SEEDS ON THE WIND

By Merrick Dunn

merrickdunn@aol.com

The body flying from the Bucket of Blood Saloon struck fast. It bounced off a porch stanchion, landed on the planks and rolled onto the street, sprawling in front of Little Joe Cartwright’s boots. Joe’s paint gelding Cochise whinnied in alarm, hooves scraping the air at the rail where he stood tethered. “Easy!” Joe soothed him, stroking his flank. He then turned his attention to the young man lying before him in the street.

The youth appeared conscious but groggy, a crimson ring of blood under his nostrils. Joe had never seen him in Virginia City before today. With his smooth ruddy face and center-parted brown hair, he looked no more than Joe’s own age of nineteen, wearing dark jeans, a tweed jacket and a midnight blue shirt on which he had suspended a carved wooden cross. He wore no gun. “My friend…” he gasped breathlessly, gesturing toward the saloon entrance. “He’s still in there -- that madman will kill him!”

Joe pulled a clean white handkerchief from the pocket of his blue corduroy jacket and pressed it under the young man’s nose. “Stay here,” he ordered. “Nobody’ll hurt your friend if I’ve got anything to do with it.” Straightening up, Joe squared his black felt Stetson on his brow and plunged into the saloon.

It took him only seconds to size up the plight of the young stranger’s companion. Wade Ramsdell, the surly manager of a saloon hostess named Six-Toed Millie, was gripping the boy’s shirtfront and slamming him against the wall. A few feet away, Millie herself sat at a table in silent panic, her hands clapped over her mouth to stifle her screams.

Joe’s ivory-handled Colt revolver slid into his left hand as if he had simply willed it there. “Ramsdell!” he shouted in warning. Abruptly the man let go of his prey, watching dispassionately as the boy slid toward the floor and slumped there.

Ramsdell was near forty, a tall gambler wearing a black gabardine suit and a silver satin vest with raised ornamental embroidery. He smiled humorlessly as he turned toward Little Joe, the corners of his dark moustache lifting and a glimmer surfacing in his brown eyes. “Come now,” he chuckled, “not even a hothead like you would shoot an unarmed man.”

It was the truth. While widely known that Joe Cartwright possessed a temper as quick as his draw, he was no loco killer who engaged in gunplay for its own sake or murdered unarmed opponents. He holstered his revolver with a jaunty spin and crossed the floor to where the young traveler sat unconscious. He was also close in age to Joe, with black curly hair and sunburned cheeks. A cross of silver adorned his dark shirtfront. “What’s your beef with him, Ramsdell?” Joe asked sorely. “He’s hardly more than a kid.”

“He and his friend are a couple of bloody Bible thumpers,” Ramsdell snorted “I caught them proselytizing to Millie, trying to steer her back onto the narrow path. Quoting Jesus and the Apostles -- damn, Cartwright, I got a living to make here.”

“You didn’t have to be so harsh about it,” Joe said as he knelt beside the boy’s motionless form. “Millie, could you get me a cold wet cloth from the bar?”

The saloon hostess calmed herself enough to oblige. She brought the cloth to him, wringing it out as she and Joe placed it on the senseless young man’s forehead. In a moment he stirred and looked up quizzically at his rescuer. “Where did you come from?” he murmured.

“Outdoors,” Joe said. “I interrupted this beating you took.”

“I’m Terry Ames,” the youth said, dizzily holding out his right hand for Joe to shake. “My friend Woody Conniston and I were just passing through town -- is he all right?”

“He’s fine,” Joe said. “I’ll fetch him back here after I get you in a chair.” Leaning over, he hoisted lightweight Terry up and seated him at a vacant poker table, handing him the compress to hold to his own brow. “You’ll be all right here ’til I come back -- will you see to that, Millie?”

“I sure will,” Millie said, shooting a look of annoyance toward her manager.

Woody Conniston was sitting on the porch planks facing the street, nursing his nosebleed with the handkerchief Joe gave him. He looked up expectantly as the youngest Cartwright emerged through the batwings. “It’s safe to come back in, Woody,” Joe assured him. “Your friend Terry’s all right now.”

“Praise God,” Woody breathed, passing the bloodstained handkerchief under his nose. Joe helped the slender boy onto his feet. He was unsteady but not badly injured. Joe corralled his shoulders as he led him back inside. Millie was at the table with Terry Ames, rubbing the crown of his head where Wade Ramsdell had dashed it against the wall. Ramsdell himself was leaving, stalking angrily up the stairs to a parlor above the saloon.

Joe seated Woody Conniston across the table from Terry and pulled up a chair for himself. “I’ll have a beer, Millie,” he said, reaching for his wallet to cover the round. “What are the rest of you drinking?”

“Sarsaparilla, thanks,” said Terry. “We like to stay sober for when we witness.”

“By the way, I’m Joe Cartwright,” he informed the two as Millie bustled toward the bar. “I live with my father and two older brothers on a ranch outside of town. We call it the Ponderosa. What brings you to Virginia City?”

Woody rescued two Bibles off the floor and checked them for damages. “Up ’til this fall we were divinity students at a Baptist seminary in San Francisco,” he said, passing one unhurt book to his friend. “This September both our fathers fell on hard times. They couldn’t send tuition for our classes. We decided to take a leave of absence to drum the money up. We heard there was a lot of work for us to do in Virginia City. Plenty of sinners.”

“That’s true of most boomtowns,” Joe replied with a grin. His white smile was handsome and avuncular, giving the accurate impression that people could trust him. His eyes were a keen hazel, and when he doffed his hat he revealed a copious thicket of curly brown hair. “But you’ll find there are a lot of good people here, too.”

Terry asked, “Are you a believer, Joe?”

“I expect so,” Joe said. “Nobody’d accuse me of being a church pillar, but I try to get to meetings on Sundays I’m not riding herd or hunting animals who prey on the cattle. Where do you fellows call home?”

“I’m from Ohio,” Woody said, “and Terry here’s from Illinois. We both chose the divinity school in San Francisco because the city sounded big and adventurous.”

Joe said, “She’s got her dangers, too, for able-bodied men. It’s a good thing nobody shanghaied you to serve on a ship.”

