood up and walked toward the creek. “Well, I did grow up near this river. Just logs tied together? Doesn’t sound all that hard.”

 

Joe climbed up the sandy riverbank and walked toward the trees.

 

Hoss groaned. “Now look what you’ve done, Sam! You just had to make it a challenge, didn’t you? We ain’t gonna have any peace until Little Joe’s built himself a raft.”

 

“Shut up, Hoss!” Joe called back over his shoulder. “Just ’cause you’ve got no taste for adventure, don’t tell me I can’t try my hand at something new.”

 

“It’s ’cause I ain’t ten years old,” Hoss hollered back. “Grew up on the river? You didn’t grow up on the river, ‘cause you ain’t growed up yet!”

 

Adam laughed from under his hat. Joe’s head snapped back and he glared at them. Adam simply smiled innocently back; Hoss turned his back. Joe continued his hunt for raft building material along the creek bank.

 

Hoss didn’t look away for long, however, and when he turned back he saw Joe struggling with a heavy fallen tree, pushing and pulling to drag the trunk nearer to the river.

 

“Dadburn it!” He said under his breath. “Stubborn little cuss!” he stood up and went over to help Joe drag the log.

 

Sam glanced over at Adam as Joe and Hoss worked. “My brother and I used to argue like that. I always ended up getting him to do most of the work, while I captained the raft.”

 

“Well, there’s no doubt who will be captain of this raft. Hoss is too big to be riding a few strung-together logs down any river. Joe’s on his own on this adventure.”

 

**********

 

“Joe, are you sure you want to do this?” Sam called. He had underestimated Joe’s stubborn reaction to a challenge and he regretted his earlier descriptions of the idyllic trips down the river.

 

“Joe, this river ain’t all that calm, since that big downpour up in the pass,” Hoss said. “All that new water’ll be coming down from the snow run-off. Water’ll be mighty cold if you fall in.”

 

Joe crouched on the riverbank, tugging one more time on the rope that held three logs together. Satisfied, he picked up the long pole he had fashioned for steering, and straightened up.

 

“That rope looks pretty loose, Joe,” Adam said, sitting up and tossing his hat aside.

 

“It’s fine; you all worry too much,” Joe called back. “I’ll be down on the lake before the three of you saddle your horses. And don’t forget to saddle mine!”

 

He rolled up his pant legs, stepped barefoot onto the three spliced-together logs and pushed off with his long pole. The raft slid slowly into the current, sinking a little and rocking back and forth. Joe rode its motion, shifting his weight and scrambling from side to side, pushing with his makeshift pole. To his brothers’ surprise, he took to the raft easily, nimbly piloting his little craft out into the current.

 

“Joe, don’t you go out no further from the shore!” Hoss called. “There’s a drop-off about twenty yards out.”

 

“It’s fine, Hoss,” Joe called again. He pushed again, and the raft bobbed deeper toward the center of the river. An eddy twirled the raft sideways.

 

“Joe!” Adam stood up and strode to the creek bank. “Get back in to the shallows! The current is too fast for your raft.”

 

“All right,” Joe called. He felt the current tug insistently at the raft, and poling became harder and harder. He looked down, saw a distinct gap between two of the logs, and put more shoulder into his poling to change direction. He decided to abandon his idea to run down to the lake and began to pole toward shore.

 

He could see his brothers and Sam following along on foot, surprised to see they were running to keep him in sight. Current is a lot faster than it looks,   he thought. He pushed hard at the pole, again and yet again. He finally managed to turn the unwieldy craft sideways, making some slight progress toward shore. He pulled his pole and thrust it down again. One or two more strokes and he would be able to step onto the riverbank and end his rafting adventure.

 

The river bottom changed, became softer; he could feel the difference as the pole sunk in. Quickly he yanked the pole free, and hopped further forward on the logs, pushing the pole down again, leaning his weight onto the stroke.

 

But this time, there was no bottom. The pole continued down, and Joe overbalanced, teetering on the edge of the raft, and then tumbling into the water.

 

“Joe!” both his brothers’ shouted. Hoss, Adam, and Sam ran long the creek, stumbling and scrambling over rocks and dodging around trees. The log raft swung around just as Joe bobbed to the surface, and struck him hard on the side of the head.

 

Joe slipped beneath the surface as the log raft bobbed past.

 

Adam sprinted past Sam and Hoss and waded out, struggling against the current, shouting his brother’s name. Joe bobbed up again, face down this time, and Adam plunged forward, grabbing a handful of his shirt.

