by Janet Dailey
More outfits were moving into Montana. Last week he’d seen the dust of a trail drive and ridden south to see if it was Jessie. But the herd had belonged to another Texas outfit. The animals were in sorry condition. Benteen hoped Jessie brought their cattle up in better shape.
There was a slight movement in the bed beside him, distracting Benteen from his thoughts. He could tell by the way Lorna was breathing that she wasn’t asleep either.
“You’re very quiet,” he murmured. “What are you thinking about?”
“Range bulls.” It was an absent, almost musing response.
Benteen quirked an eyebrow as he turned to look at her in the darkness. “Range bulls?”
“I thought that would get your attention,” she said with a certain smugness.
He shifted partially onto his side and laid his arm across her waist to draw her closer. “Am I roaming too much to suit you?”
“You’re gone a lot of the time.” Her hand wandered over his tautly muscled arm. “It isn’t so bad during the daytime because there’s always so much work to do, but the nights become very long. I’ll be glad when Webb learns how to talk so I won’t have to carry on conversations with the stove or the trees.” Her mood changed to abandon the subject of loneliness. “With that canvas hanging there, doesn’t it remind you of sleeping in the wagon?”
“I guess it does,” Benteen supposed. “Maybe we’ll be able to build the house next year.”
“I hope so,” she murmured. “This roof leaks mud when it rains. Bugs and spiders are everywhere. When I got up the other morning, one had spun a web across Webb’s cradle.”
“I stopped to see Ely and Mary the other day, did I tell you?” He knew he’d forgotten. Lately he’d been doing a lot of riding, studying the lay of the land and exploring different parts to fill in the blank areas on the canvas map hanging on the cabin wall. “They’re coming down in a week to visit. Mary’s anxious to see the baby she helped bring into the world.”
There was no response as she turned more toward him and began tracing the line of his jaw with her fingertips. Benteen frowned, finding her behavior curious.
“Didn’t you hear what I said? Mary’s coming.” He had expected her to be overjoyed by the prospect.
She ran her finger over his lips, outlining their male curves. “I was thinking about range bulls again,” she said, “and wondering if they are as potent as you are.” When she lifted her glance from his mouth, there was amusement in her eyes at his puzzled expression. “We’re going to have another baby.”
A soaring lift of inexpressible pride and emotion filled him. Benteen spread his hand across her flat stomach where the life they’d created now lived.
“It’s going to be a boy,” he stated huskily. “I can feel him.”
“Benteen, it’s too soon for any movement.” Lorna laughed softly.
“It’s going to be a boy, just the same,” he insisted.
They had made love not twenty minutes ago, but he was growing hard for her again. He kissed her, moving his mouth over her lips and parting them with the hard insistence of his tongue. His hand took the weight of a full breast, shaping itself to its plumpness. He bent his head to kiss the milk-sweet nipple, then nuzzled the roundness of her breast.
Her hands pressed and urged him as her body writhed in excitement. She was eager to satisfy him, and be satisfied, as she was so many nights. She was warm and giving, hot and taking, all at the same time. When he mounted her, her nails raked his back.
A light sighing groan of pleasure came from her. “Be wild with me, Benteen,” she whispered.
He shuddered, and his flesh’s need became all entangled with his soul’s need. This blending created grace and made perfection out of something bestial. They were not two, but parts of one thing, alternately thrusting together until the pressure left them and they lay content.
“Did you like it, Benteen?” Lorna asked in the silence.
She was warm-flanked beside him. “My God, what the hell kind of word is that for it?” He was irritated, unable to express in words how she affected him, and wary, too, of the power she had.
“You never say anymore,” she murmured. “You used to.”
A long time ago—when they were newly wed—before she’d said those words, “I’m leaving you.” They haunted him still, a nightmare that wouldn’t be forgotten. Even now he couldn’t erase them from his memory.
“I guess that’s what comes from being an old married couple.” He made light of her observation. “You just forget to say things.”
“I am not old, Benteen Calder,” she retorted quickly. “I am nineteen.”
