A Lone Star Christmas

by William W. Johnstone

  There were two clapboard bunkhouses on the ranch, both painted white. There were twenty bunks in each of the bunkhouses, ten on each side. The inside walls were of wide, rip-sawed, unpainted boards, papered over with newspapers. In the time he had been here, Tom Whitman had read just about every article and every advertisement on every wall. He had committed the one behind his bunk to memory.

  W. GLITSCHKA

  WHOLESALE AND RETAIL

  GROCER

  110 Houston St.

  FRESH EGGS

  GREENS AND VEGETABLES

  FRUITS

  PROVISIONS OF ALL KINDS

  There were two wood-burning stoves in the bunkhouse, one at each end. Though it was cool now in early November, it wasn’t cold enough to keep both of them going, so for now only one was being used, and that was as much to keep the pot of coffee warm as it was to heat the bunkhouse.

  At the moment, Tom was lying on his bunk with his hands laced behind his head, staring up at the ceiling. At the far end of the bunkhouse, Dusty McNally was playing the guitar and crooning a cowboy song, one that Tom had heard many times being sung to the cattle. Several of the other cowboys were gathered around Dusty.

  The memories came back. No, they didn’t come back, the memories never left; they were always there, just beneath the surface, a part of him, like an awareness of night and day, heat and cold.

  He had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach as he walked out onto the balcony. His knees were so weak that he had to grab hold of the banister to keep from falling. He looked down at his hands and saw the blood.

  Why did he do it? Why? He could wash his hands, but the blood would not go away. He thought of a scene from Lady MacBeth. “Here’s the smell of the blood still: all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand.

  Now, as he lay here in his bunk, Tom raised his hands to stare at them.

  “Tom! Are you in here?” Clay’s shout brought Tom out of his reverie, and he sat up on his bed.

  “I’m here,” he said.

  “Dusty? Mo?” Clay called.

  “Yeah, we’re here,” Dusty answered.

  “Put down that guitar, Dusty, and you, Tom, and Mo come on over to my house for a few minutes, will you? We’ve got a job ahead of us and I’ll need to discuss it with you.”

  Dusty hung his guitar up on a nail above his bunk, and then he, Tom, and Mo followed Clay back to the foreman’s house. Maria greeted them warmly when they arrived and, a moment later, all four of them were doing a balancing act with a cup of coffee in one hand and a small plate with a piece of freshly baked apple pie in the other.

  There was a knock on the door and when Maria opened it, Dalton stepped in, with a big smile on his face.

  “Pa says you’re taking me to Dodge to help bring back the herd he’s buying,” Dalton said.

  “That’s right,” Clay replied.

  “Hot dog. I’m going to enjoy this.”

  “I’m filling the others in on the drive,” Clay said. “Get yourself a cup of coffee and a piece of pie and find a place to sit.”

  “You can sit there, I will bring it to you,” Maria said.

  “Thank you, Maria,” Dalton replied, sitting on the chair she offered.

  “We’ll get underway day after tomorrow,” Clay said. “So get all your gear ready and throw it in the hoodlum wagon. And don’t forget to take warm coats and a couple of blankets. It’s not that bad now, but it’ll be the middle of December before we get back and it’s likely to get pretty cold.”

  “Tom, I’m going to make you my Segundo, my second in command.”

  “Why me?” Tom asked. “Dusty and Mo have both been here longer.”

  “I’ve already spoken with them,” Clay said. “And they agree.”

  “You are smart, like the officers I served under during the war,” Dusty said. “I like having someone smart to make the decisions.”

  “That’s right,” Mo said. “We both agree.”

  “Are you all right with that?” Clay asked.

  “Yes, I suppose so,” Tom said. “I’ll try not to let anyone down.”

  “What about horses?” Dusty asked.

  “Pick out three apiece,” Clay said. “Get three good ones, you’ve all been here long enough to know what horses will fare the best. Mo, how about you picking out four mules, two for the chuck wagon and two for the hoodlum wagon?”

  “Alright,” Mo said. “Who’ll be driving those?”

