A Fall From Grace

By The Bucket of Bloods

Chapter 1

How long since the waystation had been hit?  Two days?  He couldn’t remember.  The image of the gang of killers attacking the old timber building was still vivid in his mind. 

Only misfortune had placed Joe Cartwright at that waystation.  By chance, he had ridden into the middle of the attack.  He’d fired on the rampaging gang.  It looked like the old men had put up a good fight protecting their home and stock, but the attackers soon overpowered them.  They died where they fell, in the dust and sand between the blazing shack and corral.  Murder was not the gang’s only purpose. After rounding up the station’s horses, the wooden building was torched.  In an inferno of coal oil and contents, all evidence of their presence was destroyed. He still asked the question. Why had the gang attacked the waystation?  What was there that warranted two deaths?  Would he survive long enough to get the answers he sought?

Urging Cochise into a flat-out gallop, he’d fled the scene.  He’d fired off a couple of quick shots, hoping to find a target before the sudden sting and burn when the slug found its mark and sliced through his jacket.

Ominous dark clouds loomed over the imposing distant mountains.  The sun, a blazing eye, played a relentless game of hide and seek, scorching the windswept desert far below.

Dust and sweat clung to the young cowboy’s face and clothes.  His hair was plastered in sticky tendrils to his forehead and neck.  From the vantage point on the rocky outcrop, he could see across to the Sierras — to home and safety.

At his feet lay the shattered remains of his rifle and blood.  His blood.  With his hat pushed back, exposing his face to the sun, he struggled to rid himself of the green jacket.  His face twisted in pain as the sleeve slipped over the oozing gouge in his arm.

***

Chapter 2

Joe leaned back, sucking in air.  When he’d regained consciousness, pain had been swift to follow.  His arm hurt like hell, but that didn’t explain the pounding in his head.  What had happened?  Why had he blacked out?  Looking around only added to his confusion.  The landscape was the same, except for blood and broken rifle — the rifle!

The flash of memory sent a lance of pain behind his eyes.  Thumb and forefinger were pressed into his temples as if that would hold back the explosion that cleared the fog that shrouded his mind, allowing the memories to flow, taking him back to the events of earlier that day ….

His gaze scoured the terrain below.  Looking for dust trails, light reflections, movement – anything that could be the men pursuing him.  He almost missed the sound of boots crunching on stone, and when he spun, his heart leapt at the sight of the cowboy creeping up on him.  Instinct squeezed the trigger on his rifle. The bullet hit the man’s pistol, spiralling it away.  But when he levered the trigger to reload, no bullet was there.  For a second, surprise held the two men frozen.  Gazes locked. Then the man moved.

Meeting his rush, they hit the ground hard in a blur of limbs.  Dust exploded around them.  Choking on the dirt, Joe slammed his forearm under his assailant’s chin.  Fingers clawed for his Colt.  He wrenched the wrist away, but they’d found their goal and yanked the gun free.  Joe heaved and twisted, flinging the cowboy off.  Skittering to the cliff edge, the Colt teetered, then tumbled over.  Leaping to his feet, the man lunged for the empty rifle.  He plowed straight at Joe.  The rifle raised, ready to smash bone.

Joe yanked off the hat he’d retrieved minutes before and probed the tender gash.  It had stopped bleeding, but it explained the blood.  His duck and roll had saved his skull from being bashed in, but the stock caught him before it slammed into the boulder and snapped in two. Joe picked up the broken stock and ran his fingers over the polished, smooth wood. A smile flickered.  He’d carried that rifle for six years, ever since that glorious day when Adam had honored their deal and handed it to him.  It had saved his life a few times, and he’d never missed a rabbit with it.

But where was his attacker?  After tossing the wrecked rifle aside, he’d launched right at Joe.  Fighting to stay conscious, he’d had one chance.  Planting his feet under the man’s stomach, he flipped him overhead.  Then, darkness crashed in.  If he were still alive, there could only be one reason.

Hauling himself upright, he staggered to the edge of the outcrop and looked over.  There he was, or what was left of him, fifty feet below on a ledge.  If that hadn’t caught him, the body would have vanished into the ravine below.  Joe exhaled.  He’d had no choice, but that didn’t make killing a man any easier.

The sudden realization struck him like a punch and whirled him around.  The shot he’d fired!  How soon before it brought the dead man’s friends running? How long had he been out?  He needed to move fast!  He snatched up his jacket, then froze. Turning it over, Joe emptied the inside pocket of any money and stuffed it into one of those on his shirt.  Walking back to the edge, he let the jacket drop.  It came to rest, and the green corduroy turned crimson as it soaked up the blood that spread around the smashed corpse.  Would it be enough to fool the others chasing him?  He’d soon find out.

Keeping low on the horizon, Joe scrambled down to where Cochise was waiting.  The rattle of harnesses dropped him flat against the ground.  Snaking forward, he peeked to see four men approaching.  He’d counted five at the waystation.  Now, they were minus one.  When they spotted Cochise, one of the men dismounted.  Motionless, Joe waited as their voices drifted up to him. 

“It’s his horse, all right.”

“I’ll take the animal and head back.  You three spread out.  He’s on foot.  So, find him.” 

Was this the man in charge?  Joe would’ve happily paid five hundred dollars for the Thoroughbred he rode, and the fine-tooled saddle was worth an easy two.  This man reeked of money.  Why would he rob a waystation?  He needed to save the questions for later.  Getting out of there was a big enough problem. 

Joe moved fast, but a dislodged stone might catch his hunter’s attention, so he planted each footstep with care.  He made it back to the outcrop and took off down the other side. The man who’d attacked him hadn’t walked there.  Somewhere below must be his horse. 

Tucked in the shade of a small cave, Joe found the mare.  Shaking hands shook the full canteen of water, and he grinned at the rifle still in the scabbard.  Patting the big roan’s neck, Joe murmured.  “You’re one welcome sight.”

Kicking away the rock that ground tied the animal, he mounted and eased the mare into a gallop. 

Joe gazed back at the mountains.  He failed to see the beauty in their peaks, the color of sand, darkened only by the shifting patterns of clouds that spilled across them.  They were behind him, and that’s all that mattered.  Ahead was the river.  The city of Winnemucca stretched out on the other side, and hopefully, a sheriff.

Railroad Street stretched before him. It wasn’t much to look at, but he was only interested in one place.  Wiping the sweat out of his eyes, Joe turned back to the livery owner.  “Where’s the sheriff’s office?”

“The sheriff, Señor?  You will find him at Meyer’s Mercantile.”

“Thanks.”

Following the direction indicated, Joe strode down the boardwalk, heels rapping on wood bleached white by the sun and heat.  Pulled down to keep the interior of the mercantile cool, the shades on the large windows hung unmoving in the still air.  Joe breathed in the familiar mixture of leather, coffee beans, and dried herbs as he shuffled to the counter.  The owner behind it spread his hands on the polished wood and looked Joe up and down.  With no jacket or gun and dripping with sweat, he wasn’t a pretty sight.  Straightening his shoulders, he asked, “I’m looking for the sheriff.”

The man nodded, and Joe heard a trace of an accent when he replied, “Right this way.”

Following his guide through a side door into a small office, the man removed the apron from his tall, lean frame before carefully hanging it on a coat stand.  Taking the jacket from the next hook, he slipped it on.  Puzzled, Joe moved to the desk.  Why had he been brought into a back room?  Before he could ask, the man opened a drawer, pulled out a tin star, and pinned it on. 

Drawing in a breath at the transformation from storekeeper to Sheriff, Joe blurted, “You’re the sheriff?”

“Yessir.  Sheriff Karl Meyer.”

“But don’t you own the mercantile?”

“This is a small, peaceful town, son.  We have no need for a full-time sheriff.  Take a seat and tell me what I can do for you?”

This setup was something new, but Joe planted himself in the chair, introduced himself, and told his story.  The sheriff’s folded hands rested on the desk, and the steady gaze from his gray eyes never left Joe’s face as he listened, weighing him up as much as his tale.

“I know this waystation.  Harvey and Bob Martin come often for supplies.  And you say they’re both dead?”

Joe answered with a nod.  “Any idea why someone would attack them?

The sheriff shook his head.  “Food to feed travelers and horses for the stage hardly warrants such an attack.”

“There wasn’t gold or money going through there?”

“Not anymore.  Wells Fargo stopped running gold that way three years back.  You’re sure they weren’t Indians or Comancheros?”

“Yes.  Why burn the place to the ground?  And why hunt me down?  I was no threat to them.”

“Good questions.  I’ll have to ride out there.”

“You might wanna take some men with you.  I’ll come along.”

The sheriff ran a finger down each side of his impressive mustache.  “You say you were on your way home to Virginia City?”  

“Yeah, our ranch is near there.”  Joe frowned, wondering at this change of tack.

“I think, Mr. Cartwright, you should see the doctor about those wounds, get a room, clean up, enjoy a fine meal, and catch tomorrow’s train to Reno.”

Stiffening, Joe stared back at the sheriff.  Was he being dismissed?  “But I’m your only witness.”

“And that is why I want you out of here, somewhere safe.  I’ll know where to find you when I need you.”

Joe’s gut twisted.  Those killers were riding free – maybe riding Cochise!  No one was sending him home.  Out of his chair, Joe slapped his palms on the desk.  “Sheriff, those men chased me for two days all over Solitary Flats.  Sitting in the livery’s one of their horses, and those sons-of-bitches have mine.  Whether I go with you or not, I’m going.  So, what’re you gonna do about it?”

***

Chapter 3

After a good night’s sleep at Widow Bedloe’s boarding house, Joe listened to the train whistle blow.  He made his way down the stairs to the parlor, then turned right and found the dining room where the widow stood to greet him.  “Is that the train to Reno, Ma’am?”

“That’s right, Mr. Cartwright.”

“Call me Joe.”

“All right, Joe.  You may call me Lila, but if you’re heading for Reno, you’re plumb outta luck.”

“No.  Not today.”

“Good.  Take any chair at the table.  Breakfast is on its way.”

“Thank you, Ma’am.”

After seeing the only doctor—better known as the town drunk—Joe booked a room at the boarding house the night before but hadn’t paid close attention to its owner.  Looking at her now, he noticed the shine of her hair and how her curves were in all the right places.  With soft white skin and silky blond hair, she looked too young to be a widow. 