“With a little one on the way,” he reminded her. “You’d better close your eyes and get some rest.”
In the following silence, he sensed a change in her. She was motionless, waiting for something from him, but he didn’t know what. When it didn’t come, she turned on her side, facing away from him.
Jessie Trumbo and the boys arrived with the herd of Texas Longhorns the early part of August, on the same day that Mary and Ely came to visit. The reunion of old friends and trailmates turned into a party that lasted well after nightfall. The brindle steer, Captain, stayed close by.
“The world’s about to go crazy,” Jessie told Benteen that night. “It’s like everybody back East an’ in Europe is just discoverin’ there’s cattle in the West and fortunes to be made with ’em.”
The newly arrived cattle were in fair to good condition. The weaker ones Benteen culled out to be sold with the steers ready for market when they made their fall roundup.
Demand was high, sending the prices up. Benteen turned most of the profits back into building and grading his herd. He sent Jessie and Rusty back down the trail to bring more Longhorns from Texas the next year, with the brindle steer tagging along behind the chuck wagon like a puppy dog. Bob Vernon went west to purchase more Western stock. And Barnie was sent to Minnesota to buy a purebred bull, a “pilgrim” to the open range.
The winter was a bad one. The temperatures plummeted and the snows were deep. In the middle of a February blizzard, Arthur William Calder was born, with Benteen’s help. Calm through it all, he had jokingly assured Lorna that he had aided many a cow and horse give birth, and a woman couldn’t be much different. After the healthy baby boy had its first feeding, Lorna had fallen into an exhausted sleep, so she hadn’t seen Benteen’s hand shake when he poured a glass of whiskey and downed it.
The spring thaw revealed the extent of the winter losses. Coulees were dotted with dead cattle, which Benteen and the men skinned for their hides. There were signs that the losses weren’t solely attributable to winterkill. The wolves that had often serenaded the ranch on dark, lonely nights had taken their toll of cattle.
The big yellow-eyed wolves weighed upward to 150 pounds, with a lot of brains and cunning to go along with the brawn. Their source of food had been the buffalo herds. Bringing down a massive buffalo was routine to them, but the decimation of the plains herds forced them to turn to the cattle.
The Longhorns weren’t exactly easy pickings for the wolves. Benteen found a few carcasses of wolves gored to death by a battling Longhorn. But working in packs, the wolf usually wore down its prey quickly—if winter had weakened the cow.
More bothersome than the loss to the wolves and the winter was the number of cattle missing. Indians wandered on and off their reservations in Dakota, Montana, and Canada practically at will. With their buffalo herds eradicated by white men, the Indians felt justified in killing or driving off any cattle they found. Indian trouble was something Benteen didn’t need.
In all, he’d lost somewhere around a thousand head of cattle, but there remained nearly ten thousand head with a Triple C branded on their hips, comprising his original herd and its offspring, the second, larger herd Jessie had brought, and the Western stock purchased. And it was just the beginning.
Ely Stanton worked with them on the spring roundup. At a noon break, he came over to stand
with Benteen, surveying the morning’s gather.
“Mary and me was talking before I left,” Ely began. “We started out the same time you and Lorna did. All we had was about three hundred cows and you had … seven, eight times that. But all we got today is ‘bout four hundred. An’ look what you’ve done for yourself.”
“You’ll start increasing.” Benteen knew the parity of growth was due to a lack of aggression on Ely’s part.
“No.” Ely shook his head. “A man’s gotta take a hard look at himself sometimes. I know about cattle an’ the land, but I ain’t got no head for the business side of ranchin’. I can be the best damned foreman that ever forked a saddle for somebody like you—and not worth a plug nickel for myself.”
“Ely—” Benteen began on a deep breath of regret, because it was undeniably true.
“Mary and me talked it over, and we wanta sell out our claim to you—if you’re interested,” Ely interrupted. “You just buy up our claim like you’re doin’ with the rest of the boys. An’ as for the cattle, you pay us for them when you can. We know you’re good for it. An’ if you need a good foreman, I’m available full-time.”
