A Frontier Christmas

by William W. Johnstone

  Rodale walked over to the table to pick up the brooch. Bringing it back, he showed it to Jesse.

  “Have you ever seen this before?”

  “Yeah, the little girl used to wear it all the time.”

  “The witness”—Rodale returned to the prosecutor’s table and referred to his notes—“Miss Wood, says that your brother gave the brooch to her. Is that true?”

  Jesse nodded. “Yeah, that’s true.”

  “How did he get it?”

  “Why don’t you ask him?”

  Rodale surrendered his witness to Tadlock, whose attempt to cross-examine went nowhere as Jesse stuck by his claim that they had found the bodies, then ran when they thought they would be blamed for it.

  T. Bob also took the stand.

  “Did you take the brooch from the little girl?” Rodale asked.

  “Yeah, I took it. But she was already dead when I took it.”

  “Why did you take it?”

  “She was nice little girl. I wanted somethin’ to remember her by.”

  “No further questions, Your Honor.” Rodale sat down.

  Tadlock began his questioning. “Mr. Cave, if you took the brooch to have something to remember her by, why did you give it away—to Miss Wood—within a matter of only a few days?”

  “I got to thinkin’ that this is a woman’s thing, you know? It was embarrassin’ to me to keep it, and that’s why I give it away.”

  T. Bob Cave was the last witness, after which the two lawyers gave their closing statements, and the case was remanded to the jury.

  Over in another part of town, at the Rocky Mountain Hotel, Hodge Doolin, the desk clerk, was looking at his registration book. “Mike, when is the last time you seen Mr. Walters?”

  “I don’t know. Three, maybe four days ago,” Mike replied. “He said he wasn’t feeling well and I asked if he wanted us to call a doctor for him, but he said no. Why?”

  “Well, he paid for several days in advance, but his time is all used up. If he wants to stay any longer, he needs to come down here and either make arrangements to stay longer, or check out.”

  “You want me to check on him?”

  “No, not yet,” Doolin said. “He’s been a good customer, paid in advance, and he hasn’t given us any trouble. Let’s give him time to come down on his own. I don’t want him to feel like we’re rushing him.”

  “All right. I wonder how the trial is going? I wish I could have been there for it.”

  “No need to be there,” Doolin replied. “I can tell you exactly how it’s going.”

  “Oh?”

  “They’re going to find both of them guilty, and they’re going to hang. Hell, I don’t know if you’ve seen it, but they already have the scaffold built.”

  “Who hasn’t seen it?” Mike replied. “It’s standing right out there in front of God and everyone. You think they’ll hang ’em before Christmas?”

  “I hope so. They took Christmas away from John Guthrie and his family, didn’t they?”

  When the jury left the room Wally Jacobs returned to the bar. “Can we buy somethin’ to drink now that the jury’s gone?”

  “Marshal Worley and Deputy Masters says we can’t,” the bartender replied.

  “How long you reckon the jury will be out?” Jim Merrick asked.

  “Hell, Jim, you was one of the witnesses in the trial, you ought to know as well as anyone. If you was on the jury, how long would it take you to decide they’re guilty?” the bartender asked.

  “About five seconds.”

  “I don’t expect it’ll take any of ’em much longer than that. I don’t see ’em as bein’ out all that long.”

  The bartender’s prediction was accurate. The jury deliberated for less than fifteen minutes, then sent word that they had reached a verdict, thus causing the court to be reconvened.

  After taking his seat at the “bench,” Judge Kirkpatrick took a swallow of something that looked quite a bit like whiskey, adjusted the glasses on the end of his nose, and cleared his throat. “Would the bailiff please bring the prisoners before the bench?”

  The bailiff, who was leaning against the bar with his arms folded across his chest, spit a quid of tobacco into the brass spittoon, then leaned over toward the two Cave brothers. “You two get up, and go stand there in front of the judge.”

  The two men approached the bench.

  “Mr. Foreman of the jury, I am informed that you have reached a verdict. Is that correct?” the judge asked.

  “That is correct, Your Honor, we have reached a verdict.”