Two overweight boarders sat waiting for their meal, and Joe was the first to introduce himself.  “Name’s Joe Cartwright.”

“Hello, Mr. Cartwright.  Henry Tucker’s the name, and may I present my wife, Annabelle.”

Joe extended his hand to the man who stood slightly from his chair and smiled at his wife.  “Nice to meet you both.”

“Cartwright.  I know that name.  Up Virginia City way?”

“Yes, Sir.  Ben Cartwright is my father.”

When his memory sparked, Henry clicked his fingers and pointed his index at me.  “That’s right.  I met your father many years ago.  Ben and I, and three other men, delivered timber to various locations for the railroad.  In this part of the country, well-built trestles are a common necessity for rail travel.

Joe thought back to some of the earlier contracts his father had signed, and if he remembered right, these five men did what the railroad asked for, and no outrageous problems occurred.

“I’ve lost track of two of the men, but one of them lives in these parts.  If you mention me to your father, you might also mention Adolf Grünbaum.  See if he remembers the old German.”   

“I’ll do that.  I’m sure Pa will remember both of you.”

The widow brought several steaming platters into the dining room.  Ham, eggs, fresh bread and jam, and a pot of hot coffee.  Her kitchen skills ranked up there with Hop Sing’s, but Joe would keep that information to himself.  His family’s cook didn’t need to know everything.

After filling himself with an item from every platter, Joe had stalled long enough.  If the sheriff thought he’d left town, he had another think coming.  Joe wanted to partner up with Meyer when he went after the outlaws.  Besides, he wasn’t going home without his horse.

Leading the roan behind him, Joe walked from the livery to the mercantile, where he hoped to find Sheriff Meyer, and if he was lucky, the man would’ve rounded up a posse and been ready to ride.  But that wasn’t the case.  There wasn’t a posse, and the town sheriff was conducting business as usual inside his mercantile.

“Will that be all, Mrs. Jansen?’

“I believe so.  Ain’t got no more monies to spend.  My weekly allowance has run dry.”

“You have a good day, Ma’am.”

“I will, Karl.  I’ll be in to see you next week.”

Leaning against the weathered siding of the largest building in town, Joe listened to the leisurely banter between the part-time sheriff and an old woman named Jansen.  Nothing had been done about the outlaws or the two dead men who were entitled to a proper burial. 

His shoulder ached.  The doctor had run a few stitches through swollen skin, wrapped his upper arm with a bandage, and given the gash on his head a cursory clean. If he were lucky, he might survive the overpriced services of the town drunk.

Joe didn’t go unnoticed for long.  Karl Meyer stashed the old woman’s coins in a wooden box and came out from behind the counter to explain. 

“I thought you’d be halfway home by now.”

“No, Sir, but let me turn this around and make myself clear.  I thought you would’ve ridden out with a posse by now.”

Mr. Meyer stepped out onto the boardwalk and planted his hands on his hips.  After breathing in the fresh morning air, he turned back to Joe.  “There isn’t going to be a posse.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The men in this town don’t care enough about a waystation that’s twenty miles down the road to strap on a gun belt and go after outlaws that did them no harm.”

“What about you, Sheriff?  Do you care enough to travel twenty miles down the road?”

“Don’t tell me how to do my job, Cartwright.”

Joe kept his temper.  The man known as the part-time sheriff was useless, but he couldn’t let go.  “Two men are dead, and the waystation was burned to the ground.  Aren’t you even curious?” 

***

Chapter 4

Sheriff Meyer rolled his eyes.  “You want to go running round the countryside on a wild goose chase, fine, be my guest.  Me, I got work to do, and so do the good citizens of this town.  Like I said, the Martin’s place is twenty miles away, so out of my jurisdiction.”

Joe shook his head, his patience worn paper thin.  “So, you’re not bothered if I go looking for my horse?  I’d hate to commit a crime trying to get him back.”

“You go find your horse, Cartwright, then you head right on back to Virginia City.  Got it?”

With a backward glance at the storefront, he turned the roan and strode towards the saloon on the edge of town.  

The only thing that perked up the place was the two fine-looking mounts tied to the rail.  The big roan soon stood alongside them, and with a friendly slap on the horse’s rump, Joe strolled across the boardwalk and pushed through the batwings.

Joe’s cursory glance around the saloon confirmed his first impression.  The place was a dump.  Tables were scattered throughout, and dirty glasses remained.  A piano stood silent and dusty next to the stairs.

Two cowboys occupied the opposite end of the bar.  One was wiry, around twenty years old, and the other taller and nearer Adam’s age.  Conversation stopped as Joe entered, their gazes fixed on the newcomer.  Joe nodded in acknowledgment and leaned against the long wooden counter.

“Morning,” the sweaty, fat bartender greeted, his rough voice lacking enthusiasm as he wiped the bar top.  “What can I get you?”

“A beer and some information.”

The two heads turned, their full attention on Joe as they waited for whatever came next. Joe took a long pull of his beer.  It wasn’t the best he’d tasted, but it was cool and better than some.

“You’re the fella came in ‘bout the Martin brothers, ain’t you?” The older cowboy asked.

“Yeah,” Joe acknowledged and placed his glass on the bar.

“Folks hereabouts said a gang did it,” the kid said.

“Know why anyone would want them dead?”

“I heard they had money stashed away.  Me, I never saw any of it.”

“Me neither,” the taller man added.

The kid finished his beer and made a show of placing it in front of the barkeep.  A nod from Joe got both glasses refilled.  The saloon owner was keen to eavesdrop on the conversation, but Joe’s icy glare soon changed his mind.

The older man picked up his beer.  “Thanks.  This here’s Chet.  I’m Mac.”

“Joe.  What else can you tell me?”

“When the brothers showed up, when was it, Chet, ‘bout ten years back?  There were stories they’d had a big strike down California way.  Seems they used some of the gold to buy the station and hid the rest.”

Chet chimed in with his two cents’ worth, “That’s about the truth of it.  My pa got talking to them one time, an’ it kinda slipped out about the gold.  Ain’t nobody ever seen any, an’ they were never big spenders.  You can ask at the mercantile.  Sheriff Meyer’ll tell you the same.”

“They have any family?”  Joe pumped for more information, though he was wary.  They were too quick to tell their story.

Both shrugged in unison.  “Never spoke of any,” Chet offered.  “Don’t mean there weren’t none, though.”

Another beer found its way to the talkative pair.  Joe nursed his first.  There were things he wanted to do before the day ended, and filling up on beer would not help.

Chet finished the third glass in one long swallow, let out a long belch, and announced he needed to go out back.  

“Anything else you can tell me?  Anyone know who the men are?  They’ve got my horse, and I want him back.”

“I heard some gang from Arizona was operating up this way.  Dunno who they were.   It’s not like we got much to offer.”

Joe sipped his beer.  “The sheriff doesn’t seem too interested in finding the killers or my horse.  Is he always that uninvolved?”

“He likes the easy life.”  Mac changed the conversation when his friend entered the saloon.  Dropping his voice, he said, “He’s the sheriff’s nephew.  Careful what you say.  Chet, you okay?  You got another beer from this gentleman.”

Joe paid for the drinks.  “I’ll see you later.  Guess I’ll go see what time lunch is served over at Mrs. Bedloe’s.”

“Miss Lila, she’s a mighty nice lady and a mighty fine cook,” Mac said.  

With a nod to the barkeep, Joe walked out into the oppressive midday sun.  The heat clung to him like a heavy blanket, and he could feel the sweat trickle between his shoulder blades.  He untied the horse and led him over to the livery and some welcome shade.

“Guess I’m going to have to give you a name,” Joe murmured to the big animal. “Can’t keep calling you ‘you,’ can I?  How about Blue, do you like that?” Joe chuckled at the gentle nudge on his shoulder.  “I guess that’s a yes then!”

Joe crossed the street to the boarding house.  Pushing the front door open, he called out, “Mrs. Bedloe, it’s Joe Cartwright.  You home?”

“Mr. Cartwright.”  Lila stepped back from Meyer’s arms, her eyes wide and face flushed with embarrassment.  “I wasn’t expecting you back so soon.”

The sudden tension in the room was as thick as the dust out on the main street.  Joe’s gut told him something was about to explode.

***

Chapter 5

“Excuse me, Karl.  I have to get on with my work.”

Meyer wasn’t happy to be dismissed by the lady, but he picked up his hat from the side table where he’d placed it.  Joe stiffened when the sheriff took a step toward him.

“You’re beginning to smell like trouble, Cartwright.  Maybe I should walk you to that train tomorrow and see that you get on.”

“You can try.”

Their gazes locked.  Cold gray met glittering green. He wasn’t backing down. The badge the man wore carried a lot of weight with Joe, but the person wearing it was losing his respect every minute. 

“I told you before.  This is a peaceful town.  Don’t cause me any trouble.”  Turning, Meyer tipped his hat at Mrs. Bedloe.  “See you soon, Lila.”

Joe moved aside to let him pass, but he still got his shoulder barged by the departing sheriff.  The door slammed, and Joe removed his hat.  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Small, white hands fluttered down the apron the young widow wore, smoothing out the creases.  “That’s fine.  Did you need something?”

“Only to talk to you.”

This flustered the woman even more, but she took a breath and got command of herself.  “Come into the kitchen.  I can work while we talk.”

Nodding, he followed her to the large, bright kitchen at the back of the house.  An impressive pine table, scrubbed pale through cleaning, stood covered with the makings of whatever was going to be for supper.  The boarding house offered bed and breakfast for fifty cents a night, plus supper for an extra twenty-five.  If breakfast was anything to judge this woman’s cooking by, Joe thought he might take her up on that.

“Take a seat.  Cup of coffee?”

“I don’t want to put you to any bother.”

“No, bother.”

Joe smiled.  “Then, thanks.”

Watching her gathering cups, he pondered on what he’d just seen.  A handsome woman stood before him.  Still in her twenties, she could easily take her pick of the men hereabouts.  What could a man over twice her age have to attract her?  True, Meyer owned the mercantile and had the standing of sheriff, but this lady was an independent businesswoman.  Surely she could do better?

Accepting the coffee, he waited until she sat down before beginning.  “I wanted to ask you about the waystation that got attacked.  Did you know them?”

“No.”

“Do you have any idea why anyone would rob them?”

“No idea.”

“What about the gold they were rumored to have hidden?” 

