Their angry and accusing voices faded behind him as he walked through the night back toward the hotel.
“Mr. MacCallister,” the hotel clerk called to him as he crossed the lobby.
“Aye?”
“You’ve a message, sir, from a Mr. Woodson.” The clerk handed a note to Duff.
“Thank you,” Duff said.
Duff took the message over to one of the sofas in the lobby and sat there as he unfolded it to read.
The Kansas City Cattle Exchange can make all the arrangements to provide you with Black Angus cattle. Good luck with your enterprise.
Woodson.
Smiling, Duff put the note in his pocket. As soon as he got back to Wyoming, he would contact the Kansas City Cattle Exchange and make whatever arrangements might be necessary.
Chapter Three
It was dark when Duff rode into Chugwater, returning home after an absence of nearly two months. Although there had been some discussion of it in a few of the town council meetings, Chugwater still did not have streetlights. The reason they had decided against them was that Chugwater had not yet been “electrified,” and it was felt that it would be a waste of money to put gas lamps in, only to have to convert them at a later date.
As a result, the only light on First Street was that which spilled out in little golden squares through the windows of the lighted buildings. Because it was after dark most of the citizens of the town were inside somewhere so the street was nearly deserted. Duff could hear the hollow clopping sounds Sky’s hooves made as he moved down the street toward the Fiddler’s Green saloon. He could hear the tinkling of the piano and a burst of laughter as he drew closer.
Passing by Meghan’s Ladies’ Emporium, he looked upstairs toward her apartment, which was over the store, to see if a light was burning. It was, and he asked himself if she would welcome a visit from him before he went back out to the ranch. He might call on her.
Then, as he thought about it further, he realized that it would probably be best that he not call on her now, since it would be considered improper for a man to call upon a single lady after dark. And though he wanted to see her to let her know that he was back, he did not want to do anything that could, in any way, sully her reputation.
Tying his horse off at the hitching post in front of Fiddler’s Green, he stepped up onto the porch and pushed his way through the batwing doors to go inside.
“Duff!” someone shouted, and, just as they had done so at the White Horse Pub back in Scotland, all the patrons of Fiddler’s Green began crowding around him.
After a universal greeting, Duff settled at a table in the back corner, where he was joined by R.W. Guthrie, Fred Matthews, and Charley Blanton, editor of the Chugwater Defender. These were some of his closest friends. He counted Biff Johnson as one of his friends as well, but because Biff owned the saloon, and because it was particularly busy tonight, he was unable to find time for much more than occasional short visits.
The men had dozens of questions, and Duff answered all of them as best he could. He told them about Scotland, and about his visit with old friends in the pub there. He did not tell them about visiting Skye’s grave at the cemetery. That was something that seemed a little too personal to discuss.
“Hey, you, piano player!” one of the cowboys at the bar called. “Play ‘The Gal I Left Behind Me.’”
The piano player complied, and the cowboy and two of his friends sang along.
After the song, the piano player started to play something else, but the drunken cowboy yelled at him.
“I said, play ‘The Gal I Left Behind Me.’”
The piano player repeated the song, and again the three drunken cowboys sang along.
When the song was over and the piano player started to play something else, once more the drunken cowboy called out.
“Play ‘The Gal I Left Behind Me’!”
This time, the request was greeted with groans from others in the saloon, and the cowboy pulled his gun.
“By God, I aim to sing some more,” he said.
Now the saloon grew quiet as everyone looked on in concern as to what was about to happen.
“Now, that I got ever’body’s attention,” the drunken cowboy said, “I’ll say it again. Piano player, play ‘The Gal I Left Behind Me.’”
“Drop that gun, Woodward,” Biff Johnson said.
When Woodward and the others glanced toward Biff, they saw that he was holding a double-barrel twelve-gauge shotgun leveled at the drunken cowboy.
For a long moment, the scene could have been a staged tableau, with all the principals holding their places. Then, slowly, a smile spread across Woodward’s face and he put his pistol back in his holster.
