A Frontier Christmas

by William W. Johnstone

  “No, I told you, I can’t accept that,” Lydia said, holding her hand palm out.

  “You keep it, Lydia,” Duff said. “It’s not for the brooch, ’tis for the information.”

  “Oh.” She smiled. “Well, in that case.”

  Duff started toward the door.

  “Why, you’re not goin’ after ’em now, are you, with full dark comin’ on?” the bartender asked.

  “Aye. I’ve nae intention of letting the miscreant devils escape justice. And I’ll nae be losin’ them because I wouldn’t go out into the dark.”

  “I hope you catch them,” the bartender said.

  “I appreciate your good wishes. And I will catch them,” Duff said as he stepped through the door.

  “You know what I think?” Lydia asked after Duff left the saloon. Without waiting for a response she answered her own question. “I think he must have known the little girl who was wearing that brooch.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised,” the bartender said.

  “I wonder who he is,” said the patron who had provided the information.

  “I don’t know,” the bartender replied. “But I wouldn’t want to have that man after me.”

  “But there are three of them, and only one of him,” Lydia pointed out.

  “Lydia, with a man like that, numbers just don’t count.”

  Although the temperature had been relatively mild when he had left Rawhide Buttes, it had dropped by several degrees, and since leaving Millersburgh, it had turned bitterly cold. Duff pulled the collar up on his wool-lined coat, but he could still feel the biting winter wind that blew in wicked swirls, peppering him with a stinging spray of sand.

  “I know, you’re cold, Sky. We both are, laddie.” Duff had developed the habit of speaking to his horse on long, lonely rides. If anyone asked why he was talking aloud he would explain that it was to reassure the horse. But the truth was there were times when he just wanted to hear a human voice, even if it was his own. And speaking to his horse, he reasoned, was better than talking to himself.

  Snow started falling, not drifting down slowly, but swirling about in the cold, biting wind. As it continued to fall, drifts began to gather on the ground, despite being whipped around by the wind. It was getting increasingly difficult to see.

  “I know you want to stop, Sky, but consider this, lad. It’s just as hard on those raping outlaws we’re following as it is on us. And we’ve the anger in our blood to warm us.”

  After riding for almost three hours, Duff saw the dark block of what he knew must be Crowley’s Gulch in front of him. He considered riding on in, but thought that if the Cave brothers and Moss were there, and he gave himself away, they might be able to escape in the darkness. He decided to wait outside and go in at first light in the morning.

  Looking around, he saw a gully that was deeper than his horse was high, and he led Sky down into it. Taking the canvas wrap from around his bedroll, and using rocks to weight it down, he made a cover to stretch over the top of the gully. It reached back just far enough to cover Sky’s head.

  “Sorry, Sky, this will have to do. I’ll take off the saddle and leave the saddle blanket, but I dast not start a fire, lest it be seen.”

  With such shelter as could be constructed, Duff put his bedroll on the ground, then rolled up in the blankets. His position at the bottom of the gulley kept the wind off, and that made his condition tolerable. He fell into a fitful sleep.

  The morning sun rose in a clear sky, and Duff was awakened by the quiet whicker of his horse. He carried a sack of oats with him on such trips, and filled his hat with the grain, fed Sky, then took a handful for his own breakfast. After that, he saddled him, then let the reins hang down. “You stay here, out of sight. I’ll call for you when I need you.”

  Crawling out of the gully, he started toward the buttes. Though he had seen nothing yet, he could smell smoke and knew it had to be the men he was trailing.

  “You check the horses, Sunset?” Jesse asked after Moss came back into the little cabin. “They coulda got loose last night. I wouldn’t want to be out here on foot.”

  “They didn’t go nowhere.” Moss walked over to the fireplace, then, using his hat as a hot pad, took the coffee from the iron grill over the fire, and poured himself a cup. “Are we leavin’ here today?”

  “No, why should we leave?”

  “You said we’d leave if there come up a good snowstorm. Well, one come up.”

  “Yes, it did,” Jesse said. “And it for sure wiped out our tracks so’s no one could trail us. A week or two with no trail to speak of and things will die down. Then we’ll leave.”

