“That’s why when I learned that Kirby thought I was dead, I decided not to ever tell him any different,” she concluded.
“Your brother’s name is Kirby?”
“Yes.”
“What is Uncle Kirby like?”
“Honey if I told you, you wouldn’t believe me. He is a man of legendary accomplishments. Why, did you know that books and plays have actually been written about him?”
“Really? What are some of the things he’s done?”
Janie thought for a moment, then she laughed. “I know something he did once that has never been in any book or any play. In fact, I doubt that anyone who knows him knows about this. It happened when we were both very young. But I’ll tell you, and then you will know something about your uncle that no one else knows.
“It was back before the war, I was twelve, Kirby was ten. We lived on a farm and Ma and Pa had a couple of milk cows. Kirby and I had the job of milking the cows, and oh how Kirby hated that. Well, the two cows were kept in the same stall, and one morning Kirby got it in mind to tie their tails together. Well of course, you can’t tie the tails themselves, but he took the hairy tufts at the end of their tails and tied them together. Then, when the cows were turned out into the pasture, one wanted to go one way and the other wanted go in the opposite direction, so they pulled against each other, and the harder they pulled, the tighter the knot got in their tails.”
Janie was laughing now, and so was Rebecca. “Well, those two cows just kept pulling, and bawling, and pulling and bawling, until finally Pa came out to see what they were bawling about. When he saw those two tails tied together he liked to have had conniptions. Kirby had tied so many of the hairs together that Pa couldn’t get them untied, so he finally gave up trying and just cut them apart. Then he asked Kirby what he knew about it.
“‘Well, Pa, the flies were real bad,’ Kirby said.” By now, Janie was laughing so hard that she was having a hard time telling the story. “‘And those two cows were being tormented something awful by the flies, so they commenced to sweeping their tails at them, trying to keep the flies away, you see. Now I didn’t exactly see it happen, but if you was to ask me, I’d say that those cows tied their own tails together while they were trying to swish away those flies.’ I think that was the only time I ever saw Kirby get a whipping,” Janie concluded.
By the time she finished telling the story, both Janie and Rebecca were laughing hysterically. They were laughing so hard that they didn’t even hear the knock on the door. That was when the door was pushed open and a man stuck his head in. “May I come in?”
“Yes, of course,” Rebecca said, getting up from her chair.
The door opened, spilling a wedge of light into the room. Janie’s husband, Oscar Davenport, stepped into the room.
“Were you two telling jokes up here?” Oscar said.
“No, we were just having girl-talk, that’s all,” Janie answered.
Oscar was considerably shorter than Rebecca, and nearly bald except for a tuft of hair over each ear. He walked over to the bed, then leaned down and kissed Janie on the forehead.
“How are you feeling, my dear?” he asked, considerately.
“I’m in no pain,” Janie answered.
“Good, good. That’s good,” Oscar said. He turned to Rebecca. “Becca, I was wondering—well, we have a pretty good gathering downstairs, and I thought I might ask you come down and sing a couple of songs. You have such a good voice and everyone seems to enjoy your singing so much. It also helps to keep things calm.”
“Mama?” Rebecca asked.
“Go ahead, child,” Janie said. “You do sing so beautifully, I just wish I could be down there to hear it.”
Rebecca leaned over to kiss her mother, then she followed Oscar downstairs. Oscar was good to her, as he had been to her mother, and he looked out for her.
After coming to Dodge City to join her mother, Rebecca had taken a job working for Oscar in his saloon. Like the other girls who worked in the Lucky Chance, Rebecca would drink with the customers, though with Rebecca the bartender was under strict orders to serve only tea. Unlike the other girls, Rebecca would never visit one of the cribs. Often she would sing for the customers, most of the time the cowboy ballads that they seemed to like. But upon occasion she would sing an operatic aria, doing so with a classically beautiful voice. With her shining auburn hair, full lips, high cheekbones, and dark eyes shaded by long eyelashes, Rebecca was as beautiful as her singing.
