MacCallister Kingdom Come

by William W. Johnstone

  “Oh, I can’t take the coach. If I do, I won’t have enough money to buy the train ticket.”

  “Where is your surrey?”

  “I don’t know.” Mrs. Harrison shrugged. “I don’t know what happened to it or to my luggage. My baby and I have no clothes except for what I’m wearing.”

  Duff offered a suggestion. “You no longer have need of your surrey. Suppose I give you three hundred dollars for it? That will give you enough money for a coach ticket and for new clothes.”

  “Three hundred dollars? Why, even if I could find it, I don’t know if it is worth that much.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ll find it.”

  Tears formed Mrs. Harrison’s eyes. She reached out to take first Duff’s hand, then Wang’s hand. “I thank you both, so much. I can’t help but feel that Michael is in heaven, looking down on us, and that, somehow, he sent the two of you to me. God bless both of you.”

  Sky Meadow Ranch, Wyoming

  Duff and Wang Chow reached the ranch and dismounted.

  Elmer Gleason, Duff’s foreman and friend, came out to greet them. “What’s this Chinaman doin’ here?”

  “He has come to work for us.”

  “Really? Just what kind of work do you have in mind for ’im?”

  “He’s going to cook.” Duff handed his reins to a cowboy and nodded to Wang to do the same.

  “Well, Chinamen have been known to make pretty good cooks.” Elmer glared at the young Chinese man.

  Wang returned Elmer’s gaze with an expression of trepidation.

  Then Elmer smiled and stuck his hand out. “Wei biao shi win hou. Huanying.”

  Wang Chow’s smile was broad as Elmer’s, and he took the foreman’s hand and shook it enthusiastically. “Wei biao shi win hou.”

  “Elmer, would you be for telling me what you and the young Celestial lad just said?”

  “I just said hello, and I welcomed him. He said hello back to me.”

  “I had no idea you could speak Chinese.”

  “I made enough ports of call in China when I was a sailor to pick up some of the lingo.” To Wang he said, “Wo cunzai Elmer.” He pointed to himself.

  “Elmer,” Wang repeated, pointing to Elmer. He pointed to himself. “Wo cunazi Wang Chow.”

  Duff chuckled. “I see there’s no need to introduce you, you’ve already done that.” He motioned for them to walk toward the house.

  “So he’s going to be a cook, huh? That’s a good idea of your’n, gettin’ a cook instead of passin’ it off among all the cowboys. Some of ’em is so bad it’s a wonder we ain’t none of us been pizened afore now.”

  “Wang can’t cook.”

  “What? Whoever heard of a Chinaman who can’t cook? Is he tellin’ the truth, Wang? You can’t cook?”

  “He tells the truth. I cannot cook.”

  “Then why in the Sam Hill did you hire him as a cook, if he can’t cook?”

  “It’s a long story,” Duff said. “I’m going to count on you to teach him.”

  Elmer smiled. “All right, I’ll do it. As long as I don’t have to teach him none o’ that nasty stuff like neeps ’n haggis.”

  “Elmer, how is it that a man of your experience and world travel has never been able to cultivate an appreciation of such a delicacy?”

  “’Cause it ain’t a delicacy is why. Neeps ’n haggis ain’t worth feedin’ to the hogs. Oh, by the way, Miss Megan said to tell you that her sister ’n brother-in-law is comin’ to Chugwater soon. And they’re bringin’ her nephew with ’em.”

  “That’s good to know,” Duff said. “It will be nice meeting some of Megan’s family.”

  Elmer chuckled. “It ain’t just a meetin’, you know.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s more ’n likely she’s brought ’em up here to check you out, to see iffen maybe you’re a fit person for her to marry.”

  “There you go again, Elmer, tryin’ to be a matchmaker. When the time comes, I’ll make my own match, thank you.”

  Elmer laughed again. “If you say so. Come, Wang, let me introduce you to some of these critters you’ll be cookin’ for, oncet I learn you to cook.”

  Elmer led Wang into the barn where three cowboys were standing on a board stretched between two barrels. “Boys, I want you to meet our new cook. This here is Wang Chow.” Elmer pointed to the cowboys one at a time as he introduced them to Wang.

