“Yes, but you’re just getting started. It takes a while to get it just the way you want.”
“I had counted on Christmas helping me get started this year, but with this business about Mr. Guthrie and his whole family getting killed, I don’t know.”
“Christmas may be just what people need to help them get through this,” Meagan said. “I’ve got an idea. Suppose after the funeral, I go back home, gather up a lot of dresses, then come back and help you get your store ready for Christmas?”
“You would do that?”
“Sure, I’d be very happy to do it.”
“Oh!” Cora said as a wide smile spread across her face. “I would love that! Thank you!”
CHAPTER NINE
Duff stepped into the parlor the next morning wearing the same kilt he’d worn when he performed at the Christmas concert in Chugwater. The same ceremonial knife was tucked into the right kilt stocking with only the pommel visible. The same Victoria Cross was pinned in prominence.
“That’s, uh, quite an impressive looking outfit,” Worley said.
“R.W. asked me to wear this today to honor his son and family. And to play the pipes,” Duff added.
“I expect the church and cemetery will be full today,” Worley said.
As predicted, the church was full, with every seat taken and extra chairs brought in. The four closed coffins were lined up, end to end, down the center aisle and draped with palls, black for John and Nora, white for Suzie and Timmy.
The funeral contained eulogies, hymns, and a concluding prayer by the preacher. “Lord, we’re sending you a wonderful family, John and Nora Guthrie, and their two children, Suzie and Timmy. Let them know that they were well loved, and will be sorely missed. Amen.”
After the service, the coffins were taken out and loaded onto a single wagon, there being only one hearse in town. Sonny, the horse that would have been Timmy’s Christmas present, was draped in black and tied on behind the wagon.
The funeral cortege moved slowly down Center Avenue toward the cemetery. Most of the shops were closed; and both sides of the street were lined with people, including even those who weren’t present in church for the funeral. As the wagon bearing the coffins passed by, the men removed their hats, and the women bowed their heads.
The day was gray and cold. It began to deliver on the promise of snow, so that by the time they reached the cemetery, the snow started coming down, not as slow-floating flakes, but as small ice crystals. The coffins were set on the ground alongside four open graves. R.W. and his wife took seats in chairs beside the graves, their faces drawn in grief and heartbreak. Nora’s parents were deceased, so no one was there to represent her, except R.W. and Martha. They grieved for her as much as they did for John and the children.
The preacher walked over to them, bent down, and spoke so quietly that only they could hear him, then he opened the Bible to read a few words. “I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live; and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die. We brought nothing into this world, and it is certain we can carry nothing out. The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away; blessed be the name of the Lord.”
Closing the Bible, he addressed the gathered mourners. “My brothers and sisters, we are here to say good-bye to John, Nora, Suzie, and Timmy, but in the sure and certain knowledge that the good-bye is only temporary. We will see them again in heaven. Amen.”
With that, he nodded toward Duff, who was standing about twenty yards away from the graves. Duff inflated the bag, then began playing “Amazing Grace.”
The haunting notes of the melody, made even more so by the unique quality of the pipes, filled the cemetery from front to back, and side to side, moving into and resonating within the souls of all the gathered mourners. Most of the mourners had never heard the pipes played before. As they looked toward the sound of the music, they saw an almost ghostly image of a man wearing a strange-looking outfit that left his legs bare on the frigid day. Despite the unusual sight, music and the moment prevailed, and many present, man and woman alike, shed tears.
Duff walked Meagan to the stagecoach. In one hand, he was carrying a grip that held his Black Watch uniform, and in the other, he was carrying Meagan’s luggage. His pipes hung by a strap over his shoulder.
“You played beautifully,” Meagan said. “I know that R.W. and Martha appreciated it. As I looked around, I could tell that everyone else did, as well.”
“That’s the least I could do for the two of them,” Duff said. “What I want to do now is find the brigands who did this.”
