“Lads, I heard you say that you were being paid fifty dollars to kill me. Would ye be for tellin’ me who it was that would make such an offer?”
“Why should we tell you?” Adler asked.
“Were you paid in advance?”
“No.”
“Then why wouldn’t you tell me? You’ll nae be hanging, you dinnae kill anyone. If you weren’t paid, what do you owe the man who got two of your friends killed for nothing?”
“He’s right, Adler. We don’t owe Dingo nothin’,” Morris said.
“Dingo? Would that be Max Dingo?” Marshal Craig asked.
“You got a big mouth, Morris,” Adler said.
“Tell me, lad, what kind of pie do you like?” Duff asked Morris.
“Apple pie. Why do you ask?”
“I’ll see to it that you get a piece of pie for telling me who wanted me killed.”
“He’s right,” Adler said. “It was Max Dingo. And I like cherry pie.”
“Do you know where I might find this gentleman?”
“I know where he is,” Marshal Craig said. “Or at least, I’ve heard where he is. They say he is holed up somewhere in the Laramie Range. Nobody’s ever tried to find ’em, and truth to tell, it would near ’bout be suicide to even try, seein’ as how he has a regular fort there.”
“That’s right,” Adler said. “He’s got at least ten men with him there. You’d be a fool to go after ’im.”
“I thank you for the information,” Duff said as he turned away from the cell.
“Hey, what about our pie?” Morris called.
“I’ll bring it to you,” Duff promised.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Sky Meadow Ranch
“So, you had a little excitement on the way here, did you?” Elmer asked Bob Nicholson as he started to show the newly hired hand around the ranch.
“Wasn’t on the way here. Happened before we even left town,” Nicholson answered. “Four men jumped Mr. MacCallister. And he wound up killin’ two of ’em, and takin’ the other two to jail. I swear, I ain’t never seen nothin’ like that.”
“Yes, well, four to one wasn’t very fair, I’ll admit,” Elmer said.
“I guess so. But them odds didn’t seem to bother Mr. MacCallister none.”
Elmer chuckled. “No, you misunderstand what I’m sayin’, boy. I don’t mean four to one wasn’t fair to Duff. I mean, it wasn’t fair to the four poor souls who were dumb enough to try ’n take him on.”
“You mean he’s done stuff like this before?”
“I’ll just say this. I’ve rode with Quantrill and Jesse James, I’ve sailed the seven seas, and I’ve lived with the Injuns, so there ain’t much in this world I can truly say that bedazzles me. But Duff MacCallister is someone who does.”
“I know ’bout the shoot-out in Chugwater, when eight men had come to kill him, and he kilt all eight of ’em,” Nicholson said. “I think ever’body has heard about that.”1
“Yes, well, Biff Johnson got one of ’ em. Duff will be the first one to tell you that.”
Though Elmer didn’t mention it, there were actually nine, not eight, who had come to kill Duff, and it was Elmer who’d killed Angus Somerled, the leader of the group, when Somerled had the drop on Duff and was just about to pull the trigger.
“Come on, let me show you the finest ranch in all of Wyoming,” Elmer said proudly.
Duff MacCallister’s Sky Meadow Ranch had not grown haphazardly, but was the result of very careful planning. The most prominent building was the main house, called “The Big House” by the men who worked there. Also on the grounds were a barn, a machine shed, a smokehouse, and an icehouse. Several other buildings included a bunkhouse, a kitchen and mess hall, and another private dwelling.
A long, low building with a porch that ran the full length of the structure, the bunkhouse had a bay area in the middle with six bunks on either side. Four coal-burning stoves, two on either side¸ did an adequate job of keeping the occupants warm, even on the coldest winter days, because the bunkhouse was well insulated. One end was a bit better furnished than the rest. It housed the bunks of Al Woodward, Case Martin, and Brax Walker, the three men, other than Elmer, who had been with Duff the longest. It was their longevity, rather than any sense of superior position, that improved their area. They had been there long enough to acquire a few additional items to make them more comfortable.