 

Sam watched, frozen, as Adam quickly turned Joe so that his face was out of the water. Adam’s dark head bent over Joe’s, and Sam saw him run his hand across Joe’s cheek. He ran closer, and saw the bloody water running down the younger boy’s face. His dark, curly hair was plastered across his forehead, and his face was grayish white.

 

Sam’s legs didn’t work suddenly; he lurched and stood, then bent over, breathing hard. “Henry,” he whispered, and felt his stomach clench.

 

“I’ve got him, Hoss, get the horses!” Adam said as Hoss began to wade out to him. He glanced over at Sam, who was still bent and breathing hard. “All right, Sam?”

 

Sam could only nod.

 

“Can you help me get Joe out of the water?”

 

Sam nodded again, but he wasn’t sure he could help. The wet curly hair, the pale, young face—so had Henry looked at the makeshift hospital in Memphis. His stomach lurched as he stepped forward.

 

He’s not Henry,   he told himself. He’s NOT.

 

Adam looked around impatiently. “Sam! Come on! I need your help!”

 

The rough voice steadied him, and he took a shaky breath. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I’ll help.” He waded out, ignoring the cold water that rushed into his boots, and lifted Joe’s legs, taking some of the weight from Adam. 

 

Hoss came running, leading three horses. “How bad’s he hurt?” He was breathless, dropping the reins and bending over Joe.

 

Sam watched numbly as Hoss scooped his brother up as if he weighed nothing, and carried him the rest of the way over to the horses.

 

Adam shrugged away from Sam and dodged around Hoss, tightening the cinch and swinging up into the saddle. “Hand him up,” he said.

 

Hoss’ face was puckered with worry. “I’ll get you started home, then I’ll go for the doc.” He looked down at Joe’s face. “He don’t look so good. He’s breathing kinda wheezy.”

 

Adam reached down. “Swing him up here.”

 

They soon had Joe settled limply in front of Adam. Hoss wrapped a bedroll blanket around Joe and stepped over to his own horse.

 

“Coming, Sam?” Adam called, already riding up the trail.

 

There was no reply.

 

“Sam!”

 

Sam shook himself, picked up his horse’s reins, and nodded. “Right behind you.”

 

As Adam spurred his horse for home, Sam turned and vomited into the bushes.

 

**********

 

Adam was long out of sight by the time Sam inexpertly fastened his saddle and mounted for the ride back. He did not push, but walked Sweet Pea back to the ranch house. He was in no hurry to watch the Cartwrights endure what his family had endured. Joe looked dead. Just like Henry.

 

Just like Henry.

 

There was a buggy in the yard by the time he arrived. He dismounted and sat on a porch chair, reluctant to intrude further on the Cartwrights by entering the house.

 

He was startled some time later by a touch on his arm.

 

“Sam?” Ben Cartwright stood next to his chair. “Why are you sitting out here by yourself?” He reached out and put a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Come back inside the house. Joe will want to see you when he wakes.”

 

“Joe? Then—he’s—he’s not dead?” Sam blinked up at Ben.

 

Ben shook his head. “No, no, is that what you thought? The doctor’s with him.”

 

Sam stared. “Why are you out—I mean, I thought you’d be…”

 

“Doc Martin, well, he suggested I make myself scarce for a while.” Ben shook a finger at him. “Don’t say it! Yes, I’ll admit to being—concerned—and Hoss and Adam were somewhat insistent—although why Paul felt he had to—eject  Joe’s brothers and me from the room—anyway, he does have Hop Sing to help. It’s better that we stay out of his way. We’re just waiting to find out the extent of Joe’s injuries.”

 

Sam leaned forward, holding his head with both hands. “He looked like—my brother looked just like that when—when he d-died.”

 

Ben looked sorrowfully down at Sam. He reminded himself that Sam was just a little older than Joe when he saw his brother killed. He remembered feeling his young wife die in his arms from just such an injury as Joe’s. His own hands were still shaking from the shock of seeing his youngest son carried into the house, face pale and lips bluish-gray, blood running freely down the side of his face.

 

Sam looked up at the harsh blue sky, his hands fisted at his sides. “He told me he wanted to be like me. His big brother. He wanted to be a pilot because I wanted to be one. He wanted to be like his damn-fool big brother.”

