Seven ~ A Poke in the Nose

The mirror reflected a middle-aged man with puffy eyes and a sallowness from drinking too much for too long, who hadn't slept well. Adam stared at himself while holding his shaving brush in one hand and the razor in the other. He glanced down at the blade glistening in the morning sun, his hand shaking. How many times had he shaved? Hundreds upon hundreds, but never before had it occurred to him that a shaky hand might unintentionally slit his throat. He applied more shaving soap to his neck, running it in small circles upward, then dropped it into the mug.

A knock on his bedroom door caused Adam to turn away from the washstand mirror. "Come in." Looking again into the mirror, he shaved his neck with long, slow, upward strokes. He paused when in his mirror, he saw his father walk in and close the door behind him. His father then shoved his hands in his pockets and stared at Adam's back, forming his thoughts into words.

"Morning, Pa. Am I late for breakfast?" Adam finished his neck and then reached for the towel to wipe off the bits of soap still left on his neck and cheeks.

"No, I just want to talk with you alone before we sit down."

Adam tossed the towel aside and reached for the clean work shirt he had placed over the back of the chair at his old desk, the desk where he used to sit and study and work his sums for school. There was also the spot on the top right where he had childishly carved his initials into the smooth desktop; even as a child he had wanted to leave his stamp on something.

"If it's about last night, I told you and, Armbruster and Kelley, I want nothing to do with any investigation of Mansfield. I'm through." Adam slipped on the shirt and proceeded to button up the placket.

"Adam, I'm not going to try to convince you to do it. I've thought about what you said, about how the world is changing and that we need to alter our way of doing business. I know that trail drives are eventually going to cease. Already we've been shipping some of our cattle by rail, but again, we have to get them to the stock yards in Carson City and load them there. And the mines, well, I'm going to do as you suggested the other day, contact the treasury department about buying our silver, maybe getting a contract.

"But none of that resolves the fact that we're practically prisoners on our own property. Mansfield has us by the balls and unless we pay his price, unless we pay him a "tribute," we have to go the long way around to get to Carson City; it's the hub of business now. I won't be able to take the silver to the Carson City mint unless we pay, and if Mansfield finds out I'm taking silver, that is if I'm successful, he'll charge a ridiculous amount."

Adam started to tell his father that they'd just have to go the long way around but he knew that route wasn't prudent or safe. He had heard stories about both southern and the northern soldiers who found they no longer fit into the changed world and had found their niche was robbery and ransom; he had done something similar himself, dropped out of society to lick his wounds. Going the long way around with wagon-loads of silver ore would leave them vulnerable to such men, not to mention the Indians who had become more active lately, more determined to keep the white man's government from taking their land as easterners moved again to the southwest. Any stolen silver would buy them more weapons.

"That seems to be the new cost of doing business," Adam offered. "I don't know what else you want me to say. If Mansfield sells his land to the railroad as I think he will, that might resolve most of the issues." Adam tucked his shirt tail in his waistband; he was a little queasy from drinking the night before, but around the edge was hunger and he could smell Hop Sing's ham and biscuits.

"I know Joe and Hoss told you about the way the legal cases against Mansfield have gone. I told you too. He always wins. I've wondered if he doesn't have someone in his pocket."

"Maybe he wins because he's right—legally, that is."

"He can't be that right all the time!" Ben had pulled his hands out of his pockets and his voice and face took on the attitude and sound of an angry man. He was angry with Mansfield, angry with Judge Wolfe's justice system and angry with Adam. He knew Adam—or the Adam before the war—but Adam now seemed changed. It appeared his eldest son was determined to avoid any unpleasantness. Ben could understand the need for peace after tumultuous times but Adam seemed to want to disappear from becoming an active participant in life—to meld into the background.

Adam said nothing.

"All right. Forget what I said. I shouldn't have said anything; you've seen enough battles and I well understand you not wanting to start one here. And the last thing I want is to argue with you after waiting so long for you to come home." Ben made himself relax, dropped his shoulders and took a deep breath. He smiled. "Have you any plans for today?"

"Not really. Thought I'd ride around the property, visit the mines maybe. But maybe not. I might just get a pole and go fishing. I haven't seen the lake in years and I think, well, my soul needs the water. I'm tired of dust and desert."

