Howard turned. “Is there somethin’ else?”
“Yes, but, this is not company business. This is personal.”
“What do you want?”
“That man you said you met a few days ago. I would like to meet him.”
“I meet a lot of men,” Howard said. “Which one are you talking about?”
“The one you said that was a, uh, I believe you put it, dangerous man. Kingman, or something like that.”
Howard looked at Denman with a surprised expression on his face, then he laughed. “Do you mean Kingsley? You want to meet Crack Kingsley?”
“Yes.”
“Why in hell would you want to meet him? Didn’t you hear what I said about him? He was a border raider during the war. He’s probably killed more men than you have mosquitoes.”
“I have a proposal for him.”
“No, you don’t,” Howard said.
“Yes, I do.”
“Listen to me, Denman. Kingsley is not the kind of man I would want to have anything to do with. And if I don’t want to be around him, you for sure don’t.”
“I would like to meet him,” Denman repeated.
“You said you have a proposal for him. What kind of proposal?”
“I’m really not at liberty to say, right now,” Denman said.
“It’s somethin’ illegal, ain’t it? I mean, if you are wantin’ to do business with Crack Kingsley, it has to be illegal.”
“There’s twenty dollars in it for you if you set up the meeting, and don’t ask any more questions,” Denman said.
“I tell you what, Denman, twenty dollars ain’t enough money for me to mess with the likes of someone like Crack Kingsley. You go set up your own meeting.”
Turning, Howard again started back to the feeding pen.
“Would you do it for one hundred dollars?” Denman asked.
Howard stopped in his tracks, then slowly and deliberately turned back toward Denman. “Damn, you are serious about this, aren’t you?”
“I am very serious,” Denman replied.
“One hundred dollars?”
“Yes.”
“Why do you want to meet with Kingsley?”
“Part of the one hundred dollars is to keep you from asking me any more questions.”
Howard stroked his chin as he stared at Denman.
“Where is the money?”
“You set up the meeting first. If he shows up, I’ll give you one hundred dollars.”
“You know where the Bucket of Blood Saloon is?”
“Heavens, you aren’t going to tell me that’s where you would have us meet, are you?”
“You want to meet him or not?”
“I do.”
“Kingsley’s pretty particular about where he goes. I reckon he’s prob’ly made a lot of enemies in his life, so he goes where he feels comfortable. And the Bucket of Blood is that place.”
“All right, if I must go to that dreadful place, I will. You just set up the meeting.”
Howard cocked his head at Denman and stared at him for a long moment, then he chuckled quietly as he shook his head.
“I’d damn near set it up for free, just to know what this is all about,” he said.
“Thank you. Let me know when you have the meeting set up.”
Returning to his desk, Denman rolled two pieces of paper, separated by carbon paper, into the Remington typing machine. Using two fingers, he began to type a new letter.
Dear Mr. MacCallister:
This is to inform you that we have received your request for five hundred Black Angus cattle. We are now in the process of making the arrangements for you. However, it will be necessary for you to come, in person, to take delivery of your cattle. The amount of money due upon your receipt of the herd is fifteen thousand, eight hundred twelve dollars and fifty cents. This sum will cover all costs attendant to this transaction, to include the price of the cattle and our handling fees.
Too often, bank drafts drawn upon small anks in remote areas of the country have been non-processed due to the failure of the banks in question. Therefore, it is the policy of the Kansas City Cattle Exchange that all transactions must be conducted in cash, so we ask you to bring the money with you. We apologize in advance for any difficulty this may cause the buyer.
Please advise us by telegraph when you expect to arrive in Kansas City. Thank you for choosing to do business with us.
Sincerely,
Jay Montgomery
President, Kansas City Cattle Exchange
Denman folded the letter carefully, put it in the envelope, sealed it shut, addressed it, then applied the postage stamp. He had just finished when Jay Montgomery came up to the counter that separated the two areas.