“The job’s yours, Ely, but”—there was a vaguely incredulous frown tracking across Benteen’s forehead —”the ranch and livestock, you could sell to some other outfit for a handsome price. You’re offering to practically give it to me. You shouldn’t do that.”
“Like I said”—there was a rare gleam of amusement in the quiet man’s eyes—”I got no head for business ’tall.” Then he extended his hand to shake on the deal.
* * *
Mail was a rarity, but early summer brought a windfall of letters from Texas, some dated more than nine months ago. Lorna received two from her parents. One was a joyous acknowledgment of the birth of their first grandson, Webb Matthew, and the second was a Christmas letter. Lorna wondered if they had gotten her letter yet, informing them of their second grandson’s entrance into the world and describing the fat-cheeked baby she’d named Arthur William after her father.
Her friend Sue Ellen had written, too. Lorna had laughed aloud at some of the passages where Sue Ellen hinted that she knew Lorna was enduring untold horrors in that wild, primitive land. She sounded certain Lorna had been at death’s door when she gave birth to Webb. Included in the letter, Sue Ellen passed on some information from an article she’d read in a New York newspaper that some salesman had left in her mother’s millinery store. It caught her eye because of the letter Lorna had written about the English lady she had met in Dodge City. The article said that the Earl of Crawford had taken ill and died while in the city before leaving for England, and that his widow, Lady Crawford, would be sailing for England, where his remains would be laid to rest at the ancestral home. Sue Ellen thought Lorna would be interested in learning about the “tragedy.”
Lorna recalled the brief chat she’d had with Lady Crawford, and the kindness she’d shown when she sent her maid to Lorna’s room with the small jar of lotion. It was all gone now, but Lorna had kept the jar as a memento of the incident to show her children as proof that she had met and talked to a real “lady” once. The story had a sad ending now. According to the date in Sue Ellen’s letter, the Earl of Crawford had died nearly a year and a half ago.
The mail also included a hastily scratched note from Jessie Trumbo. He expected to leave Texas the last week of March with a mixed herd of three thousand. The Ten Bar was sending up two herds of that number. In addition, there were four other herds that he personally knew about heading for the Montana country.
The open range was going to fill up fast.
With the arrival of more Texas herds in eastern Montana, other changes began. Ranches needed supplies and cowboys needed a place to spend their wages. Miles City began to take shape as a cow town.
That September, a man named Fat Frank Fitzsimmons came to the territory with two wagons of supplies and whiskey. When one of his wagons broke an axle out in the middle of nowhere, he decided fate had taken a hand in choosing a location for his new store. Within two weeks he’d thrown up a crude building of sorts and was open for business. His sign read simply: “Fat Frank’s—WHISKEY.”
The first cowboy who happened by thought for sure he was seeing things. After two shots of whiskey, he informed Fat Frank that he was doomed to fail, since nobody came this way but once in a blue moon. Fat Frank immediately added another sign to his storefront, a smaller one, proclaiming “Blue Moon, Montana Territory.” Whether the story about the cowboy was true or not, Fat Frank told it to everyone that chanced by and pointed to the Blue Moon sign. The tale made good telling around the campfire, and the word spread.
The place offered a closer source of supplies than Miles City. With that possibility in mind, Benteen rode to Fat Frank’s store and saloon to look it over. The squat building made a strange sight, plopped in the middle of the plains with nothing around it for miles. The whiskey sign was like a beacon on that frosty October morning. His shaggy-coated horse pricked its ears at the sight and picked up the pace. It snorted in interest at the two horses tied to a rail outside, its warm breath making a hoary cloud.
Reading brands was a habit. When Benteen noticed the Ten Bar’s mark on the saddled horses in front of the store, his gaze sharpened. He was aware the two herds they’d sent up the trail had arrived about the same time Jessie had. They had located their headquarters on some fair range to the east and north of him, but this was the first that he’d met up with any of their riders.