“Gold?  Those two?  I never heard anything about that.”  Joe took a swallow of his coffee and mulled this over.  Were his friends at the saloon feeding him a load of crap?  Or did this woman skip the gossip?  Lila’s question broke into his thoughts.  “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Why are you so interested in what happened at the waystation?”

“I don’t like to see murderers get away.  ‘Sides, they took my horse.”

When she smiled, the breath caught in the back of Joe’s throat.  It lit up the room and stirred a fire inside him.  “It must be a special horse.”

“I’ve had him a long time.  He’s a good horse when he isn’t pushing for his share of my morning coffee.”  They both laughed, and after a beat, Joe asked, “How long have you and the sheriff been friends?”

The flush mantled her cheeks again.  “I don’t know what you think you saw—”

“Does he bother you like that a lot?”

The potato she was peeling slipped back into the bowl.  Her gaze met his, and he saw the shock in her eyes.  What had she expected from him?  Ridicule?  Disgust?  “The sheriff has been kind to me.”

“It looked like it,” this time, he tinged his words with disgust.

Setting aside her knife, she wiped her hands on her apron.  “My husband died three years ago. I couldn’t run our property alone. I sold up and bought this place.  It’s a good living, but sometimes there are troublemakers to deal with and people who don’t want to pay their bills.  I need the sheriff on my side.  Without that, my life here would be a lot more difficult.”

“And there’s a price for that?”

“It’s true, he can get over-friendly.”

Joe’s fingers tightened around the porcelain cup.  “Can’t be easy.”

“No.  But it could be a lot worse.  I can handle Karl Meyer.”

Joe met Lila’s steady gaze and caught a glimpse of steel at the back of it.  Here was one special lady.  Easing out of his chair, Joe thanked her for the coffee.  In the doorway, he stopped. “Any chance of a spare seat for supper?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Thanks.  What time do you serve?”

“Six-thirty sharp, Mr. Cartwright.”

Sliding on his hat, he tipped the brim and gave her a wink.  “I’ll be there.  And remember, call me Joe.”

Joe stepped into the street and considered his next move.  The heat rose off the boardwalk, and he squinted his eyes as he gazed down past Railroad Street toward the shiny new tracks.  In front of them, men were hard at work, nailing up new buildings.  A railroad brought wealth and expansion, and it looked like the citizens of Winnemucca were keen to make the most of it.  Checking the height of the sun, Joe weighed his options.  Aside from the two talkers, the empty saloon was a bust.  He could try to pump the telegrapher for information, but then he remembered the café next to the telegraph office.  That might be a good place to start.

When he passed the saloon, Mac and Chet stepped through the batwings.  “You two heading out?”

The big man slapped a hand on Chet’s shoulder.  “Yep.  Even the boss’s grandson can’t hang around a saloon all day.”

“Boss’ grandson?”

“Chet’s grandpa, old man Grünbaum, owns the Bar G.

Joe raised his eyebrows.  “You’re Adolf Grünbaum’s grandson?”

“You know my grandfather?”

“No, but my father met him when they both delivered timber for a railroad contract.” 

“Cartwright.  You one of them Ponderosa Cartwrights?”

“That’s right.”  Chet straightened, shedding the coat of an easy-going cowpoke.  His gaze ran over Joe as if questioning his previous appraisal.  Joe had questions of his own.  “Grünbaum?  I thought Sheriff Meyer was your uncle?”

“He’s my ma’s brother.” 

Mac laughed.  “The Grünbaums and Meyers have got this place sewn up.  Ain’t that right, Chet?” 

The kid scowled.  “You need a mouth to match your tiny pecker.  Shut up and get on your horse!”

The grin on the older man’s face faded, and his shoulders drooped.  Sparks lit in the back of Joe’s eyes.  He was beginning to take a real dislike to Chet Grünbaum. 

Mac hauled himself into his saddle. The animal sidle sideways, adjusting to the weight.  When Chet followed suit, Joe stepped forward to pat the horse’s rump.  Dust rose in a cloud.  “Looks like you fellas have been hard at it.”

“You must know how that is, coming from a place the size of the Ponderosa.”

Joe ran his hand down the dust-covered coat, where it paused for a fraction before continuing.  He lifted his gaze to Chet.  “Whereabouts is your ranch?”

“Thinking of paying us a visit?” 

“I might.”

Chet stared at Joe for a beat before replying, “Follow the road out of town south for about five miles.  You can’t miss it.”

The horse danced under the man, and Joe moved away to allow Chet room to turn and ride off. 

Mac drew alongside Joe.  “Thanks for the beer.”

“Anytime.”

Looking at the disappearing figure of his companion, the big man added, “I’d better go.  See you around, Joe.”

“Have a good ride.”

Mac tapped his hat in salute and moved on.  Standing in the street, hands on hips, Joe watched the two men ride out.  The smile on his face wasn’t the kind that reached his eyes or warmed his soul.  Things had just gotten interesting.  The brand seared into the hide of Chet’s horse was an exact match for the one on the roan over at the livery, which he’d named Blue.

***

Chapter 6

With supper behind Lila and Joe, he asked, “Will you take a ride with me?”

“Tonight?”

“That’s what I had in mind.  If you don’t have your own horse, I’d be glad to rent you one.”

“I need to clean up first.”

 “I’ll help.”

She washed, and Joe dried, and they managed a textbook dishwashing rhythm.  They had plenty of time before dusk to ride and talk and get to know one another, and with no other guests in the house, her obligation ended with the only boarder she had that evening—Joe Cartwright.

He planned to grill her about the sheriff and his connection with  Grünbaum.  After his conversation with Mac and Chet, there were more questions than answers, and if he wanted to get Cochise back, catch the killers, and ride home, he had to keep pushing until the answers were as clear as a Nevada sky.  If he were lucky, the widow would fill in the blanks.

The heat of the day had vanished, and as he and Lila rode, Joe noticed a white picket fence surrounding a small graveyard. 

“Quite impressive.”

Lila smiled.  “It’s the Chinese cemetery.”

“Really?”

“That’s right.  I could show you Chinatown tomorrow if that’s something you want to see.”

“I don’t know.” 

Joe pondered the thought.  He knew how things worked in Virginia City. The Chinese had feelers everywhere in the white community and knew more than anyone else in town.  Roy Coffee had to accept the fact that he was often the last to know.  If he was stumped and had no other options, he knew where to go and ask questions. 

They rode out of town toward an amazing sight, and Joe questioned his riding companion.  “What in the world is up ahead, Lila?”

The widow chuckled.  “You’re not a man of the world, are you?”

“No.  Not at all.”

“Those are our sand dunes.”

“Sand dunes?”

“That’s right.  Come on.  Last one there’s a dirty duck.”

Lila Bedloe was a good horsewoman, and she took off like a bird in flight.  Dead ahead, Joe stared at the oddest sight.  Enormous mounds of sand—white sand—loomed in front of the Santa Rosa Range, and with the sun lowering in the western sky, the rugged outline intrigued the Ponderosa cowboy.  Although his father would call him reckless, he was eager to catch up with his attractive tour guide.

After dismounting, the couple stood in front of the dunes.  For Lila, the white mounds of sand were nothing to get excited about.  She’d known them all her life, but Joe was a different story.  He couldn’t take his eyes off the magnificent sight.  His genuine smile intrigued the young widow, and she began to laugh.

“What’s so funny?”

“You.”

“Me?”

“Haven’t you ever seen sand before?”

“Sure, I have, but it didn’t reach the sky.  I can’t believe you’re not excited to have this right in your own backyard.”

“Don’t you have anything fun in your backyard?”

“Sure I do, but …”

“But what?  That makes us even, right?”

Joe was speechless.  The young widow had bested him in a simple conversation, and he felt like a fool.  “Okay.  I see what you mean.  We all have something special.”

“You catch on quick, don’t you?”

Her eyes sparkled like diamonds in the early evening light, and like unseen waves in a faraway sea, pink and orange bands of light streaked the open sky, and Joe pulled her close.  Though she didn’t hesitate, her eyes dipped toward the ground, but when Joe lifted her chin with two fingers, those sparkling eyes met his, and they drew close enough for a brief kiss before the widow stepped away.

Joe felt like a fool.  “I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean—”

“Don’t be.  If nothing else, I led you on, and that makes it my fault, not yours.”

“Should we head back to town?”

She didn’t stop to answer, but when she mounted her rented horse, Joe followed in stride.  They rode at a slower pace, and their conversation was nil.  Knowing he’d taken things too far, Joe wanted to apologize again, but the time wasn’t right, and after reaching the house, he tipped his hat, took the reins of the rental, and rode down to the livery to deposit both horses.  Blue had proven to be a decent mount, but no horse compared to Cochise.  He needed to get back on track and quit fooling around with a woman he’d never see again.

Because of his stupidity, he never had the chance to ask Lila about Meyer and Grünbaum, but it was too late now.  He’d have to wait till morning, that’s if he had the nerve to bring it up.  He never should’ve tried anything.  He hadn’t been fair to her.  It seemed that the sheriff was a close companion, and who was he to step in and interrupt an ongoing love affair?

Without another word to his landlady, he climbed the stairs to his room.  After tossing his hat and gun belt onto an overstuffed chair, he kicked off his boots and removed his clothes.  He needed a good night’s sleep and crawled into a bed as large as his brother’s.  It made him wonder if her husband had been a big man like Hoss, but it didn’t matter now.  After pressing his luck at the dunes, he’d lost his chance to have any kind of relationship with the widow, and after turning his face toward the wall, he fell fast asleep.

It wasn’t long before a perfect dream made him smile.  Her hand sliding across his belly and creeping down toward his southern region caused him to roll from his side to his back and take the dream to a higher level, but when he lifted his eyelids and saw the naked woman lying beside him, his body quivered from a touch he wasn’t expecting.  

“Lila?”

After raising her pearl-white leg over his tan, lean body, she straddled the handsome cowboy who lay in the oversized bed where she’d entertained more men than she could count.  Leaning down, she pressed her lips to his and lay her palms against his hands, and in one smooth motion, she slid his arms up the bed and over his head, then lowered herself onto his fully erect penis.  It was her job to ride him hard.

After Calvin, her husband of four years, died, Adolf had set her up with the boarding house, though there were conditions.  She balked at first and tried to fight her way free of his terms, but times were hard, and her choices were to adhere to Cal’s grandfather’s control or leave Winnemucca and fight other men’s rules and make it on her own.

