by Gary Church
Cal’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. “Cookie, use two sets of manacles on him. See everybody in the morning.” With that, Christie strode off.
It was a somber group after that. The night watch saddled fresh horses and went to work. Everyone else talked quietly.
Cal’s mind worked furiously. How was it possible Christie saw him? He had looked carefully. Damn, the man must have been behind the wagon. He thought as hard as his panicky mind would allow. He just didn’t see a way out. Nobody would come unless, wait—if he could fire off the flare, Tex and the gang would come riding in. Sure, they’d expect everyone to be dead, but once they found out what had happened, they would understand he had no choice. How to get the flare? The thing was in his saddlebag. He could see his saddle and the bags not forty feet from where he sat, manacled to the wagon wheel.
Christie appeared in the night. Cal’s wrists were raw from his struggling. He had tried to convince himself that they wouldn’t hang him, but he knew better. Christie didn’t fool around.
Christie squatted down, staring at Cal. “What kind of man would poison a bunch of men just trying to make a living?” he asked.
Cal stared at him, silent. Finally, Christie said, “Make no mistake, Cal. I aim to hang you first thing in the morning and then get on with the business of driving this herd to market. I have no sympathy for you, and in my opinion, the world will be better off without you in it. That said, I’m a man of my word, and I’d like to have a word with your partners. So, start talking. I want to hear everything you know, and if I decide you’re telling me the truth, and all of it, I’ll haul your sorry carcass, alive and well, back to San Antonio and turn you over to the law. Now, that would be a major inconvenience for me, but worth it if I get an opportunity to meet your cohorts.”
“My what?” asked Cal.
Christie sighed. “Your gang.”
“I got nothing to say,” responded Cal.
The sun was just breaking over the horizon, the rope was over his neck, and Cal broke. He began to gasp for air. “Please, I’ll tell you,” his voice breaking. He began to make whimpering sounds.
The cowboys, all standing and watching, were filled with a mix of hatred, disgust, fear, loathing, and anticipation of what was to come. Some had seen men hanged, most had not. Some had been in the war, some had not. Nobody had liked Cal, and the fact they had all come close to death terrified them, but seeing a grown man breaking down was difficult to watch.
THIRTY-TWO
After Cal agreed to talk, Johnny ordered everybody to their posts, and soon the herd was moving, working its way north, just two weeks from the stockyards and railhead at Abilene. Johnny, Christie, and Cal sat in the back of the hoodlum wagon as it jolted along. Cal assured them the gang wouldn’t get close enough to see them talking, but Christie thought they should exercise caution. Cal talked. Johnny and John Christie listened, asking occasional questions. Cal told them that last night was the first night he was supposed to try, and if he didn’t have a clear chance, he was to try each night thereafter until he was successful. The others were camping some five or six miles away. When everyone was dead, he was to shoot off the flare, and the other six men would ride in.
Cal explained that Tex, the leader, would become John Christie, and Arizona, a gunfighter from Missouri, would become Johnny Black, trail boss. The story and the plan were chilling. Johnny thought of how close they had all come to dying.
After dinner, Christie called a meeting and explained what they were to do. “There’s some risk,” he said, “so if you don’t want to participate, I will not hold it against you.”
To a man, nobody spoke, nobody moved. Christie continued. “Jack will ride in the chuckwagon and see to Leo. The rest of you will carry on as usual, but after an hour, move outside the light. Take your rifles. It’ll appear everybody went out there to puke and died.” He waited. No one spoke. No one moved. Christie continued. “If Cal tries to warn them or run, shoot him. These fellows aimed to kill us with poison, so I don’t expect to give no quarter. That said, I’ll give fair warning. Soon as that’s done, if they don’t comply, kill them. Stay low and shoot high so as not to hit each other. Any questions?”
Everyone took their positions as though they were in a play. Cal, wearing his gun, but with the bullets removed, shot the flare into the night sky, where it raced high and bright against the dark, before curving downward and fading out.