“Sure thing, Mr. Johnson,” he said. “Me ’n Case ’n Brax here was just havin’ a little fun singin’, is all. But if you don’t like our singin’, why, I reckon we could go somewhere else.”
“I think that would be a good idea,” Biff said.
“Come on, boys. Looks like they don’t appreciate good music here.”
The two cowboys with him laughed, as the three left the saloon. Within a moment, the saloon was back to normal.
When Duff left the saloon and started back toward his ranch later that night, he again passed by the front of Meghan’s Ladies’ Emporium. The apartment over the shop was dark now.
Meghan was standing at the front window of her apartment as Duff rode by. She felt a sense of joy that he was back, coupled with a sense of disappointment that he had not called upon her. But, she knew that Duff was a man of great propriety and never would have subjected her to any possible gossip about receiving a male visitor after dark.
Two days later
As had become their normal custom after a hard day of working, Duff and Elmer Gleason were sitting on the front porch of Duff’s house.
“Elmer, ’tis thinking I am that tomorrow I’ll ride into Cheyenne,” Duff said.
“You’ll be back come Saturday, won’t you?”
“Aye, I am thinking that I will be. But what is so important about Saturday?”
“They’s the Firemen’s benefit dance at the Dunn Hotel Ballroom on Saturday.”
“Aye. Being as I’ve been gone for two months, I’d nearly forgotten about that.”
“Maybe you forgot it, but you can be certain that Miss Parker ain’t forgot it. More’n likely she’s plannin’ on you askin’ for to take her. Especially since you been gone for two months.”
“I’ll be back before Saturday, but I’m not for sure exactly when it will be. Mayhaps you can ask Miss Parker to the dance for me.”
“Duff MacCallister, I may have spent the last twenty years in the desert, the mountains, or at sea, but even I know that ain’t right. You need to ask her yourself, is what you need to do.”
“Aye, you are right, I’m sure. But let me ask you this. Would you be for deliverin’ a letter to her for me?”
A broad smile spread across Elmer’s face.
“Well now,” he said. “That I’d be willin’ to do.”
It was before dawn when Duff awakened the next morning and, unexpectedly, he could smell coffee and bacon. Dressing quickly, he walked into the kitchen and saw Elmer leaning over the stove, looking into the oven.
“The biscuits will be done in a few minutes.”
“Elmer, you did not have to go to all that trouble,” Duff said. “I was just going to make myself a cup of coffee and then be gone.” Although Duff had been a tea drinker when he first came to Wyoming, he had managed to develop a taste for coffee as it was so much more available than tea.
“And that don’t make no sense a’ tall,” Elmer said. “You got a long ride ahead of you. You need somethin’ that’ll set good in your stomach. I got some good bacon grease here. I’ll make us some gravy to go with the biscuits.”
“It does look good,” Duff agreed.
“Do you have the letter?”
“Aye.”
“Leave it there on the sideboard,” El
mer said. “I’ll ride into town and deliver it today.”
Duff laid the letter on the sideboard, then sat down at the table to enjoy the breakfast.
Dawn was just breaking when, having eaten more than he really wanted, but not wanting to seem ungrateful for Elmer’s efforts, Duff walked out to the barn and saddled Sky, his big bay. As he rode out, he threw a wave toward Elmer, who was standing on the front porch holding a cup of coffee in one hand, and with his other, leaning up against one of the porch roof support beams.
As Duff rode south that morning, the notches of the eastern hills were touched with the dove gray of early morning. Shortly thereafter, a golden fire spread over the mountaintops, then filled the sky with light and color, waking all the creatures below.
Stopping at noon, Duff shot, skinned, and cleaned a rabbit, then spitted him over an open fire. He had brought a few of Elmer’s biscuits with him, and the biscuits and rabbit made a tolerable meal. Sky found some sweet grass, and they both enjoyed water from Horse Creek.
