They had bacon, beans, and cornbread for lunch.
“I tell you what,” Dusty said. “I’ve been on a lot of cattle drives in my life. But I ain’t never ate no better’n what we done comin’ up, or goin’ back. And I ain’t never been on a cattle drive where we had such beautiful ladies to look at. You boys just don’t know how lucky you are.”
The three women smiled at the compliment.
“Dusty, I hope that compliment wasn’t just to get a piece of apple pie,” Sally said.
“No, ma’am, it sure wasn’t,” Dusty said. “But if you happen to have some pie, well, that would be just fine.”
“We don’t have any pie,” Sally said.
“Well, who needs pie with a fine meal like this?”
“But I did make some bear claws,” Sally said.
“Wow!” Matt said. “Dusty, you are in for a treat. There is nobody in the world who can make bear claws like Sally.”
“Pearlie and Cal should be here,” Smoke teased, thinking of how much his two cowboys liked Sally’s bear claws.
“If they were here there wouldn’t be any left for anyone else,” Sally said as she brought a large tin bowl out, filled with the pastries.
After lunch, as the wagons were preparing to move out, Clay came over to Tom.
“Tom, would you take a look at the left rear wheel on the hoodlum wagon? Rebecca says it is squealing something awful, and Maria says she and Mrs. Jensen can even hear it from their wagon.”
Tom looked over toward the wagon and saw Rebecca standing there. He almost asked Clay to ask someone else to do it, but he kept it to himself.
“All right,” he said. “I’ll see what it needs.”
“Probably just needs some grease,” Clay said.
There was a bucket of grease hanging from underneath both wagons, and Clay reached under the hoodlum wagon to pull it out.
“I’m sorry,” Rebecca said. “It looks like you are going to get your hands all greasy because of me.”
“It’s not your fault,” Tom said. “When a wheel axle has skeins instead of bearings, you are going to get friction. And that friction is going to cause squeaking.”
He got down on one knee, then leaned over and studied the wheel hub. “Yes,” he said, pointing. “It’s nearly dry.”
“Tom,” Rebecca said. “We have to talk.”
“Talk about what?” Tom said. “I was a fool, I know that now. I hurt you deeply. I should have told you that I was married before.”
“And she hurt you? Are you divorced?”
“She is dead.”
“Oh, Tom, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”
“You couldn’t have known. I didn’t tell you, because I couldn’t tell you.”
Tom stuck his hand into the bucket, pulled out a big gob of grease, then started packing it into the hub, working it around the metal extension, or skein, of the axle.
“I didn’t leave because you hurt me. At least, not exactly.”
“Then why did you leave?” he asked.
“Because father said I could not see you anymore,” she said. “He said that he would send you away.”
“Send me away where, Rebecca? He could fire me, he could tell me he didn’t want me on his land anymore, but that’s it. He couldn’t send me away.”
“I know. I have thought about that a lot over the last four and a half months. I know I made a mistake Tom. All I can say is that I’m sorry.”
“What about the saloon?”
“What about it?”
“What were you doing there?”
“Tom, do you think I became a prostitute? Do you think I ran off because I couldn’t have you, and became a prostitute in the process?”
Tom shook his head. “No, I don’t think you became a prostitute,” he said. “I don’t know exactly what you were doing in that saloon, or why you were there, but I don’t think you became a prostitute.”
“Oscar Davenport, the man who runs the saloon, is a wonderful man,” Rebecca said.
“I’m sure he is.” The tone of Tom’s voice was almost sarcastic. “I’m sure all the girls there just loved him. And I’m sure he loved all of them.”
“Oscar Davenport was married to my mother,” Rebecca said resolutely.
“Your mother? How can that be? Your mother is at Live Oaks.”
“Julia Conyers is my stepmother,” Rebecca said. “She is the only mother I have ever known, since she and my father were married when I was a baby, but she is my stepmother. My real mother lived in Dodge City, Kansas, and was married to Oscar Davenport. So you see, I didn’t just run away, I had a destination in mind when I left.”
“What does your mother, your real mother, think about you returning to Live Oaks?” Tom asked.
“My real mother is dead,” Rebecca said. “She died two weeks ago.”
“I’m sorry,” Tom said.
“Did you mean it, Tom?” Rebecca asked. “Did you mean it when you said you couldn’t love me?”
“There is more to it than that,” Tom said.
“What more is there?”
Tom shook his head. “You don’t need to know.”
“Yes, I do. Please, Tom, don’t you understand? I have laid my heart out for you. I have to know why my love can’t be returned. Is it because your wife died? I can understand how that would hurt, but don’t you think I could help you heal?”
“You don’t understand,” Tom said.
“I’m trying to understand,” Rebecca said. “Please help me understand.”
“My wife is dead, Rebecca, because I killed her,” Tom said flatly.
Indian territory, November 25
After breakfast the next morning, the three women washed the dishes, then began loading the wagons, preparing to leave. Two of them were loading the wagons, Rebecca was just finishing with the hoodlum wagon and Sally was closing up the chuck wagon. Maria was standing to one side between the two wagons.
Clay rode over to Maria, then dismounted.
“About ready to go?” he asked.