Cal stood by the fire as the six men rode in, split into two groups. Tex and Arizona rode a bit behind the others, just in case. As they walked their horses into the camp, the men were all looking around. Cal stood there, a grin on his face.
“Where are they?” asked Tex. Cal waved toward the night. “Any problems?” asked Tex.
John Christie and Johnny Black stepped away from opposite sides of the chuckwagon, pistols held at the ready. “You could say that,” said Christie. “You lowlifes are covered by a dozen guns. You’re all under arrest for attempted murder. Ease them hog legs out slow and drop ’em on the ground.”
There was a moment, just a moment, when it appeared it would all go according to plan, but Johnny Black and John Christie knew things rarely went according to plan.
Arizona pulled his gun and fired so fast it was just a blur. His first shot hit John Christie in the right thigh. His second shot hit John Christie in the right thigh, four inches above the first shot. His third shot went six feet over John Christie’s head, because Arizona was falling backwards after being shot in the center of his chest by Johnny Black.
Johnny’s second shot hit Tex, who had cleared leather, but hadn’t had time to raise his revolver. The round tore through Tex’s stomach. His eyes went wide, and his horse jumped forward before breaking into a full run.
The remaining four men and two of the horses were hit by a hail of bullets, as the cowboys let loose. Cal was spared a trial and prison. Cut down by the gunfire and riddled with bullet holes, he lay in a spreading pool of blood. It wasn’t known who shot him, and nobody asked.
As the smoke cleared, and the dead men were carried to a central location away from the campsite, Johnny paused over the horses. Two had been wounded by the gunfire and had to be killed.
John Christie was being tended to by Herbert, and it appeared he would live. Hopefully, infection wouldn’t take his leg. Johnny had packed the mixture of carbolic acid and linseed oil that was used to fight infection. He had come to have faith in it after being introduced to it by his friend, Jake, a Harvard-trained doctor. Johnny had explained it to Herbert, who didn’t seem convinced, but if the trail boss said to use it, who was he to argue? Christie would have to ride in the chuckwagon with Cookie the rest of the way to Abilene.
The shooting hadn’t started a stampede, but it had scattered the longhorns.
There was no regular breakfast, just coffee and bacon on the go, as Johnny assigned some men to dig graves, and others to get the herd moving away from the death scene.
It was a thankful crew that pushed forward. They had escaped certain death this time, only by the grace of God, or luck, or destiny. No matter, thought Johnny. That was a close call. Maybe there were a lot of close calls, but we just didn’t know it. Glad we knew about this one. It was a sobering thought.
Leo was still alive and feeling better. He would be weak for another two days, but he would live to tell his tale.
***
The plains were flat, the grass and water plentiful. The cattle were moving twelve to fifteen miles each day, a pace that let them fatten, but one that kept the drive on schedule. John Christie felt every jolt of the wagon in his wounded leg, but he insisted on sitting on the wagon seat beside Herbert. It was a gamble, trail driving. A good plan, good men, and good luck were all necessary. He had to keep the herd moving—not too fast and not too slow. He had some control over the pace, but he had none over the weather, outlaws, and just plain bad luck.
THIRTY-THREE
Abilene, Kansas
The members of the drive
met at the chuckwagon. John Christie, leaning on a cane, spoke a few words, thanking the cowboys and Herbert for the meals and medical attention. He gave a special thanks to Leo, and a promotion to “cowboys” for both of the waddies—Leo and Jack, which brought some shouts. He hesitated, waiting for the noise to quieten, then took off his hat for a moment and bowed his head in remembrance of Noah, the man who died on the trip.
Replacing his hat on his head, Christie said, “One more thing. I reckon most of you have heard of Wild Bill Hickok. He’s the marshal here in Abilene. I don’t know the man except by reputation, and well, I wouldn’t brace him. Better to go to the hoosegow for a spell.”