For years, she tried to understand why Adolf was so cruel.  He loved his grandsons.  Chet and Calvin meant the world to him, and when Cal married her, all was lost for the old man.  He hated his grandson’s new wife.  “She’s a whore,” he’d said.  “A common whore.”  But her only crime was talking to Kaya, a half-breed who lived near the dunes.   Even if she was four years his senior, being seen with a man like that didn’t bode well with the old man.

The writing was on the wall.  Adolf thought she was rubbish, and he put her to work to pay off the boarding house mortgage.  Within weeks of her husband’s death, Adolf’s plan had been set in motion.  She would offer her services to anyone who stayed at her establishment, and the old man would collect the money men left on the bureau before they walked out the front door.

It wasn’t long before Karl came calling, and since decent people would cringe at the thought of a man messing with a woman who used to be family, he chose to slip into her house as bold as brass, and no one would be the wiser.  He was the part-time sheriff, and she was a businesswoman.  It made sense that their paths would cross.  Karl had been party to Adolf’s conditions and had taken advantage for the last three years.  Although he’d never spent a full night, he wasn’t inclined to leave a pocketful of change on the bureau for the old man either.

For Joe or anyone else who asked, she told a different story.  She’d purchased the boarding house with money she’d made off the sale of the home she and her husband bought when they first married.  That’s the sweet tale that made people think everything was on the up and up.  Otherwise, she’d be cast aside as the town whore or, worse, a prostitute.  Adolf’s prostitute.

Joe hadn’t said a word, but when she slipped her dressing gown on over her naked body, he leaned up on his elbows and started asking questions she didn’t want to answer.  “Why?”

“I didn’t please you?”

“I didn’t say that.  I asked you why?”

“You’re a fine-looking man, Joe Cartwright, and I’m a young widow with needs of my own.”

“No.  I’m not buying.”

Her hands flew to her hips.  “Did I ask you for money?  Is that what you think this is all about?”

Joe slipped on his trousers and rolled his legs over the edge of the bed.  “You’re good at twisting people’s words, aren’t you?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Why did you climb into my bed?  Who told you to do such a thing?”

“You’re a pig, Joe Cartwright.  A low-down dirty pig.”

Joe stood from the bed.  “No, I’m not.  Karl?  Was it Karl?”

“I hate you!  I hate you!  I hate you!”  This conversation needed to stop. Lila rushed across the room and flung open the bedroom door.  “I want you out of my house.”

“I hit a nerve, didn’t I, Lila?  Is Sheriff Meyer behind the waystation killings?  Is he the one who told you to sleep with the nosy boarder?”

“None of what you say is true.”

“What about Chet?  He’s family, isn’t he?  He and your husband were brothers?  Maybe cousins?  And … what does that make Karl Meyer?  Where does he fit in?  Tell me, Lila.  Tell me how all this works?”

“No.  You’ve got everything twisted up.  My husband and Chet were cousins, but my husband is dead, and Karl Meyer means nothing to me.  Are you happy now?”

“No.  I want the rest of the story.  I want to know why Chet’s horse and the horse I rode to the dunes have the same brand.  Explain that, and I’ll leave you alone.”

Lila slid down the bedroom door until she sat on the hard, wooden floor.  With tears in her eyes and her dressing gown slipping to either side of her raised knees, her nakedness would give most men reason to turn their heads, but not Joe Cartwright.  He moved toward her.  

Lifting her from the floor, he wrapped her in his arms.  “I’m sorry.  I’m so very sorry.”

***

Chapter 7

Joe’s heart raced as he held Lila close.  His breathing was almost under control.  The scent of their lovemaking still clung to their semi-naked bodies and hung heavy in the still air of the dimly lit room.  The physical attraction remained strong, but the need for more information kept Joe focused. He was treading on dangerous ground and needed to proceed with caution. She had started her story, and he would press gently for the rest. His voice was soft and low.  “Can you help me understand what’s really going on here?”

Tear-filled eyes gazed up into Joe’s.  He felt a surge of protectiveness, but still, a nagging doubt lingered.  Could he trust her?

“I—I, it’s complicated.” Lila’s voice trembled. Her tears were close to the surface.  “Oh, Joe.  Adolf has everyone fooled.  Nothing goes on around here that he doesn’t know about.”

“I don’t know much about Grünbaum other than my father did business with him a few years back.”

“Oh, he’s as nice as pie to business associates and then shows his true colors.  Of course, no one will speak against him.  How can they when the sheriff’s in his pocket?”

“What about you, Lila?  Does he own you, too?”

This time, the laugh caught in her throat and became a heaving sob as she dropped her head into her hands.  Her hair tumbled in disarray, hiding her flushed face.

“Bought and paid for, Joe.  I’m bought and paid for.”  Then her tears fell in earnest.  Her shoulders shook as she gasped for breath between heart-wrenching sobs.  

Joe’s heart pounded as he pulled her back to him.  Making soft, shushing noises, he held her and felt the tension ease. “You’re cold.  Come back to bed.”  

“I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to cry all over you.”

A tender kiss silenced any further comment as they crawled back into the big bed.  “There are a few hours till daylight.  Try to get some sleep.”

Lila turned to face Joe. Her fingers traced across his bare chest, then to his cheeks.  Her lips left hot breath against chilled skin as they fluttered at his throat and then teased his breastbone.  Her hands explored Joe’s muscular body and plucked at the fabric at his waist.  “Love me.  Please.”

Joe’s body responded to Lila’s caress, and he flushed with pleasure.  After unbuttoning his trousers, she slid her hand beneath the heavy fabric.  His breath came in short, sharp gasps as his excitement grew.  It wasn’t difficult to fulfil her request.  Daylight found them wrapped in a tangle of bed linen.

“I’ve got to get breakfast.” Lila pulled her flimsy cotton wrap around her and stood.

Speechless, Joe watched her leave the room.  Her manner was business-like and detached from their night of passion.  For the second time in only a few hours, he felt used.  She had seemed so desperate after the tears, wanting him to make love to her.  Had she played him again?  Was it all a lie, and did she truly belong to Grünbaum?  Joe dressed and made his way down the stairs.

“Coffee, Mr. Cartwright?”  Without waiting for his reply, Lila poured the steaming beverage into the cup by the single place setting.  “Your breakfast will be ready in five minutes.”

“Thank you.”

“Lila!” Meyer’s voice called from the front door.

“In here, Karl.”

The sheriff followed the sound of her voice into the dining room.  He stopped short at the door when he saw Joe.

“Still here, Cartwright?”

“Yep.  Not leaving till I find my horse.”

“Thought you would’ve gotten the message.  Why don’t you run on back home and buy yourself another Paint?  You can afford it.”

“If it’s all the same to you, I like the one I’ve got.  Mrs. Bedloe, forget breakfast.  I’ll get something later.” Joe pushed back from the table.  He was hungry but had no intentions of sticking around while Meyer played up to the woman he had made love to the night before.

On leaving the boarding house, Joe couldn’t help but hear the peals of laughter from Karl Meyer and Lila Bedloe.

After four days in the desert, a new shirt and pants were just the ticket.  From the mercantile, Joe headed for Hershal’s Barber and Bath for a long soak and a shave.  He’d spent too long in Winnemucca.  It was time to find Cochise and get to the bottom of Grünbaum’s hold on the town.  Lila Bedloe could wait.  He was in no hurry to speak to her.  To his way of thinking, she was happy to be ‘in bed’ with the sheriff and Grünbaum.  She had played him for a fool once too often.  It wouldn’t happen again.  It was time Joe left town.

The kid running the livery had the doors wide open to allow the morning sun to stream in.  Joe greeted the Mexican boy before asking to rent a horse for two or three days.  Riding Blue was too risky.  Minutes later, Joe rode out of Winnemucca on a rangy bay.  

The trail to the waystation was easy to follow.  The well-worn dusty route still had signs of wheel rims from previous stagecoaches.  Joe took it at an easy pace.  He didn’t want to tire his mount in the building heat of the day.  Shade was sparse.  Shimmering heat reflected from the sand and stones created water mirages in the distance.

He glanced back a few times.  Was someone following him, or was it his overactive imagination at work?  The burnt-out ruins came into sight.  In the short time since the fire, a fine layer of dust had settled over the charred remains.  Leaving the horse tied to a corral post, Joe picked his way through the debris.  Very little had survived the blaze.  Twisted metal utensils lay on the kitchen floor.  The chimney remained intact, and the cast iron stove stood forlorn in the open.

Joe moved around the space, treading with care.  The stench of smoke and coal oil lingered in the air.  Little spirals of dust followed his progress while his footprints remained as evidence he had passed through.  Only the barest bones of the building pointed heavenward.

“Cartwright!” A voice shouted across from the corral.  “Found what you’re looking for?”

Joe turned to face Chet.  His loyal hired hand hovered in the background.  “The fire destroyed everything.  Not much to see.”

“My grandfather wants to see you, Cartwright.  Best you do as he wants.”

The three men mounted and rode out of the waystation.

“We going back to town?” Joe asked.  

“No.  We’re going to the Bar G.  Grandfather’s waiting.”

***

Chapter 8

Joe ground his teeth.  He was in no hurry for that meeting with Adolf and could’ve kicked himself.  Blundering about asking questions in all the wrong places was bad enough, but doing it after finding out the only lawman in town was likely neck-deep in the whole business.  That made him dumber than dirt.  Why didn’t he do the smart thing and take the train to Reno?  Then, he could’ve paid a visit to the US Marshal in Carson City.  Instead, he was alone with no backup.  If he got out of this in one piece, he’d be lucky.  Easing his bay into the only shade offered, Joe drew to a halt.

“What’re you doing?” Chet asked.

“The horse needs rest and water.”

Chet’s mouth pinched, but before he could reply, Mac pushed back his hat and nodded.  “He ain’t wrong.  It sure is hot.”

“Grandpa wants us back by supper.”

“We’ll get back in time,” Mac said and dismounted.

Ignoring both men, Joe flipped up the fender and began to loosen the saddle’s cinch.  He wasn’t lying about the horse.  The ride out to the waystation had taken all morning, and the heat was exhausting,  but he also needed to buy time to think. 

Joe finished watering the animal, shook out his hat, and after easing down against a boulder, he stretched out his legs and rested his head back. 