“Denman, did you take care of that Black Angus order?”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Montgomery,” Denman said. “Mr. Howard is getting the herd assembled for me, four hundred eighty heifers to twenty seed bulls.”
“That’s an exceptionally large number of cows for a single order,” Montgomery said. “But our percentage will make it well worthwhile. Good job.”
“Thank you, sir,” Denman said. He held up the letter. “If you don’t mind, I’ll carry this letter to the post myself.”
“No, I don’t mind at all. By all means, do so.”
After he had delivered the letter, Denman stopped by the bank to talk to Rod Norton, the bank manager.
“This is serious business, Mr. Denman. Very serious business,” Norton said, sternly.
“Believe me, sir, I am very aware of that,” Denman said. “But I have come to tell you that I believe I have the situation under control. If you will but allow me thirty more days, I’m sure I will be able to pay off the loan, in full, plus any additional interest that will accrue in the next thirty days.”
“Tell me, Mr. Denman, and I ask this not from idle curiosity, but from my position as president of the bank: what makes you think you have the situation under control?”
“I have just discovered that I have access to a rather substantial amount of funds,” Denman said. “More than enough to satisfy all my debts. All I ask is for a little more time.”
Norton leaned back in his chair and stroked his chin for a moment, then, sighing, came forward and picked up a pen. He wrote a few lines on a piece of paper, then handed the paper to Denman.
“Show this to Mr. Potter, the loan manager,” he said.
Effective from this date, Hodge Denman is granted a thirty day extension on his loan.
Chapter Eleven
Though Sky Meadow Ranch had no cattle yet, they were raising their own pork and chickens, and Elmer was out feeding the chickens when he saw Duff approaching, still some distance away. He finished his chores, then went back into the house and made a pitcher of lemonade to have ready for Duff’s return.
Duff dismounted in front of the house, but did not unsaddle Sky. Elmer met him on the front porch with a glass of lemonade.
“Thanks,” Duff said, accepting the glass.
“Want me to unsaddle Sky for you?”
Duff took a swallow before he responded. “Thank you, no. I’m afraid I’m going to have to ride on into town.”
“Oh. Well, I’m sure Miss Parker will be glad to see you. I delivered your letter, by the way.”
“Thanks, but it isn’t to see Meghan that I’m going to town, though if she isn’t too busy, perhaps I will stop by the store. I have to send a telegram,” Duff said.
“I’ll ride into town with you, if you don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind at all. I’d appreciate the company.”
On the way into town, Duff filled Elmer in on everything that had happened since he’d left, including the shoot-out he’d had on the road on the way back home.
“I left them there,” he said, concluding his story. “So it’s needing for me to tell the police back in Cheyenne where the brigands might be found.”
“If there is any justice, the buzzards will have picked their eyes out by the time they fi
nd them,” Elmer said.
When they reached Chugwater, Duff rode directly to the telegraph office. There, using one of the pre-printed forms, he wrote his message.
TO: Chief Homer Davis, Cheyenne Police Department, Cheyenne, Wy.
On my return trip from Cheyenne to Chugwater I was attacked by three men. I don’t know their names, though one was the brother of Tyler Camden. I had no choice but to kill all three. You will find their bodies alongside the trail. Should you wish to speak with me, you can contact me at the address listed below.
Duff Tavish MacCallister, Sky Meadow Ranch, Chugwater, WT
Duff handed the message to the telegrapher, Dan Murchison.
“Well, Mr. MacCallister, let’s see what the charges are,” he said with a broad smile as he took the note. The smile left his face as he read the message.
“Oh, my, you had quite a frightening experience,” he said. “And you killed all three?”
“Aye,” Duff said. “It seemed the thing to do at the time.”
“Yes, sir, I suppose it did.”
“What are the charges?”
“That would be one dollar and twenty cents,” Murchison said.
After sending a telegram to the police back in Cheyenne, Duff walked over to the city marshal’s office. Jerry Ferrell, the marshal, had a chair drawn up to the bars of the jail cell, playing checkers with Perry Keith, who was serving a week in jail for drunk and disorderly conduct, to wit, “urinating in public.”