  “This here feller with his nose mashed up against his face ’cause he got into a fight with someone he ought not to have, is Tom Woodward, only don’t never call him nothin’ but Woodward.”

  “It warn’t no fight. I got kicked in the face by a mule. You know that, Elmer.”

  Elmer ignored him. “And the feller that ain’t hardly got no teeth to speak of is Martin. I don’t know as I’ve even heard his first name spoke. And this long, tall, drink of water is Adam Dewey. He’s the youngest, but he ain’t the dumbest.”

  “And just what qualifies you to pick the dumbest?” Dewey asked.

  “That’s easy, ’cause there ain’t nearly no one dumber ’n me,” Elmer said good-naturedly, and the others laughed. “You fellers want to tell me why in Sam Hill you got a board lyin’ twixt these two barrels?” He pointed at the board in question.

  “We’re plannin’ on usin’ it as a wedge under the corner of the waterin’ trough,” Woodward said. “But it’s too long, ’n none of us wants to walk all the way back to the machine ’n toolshed just to get a saw. We was plannin’ on breakin’ it with a shovel, but so far there ain’t none of us been able to do it.”

  “I’ve only had one or two tries,” Dewey said. “Here, let me try again.” He swung the shovel hard at the board, but it just bounced back up. After four or five tries he handed it to Martin, who tried, unsuccessfully, to break it.

  “Let’s see what our new cook can do,” Martin said, handing the shovel to Wang. “Here, see if you can break this board.”

  Wang took the shovel from Martin, held it for just a moment, then handed it to Elmer.

  “No, don’t give it to me. I know damn well I can’t break the board.”

  “You want the board broken here?” Wang pointed to the shovel marks on the board.

  “Yes.” Elmer tried to hand the shovel back to Wang, but he waved it off.

  “I do not need shovel.”

  Wang put the knife edge of his hand on the board and held it there for a moment.

  “Ha! What are you going to do? Break the board with your bare hand?” Dewey asked.

  “Haiiiiiiiiiiiiuh!” Wang shouted, quickly lifting his hand, bringing it down sharply against the board, and breaking it in two.

  “I’ll be damned!” Woodward said. “I ain’t never seen nothin’ like that.”

  “I have,” Elmer said quietly. “Wang, you know wu shu?”

  “Shi dey wo wancheng?”

  “What the hell did he just say?” Woodward asked.

  “I asked if he knew wu shu, and he said yes, he did.”

  “What the hell is wu shu?”

  “Let’s put it this way. I would advise none of you to ever get into a fight with Mr. Wang.”

  “Why would I want to fight a little feller like that in the first place?” Dewey asked.

  Elmer laughed. “Yeah, why would you?”

  “I ain’t never seen nothin’ like that,” Woodward said again, the expression on his face reflecting his awe.

  Chapter Three

  Chugwater, Wyoming

  A banner was stretched across Clay Avenue.

  CHUGWATER RIFLE MARKSMANSHIP CONTEST

  The shooting had started at nine o’clock that morning, with thirty-five shooters. There were only five left, all five shooting Creedmoor Rifles. For the last four rounds of shooting, all five had hit their target at dead center. The target was now three hundred yards away.

  “What are we going to do now, Mr. Guthrie?” one of the townspeople asked.

  Normally, Bob Guthrie was the owner and proprietor of
a building supply company, but today, he was the judge of the shooting contest. “We can move the target back another hundred yards.”

  “Or you could just go ahead and move it on down to Cheyenne,” one of the townspeople suggested, to the laughter of many.

  “We may as well. We’ve got the target three hundred yards away now. Another hundred yards would be almost a quarter of a mile,” Fred Matthews said.

  “Yes, well, pretty soon it’s not goin’ to make that much difference anyway, ’cause the truth is, we’re runnin’ out of targets,” Guthrie said.