Chet glared at Joe.  “If we’re gonna hang around here, I need to pee.” 

He watched the younger man march off, kicking stones out of his path.  When Mac joined him in the shade, Joe jerked his head at Chet’s retreating figure. “Kinda anxious, isn’t he?”

“Weren’t you the same with your pa at his age?”

Joe chuckled.  “I guess.  What about you?  Aren’t you worried about keeping him waiting?”

“Adolf and me go back a lot of years.  He’s a good man.”

“Is that right?”

Catching the tone in Joe’s voice, Mac leaned forward.  “That man has seen a world of pain.” 

“Hasn’t everyone?”

“Not like him.”

“Oh?”

“His son managed the timber operation the property in the Sierras.  Chester was … well, he had troubles. Adolf thought a job with responsibility would help straighten him out.  You said your father worked a timber contract with Adolf ten years back, right?”  When Joe nodded, Mac continued.  “Not long after that, Chester got hisself killed in an accident.  Then, that summer, Chet’s ma took sick with the fever and died.  That left his daughter, Miss Helga, Calvin’s ma.  She and her husband were good people.”

“Were?”

Mac brought up his knees to rest his elbows on them.  “Back then, Adolf welcomed anyone onto his property.  Offered them a meal and a bunk before they went on their way.  There wasn’t any bother when we found folk camped on the ranch.  One day, the three of us, Miss Helga, her husband, and me, were out checking stock.  We came across two fellas.  Turns out they were miners.”  Mac paused.  “You ever seen a man with gold fever?”

“Yeah.  I’ve seen it.” 

“Then, you know.  The more we told those men there weren’t no gold, the angrier them fellas got.  Thinking we was lying to them, hiding the truth, hiding the gold.  Her husband was the first to go down when the shooting started.  I got Miss Helga off that horse fast before I plugged those two.  It weren’t fast enough.” 

Breaking off, Mac rubbed his palms over his knees before linking his fingers together.  “Y’know, Cartwright, a man can die more than once.  I seen it with Adolf.  The first time was when they brought the crushed body of his boy home.  Watching him hold his daughter’s hand while she faded away was the second.

“Those two grandkids became his whole world, and when Calvin  Jr. died, I thought we’d lose Adolf for sure.  He shut himself away in the dark for weeks.  I was the only one he’d see.  He told me to take care of that boy ‘cause he was all he had left.  I’d do anything for that man.  So, I did as he asked.  Took care of Chet and still am.”

Joe waited, sensing the story wasn’t over. 

“They don’t make folks like Adolf no more.  He pulled hisself back into the living and carried on.  Started buying more land to build up his holdings.  When he got wind of the railroad, he knew what it would mean for the ranch if the trains stopped in Winnemucca.  I ain’t never seen him fight harder for something.  Built the station and the water tower just to impress them railroad folks.  Now he’s building a hotel, cafés, and cattle pens.  He told me how he’s gonna make Chet so powerful, nothing could ever hurt him.”

Joe had heard enough.  “And how’s he paying for that grand plan?  With robbery and murder?  Like those men at the waystation?”

Harsh laughter cracked the air.  Neither man had heard Chet walking up.  “Nobody robbed those yella-bellied bastards.”

Joe turned, and his gaze burned into the young man’s.  “What does that mean?”

Mac stood.  “We’re done talking.  Let’s get moving.”

Jaw clenched and chin jutting, Chet glared at Mac but turned away.

The worked leather moved easily through his fingers as Joe tightened his cinch.  Thoughts jumbled with one another.  What had he witnessed that day at the waystation?  Murder.  That, he was sure of, but if not robbery, what?  And nothing yet explained why they burned it to the ground.  But one thought buried the rest.  How to get away from these two?  All he needed was his chance. 

Settling into the saddle, Joe watched as Chet began to mount.  This was his opening.  His heels slapped the bay’s flank. Slamming into Chet’s horse sent the kid flying to crash into the dirt.  Turning, he galloped straight at Mac.  Before he dived to one side, the horrified look on the man’s face was almost comical.  Swooping down, Joe scooped up Mac’s rein, kicked his bay into a gallop, and raced away.  He looked over his shoulder to see Mac wrestling a rifle away from Chet.  Joe grinned.  He had the sense to know Chet would most likely hit Mac’s horse.

Out of sight of the others, Joe reined in.  The horses couldn’t keep up that pace for long in this heat.  Besides, having forced Mac and Chet to ride double, he could afford to slow it down.  About a half mile out of Winnemucca, Joe released both animals.  If his plans didn’t work out, he had no intention of giving Meyer the chance to arrest him for horse stealing.  The bay headed for its stable with Mac’s following along. 

Joe’s plan was simple.  Jump tomorrow’s train and get to Reno.  There, he’d wire Pa.  Hell, knowing Pa, they’d be waiting for him by the time he got to Carson!

Daylight woke him.  Joe scuffed his hair and stretched out the kinks in his back.  There was nothing comfortable about spending the night hidden in one of the buildings under construction next to the railroad.  His empty stomach growled, but he pushed all thoughts of the delicious food Lila would be serving her guests from his mind.  He’d received more than eggs from that woman, but she was another puzzle in this whole damn mess he’d wandered into. 

The whistle screeching through the air took him outside to hunker down next to the newly hewn wood of the building.  Peering around the corner, he watched the passengers descend, tired people who’d reached the end of the journey and those with further to go, stretching their legs before continuing.  After they’d disembarked, the train eased forward until the tender stood under the water tower.

Resting on one knee, Joe waited.  The silence around him grew.  The sound of movement spun him around, pressing his back into the wood.  A ground squirrel skittered away, running for cover.  What had scared it?  Joe’s gaze scanned the building, looking for signs of anyone.  A scruffy, long-legged dog appeared, sniffing about the foundations.  Breath hissed through Joe’s teeth, and he turned back to his goal.

The locomotive’s vast steel wheels rested on the rails, waiting for the engine to move it forward.  The final billow of steam escaping from the cylinders brought Joe rising from his crouched position, every muscle tightened in anticipation. 

The engine lurched forward, leaving a swirling trail of mist as it rolled out of the station. Joe waited for the perfect moment to run and grab the rail to the steps of a passenger carriage.  An unorthodox boarding, sure, but the money in his pocket would take care of any complaint from the guard.  The click of a hammer rooted him to the spot.

“Going somewhere, Cartwright?”  Joe flinched, gritting his teeth as his plans slipped through his fingers.  He turned to face Chet and Mac.  “I told you.  Grandfather wants to see you.”

The butt of Chet’s rifle flashed toward Joe’s temple, and then — the lights went out!

***

Chapter 9

With blue skies overhead, the young cowboy atop the black and white Pinto took off through a field of green.  Without a hint of caution, Joe wished he could be that boy again.  No worries.  No pain.  A bath and a hot meal at the end of the day.  He started to grin, but a loud voice interrupted the dream he longed to be part of.

“Wake up, Cartwright.  Time to rise and shine.”

Though the voice wasn’t familiar, when Joe turned his head toward the sound, he saw Chet hovering over him.  A grin covered most of his juvenile face, and Joe waited for the next round of instructions to begin.

“Grandfather’s waiting.”

“Good.  Let him wait.”

The boy chuckled.  “That ain’t how it works around here.  When the old man says jump, you better ask how high.  Got that, Cartwright?”

Joe rolled his legs over the side of the bed, which caused his head to throb like a bass drum.  With his left hand, he began messaging his temple where the rifle butt had connected.  “Did you have to hit me so hard?”

“Quit your bellyaching and get on your feet.”

Playing games with Chet was the only pleasure Joe found worthwhile.  He woke inside a bunkhouse that he assumed was on Bar G property.  “Your Granddaddy make all the rules?”

“Shut up, Cartwright.  Let’s go.”

Joe humored the boy and stood, then wobbled as though he might faint.  In truth, he felt fine, but he was having fun at the young man’s expense.  “You better help me, Chet.  I don’t feel so good.”

Mac stood in the doorway.  “How hard did you hit him?”

“I don’t know.  Too hard, I guess.”

“If he dies, you know what that means, right?”

“Ain’t no one going to die.”

At that, Joe let his legs go out from under him and collapsed to the ground.  Though he did his best not to bust a gut laughing when Chet dropped to the floor beside him and felt for a pulse, he remained stoic and didn’t move a muscle.

“We’re in trouble now.”

“Shut up, Mac.  Let’s get him out of here.”

“Where you gonna take him?”

“I don’t know, but if he dies … I ain’t going to prison over the likes of no one named Cartwright.”

Mac walked toward the bunkhouse door.  “I ain’t sticking around to—”

“Get your ass over here and help me lift him.”

“No.  I ain’t helping you no more, Chet.  You killed too many already.  I’m not gonna hang around and watch you kill someone else.”

Chet stood to his feet and grabbed the front of Mac’s threadbare shirt.  “One more word and you’ll be next on my list, and not that mouthy cowboy.  Understood?  Do what I say before I slam the butt of my rifle against your fat head.”

Joe listened.  These men weren’t friends.  Chet was the boss’s grandson, and Mac was nothing more than a hired hand, and at the Bar G, a man’s station made a world of difference.  If he could get the big man to side with him, they could overpower Chet, find Cooch, and head south.  Mac could hire on at the Ponderosa and not have to put up with the likes of Chet Grünbaum or Grandpa Adolf.

Remaining as still as a corpse, Joe heard footsteps, and when a door closed, he opened his right eye and found that he’d been left lying on the bunk-house floor, but how much time did he have?  His captors had left together, and if he acted fast, perhaps he could escape before anyone realized what he’d done.

As he made his way to the rear of the one-story structure, he eased the back door open and peeked outside.  No one.  Nothing stood in his way until he ran face-to-face into Mac, who had hitched up a buckboard and brought it to the rear of the bunkhouse.

“Is this for me?”

“Yeah, well, Chet said—”

“I can imagine what Chet said.  Kill me and toss me in the back of the wagon.  Am I close?”

“You’re close, but I don’t have to kill you, only beat you senseless, and if you’re smart, you’ll leave Winnemucca.”

“I see.  Do you always do what Chet tells you to do?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“You know why.  I look after the kid, and when he gives orders, I carry them out.”

“What if he’s wrong?”

Mac dropped his head and searched for the right answer.  “I do it anyway.”

“You don’t want to go to prison for killing an unarmed man, so I have a better idea.”