  “Would you publish that verdict, please?”

  “Your Honor, we have found these two sorry, miserable excuses for men guilty,” the foreman said.

  “You couldn’t ’a done nothin’ but find ’em guilty,” someone shouted from the gallery.

  The judge banged his gavel on the table. “Order!” he called. “I will have order in my court.” He looked over at the foreman. “So say you all?”

  “So say we all,” the foreman replied.

  The judge took off his glasses and began polishing them as he studied the two men who were standing before him. “T. Bob and Jesse Cave, you two men have been tried by a jury of your peers—”

  “Peers hell! They ain’t nothin’ but a bunch of drunks you rounded up from the saloon,” Jesse shouted.

  “And you have been found guilty of the crime of murdering John Guthrie, his wife, Nora, his son Timothy, and his daughter, Suzie,” the judge said, paying no attention to Jesse’s outburst. “Before this court passes sentence, have you anything to say?”

  “Yeah,” Jesse replied with a snarl. “We kilt ’em. And we raped the women. The little girl was just real good.”

  “They’re evil!” Merrick shouted. “Hang ’em, Judge!”

  Judge Kirkpatrick pounded his gavel again and kept pounding it until, finally, order was restored. “Oh, I intend to, Mr. Merrick. Yes, sir, I intend to.” He glared at the two men for a long moment, then he cleared his throat.

  “T. Bob Cave and Jesse Cave, it is the sentence of this court that on the seventeenth of this month, the two of you are to be hanged by your neck until you have breathed your last.”

  “Hoorah!” someone in the audience shouted, and again, Judge Kirkpatrick used his gavel to call for order.

  “Now would be a good time for you two men to make peace with your Creator,” Kirkpatrick said. “Do either of you wish to speak?”

  “We’re condemned men, right, Judge?” T. Bob asked.

  “You are.”

  “Then I was thinkin’, maybe since we’re condemned ’n all, you would take some pity on us, and buy us a drink.”

  Some in the gallery laughed out loud at T. Bob’s comment.

  “Bartender?”

  “Yes, Your Honor?”

  “Bring these two men a drink of their choice. Then, you may open the bar again.”

  “Yes, sir, Your Honor.”

  “Whiskey!” Jesse called out.

  Jacobs joined several others at the bar and bought a beer. Standing at the far end, he drank his beer and stared at the two prisoners until one of them happened to notice him. He held his beer out toward Jesse Cave, then nodded almost imperceptibly.

  With just the suggestion of a smile, Jesse returned the nod.

  After he and his brother had their drink, the sheriff and his deputy marched them out of the saloon.

  “I’ll be there come the day of the hangin’,” someone shouted. “And I’ll watch you both die!”

  “Me too!” another put in.

  Jesse glared at the men, but said nothing.

  “Guilty! They found both of them guilty ’n they’re goin’ to hang ’em on Wednesday!” a man said, coming into the hotel a few minutes later.

  “Hello, Crader,” Doolin said. “I was hoping they would be hung before Christmas.”

  “I plan to be there, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, to watch both of ’em hang,” Crader said.

  Jim Merrick an
d few others followed Crader into the hotel, and all of them started talking about the upcoming hanging. A few minutes later, Judge Kirkpatrick came in to the hotel, and those who were in the lobby rushed over to congratulate him.

  “No need to congratulate me, boys. I just did my job,” the judge said. He stepped up to the check-in desk. “I’ve set the seventeenth as the date for the hanging, so I shall require accommodations until then.”

  “Yes, sir, Judge,” Doolin said, checking him in.

  “Judge, after you get checked in, come on into the hotel bar and let us buy you a drink,” Jim suggested.

  “Yeah,” Crader said. “We’ll toast you good and proper.”

  “Well, I appreciate that, boys.” Kirkpatrick signed in, then went into the hotel bar and restaurant, which was just off the lobby.

  “I’ve never seen so many people takin’ on so about some folks that’s goin’ to get hung,” Mike said. “I wonder how many of ’em have ever actually seen someone hung.”

  “Have you?” Doolin asked.