Ferrell jumped three of Keith’s men, then wound up on king’s row.
“Crown me,” he said.
“Oh, you’re killing me here,” Keith said as he placed a second checker on top.
“Damn, this is fun,” Ferrell said. “Tell you what, soon as I let you out, how about peeing in the street again so I can put you back in jail? You’re just too easy to beat.”
“I told you, I don’t remember peeing in the street,” Ferrell said. “I was drunk.”
“Yeah, well, that’s sort of the whole point of you being in here now, isn’t it?” Ferrell said. He turned to Duff. “Yes, sir, Duff, what can I do for you?”
“I just thought I would let you know that you might get a telegram from the police chief down in Cheyenne,” Duff said.
“About the fella you shot in the saloon there?” Ferrell said. “I already heard from him about that. He says there’s no charges.”
“No, not that. ’Tis another incident I’m talking about.”
Duff told the marshal about his encounter with the three men on the way back to Chugwater, emphasizing that he was attacked first, and that one of the attackers was the brother of the man he had killed earlier in the saloon.
“Actually, I only killed two of them,” Duff concluded. “One of them was killed by Camden, by a shot that was meant for me but missed. I left all three of them lying alongside the road, and I just sent a telegram to Chief Davis to tell him about it.”
“I appreciate your coming to me,” Ferrell said. “I’ll send a follow-up telegram to Chief Davis to see what’s going on.”
“’Tis my thanks you have, Constable,” Duff said. “I’ll be around if you have need for me.”
“All right,” Ferrell said. “But if it happened the way you said, and I’ve no reason to doubt you, I’m sure nothing will come of it.”
Thinking he wasn’t being watched, Keith put his hand through the bars and repositioned one of his checkers.
“I saw that!” Ferrell said. “Damn it, Keith, you’re cheating!”
“Of course I’m cheating,” Keith said without any sense of shame. “I’m in jail. That’s what people who are in jail are like.”
Duff laughed as he left the marshal’s office, then walked over to R.W. Guthrie’s Building, Supply, and Freight Company to make arrangements for picking up his hay mower.
“You’ll have the hay mower in two days,” R.W. Guthrie said. “I’ll even have my boys assemble the thing for you.”
“Thank you, R.W.,” Duff said.
“We heard of your adventure in Cheyenne,” Guthrie said. “Charley Blanton picked it up from the Cheyenne Leader and reprinted it in the Defender.”
“Did he, now?” Duff replied. Duff didn’t mention his encounter with the three men on his way back home.
“You headin’ down to Fiddler’s Green?” R.W. asked.
“Aye, I thought I might.”
“Well, hold on a minute. As soon as I get this order written up, I’ll walk down there with you.”
While R.W. was writing up the order, Duff stepped up to the big window in front of R.W.’s place and looked out over the town. A huge banner was spread across the street, tied to Kimberly’s Dry Goods on one side of the street, and Holman’s Drugs on the other side.
FIREMEN’S BENEFIT BALL SATURDAY NIGHT
He had not seen Meghan since coming back into town because he didn’t want to barge in while she had a client. But he intended to see her before he went back out to the ranch today.
Fifteen minutes later, Duff and R.W. joined Fred Matthews, the owner of the Chugwater Mercantile, Charley Blanton, owner and publisher of the Defender, and Elmer, who had gone straight to Fiddler’s Green as soon as he and Duff had reached town. The saloon owner, Biff Johnson, was sitting with them as well.
Biff Johnson was a former first sergeant in the army, and had been in the 7th Cavalry with Reno at the battle of the Little Big Horn. He had named his saloon Fiddler’s Green after the old cavalry legend that “any trooper who has ever heard the trumpeter play ‘Boots and Saddles’ will, when he has died, go to Fiddler’s Green, there to drink and visit with all the other cavalrymen until final judgment.”