  “Maria is going to drive the chuck wagon. She’ll be cooking for us.”

  “All right,” Dusty said with a broad smile. He held up what remained of his pie. “If you’re goin’ to cook like this, then I say it’s goin’ to be one fine trail drive.”

  “And Dalton will be driving the hoodlum wagon.”

  “Wait a minute!” Dalton said sharply. “Who said I would be driving the hoodlum wagon?”

  “I said,” Clay replied.

  “I’m not going to be driving any damn hoodlum wagon, poking along with the chuck wagon while the rest of you gallop all over the country.”

  “Dalton, your father didn’t order me to take you with me. He asked me to take you. To my way of thinking, that leaves the choice of taking you or leaving you behind up to me. Now, I’m giving you that choice. You will either drive the wagon, or you will damn sure stay behind. It’s up to you, boy, so which will it be?”

  Dalton looked at the other three men in the room, but couldn’t find any of them who would return his gaze.

  “I’m waiting,” Clay said.

  “All right!” Dalton said, angrily. “I will drive the damn hoodlum wagon.”

  “I thought you might see it my way,” Clay said. He returned to his briefing. “I figure we can make it up there in ten days. It will likely take forty to forty-five days to drive the herd down, but I can’t be too sure about that. They are Black Angus, and I’ve never driven Black Angus before so I don’t know how they will handle.”

  “What is a Black Angus?” Dusty asked.

  “It is a black cow,” Clay said.

  “I can’t believe that Big Ben is getting out of the Longhorn business,” Dusty said.

  “I have read about them,” Tom said. “They were developed in the Angus region of Scotland. They are not only black, they are also polled.”

  “Polled?”

  “That means they don’t have horns.”

  “The hell you say?” Dusty said. “Are you telling me we are going to drive an entire herd of cows that don’t have horns?”

  “That’s right,” Tom said.

  “Who would want cattle without horns?”

  “The Black Angus make very good beef cattle.”

  “All right, if you say so, Tom,” Dusty said. “No horns, huh? I sure hope none of the boys from over at the Rocking H hear about this. They’ll be ridin’ us somethin’ fierce.”

  “I want every one of you to take a pistol and a box of fifty rounds. I’ll have another five hundred rounds in the hoodlum wagon. Couple of you should also take Winchesters, and maybe a shotgun.”

  “I’d better take a shotgun,” Tom said. “I don’t even own a pistol, and I’ve never become proficient in the use of firearms.”

  Mo laughed. “Proficient in the use of firearms,” he repeated. He slapped his hand on his knee. “Damn, Tom, maybe you can’t shoot all that good, but you are the beatinist talker I ever run in to. But don’t worry about not having a pistol, I have an extra one, and a holster, that you can take.”

  “And if you get a pistol from Mo it’ll be a good one,” Dalton said. “He’s the best with a gun there ever was.”

  Of all the cowboys on the ranch, Mo was the one that Dalton was closest to, and one of the reasons Clay decided to bring Mo along was his hope that Mo would be an ameliorating influence on Dalton.

  “All right, if nobody has any questions, go on back and get your personal gear together. We’ll spend tomorrow picking out our remuda and loading on our victuals and gear into the wagons. I pla
n to get underway Saturday morning.”

  Sky Meadow Ranch, November 8

  The drive from Sky Meadow Ranch to the railhead at Cheyenne would be one tenth as long, and would consist of a herd about two thirds of the number of cattle that would constitute the drive from Dodge City down to Live Oaks Ranch. Duff thought the drive to Cheyenne would be a very good trial run for them.

  On the morning they were to leave, the cattle were all bunched up in a long, stretched-out herd, the lead steer was belled, and the chuck wagon was underway. Falcon was one of the cowboys of course, as was Duff. Elmer was there as well, along with two other cowboys from the ranch.

  And then there was Meghan, wearing pants and a warm jacket, with a hat that she kept pulled down low. Because of the way she was dressed, and the fact that she was riding straddle, coupled with her riding ability, made it impossible to tell from a distance the difference between Meghan and any of the other cowboys. When one of the cows tended to go astray, Meghan would ride it down and push it back to the herd with as much skill as any cowboy present.