“Do you think you’ll be able to find them?” Meagan asked.
“I’m certainly going to try,” Duff said.
“I won’t even bother to tell you to be careful. You’ve done this sort of thing more times than I can count. But that doesn’t keep me from worrying.”
Duff smiled. “’Tis nice to have someone worrying about me.”
Meagan smiled at his words. “I probably won’t be in Chugwater when you return.”
“Oh? And why is that, may I ask?”
“Yes, you can ask. While I was here, I promised Cora Ensor I would come back and help her get her store ready in time for Christmas. That’s less than two weeks away, so we’re going to have a lot of work to do.”
“That’s very nice of you.”
Meagan smiled again. “It’s not a one hundred percent eleemosynary proposition. I’ll be supplying most of the dresses she will have for sale.”
“Do you have enough for her store, and for your own?”
“I do,” Meagan said.
Duff chuckled. “Aye, lass, ’tis quite the businesswoman you are. I’ve not forgot how you beat me out of half my herd.”
“I didn’t beat you out, Duff MacCallister. You well know I invested in the cattle when you needed money to get your ranch going.”
“Aye, but when I tried to buy the creatures back from you, you wouldn’t sell them back. Sure now, lass, and you’re not forgetting that?”
“Why should I sell them back? Who knows but that, someday they may all be yours again.”
“And how is that to be, I’m asking?”
“Oooh,” Meagan said. “You are asking me how it can be that the cattle I now own might be yours again someday, without you having to buy them back? Would you be for telling me, Duff MacAllister, are all Scots as thickheaded as you are?”
Duff laughed. “Sure, lass, and there’s been many a man who has tried to break my head open, so, for a man like me, a thick skull can be an advantage.” He opened the door to the coach.
As Meagan stepped behind it, she looked around. Determining that the coast was clear, she leaned in and kissed him. “I plan for us to spend Christmas together,” she said after the kiss. “Please do keep that in mind.”
“I will hold onto that thought.” Helping her into the coach, he closed the door, then stepped back to the boot to load the luggage.
Elmer and Vi came up to the coach then.
“Elmer, I was beginning to think you might miss the coach going back,” Duff said.
“Not to worry. There’s not a thing in this little town to hold my interest,” Elmer said.
“Elmer, would you be a friend and take m’ luggage back to the house?” Duff asked.
“I will,” Elmer replied.
“’Tis a good man you are.”
“And don’t you forget it,” Elmer said with a smile as he helped Vi into the coach, then climbed in behind her. He reached out through the window and took Duff’s hand. “Keep the sun in your face, and all the shadows will be behind you.”
“Aye, and it may well be that I’ll be for needing a wee bit of your Indian wisdom and philosophy, my friend,” Duff replied.
“Wagons ho!” Fred Matthews shouted from the front of the convoy.
As the coach began to roll, Elmer waved, and Meagan blew a kiss toward Duff. She stared through the window, keeping Duff in sight for as long as she cou
ld.
“Miss Parker, don’t you be worryin’ none about Duff MacCallister,” Elmer said. “I’ve been around a long time, ’n I ain’t never know’d nobody what could handle himself better ’n Duff.”
“I know he is quite capable,” Megan said. “But it’s impossible not to worry a little.”
Fort Russell
Smoke and Sally were sitting with the Stevensons on the front porch of the colonel’s quarters. It was a cold and clear night, but they were bundled up warmly.
“There is no place in the world I would rather be than right here,” Colonel Stevenson said. “And when I say here, I don’t necessarily mean Fort Russell. I mean any army post. There is something about a fort at this time of night, just before taps, that is almost spiritual. The men are in their barracks, playing cards, telling stories . . .”
From somewhere they could hear someone singing, accompanied by the strum of a guitar.
“And singing,” the colonel continued.
“I would think that the men would be very lonely,” Sally suggested.