  “We kilt Guthrie ’n his whole family,” T. Bob put in. “There ain’t goin’ to be no calmin’ down.”

  “True, I didn’t mean the folks was goin’ to calm down. What I was talkin’ about was the comin’ after us,” Jesse said. “They lose our trail, they get cold, and the next thing you know they’ll all be wantin’ to go home to have Christmas with their families.”

  “Christmas.” T. Bob punched his left hand with his right. “Damn. I near forgot ’bout that. What do you think we ought to do for Christmas?”

  “What do you want to do? Go to church? Go carolin’? Decorate a Christmas tree?” Jesse asked with a snarl. “I swear, sometimes, T. Bob, you can say the damndest things. Are you sure there wasn’t somebody else that got into Ma’s pants before you was whelped? You sure as hell ain’t got none of Pa in you.”

  “You ought not to say things like that,” T. Bob complained.

  “Why don’t you fry us up some bacon?” Jesse suggested.

  “All right,” T. Bob agreed sullenly.

  “Just bacon? That’s a hell of a breakfast, ain’t it? You know what I’d like? I’d like some bacon and eggs, and maybe a couple o’ biscuits. And some butter and blackberry jam,” Sunset said.

  “We ain’t got none of those things. I reckon if you was in hell, you’d be complainin’ that you was wantin’ ice water,” Jesse said. “I tell you what, Sunset, if you don’t want any bacon, don’t eat it. Me an’ T. Bob will eat your part.”

  “Didn’t say I wasn’t goin’ to eat it. I was just sayin’ what I would like to have.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Unseen by the men in the cabin, Duff had crawled up onto the roof. He took his hat off and put it over the chimney opening, blocking the smoke from escaping. He held it for a moment, then, when he heard coughing coming from inside, he knew he had accomplished his objective.

  Standing, he moved carefully down to the edge of the roof, which was covered with snow—he tried not to slip and slide in the ice—and pulled his pistol.

  The three men came rushing out of the cabin, coughing and wheezing.

  “What the hell caused that?” one of them asked.

  “I caused it,” Duff said.

  Jesse and the others looked up in surprise. “Who are you?”

  “I’m the one who will be taking you three murdering rapists back to Rawhide Buttes to hang.”

  “The hell you are!” Sunset shouted as he pulled his gun and squeezed off a shot. There was a return shot, and Moss fell back with a hole oozing blood in the middle of his forehead.

  “Sunset!” one of the two remaining men shouted.

  “If that was Sunset, then you two must be Jesse and T. Bob Cave. Unfasten your gun belts and drop them.” Duff kept his gun pointed at them.

  “What makes you think we’re goin’ to do that?” Jesse shouted.

  There was another gunshot and the bullet hit the ground right between Jesse’s feet, then ricocheted up between his legs and whined out over the open prairie.

  “Just so you know I didn’t miss, I’ll be for taking out your kneecap with this shot,” Duff said, aiming at Jesse’s knee.

  “No, no!” Jesse dropped his gun and raised his hands. “We give up! We give up!”

  T. Bob dropped his gun as well.

  “That’s more like it.” Duff tossed down two pair of handcuffs. “W
ould you lads be so kind as to put these on, for me?”

  “Who the hell are you, mister?” Jesse said.

  “The name is MacCallister. Duff MacCallister.”

  “Damn! You’re the one kilt all them men down in Chugwater a while back, ain’t you?” T. Bob asked.

  “Aye, but they needed killing.”

  “What’d you come after us for? You ain’t the law. If you are, I sure don’t see no badge.” Jesse squinted up at Duff.

  Duff held up the Scottish Lion brooch. “This is all the badge I need.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s the brooch one of you gave to a woman named Lydia, back in Millersburgh. That is, after you took it off the body of a fourteen year-old girl named Suzie.”

  “That ain’t true,” T. Bob protested.

  Duff raised his rifle and fired. Blood, and tiny bits of flesh flew from T. Bob’s left earlobe.

  “Ow!” T. Bob shouted, lifting his cuffed hands to his ear.

  “I don’t like lying. Next time either one of you lie to me, I’ll take off your entire ear. I know ’tis true, because I’m the one who gave the brooch to the wee lass.”