“You bet,” Terry agreed. “That’s what happened to Endicott, one of our fellow students. He’s trying to make the best of it, carrying the Gospel wherever his merchant vessel docks.”

Joe said, “And that’s what you were doing when Wade Ramsdell roughed you up.”

“Pretty much so,” said Woody. “We had the strangest notion this was America, Joe. That people had the right to assemble and the freedom of speech and worship.”

“Millie gave all those freedoms up,” said Joe, “when she decided to latch on to the likes of Ramsdell.”

Millie rejoined them with a tray of drinks. She was a strawberry blonde in her middle twenties wearing a low-cut gown of green satin. “Do you mind if I sit a spell with you, boys?”

“Not at all,” said Joe, standing to draw out a chair for her. “I hoped you would.”

She sat elegantly, smoothing her gown on her knees and lifting a shot of brandy off the tray. “Before we were so rudely interrupted,” she said, “Woody and Terry were telling me about Mary Magdalene. If a woman deep in sin as she was could repent and be saved, there’s hope for us all.”

“The choice is all yours, Miss Millie,” said Terry, tasting a chug of sarsaparilla. “We can bring the word of the Lord to you, but it’s up to you how you care to act on it.”

“I’ll certainly give it my thought,” she said, sipping her brandy. “But some predicaments we get ourselves into are hard to escape.”

“What did you do for work before you were a saloon hostess?” asked Terry.

“I was a printer’s devil,” Millie replied. “Not bad at it, either, if I might say so.”

“That’s good honest work there’s always a call for,” said Woody. “Maybe you could take it up again.”

“Sounds like dreams,” she said, “but we’ll see. The one thing I know is that the house owes you a couple of free lunches for what happened. I recommend the beefsteak and spuds.”

“Could you make that three?” Joe requested. “Or four, if you’re joining us.”

“Certainly,” said Millie, finishing her brandy before standing to place their order with the cook in the saloon’s rear kitchen.

************

The steaks sizzled on their plates, so tender that Joe could slice halfway through his with a fork. With them came generous servings of mashed potatoes and fresh green peas. Despite their thinness, Woody and Terry dug into their steaks with the zeal of Joe’s brother Hoss, a lumbering young man who weighed over two hundred pounds with a legendary appetite to match. “We thought we might finish our studies nearer to home,” Woody said. “That way we can help out our families when they need us.”

Joe listened quietly, deliberating what he might do. Ben Cartwright, his father, had grown wealthy as a rancher with attending interests in mining and timber. It would be the easiest thing for Joe to buy stage tickets for both young men and send them on their way to Ohio and Illinois tonight. Yet his conscience informed him that this kindness was not the manliest solution for Woody and Terry, nor was it realistic. If Ben bought stage tickets for every traveler down on his luck, it would bankrupt him. No, Joe thought, if it’s work they need, that’s what I’ll offer.

“Have you ever worked on a farm or ranch?” Joe asked them.

“We never tamed horses,” said Woody, “but we both did farm chores long as we remember. Until last year, when we came to San Francisco and enrolled at school.”

“We’ve got need for ranch hands to mend fences and do other chores around the place,” Joe said. “You’re both welcome to go back to the Ponderosa with me tonight. Once my father copies your names onto the payroll, you’re hired.”

“You’ll like it there, I wager,” said Millie, delicately slicing her steak. “Plenty to do, three meals a day and steady pay.”

“What do you think?” Woody quizzed Terry.

“I think we ought to hire on,” said Terry. “Thanks, Joe. It’s mighty good of you to offer.”

Joe felt relieved that neither seemed to think him miserly. When they had finished their steaks and the fixings, he asked them, “How are you traveling?”

“We’re on foot,” said Woody.

“We’ll never get to the Ponderosa that way,” Joe said. “What do you say I rent a couple horses from the livery stable? I’m eager for you to meet the rest of my family.”

“We’d be honored, Joe,” said Terry, leaning to pick up one of two carpetbags from the floor alongside the saloon’s back wall. Woody retrieved the second one.

Saying their goodbyes to Millie, the three young men headed outdoors and crossed the street to the nearest livery stable. Joe rented a bay gelding and a roan mare for his companions, promising to return them in a day or two. The ride to the Ponderosa in the lengthening afternoon shadows was pleasant and uneventful. Terry and Woody spoke of the school they left behind, a disappointment they suspected was a disguised blessing. “We were caught in classes all day,” Woody Conniston reminisced, reining his bay around a curve in the road. “It was hard to sit still when what we really wanted was to be out saving souls.”

“Before we ran into Millie and her manager,” said Terry, “we witnessed to boxcar vagrants and drifters. We were much luckier. It ended up in lots of baptisms.”

“By full immersion?” asked Joe, amused at their spirit.

“Of course,” said Woody. “If we couldn’t find a lake or pond, an ordinary bath tub served.”

Presently they rode together into the front yard of the Ponderosa ranch house, dismounting to stable their horses. Joe’s heart lifted when he saw that his family’s horses were in their stalls. They would all be at home to meet his hirelings. He unsaddled Cochise in the stable and rubbed him down, noting that the two divinity scholars expertly handled their own animals and tack like seasoned ranchers. It assured him he had made the right decision.

An inviting fire crackled in the parlor fireplace as Joe entered the house with his charges. Ben Cartwright, a beetle-browed man in his fifties with a full head of gleaming silver hair, was sitting at his desk examining the payroll ledger. In armchairs nearer the fire sat Ben’s eldest son, Adam, and middle son Hoss. Adam was tuning the strings of a wooden guitar, buffed to a glittering finish. Close to thirty, he affected a somber mien in black jeans and a shirt that matched the tar black of his hair and brows. Hoss was in his middle twenties, a large, affably plain young man wearing a rust-colored suede vest, a white shirt and dark brown trousers. His sandy brown hair had already begun to thin on his wide brow, granting him an older aspect from a distance away. He was cleaning his revolver, its empty chambers open to the quick thrusts of his scouring brushes. Joe hung up his hat and approached the desk with Woody and Terry flanking him.

“Pa? I’d like you to meet two new hands I’ve hired on.” Joe nodded toward his left. “This is Edward Conniston, and over here on my right is Terrence Ames. Woody and Terry to their friends.”