This caused some of the men to look at each other, a few nodding in agreement or astonishment. Christie eased over to the cook’s table to sit, leaning his cane against the table. Johnny brought the money to him. The cowboys lined up, and Christie paid each man and shook his hand. Christie paid every man by his contract and added one hundred dollars as a bonus. He was very popular that day. A buyer told Christie the markets in the North and East were showing signs of softening, but his cattle were carrying a good bit of weight, and he got twenty-five dollars a head. He sold two thousand nine hundred ninety-two beeves and eighty horses. Most of the money was deposited directly into a bank.
Most of the cowboys had one thought—get into town as soon as possible for alcohol, gambling, and women. Abilene afforded them plenty of opportunity to pursue all three.
After a few days of rest, John Christie was going to travel back with Herbert and the chuckwagon. Jack and Leo were hired to drive the hoodlum wagon, and two of Christie’s regular hands would follow. Johnny Black was anxious to return home to Rosalinda, and Jace was beside himself in his haste to return to San Antonio to try and win back Elizabeth. B.R. decided he didn’t need to be anywhere, but he would ride back with Jace.
Two days after the accounts were settled, Johnny said goodbye to John Christie. Then, he, Jace, and B.R., each with a spare horse, rode for San Antonio—a month of hard riding and rough living ahead of them.
***
Herbert drove the chuckwagon, Leo and Jack drove the hoodlum wagon, and two cowboys followed along. There were four horses tied to the hoodlum wagon, and Christie rode with Herbert, the cook’s double-barreled shotgun beside them. Highwaymen weren’t unheard of, and all hands were armed and watchful.
However, other than the river crossings and some bad weather, the trip back through Kansas, Oklahoma, and North Texas was uneventful and almost pleasant. Herbert was enjoying a break, not having to cook for twenty people. Leo and Jack were having a chance to talk and watch the countryside, and the cowboys were elated to be getting paid without having to chase longhorns.
As they traveled, Christie’s leg healed and felt better, but he was growing impatient. After they moved south of Fort Worth, Christie decided he couldn’t suffer the slow pace all the way to San Antonio, so he told Herbert he was going to take the Ficklin stage at Waco.
THIRTY-FOUR
Waco
A week later, Christie, with the help of his cane, walked outside to board the stage. He waited politely as two women boarded, then he hoisted himself up and into the coach. It was empty except for the two women, who had sat side by side. He took a seat across from them, touched his hat, and said, “Ladies.”
They smiled, and Christie turned his thoughts to getting home to his farm and ranch operation in San Antonio. Later he dozed, the rumbling bouncing rhythm of the stage relaxing him. As he moved in and out of sleep, he heard the women talking quietly, but their words didn’t register with him. He awoke with a start when the stagecoach stopped for a break. The driver came to the door to help the passengers, and as the first woman stood, her dress filled the small cabin. Christie wasn’t one to take notice of women’s clothing, but he noted the large bow adorning the huge bustle on the back of the woman’s dress. Dismounting the coach, she almost knocked off her large hat.
As the second woman stood and eased to the door, Christie noticed the contrast. She was dressed less elaborately than the first woman, her skirt narrower, with a close-fitting waist, and a small bow at the neck. Her hat was smaller, with a single small ribbon tied about it. But it was the woman herself who caught his attention. She was not far from his age, he guessed, although he knew better than to ask about a woman’s age. She was a handsome woman, he thought. He hadn’t paid any notice to women since the death of his wife of nearly thirty years some five years before. It was odd. He was old, and he had never given any thought to ever looking at another woman. He struggled to his feet, climbed down, and stretched his legs.
The stagecoach once again banging and bouncing down the trail, Christie sat in the silence, hoping the women wouldn’t speak to him. Then, the lady in the big hat said, “Hello, sir. I’m Harriet Johnson, en route to Georgetown, where I live with my husband. I’ve been in Waco, visiting my sister.” She sat, looking at Christie, anticipating his response.
“Name’s Christie. Pleased to meet you.”
Christie’s muted response caused the second woman to quickly push her gloved fist into her mouth to stifle a laugh. Harriet did not see it—she was still staring at Christie. The second woman, gaining control, said, “I’m Luella Hamilton. I am traveling to Austin.” She hesitated, then added, “I was raised in Austin, but I have lived these many years in Baltimore with my husband. He was stationed at Fort McHenry when he retired, and our children made homes close by, so we stayed.” She paused, then said, “I’ve always had a desire to return home, at least for a while, so here I am.”