Frank Lovejoy stood at the end of the bar watching Rebecca sing. As usual, he was dressed all in black, with a low-crown black hat, ringed with a silver hatband. His ever-present pistol was hanging low in a silver-studded holster on his right side. He was smoking a long, slender cheroot and drinking bourbon.
“Ain’t no sense in lookin’ at her,” Mike Malloy said. “Ever’body knows that she don’t do no whorin’.”
“Oh yeah, she whores, all right,” Lovejoy said confidently. He took a swallow of his bourbon, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “She just don’t know it yet, is all.”
CHAPTER NINE
Cheyenne, Wyoming, November 1
Duff and Smoke Jensen met in Cheyenne at the Cheyenne Club. Established in 1880 by twelve Wyoming cattlemen, the Cheyenne Club was the place to be for cattlemen from all over Wyoming. At the moment, Duff and Smoke were in one of the club’s parlors, enjoying their cigars and drinks, bourbon for Smoke and Scotch for Duff. They were speaking about the letter Duff had received from Benjamin Conyers.
“I met Conyers once,” Smoke said.
“Does he measure up to his request?” Duff asked. “What I mean is, do you think he has sufficient funds to pay twenty dollars a head for twenty-five hundred cows? That’s fifty thousand dollars.”
“It’s funny you would ask if he measured up, because measuring is what he does very well.”
“I don’t understand.”
“He is called Big Ben and they call him that for a reason. He stands six feet seven, and weighs in at over 300 pounds.”
“Oh, my, that is quite large, isn’t it?”
“And don’t worry about whether or not he is good for the money. He is one of the most successful cattlemen in Texas. He could buy a herd ten times as large and not strain his resources.”
“Good,” Duff replied. “I would hate to go to all this trouble, and then not be paid.”
“You can come up with what? Fifteen hundred head?” Smoke asked.
“That’s about it. I am hoping you could come up with the rest.”
“I thought that might be the case. Yes, I can come up with another thousand. That will meet his demand.”
“The question now, is how do we get them there?”
“I would suggest that you ship your cattle by train to Denver. I will meet you there with my cattle, and then we’ll ship the entire herd by train, or trains in this case, to Dodge City. Once we get to Dodge, we’ll have to drive the critters on down to Live Oaks.”
“What do you think? About four trains?” Duff asked.
“Let’s see, twenty to a car, it would take 125 cars. That would be just over thirty-one cars per train, plus a Pullman car. Yes, four would do it.”
“Four trains, but only two of us,” Duff said.
“That’s no problem,” Smoke said. “I know I can get Matt to go with one of the trains. By the way, I hope you don’t have any problem with Sally going with us. She’s been saying she wanted to take a trip somewhere for Christmas.” Smoke laughed out loud. “I’ll bet this isn’t exactly what she was planning on, though.”
“Of course I dinnae have any objections to the fair Sally coming with us. She is not only good company, I’ve nae doubt but that she can be helpful.”
“As for the fourth train, I’ll bet you could get Falcon, if you asked,” Smoke suggested.
“I’ll send him a telegram,” Duff said. “Thank you, that’s a good idea.”
“Yeah, I do get good ideas every now and then.”
<
br /> MacCallister, Colorado, November 3
Falcon MacCallister had received the telegram this morning, but had not yet shared it with anyone. At the moment Falcon, his brothers Jamie, Ian, Morgan, and Matthew, were out at the old MacCallister homestead. Falcon’s sisters, Joleen and Kathleen, were there as well. Even the twins, Andrew and Rosanna, were here, and that was rare, for they only managed to show up for family functions about once every five years. Andrew and Rosanna were both famous thespians, their work as well-known in Europe as it was in the United States.
The MacCallister clan was gathering for a family reunion, though, except for Andrew and Rosanna, they didn’t have far to go when they held such a gathering. Here, in the MacCallister Valley of Colorado, they were busy ranching, farming, raising kids and grandkids. By now, half of the people in the Valley were MacCallisters. To be precise, there were one hundred and three MacCallisters in MacCallister Valley who were direct descendants of Jamie and Katie MacCallister, who had been barely of age when they settled here considerably more than half a century before.
