A Lone Star Christmas

by William W. Johnstone

  “Choke points,” Tom said.

  “Choke points, yes.”

  “It hasn’t been too bad,” Tom said. “I’ve nearly gotten it cleared out.”

  Rebecca reached down to pull a limb from the creek, then tossed it over onto the pile of vegetation Tom had built up by his efforts on the day.

  “You trying to take my job away?” Tom asked.

  “Ha! I’ll just bet that I’ve cleared out a lot more creeks than you have,” Rebecca said.

  “Since this is the first time I’ve ever done this, I wouldn’t want to take that bet,” Tom said.

  “Tom, you never talk about your past,” she said.

  “What’s there to talk about? I’m from Boston, and like many other Easterners, I’ve come West. I’m glad I did.”

  “What did you do when you were in Boston?”

  “I worked with my father,” Tom said.

  “What happened? Did you have a falling-out or something?”

  “No, not exactly. I just decided that I needed to do something else for a while.”

  “I can’t help but wonder why you left,” Rebecca said, pointedly.

  “I’m not running away from the law, if that is why you are asking,” he added.

  “I’m not asking that,” Rebecca said, then she amended her comment. “I suppose I am asking it,” she added. “Even though it is none of my business, and I have no right to be prying into your private affairs.”

  He put his fingers on her cheek, and they seemed to have the amazing capability of being both cold and hot at the same time. She could feel a tingling excitement in her body, an exact duplication of the sensations her imagination had generated that night after the dance. The feelings, though, were generated by nothing more than imagination. This time the vibrations in her body were real. She waited, expectantly.

  As she knew he would, as she wanted him to, he kissed her, not hard and demanding, but unexpectedly gentle. She was surprised by her reaction to it. The pleasure she felt in her lips spread throughout her body, warming her blood. When he pulled away from her, she reached up to touch her lips and held her fingers there for a long moment as she stared deep into his eyes.

  Then Tom kissed her again, but this kiss was not at all like the first kiss—the soft brush of a butterfly wing. This was hard, demanding, almost, but not quite, a bruising kiss. Rebecca was shocked, not by the kiss itself, but by her intense reaction to it. He deepened the kiss, and pulled her against him. As she felt his hard body pressed against hers, Rebecca realized that, though she had been kissed before, they had been the kisses of immature boys, tentative and hesitant. In every previous kiss, Rebecca had been completely in charge.

  She wasn’t in charge this time, not of him, not even of her own emotions. As her resistance faded she had felt a warmth spreading throughout her body, and she grew limp in his embrace. She lost herself in it as she gave herself into its depths, into him, totally pliant in his hands, subservient to his will, feeling herself spinning into a bottomless vortex. She felt her head spinning and her knees trembling.

  Rebecca knew that if he wanted to, he could have his way with her, right now, right here on the banks of the Wahite, in the open, where any cowboy on the ranch, or even her father, could come riding up. And she wouldn’t care. She wanted to give herself to him more than she had ever wanted anything in her life, and she waited for him to make the first move, prayed, that he would make the first move.

  Tom had tightened his fingers in the silky spill of her auburn hair, then did what Rebecca could not do. He found the strength to gently tug her head back to break the kiss. She stared up at him with eyes that were filled with wonder, and as deep as her soul.

  “Tom, I ... ,” she started to say, but she found herself utterly unable to speak. And her knees grew so weak that she could barely stand.

  “I’m sorry,” Tom said. “I had no right to take advantage of you like that. Clay, or Dusty, or Mo, or any one of the others could have come by,” Tom said. “I don’t wish to put you in a compromising position. I think it would be better if you continued your ride.”

  “I—uh—yes, I’m sure you are right,” Rebecca said. She walked back to her horse and reached up to grab the saddlehorn. “Tom?”

  “Yes?”

  “You aren’t toying with me, are you? I ask, because I am not an experienced woman. I don’t know how to judge these things.”

  “I am not toying with you,” Tom said. “I would never do anything like that, Rebecca. I would never do anything to hurt you.”