  Jesse turned to his brother. “What the hell did you do? You gave that brooch to that saloon gal, didn’t you?” he said with an angry growl.

  “How was I supposed to know that someone would recognize it?” T. Bob asked.

  “You’re a damn fool,” Jesse said. “And even though you’re my brother, I wish you was the one he shot instead of Sunset.”

  “And which one would you be?” Duff asked, looking at the man who had just spoken. “Are you Jesse or T. Bob?”

  “Jesse.”

  Duff dropped from the edge of the roof and pointed toward the horses that were under the lean-to. “All right, Jesse, suppose you go saddle those three horses and lead them back over here.”

  “Why do I have to saddle them? Let him do it.” Jesse nodded toward his brother.

  “You’ll do it because you’d rather ride back to Millersburgh than walk back with only one good leg.”

  Jesse glared at Duff, but without any further remarks, he started toward the lean-to.

  Duff whistled. “Sky! Come here, lad!”

  Sky came trotting up from the gulley, and Duff mounted, then waited.

  Jesse brought the three saddled horses back, and Duff ordered him and T. Bob to drape Moss’s body belly down over his horse. After they mounted, he took two ropes and looped them around their necks.

  “Hey, what if we fall off?” T. Bob complained. “We could break our necks.”

  “Aye, ’tis more than likely that would be the case,” Duff said. “I’d suggest ye be real careful.”

  Rawhide Buttes

  There were very few citizens in the town of Rawhide Buttes who were even aware that Duff had been in pursuit of the murderers, so when he showed up with two riders in front of him, both of them secured by ropes around their necks, and a third man, belly down over a horse, the townspeople were surprised. Even before Duff reached the jail with his quarry, word spread that the ones who’d murdered the Guthrie family had been caught and were being brought in. The result was that nearly half the town turned out to watch.

  “You’re goin’ to hang!” someone shouted.

  “Let’s hang ’em now! We don’t need no trial!” another called out.

  Marshal Worley and Deputy Masters stepped out of the jail, each of them holding double-barreled shotguns.

  “There’ll be no talk of lynchin’ in my town!” Worley said resolutely. “We’re goin’ to hang these two galoots, but we’re goin’ to do it legal.”

  Duff went down to the stable where he boarded Sky and the other three horses.

  “I recognize these here horses,” the stable owner said, pointing to the horses the rustlers had been riding. “They belong to, that is, they did belong to John Guthrie. I don’t know what to do with ’em now.”

  “I expect Mayor Guthrie will call for them,” Duff said.

  “All right, I’ll keep ’em for him.”

  “’Tis a good man you are.” Duff shook the man’s hand.

  Leaving the stable, Duff walked down the street to the first saloon he saw. There he saw four cowhands sitting together at one of the tables and another customer standing at the bar, staring at the mug of beer in front of him.

  A bar girl smiled and walked over to stand beside him. “Hi. Welcome to the Cowbell Saloon.”

  “I thank you for the welcome, lass. Bartender, a drink for the young lady, and a scotch for myself.”

  “No.” The girl looked toward the bartender. “I’ll pay for my own drink and for his.”

  Duff laughed at her. “Sure ’n you’ve got me confused now, lass. I thought the idea was for the customer to buy you a drink.”

  “And if he has a second drink, I’ll buy it,” called one of the cowboys sitting at the table.

  “What is this?” the bartender asked. “What’s going on here? Why is everyone so anxious to buy this man a drink?”

  “Maybe you didn’t see, you bein’ inside ’n all,” another of the cowboys said. “But this here fella just brought in Jesse and T. Bob Cave. They’re the men that killed John Guthrie and his family. He brought in Sunset Moss, too, but he was dead.”

  The bartender smiled. “Then nobody needs to pay for his drinks. They’re on the house.”

  Wally Jacobs was standing at the bar, but when he heard the names, he looked closely at Duff. Then he tossed down his drink and left.

  He mounted his horse and rode slowly until he got out of town, then he broke into a gallop. Galloping, walking, and trotting his horse, he covered the nineteen miles to Sidewinder Gorge in less than two hours.