  One of the shooters was Duff MacCallister, and another was Duff’s good friend, Biff Johnson, who owned the Fiddlers’ Green Saloon. He had given the saloon that name because he was an old cavalryman who had ridden with Custer on his last fight. Cavalry legend held that anyone who had ever heard the bugle call “Boots and Saddles” would, when they died, go to a cool, shady place by a stream of sweet water called Fiddlers’ Green. There, they would meet all the other cavalrymen who had gone before them, and they would greet those who come after them as they await the final judgment. Biff had managed to avoid Custer’s fate because he was part of Reno’s battalion.

  The other three shooters still in the contest were not from Chugwater. Jason Bowles was married to Megan Parker’s sister, Melissa. Megan owned a dress shop in Chugwater, and Megan and Duff were—as the women of the town explained to anyone who might ask about their relationship—courting. Jason, Melissa, and their nine-year-old son, Timmy, lived in Eagle Pass, a small town in West Texas. Jason was the sheriff of Maverick County, and they had come to Chugwater to visit Megan.

  The two remaining shooters, Louis Wilson and Roy Carter, had come to town specifically to participate in the shooting match. They were drawn there because of the award money. Seven hundred and fifty dollars were being offered for first place. Second place was worth five hundred dollars, and two hundred and fifty dollars was the prize for third place. That was a significant amount of money, and it made entering the contest worthwhile.

  “You fellas ready to give up?” Carter asked. “If they move that wagon any farther back, I doubt any of you will even be able to see it, let alone hit the target.”

  The paper targets had been printed by the newspaper just for the occasion, and they were attached to a wooden frame that had been placed into the bed of a wagon.

  “Ha! I seem to remember you sayin’ somethin’ like that up in Soda Creek,” Wilson said. “But I beat you up there, an’ I’ll damn sure beat you here.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Carter replied. Their bantering was good natured because the two had competed against each other many times before. They could be considered professional shooters, so many contests did they enter. As a result of their frequent head-to-head competition, they had become good friends.

  “Mr. Guthrie,” Duff said. “Would you be open to a suggestion as to how to solve this dilemma that has been created in the shooting match as it is currently constituted?”

  “I would be open to anything that would put an end to a match that seems like it might be goin’ on until this time next week.”

  “I would say move the wagon back another two hundred yards. Place it five hundred yards from here, and let us continue.”

  Gasps of surprise and disbelief came from those who had spent most of the day watching the contest, drawn by a demonstration of shooting such as had rarely been seen before.

  “Nobody can put a bullet into a bull’s-eye no bigger than a silver dollar at five hundred yards,” Carter said. “This is ridiculous. This is a waste of time. We will all miss, then we’ll just have to reset the wagon in order to start over again. I say just move it another fifty yards and be done with it.”

  “I won’t miss at five hundred yards,” Duff said.

  “What? Of course you will,” Wilson said. “I’m telling you, nobody can hit the bull’s-eye from that far out,” Carter said. “What do you other fellas say?”

  “I don’t know,” Biff said. “I’ve seen Duff shoot before. If anyone can do it, he can.”

  “Impossible.”

  “I have a suggestion,” Duff offered. “If I don’t hit the bull’s-eye, no matter what the rest of you do, I’ll drop out of the contest. Then you can pull the wagon back to whatever distance you want and resume shooting.”

  “You mean even if all of the rest of us also miss, you’d still be willin’ to pull out?” Wilson asked.

  “Yes.”

  Wilson grinned. “What do you say, Carter? If he misses, he’s out?”

  “Yeah, if he wants to do it that way, I don’t see no problem with it.”

  Duff wasn’t finished. “However, if I hit the bull, dead center, I’ll be declared the winner.”

  “Dead center? You mean, not touchin’ the line anywhere?” Wilson clarified.

  “Yes.”

  “Mister, you’re on,” Wilson said. Carter quickly concurred.

  “Biff, Jason, what do you think?” Duff asked.

  “Then the rest of us will be shootin’ for second and third prize?” Biff asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t have a problem with that, do you, Jason?” Biff asked.

  “No problem,” Jason said.

  It wasn’t until all four of the other shooters had agreed to Duff’s proposal that four men went out, then half pulled and half pushed the wagon all the way down to the far end of Clay Avenue. From where the shooters stood, the entire target could barely be seen, let alone the bull’s-eye. It looked like a tiny white patch.