Next to the bunkhouse was Elmer’s house, which had a living room and a bedroom. Next to his house was the kitchen and mess hall. The cook had a private room just off the kitchen.
“We run nothin’ but Black Angus cattle here,” Elmer explained as he showed Bob Nicholson around. “That’s the first thing Duff done once he got his ranch started. They was some other ranchers that kinda laughed at ’im, but you better believe there ain’t none of that’s alaughin’ at ’im now. The Black Angus bring in anywheres from 30 to 40 percent more ’n Herefords.”
“Yes, sir. I heard Mr. MacCallister was the one that got Black Angus started here in Russell County.”
“That he did. He knew all about ’em ’cause that’s what he raised back in Scotland. And it ain’t just here that he’s got ’em started. They’s ranches all over the West that’s raisin’ Black Angus now, ’cause of Duff.”
“You like workin’ for him, don’t you?” Nicholson asked.
“I don’t work for him, son, I work with him,” Elmer said, emphasizing the words to stress the difference. “I ain’t known him all that long on account of he ain’t actual been here for very long. But in that short ’o time, why I reckon I’d have to say he’s the best friend I’ve ever had. I know he’s the best man I’ve ever known.”
Nicholson made no response, because no response was expected.
“All right. I’ve showed you near ’bout ever’thing there is to show.” Elmer pointed back toward the bunkhouse. “There’s three empty bunks in there. You can tell which ones they are on account of the mattresses are rolled up. Just choose one, unroll your mattress, and make yourself to home.”
“When do we start work?”
Elmer chuckled. “I’m glad to see you’re concerned about it. We don’t do all that much work in the wintertime, ’cept maybe haul hay out to the animals now ’n then when the snow is so iced over that the beeves can’t get to their graze. Most of the time in the winter we just sort of look for things to be done. And from now till after Christmas, we’ll more ’n likely not be doin’ nothin’ at all ’cept maybe lie around and sleep, or play cards, or some such. Truth is, I don’t know why Duff even hired you. We sure don’t need nobody else. Most ranchers start layin’ off in the winter.”
“I know. That’s how come I don’t have any work. Mr. Tadlock paid off all his men but about three or four. I don’t know why Mr. MacCallister hired me, either. He just asked me if I was workin’, and I told him no I wasn’t.”
“Well, there’s your answer then. He seen you was out of work and just wanted to help, is all. I reckon that’s it. Come on, let’s go into the mess hall and get a cup of coffee. Hell, Cookie might have even made some doughnuts.”
Elmer led Nicholson into the mess hall redolent with the aroma of coffee and something recently baked.
“Jones, you old belly robber, can a couple hardworking men get a cup of coffee?” Elmer called.
Jones, who was the cook for the ranch hands, stepped into the dining room. He was a small man, with white hair and wrinkled skin. “You show me a couple hardworking men and I might oblige them.”
Elmer chuckled. “Well, you’ve got me there, pardner. In weather like this, I don’t reckon we do that much hard work. But you know yourself that when the time comes, we work hard. So how about the coffee?”
“All right, all right. I hate to hear a grown man beg. Go ahead. Get yourselves some coffee if you want.”
“What are you bakin’ that smells so good?”
“It ain’t none of your business,” Jones replied. He used a wooden spoon to spear through
the holes of a couple doughnuts and held them out toward Elmer and Nicholson. “They’re hot.”
Elmer reached out to grab one, then he jerked his hand back. “Damn, they’re hot!”
“Didn’t I just say that?” Jones let the two doughnuts slide off onto a table.
“Does Mr. MacCallister eat out here with the men?” Nicholson asked.
“No, he has his own cook, Mrs. Sterling. You think he wants to trust eating food that’s been cooked by an ex-con like Jones?” Elmer reached again for one of the doughnuts and was able to pick it up. He took a bite.
“How is it?” Jones asked.
“I’ve had better,” Elmer said nonchalantly.
“Where? On one of those mysterious islands you’re always talkin’ about?”
“Nah. In Australia it was. Lamingtons. That’s a cake with a chocolate icin’. There ain’t nothin’ nowhere in the world can touch that.”