  “Yeah, I seen one once. And it wasn’t somethin’ I’m in a hurry to see again.”

  Across town, Dan Hastings, who owned the Rawhide Wagon Freight Company, was having supper with his wife Amelia and their nine-year-old daughter Laura.

  “They’re goin’ to hang ’em both,” he said. “They’ve already got the scaffold built. They didn’t testify at the trial exactly what they did to Mrs. Guthrie and her daughter, but Jim Merrick told me personally that—”

  “Dan!” Rose said sharply.

  “What?”

  Rose nodded toward Laura.

  “Oh. Oh, yeah. All right. I’ll tell you later.”

  “Laura is going to be an angel in the Christmas play at school,” Rose said.

  Dan smiled at his daughter. “Why, you don’t need a play to make you an angel. You are already my angel.”

  Laura smiled right back.

  “Honey, you haven’t eaten any of your supper,” Rose said.

  “I’m not very hungry, Mama,” Laura said.

  “But you need to eat something. You have to keep your strength up if you are going to be in the school play.”

  “It hurts when I eat.”

  Rose frowned. “What do you mean, it hurts when you eat?”

  “My throat hurts when I chew.”

  “Well, at least eat some mashed potatoes. You don’t have to chew mashed potatoes.”

  “I’m not hungry,” Laura complained.

  “Try. If you’ll just eat the mashed potatoes, we’ll go to Miss Ensor’s dress shop tomorrow, and buy a dress for you to wear in the play.”

  “All right,” Laura said.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Chugwater

  Meagan sat in the living room of the apartment over her dress shop, drinking coffee as she looked out over First Street. Since returning home, she had been gathering up the dresses she intended to take back to Rawhide Buttes tomorrow to help Cora get ready for Christmas.

  Normally, Christmas was a happy season. The women who came in to buy dresses for themselves and their daughters were always excited. The town of Chugwater had planned to go all out to celebrate. Christmas of 1890 would be the first Christmas since Wyoming became a state, so there were special celebrations scheduled.

  But, in light of what had happened to the mayor’s family, the question was, would the celebrations go on? R.W. insisted that they would, and even suggested that it would help him and his wife recover from the terrible tragedy that had struck them. But how, Meagan wondered, could someone recover from that?

  She took another swallow of her coffee, enjoying the bracing richness of it, lightened with cream and sweetened with sugar, and thought about Duff. Where was he? Somewhere warm and dry? More important, was he somewhere safe?

  She had never met anyone like him. Despite his obvious refinement, no cowboy, miner, or mountain man she had ever known was more masculine. Duff was the first to say that he wasn’t lightning fast on the draw, but she had seen him make impossible shots, including one that saved her life. An outlaw had been holding her in front of him with a gun pointed to her head, but had made the mistake of barely peeking around her. Meagan heard the whiz of the bullet in flight, and the sound of it striking flesh. Duff had not given a second thought to taking the shot, nor had she been surprised by it.

  He was also a humanitarian. She had seen him perform deeds of great compassion in the relatively short time she had known him. She thought of the words of consolation he had given R.W. and Martha, bringing them comfort with the thought that they had to but think of John and his family, and they would actually be reliving that moment.

  However, that same man who could be so commiserative when required had set out in pursuit of the men who had murdered the mayor’s family. And when he found them, he would show them little pity. But even that, Meagan realized, was an act of kindness for his friend R. W.

  Would she and Duff ever get married, she wondered? She wanted very much for that to happen and hoped that someday it would. But in order for that to happen, he would have to ask her. If he had one failing, it might be that he was unable to discern how deeply she actually felt about him.

  She decided then and there if he didn’t ask her, she would ask him. The worst that could happen would be that he would turn her down. If he did, it would at least keep her from wasting any more time on a relationship that wasn’t going anywhere.

  She finished her coffee, then turned away from the window and realized she had drunk coffee just before going to bed. She grimaced. “That’s not the smartest thing I’ve ever done.”

  She needn’t have worried. She was asleep within ten minutes of pulling up the covers and her head hitting the pillow.

