Chapter

The Manuscript

With the satchel tucked up under his arm, he had left the forlorn mistress and her companions. As he made his way up the street he was still hoping he would see Clay walking down to meet him. But this satchel was the only recompense he had for making this journey down here.

He gathered up his things which were where he'd left them. Settled his bill. Withdrew his horse from the livery and loaded up. Making one more stop at the dainty market, nestled in this quaint but developing town, for provisions that would take him home, or at least as far as the next stop.

Within the hour he had set out.

~.~

He drove his horse out of this small town which sat along the Mexican border. The air was thick and warm. Almost unbearable but as late in the summer as it was, it was just at the cusp of being cool and comfortable. Not bad for an Arizona summer which will soon be giving up its hold for autumn.

He was surrounded by mostly dry sand and rocky terrain with patches of green grass that invited him up to higher elevation. Creosote, sage brush and yuccas made up the majority of the vegetation. The road ahead promised a lusher environment even if not by much. There was water not too far ahead where he could rest his horse. This would be his first stop.

His mind took in this beauty and the road in front of him but it couldn't help but slip back to this woman (this Concepcion) and the conversation they had and all that he had learned from her. When he thought that he'd be leaving with nothing, he ended up with way more than he had bargained for. He still knew nothing about Joe, but he had enough information to tell him that Joe may not be as safe as the original note, this telegram, had eluded to.

He thought of Clay. Imagined the trouble he'd be facing upon returning. Trouble he'd caused no doubt but his heart bled as he thought of him now. This woman's tale was successful at having an effect on Ben, but could what she had told him really be true?

Was Clay really a prisoner in that home as she has claimed? Madam DeMarigny was capable of dubious deeds as Ben had discovered so many years ago but could she really be capable of something like that. How is it even possible to keep a child in those conditions? He mulled, thinking of his own children. Of Little Joe especially who was not one to be kept still. He prayed he was not facing those troubles now.

His mind slipped back to the one time he had a conversation with the Madam in the great room of the mansion. His visit had been unexpected and unannounced. Stretching his mind to recall all that was around them. There were no toys or children's books nor the vibrant sounds of a child's laughter. There was nothing. No indication at all that a child dwelled in that home.

When Marie told him of her baby whom Madam DeMarigny had taken from her but whom had later died, if there had been any indication of a child living in that home he would have recalled it then. He would have told her. They would have gone back to the old woman then and confronted her. The truth would have come out years ago. But that was not how it happened, because as he sat in the great room to tell the woman of her son's passing there was nothing in that room or in that conversation that led to the slightest amount of suspicion.

If Clay was in that house, then where was he? Ben reflected. Clay said it himself that he was raised by his grandmother, which Judge Allen Worton confirmed, so then where was this boy when all others thought he was dead?

This conversation which took place so many years ago suddenly took on a different light. Could the child whom Marie had thought had perished years before really have been there? Floors above him. Hidden away like a captive. Could that even be possible?

He glanced down at the satchel behind his left leg. Were the answers in there? Perhaps it was time to do what he had promised. Stopping his horse, he didn't have to dismount. He reached down opened his saddle bag and pulled out the leather satchel. He opened it up and pulled out the stack of papers within.

Original Manuscript. He read.

As a prince in a castle, he was admired by none.

As dirt on the ground, he was admired by all.

The Legend of Clay Stafford,

The Prince of New Orleans

Written By: Pedro Santacilia

Ben chuckled to himself at the idea of a man with so much mystery having his own book. He took in a deep breath that resembled much of a decisive and admittedly a bit of a judgmental sigh and opened to the first page.

There was a hand-written note folded and tucked behind the front cover which had a very personal touch to it.

He turned it over and read:

I thank you for the privilege of hearing your story and the opportunity you bestowed upon me to scribe it within these pages. I hold no blame to you for withdrawing your wishes of making this story known to the world. I take some blame for the way I pushed you as you were clearly not ready. If you someday change your mind and wish to publish this story, I pray you find me.

Until life finds us again, I wish you well.

Your Friend

Pedro

A word from the author:

Everyone thought Clay had died as an infant, right? A judge from New Orleans later confirms to the Cartwright's Clay's claim that he was in fact raised by his grandmother. Yet years earlier Ben himself sat in the living quarters of Madame DeMarigny in a surprise visit and was given no indication that a child dwelled in that house.

You know that recently created adage "Tell me without telling me"? So I say this: tell me, writers and creators of Bonanza, that Clay Stafford was raised in seclusion without telling me he was raised in seclusion.