“I say, they are magnificent looking!” Hanson said enthusiastically.
After a ride through the herd, moving close enough so that all the animals could be checked for soundness, Hanson announced that he was ready to close the deal.
They returned to the office, where Duff made out a bill of sale.
We, Duff MacCallister and Megan Parker, owners of the Black Angus cattle raised on Sky Meadow Ranch in Laramie County, Wyoming, do by these presents, transfer ownership of 600 head of mixed cattle to Cal Hanson, the purchaser.
In response for this transfer of ownership, we hereto affix our signatures, acknowledging the receipt of fourteen thousand two hundred dollars and zero cents ($14,200.00).
“Here you are, Mr. Hanson. You are now the owner of six hundred head of the finest cattle in America.”
“Thank you. By the by, since we have done business, and you have, in fact, saved my life, do you not think you could call me Cal? And might I not call you Duff?”
“Aye, ’tis.” Duff chuckled. “A Scotsman and an Englishman on first-name basis. Who knows? It could lead to a rapprochement between our two homelands.”
“Indeed it could,” Hanson replied. “Tell me, Duff, how will we get my cattle home?”
“We will drive the herd from here to Cheyenne. There we will ship them to Texas by rail.”
“Will we be able to get all six hundred on a single train?”
“No, it’ll take two trains. You can go with the first shipment; I’ll come with the second.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that.”
Business concluded, Duff, Hanson, and Megan were standing out on the porch of the office building when Duff saw someone coming toward them. “Ah, here comes Wang Chow.”
Wang paused when he was about ten feet away, put his hands in a prayer position, and nodded his head.
“Cal, this is my cook, my valet, and my friend Wang Chow.”
“A Chinaman,” Hanson said. “I have often heard the virtues of Chinamen extolled, but I never expected to find one in the middle of the American West.”
“Actually, there are several men and women from China all over the West,” Duff said. “Thousands of them came to work on the railroad, and when the railroad was completed, they stayed to take on other jobs.”
“And Mr. Wang found you,” Hanson said.
“No, you are wrong, sir,” Wang said. “Mr. MacCallister found me.”
“Oh, I see. You went looking, specifically, for a Chinaman.”
“I wasn’t looking for anyone in particular. But when I encountered Wang, the situation was such that I couldn’t just walk away.”
“I was about to be hanged, and Mr. MacCallister saved me,” Wang said.
“What? You were about to be hanged?”
Quickly, Duff told the story of how he had happened upon a lynching in progress.
“Ah, yes, lynching. Terrible thing, that.”
“Wang, tell me, my friend, how long until lunch? I’m starved.”
“Wang, you must get some food into this poor man,” Megan said with a laugh. “Why, he practically starved himself at breakfast. He had only eight pancakes, four eggs, and no more than six or seven pieces of bacon.”
“Aye, but that was four hours ago,” Duff said.
“The meal has been prepared, Mister MacCallister.”
“Good, let’s go eat. As it so happens, Cal, the Chinese can do marvelous things with beef, and I have asked Wang Chow to prepare something special.”
“If the beef is as good as it was at the reception given by Mr. Montgomery, I shall gladly sacrifice another of my animals,” Hanson said.
Duff chuckled. “No need, Cal. To show you what a fine fellow I can be, I want you to know that this beef is from one of my own cows.”
“Then I shall enjoy it all the more,” Hanson insisted.
After dinner, Wang put on a show of knife throwing, successfully sticking the knife into various targets, not only from a considerable distance, but from many different body positions. He threw knives from under his legs, with his back to the target, and over his shoulder. He did it while leaping, and once, even as he turned a flip in midair.
“Oh, my, that is most impressive,” Hanson said, amazed by the demonstration. “How did you come by such skills?”
“From Master Tse,” Wang replied.
“And who, might I ask, is Master Tse?”
“I will clean the table now, Mr. MacCallister.”
“Thank you, Wang, for the great dinner and the entertaining show.”
Wang put his hands together and dipped his head as in a partial bow, then returned to the dining room.