“Gimme back that doughnut, you inconsiderate old man,” Jones said, reaching for it.
“Except maybe your doughnuts,” Elmer said, jerking it back before Jones could grab it.
“Mr. Gleason called you an ex-con,” Nicholson said. “Is that true?”
Jones squinted at Nicholson. “What if it is?”
“Nothin’. I was just wonderin’ if it was true or if he was just teasin’.”
“It’s true,” Elmer said. “Tell ’im what you was in for, Jones.”
“Murder,” Jones said.
“Murder?” Nicholson repeated.
“Yeah. I was cookin’ at a ranch down in Texas. One of the cowboys got too curious about me, so I kilt him.”
Nicholson was beginning to be made a little uneasy by Jones’s stare.
“You want to know how I kilt him?” Jones asked.
“Sure . . . I guess.” Nicholson was beginning to wish he had never brought up the subject.
“I kilt him with a poison doughnut.”
“Ahh!” Nicholson gasped, dropping the doughnut.
Jones and Elmer both laughed.
“Boy, you’re just too damn easy to tease,” Elmer said. “You’d better watch that, or the rest of boys will be on you like a duck on a june bug.”
“I . . . I see what you mean,” Nicholson said, joining in the laughter. “My pa always did say I was too wet behind the ears.” He reached down to pick up the doughnut he’d dropped.
“Here,” Jones said, taking the doughnut. “I’ll get you another ’n. Anyone who can laugh at himself is all right in my book.”
“Thanks,” Nicholson said. “I think I’m goin’ to like it here.”
Rawhide Buttes
Smoke, Sally, and Matt arrived in town in midafternoon. People were walking up and down the boardwalks, exchanging greetings. Some were hanging Christmas decorations in store windows.
“This is what Christmas is all about,” Matt said. “Small towns where everyone knows each other, wishing each other Merry Christmas.”
“You sound like Charles Dickens,” Sally said.
“Who?”
“He wrote the story A Christmas Carol. You could say it’s about a small-town Christmas.”
“I’ve never heard of it.”
“How can you not have heard of it?”
“Because he ain’t like me,” Smoke said. “He ain’t very educated.”
“Ohhh!!” Sally said, shuddering. “Sometimes I forget that you like to say things like that on purpose, just to irritate me.”
Smoke laughed.
“‘Boy, do you know whether they’ve sold the prize turkey that was hanging up there—not the little prize turkey, the big one?’” Matt said, mimicking an English accent as he quoted from the novel.
“You are both impossible!” Sally said, but she, too, joined in the laughter.
“That looks like the best hotel in town,” Smoke said, pointing to the biggest building on the street.
“It looks to me as if it is the only hotel in town,” Sally replied.
“Then, by definition, doesn’t that make it the best hotel in town?”
Laughing, the three tied off their horses in front of the hotel, then went inside, where Smoke got two rooms for them, signing the register as Kirby Jensen.
“I see you have a dining room,” Smoke said.
“Yes, sir, Mister . . .” Doolin paused to examine the registration book, “Jensen. And many think it is the best place to eat in town.”
“Good.”
“Smoke, as soon as we’ve put our stuff in our room, I’m going to go find Meagan,” Sally said.
“All right.”
“Smoke?” Doolin asked. “See here, are you Smoke Jensen?”
“Yes.”
A huge smile spread across Doolin’s face. “My oh my.” He extended his hand across the counter. “I have heard much about you, sir. May I say that it is a pleasure to have you as a guest in our hotel?”
“Thank you.” Such effusive reactions to his name no longer embarrassed Smoke, simply because they happened so often. Long ago, he had taken Sally’s advice to accept graciously the accolades bestowed on him.
“Sir,” Sally started.
“Please, it’s Hodge. Hodge Doolin.”
“Mr. Doolin, could you tell me how to find Cora Ensor’s Dress Shop?”
“Indeed I can. You just go out the front door, turn left, walk two blocks, and you’ll find it right on the corner. There is a sign painted on the front window.”
“Thank you,” Sally replied with an affable smile.