“No,” Colonel Stevens replied. “They aren’t lonely. That isn’t to say that they don’t miss the family they left behind, but they aren’t lonely. They’re never lonely. They have a new family.”
“You’re part of their family, aren’t you?” Sally asked.
“I like to think that I am.”
Mrs. Stevenson laughed. “I’ll tell you how much a part of the family he is. Every Christmas since we have been here, he has dressed up as Santa Claus for the children of the post. The first year he suggested that, I told him I thought it might be beneath the dignity of a post commandant, and he said ‘dignity be damned,’ he was going to do it. Now, I not only go along with it, I’m proud of him for doing it.”
“No man is taller than when he stoops to help a child,” Sally said.
Mrs. Stevenson beamed. “Oh, what a wonderful thing to say.”
“Yes, but I’m quoting someone. That was something Abraham Lincoln said.”
“Oh, look, Harris is playing the bugle tonight,” Mrs. Stevenson said as a bugler walked toward the salute cannon under the flagpole. “Nobody plays the calls more beautifully.”
The salute cannon was glistening in the moonlight as Harris stopped beside it, raised the bugle to his lips, then played it into the pylon-mounted megaphone. The young soldier played the call slowly and stately, holding the higher notes, gradually getting louder, then slowing the tempo as he reached the end, and holding the final, middle C longer than any other note before allowing it to echo back across the quadrangle.
“Man, that has to be Harris,” cried a voice coming from one of the barracks.
“I cannot hear that played without getting a lump in my throat,” Colonel Stevenson said. “For an old soldier like me, that is mother’s milk. Every note resonates in my soul.
“There are words to the song. Would you like to hear them?”
“Yes, please,” Sally said.
Colonel Stevenson cleared his throat. “I’m not going to try to sing them, I’ll speak them.”
Day is done, gone the sun
From the lakes, from the hills, from the sky
All is well, safely rest
God is nigh.
“Colonel, the words couldn’t be more eloquent,” Sally said.
“It’s strange,” Smoke said a short time later as he and Sally were going to bed. “I’ve never served in the army, but as I sat there, listening to the bugle, I could almost feel what the colonel was feeling. I know what he means by the words resonating in his soul.”
Sally kissed him. “That’s because you have a good soul, Kirby Jensen.”
CHAPTER TEN
Millersburgh
Duff didn’t get away from Rawhide Buttes until after four o’clock, but it took him just under two hours to make the ten-mile ride. It was already dark by the time he arrived at the small town on the Platte River. A sternwheeler, the Prima Donna, was moored alongside the pier with a gangplank stretching from the side of the boat to the bank. He reined in Sky to watch some men rolling beer barrels down from the boat, then loading them onto the back of a wagon. He could see the captain in the lighted wheelhouse, occupying his position of authority with all the dignity due his station.
“Hey, what if one of these barrels was to accidentally break open?” one of the stevedores called out. “You reckon we’d have to drink it all up?”
The other workers laughed at the joke.
As Duff rode on into Millersburgh, he passed several houses, and could smell the aroma of frying chicken. Somewhere a dog was barking, and at another house, a baby was crying. Riding on into town, he saw that the lamplighter was making his rounds. Most of the businesses were closed, but he headed toward the biggest and most brightly lit building on the street—the Cottonwood Saloon, the first saloon he came to. Stopping in front, he looped Sky’s reins around the hitching rail a couple times, then stepped inside.
“What will it be, friend?” the bartender asked when he moved down to stand in front of Duff.
“A decent scotch, if such can be had,” Duff replied.
The bartender nodded, stuck a toothpick in his mouth, then turned to pull a bottle down from the wall behind him. He poured a glass and slid it in front of Duff.
Duff lifted it to his nose, took a whiff, then set it back. “This is bourbon, not scotch.”
“What difference does it make?”
“It makes a lot of difference to someone who prefers scotch. You keep this, I’ll have a beer.”