  After the chuck wagon started out, Elmer came riding up to Duff, Meghan, and Falcon, who were sitting their horses on top of a gentle rise that allowed them to see the entire herd.

  “We’re ready to get underway, Duff. Just give us the word.”

  “All right, get them started,” Duff said.

  Elmer galloped back down toward the rest of the herd. Taking his hat off, he held it above his head, and shouted out at the top of his voice.

  “Yee, haw!”

  The other cowboys, whistling and shouting, got the big herd in motion, a few cows in front at first, then, as if picking up momentum, more and more of the herd started moving. Finally, like unraveling a ball of twine, the herd began stringing out until eventually, every cow was in motion.

  “Unless you have some other place in mind, I’ll take the far side,” Falcon said.

  “Good enough,” Duff replied. “Meghan and I will stay on this side.”

  “Listen, you two pay attention to the cattle now,” Falcon said. “I don’t want to look over here and see you sparking.”

  “Mind your own business,” Meghan replied with a little laugh.

  Live Oaks Ranch, Saturday, November 8

  Two wagons, four riders, and eleven unsaddled horses were lined up on the road in front of the arched gate that led up to Live Oaks Ranch. Big Ben and Julia were there, along with about thirty other ranch hands. Maria was sitting in the driver’s seat of the chuck wagon, smiling broadly at the prospect of going with her husband. Dalton was sitting on the driver’s seat of the supply wagon, frowning to show his displeasure at having been selected for this job.

  For the moment, Clay was alongside Big Ben, getting his last minute instructions.

  “I’m sending twenty-five hundred dollars in cash with you, along with my letter of credit,” Big Ben said. “That should take care of just about any emergency you might encounter along the way. Send me a wire when you get to Dodge to let me know that you got there all right, and send me another just before you start back with the herd.”

  “Yes, sir,” Clay replied.

  “I know Dalton is a little upset now at having to drive the hoodlum wagon, but he’ll get over it. I’m reasonably sure he will make a good hand for you.”

  “I’m sure he will,” Clay agreed.

  Big Ben stuck his hand out, and Clay took it.

  “Good luck,” Big Ben said.

  “Thank you,” Clay replied. Pulling his horse around, Clay galloped back down to where the little party was assembled.

  “Let’s go!” he shouted.

  Maria slapped the reins against the back of her team of mules, and the wagon started forward. Dalton started behind her. The riders held their horses to a slow walk, equal to the speed of the wagons, and with the whistles and cheers of those assembled to watch them depart, the Black Angus retrieval party got underway.

  Dodge City, November 8

  It was noon, and for the moment there were very few customers in the Lucky Chance. Because of that Rebecca, Candy, and the two other bar girls who worked in the saloon were sharing a table for lunch. Candy was talking about Billy Lovejoy.

  “I know he cares for me,” Candy said, wiping away a tear. “He knows what I have been, but he also knows that I would be a good and faithful wife to him. But he is afraid to go against his father.”

  Rebecca didn’t comment, though she knew exactly what Candy was going through. The only difference was that their roles were reversed. Candy was perceived as not good enough for Billy Lovejoy, whereas Rebecca was perceived as too good for Tom Whitman.

  “Honey, it’s all a dream,” Kate said. “Girls like us never leave the line. We never get married.”

  “Janie did,” Candy said. “She told me that she was just like us, once, but she met Oscar.”

  Suddenly Candy realized that she might have spoken out of turn, and she put her hand on Rebecca’s hand. “Becca, I’m sorry, I don’t mean any disrespect for your Mama.”

  “Nor were you disrespectful,” Rebecca said. “I know all about my mother’s past, and I am proud of her for what she has become.”

  “Well if you ask me, you don’t have any business getting involved with the Lovejoy family in the first place,” Rena said. “I know they are rich, but Frank Lovejoy is a horrid person.”

  “Billy is nothing like Frank,” Candy insisted. “Nothing at all.”

  “I know he’s not, honey,” Rena said, reaching out to put her hand on Candy’s. “It’s just that nothing good is going to come of this, and I don’t want to see you hurt.”