 

Sam’s voice was raw and rough. “It was a dangerous job! But I talked him into it! ‘Come down and be a river man!’ I told him. ‘Sure, it can be dangerous, but that’s part of the adventure!’ I told him.” Sam turned his anguished face to Ben. “Isn’t it? Water and danger—that’s what I was chasing. Adventure! God damned adventure!”

 

Ben placed a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Your brother loved you. He admired you.”

 

Sam merely looked away.

 

“You know,” Ben mused, “Joe admires his older brothers, too. He wants to be like them. He wants to do dangerous work, just like his brothers do.”

 

Sam stared.

 

“You recognized their protectiveness; you even pointed it out to Joe. I’m surprised you don’t see the other similarities.”

 

Ben sat down beside Sam. “Sam, if Joe were hurt working horses, would that be Adam’s fault?”

 

“Of course not…”

 

“Then why is it your fault that your brother was killed?” Ben’s voice rose. “Why are you allowing the self-indulgent guilt to settle itself on your shoulders?”

 

“Self-indulgent? That’s not…”

 

“Isn’t it?”

 

Sam started to protest, but Ben held up his hand. “No. You need to stop. You’ve indulged yourself long enough. Your brother died due to an accident. He wanted to be like you, but you did not kill him. His death was not your fault.”

 

Sam looked down, then back at Ben. Unshed tears shimmered in his eyes. “I will always regret convincing him to become a river pilot.”

 

“That is the extent of your responsibility,” Ben said gently. “Yet, I suspect that, like a wild horse attracts Joseph, the river held its own attraction for Henry. That fact that you loved it too merely—validated that attraction.”

 

Ben sat quietly for a few moments, then reached out and placed a hand placed gently on Sam’s back.

 

“Think about that, Sam,” Ben said softly.

 

The thunk of the door latch, and Doc Martin appeared at the front door. Ben stood up and stumbled over to meet him. “Paul?” he asked, voice husky.

 

“Concussion, and his lungs sound a little wet. Neither condition is very serious. He roused slightly when I stitched his head. Hasn’t woken completely yet, but signs are there that he will soon…” but Doctor Martin was speaking to empty air. Ben could be heard running up the stairs, two at a time.

 

Doc Martin smiled indulgently after him, then turned back to Sam. “Shall we get some of Hop Sing’s coffee, Mr. Clemens?”

 

“Call me Sam,” Sam replied, stepping forward to shake Paul Martin’s hand. “You’re sure Joe will be all right?”

 

“Sure as any man can be who’s taken care of that hard-headed, foolhardy young man since he fell from his first tree limb.”

 

Sam wavered, but wasn’t ready to accept the doctor’s statement. “But he looked so pale—and all that blood…”

 

Doc Martin reached over and patted his arm. “Head injuries can appear quite appalling, but I assure you Joseph will be just fine. He’ll be itching to get back in the saddle in a day or two, if I know my patient.”

 

**********

 

Sam looked into Joe’s room, and saw Adam standing on one side of Joe’s bed, Hoss sitting on the other, his hand resting on top of Joe’s.

 

“Little Brother, seeing you today…” Sam heard Hoss say. Hoss took a deep, deep breath, let it out, and took another before continuing. “I don’t know how Sam stands it, losin’ his little brother, and that’s the honest truth.”

 

Behind him, Sam stepped into Joe’s room. Adam reached out to signal Hoss, but Sam shook his head. Hoss had his head down, brows lowered, as he rubbed his thumb across the fingers of Joe’s hand.

 

“Sam’s told us some things about his family, about the folks he’s lost. Especially ’bout his little brother Henry.” Hoss looked up, arrow-straight, into Joe’s eyes, and his blue eyes were dimmed with tears. “He was nineteen years old. Just a year older ‘n you. Sam said you look a lot like him.

 

“If what he felt for his brother is one speck of what Adam and me…” He paused to rub his sleeve across his nose. “Sam says that humor comes from sorrow. If that’s true, with all the sorrow he’s seen, I’d say he have to be about the funniest man in America.”

 

No one spoke, and the silence stretched out, until Hoss looked up in puzzlement, to see why his brothers were so quiet. He saw Sam standing next to him, one hand on the bedpost. Hoss scrambled to his feet.

 

“Sam, I…” but Sam turned his eyes to Hoss, and the words dried up in his mouth. Sam was smiling, with a gentle up-curve of one side of his mouth. His eyes, his knowing, dark eyes, looked aged and tired. Yet the laughter was there, in the creases at the corners of those knowing eyes, and suddenly his mouth was laughing, too, and a deep rumbling gust of laughter rolled out of his throat. Adam and Hoss looked at each other, alarmed, and Joe reached his hand out.