“Si,” Maria replied. “How far do you think you will go before noon?”
“I expect we will reach the Cimarron just about noon,” Clay answered.
“Do you want to have lunch on this side or the other side of the river?” Maria asked.
“Find a place on this side. We’ll cross after we eat,” Clay said.
“All right,” Maria replied. “Don’t be late,” she said with a smile.
Clay kissed her, then helped her climb up onto the wagon. It was difficult for her to climb and he noticed it.
“Are you all right?”
“I am fine.”
“You just seem to be having a harder time getting around.”
“I am pregnant, remember,” she said, speaking so quietly that only Clay could hear her.
“I thought you said that wasn’t going to be a problem.”
“It isn’t a problem.”
“I shouldn’t have let you come.”
“You can always send me back home,” Maria teased.
“All right, you have made your point. But do be careful. Let the other ladies do all the hard work.”
“They are already doing all the hard work,” Maria said.
Sally, who had been closing up the back of the wagon, came up on the other side, then climbed into the driver’s seat to pick up the reins.
“I told Maria, I think you should stop just on this side of the river. We’ll cross it after lunch,” Clay said.
“All right,” Sally said. She called back to Rebecca. “Rebecca, are you ready?”
“I’m ready,” Rebecca answered.
“Let’s move them out,” Sally said, slapping the reins against the backs of the team of mules.
Clay watched the two wagons start out, then he mounted his horse and called out to the others.
“Let’s get these critters moving!”
His call galvanized the others into action. It was always difficult to get the cows s
tarted moving each morning. There were several reasons for that. The campsites were purposely selected for the abundance of grass and water, and an area wide enough to allow the cows to bed down for the night. As a result, the cows were quite comfortable where they were, and that made them reluctant to leave.
Clay and the others would have to shout, poke them in the sides with sticks, and swing ropes at them to get the herd underway. After five or ten minutes of this the cows would eventually begin to move. Then, once the herd was underway, it would change from twenty-five hundred individual creatures into a single entity with a single purpose. The same inertia that had tended to keep the herd at rest now became an asset, as it would keep the cows plodding along for as long as the cowboys wanted to keep them in motion.
A herd this size made its presence known in several ways. It was a black, slow-moving mass, a quarter of a mile long, lifting a cloud of dust that could be seen for many miles. The sound of the hooves and the bawling of the cattle to each other provided a music that quickly became familiar to the cowboys who were working the herd.
But perhaps the most distinctive signature of the herd was its aroma. The smells came from sun on their hides, dust in the air, and especially from the animals’ droppings and urine. The odor was pungent and perhaps, to many, unpleasant. To the cowboys who had spent half their lives with cattle, however, it was an aroma as familiar and agreeable as their mothers’ home cooking.
As the two wagons moved on ahead of the herd, Rebecca looked toward the western horizon and saw the gray streaks of rain slashing down from the sky, but it didn’t look or feel as if the rain would come this way.
What did Tom mean when he said that he had killed his wife? He had not elaborated on the subject. Surely he didn’t mean that he had killed her in a fit of jealous rage, did he? She knew that some men did that from time to time.
But Tom?
No, he couldn’t have. She could not be that wrong about him.
Still, it was obvious he was running from something. There was so much of his past that she didn’t know. And she had never seen a man so out of place as Tom was here. He was obviously educated, extremely educated. It appeared as if money meant little to him. He was silent, but not sullen, a gentleman, but not a weak sister.
No, he wasn’t a murderer. She was as sure of that as she had ever been sure of anything in her entire life. If he had killed his wife, it had to have been some sort of tragic accident, something that had scarred his soul. All she had to do was get through that scar tissue.
Cimarron River
Marcus Doyle had rounded up fifteen men. He and Seth Lovejoy brought the number to seventeen, and now they were waiting on the south side of the Cimarron.
Seth Lovejoy had been a Colonel in the Union Army during the war, and he understood the tactics of cover, concealment, and overlapping fields of fire. Because of that, he had his men well-positioned.
“Morrell is coming back,” Doyle said, and even as he spoke the others could see a single rider galloping toward them.
Lovejoy and his men had been in position for two days, and he had sent Morrell out both days to keep an early lookout for the approaching herd.
At this point the Cimarron was broad, but only about a foot deep. This was the only ford for several miles in either direction that would accommodate a herd of cattle. Lovejoy knew about it, because it was used in the spring by all the Texas herds that were coming north.
Morrell continued the gallop across the river, his horse’s hooves sending up splashes with each footfall. When he reached the south side of the river he dismounted.
“They’re comin’, Mr. Lovejoy,” he said.
“How far back?”
“No more’n three, maybe four miles. I expect they’ll be here in an hour or so. The wagons is just over that ridge. They’ll be here in about ten minutes or so.”
“Do we kill the wagon drivers?” Doyle asked.
“They’re women,” Morrell replied, answering before Lovejoy could respond to Doyle’s question.
“What?” Lovejoy asked.
“The wagon drivers,” Lovejoy said. “They’re women. Three of ’em.”
“Three wagons?”
“No, only two wagons, but one of ’em is bein’ drove by two women.”