Ben rose from his chair to shake both boys’ hands. “Welcome to the Ponderosa,” he greeted them. “Let’s get you signed on to the payroll. What sort of work will you be doing for us?”

“Fence mending and ordinary chores,” said Woody. “We’re not wranglers.”

Joe turned toward the center of the room. “These are my older brothers, Adam and Hoss. Adam’s the troubadour, and Hoss is the audience.”

“Howdy,” Hoss welcomed them, and Adam said, “Glad to meet you,” in a mellifluous baritone that strongly indicated he was the most gifted singer of the Cartwright clan.

“Joe tells me you’re a Bible believing family,” said Terry, “is that so?”

“It’s our indoctrination, yes,” said Adam, his brows tilting curiously at the oddity of the question.

“We ain’t no fanatics, if that’s what worries you,” said Hoss. “There’s Sundays so backbreakin’ we don’t even get to meeting.”

“So he tells us,” Terry said. “We’re not worried. It pleased us to know you share our background. Before coming to Virginia City, Brother Woody and I were divinity students in San Francisco.” He told the remaining Cartwrights their hard luck tale about their families falling on rugged times, unable to send tuition, and of their missionary work among hobos and drifters. “A few months of work should get us back into our classes in January, whether it’s in San Francisco or closer to our homes in Ohio and Illinois.”

Adam strummed the strings of his guitar to test the pitch. “Is there any song you’re partial to hearing tonight? Maybe a favorite hymn?”

Woody and Terry faced each other in wordless consultation. In a moment Terry said, “There’s a powerful new one out of the East called ‘The Battle Hymn of the Republic,’ written for the Union forces. Have you heard it?”

“Yes, I have,” said Adam, amazing Joe as ever with his social polish. Adam was a rarity on the frontier, a college graduate who often frankly missed his years of civilized independence in the East. “It’s a fine piece of work, all right. Let’s see if I can do it justice.”

Adam plucked out an introduction on the strings, and in a moment his rich voice flooded the parlor with the opening bars: “Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord … He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored …”

The two divinity scholars listened to him, transported with joy, and when Adam reached the song’s chorus they chimed in with him on “Glory, glory Hallelujah … His truth is marching on!”

Adam followed it up with the second and third verse of the hymn, by which time Hoss and Little Joe found the confidence to join in on the chorus. At his desk, Ben set down his pen and listened to his sons and their guests as they essayed the stirring melody and lyrics. Joe could only wonder at the thoughts absorbing him. Across the continent a violent civil war was claiming thousands of young lives, but Ben Cartwright had adamantly kept it from dividing his household and from feeding his own sons to hostile artillery. He peacefully supported the Union cause instead with the silver from his mines, beef from his herds and timber from his mountains. To those who charged he was buying off his conscience, Ben had only to say that there were more ways to fight and to win a war than with needless carnage.

************

After supper and a songfest of folk ballads and hymns that lasted two hours, Little Joe and Hoss lit a lantern and showed their new hired men to the bunkhouse. Wranglers and ranch hands lay stretched out in the dark under olive green wool blankets, snoring and tossing. Woody and Terry located an empty bunk and chose between the bottom and top berths. They yawned, looking weary and eager to stretch out on the thin feather mattresses. Hoss said, “Look for me first thing tomorrow and I’ll get you started on the job. Ten miles of storm-damaged fence needs fixin’. We got a crew on it.”

“We’ll be there, Hoss,” Woody spoke for them both. “Joe, thanks for everything.”

“My pleasure,” Joe replied with a smile. “Try to get a good night’s sleep. You’ll need it.”

As the Cartwrights departed the bunkhouse, Hoss asked, “Where’d you find them?”

“At the Bucket of Blood,” Joe said. “They were trying to convert Six-Toed Millie and it got them in trouble with Wade Ramsdell. I had to step in.”

“Ramsdell’s no dadburn good,” Hoss remarked. “He don’t trust me talkin’ to Millie, neither. Thinks I’ll give her money to get a new start someplace else.”

“Doesn’t the thought tempt you?” asked Joe.

“Sorely.” Hoss laughed ruefully. “But I got the strangest notion Millie’s not ready to leave Ramsdell and the saloon behind.”

“That’s how she sounded to me today,” said Joe. “Like she’s thinking it over, but it won’t be tomorrow.”

Crickets chirped noisily in the bracing night air as they entered the ranch house. Adam had loosened his guitar strings and was placing the instrument in its case, and Ben was closing his books. “Seems to me you made a couple of good choices, Joseph,” Ben remarked. “I doubt either of those two has been in trouble with the law. How old are they?” he asked in afterthought.

“They’re both nineteen, like me,” Joe said. “And I can tell by the way they put their horses up that they’re no strangers to farms and ranches.”

“We’ll see how they work out,” said Ben.

“I doubt it’ll be a long stay,” said Adam. “Sounds as though they’re only saving up stagecoach fare.”

“That could be,” said Joe. “They’re anxious about their families back East.” He headed for the stairs. “Goodnight, now.”

“Goodnight, Joe,” his father and brothers replied.

After breakfast the next morning, Joe donned a pair of chaps over his twill saddle breeches and rode with Adam to the corral for a day of taming broncos. By afternoon he and his brother felt sore all over but contented, satisfied that they had put in a good day’s effort. Joe climbed over the corral fence to the outside grass and sat down, thirstily drinking water from his canteen and raiding his lunch pail for a juicy apple. Glancing up, it surprised him to see Hoss approaching him on horseback, signaling to him with a wave of his arm.

Joe stood as Hoss rode up alongside him and reined to a halt. “What’s going on?” he asked.

“You tell me,” Hoss grunted sardonically. “Woody Conniston and Terry Ames up and disappeared after lunch and took half the fence mending crew with them. They’re still gone.”

Joe could not speak at first. His face burned with embarrassment. “And they didn’t leave word? Maybe they’re in some sort of trouble.”

“Not half the trouble that’s waitin’ for them when they get back,” Hoss said menacingly. In the shade of his ten-gallon hat, his features wore a scowl.

“You haven’t told Pa yet, have you?”

“No. I figured you hired ’em on, and that makes you responsible.”

“I’ll look for them,” Joe said, capping his canteen and gathering the reins of Cochise. “Adam, can you spare me the next hour or two?”