  With a warm smile, Rebecca swung into her saddle, then rode away.

  Tom cursed himself as he watched her leave. He had no right to intrude upon this innocent young woman’s life. Not after what he had done back in Boston. After losing Martha, he didn’t think he could or would ever be interested in another woman, nor would he be worthy of another woman’s interest.

  If he had possessed one ounce of character, he would have left the first moment he realized that he was attracted to Rebecca. No, if he had left the first moment he felt attracted to her, he would have gotten right back onto the train the same night he arrived in Fort Worth.

  In the Big House at that exact moment, Clay Ramsey was visiting with Big Ben. Ranching came easily to Clay Ramsey. He could ride and rope with the best of them, and he could bulldog a calf better than most. He also had a sense of leadership that stood him well with the other cowboys. One would think he had been born and raised on a ranch, but nothing could be further from the truth. His parents had come to Texas even before it was a state, believing it would offer great opportunities for the ambitious and industrious. His father opened a store in Marshall, and though he never realized his goal of being a wealthy merchant, he was able to make a decent living.

  Clay had gone to work for his father when he was ten years old, working after school and in the summers. Clay had nothing but respect for his father, but he knew, early in his life, that he had no desire to ever work in a store. When he was sixteen he signed on with a cattle company taking a herd to market in Dodge City. From that day forward he was hooked, and he laid his future out. He wanted to be a cowboy, then trail boss, then the foreman of a great ranch. He had achieved that and was perfectly happy with his life.

  He was also happily married, though there were many who had told him that being married wasn’t that good of an idea for a cowboy.

  “Four dollars and seventy cents a head? Are you sure?” Big Ben said, responding to what Clay had just told him.

  “Yes, sir, that was the quote they gave me when I went to Fort Worth this morning,” Clay replied.

  “That’s only a dollar a head more than it costs me to raise them,” Big Ben said. “And figuring seventy-five cents a head to drive them up to Dodge City, that means I’d be making a profit of twenty-five cents a head.”

  “Yes, sir,” Clay said. “Well, the plain truth is, Mr. Conyers, folks just don’t want Longhorn beef anymore.”

  “What’s wrong with Longhorn beef? I’ve been eating it for fifty years.”

  “They say it’s tough and stringy.”

  “It’s always been tough and stringy,” Big Ben countered.

  “Hereford beef isn’t tough or stringy,” Clay said.

  “Yeah, I know,” Big Ben said. “Just as a matter of curiosity, what are Herefords bringing?”

  “Twelve dollars a head.”

  “Walter Hannah is running Herefords and has been for the last five years,” Big Ben said. “He tried to get me to switch over when he did, but I didn’t listen to him. If I were to switch now, it would be the same as admitting that he was right and I was wrong. And if I know Walter, that is something he would never let me live down.”

  “It isn’t my place to say, Mr. Conyers,” Clay said. “But is hanging on to your pride worth twenty-five cents a head?”

  “You have a point,” Big Ben said. “But right now I have to decide what to do about the five thousand head of Longhorn I have. It is barely worth mounting
a drive to take them to market, but I don’t see as I have any alternative.”

  “Would you like a suggestion?”

  “Yes, by all means.”

  “I know that Mr. Hurley at the Union Stockyard in Fort Worth is looking to buy cattle.”

  “Yes, but I understand he is paying a dollar less than they are paying at Kansas City,” Big Ben said.

  “But consider this,” Clay said. “You won’t have the expense of driving the herd to Dodge City, and the rail cost of taking them to Kansas City. And, you won’t have the risk of losing any of your cattle.”

  Big Ben stroked his chin. “You may have a point,” he said. “I won’t make any money, but I won’t lose any, either. And if I get rid of this herd, that will leave me the freedom to decide what I need to do next. All right, Clay, I’ll ride into town tomorrow and meet with Mr. Hurley. If we can come to some sort of an arrangement, we’ll deliver the herd to him at the stockyards.”