The bartender pulled the cork on the bottle and poured the drink he had put in front of Duff back into the bottle. Then he took down a mug and stepped back to the beer keg.
There was a bar girl standing a few feet down the bar from Duff. Lantern light was kind to her, and her skin glowed soft and golden so that the dissipation of her life didn’t show so badly. She managed to look almost as young as her years.
“You are a foreigner?” she asked, smiling at him.
“Aye, lass. ’Tis from Scotland, I am.”
“Oh, you are Scotch?”
“Nae, lass, scotch is the drink. Scot is the man.”
“Oh, and it’s quite a handsome man that you are, too. And I like the way you talk.”
The bartender put the beer in front of Duff.
“And would ye be serving the young lass?” Duff asked.
“What will it be, Lydia?”
“My usual,” she said as she moved toward Duff. “I thank you for the drink.”
Duff recognized the silver brooch she was wearing—a Lion rampant. He had given it to young Suzie Guthrie for her birthday, back in September. He reached out to touch it.
“Do you like my brooch?” the bar girl asked.
“Aye, and would ye be for tellin’ me how you acquired it?”
“Someone gave it to me a few days ago.”
“Would you take five dollars for it?” he asked.
“Five dollars? You’re willing to give me five dollars for this pin? Why?”
“ ’Tis a Scottish Lion brooch and it reminds me of m’ home.”
“Sure, mister, if it means that much to you. You can have it for five dollars.”
“I thank you, lass.” As soon as he had the brooch in his hand, Duff examined the back of it and saw a mark that he knew was there. It was indeed the same pin.
“You said someone gave it to you. Can you tell me anything about the three men?”
Lydia frowned. “How did you know there were three of them?”
“I’m guessing.”
“Well, you guessed right,” the bartender said. “There was three of ’em. Two of ’em was kind o’ redheaded like maybe they was kin, or somethin’. And their skin was sort of blotchy red. The other fella had him a big nose and dark, evil-lookin’ eyes.”
“Hell, they all had evil-looking eyes, Clyde,” Lydia said. “I don’t know that I ever heard any of their names, though. But that’s not unusual. Most of the men who
come to see me don’t bother to give their names.”
“Their names were Jesse and T. Bob Cave, and Sunset Moss,” Duff said.
“T. Bob, yes,” Lydia said. “Now that you mention it, I did hear one of them called T. Bob. He’s the one who gave me the brooch.”
Duff held the brooch out to look at it again. “The man who gave you this took it from the body of a fourteen-year-old girl he had just raped and murdered.”
“Oh, Lord. You’re talkin’ about the Guthrie family down near Rawhide Buttes, aren’t you?” the bartender asked. “Yes, I read about that in the paper!”
Lydia shuddered, then handed the five-dollar bill back to Duff. “Here. I can’t take money for that. I . . . I can’t believe I even wore it.”
“I don’t suppose you have any idea which way they went from here, do you?” Duff asked.
“No, but I got a good look at their horses as they left,” the bartender said. “One was ridin’ a paint and the other two was on bays.”
“One paint and two bays?” Another man had been standing at the end of the bar and, though he had been listening, this was his first comment.”
“Yes,” the bartender answered.
“Well, hell, mister. I can not only tell you which way they went, I can more’n likely tell you where they went.”
“How so?” Duff asked.
“On account of ’cause I passed three fellas, two of ’ em ridin’ bays and one ridin’ a paint, just this afternoon as I was comin’ into town. Headin’ north they was. If they’re on the run, they’ll more’n likely hole up in Crowley’s Gulch.”
“Crowley’s Gulch?”
“It’s about ten miles north of here. It’s named after an old trapper that built a cabin there. He’s long dead, but the cabin is still there. It’s still sound. Hunters use it ever’ now ’n then. It’d be my guess that’s where they are.”
Duff took out two more five-dollar bills and gave one to the bartender, and one to the man who had just given him the information. Then he returned the bill to Lydia.
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