“Yes,” said Adam, “you go find your friends. There must be a good explanation for this.”

Joe mounted Cochise and headed out, uncertain of where to look or what direction to take. After an hour’s fruitless searching, he steered his horse south toward the shore of Lake Tahoe.

He heard the men before he saw them. The missing half of the fence mending crew sat and stood on the tree-shaded shore, their hair and clothing drenched as if from a plunge in the lake. Yards out into the water at waist level stood Woody and Terry, each with a member of the crew. He heard Woody’s voice as he intoned, “I baptize thee in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.” Grasping both of the crewman’s shoulders, he ducked him beneath the surface of the lake and then raised him up, sputtering and blowing a stream of water from his lips. Terry repeated the ritual for the crew member standing in front of him.

“Hey there, Little Joe!” a number of the baptized hands called out to him as they lounged in the sand.

Joe dismounted and stood watching the spectacle in disbelief. He did not want Woody and Terry to regard him as Wade Ramsdell in miniature, beating them up for their evangelical mission to the crew, but neither could he allow them to pursue their devotion on Ponderosa time. “Woody?” he called out. “Terry? Come to shore. I need a word with you.”

“We were just finishing up here,” Woody assured him, sloshing out of the water in stocking feet. Terry followed him, sitting down on a tree stump to wring the water out of his socks and to don his shoes.

“Hoss came by the corral more than an hour ago,” Joe said when he had both young men’s attention. “It’s not often we see him so riled. He’ll most likely dock you all for the last couple of hours -- you know that, don’t you?”

“We expected he would,” Terry said. “But there was no way to put a price on what we had to do.”

“Couldn’t it wait until after working hours?” Joe demanded.

“It could, I expect,” said Woody. “But when the spirit moves you, the time to act on it is now.”

“Baptisms on the ranch’s time?” Joe said. “Go on, Woody, you know I don’t disapprove what you’re doing. Not in itself, and not the way Ramsdell struck back at you. But you hired on here to work. If you can’t honor that, we’ll have to fire you. You got to save your missionary efforts for your free hours.”

Woody and Terry mulled his words over and slowly nodded. “It won’t happen again, Joe,” Terry promised. “We’ll be getting back to the fences now. We’ll even stay a couple hours later, if that’ll make it up to Hoss.”

Joe climbed back into Cochise’s saddle. “All right, I’ll trust what you’re telling me. You won’t need me to ride back there with you.” He reined his horse onto the road leading to the lakefront and headed back toward the corral to complete his own work for the day.

At supper that evening, Hoss was his agreeable old self again, indicating to Joe that the two missionaries had made good on their promise to work after quitting time. Joe was thankful. It was easier than taking the names of the vanishing hands and docking them for the hours they spent at the lake, which would rouse Ben’s attention and suspicion. Their father was already curious enough about how the new men were faring.

“How are Woody Conniston and Terry Ames working out?” he asked Hoss as their Chinese cook Hop Sing brought in a pot of coffee.

Hoss deliberated a moment. “Fine, Pa, after one rough patch. Joe and me took care of it.”

Before Ben could ask more about them, a knock sounded on the front door. Joe pitched the linen table napkin off his lap and stood to answer it. It was Sheriff Roy Coffee from Virginia City, a dapper elderly man with a mustache and a narrow-brimmed felt town hat. “Come in, Roy,” Joe welcomed him. “What can we do for you?”

“Evening, Joe,” the sheriff greeted him. “I’m here to follow up on a complaint from Wade Ramsdell. The saloon girl you call Six-Toed Millie’s up and gone from the Bucket of Blood. He thinks she might’ve sought shelter here on the Ponderosa.”

“You’re free to search the place,” Joe invited him, “but I can save you the time. She’s not here.” He ushered Roy toward the dining table to face his father. “Pa, Roy’s here because Wade Ramsdell suspects we’re hiding Millie.”

Ben’s brows arched. “It’s not that we wouldn’t if she asked us, Roy. But Ramsdell’s called this one wrong.” He picked up a spare cup from the table and filled it with coffee, placing it on its saucer and volleying it to their visitor.

Joe said, “And even if he called it right, how would it concern him? He’s not her husband, and she’s not his property.”

The sheriff accepted the coffee Ben offered. “You know Ramsdell as well as I do, Joe. He thinks he owns her. Like a tool of his livelihood. He wants to charge two of your hired men with alienation of her affections.”

Joe rolled his eyes. “Go on, Roy. Ames and Conniston aren’t a couple of gigolos. All they did was quote the Bible to her.”

Adam said, “Afraid Joe’s right, Roy. You might say the only man who alienated her affections was Jesus.”

His remark raised irreverent grins from his family and Roy. Hoss was still smiling devilishly as he asked, “You putting the two of them under arrest?”

“No,” said Roy, “alienation’s a matter for the civil court. I’m only discharging my duty to look for Millie out here.”

“Funny thing,” Hoss remarked. “Joe and me didn’t think Millie felt ready to break away from Ramsdell yet. Looks like she was readier than we thought.”

“We’ll keep an eye out for her,” Joe said, “in case she does come here. But I still don’t consider it Ramsdell’s business.”

When Roy finished his coffee, Joe collected the cup and saucer from him and saw him to the door, where they said their goodnights. He then returned to the supper table and poured coffee for himself. Ben said to him, “Getting Millie to part company with Ramsdell must have taken tremendous power of persuasion.”

“They’ve got that, all right,” Joe declared, remembering the number of men that Woody and Terry baptized that afternoon.

Adam leaned back pensively in his chair, his coffee cup raised to his chin. Presently, he said, “Maybe we oughtn’t ignore it anymore.”

Hoss frowned, bewildered. “Ignore what?”

Adam said, “That the true calling of Edward Conniston and Terrence Ames isn’t as ranch hands. Their gift is in the Christian ministry, and it’s so strong it won’t sit still until they’re ordained.”

“That’s a fact,” Hoss muttered, recalling the long row of abandoned hammers and nails at the work site.

“It’s like a tidal wave,” said Adam. “Maybe we shouldn’t dam it back anymore.”

Joe said, “You mean we ought to let them wander off from work any time they please?”

“Not at all,” Adam said. “Hear me out on this, why don’t you?”

“Okay,” Joe said.