  For the drovers heading Longhorn cattle up the Chisholm Trail to the railheads, Fort Worth was the last major stop for rest and supplies. Beyond Fort Worth they would have to deal with crossing the Red River into Indian Territory. So, because Fort Worth was on the route north, between 1866 and 1890 more than four million head of cattle were trailed through the town.

  Then, when the railroad arrived in 1876, Fort Worth became a major shipping point for livestock. This prompted plans in 1887 for the construction of the Union Stockyard Company located about two and one half miles north of the Tarrant County Courthouse. The Union Stockyard Company, was now in full operation.

  William Hurley, founder and president of the Union Stockyard Company in Fort Worth, was an average-sized man, though he was dwarfed by Big Ben’s towering presence. Hurley, who wore a Vandyke beard, invited Big Ben into his office, offering him a seat across from his desk. A brass locomotive acted as a paper weight for the many pieces of paper that were piled up on this busy man’s desk.

  “So you want to sell me some cows, do you?” Hurley asked.

  “I do.”

  “Good.” Hurley opened a wooden box and handed Big Ben a cigar. “Try this, I think you will like it. It comes from Cuba.”

  Big Ben nodded as he accepted the cigar. He took a small cutter from his pocket, nipped off the end, then ran his tongue up the side of the cigar. Before he reached for his own matches, Hurly struck a match, let the carbon burn away, then held the flame to the tip of Big Ben’s cigar.

  “I think,” Hurley said as Big Ben puffed on the cigar, securing the light and sending up a white puff of aromatic smoke, “that if a cowman like you, one of the men who made the Texas cattle industry, would start using the stockyard, it would spread to others. And that would be good for Texas.”

  “And particularly good for you, I would expect,” Big Ben replied around the edge of his cigar.

  “I’ll admit that if I could start a thriving cattle market, right here in Fort Worth, it would be good for me,” Hurley said.

  “Speaking as a cattleman, I have to tell you that the problem we would have in dealing with you, Will, is the fact that you don’t pay enough. It is my understanding that you are paying one dollar a head below the Kansas City market.”

  “That is true,” Hurley admitted. “But, like you, I have to get the cows to Kansas City, and I do that by train, which is quite expensive.”

  “What you should do is start a meat-processing plant right here in Fort Worth,” Big Ben suggested.

  Hurley chuckled. “Mr. Conyers, you are a brilliant man, for that is exactly what I plan to do. I have been discussing this very subject with Mr. Phillip Armor, of the Armor Meat Packing Company.”

  “When you get that done, I think you will have a lot of cattlemen dealing with you. I know that I will.”

  “I appreciate that,” Hurley said. “In fact, to show you how much I appreciate your business, if you will let me use your name in talking to others, I will make you a special deal on your cattle,” Hurley said. “Instead of paying one dollar below market price, I will give you ninety cents below market price.”

  Big Ben was pleased with that proposal, for that wouldn’t be much less than he would make if he drove the entire herd to Dodge City, especially considering the fact that he was certain to lose some cattle during the drive. But he knew better than to show how pleased he was with that offer, so he made a counter-bid.

  “Suppose I took half a dollar less?”

  Hurley shook his head. “I couldn’t do that,” he said. “But I might be able to go eighty cents below market.”

  “Make it seventy cents, and you have a deal,” Big Ben said.

  “Mr. Wiggins,” Hurley called through the open door of his office.

  A small, bald-headed man stepped into the door. “Yes sir, Mr. Hurley?”

  “What is the latest market price for Longhorns in Kansas City?”

  “Four dollars and ninety cents.”

  “Thank you.”

  Hurley did some figuring, then looked up. “I can give you four dollars and fifteen cents a head. That’s seventy five cents below market and quite frankly, Mr. Conyers, this is the best I can do.”

  Big Ben extended his hand across the desk. “Mr. Hurley, I’ll have the cattle here by day after tomorrow,” he said.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Chugwater, Wyoming, June 27

  When Biff Johnson saw a tall man with golden hair, wide shoulders, and muscular arms come into Fiddler’s Green, the saloon Biff owned, he reached under the bar to find the special bottle of Scotch that he kept just for his friend, Duff MacCallister. He also poured one for himself, then held his glass up.