“I wasn’t going to kill anyone.”

“If you beat me, I might die.”

“No …”

“Toss me in the back of the wagon and drive me away from the ranch.  Then we’ll talk.  Just you and me.  No Chet.”

Mac ran his hand through a mop of golden hair.  The poor guy didn’t have a mind of his own, but if Joe wanted to live another day, he had to sway the big man into thinking his way.

“I’ll jump in the back of the wagon and play possum.  If we run into Chet, he’ll never know the difference.    He’ll think you did as he asked.”

“Okay.  I ain’t keen on beating up anyone.”

“Good.  Let’s go.”

Joe crawled into the wagon and lay on his side, but when he bumped his shoulder, he realized he wasn’t quite back to normal.  Between his shoulder and the rifle slammed at his head, he wasn’t one hundred percent.

The ride would be rough, and he’d feel every rut in the road before they reached their destination.  Maybe then, Joe could find out what the hell life was like on the Bar G.  He’d waited too long for answers. 

As the wagon rattled along the road headed west, Joe wondered if he could trust Mac.  He couldn’t help but think that Mac would be loyal to the old man before he’d give in to Joe’s wishes.  He could be circling the ranch and then heading back to the main house where Adolf and Chet were waiting, and Joe wouldn’t know the difference.

“How far you wanna go, Cartwright?”

“Where are we?”

“Next to the river.”

“The Humbolt?”

“Yeah.”

We weren’t on the Bar G property, and the canyon was a good place to hide.  “You can tell Chet you left me here to die.”

“Chet would like that.”

As much as Joe wanted to climb up on the seat and hit Mac up with a hundred questions, he stayed hidden in the wagon bed.  It would be foolish to take chances now.   Even though he didn’t know where they were, he was aware of the time.  The sun was high in the sky, which meant they’d traveled at least two hours. 

His body felt every rut and bump, and he was ready to join the living.  Tall, rocky mountains reached high on both sides of the road, and Joe could hear the boisterous rhythm of a fast-running river to his right.  The rock walls gave good shelter from anyone approaching, and Joe took the opportunity to holler up at Mac.

“How about I climb up there with you?”

“Fine with me.  We’re about five or six miles from the ranch.”

Joe reached for the side of the wagon to pull himself up and then climbed up and over the wooden seat.  Glancing down at Mac’s sidearm, he wondered if he’d ever see his pistol again, and since it was a birthday present from his father, he held the holster and Colt right up there with his horse.  Both needed to find their way back to the Ponderosa.

“You know I have lots of questions, right?”

“Yeah.”

Joe leaned forward on the seat and looked at Mac’s face.  “Mind if I ask a few?”

“Go ahead.  I’ll tell you what you wanna know.”

“You’re a good man, Mac.  We could use a man like you on the Ponderosa.”

“That’s your ranch, ain’t it?  I heard stories about that place from old Adolf.”

“Stories?”

“He said he met your Pa and one of your brothers.”

“Probably my eldest brother, Adam.”

“Yeah, well, it was a long time ago.  Adolf put Chet’s father in charge of the timber contract for the railroad.”

“What did he say about my father and brother?”

“It ain’t important now.”

“I’d still like to hear.”  Joe took hold of the reins so Mac could concentrate on his story.  “Go ahead.”

“Nothing matters no more.  Everyone’s dead, so don’t ask.”

Joe wasn’t going to hear more about his father and Adam, so he moved on to the old man.  “Then tell me about Adolf.”

“I already said enough, but I guess it don’t matter.  The old man was jealous of your pa and brother.  He wanted Chester to care about the ranch like Adam did, and he never forgot how well you and your family worked together.  He was jealous of men he hardly knew, but he took me in and gave me a job when no one else would.”

Joe mulled Mac’s words over in his head and said what he thought the big man wanted to hear.  “He sounds like a good man.”

“He is, but things never went how he’d planned.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“When I said Chester had troubles, I meant he was a bum, a gambling man, and his son ain’t no good either.  Chet’s ten times worse than his papa ever was.  Chet’s killed people.”

“Why isn’t he behind bars?”

“You ain’t dumb, Cartwright.  You know why.”

Joe swallowed hard before asking the inevitable.  “He killed the old men at the waystation, didn’t he?  He got all their money.”

“Weren’t no money.”

“No money?”  Then why kill the old brothers?  But Mac was done talking.  He turned his head away from Joe and studied the landscape, but Joe wanted more.  Chet wasn’t the only man at the waystation.  He’d seen five riders and was certain that the leader was  Adolf.  The fancy horse and saddle would only be ridden by someone with money to burn.  “I need more, Mac.”

“No more.”

“It wasn’t just Chet, was it?  Adolf had a hand in the killings, didn’t he?  And you.  You were there, weren’t you?”

“I never killed nobody.”

“I never said you did.  Was Meyer in on this, too?”

Mac covered his ears with his hands.  “Stop talking.”

“I need to know.”

“Why?  It’s over.”

“It will never be over, Mac.”

“You already know everything.  Me, Chet, Adolf, Karl, and Jimmy rode out to the waystation, but Jimmy’s dead.  He fell from an outcropping after it happened, and we left him for the buzzards.”

“Was he a good friend?”

“No, but it weren’t right to leave him there in the wide open.”

“You’re right, but why?  Why did you ride out there and kill those men?”

“Adolf was broke.  He spent every penny he had building up the town for Chet, and he needed more.  Everyone thought them old men had a stash hidden away, but everyone was wrong.  That’s why Chet shot them and made me burn their place to the ground.”

His hours on God’s green earth were numbered.  After hearing the entire story, Joe knew what came next, and he blurted his thoughts out to the big man sitting next to him.  “You wouldn’t have told me any of this if you weren’t planning to kill me, would you, Mac?”

“I already told you.  I ain’t gonna kill you.”

“No?  What’s the plan, Mac?  If Chet finds out you’ve been running your mouth, what do you think he’ll do?”

“He’ll beat the crap outta me.”

“We can’t let that happen, can we?”

Joe tried to relax, but the air he inhaled was electric.  He knew the story from top to bottom, but what good would that do a dead man?  Mac couldn’t allow him to live and worry about him repeating the story to a territorial marshal.  They’d all go to prison—Chet, Adolf, Mac, and Karl Meyer, the good sheriff who was more than friends with the widow Bedloe.

He kept the horses at an even keel, guiding the wagon upward through the narrow canyon.  If they kept heading west, they’d be in the heart of the Sierras, but trying to understand Mac’s way of thinking was tricky at best.

“Tell me more about Adolf.”

“Adolf is dying.”

“What?”

“The old man is dying.  He’s my friend and …”

“You’re sure?  He told you?”

“Yes.”

“Will you stay on at the Bar G?”

“I don’t know.”

Joe had stumbled into a double murder, and like anyone with a shred of decency, he fought to know the truth, but if he was going to die before sundown, he wanted to know one more thing.

“I have one more request, and then I’ll shut up.”

“You ask too many questions.”

“’Fill me in on Lila Bedloe.”

The shot echoed like a cannon against the rocky walls of the ravine.  When Mac flew forward before toppling head-first to the ground, Joe dove off the seat and made sure that the length of his body lay under the wagon.  Until he could locate the shooter, he was as good as dead, and it could only be one man—Chet Grünbaum.

The boy was a killer, and he didn’t care who he murdered or why, but Joe formed a plan.  A rifle was lodged under the seat of the wagon, and Mac had a six-shooter in his holster.  The rifle would be the best option, but the risk was too high.  If he stayed under the wagon and tried for the pistol, he’d have a fighting chance.

With his left shoulder still weak from the stupid bullet wound, he had to pull hard with his right to crawl the width of the wagon.  Sharp rocks tore at his shirt and felt like knife blades against his midsection, but Mac was only inches away.  One more pull, and he’d be able to reach the gun.

“That’s far enough, Cartwright.”

Joe could only see a pair of black boots and brown trousers, and the voice was unfamiliar.  It wasn’t Chet who’d killed Mac, and he could only come up with one other person who’d like to see him dead.  He stood and stared into the eyes of Adolf Grünbaum.

***

Chapter 10

“So you’re the Cartwright that’s causing all the trouble.” 

Joe stood face to face with the shooter. After dealing with Adolf’s grandson, he was surprised at the size of the old man standing before him. With broad shoulders and a stomach that hung over his belt, he was a good-sized old German. Adolf looked as happy as a bulldog chewing on a wasp and sounded just as pleased.  Stepping back, he gave Joe room to stand by the buckboard, away from the restless horses and Mac’s dead body.  His bullet had hit his hired hand square in the head, and blood had formed a sticky brown puddle in the dirt.

“You must be Grünbaum?”

Joe brushed the sandy, gray dirt from his pants and shirt, but his eyes never left the old man’s face as a cold shiver raced up his spine.

“I see you’re not the eldest one.  What was his name?  Andrew?”

Joe rolled his eyes.  He hadn’t planned on idle chitchat.  “No.  My brother’s name is Adam.”

“Fine.  Which of Ben’s boys are you?”

“Joseph.”

Adolf might be in his seventies, but he carried himself with the raw energy of a younger man.  With a rifle propped across his arm, he aimed at Joe’s midsection.  One wrong move and his life could end with one shot.

“What’s got you hanging around Winnemucca, boy?  Sheriff Meyer told you to get on that train and head home.  Why didn’t you take his advice?”

Old he might be, but Adolf used the term ‘boy’ as an insult.  Joe shifted his weight so that he’d be ready to move at the first chance he had to overpower the man.

“Why’d you shoot Mac?  Isn’t he one of your men?”

“I was aiming at you.  Would’ve got the job done if you hadn’t turned.  Mac was next.  When a hired hand isn’t up to snuff, he can’t get the job done.  He let things slide with my grandson, and I won’t tolerate negligence.”

Hoping to buy time, Joe gave a speech he thought the old man should hear.  “That’s a strange thing for you to say.  Mac told me about you.  Said he respected you.  He said you were a good man.”

Adolf wasn’t impressed.  “Get away from the wagon.  I don’t want the horses injured when I pull the trigger.  They’re worth a damn sight more than you or my hired hand.”

Sweat beaded his forehead, and he clenched his fists.  Still stalling, Joe questioned the old man.  “What do you intend to do with us?”

Adolf chuckled.  “With the Humboldt running through the ravine, it makes sense to take advantage.  Dead men don’t swim too well.”