Ben smiled. "I think fishing is a good idea. Get Hop Sing to pack you a lunch and maybe we'll have some trout for dinner. I'll let him know."

Adam picked up the two hair brushes and turned back to the mirror and called out, "Have him hold something else in reserve for dinner just in case they're not biting today. And don't tell Hoss. He'll have his mouth set for fried fish and you know how he is when he's disappointed."

Ben chuckled and walked out. Adam turned to look at the closed door and then at his reflection as he used both brushes at the same time, running them along both sides of his head. He then placed the bristles of one brush into the bristles of the other and placed them on the high chest against the wall. He chuckled to himself. "The beast with two backs." He shook his head. "You need a woman, boy, when simple things like that make you think of fornication." And he considered riding into Virginia City that night and visiting Louanne again; once she stopped trying to make conversation, she wasn't a bad poke. And with that thought, he went down to breakfast.

~ 0 ~

The day had been beautiful, the air initially crisp but warming up enough so Adam could remove his jacket. He still wore his tall military boots, not yet having gone to Carson City. The idea of riding the long way around, taking almost three hours for an hour ride one way, was just too much to think about at the moment.

But the fish had been biting and by lunch, Adam had five large fish soaking in the sack by the lake's edge. He relished the solitude and ate his lunch of cold breakfast biscuits, a slice of apple pie wrapped in oiled paper along with some cold fried chicken, surprisingly left over from dinner. Seeing the pieces left on the platter, Adam had remarked that Hoss must be "off his feed"; Hoss could inhale three cooked chickens at one sitting. But Hoss explained, "I think my stomach done shrunk along with my appetite over the past few months, you know, travelin' to Mexico and all. Didn't have none of Hop Sing's pies or cakes nor none of them crispy almond cookies and a tall glass of milk—just beans and bacon and hard tack. My waistband's a little loose-thought my britches 'ld drop off the other day and 'barrass me." But he was certain, given a few more weeks, his appetite would return.

Adam tossed his aside hat and stretched out under the tree, looking up at the gently moving leaves. He craved a drink, and not from the jar of lemonade Hop Sing has packed. Adam could almost feel the heat in his throat and the back of his tongue from a slug of alcohol. And then the warmth as the liquor surged through his veins, imbuing him with a sense of well-being. He wanted a drink desperately. But at breakfast that morning, as the fork trembled in his hand and Adam saw his father notice, he decided that no more would he allow anything, alcohol being one of them, to take control over him. Adam thought back on the philosophy of self-determination he had studied in college, that man should rely on his reason, not his passions. "Yes," Adam thought as he lay in the shade, "I have control over myself—not a bottle of mezcal. I have a mind and an intellect." He closed his eyes, willing his body to relax and rid his hands of the small tremors that gripped them. He took long, deep breaths, holding them for a few seconds and then slowly releasing them. Again, and again he repeated the cycle until his mind and his body calmed. He whispered the lesson he had learned almost 20 years ago: "Reason, rationality, self-awareness of one's flaws and the determination to change them, that's what's most important." The wind gusted, caressing him. "Know thyself," he whispered. But, he considered as the heaviness of relaxation fell on him, another little aphorism: "Where ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to be wise."

The bird song and swishing of the leaves eventually lulled Adam to sleep and he slept peacefully-no dreams. When he woke, he again tossed in his line and within an hour caught two more fish. Adam knew fish bit less as the day wears on, so looking up at the sky and judging it to be late afternoon, Adam headed for the Ponderosa.

As he rode into the yard, he noticed both his brothers' horses tied near the house. He swung down from his mount and walked the animal into the barn. There was now a barn boy on the Ponderosa. No longer did Joe, being the youngest Cartwright, have to shovel out the stalls and lay down fresh hay. They didn't even have to curry their horses or pick their hooves unless they wanted to; Lyndon, a lanky boy of 16, did all those chores. For pay, he received 15 cents a day, "beans and board", and the honor of being the butt of all jokes in the bunkhouse.

Lyndon was sitting on the hay, his back against a post, soundly asleep. Adam kicked the sole of the boy's right boot and he startled awake. He managed to scramble to his feet quickly but hay still clung to him, the same color as his hair.