Christie nodded, but Harriet frowned. “My, that’s a long way to travel alone.”
Nosey, thought Christie.
Luella responded. “Yes, it is, but my husband passed two years ago this month, and my children all have careers in the Baltimore and Washington area.”
Harriett said, “Oh, I am so sorry about your husband…” She let the words hang.
“Heart failure is what the doctor decided. My husband was eating his breakfast when he suddenly grabbed his chest, gasped, went limp, and died, before I could even summon help.”
Harriett, hanging on every word, sat with her mouth open. Christie decided to help.
“I’m a widower myself. It’s an unfortunate thing, late in life, to find yourself alone, but we must all carry on. I notice the weather’s fine.”
The force in Christie’s voice, and his change of subject wasn’t lost on Harriett, who smiled a thin smile, shut her mouth, and turned to look out the window. Luella smiled at Christie, and he returned the smile. Conspirators.
They bade Harriett goodbye in Georgetown, and finding themselves alone on the trip to Austin, they chatted. Christie found Luella easy to talk to, and he was surprised when they heard the driver announce they were in Austin. He had been in a terrible hurry to get home, but he heard himself say, “Would you consider dining with me this evening? I know of several restaurants that prepare a fine meal.”
Luella studied his face for a moment, then she said, “If you will call on me at my hotel at seven, I would be delighted.”
Christie and Luella enjoyed a fine dinner of seafood with wine and continued their conversation. Christie hadn’t talked so much since his wife’s death, and he found that Luella remained loyal to her deceased husband, having only good things to say about him. In fact, for both of them, the main subject was their deceased spouses. He also enjoyed her zest for life. She seemed to be enjoying herself, but for the life of him, Christie couldn’t understand why. He was a worn-out, old rancher with little to offer a woman.
Arriving back at Luella’s hotel, she thanked him for the dinner and conversation and told him how much she enjoyed herself, and then she smiled. Christie had planned to take the next stage to San Antonio, but he heard himself, once again, speaking without thinking. “I thought I might stay in Austin for a few days, to see to some business while I’m here. Perhaps we could have dinner again tomorrow night?”
Her face
lit up and Luella said, “John, I would enjoy that, but I don’t want to put you out.”
“It would be my pleasure,” he responded. “Would seven o’clock be all right?”
Christie ended up staying three days and then told Luella he would be returning to take care of some additional business in a couple of weeks. She said she hoped he would call on her. They parted ways, two people in their sixties, beaming like youngsters in the early throes of love.
THIRTY-FIVE
Johnny, Jace, and B.R. arrived in San Antonio one morning during the first week of July 1871, having left their last campsite at daybreak. They were tired, dirty, unshaven, sore, and stiff from sleeping on the ground, but excited to be home. They rode to a stable, fed and watered the horses, and then said their goodbyes. Each man lost in his own thoughts, they shook hands and went their separate ways.
John Christie had told B.R. and Jace they had a job if they wanted it. Jace told B.R. he’d join him in a few days, but he had to see Elizabeth first. He headed to find a room and have a bath and haircut before looking for some new clothes.
B.R. rode his mount, with his extra horse on a lead behind, out to the Circle C, John Christie’s ranch. Although Christie wouldn’t be back for a while—the wagons moved much slower than a man on horseback—Christie had told B.R. to report to the ranch foreman when he got ready, and he had provided B.R. with a letter confirming his employment.
Since Christie was farming as well as ranching, he employed two sets of workers and two foremen. The farm foreman was a black man who smiled easily and knew farming as well as any man. The ranch foreman was an older man who had stayed behind to tend to the livestock and keep up the repairs while Christie was gone on the trail drive. Christie also employed a group of folks who tended to the house and the cooking. They were all black. Working for Christie was a prized job. He paid well and treated everyone as valued employees and part of his family. There was a saying among the employees—“Old John Christie is colorblind.”