“Your Mr. Wang seems to be a most unusual man. And quite accomplished,” Hanson said.
Duff smiled. “You don’t have any idea how unusual or how accomplished he is.”
“I’m sure I don’t. I noticed that the inscrutable Mr. Wang didn’t answer my question when I asked about Master Tse.”
“No, he didn’t.”
“Do you know who this mysterious Master Tse is?”
“Wang has never told me, and I’ve never asked. I’m sure he has a reason for being inscrutable.”
“Quite so. Tell me, my good man, how soon will we be leaving for Texas?”
“It will take a week or so to get the cattle gathered up,” Duff said.
“I’ll be leaving for Texas tomorrow,” Megan said.
“Tomorrow?”
“If Duff is going to take a herd down to the same place where my sister lives, then I’m going down there as well. I’ll be there to meet you when you arrive.”
“Well, I shall look forward to that,” Hanson said.
West Texas
Although the word had gone out about Jaco and Putt escaping from prison just before they were to be hanged, eastern New Mexico and western Texas were remote enough areas that the two men had been able to travel from small town to small town without fear of being recognized.
Sitting in the Red Dog Saloon, in Shumla, Texas, they were surprised when a woman approached their table and called them by name.
“Jaco and Putt. The last word I heard on you two boys was that you was both hung.”
It was hard to judge the age of the woman who spoke. She could have been anywhere from her mid-forties to the mid-fifties. Many years of being on the line had taken their toll. She was overweight, her hair was frizzy, and her skin was pockmarked. She was wearing a very low-cut dress with pillow-like breasts spilling over the top.
“Well, if it isn’t our old friend, Sherazade,” Jaco said. “Are you still a saloon girl?”
“Not exactly,” she replied. “Now I’m sort of managin’ the girls that work here at the Red Dog. What brings you here?”
“Nothin’ in particular,” Jaco said. “We just happen to be here.”
“So the story wasn’t true. You wasn’t hung.”
Jaco smirked. “You see us, don’t you?”
“Yeah, I see you all right. Are you goin’ back in business?”
“We might be. Why do you ask?”
“I know a man that’s lookin’ to partner up with somebody.”
Jaco shook his head. “We ain’t lookin’ to take on no partners. But, if he would like to ride with us, I could see that, maybe. What’s his name?”
“His name is Manny Dingo.”
“What kind of name is that?”
Sherazade shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s his name.”
“Good enough, I reckon. What do you know about ’im?”
“I know he shot a miner in California, then after that, he started sellin’ his gun to the highest bidder. Don’t know how many he kilt that way. He rode with Henry Plummer for a while. He’s a good man. You won’t go wrong by hirin’ him on.”
“Is he in town?”
Sherazade smiled, then pointed up. “He’s upstairs with one of my girls now. Do you want me to go up and get him?”
“No, I wouldn’t want to interrupt a man while he’s tak
in’ care of business. When he comes back down, send him over to talk to me.”
“All right.”
It was no more than fifteen minutes later when Jaco saw Sherazade talking to some man who had just come down the stairs. She pointed toward Jaco and Putt, and the man came over to their table.
He stood there for a moment, running his fingers through his dark beard, his eyelids giving the illusion of being half-closed. He stared down at the two killers “I’m Manny Dingo.” He didn’t offer his hand. “Sherazade said you wanted to talk to me.”
“That depends,” Jaco replied.
“Depends on what?”
“On whether or not you would be interested in what I have to offer.”
“I don’t know whether I am or not. She didn’t say nothin’ ’bout no offer. She just said that she thought I might want to talk to you. What is it that you have to offer? ’Cause I tell you right now, I ain’t interested in buyin’ nothin’.”
“That’s very good, because I have nothing to sell . . . ’ceptin’ mayhaps a way for you to make some money.”
The expression on Dingo’s face brightened. “You’re offerin’ a way to make money? How are you goin’ to do that?”
“I’m puttin’ together a gang. But not just any gang. I’m talkin’ about a gang that will be strong enough to rob any coach, hold up any train, and take what we want from any bank.”