“Woody and Terry hit Virginia City almost broke,” said Adam. “They need stage fare to get back East. The obvious thing to do short of giving them a handout was to offer them work on the Ponderosa.”

“It seemed right to me,” said Joe, tasting his coffee.

“It wasn’t wrong,” said Adam, “but I’ve got a better plan for them.”

“Let’s hear it,” Hoss urged.

“We should help them stage a revival meeting in Virginia City,” Adam said. “I’m sure it’d draw quite a crowd if we did away with fake cures and other flimflam. The money they make passing the plate will pay their way back home with funds to spare. Best of all, it won’t be charity. They’ll have to earn it.”

“That sounds like a fine idea on the face of it, Adam,” said Ben. “Not too costly, either.”

“It shouldn’t set us back much at all,” Adam confirmed. “We could rent the grange hall and get some handbills printed up. The rest will be up to Woody and Terry. You heard how the two of them could sing last night and how many hymns and spirituals they know. Take that along with their penchant for preaching ¾ it’s a revival people will talk about for years.”

Joe smiled as he recalled his elder brother’s guitar accompaniment of their songfest. “They’ll talk about it even longer if you take part in the songs, Adam.”

“That’s getting way ahead of ourselves,” Adam gently protested, but his face flushed at the compliment. “We’ve still got to ask those two lads if they’re game.”

“I’ll ask them tonight,” said Joe, “when they get back to the bunkhouse.”

Adam said, “I can’t imagine them refusing the offer. They need people to come to them, not to have to chase down the souls they win. Without an appointed place to preach they might as well be scattering wild seeds on the wind, hoping they land where they’ll take root and blossom.”

“I couldn’t have said it prettier,” Hoss mischievously declared. “All that’s left is to scare up a couple of dark suits for them, and they’re in business.”

At dusk, Joe went out and walked the short distance to the bunkhouse. Woody and Terry were returning along with the men they baptized that afternoon, toting hammers and buckets of nails. Catching sight of Joe, Woody pointed to the hammer in his hand. “We gave Hoss three hours for the two we missed,” he said. “Is that okay?”

“It’s fine, Woody,” Joe said, “but it’s not the reason I’m here. My brother Adam came up with an idea tonight. You and Terry might want to go along with it.”

Woody sank a dipper into a water barrel and drank eagerly from it, wiping his chin with the back of his hand. He passed the dipper to Terry. “Let’s have it,” he said.

“He wants you to bring your ministry to Virginia City in a big way,” Joe announced. “He thinks a revival meeting will draw a huge crowd of seekers and get you all the money you need.”

“A revival meeting?” Terry exclaimed. “You mean it, Joe?”

Joe grasped Terry’s shoulder and rocked it. “I’ll tell you what he’s got in mind. All we need is a yes from you and Brother Woody, and you’re on your way.”

************

Three days later Adam Cartwright stood in the meeting area of Virginia City’s grange hall, measuring the room with his eyes. “I’m afraid it’s too small,” he admitted to Joe. “And not much standing room between the seats and the back wall, either. What do you think?”

“I think we ought to rent the opera house for a night,” Joe suggested.

“The opera house,” Adam mused, rubbing his chin. “That’s a brilliant thought, Joe. I’m surprised I didn’t come up with it first.”

Joe playfully elbowed him. “It’s big inside,” he said. “Plenty of places to sit and stand. And there’s a piano on the stage. Terry Ames can play it to lead the hymns.”

Adam said, “The opera house managers still suffer a slow night or two. Let’s see what kind of bargain I can cut with them.”

“We’ll need the right date and place before we get the handbills printed,” Joe said. “At least we won’t have to chase down a pair of dark suits for our hosts. They’re both carrying their school uniforms in their carpetbags. All we need is for Hop Sing to throw a press into the coats and trousers.”

Turning to leave the grange hall, Adam said, “There’s one great irony in all this, and that’s the Bucket of Blood. It stands to lose business because of this revival, but it’s a prime place to advertise it.”

“I see what you mean,” said Joe. “Why don’t I talk to Mr. Irvington while you make arrangements at the opera house?”

“Be diplomatic,” said Adam.

Joe and Adam parted company on C Street and headed for their separate destinations. The early autumn breeze blew cool and brisk as Joe pushed open the louvered batwings of the Bucket of Blood and sauntered in. It was not yet noon and the saloon was lightly populated with diehard gaming men and two-fisted drinkers, men who would doubtless never reform. Joe stepped up to the bar and ordered a beer. “Is Mr. Irvington around today, Sam?” he asked the bartender. Walter Irvington was the business manager for the saloon’s proprietors.

“In his office,” Sam said. “He’ll be out for a drink around noon.”

Joe decided to wait for him. Talking to him over drinks would be more sociable, setting the stage for diplomacy. He turned to his right, spying Wade Ramsdell at the opposite end of the bar. He looked overwrought, nursing a shot of whiskey. He spotted Joe in the same instant.

“Well, you’ve got some nerve showing yourself here, Little Joe,” Ramsdell muttered.

“Why?” asked Joe in authentic innocence as he tasted his beer. “What’ve I done?”

“Harbored those two holy rollers who wrecked my trade, that’s all,” groused Ramsdell. “They struck right at the linchpin.”

“You’ll recover,” said Joe. “There’ll always be women like Millie who mistake your domination for love.”

“You got a smart mouth on you, kid,” Ramsdell slurred. “I got my ways of fixing that.” He snapped his fingers toward the rear of the saloon. A strongarm wearing trail clothes stood up at one of the poker tables. “Teach him some manners, Bowen.”

The stranger called Bowen strode to the bar where Joe stood. Without a word of warning or rebuke, he led off with his left hand and swung a powerful right hook, his fist smashing into the youngest Cartwright’s jaw. Joe staggered to one side, the pain radiating through his cheek. Rallying, he straightened and rapidly struck Bowen’s belly three times with his left fist. The man grunted and fell to his knees, tackling Joe down with him. They grappled on the floor, seizing each other’s necks in their open hands. Their hats fell off. Joe’s thumbs pressed down on Bowen’s windpipe until Ramsdell’s flunky choked and released him. Seeing his opening, he pounded Bowen’s face with slow, measured blows of both fists. Bowen struggled to his knees and stood upright, lashing at Joe’s ribs with his boot. Joe felt a bone crack. He grabbed hold of his attacker’s leg and shoved hard, sending him sprawling against a table and knocking it over. He then forced himself to stand, reeling with anger and pain.