“I ain’t goin’ to be shootin’ no women,” one of the men Doyle had recruited said.
“Me neither,” another said.
“All right, we’ll let the women on through,” Lovejoy said. “The only one I’m really wantin’ to kill is the one that shot my boy.”
“Like I said, Mr. Lovejoy, them wagons will be here any minute now.”
“Right. Good job, Morrell. Now, get your horse out of sight and take a position.”
“Whoa, mules,” Sally said, pulling back on the reins and using her foot to push on the brake.
Sally’s wagon and the one behind it squeaked to a stop as the dust trail that had been following now moved up to envelop them.
“The first thing we need to do is get a fire going,” Sally said as she climbed down. “Not only for cooking, but for warmth. It’s getting cold.”
Sally reached up to help Maria climb down, just as Rebecca came up to them.
“Maria, are you all right?” Rebecca asked.
“We may as well tell her,” Sally said. “She’s going to be with us every day for the next month.”
“Si,” Maria replied. Then to Rebecca. “I am going to have a baby,” she said.
“Maria,” Rebecca said with a broad smile. “That is wonderful!”
“Nobody knows except Clay,” Sally said. “And Maria would like to keep it that way.”
“I won’t say a word,” Rebecca said. “Why I’ll be as quiet as ...” Rebecca halted in mid-sentence and the expression on her face changed from one of joy for Maria to one of concern as she stared across the river.
“Rebecca what is it?” Sally asked. “You look as if you have seen a ghost.”
“I just saw Mr. Lovejoy,” Rebecca said. “He’s on the other side of the river.”
Sally chuckled. “You mean you did see a ghost? Isn’t he the one that Matt shot?”
Rebecca shook her head. “No,” she said. “This is Seth Lovejoy. He is the father of the man Matt shot.”
Now Sally’s face showed concern as well. “That’s not good,” she said. “It can’t just be a coincidence that the father of the man Matt shot is waiting on the other side of the river. If he is over there, he has something in mind.” She looked across the river. “I don’t see anyone,” she said.
“He’s—” Rebecca started to raise her hand to point, but Sally reached out to take her hand and prevent her from raising it.
“Don’t point,” Sally said. “If he is over there, we don’t want him to know we have seen him.”
“He’s not the only one over there,” Maria said. “I just saw some more men.”
“How many?”
“Three. Maybe four,” Maria said.
“Maybe we should leave,” Rebecca suggested.
“No, if we try and leave now, he would know we saw him. Chances are he would chase us down to keep us from warning the others,” Sally said.
“Then what can we do?” Maria asked.
“We’ll start a fire,” Sally said. “Rebecca, you start gathering firewood. Keep moving over toward the wood line over there. Once you are far enough inside the wood line to be seen, drop the firewood and start back toward the others, going as fast as you can. Tell them what we have seen.”
“I hate leaving the two of you here all alone.”
“We’ll be all right as long as they don’t suspect anything,” Sally said. “Now, get going. Maria, we’ll start a fire with the wood we’ve got.”
There was a canvas sling beneath the chuck wagon and as Rebecca moved around picking up pieces of wood, Sally and Maria pulled the wood from the canvas sling. They began building a fire.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“What are they doing?” Lovejoy
asked.
“Looks like they’re getting ready to fix dinner,” Doyle said. “Should we stop them?”
“No, let ’em cook,” Lovejoy said. “After we take care of the others, we’ll be hungry. Might as well let them cook for us.”
The others laughed, and Lovejoy put his finger to his lips. “Shhh,” he said. “We can’t let them know that we are here.”
Rebecca moved steadily toward the wood line, picking up a piece of wood here, a stick there, discarding some and keeping others as if she were really gathering wood. She wanted to break and run, and had to fight with every ounce of her being not to do so.
Finally she reached the edge of the woods, went in, came back out, went in, and came back out again as if merely searching for the best pieces. Then, the last time she went in, she continued on until she was sure she was deep enough not to be seen. She dropped the wood she had gathered and began walking rapidly until she reached the top of the hill. Once there, she came out of the woods onto flat ground that was easier, and started running.
Rebecca ran at least two miles before she stopped running, then she walked until she regained her breath. That was when she saw the dust of the approaching herd, and that gave her the energy to run again.
Tom was riding point when he saw a young woman running toward them. Realizing at once that it was Rebecca, he urged his horse into a gallop and closed the gap between them in a few seconds.
“Rebecca, what is it? What is wrong?”
“Ambush,” Rebecca said, panting so hard that she could scarcely get the word out.
“My God! You were ambushed?”
“No,” Rebecca said. “You will be!”
“Get on,” Tom said, reaching down to grab her hand and help her mount the horse behind him.
Tom galloped back toward the herd. By now some of the others had seen what happened, and they were riding out to meet them. Once there, he helped Rebecca down.
“Water,” Rebecca said. “Please.”
Tom gave Rebecca his canteen and she drank deeply from it. By the time she finished drinking, she had recovered her breath enough to be able to talk.
“Seth Lovejoy is waiting on the other side of the river,” Rebecca said. “I know this man. I am sure he is waiting to get revenge.”
A Lone Star Christmas Page 23