  As Jacobs approached the canyon entrance, he stopped, dismounted, and stood with his arms extended out to each side.

  Fifteen minutes later, he was in what was serving as a saloon for the outlaw haven. He walked up to Max Dingo. “You said you was lookin’ for some more men. Well, I know where we can get a couple more.”

  “What kind of men are they?” Dingo asked. “I ain’t lookin’ for just anyone.” He was eating his supper of bacon and beans. As a result, his beard was matted with bean juice and grease.

  “They’re good men, Max. I wouldn’t come pitch ’em to you if they wasn’t good men. They’re both my cousins, ’n I rode with ’em a while down in Colorado.”

  “All right,” Dingo said. “Bring ’em in.”

  “Well, uh, it ain’t exactly goin’ to be that easy to bring ’ em in.”

  “What do you mean? You mean you’re goin’ to have to talk ’em into it? Hell, if you have to do that, I ain’t interested in ’em.”

  “No, it ain’t that. They’re in jail, ’n they’re about to get tried, then more ’n likely, they’ll be hung.”

  “You said they’re your cousins. What’s their names, ’n what did they do?”

  “There names is Jesse ’n T. Bob Cave. And what they done is, they kilt some people,” Jacobs said without further elaboration.

  “The Cave brothers? Wait a minute, I heard about them. They’re the one that killed that rancher ’n his family, ain’t they?”

  “Yes.”

  Dingo laughed. “I’ll be damned. Yeah, I’d say they more ’n likely will be hung. All right, if they’re the kind of men who would do somethin’ like that, then they’d more ’n likely be willin’ to do about anything I asked of ’em. Also, they’ll be glad enough to be free that they’ll feel obligated. You think you can bust ’em out of jail?”

  “Yes. I’ll need two more horses, is all.”

  “All right. When you goin’ to do it?”

  “I’ll need a couple days to plan things out. The trial’s on Monday, and I want to get back for it.”

  Rocky Mountain Hotel

  Ralph Walters should have gone to the doctor when the symptoms first started. It was too late now. He could barely breathe, and he was too weak to even get out of bed. A few minutes earlier, he had called o
ut for help, or at least, had tried to call out, but the only sound that came from his throat was a weak gurgling.

  Was he dying? He recalled a conversation he once had with his grandfather. That had been almost fifty years ago.

  “Grandpa, what happens when people die?”

  “You quit breathing.”

  “Does it hurt when you are dead?”

  His grandpa tapped on the arm of the rocking chair he was sitting in. “Do you think this chair hurts because I’m hitting it?”

  Ralph laughed. “That’s funny. Chairs can’t hurt.”

  “Neither can dead people.”

  He had been too young to ask the right questions of his grandfather. What he really wanted to know, but didn’t know how to ask, was what happened to a person after they died? At the time of the conversation, he wasn’t aware of the concept of a soul. What happened to the soul? He still didn’t know the answer, but he was reasonably certain that he was about to find out.

  Oddly, he felt no fear, just a sense of wonder and intense curiosity.

  You’ve been dead a long time, Grandpa, but after you’re dead I don’t reckon time means anything. When you see me, it’ll be like you just saw me. Only, I’ve sure changed since the last time you saw me, so you more ’n likely you won’t even recognize me now.

  Rawhide Buttes

  Duff had remained in town for the trial. After a meal at the City Pig Restaurant, he wandered down to the Lucky Star Saloon. He wasn’t there to drink; he was there for the trial. Before noon, charges had been filed against the Cave brothers, and by one o’clock, the Lucky Star was about to be turned into a courtroom, having been chosen because of convenience.

  “All right, folks, the bar is closed!” the bartender shouted. “No more liquor can be sold till after the trial!”

  Because the bar was closed and the trial was open to the public, many women who had never seen the inside of a saloon went inside to see justice be done.

  They had the right to vote, and for a while, they’d also had the right to serve on juries. Although women could still vote, a panel of judges had taken away their right to serve on juries. The fact that they could no longer serve on juries did not lessen their interest in seeing that justice be done, however, especially in a case where a particularly heinous crime had been committed against people that they all knew.