From the table’s wreckage Bowen grasped a bottle and flew at Joe, swinging the brown glass missile at his head. Joe ducked it once, then twice. He grabbed Bowen’s wrist, dashing it against the bar until the bottle fell from his grip. Bowen pummeled Joe with both hard, knotted hands, striking his face and middle. Joe retaliated, ramming his opponent’s crooked nose and lips with all the force he could muster, knocking him backward.

Joe reached for the lapels of Bowen’s leather vest and dragged him to his feet. The man looked dazed, blood trickling from his nose and mouth corners. Joe calculated the distance between them and swung his left fist, connecting with Bowen’s jaw. He speedily followed it up with a right to the hired goon’s chin and a left to his gut. Bowen buckled forward and lay still.

Wiping blood and sweat off his chin, Joe glared at Ramsdell. “That was just plain dumb,” he said, holding his jaw to cull the throbbing pain. “It’s revenge you want, not recovery.” He disgustedly collected his hat from the floor and took the cold, wet towel the bartender offered him. “Thanks, Sam.”

Bowen still lay unconscious near the upturned table when slender, gray-haired Walter Irvington emerged from his office in the rear of the saloon. “What goes on here?” he demanded.

“Just a fracas,” said Joe, picking up his beer mug and swallowing a mouthful. “I’ll cover the damages if you like.”

Irvington righted the table and two of its chairs. “No harm done,” he sniffed. “I’ll let it go.”

“I came here today to see you, Mr. Irvington,” said Joe as the tweed-suited business manager approached the bar for his noonday drink.

“What is it, Little Joe?”

Lowering his voice to exclude Ramsdell, Joe said, “My family and I are sponsoring a revival meeting by a couple of really talented evangelists. We wondered if we could post a handbill in the Bucket of Blood.”

Irvington thought it over. “How about one, on the outside of the saloon?”

“That’d be fine,” Joe said. “Thanks, Mr. Irvington. It’s awfully considerate of you.”

“One night won’t bankrupt us,” Irvington reasoned. “The Bucket of Blood should still draw plenty of customers.” He gripped the shoulder of Joe’s jacket. “Are you badly hurt?”

“I think he cracked my rib,” Joe admitted. “I’ll see Doc Martin before I head back home.”

“Sorry it happened here,” Irvington said. “The last thing we need is trouble with Ben Cartwright.”

“I’ll smooth his temper down,” Joe promised. He finished his beer, depositing a dime and a tip on the bar.

Adam was waiting beside their tethered horses when Joe left the saloon. “What on earth happened to you?” he asked, grasping Joe’s chin in his open hand and tipping his head to examine his bruised jaw.

“Ramsdell’s still spoiling for trouble,” said Joe. “He just thought he’d sic one of his cronies on me. I won the fight, but it wasn’t easy. Doc Martin’ll have to wrap up my ribs before we ride.”

“I expect he meant that beating for Woody and Terry,” Adam shrewdly observed as he released his hold.

“I’m sure he did,” said Joe. “What’s the story on the opera house?”

“We’re in luck,” said Adam, withdrawing a slip of paper from the hip pocket of his black jeans. “It’s open to us for the night of Saturday, October fourth. That’s only three days from now, but it’s plenty of time to get the word out.”

“I still wish you’d think about singing for it,” Joe said as he tailed Adam toward the print shop. “Maybe that cowboys’ hymn you picked up in Carson City. Hoss and I could join in with you on the refrain.”

“I’ll consider it,” Adam said, mounting the steps to the print shop door.

Inside, printer Tom Emery was busily setting type for a job, mildly perspiring under his black visor. He was a trim, dark-haired bachelor in his latter twenties, bashful with women other than grandmothers and small girls. “Howdy, Adam … Little Joe,” he greeted them without looking up. “What can I do for you?”

“Howdy, Tom,” said Adam. “I need a rush order on a hundred circulars. I can pay you extra if you give the job top priority.”

Tom wiped his inky hands on a rag and pointed toward the spindle that held his incoming orders. “Ordinarily I’d have to make you wait, Adam. But I’ve got help now. A printer who works at night after the shop’s locked up. She’s been a godsend.”

“She?” Joe broke into a knowing smile. “Does she have a name?”

“I’ll give you three guesses,” Tom said with a wink. “She doesn’t want it to get around, but seeing as you asked, the name is Mildred McGrath. I’m sure her secret’s safe with you.”

“It is,” said Adam. “In fact, we’re the ones Ramsdell suspected of sheltering her.” He frowned. “Tell me, does she have a safe place to stay when she’s not working?”

“There’s a room above the shop with a bed and a stove. She eats and sleeps there during the day and takes over for me after sundown. Ramsdell hasn’t dreamed of looking for her here.”

“Thanks for helping her, Tom,” Joe said. “It probably meant everything.”

“The pleasure’s all mine,” said Tom. “I’ve been able to handle twice the business and to deliver rush orders like yours.” He handed Adam a blank sheet of paper and a pencil. “Draw me up a rough draft of what you need, and I’ll get to it right after the job I’m working on now.”

“Great,” Adam remarked. “I’ll make it worth your while.” Picking up the pencil, he printed “Join Us at the COMSTOCK REVIVAL. Virginia City Opera House -- October 4 at 7 p.m. Admission Free. Hosts: Edward Conniston and Terrence Ames. An Evening of Music and Testimony. All Welcome!” He set the pencil down and turned the draft around so that Tom could examine it.

“I’ll fix up a fine design for this,” Tom said. “It ought to be real eye-catching. Call back in about three hours, won’t you?”

“That’ll work out fine,” said Adam. “Joe’s hurt and needs to see the doctor.”

************

Joe’s ribs still bore bandages as the evening of the revival rolled around. Taming horses was out of the question, but Ben agreed to let him perform light chores around the front yard and barn to stay limber. All week, Woody had been working by lantern light in the hayloft to prepare his sermon for the event. Terry, while confident as a musician and singer, was still a shy speaker before large crowds, prone to stage fright. To him Woody had delegated the night’s musical selections. It overjoyed Joe to hear that Adam would perform his requested cowboy number with his brothers backing him up.