  On his way back to Chugwater, Duff didn’t go by road, but by following the south fork of Antelope Creek. It was dark, and it had gotten much colder.

  “Sky, lad, we have been in for some cold rides lately, haven’t we?” Duff said, leaning down to pat his horse on its neck. Ahead of him, appearing as if it were an apparition in the gathering gloom, he saw someone coming toward him.

  Duff smiled when he recognized him. “Sky, ’tis none other than Elmer Gleason. But what is he doing out here on such a cold night as this?”

  He asked his foreman that same question as the two riders closed on each other.

  “I knew you’d follow the creek back, seein’ as it’s shorter than the road, and I thought you might appreciate some hot coffee on a night like this,” Elmer said.

  “Och, ’tis a good lad ye be, Elmer, ’n I’ll fight any man who says otherwise.”

  Elmer opened a canvas bag, then began pulling out folds of wool until he reached a bottle, which was wrapped round with burlap. He handed the bottle to Duff, who pulled the cork and was rewarded with a curl of aromatic vapor. Holding it under his nose, he could feel the warmth of it.

  “Elmer, ’tis a genius ye are. A pure and unadulterated genius.” He took a swallow of the coffee, then smiled again as he tasted something that was welcome and familiar. “And would that be a bit o’ Mackinlay’s that you’ve added for flavoring?”

  “You tell me, Duff. Is there any finer scotch than Mackinlay’s?”

  “None indeed,” Duff replied, taking another swallow.

  “Do you plan to share any of that? Or will you be drinkin’ it all like the cheap Scotsman you are?” Elmer asked.

  “Have a good long pull at it,” Duff said, passing the bottle back to Elmer.

  Elmer turned the bottle up, drank from it, then handed it back. “We’d best be gettin’ on unless you want to stay out here ’n freeze to death.”

  “Aye, being warm in m’ own house ’tis something I’ve been looking forward to for the whole day.”

  Upon their arrival at Sky Meadow, a couple of Duff’s cowboys came out to meet them. Woodward took hold of Sky, and MacDougal grabbed Elmer’s horse.

  “You two go on inside and get warm,” Woodward said. “We’ll take care of your
mounts.”

  “’Tis much obliged I am to ye, Mr. Woodward,” Duff said. “I wonder if it’s too much to hope for that the Mrs. Sterling has supper ready.”

  Woodward smiled. “She cooked a big haunch of beef today. Me ’n the others have done et some of it, and I can tell you, it’s damn good.”

  “Elmer, would ye be joining me for supper, lad?”

  “I’d be mighty pleased to do so,” Elmer said as they walked to the house.

  “Mr. MacCallister, it is good to have you home, sir,” his cook said. The house was redolent with the aroma of roasted beef.

  “Believe me, Mrs. Sterling, it is good to be home.”

  Unaware that Duff had returned home the night before, Meagan left for Rawhide Buttes the next morning. It was her second trip from Chugwater in as many weeks. By stagecoach, it took just over five hours, but because she was one of only three passengers, the trip was more comfortable than it would have been had the coach been full. She sat next to the window in the rear seat, warmly wrapped in a blanket supplied by the coach company.

  Rawhide Buttes

  She looked out as the coach rolled into town. GROCERIES AND PROVISIONS, advertised a sign on the first building the coach passed. Next came a hotel, a saloon, an apothecary, another saloon, a leather goods store, and another saloon. The next thing she saw gave her a start. It was a gallows. An announcement was nailed to a post.

  At Nine A.M. on December 17,

  JESSE and T. BOB CAVE,

  the murderers

  of John, Nora, Timothy, and Susan Guthrie,

  will be legally hanged on these gallows.

  The public is invited.

  “Duff got them,” she whispered.

  “I beg your pardon, dear?” asked the other woman in the coach.

  Meagan shook her head. “Nothing. I was just thinking aloud, is all.”

  The coach stopped at the stagecoach depot.

  “Here we are, folks, all safe and sound!” the driver called as he climbed down and opened the door. “Miss Parker, you sure do have a lot of luggage. You want it all delivered to the hotel?”