Elmer had already shared with them the story of Duff’s encounter with the three men on the road, and Blanton was busy writing the story.
“Damn, Duff, you didn’t say anything to me about that,” Guthrie said.
“The subject didn’t come up,” Duff said.
The others laughed. “The subject didn’t come up,” Blanton repeated as he wrote it into his story. “That’s a good line.”
“Did you get the telegram sent?” Elmer asked.
“Yes, I told Chief Davis what happened, and where to find the bodies. Then I stopped down to the constable’s office and told Marshal Ferrell. I also told him I would be available if either he or Chief Davis need me.”
“They aren’t going to need you,” Murchison said, coming into the saloon then, carrying a telegram with him. “Chief Davis just sent this telegram to you and to Marshal Ferrell.”
Duff read the telegram.
THE BODIES OF DINGUS CAMDEN, LEE AND MARVIN MOSLEY HAVE ALREADY BEEN RECOVERED. THE INCIDENT WAS WITNESSED BY MR. EVAN WEBB. HIS STORY CORROBORATES THE ACCOUNT TOLD BY MR. MACCALLISTER. NO FURTHER INVESTIGATION IS NEEDED.
“Good,” Duff said. “’Tis glad I am to be done with that adventure.”
“You weren’t the only one with an adventure,” Biff said. “Elmer, here, had an adventure of his own.”
“Wasn’t much of an adventure,” Elmer said.
“The hell it wasn’t,” Biff said. “Folks in here are still talkin’ about it.”
“What happened?”
Biff told the others the story of how Elmer had backed down a young would-be gunman named Clete Wilson. He was very expressive as he told the story, and when he told how Wilson held his arms over his head, pleading with Elmer not to kill him all the while peeing in his pants, it left the others laughing.
“Have you seen him since then?” Duff asked.
“Ain’t seen hide nor hair of him,” Biff said. “If you want my thinkin’, it’s that he is plumb out of the territory now.”
The conversation returned to Duff’s intention to stock his ranch with Black Angus.
“I still don’t understand why you want to go to all the trouble to get Black Angus cows,” Fred said. “Longhorns have been just fine for as long as I can remember.”
“Well, Herefords are better than Longhorns,” R.W. sa
id.
“If Sky Meadow is to prosper, it will have to stand out among all the other fine ranches in Chugwater Valley. And ’tis no better a way for me to do that than to be stocking my ranch with the best beef cattle in the world, and that would be Black Angus,” Duff said.
“There is not a thing wrong with Longhorns. They are hardy creatures and they can live on dew and scrub grass. You go bringing in some high-toned cow, ’tis goin’ to be nothin’ but trouble, I tell you,” Fred insisted.
“Fred, have you ever eaten an Angus steak?” Biff asked.
“And how would I have done that, I ask you, when I never even heard of the creatures until Duff came up with this wild idea of his?”
“Well, I have. Two years ago my wife and I took a trip back to Scotland to see her sister who still lives there. She served steak, and when I took my first bite I knew it was something different. Not tough like Longhorn, and never have I put a thing in my mouth that tasted better.” Biff looked at Duff. “I say go for it, Duff, and when you take your first beef to market, I’ll buy a couple myself and add some fine dining by serving my customers Angus steak.”
“Ha! Fine dining in a saloon?” Fred asked.
“I’ll build on to the side. I own the empty lot next door. I’ll have a saloon in here and a fine restaurant next door.”
“When will you actually get your cattle?” Fred asked.
“I don’t know. I guess as soon as they get enough put together to make up the herd I want.”
“Will they be shipping them to you? Or will you have to go after them?” Fred asked.
“Mr. Conn is the Kansas City Cattle Exchange representative in Cheyenne, and I asked him to arrange for them to be shipped by train to Cheyenne. I’ll drive them down from there.”
“Five hundred cows, you say?” R.W. asked.
“Aye.”
MacCallister: The Eagles Legacy: The Killing Page 10