Joe didn’t like the sound of that, but if he could keep him talking, perhaps that would get Grünbaum’s mind off killing him.  “I heard that you were one of the good guys, and Chet did all the killing.”

“My grandson does what I tell him.  If the dispatching of one’s enemy is necessary, I can count on Chet.  Mac never had the guts.”

“Good enough.  Chet’s the tough one, right?”

“Enough about my grandson.  There’s nothing about him that you need to know.”

“And Mac?  He looked up to you.”

“So what?  He’d become a liability.  At the waystation, he hung back when I told him to kill that pair of bums.  He wouldn’t torch the place either, and he was all for letting you take off.  When a hired hand turns yellow, he’s not an asset anymore and no longer has a place on the Bar—”

A blast of gunfire contorted the old man’s face and put an end to the conversation.  Crimson-colored blood seeped from the gaping hole in Adolf’s chest.  When Mac pushed himself up from the ground, Adolf glared at him.  “Why, you traitorous son of a—” Those were the last words Adolf Grünbaum spoke.  Before he could finish, he dropped to the ground next to his rifle.

Joe grabbed for the horses that danced in agitation, and with his free hand, he reached out for the man who’d kept him alive. 

“I thought you were dead.”

“Yeah, so did I!” Mac wiped the blood from his eyes.  “It’s just a crease.  He would have done it, you know.  He would have put a bullet into your face, too.”

“You’re a good man, Mac.  I owe you my life.”

“I never planned to kill you, knock you around some, but killing you was never in the cards.  I ain’t never killed anyone before.  The old man … he was the first.”  Unshed tears filled Mac’s eyes, and he sank to his knees.  “I loved the guy, Joe.  He treated me right until—”

“Until he didn’t.  He didn’t deserve a man like you.  Let’s get you cleaned up and figure out our next move.”

With Grünbaum’s high-priced Thoroughbred tied to the back of the wagon, Joe did what he could with Mac’s head wound.  Joe couldn’t get it good and clean until they were in town.  A bandana would have to do for now.

It took both men to lift the dead man into the wagon.  Joe hooked the tailgate, and they both climbed onto the seat.  “Where are we taking him?  Town?  The ranch?”

“I don’t know.  What do you think?”

“Lila Bedloe!  She’d help us.”

“All right.  The boardinghouse it is.” With a boot propped on the wooden plank, Joe held the reins with both hands.  “Tell me more about Mrs. Bedloe.”

“She’s a widow, you know, and she hated Adolf.  I don’t know what he had on her, but there had to be something.  It was in her eyes.  The hate showed through.”  Mac smiled.  “She’s always been nice to me, but that dang sheriff kept sniffing around.  I never stood a chance, but I didn’t hold that against her.  She’s a pretty lady, don’t you think?”

“She’s very pretty.”

Mac sat up tall on the wooden seat.  “Here’s the plan, Joe.  I’ll sneak into town and sound her out.  Since we don’t know where Chet is, you stay here with the old man.”

“I’ll need your gun.”

“Hang on.”  Mac reached under the wagon seat and flipped open the small toolbox.  “I think this is yours.”

“How in the world?”

“I thought I might be able to bury Jimmy and … anyway, I found this gun snagged on the edge of the cliff and figured it was yours.”

Joe ran his hand over the pearl-handled gun.  It was intact and still loaded.  He weighed it for comfort and then slid it into his holster.  He was ready to deal with Chet and the sheriff.

“Change of plan, Mac.  Let’s ride in together.”

“You sure?  It’s your funeral.”  Joe’s look let him know his mind wasn’t for changing.  Warmth filled Mac’s eyes, and he smiled.  “Okay, Cartwright.  I’m not going to argue.  We can park the wagon in an alley and head over to Lila’s for a quick chat.”

“How far to town?”

“Couple of hours.  It’ll be dark when we get there.”

Mac’s timing was perfect.  A sliver of moon didn’t do much to light their way.  A few lamps burned, but not enough that they’d be discovered slipping through town.

“Old Adolf’s going to be ripe by morning, but I ain’t burying him!”

Joe grunted in agreement.  “Let’s get out of here.”

No lights lit the windows in the boarding house, and when Mac stepped up on the front porch, he turned back to Joe.  “Wait here.”

Two drunk kids giggled as they stumbled out of the saloon.  “Stop that noise and get yourself home, Silas.  You too, Chuck.”

“Sorry, Sheriff.”

After hearing Karl’s voice, Joe and Mac slipped to the rear of the house, and neither made a sound until Karl Meyer was well out of sight.  Minutes later, Mac tapped on the kitchen door, waited, and tapped again, and when the curtain moved to the side, he waved his hand and smiled. 

“Do you know what time it is?”

“We need your help, Miss Lila.”

She peered through the opening, unable to see past Mac.  “Get in here,” she hissed and grabbed his shirtfront to pull him inside.  Joe Cartwright followed right behind.  “You too?  What’s this all about?”

With his hand resting on his pistol, Joe moved toward the front parlor.  “Are you expecting company?”

Her hands flew to her hips, and her brow furrowed at the unexpected question.  “What does that mean?”

“I’m sorry.  I didn’t say that right.  Will the sheriff be stopping by anytime tonight?”

“No.  Why?”

“Grünbaum is dead, and we need time before we go to the sheriff.”

“Dead?  How?”

“Does it matter?”

“I don’t know, but it’ll matter to Chet.”

“You’re right, but this whole thing involves more than one person.”

“What does that mean?”

“Chet, the old man, and Meyer are all in this together.”

“All in what together?”

“That mess out at the waystation.”

“No, I don’t believe you.”

Mac stepped forward.  It’s true, Miss Lila, and that’s why me and Joe need your help.”

She turned to face both men.  “I don’t know.”

But Mac was persistent.  “We didn’t come here without a plan.  As soon as we get the sheriff and Chet to admit what they’ve done, Joe and I are heading south to his home.”

“Where’s home?”

“The Ponderosa.  It’s halfway between Virginia City and Carson City.”

“I have family in Carson.  My sister and her husband, and now that old bastard’s dead … you’ll take me with you?”

“If that’s what you want.”

“How do you plan to stop Karl and Chet?  Once he finds out you’ve killed his grandpa, there’ll be no stopping him.”

“No need for worry, Mrs. Bedloe.  Mac and I can take care of those two.”

Getting Lila to start a fresh pot of coffee distracted her from the chaos they’d brought into her home.  She reached for cookies from the crock and cups from the sideboard, setting everything on the kitchen table. 

“I’m sorry.  Where are my manners?  Please have a seat.”  When the coffee was ready, she poured three cups and set out the milk and sugar.

“You got any muscle to go with this?”

Lila smiled at Mac and walked back to the sideboard.  She held up a bottle.  “Will this do?”

Mac grinned at the woman who made his heart flutter.  “Perfect.”

After pouring a spot of whiskey into his cup, he held the bottle up for Joe and Lila, and they both nodded their heads.  He poured two more shots, but the conversation was almost nil.   

With the coffee and plate of cookies behind them, they each took a separate room throughout the boarding house, but no one slept through the night.  Morning came all too soon, and when sunlight filtered through the sheers, two groggy men began to stir.

Lila’s voice carried from the kitchen, and a deep male voice spoke over hers.  Joe signaled for silence, then stood by the kitchen door with his ear pressed close.  Mac pulled his gun and was ready to fire.

“Chet come by the office and said the old man never made it home.  He thought he might be here?”

Mac tapped Joe’s shoulder.  “That’s the sheriff.”

“You know better, Karl.  Maybe you should ride out to the Bar G and see what’s going on.”

“You trying to get rid of me, Lila?”

Easing the kitchen door open a crack, Joe peeked through, watching Karl move in behind Lila and slip his arms around her.  He kissed the nape of her neck.  Joe’s jaw tightened, seeing her struggle to get free, but Karl had her jammed against the counter, his groin pressed tight to her buttocks. 

“No, Karl, not now.  I have too much work to do.”

“You’ve got plenty of time for ol’ Karl, don’t you?”

Joe and Mac held their position.  She’d handled Karl before.

“Not now, Karl.  Like I said.  I have things to do.”

“Now, Lila.  You ain’t got any guests, so let’s get busy.

“Are you hard of hearing?  I said no, and I meant it.”

Joe tensed when Karl flipped her around.  His face contorted into an angry snarl.  “You do as you’re told, Missy.  Remember who I am and what I can do.”

Spittle splashed Lila’s face as Karl leaned in close.  Joe had seen enough, but before he could move, Lila reached behind her and grabbed the coffee pot.  In one smooth motion, she flung its contents into the sheriff’s face.  Screaming, he stepped back, pressing his hand into his flesh as streaming hot coffee ran down his cheeks and neck.  Wiping one arm over his eyes, the other hand groped for his gun.  “I’ll kill you for this!”

“The lady said no.” Joe stood in the doorway, his gun cocked and ready.  Karl’s hand closed around his pistol.  “Don’t,” Joe warned. 

Moments later, the sheriff lay dead on the kitchen floor.

Mac pushed through the door.  “Lila?”  He glanced down at Karl.  “That’s gonna bring folks running.”

“He tried to kill me.  I’ll say I shot him.” Lila pulled a six-shooter from the sideboard.  “You two get out.  Fast.”

Joe didn’t like the idea of a woman covering for him, but he didn’t have much choice.  He and Mac made their way to the wagon. 

They didn’t see the crowd that gathered in Lila’s front yard or the old woman named Jansen, who wrapped a blanket over the widow’s shoulders and sat down beside her on the front porch away from the dead man lying on her kitchen floor.

“I … I … I shot him.  I shot Karl Meyer.”

Two townsmen moved into the kitchen.  The part-time sheriff was dead.  The bullet wound in his chest was a hole big enough to stick a finger through.

“Wonder what happened?”

“Wait till old Grünbaum finds out.  Karl was family.”

“Yeah, and one’s just as rotten as the other.”

More men crowded around the kitchen door.  Morbid curiosity fed their interest.

“What’s going on?” A new and familiar voice announced Chet’s arrival.  “Lila?”

“The sheriff’s dead,” a bystander answered for her.  “Lila shot him!”

Chet pushed his way inside, looked at his dead uncle, turned on his heel, and returned to Lila.  He grabbed her arm, pulled her to her feet, and into the house.

“Explain!” He thrust her onto a dining room chair.