It was mid-afternoon by the time Duff reached Cheyenne. The capital city of Wyoming was a town of considerable importance, not only in the territory, but in the entire Northwest. No more than a tent town in 1867, just over twenty years later it had become a bustling city with substantial buildings, many built of brick and three stories high. There were over ten thousand souls in the town, and that number represented over half of the total population of Wyoming.
Boardwalks ran on either side of every street, and at the ends of each block, planks were laid across the road to allow pedestrians to cross to the other side without having to walk in the dirt or mud. Mounted, Duff waited patiently at one of them while he watched a woman cross the road, holding her skirt up above her ankles to keep the hem from soiling. After she was clear, Duff clucked Sky on, and the big horse stepped gingerly across the plank as they headed toward the J.C. Abney livery stable at the far end of the street.
“Hello, Mr. MacCallister,” the eighteen-year-old youth who worked for Abney said, as he stepped out of the barn to greet him. “Is Sky going to stay with us for a while?”
“Hello, Donnie. I’ll probably just be here overnight,” Duff answered. “Two at the most.”
The two knew each other because, on Duff’s frequent visits to Cheyenne, he always boarded Sky there. Duff swung down from the saddle and handed the reins to Donnie, who began talking soothingly to Sky as he led him into the barn.
Kansas
Earlier that same morning, a stagecoach left Turkville, Kansas, bound for Haye City, which was the nearest railroad connection. There were no other coaches and few wagons or other conveyances on the road. It was hot and dusty, and only those whose business, whether professional or personal, was important enough to get them out into the dust and the heat, ventured to make the trip.
There were four passengers in the coach, and though it was designed to carry nine, the fact that there were only four made the trip somewhat more bearable, if not comfortable. One was Dooley Long, a gambler who was headed to the nearest railroad depot with the intention of taking the cars to what he hoped would be more profitable pickings in San Francisco. Mildred Luke, a pretty, ruby-cheeked, blue-eyed, young auburn-haired girl, was only seventeen, but was put on the coach by her father, the sheriff of Dawson County, for a visit with her grandparents who lived in Plumb Creek. Dr. Philip Rosen and his wife intended to take the train east to Chicago to attend a medical convention there.
Though it would get hot later in the day, it wasn’t so bad now, for the morning air was dry and relatively cool. A stream of cold, clear water ran swiftly by the roadside, and earlier the coach had stopped to fill a water barrel. There might be some hardships brought about by the travel, but thirst would not be one of them, for the stream would accompany them for the rest of the way into Plumb Creek.
Up on the box, Sam Schaeffer, the driver, and Vernon Westbrook, the shotgun guard, kept their eyes peeled for any danger they might encounter. The passengers were occupied with their own thoughts or engaged in light and sporadic conversation, and thus unaware of the stage driver and his shotgun guard, who were scanning the road and the adjacent trees and brush on the watch for would-be robbers.
“I could not help but notice that your mother and father came to see you off back at the stage depot,” Dr. Rosen said to Mildred. “Are you going a long distance?”
“No, sir,” Mildred answered brightly. “I’m just going to spend a few days in Plumb Creek with my grandmother and grandfather.”
“Oh, that sounds nice,” Mrs. Rosen said. “I do hope you have a very good time.”
At noon, the stage stopped at the Armada way station, where the passengers and stage crew had their lunch. Then, after a lunch of bacon, fried potatoes and biscuits, the coach rolled out of Armada in a cloud of dust, to the rattle of harness and the drum of hoofbeats.
“I don’t like this part of the trip,” Mrs. Rosen said, shortly after they left Armada. “This is where Crack Kingsley held up the stage last month.”
“He didn’t kill anyone, did he?” the gambler asked.
“No,” Dr. Rosen replied. “But he well could have. You never know with someone like Crack Kingsley. He served five years in the penitentiary, but he didn’t learn anything. He’s still riding the outlaw trail. But I reckon that all started during the war. He was an irregular then, robbing, burning, and killing without compunction.”
“Which side was he on?” the gambler asked.