Meagan looked up when the bell over the door jingled. For just a moment, she was surprised at who she saw coming into the store. “Sally?”
“Hello, Meagan.”
“What in the world are you doing here in Rawhide Buttes?”
“I came to help you and your friend get ready for Christmas. I think Duff is getting a little anxious that maybe you won’t make it back in time.”
“Ha. I’d like to think that.” Meagan noticed that Cora was looking on with a curious smile on her face.
“Cora, this is my friend, Sally Jensen. Sally, this is Cora Ensor.”
The two exchanged greetings, then Sally said, “I’m serious. I’m here to work. So what can I do?”
“Right now, we’re trying to think of something to promote Christmas in the store,” Meagan said. “So any ideas or suggestions you might have would be most welcome.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Even the Cottonwood Saloon was ready for Christmas. Six green, red-bowed wreaths were placed over all of the Os in the saloon’s name, which was painted across the false front.
It was pleasantly warm inside the saloon as Smoke and Matt stepped up to the bar.
“What’ll it be, gents?” the bartender asked.
“A whiskey for warmth, and a beer for taste,” Smoke said.
“I’ll have the same,” Matt added.
“What do you mean, no?” asked a man’s loud, gruff voice. “Look, sister, you ain’t nothin’ special. I’m not askin’ you to go upstairs with me, I’m tellin’ you to. You don’t have no choice as to whether to say yes or no. If I decide to take you upstairs with me, you’ll damn well go.”
“You may think so, but I still have the right to say who I will and who I will not do business with.”
“Carol, do you have a problem there?” the bartender asked.
“It’s not anything I can’t handle, Nate, thanks,” Carol said resolutely. She looked back at the man who was harassing her. “I told you no, and that’s the end of it.”
Suddenly and unexpectedly, the man slapped Carol in the face, hitting her so hard she fell to the floor with blood streaming from her nose and mouth.
“Conroy, get out of my saloon, now!” Nate bent over, but a pistol suddenly appeared in Conroy’s hand.
“Uh-uh,” Conroy said. “You bring that scattergun up from under the bar, now. And you’d better be holding it by the end of the barrel, or I’ll shoot you dead where you stand.”
“Conroy, you got
no right doin’ this,” said one of the other customers.
“You want some of this?” Conroy asked.
“No, but . . .”
“Then stay out of it. Nate, let me see that scattergun now.
Carefully, Nate picked up the double-barreled shotgun, holding it as Conroy had suggested, by the muzzle end, and lay it on the top of the bar.
Conroy holstered his pistol, reached over to retrieve the gun, broke it down, and extracted the two shells from the breech. Then, leaning the empty gun against the bar, he turned his attention back to Carol, who was still lying on the floor. “Get up. Get up and come upstairs with me. I ain’t goin’ to ask you again.”
“Good. I’m glad you aren’t going to ask her again,” Matt said. Pulling out a clean handkerchief, he handed it to Carol, then helped her up.
“What’s it to you?” Conroy asked.
“Since the young lady doesn’t want to go with you, I thought perhaps she would go upstairs with me,” Matt said.
Carol looked at the man who had come to her assistance. Her face was creased with a smile of recognition. “Hello, Matt. It’s been a long time. When was it?”
“Almost a year ago,” Matt said.
“I’d be happy to go upstairs with you.”
“Well, now.” Conroy smiled, but there was no humor in his smile. “What are you trying to do, make me jealous?”
“Go away, Conroy.” Carol dabbed at her nose, then pulled the handkerchief away to examine the blood. “Even saloon girls can make a choice and I choose him.”
“Nate, do you have a clean towel back there?” Matt asked.
“Y-yes, sir, I do,” Nate said, stuttering in his nervousness.
“Hand it to me, would you?”
Conroy put his hand on his pistol. “There better be nothin’ but a cloth in your hand when it comes back up.”
Nate pulled a clean white cloth from under the bar and handed it to Matt. Matt poured whiskey on it, then handed it to Carol. “Hold this on the cut on your lip,” he suggested.
“Mister, you’re just gettin’ a little too personal with my girl,” Conroy said.
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