"Oh, hey, Mr. Adam." He ran a hand over his face. "Want me to take your horse?"

"Yes. Rub him down good and then feed him." Adam considered telling Lyndon to do the same for Hoss' and Joe's horses but for all he knew, they might be heading out again. Besides, he decided, it wasn't his business. Adam just unhooked the sack of fish from his saddle horn, unsheathed his rifle from the scabbard, and walked to the house. He had quite the bounty to show for his day at the lake. But the serenity of the day spent under the blue sky and lulled into a sense of quietude by the lapping of waves was shattered when he entered the house and saw his father, Hoss and Hop Sing fussing over Joe who sat on the settee holding a cloth to his cheek.

"What's going on?" Adam asked as he took off his hat, standing his rifle by the door.

"Joe almost got hisself beat to death," Hoss said looking up.

Adam walked around to see better. Joe's face was swollen. His right jaw was purple running up to his eye. Ben Cartwright took the cloth and wrung it out in cool water from a bowl.

"Hop Sing, take these, would you?" Adam asked holding out the sack of fish. "Fry the mess up for dinner."

"You got fish?" Hoss asked, smiling.

"I sit here a pile of broken bones," Joe complained to Hoss, "and all you can do is think of fish!"

Hop Sing took the sack but was reluctant to leave—but he did. He had fish to clean for dinner.

"Who got the best of him?" Adam asked.

"One of Mansfield's men," Hoss answered. "Me 'n Joe and Turley done see a downed fence. I tell you, they pull 'em down just to devil us. Anyway, Turley and me left Joe and the wagon alone to fix the one separatin' the Runnin' D from us while we rode on down the line,…"

"I'll tell it," Joe said, "if my jaw'll work. I was taking a roll of wire out of the wagon when some of Manfield's men rode up, three of them, and claimed the fence was on Mansfield's property line. I didn't believe them, told them to go f…"

"Joseph," Ben reprimanded. "You know I don't like that kind of language."

"Sorry, Pa. Anyway, Adam, I tried to just keep working but they said Mansfield bought the Running D last week and I was trespassing." He turned to his father. "We shoulda bought that land a long time ago, Pa, when Will and Laura first left."

"Joseph, just…I know," Ben said holding the cloth.

"Anyway, I called them goddamn liars and a few other things and kept working. Then one said I was the pup of a New Orleans French mongrel whore so I threw the first punch. I had to, had no choice. Well, I never stood a chance after that." Joe gingerly moved his jaw side to side, holding it with his hand; he winced. "He slammed his fist into me and kicked my ribs when I hit the ground. Then the other two took turns. But they just seemed to be playing—not really hurting me that bad. I mean they hurt me enough, all right, but they could have beat me into the ground so deep they might as well've buried me."

Joe protested as Ben unbuttoned his shirt smeared with dirt and some of his blood from his mouth. "I want to see your ribs. You said they kicked you." Joe started to complain more but Adam shook his head. Joe sat back and Ben opened the shirt. Joe's ribs were bruised. "Lie down, Joe so I can tend those ribs."

"Don't touch them, Pa. They hurt too much and I'm not some kid. I just want to go upstairs and lay down until Doc Martin comes."

"Joe, those bruises go halfway around – your kidneys might be damaged or even something worse."

"Pa, you worry too much. If they wanted to kill me, I think they would have. Help me up though, would you, Adam?"

"Want I should carry you up the stairs, Joe?" Hoss offered.

"No! I'm not some bride on her wedding night!"

"I'se just askin'!"

Adam helped Joe to stand while Ben fussed about his youngest.

Joe walked slowly to the stairs and held the rail as he began to take each one slowly.

"Joe?" Adam said. Joe turned, stopping halfway up. "Were the men from around here? Had you ever seen them before Mansfield arrived?"

"No. Why?"

"How'd they know your mother was from New Orleans? That was such a long time ago—almost 25 years. I doubt many people who're still here would even remember and even if they did, why would they talk about it to strangers?"

Ben stared at Adam, not quite understanding.

"What you gettin' at, Adam?" Hoss asked.

"Well, just that it's unusual they would know that information-and that Joe's a hothead. Seems if the men wanted to seriously hurt him, they would've. They could've shot him for trespassing. Probably would've gotten away with it too. It's almost as if they knew about…his mother, almost as if we've been investigated."