He dismounted and looped the reins around the hitching rack. There was no hurry in his measured stride as Benteen walked to the rough-planked door. His spurs made a muted jingle in the quiet. The door swung inward on rawhide hinges as Benteen walked into the store. His gaze made a sweep of the jumble of boxes and crates used to display wares in the front section.
From the back there was the low murmur of voices, the soft, drawling sound of Texans. Unbuttoning his coat, Benteen moved in their direction just as a fat man waddled forward to greet him. It was obviously the proprietor.
“Good morning, sir.” It was a glad-handing voice. “Welcome to my humble establishment. The name’s Fitzsimmons but everybody calls me Fat Frank.” He patted his rotund dimensions with pride. “What can I do for you this fine day?”
“Your sign outside said whiskey.”
“And it’s real whiskey I’ve got, too,” Fat Frank declared. “Not that watered-down rotgut you fellas call whiskey. Just step back here to the back of the store where I got me a little bar set up.” Puffing with the effort of carrying around so much weight, he led the way. Benteen caught the sharp side glance the fat shopkeeper sent him and noted the shrewdness underneath the jovial facade. “You wouldn’t be Benteen Calder, would you?” the man guessed.
“Yes.” Benteen didn’t bother to ask how the man had known. Saloons in the middle of nowhere, like this one, were always fountainheads of gossip. And the man would have made it his business to ask about potential customers.
“I heard a lot of talk about you,” Fat Frank admitted. “I been wondering when you’d be stoppin’ by. You’ll find my prices are fair, and I got just about anything you’ll need. If I don’t have it, I can get it. If your wife needs yard goods or ready-made clothes, just ask Fat Frank.”
“I’ll keep it in mind.” Benteen didn’t commit himself.
The back corner of the building was where the liquor was sold. A board laid across two barrels served as a bar, with open-ended crates behind it where the bottles were kept. There was a potbellied stove against the wall that bore a striking resemblance to the man’s shape—round and huge, with spindly legs. Two crude chairs sat next to it, inviting customers to sit and warm themselves. In addition, there was a small table with two more chairs. They were occupied by Loman Janes and Bull Giles. Benteen nodded to the pair and continued on to the makeshift bar Fat Frank walked behind. Uncorking a bottle, he poured the whiskey into a shot glass, then pushed it to Benteen.
“On the house
,” he insisted when Benteen started to reach inside his coat to pay for the drink.
“Obliged.” He nodded and took a swallow, feeling the pure fire burn its way down his throat.
“I told you it was the real stuff,” Fat Frank reminded him.
“You did,” Benteen admitted, and let his hand stay around the glass as he turned, angling his body toward the two other customers.
“You acquainted with Mr. Janes of the Ten Bar?” Fat Frank asked, as if prepared to make introductions.
“I am.”
“I swear all you Texans know each other.” The shopkeeper laughed.
“Who’s mindin’ the Ten Bar with you up here, Janes?” Benteen inquired with semi-interest.
The gaunt-cheeked foreman idly rolled his glass in a half-circle on the table. “Ollie Webster is runnin’ the Texas end.”
“Good man.” Benteen inclined his head in a silent admission of the cowboy’s abilities. He’d worked with him a few times.
“There been much Indian trouble?” Loman asked.
It was a question from one cattleman to another, and Benteen treated it as such. “Some. They run off a few head from time to time.”
“Poor, starving savages.” Fat Frank shook his head. “More than half the supplies the government promised ’em never makes it to the reservations. And that scum up on the Missouri don’t help the situation, selling them whiskey.”
“What are you talking about?” Loman Janes asked, lifting his head with frowning interest.
“There’s a pack of ex-buffalo hunters and wood-hawks that’s nested on the Missouri River.” Wood-hawk was the term applied to men who chopped wood for the steamboats that trafficked the river. “They’re an unsavory bunch. The minute they found out the Canadian government was paying the Crees and Bloods some money every autumn, they been selling them rotgut and separating those savages from their money. I understand it’s getting so the Indians spend most of the winter on this side of the border.”