“He attacked me.” Lila raised tear-filled eyes to face the young killer.  “I was defending myself.”

“Why’d he attack you?”

“Why do you think?  I said no!”

“This isn’t over.” Chet stormed out, intent on finding his grandfather and the truth about Karl’s death.

Mac looked back over his shoulder for the tenth time.  Once they reached the wagon, he spoke up.  “Joe, we gotta get Lila out of town.  Killing Meyer?  Chet’s bound to want to kill her.”

“How far to the Bar G?”

“With the wagon, two hours or so.  You thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Chet might be heading home.  We can’t take Adolf back.  Is there an undertaker in town?”

“Yeah.  Oskar Mortensen.”

“I’ll leave the wagon in front of his place while you go down to the livery and rent horses.  You said my horse was out at the ranch, and I’m not leaving this town without him.  We’ll deal with Chet when we see him.”

“And Lila?”

“We’ll swing back around before we leave town.”

“No, Joe.  It’ll be better if you stay here, and I get your horse.  More chance of me getting away with it.”  Mac was right, alone, he could come and go to the ranch without raising questions.  Trailing along with him could only spell trouble.

“Okay.  I’ll meet you at the boarding house around midday.”

“No, give me a bit longer.  Take Adolf’s horse for Lila.  He’s got an easy gait.”

After hearing Mac out, Joe parked the wagon and its burden in front of the undertaker’s establishment and then headed the short distance to the boarding house, but several townsfolk lingered in Lila’s front yard.  With Adolf’s horse in tow, he stayed in the shadows of the alley until he could make his way to her kitchen door.

When the coast was clear, Joe tapped on the window, and Lila opened the back door.  “Lord, Joe.  Why are you still here?”

“It’s a long story, and if you’ll scramble me some eggs, I’ll fill you in.”

“You’re quite a conniver, aren’t you?”

“No.  Just a hungry, hungry man.”

***

Chapter 11

“Gather a few things, enough for a couple of days.  We’ll make for Lovelock tonight.  If there’s a telegraph, I’ll wire the marshal in Carson.”

Weary of Winnemucca and waystations and boarding houses, Joe had become anxious for one of Hop Sing’s meals and his own bed.  If only he’d taken a different route, but he couldn’t know what lay ahead, and he never meant to be dragged into the middle of a war.

Sitting by the parlor’s front window and edging the lace curtain aside, Joe watched every movement he could witness on the main street.  The mercantile was closed, and the town was without a part-time sheriff.  When he spotted Mac, he turned to Lila.

“Mac’s on his way.  Are you ready to ride?”

“I’m in your debt, Mr. Cartwright.”

Joe suppressed a laugh.  “Mister?  Why so formal?”  He bit his lip at Lila’s stricken look.  She’d been the ‘friendly’ host at Adolf’s instructions.  It had become her lot in life.  Sleeping with him was probably part of that, but he couldn’t hold it against her.  Survival was hard in a town where strong men ruled.  A movement outside caught his attention.  “Lila.  Isn’t that Chet?”

Lila rushed to stand beside Joe and pushed the curtain aside.  “That’s him.  If he sees you, our plan goes right out the window.”

Mac rapped on the back door but didn’t wait for an answer.  “Lila, it’s me.”

Joe stood, and he and Lila moved to the kitchen. 

“Lila!” Chet shouted through the open front door.  “Where are you, woman?”

“Get her out of her.  I’ll deal with him.”  Kicking Mac and Lila out the back, Joe turned back toward the parlor.  If Chet was that worried about his grandfather, why was he still in town?  They’d all thought he’d ride out to the ranch, but that hadn’t been the case.  The boy was a menace and had to be brought to justice before he killed again. 

“Lila!  Get in here.”

“She’s gone.”

“You!  You’re supposed to be dead.  That no good son-of-a-bitch didn’t do as I asked.”

“Appears not.”  Joe smirked when Chet flexed the fingers that hovered over his pistol.  “I wouldn’t.”

“Wait till my grandfather finds out.”

“Won’t happen, kid.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that you might want to check with the undertaker.”

“Why?”

“Because Granddaddy is dead, and he’s beginning to stink.  The sooner you get to the undertaker, the sooner the old man can be buried.”

Mac appeared outside the front door.  Chet turned with a start.  “Which one of you killed my grandfather?”

Glancing at Joe, Mac replied, “Does it matter?  The old man’s dead, and like Joe said.  He needs to be buried.”

“Damn you both.  You killed Karl, too, didn’t you?” Another shared glance, but no words. “Damn you to hell!”

The boarding house shuddered with the explosion of gunfire, and the townsfolk ran back into the street.  After the morning’s event and a second shooting, the onlookers were abuzz with speculation.

Adolf’s gelding was waiting, and Lila mounted with ease.  Joe thought back to the night they rode out to the dunes and recalled what a good horsewoman she was.  The widow wouldn’t have any problem, and he and Mac would do their best to keep up.

Joe patted Cochise as he rounded the horse’s rump.  It was good to see the Pinto again, and with practiced ease, he swung onto the saddle.  Mac mounted his bay, and the three rode away from Winnemucca and anyone associated with old man Grünbaum. 

Joe and his newfound friends rode fast and hard, and when they rounded an outcropping of boulders, three riders approached from the south.  Mac squinted, trying to make out the men who were heading their way.  They slowed their mounts.

“You see them, Joe?”

“Yeah, I see them.”

“What do you think?”

“Could be bandits.”

“You think?”

Joe hid a smile.  He pulled Cochise to a stop and crossed both hands over his pommel.  “Could be miserable outlaws on the run.”  Mac and Lila flanked him on either side. 

Lila looked up at Joe.  “You’ve got that wrong, don’t you?  Aren’t we the miserable outlaws?”

“We’ll clear that up in Carson.”

“I sure hope you’re right.”

When the riders closed in on Joe and his friends, a white-haired man tipped his hat at the lady.  “Ma’am.  Joseph.”

“Howdy, Pa.”

“Howdy, Pa?  That’s all you have to say?”

The smirks on Hoss and Candy’s faces told of their amusement, but Pa was another matter. 

“No, there’s a lot more that needs telling, but I’d rather introduce you to my friends.  Mrs. Lila Bedloe, this is my father, Ben Cartwright.  Mac, Ben Cartwright.”

“Cameron Mackenzie, Sir.”  Joe’s sharp look gave Mac a start.  “Well, you never asked.”

“We’re on our way to Lovelock, Pa.”

“Lovelock?”

“Yessir.  I’ll explain everything over supper. Shouldn’t we get started?”

“That’s an excellent idea, son.”

***

Epilogue:

CARSON DAILY APPEAL

CARSON CITY, NEVADA, SUNDAY MORNING, NOVEMBER 20, 1868

A Fall From Grace: The True Account of the Winnemucca Tragedy

By Mrs. Lila Bedloe, Special Correspondent

You’ve read the official reports of the waystation incident.  You’ve seen the names, the numbers, the coroner’s tally, but this rendition does not fit within court ledgers or lawmen’s depositions.  This is the human truth.

It didn’t begin with gunfire.  It began with a man, Adolf Grünbaum.  Grünbaum was no drifter or outlaw.  He was a rancher of stature.  His holdings stretched for miles across the valley, and folks spoke his name with respect.

For more than three decades, Adolf Grünbaum had an eye fixed on his legacy.  He built his holdings from scrubland and sweat, and no one could claim he hadn’t earned his place in the territory.

But even the strongest men are not immune to fate.

The old German buried his son and daughter.  And three years ago, one of his two grandsons.  I can tell you about Calvin Bedloe because I am his widow.  There was no better man.  Strong and loving, there are few like him.  He was killed by outlaws robbing a Wells Fargo shipment when it passed through that waystation at the heart of this story.  He died traveling home to me.  Grünbaum never forgave the brothers who owned the waystation.  In his way of thinking, they stood by and did nothing.

We both suffered tragedy that day, but in my husband’s grandfather, it stirred something beyond grief.  Of the family he hoped would outlive him, only Chet remained—a cold-blooded killer, but blood nonetheless.  And the Grünbaum bloodline counted for everything.

Some say obsession took hold of the old man while standing over Calvin’s grave.  He feared the world would take Chet, too—feared the name Grünbaum would vanish the way a boom town gone bust, crumbles from memory.  The type of fear that turns a man dangerous.

In his bid to extend his power, Grünbaum turned toward Winnemucca, and after making a man he considered family part-time sheriff, he tightened his grip on the small desert town.  With the railroad stretching its iron finger westward, he saw a chance to forge an empire.

Empires, however, require money.

Grünbaum caught wind of a rumor about a substantial amount of gold hidden at a waystation twenty miles west of Winnemucca.  Some said the owners brought it with them.  Others gossiped that it was the stolen Wells Fargo shipment.  It was wild talk, but it was enough for the old man.  He saddled up with Sheriff Karl Meyer, his grandson Chet, and two hired men.  Was murder his plan that day?  Did vengeance play a part?  No living man can answer.  But by sundown, the waystation was ash and smoke, and two innocent men lay dead in the dust.

Then fate dealt Grünbaum a new hand.  Joseph Cartwright of the Ponderosa Ranch — a man who believed in justice — was unshaken by threats and refused to turn his back on the dead.  

Men had already perished in Grünbaum’s bid for immortality.  What was one more life?  He went after Joe Cartwright, carrying death in his heart. 

Grünbaum met his final judgment, not from the hangman’s noose but from the gun of his own hired hand.  A man who still remembered right from wrong used that weapon to protect an outsider whose only fault had been stumbling across a double murder.

When Grünbaum’s grandson and Sheriff Meyer followed the old man into Hell, the shadow hanging over Winnemucca lifted.

Hershal Schmitt, owner of Winnemucca’s Barber and Bath, spoke out after the tragic events.  “I’ve known the old German for twenty-seven years.  He loved those grandsons, and he had big plans for Chet, but I never thought he’d commit murder.  I met that young man, Cartwright.  He seemed like a decent fella, and I don’t mind saying he was a good tipper.  I’m glad his life was spared.”

Thanks to Joe Cartwright, justice was served in Winnemucca.  As for Adolf Grünbaum, his quest to preserve his bloodline led to a terrible end and a legacy forever tarnished in blood.

*** The End ***

The Bucket of Bloods:  Beppina, Bakerj, and jfclover
2025 Spring Challenge