“That’s pretty bold talk, ain’t it?” Dingo asked.
“Ain’t bold if you can pull it off. And I can pull it off.”
“Let’s say that you do put together a gang that can do all that. Next thing you know, ever’one in the gang will have such a price on their heads that ever’ bounty hunter in the whole West will come lookin’ for us.”
“I’ve got that all figured out, too. Once I get it all put together, we’ll have us a place that no law and no bounty hunter will dare come lookin’ for us.”
“Where would that be?”
“I’ll let you know when you need to know. What about it, Dingo? Are you with us?”
“Yeah,” Dingo said. “I’m with you. How many is in the gang?”
“There’s three of us,” Jaco said. “Me, Putt, and you.”
“Three? I thought you said this here gang was strong enough to do anythin’ we wanted to do.”
“It will be when I get it all put together.”
“Who else you goin’ to put in it?”
“I’m not sure yet. But they’ll all be good men. You can count on that.”
Chapter Sixteen
Sky Meadow Ranch
Ten cowboys were in the bunkhouse. Four of them were playing poker for matches, one was playing a guitar, accompanied by another with a Jew’s harp. One cowboy was sleeping, and Dewey, Woodward, and Martin were gathered around Elmer next to one of the two potbellied stoves, which, in the winter, provided warmth for the building.
“You’ll be gettin’ paid extra for makin’ this drive down to Cheyenne,” Elmer said. “I’m the one that picked you out, so don’t you embarrass me. You do a good job, you hear?”
“You know you can count on us, Elmer,” Woodward said.
“Yeah, well, I hope I can. Duff, that is, Mr. MacCallister, needs this deal to go real smooth. I think it’s kind of a special thing for him, bein’ as this feller he’s sellin’ the beef to is an Englishman.”
“Damn you! You palmed that ace!” The shout came from the other end of the bunkhouse where the poker game was in session.
Everyone in the bunkhouse looked toward the commotion to see what was going to happen next. Three of the cowboys who were playing were still seated. The one who was shouting in such anger was on his feet, pointing at one of the men.
“Sit down, Louie,” one of the other players said. “You’re makin’ one hell of a row over nothin’”
“Over nothin’ Hank? Over nothin’? Merlin dropped a palmed ace on us. He cheated! That’s how he won the pot.”
“Louie, how much did you lose?” Elmer asked, walking to the card game to intercede in the argument before it got out of hand.
“Well, I lost six . . . uh . . . matches.” Louie said the word matches very quietly as if realizing the foolishness of his complaint.
“Was you cheatin’, Merlin?” Elmer asked.
“I was practicin’,” Merlin answered.
“You was practicin’ cheatin’?”
“Yeah, I was practicin’ cheatin’. Elmer, you know damn well them card sharks in the Wild Hog cheat all the time. I figure if I could get good enough at it, why I could turn the tables on ’em, so to speak. I’ve lost me a lot of money in the Wild Hog. If I can get this cheatin’ down, I could get my money back.”
“And if you don’t get it down, you could get yourself kilt,” Elmer said. “Hell, if Louie could catch you at it, how hard is it goin’ to be for a professional gambler to see what you’re doin’?”
“Yeah, I reckon you’re right.”
“You might say Louie just saved your life.”
“Yeah, I reckon you could say that. Here’s your matches, Louie.” Merlin slid six matches across the bed toward him.
Louie chuckled. “That’s all right. You keep ’em. And you keep on practicin’. I’d like to see someone take them card slicks down a notch or two my ownself.”
Shaking his head, Elmer returned to where he had left Dewey, Woodward, and Martin. “You boys be ready tomorrow.”
West Texas
The little town of Bibb lay twelve miles northwest of Comanche in northwestern Comanche County. By 1880 the community had a school, a church, two grocery stores, two saloons, a cotton gin, and a flour mill. It was a growing and industrious little town with a population of 360. It also had a mayor and a city council, and they’d hired Wyatt Mattoon as a city marshal.