They had just had their dinner and walked out front to have a moment over the graves of their parents, Jamie and Kate.
“We should have waited to have this reunion at Thanksgiving or Christmas,” Ian said.
“Why?” Morgan asked. “This way we get to feast now, and again at Thanksgiving and Christmas.”
“Leave it to Morgan to think of food,” Kathleen said.
“Well, for my part, it’s good that we had it today. I won’t be here for Thanksgiving, and probably won’t be here for Christmas either. I’m leaving tomorrow morning.”
“You’re leaving tomorrow? Falcon, what is so important that you can’t even stay for a family reunion?” Morgan asked. “You know what Pa and Ma always said. Nothing is more important than family.”
“This is family,” Falcon said. “And it is important.”
“How can it be family, when every last one of us are here?” Joleen asked. “Even Andrew and Rosanna.”
“I’m talking about Duff MacCallister,” Falcon said. “He is our cousin.”
“He can’t be that close of a cousin,” Kathleen said. “I’ve never even met the man.”
“We share a great-great-great-great grandfather,” Rosanna said. “Grandfather Falcon MacCallister from the Highlands of Scotland.”
“Great, great, great, great grandfather? What is that, fifth cousin?” Jamie asked.
“Technically, I suppose he is, but it feels much closer than that,” Andrew said. “Duff MacCallister is a wonderful man.”
“How do you two know him?”
“We were the first ones to meet him,” Rosanna said. “We met him in Scotland. Then later, when he came to America, he worked with us in New York for a while. And if Falcon feels that Duff needs him, I don’t think we should erect any impediments.”
“Erect any impediments,” Jolene said with a little chuckle. “Spoken like a true child of the theater,” she added, affecting a strong British accent as she teased Rosanna. Then she added in a normal tone of voice. “By all means, Falcon, if you feel that it is important for you to go to the aid of our cousin, Duff, go with our blessings.”
“Thanks,” Falcon said.
Santa Clara, Colorado, November 5
Matt Jensen had just finished eating his supper, and was leaving the restaurant to go back to the hotel where he had taken a more or less permanent room, when he heard someone call out to him.
“Jensen, look out!”
Concurrent with the shouted warning, Matt felt a blow to the side of his head. Someone had stepped out of the shadows of the narrow space between the restaurant and the leather goods store next door. He saw stars, but even as he was being hit he was reacting to the shout, and that kept him from being knocked down.
When his attacker swung at him a second time, Matt was able to parry the blow; then, with his fists up, he moved quickly out into the middle of the street. He didn’t know if there was more than one person hiding in the dark, and he didn’t want to take a chance. In the middle of the dirt street, lit by gas streetlamps, he was able to see the man who had attacked him. He was a big man, well over six feet tall with large arms and ham-sized fists. He was an exceptionally ugly man, with a heavy brow ridge and a protruding lower lip. Matt had never seen him before.
“Mister,” the man said with a low growl. “You kilt my brother, so now I’m aimin’ to take you apart with my bare hands.”
This was a change. Most of the men who came after Matt, either for revenge or to settle some personal score, or even to make a name for themselves, came after him with a gun. But this was a big man, and whether it would be a welcome change or not was yet to be seen.
Almost as soon as the fight started, a crowd was gathered around.
“Who’s that big man Jensen is fighting with?” someone asked.
“I don’t have no idea,” another answered.
Matt and the big man dodged and weaved around for a bit, both trying to take the measure of the other, neither of them throwing a punch.
“Who was your brother?” Matt asked. “The one you say I killed.”
“Damn, Mister, have you kilt so many you can’t keep up with ’em?” the big man asked.
“I’ve killed a few,” Matt said.
“His name was Shelton. Lucas Shelton,” the big man said.
“I remember him,” Matt said.
“What did you kill him for?”
“He was trying to kill me. I didn’t have any choice.”
“Yeah, you did. You could’a let him kill you.”
“Funny, but I didn’t consider that an option,” Matt replied.