  “None of us want to see you hurt,” Kate said.

  At that moment Rebecca saw Oscar come back down the stairs. He stood at the foot of the stairs for a moment, his head bowed, and his shoulders shaking. Rebecca felt a sudden rush of anxiety, and getting up from the table, she hurried over to him.

  “Mama?” she asked, her voice catching on the word.

  “She’s dead, child,” Oscar said, sobbing as he told her. “The light of my life is dead.”

  Boot Hill Cemetery, November 10

  A cold, dry wind whipped through the cemetery as nearly one hundred people gathered for Janie’s funeral. The coffin lay on the edge of the already opened grave, and Oscar stood beside it with his hand resting on the gleaming rosewood. His head was bowed, whether in prayer or grief, Rebecca didn’t know.

  Rebecca had never actually known her mother until this past few months, and though she had grown close to her, the truth was that, in her mind, Julia was, always had been, and always would be her mother. But she had come to appreciate Janie, even finding it easier than she thought to call her “Mama.” She was saddened by Janie’s death, but had to confess that her grief didn’t match Oscar’s.

  Most of the mourners were the men who frequented the Lucky Chance Saloon, and they stood in little clumps around the grave, a few of them coming over to mumble something to Rebecca before stepping up to Oscar to reach out and touch him. They were obviously uncomfortable around a weeping man, feeling powerless to help assuage his grief. Candy, Kate, and Rena were there as well, not dressed as they did when they greeted the customers, but as modestly as any schoolmarm.

  All three of the girls had been solicitous of Rebecca, but even more so toward Oscar, whose grief was almost inconsolable.

  There had not been a church service, but the Reverend T.J. Boyd volunteered to say a few words at the committal. Tall and thin, his nose was red in the cold wind as he stood looking out over the mourners.

  “As I look out over those gathered here, I am reminded that I have never seen any of you in church, and that means that your souls are in peril.” He pointed to the coffin. “It is too late for this poor woman, who even now, is writhing in the agony of hell’s eternal fire. But it isn’t too late for all of you. Leave the saloons, the whorehouses, the dens of iniquity, and repent. Accept our Savior Jesus Christ and be born again, or you, like this poor miserable wretc
h, will burn in hell for eternity.”

  The Reverend T.J. Boyd raised his right hand high in the air, his index finger pointed to heaven as his oratory rose to a pitch. “I ask you now to open your heart and accept ...”

  That was as far as he got before Oscar laid him out with a hard uppercut to the preacher’s chin. Then something happened at a graveside interment that had never happened before. The mourners broke out into a loud, rousing cheer.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Denver, November 12

  It took three trains of thirty cars each to transport Duff MacCallister’s fifteen hundred cows from Cheyenne to Denver. Duff and Meghan were on the lead train, Elmer took the second train, and Falcon had the trailing train.

  Smoke, Sally, and Matt had already brought their cattle, and Smoke had made arrangements for holding pens where the cattle would wait until they could be moved to Dodge City.

  Smoke, Sally, and Matt were waiting on the platform as the trains arrived.

  “Duff, you have met Sally, but I don’t think you have met this gentleman. This is Matt Jensen,” Smoke said, introducing the young man with him.

  Duff shook hands with Matt, who was also greeted by Falcon, who already knew him.

  “This is my partner, Meghan Parker,” Duff said, introducing the attractive young woman who was with him. “And this is my ranch foreman, Elmer Gleason.”

  “Very good to meet you, Meghan,” Sally said. “Will you be coming along on the drive?”

  “No,” Meghan answered. “I would love to, but I have a dress shop business to run back in Chugwater. And with the approach of the Christmas season, I can’t afford to be gone. Elmer and I will be going back tomorrow.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad. I’m going, and it would be nice to have another woman along as company. But at least we will have your company tonight.”

  “Any trouble with the drive to Cheyenne?” Smoke asked.

  “Nae a bit o’ trouble,” Duff replied. “Sure ’n the cows moved along as if they were the Black Watch on parade.”