Mattoon came well recommended; he had been a deputy sheriff in Tarrant County, one of the most densely populated counties in Texas. In the beginning, Bibb thought they had chosen wisely. Mattoon managed to keep the peace when the customers got a little rowdy in one or the other saloons.
The problem was that Bibb wasn’t able to pay very much, and Mattoon decided to augment his salary. Because of his position, he learned that the owner of the cotton gin had negotiated a loan from a bank in Waco. He was asked to meet the stage so as to escort the money safely into town. Instead, he met the stage, and relieved them of the money box, taking not only the thirty-five hundred dollars that had been borrowed by the cotton gin, but another two hundred and seventy dollars from the passengers.
Of course, Mattoon didn’t return to Bibb. He headed for Brackettville, where he passed himself off as a cattle broker for buyers from the East, but in all the time he had been there, he had never bought a single cow.
At the moment, he was sitting in a saloon, nursing a beer. He had spent his ill-gotten gains lavishly, and was nearly out of money. He was going to have to find something else soon.
Sky Meadow Ranch
Dawn broke on the morning the cowboys were to leave. The cattle had never been driven any distance before, and sensing something was about to happen, they milled about nervously, lifting a large cloud of dust that caught the morning sun and gleamed a bright gold.
Even though Elmer, Woodward, Martin, and Dewey were the only cowboys who would actually be making the drive, every cowboy on the ranch was mounted and helping to get the 600 cows herded together for the four-day push south. Finally the cattle gathered four abreast, and, under the urging of the cowboys, began the slow, shuffling walk that would take them to Cheyenne.
Duff slapped his legs against the side of his horse and urged Sky into a gallop, dashing alongside the slowly moving herd until he topped a small hill, then looked back down on the herd. Six hundred cattle were but a small percentage of his herd, but moving out at four abreast as they were, they made an impressive sight, the line stretching over a quarter of a mile long. The cattle moved slowly but inexorably toward the Laramie Mountains.
From his position Duff could see
the entire herd. The cowboys who would remain behind had already dropped off and returned to the ranch. Woodward was the flank rider on the left side, near the front, and Martin was riding flank on the right side, with Dewey riding drag, bringing up the rear. Duff had assigned Elmer to stay with Hanson, to “keep an eye on him” and the two men, with no fixed position, rode with the herd, moving from one side to the other, more as observers than participants.
Wang was driving the wagon, which was already a mile ahead of the herd. Duff wasn’t riding in any specific position, but kept himself on the move, ready to react to any trouble that might present itself. Sometimes he galloped ahead to check in with Elmer and Hanson, sometimes he rode squarely in front of the herd.
The first day of the drive was uneventful. They stopped for the night, and Wang prepared a meal of fried pork rice with a hot mustard sauce he made himself. In addition, he had egg rolls.
Sitting next to Duff, Woodward said, “I tell you what, boss. I’ve been on a dozen or more trail drives, and most of the time I ain’t never et nothin’ more ’n beans ’n bacon ’n maybe some biscuits. This here is sure some good eatin’.
“What do you think, Mr. Wang? The boys like your cooking,” Duff said.
Wang might have beamed in pride, but his face, as always, was inscrutable.
“Elmer,” Duff said. “Why don’t you tell us a sea story?”
“I got so many, I don’t know what one to tell.”
“Were you ever in a storm at sea, Elmer?” Hanson asked. “I mean one that had you thinking you would be transported to the Pearly Gates at any moment.”
Elmer laughed. “Sonny, with the life I’ve lived, I ain’t all that sure that it’ll be the Pearly Gates for me. More ’n likely it’ll be the fiery pits of Hell. But, I can sure spin you a yarn about a storm. ’Twas six days out of New Caledonia when up come the damndest storm I ever been in. It come up on us so sudden that the moon rakers warn’t naught but strips of canvas, flapping from the arms, a-fore we could get ’em took down. We had to get other sails took in, ’n the bosun ordered men aloft, but nobody would go. The sails had to be took in or else we woulda foundered. More ’n likely all of us woulda drownded right then.
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