Shelton swung wildly at Matt, but Matt dodged it easily, then counterpunched with a quick, slashing left to Shelton’s face. It was a good, well-hit blow, one that would have dropped the average man, but Shelton just shook it off.
“Damn, did you see that?” one of the spectators asked. “That blow would have pole-axed a steer, but that big sum’bitch acted like he didn’t even feel it.”
“Five dollars says Jensen gets whupped,” someone said.
“I don’t know. I’ve seen Jensen fight before. I’m going with him.”
With an angry roar, Shelton rushed Matt again, and Matt stepped aside, avoiding him like a matador sidestepping a charging bull. And, like a charging bull, Shelton slammed into a hitching rail, smashing through it as if it were kindling. He turned and faced Matt again.
There was no more kibbitzing in the crowd now. They grew quiet as they watched the fight, studying it to see whether quickness and agility could overcome brute strength and power.
Shelton swung again, and again Matt avoided the blow. Matt counterpunched and, as before, scored well. But, as before, Shelton merely laughed it off. Matt learned quickly that he could hit Shelton anytime he wanted, and though individually the punches seemed ineffective, Matt saw that there was a cumulative effect to his efforts. Both of Shelton’s eyes began to puff up, and there was a nasty cut on his lower protruding lip that started blood flowing down the big man’s chin.
Then Matt caught the big man in the nose with a hard right, and he knew that he had broken it. The nose, like the cut lip, began to bleed profusely, and torrents of blood began to flow. Matt looked for another chance to strike his nose, but Shelton started protecting it, and he couldn’t get through.
So far, except for the opening blow, not one of Shelton’s great swinging blows had landed. Then, Shelton managed to connect with a right which struck Matt on the shoulder. Matt felt as if he had been hit by a club, and he could feel it all through his arm. That single blow had the possibility of ending the fight, for though Matt held his left up, it was for show only. He was, in effect, fighting this big man with only one arm.
Then, when Shelton threw another whistling blow at him, Matt avoided it, counterpunching with a solid right, straight at Shelton’s Adam’s apple. It had the effect Matt wanted, and the big man grabbed his neck with both hand
s, then sunk to his knees, gasping for air.
Matt stepped up to him.
“You won’t suffocate, but you are going to think that you will, because it is going to swell a lot more and it’s going to be even harder to breathe than it is now,” he said. “My advice to you is to go lie down somewhere with your head somewhat lower than your neck. Be still for a while. It will take you a few days, but you will recover.”
Shelton looked up at Matt and tried to speak, but the only thing to come from his throat was a squeaking rattle.
Matt held up his hand and moved his finger back and forth. “Oh, and don’t try to talk, it’ll just make matters worse,” he said.
As Matt walked away from the kneeling man, listening to the banter of the onlookers as they exchanged the money they had bet on the fight, someone called out to Matt.
“Mr. Jensen, I have a telegram for you.”
Matt recognized the telegrapher and walked over toward him.
“I didn’t want to bother you during the fight,” the small, bespectacled man said as he handed the message to Matt.
“I appreciate that, I guess,” Matt said. He gave the telegrapher a half-dollar.
“Thank you, sir,” the little man said. “Will you be wanting to reply?”
“Depends on the message,” Matt said. He opened the envelope and read the message under the light of a streetlamp.
NEED YOUR HELP FOR A CATTLE DRIVE. CAN YOU COME? SMOKE.
Matt followed the telegrapher back to the Western Union Office.
YES. I WILL COME TOMORROW. MATT
Chugwater, November 6
Three men; Emerson, Pigg, and Jenks, were sitting together at a table in Fiddler’s Green.
“That’s him over there, standin’ at the bar talkin’ to the bartender. His name is Duff MacCallister,” Emerson said. Emerson was a particularly ugly man with a drooping eyelid and a mouth full of bad teeth.
“He’s a big bastard,” Pigg said. Pigg and Jenks were only marginally less ugly than Emerson. Pigg had a beard, not one that he groomed, but one that seemed to have trapped within its unkempt bristles food from his last several meals. Jenks had a long, hooked nose and dark, beady eyes.
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