“He rode with Doc Jennison, so you might say he was a Union man, but from what I’ve heard, the Jayhawkers were no better than the Bushwhackers who rode for the South,” Dr. Rosen said.
Dr. Rosen’s observation had everyone in the stage on edge, and they looked out the windows as vigilantly as did the driver and guard. Up ahead by the side of the road was a single, rather large rock, ideally positioned to shelter a road agent, should one wish to take advantage. Schaeffer was well aware of this part of the trip, for that very rock had hidden Kingsley last month. Schaeffer cracked his whip to hurry the team by.
“Oh!” Mildred said, frightened. “What was that?”
“Not to worry, child,” Dr. Rosen said. “That was just Mr. Schaeffer, popping his whip over the heads of the horses.”
The stage rolled on by the rock, then passed a grove of aspens and cottonwood trees that were ideal for harboring a robber or robbers. The road angled down from there, still paralleling the stream running clear and cold among the rocks. Then the road started up, a long, slow ascent, with the stream dropping off so that one could look down upon it breaking white over the rocks and sparkling brightly in the sunshine.
As the coach continued to climb, Mildred felt cold shivers run down her spine. From every bush, stump and rock, she expected a masked man to leap out before them. Whereas the coach had been traveling as fast as a man could run, it was now slower than a crawl as the horses labored up the long hill, a hill that was haunted by the ghosts of travelers who had been murdered there in at least half a dozen robberies in the past.
Finally reaching the top of the hill, the horses were allowed to rest a few minutes, and the passengers were encouraged to step out to stretch their legs. It was not mere coincidence that here, too, were two privies, the ladies’ on the left side of the road, the men’s on the right.
Crack Kingsley had been waiting behind a clump of bushes about twenty yards from the ladies’ privy. Hearing the coach laboring up the hill, he discarded his half-smoked cigar, called a “Long Nine,” and ground it out under his heel. Subconsciously, he rubbed his finger across the puffed-up purple scar tissue on his face, and waited until the coach reached the top of the hill. He made no further move until he saw the passengers step out, the driver get down to check the harness, and the shotgun guard leave his gun on the seat while he went into the toilet to relieve himself. Kingsley had waited in this place for just such an opportunity, and he walked up to the right side of the team so he would be able to keep an eye on the men as they came back to the
coach.
The driver, having found a loose line, was so busy adjusting it that he didn’t notice Kingsley until he spoke.
“Now, gents, this is what I want you to do,” Kingsley said, his voice startling all of them. “Drop your guns right here on this side of the log.” He was referring to a fallen tree of about four feet in diameter.
The driver and shotgun guard pulled their pistols and dropped them as Kingsley ordered.
“I’m a doctor,” Dr. Rosen said. “I don’t carry a gun.”
“What about you?” Kingsley asked the gambler.
Dooley Long pulled his pistol from the holster and dropped it alongside the log. “You look to me like the kind of person who carries a holdout,” Kingsley said. “Let me see it.”
Long hesitated a moment, and Kingsley pointed his pistol at him and cocked it.
“I’ll just shoot you now and be done with it,” he said.
“No!” Long said. He pulled a small pistol from his jacket pocket and dropped it with the other weapons.
At this time, Mildred and Mrs. Rosen emerged from their privy and, seeing a robbery in progress, Mrs. Rosen gave a loud gasp. “Kingsley!” she said.
Kingsley jerked his pistol over in her direction.
“Damn, have I gotten famous?” he asked. He waved his pistol toward the stage. “Get over here where I can keep an eye on you.”
“You’ll never get away with this, Mr. Kingsley,” Mildred said. “My daddy is the sheriff of Dawson County.”
Kingsley chuckled. “Is he, now? Well, you tell your daddy that Crack Kingsley sends his regards. Now, you, driver, climb up there and throw down the money box.”
“Mr. Kingsley, maybe you should’ve scouted this out a little better than you done,” Schaeffer said. “We ain’t carryin’ no money box on this trip.”
MacCallister, The Eagles Legacy: The Killing Page 3