  “Here’s to them that like us, and to them that think us swell,” Biff said.

  “And to them that hates us, long may they roast in hell,” Duff replied, as, with a laugh, the two friends touched their glasses together.

  Biff Johnson was a retired U.S. Army sergeant who had been with Benteen’s battalion as part of Custer’s last scout. When he retired he had built a saloon in Chugwater and named it Fiddler’s Green, after an old cavalry legend: Anyone who has ever heard the bugle call Boots and Saddles will, when he dies, go to a cool, shady place by a stream of sweet water. There, he will see all the other cavalrymen who have gone before him, and he will greet those who come after him as he awaits the final judgment. That place is called Fiddler’s Green.

  In the three years since Duff had come to America, he and Biff had become good friends, partly because Biff was married to a woman from Scotland, and partly because of an incident that had happened shortly after Duff arrived.

  “MacCallister!” Malcolm called from the darkness of the saloon. “Why don’t you come back out into the street, and I will as well? We can face each other down. What do you say? Just you and I, alone in the street.”

  “You don’t expect me to believe that, do you?” Duff called back.

  “Believe what?”

  “That it would just be the two of us.”

  Malcolm laughed. “You think that because I have friends with me, that I may take unfair advantage of you, MacCallister? Alas, that is probably true. Tell me, what does it feel like to know that you won’t live long enough to see the sun set tonight?”

  All the while Malcolm was talking, Duff was keeping one eye on the mirror and the other on the corner of the watering trough. Then his vigil was rewarded. Duff saw the brim of a hat appear, and he cocked his pistol, aimed, took a breath, and let half of it out. When he saw the man’s eye appear, Duff touched the trigger. Looking in the mirror he saw the man’s face fall into the dirt, and the gun slip from his hand.

  “Carter! Carter!” the man at the end of the trough shouted. Suddenly he stood up. “You son of a bitch! You killed my brother!” He started running across the street, firing wildly. Duff shot one time, and the man running toward him pitched forward in the street.

  Duff heard the bark of a rifle, then he saw someone tumbling forward off the roof of the dress shop. The man had had a bead on Duff, an
d Duff hadn’t seen him. Looking toward the sound of the rifle shot, Duff saw Biff Johnson. Smiling, Biff waved at him, then stepped back behind the corner of the Curly Latham’s Barber Shop.1

  “Will you be coming into town for the Fourth of July celebration?” Biff asked.

  “When is that?”

  “The Fourth of July is on the fourth,” Biff answered with a laugh. “Funny thing about that holiday, but it comes on the fourth, every July.”

  “What day of the week?” Duff asked, laughing with him.

  “I know what you meant, I was just teasing you. It’s next Friday. Of course, being a Scotsman, our Independence Day holiday won’t mean much to you.”

  “Nae, that’s where you’re wrong, Laddie,” Duff said. “For ’twas on that date that you stole America from the English. And any evil done to the cursed English warms the cockles of any true Scotsman’s heart.”

  “This is sort of a double celebration for us this year. Wyoming is being admitted as a state on the tenth—I don’t know why they didn’t decide on the fourth. Seems to me like that would be ideal, to celebrate the birth of our country and the birth of our state on the same day,” Biff said.

  “Maybe they thought Wyoming should have its own birthday,” Duff suggested.

  “I suppose so. Anyway, there is going to be a dance,” Biff said. “And I expect Miss Parker will be wanting you to come. You will be there, won’t you?”

  “She’s my business partner,” Duff said. “I have to come.”

  “Speaking of your business, how big is your herd now?”

  “Just over ten thousand head.”

  “I remember when all the other ranchers teased you about raising Black Angus,” Biff said. “They weren’t hearty enough, some said. Others said it was a temporary thing; that Americans were used to Longhorns and wouldn’t take to Angus. Now your herd is the envy of all of Wyoming.”

  “Not just my herd,” Duff said. “Don’t forget, Meghan Parker owns one fourth.”

  “What are Angus bringing at the market now?”