After supper, Ben and his sons changed clothes, donning white shirts and string ties. They then saddled up for Virginia City, Adam slinging his guitar on his back. Woody and Terry had left an hour earlier, driving a buckboard in matching black frock coats, pinstriped trousers and dove gray vests that Hop Sing had spruced up for them.

The crowd descending on the opera house was so thick that the Cartwrights were scarcely able to wend their way to the front to claim four seats in the auditorium. The doors to the hall stood hooked wide open to accommodate an overflow crowd into the theater’s broad lobby. At the stroke of seven, Pastor Lewis Packard from the family’s home congregation took the stage to deliver an invocation and to read a gospel passage. When he sat down, Woody and Terry appeared in the rimlights. Terry sat down on the piano stool and his companion moved to the edge of the stage apron, striking up the hymn “Shall We Gather at the River” and inviting the jammed hall to join them. Joe guessed the sound of their song carried for blocks.

The audience wildly applauded as both young men bowed. Terry reclaimed his perch on the piano stool as Woody led the singing on “Bringing In the Sheaves.” For the next hour they warmed the crowd with hymns and Dixie slave spirituals, preparing them for the moment when Woody would man the pulpit. “We’ve got a special surprise in store for you tonight,” Woody announced to the gathering with all the volume and swagger of a carnival barker. “I’d like to present the sons of our generous sponsor Ben Cartwright, performing an inspirational number especially for you cowboys here with us tonight.”

The cowhands in the audience yipped and howled their approval as Hoss and Little Joe climbed to the stage behind Adam. When they hushed, Adam strummed the opening chords and began to sing. “Last night as I lay on the prairie … And looked at the stars in the sky … I wondered if ever a cowboy … Would drift to that sweet bye and bye.”

Joe and Hoss awaited their cue and blended voices with him on the next bars. “The road to that bright happy region … Is a dark, narrow trail so they say … But the broad one that leads to perdition … Is posted and blazed all the way.” All three brothers and the congregation’s cowboys pitched in on the chorus. “Roll on … roll on … roll on little dogies, roll on … ” Picking up the melody by ear, Terry joined them with a vigorous piano counterpoint as they launched into the song’s second verse.

Savoring the thunderous applause for their act, Adam looked pleased to have listened to Joe’s coaxing. Joe slapped his back in brotherly commendation as they departed the stage and claimed back their seats beside a smiling Ben. The auditorium fell still as Woody Conniston crossed over and took his place behind the rostrum.

“My brothers and sisters,” he began. “There’s no sadder event in the course of imperfect justice than to see a man punished, imprisoned or hanged for a crime he didn’t commit. And yet we never shed a tear over the blame we misplace every day of our lives.” He dramatically paused, allowing the crowd’s curiosity to peak. “We blame and often punish the Jews for putting our Lord Jesus on the cross. We curse and condemn the Romans for the same act. Yet if we were to look into our hearts and our deeds, we’d know where the true fault lies. The persons responsible for the passion and death of Christ on Calvary are you and I.”

“Amen,” murmured a handful of the crowd’s seekers.

Woody resumed speaking for the next fifteen or twenty minutes. All men and women were sinners, he insisted, and all fell short of God’s divine perfection in what they had done or failed to do. The natural inheritance of unsaved human lives was eternal punishment in hell. “But luckily, God loves us so much He didn’t want to abandon us with no hope of rescue from that lake of fire,” Woody intoned. “Our salvation is in the sacrifice of Jesus on the cross.”

“Amen!” came a louder declaration from hundreds more throats.

Woody said, “I’d now like to introduce a sister who’ll bear witness to the powerful saving grace of our Lord.” He beckoned toward the front row. “Miss Millie?”

It startled Joe to see the former saloon hostess as she stood and climbed to the stage. He could barely recognize her. She was wearing a modest blue paisley dress that rose to her neck. Soap and water had cleansed her face and lips of their paint, and she had brushed her strawberry hair softly to her shoulders and tamed it with a black velvet ribbon. He had always thought her fetching, but now he was seeing the beauty of goodness.

Woody stepped aside from the pulpit, allowing Millie to stand in his place. “My name is Mildred McGrath,” she said. “Most of you know me as Six-Toed Millie, thanks to that extra little piggy the Lord saw fit to put on my right foot.” Her remark raised a rumble of appreciative laughter from the crowd. “There was a time not long ago when I believed my life was hopelessly lost to sin. I sinned for money. I sinned with liquor, and I sinned with men more times than I care to say. My favors brought in a lot of money from the silver barons of the Comstock.” Her voice quavered. “It was supposed to buy me a better life away from saloons. But most of the money I earned as a woman of the night went to stake my man’s gambling the instant it crossed my palm. It took two wandering children to tell me it wasn’t too late for me. I hadn’t sinned so badly that God wouldn’t forgive me. They told me the only unforgivable sin was deliberate failure to repent and to change my ways. All I had to do was surrender my heart to the Lord and become part of his sacrifice. It changed my life. Now I hunger only for what’s good and for the truth I find every day in scripture.”

The crowd clapped and roared for her as Millie returned to her seat beside Tom Emery. Woody took back the pulpit, and Terry gently fingered the piano keyboard to provide soft music for the denouement of his sermon. “Now you see that when I enter the kingdom of heaven, it won’t be on account of the good works I’ve done or the sins I’ve avoided. It will all be because of Christ’s passion and death on the cross. May God bless all of you.”

At the piano, Terry played the opening bars of “The Old Rugged Cross.” Woody not only invited the congregation to join them in song. He asked the repentant sinners in their midst to come forward to rededicate their lives and to share a prayer and a blessing. Throughout the hall, people stood up and milled to the front, gathering between the stage apron and the first row of seats. Joe estimated their number at two hundred with many more to follow. Adam’s intuition had struck right on the nail. Free of charlatan flimflam, the revival was a resounding success.

Ushers appeared in the aisles to pass plates for donations. Drawing a shallow breath and ignoring the sharp pain in his side, Joe dug into his coat pocket for a silver dollar. He heard coins ringing in the plates and every so often the whisper of folding money. When worshippers filled each plate, the ushers emptied it into a canvas sack.