 

“Sam, we didn’t…”

 

But Sam’s mirth was genuine, not painful or forced.

 

“Funniest man in America!” Sam repeated, slapping his knee and laughing. After a moment or two he wiped his eyes. He smiled kindly at Hoss. “I don’t know about being the funniest man in America, Hoss, but you are right about sorrow and humor. With all the sorrows I have seen, I have found that humor is a great thing, the saving thing. The minute it crops up, all our irritations and resentments slip away and a sunny spirit takes their place.”

 

Sam drew himself up, and executed a formal bow to Hoss. “Your words honor me, sir,” he said, his voice suddenly rich with Southern gentility. “Humor is mankind’s greatest blessing. I am humbled that you think it an attribute of mine.”

 

**********

 

“I’ve often wondered what it might be like to be transported back in time…” Adam mused.

 

“I’ll just bet you have,” Joe said.

 

“If you could take the advances of modern engineering back to a time that was entirely ignorant of them,” Adam continued, ignoring Joe, “you might be considered a god to those people.”

 

All three Cartwright brothers and Sam were seated on the front porch, sipping their after-dinner coffee. After yesterday’s excitement, Joe had spent a quiet day in bed.  His headache had lessened and his color improved, so he had been allowed to have dinner with the family.  He was seated now in a rocking chair with a blanket over his knees, drinking in the last golden rays of the sunset. He rolled his eyes at Adam’s remark.

 

Sam smiled, pondering Adam’s idea. “You’d more likely be considered mad by the standards of their time, spouting such modern notions. Unless of course, you were a Yankee,” he added, winking at Joe. “In that case you’d be considered mad by anyone’s standards.”

 

Joe and Hoss laughed. Adam sent Sam a mock glare, and then resumed his train of thought. “Of course, superior engineering knowledge does not mean that you could change everything. The feudal system, for example, would hardly be amenable to a modern notion like unionization.”

 

Sam drew out his notebook and began to scribble furiously once again.

 

“Sam, what the heck are you writing all the time?” Joe asked. “Every time we start talking, everything we do all day long, you start writing.”

 

“Just taking notes,” Sam replied absently. “I want to remember things that happen, and I need to write things down before I forget them.” He tucked his pencil behind his ear and settled back in his chair. “When I was younger, I could remember anything, whether it happened or not.”

 

Joe’s giggle rang out from his seat on the porch.

 

“Besides, writing, like any other skill, requires practice,” Sam continued. “Stringing words together into a chain of ideas is not easy. The difference between the right word and the almost right word is the difference between lightning and a lightning bug.”

 

“But why are you writing down what we say or do?” Hoss asked. “It ain’t like you’re writing a story about us for the newspaper.” Hoss looked a little worried. “You ain’t, are you?”

 

Sam smiled. “No, I keep a notebook of ideas…of experience. Experience is a writer’s most valuable asset; experience is the thing that puts the muscle and the breath and the warm blood into what he writes. I’ve a notion that some of the things I’ve seen in my stay with you might make a good story.”

 

Hoss shook his head. “I can’t see how anything we do or talk about is interestin’ enough for somebody to want to read about.”

 

Sam shrugged. “Well,” he said, “you never know what someone might want to read.”

 

“I know what I don’t want to read,” said Joe, adjusting the bandage on his forehead. “I’ve never been one for readin’ high-and-mighty fine literature—the stuff that Adam likes.” He batted away the small pinecone Adam tossed into his lap.

 

“High and fine literature is wine,” Sam said absently. “My stories are only water.” He looked up from his notebook and winked again at Joe. “But everybody likes water.”

 

 

*****End*****

 

Author’s note (2): Samuel Clemens spent nearly two years in Virginia City, Nevada as a reporter and later editor for The Daily Territorial Enterprise, which at that time was the most widely read newspaper between Chicago and San Francisco.

 

His premonition dream and the death of Henry Clemens happened as portrayed in the story, and the letter he showed to Adam is an excerpt of the actual letter he wrote to his sister about Henry’s death. Sadly, Samuel Clemens’ sorrows continued; he endured the loss of fortune and friends and he outlived his wife and three of his four children. However, his novels portraying the American voice and spirit, especially his masterpiece, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, were wildly successful, and his comedic lectures earned him the title “the funniest man in America.”

 

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