  Wilson turned to Duff. “You do understand, don’t you, mister, that we’re goin’ to be holdin’ you to your brag. Hittin’ that little old piece of paper don’t count for nothin’. You got to hit the bull’s-eye dead center. How are you goin’ to do that?”

  Biff concurred. “Duff, I got to ask the same question. You can barely even see the bull’s-eye from here. How are you going to hit it?”

  “Mathematical calculation,” Duff replied.

  Biff frowned. “I know that in the artillery, the gun crews use geometry to find their targets, but I’ve never heard of anyone firing a rifle that way.”

  “It’s simple,” Duff said. “I know the size of the target paper because I’m the one that arranged to have ’em printed. The size of the target is twelve inches wide by fifteen inches tall. So, I just estimate my target point as seven and one half inches up from the bottom of the paper and six inches in from the left-hand side. If the target isn’t a misprint, that is where the bull’s-eye will be. All I have to do then is squeeze the trigger.”

  Everyone grew quiet expecting Duff to pause for a long time to control his breathing and lay in his sight picture. To the surprise of everyone who was holding their collective breath, Duff brought the rifle up to his shoulder smoothly, then pulled the trigger almost as if in the same fluid motion.

  Some of the women let out a little startled reaction to the loud pop. It wasn’t that the shot was unexpected; people had been shooting all day. What was unexpected was the fact they he had fired so quickly at his target.

  Carter laughed out loud. “Ha! You missed. Are you going to just stay here and watch the rest of us shoot, or have you had enough for now?”

  “I didn’t miss,” Duff said.

  “How do you know? You can’t even see the bull’s-eye from here.”

  “Then how do you know I missed?”

  “Because there can’t nobody hit a target that small, from this far away.”

  “Duff can, and he did.” Guthrie was staring through a pair of binoculars.

  “Well? How far off the bull’s-eye was he?” Carter asked.

  “He wasn’t off at all,” Guthrie said in a matter-of-fact voice. “On the contrary, he put the bullet dead center.”

  “Mr. MacCallister,” someone called. “Swede, Clovis, and Loomis is takin’ off on your Chinaman. You’d better come get ’im, or they’re goin’ to beat him up bad.

  “Where is he?”

&
nbsp; “He’s down in front of the grocery store.”

  “Oh, Duff, don’t let them hurt Mr. Wang,” Megan said. “He is so much smaller than they are.”

  Duff, Jason, Megan, and Elmer hurried down to the grocery store. Holding a bag filled with groceries, Wang stood in the road in front of the store, surrounded by three large men.

  “I’m goin’ to tell you one more time—put them groceries down and walk away. If you don’t, we’re goin’ to beat the hell out of you ’n take ’em ourselves.”

  “Mr. Bloomington, what seems to be the trouble here?” Duff asked.

  “Your Chinaman bought the last package of brown sugar I had in the store a moment before Swede came in, looking for the same thing. When the Chinaman wouldn’t give the sugar up, Swede and the two who came in with him got mad.”

  “Wang, do we really need the brown sugar?” Duff asked.

  “Yes,” Wang said.

  “Well, there you go, Swede. My cook says that he needs it.”

  “You takin’ a hand in this fight, MacCallister?”

  “Me? No. Wang says he needs the brown sugar, and you want it as well. My suggestion to you is, if you want it badly enough, go ahead and take it from him. That is, if you think you can.”

  “Look here, MacCallister. Are you sayin’ you ain’t goin’ to take a hand in this?”

  “That’s what I’m saying.”

  “Duff!” Megan gasped. “What do you mean? How could you?”

  “Watch,” Duff said calmly.

  “You hear that, Chinaman? MacCallister has done give us permission to take it from you.”

  “That’s not quite what I said, Swede. I’m sure you heard me add, ‘if you can.’”

  “Oh, yeah, I heard you say that,” Swede said, an evil smile spreading across his face as he raised his fists. “And we can. We damn sure can.”

  “Go ahead, Wang,” Duff said.

  Wang nodded and set the bag of groceries down, then he assumed a fighting position with his right arm bent at the elbow, his hand in front of his face, and his left arm stretched out before him. His hands were open and the fingers extended and joined.