And Joe slowly went back to climbing the stairs, looking back, confused, before he rounded the corner.

"I'm gonna take care of the horses but I ain't unloadin' the wagon. I'll be damned iffen they're gonna chase me away from fixin' them fences tomorrow."

"Now, Hoss…" Ben started.

I know, Pa, I know. I'll stay on our side of the line and far away from the Runnin' D. But I'd like to mash-in a few faces." Hoss left the for the barn.

Adam stood, thinking.

"What is it, Adam?"

Adam smirked. "Think there's a dossier on each of us, Pa?"

"What…you think Kelley has…"

"Oh, I think Kelley's investigated us—he said as much when he gave us security clearance, but there are other ways for a man like Mansfield to find out about us."

"Pinkertons?"

"Possible." Adam pulled off his hat. "I'm going to wash up for dinner. Did really well today. The fish were leaping out of the lake almost landing right in my lap, just begging to be caught."

~ 0 ~

Hoss was eating the golden fried trout when Dr. Martin slowly descended the stairs with Ben, their heads together. Hoss wiped his hands on the napkin he had tucked into his shirt front and then pulled it off. He went to meet the doctor.

Adam, who had been sitting with his hands steepled in front of him, stood up as well. "How is he?" Adam asked.

"He was in a fight but he's not too bad off, considering it was three on one."

"Just a poke in the nose. Just enough to make us angry." Ben looked at him quizzically but Adam said nothing more; Dr. Martin had confirmed his suspicions; Mansfield wanted a confrontation, had probably sent his men out to start one. He sat back down in the old blue chair by the fireplace, considering a brandy or a shot of whiskey. But would he be able to stop with just one? He realized he was frightened that he wouldn't have the will to stop at one drink. Only once or twice before in his life had he lost control of himself and it had terrified him. Adam knew he had to get control over his drinking but for now, he'd abstain–-he had to. But how could he get his mind off of the liquor cabinet? No one would stop him if he pulled out a bottle and took it upstairs with him. He glanced around the chair at the mahogany cabinet and noticed his guitar still waiting for his touch. He picked it up and ran one hand over its curves the way he would a beautiful woman. Then, Adam sat up straighter and leaning slightly over, he started to tune it. Hoss watched while Ben walked the doctor to the door.

"Sure you won't have a coffee?" Ben asked as he held open the door.

"I'm sure. Figured since I'm out this way I'd swing east and check on Mrs. Coleman. They live so far out I can't see her as often as I'd like and I think she's having twins. Either that or that baby's gonna walk away from the delivery bed telling me what I did wrong, it'll be so big."

Ben chuckled. "Well, thank you. Oh, what do I owe you?"

"A dollar ought to do it."

Ben dug in his pocket and pulled out a few coins, counted them and added an extra quarter. "Oats for your horse."

"She'll appreciate it. Goodnight, Ben."

Ben stood at the closed door, considering the visit, and then noticed the sounds of the guitar. He turned to see Adam leaning over, plucking the strings and turning the pegs until the sound was to his liking. The varnish on the face of the guitar was worn where Adam's fingers had slipped across it all those years he had played. Although he had owned a few others, one was still in the top of the wardrobe in his bedroom, this guitar was Adam's favorite with its mellow, haunting sound.

Ben walked back and stood watching; he knew that Adam often thought over troublesome matters while he played. "How can an instrument lose its tuning when no one's touched it?" Ben mused aloud.

Adam looked up, resting his arm in the guitar's waist. "I s'pose a guitar's like a woman. It loses something when it hasn't been touched in a while." And smiling, Adam went back to the instrument.

Hop Sing came out from the kitchen. "What doctor say?" He went to take away Hoss' plate and the almost empty platter of fried fish.

Hoss interrupted his father who started to answer. "Hop Sing, I ain't finished." Hoss went back to his seat at the table. "Doc said Joe's fine. Now, I plan on cleanin' that platter." Hop Sing grinned. "Ain't had such crispy, tender fish in ages. I even think my appetite's done come back!"

Ben smiled. Except for Joe having his dinner of thin oatmeal upstairs per Dr. Martin's order not to chew, everything seemed normal, the way it used to be.