Later, after another round of hymns and a grand finale of “The Battle Hymn of the Republic,” the crowd broke up and began to drift toward the street. The Cartwrights remained behind in a theater office to help Woody and Terry count their money and to tie the paper dollars into bundles. Banker John Morris had promised to open his doors to permit a night deposit of the proceeds, as it would be too dangerous to carry that much cash on the road. Joe alone counted two hundred and forty dollars. Added to the sums his father, brothers and the two young evangelists chalked up, the total came to a whopping sixteen hundred and thirty-seven dollars. They removed it to a single pair of canvas bags, one for the coins and one for the bills.

Morris said to Ben, “I’ll need one or two of you to escort us to the bank. We’re not armed.”

“Hoss and I can do that,” Joe volunteered. “We won’t be more than half an hour, Pa.”

“Be careful,” Ben said.

Gripping the handles of their revolvers, Joe and Hoss followed banker Morris, Woody and Terry into the crowded street. Starlight and sidewalk lamps illuminated their way to the shadowy front doors of the bank, where Morris worked the key in the lock and admitted the four other men. As the banker crossed the threshold he reached up to light an oil lamp mounted on a wall sconce.

It bathed the dark interior of the bank with a golden haze, breaking up the shadows to reveal a dark-clad figure and the barrel of a Spencer carbine. “Come in, gentlemen,” said Wade Ramsdell, jabbing his weapon into the banker’s ribs. “I’ve been expecting you.” He jerked his chin toward Hoss and Joe. “Drop your guns,” he ordered, “or Mr. Morris is a dead man.”

The Cartwrights obeyed, letting their revolvers fall to the floorboards. Ramsdell then turned his attention to Woody and Terry, each of whom carried a full sack of money. “Put those bags beside the back entrance,” he snapped. “I don’t need to tell you how tempted I am to pull this trigger on both of you. Move!”

Woody and Terry froze a few seconds and then complied, crossing the floor and depositing their bags of cash beside the rear door. Ramsdell herded them back to stand with the other three men. “That’s what I like to see,” he sneered. “Cooperation.” Reaching behind himself to a chair in the lobby, he pitched Hoss a length of rope. “Tie your kid brother’s hands to the bars of the teller’s cage,” he said.

Joe balked, backing up a step.

“Do what he says, Joe,” Hoss murmured. “Ain’t no amount of money worth gettin’ killed over.”

“Smart thinking,” said Ramsdell.

Joe reluctantly thrust his hands through the bars and Hoss secured them there. He did not cheat, tying them tightly together, certain that Ramsdell would check. “You’re next, big man,” Ramsdell announced, prodding Hoss with the carbine’s barrel and passing the banker a second piece of rope. “Hands through the bars. Mr. Morris, tie him up and do a good job of it.”

Morris was jittering as he reached out to tie Hoss’s wrists. He nervously dropped the rope onto the floor.

“See here!” Ramsdell grumbled. For an instant he propped the Spencer’s butt on the counter, its barrel aimed toward the ceiling, and leaned quickly to retrieve the rope.

It was all the time Hoss needed. He drew his massive right arm across his chest and sent it winging back, his elbow clubbing Ramsdell’s chin. The carbine clattered onto the boards and Ramsdell sprawled beside it. Hoss hauled the gambler up by his black gabardine coat and drove his beefy right fist into his jaw. Ramsdell fell unconscious.

John Morris wrung his hands. “Oh my, I’m so sorry this happened,” he lamented.

“Naw, I’m plumb happy he tried to rob the bank, Mr. Morris,” said Hoss as he snatched the rope off the planks to tie Ramsdell’s hands behind his back. “Up to now, Roy Coffee’s had no good reason or excuse to lock him up.”

“He’ll do time in prison for this, too,” said Joe as Woody Conniston went to work on the knots of the rope holding him to the teller’s cage bars. “That ought to give Millie a chance to breathe free.”

“She forgives him and so do we,” said Terry. “He’s desperate because he built his whole life on quicksand and watched it sink. Maybe he’ll come to realize it someday, even if he’ll never accept it from us.”

“Let’s not dwell on the souls who got away, Brother Terry,” said Woody as Joe’s hands came free. “Think of all the ones we’ve saved. Why, we must have at least five hundred baptisms to perform before we head back East.”

“You’re fired,” Joe and Hoss said together. Laughing, Joe reached out for the two missionaries and gently knocked their heads together.

************

By horseback and carriage the converts converged Sunday morning on sunny Lake Tahoe, where Woody and Terry immersed them with a blessing and sent them on their way to a new life in the faith. Several of the newly baptized seekers were comely young girls who found Joe Cartwright delighted to help them onto the shore, draping blankets over their shoulders against the chill.

Wade Ramsdell now languished in the Virginia City jail, awaiting trial on an attempted bank robbery charge. It made the streets of town safe for Woody and Terry as they stood outside the stagecoach depot on Tuesday, waiting to embark. Seeing them off were Adam and Joe. At the bank, John Morris had reissued their money in hundred dollar bills, awarding eight to each of them, which they hid in their carpetbags. The odd thirty-seven dollars and their pay from the Ponderosa filled their wallets to buy food on the journey. “Be sure to thank your father and Hoss again for all they did,” said Woody. “And Hop Sing … we wish we could take him with us.”

“Most of our good friends do,” said Adam as he clasped their hands in turn. Joe embraced them both around the shoulders.

“Now that we’ve learned how to draw seekers to us,” said Terry, “we’re planning another couple of revivals. One in Chicago and one in Columbus. Imagine the crowds we’ll draw in cities that size.” They boarded the stage the way they had left it days ago, carrying only their carpetbags and Bibles. Joe figured the sole difference was that the two had struck a bonanza, not only in cash but in human souls and fresh wisdom.

The driver slapped the reins and the stage rolled out. Joe and Adam waved. Lowering his arm to his young brother’s shoulder, Adam said, “Let me buy you a drink.”

As the stagecoach grew smaller and disappeared around a bend in the street, Joe idly plucked a milkweed pod from beside the depot. He split it with his thumbnail and opened the husk, blowing on the feathery seeds within. He watched as the tiny white parasols clustered on the autumn wind before drifting off brazenly toward the unknown.