A Frontier Christmas (4 page)

Ralph Walters pulled a chair up to the window and sat there, looking down onto Center Street. There were no Christmas decorations up yet, and he decided that it was probably too early. He wished some were up, though, something that would break up the cold, bleak view he was seeing.

He put his hand to his throat and felt the swelling. He was sure that it was no more than a case of catarrh and had bought an elixir for it. He looked at the newspaper ad that had prompted him to buy the product.

He had rubbed it on his neck and jaws, but it didn't seem to be helping. He had a headache, he was feverish, and he felt weak. It had also been two days since he had eaten anything. Even drinking water made his throat hurt.

A sergeant major showed Smoke, Matt, and Sally into the commandant's office, then stepped through a door at the back of the room.

Sally looked around the room as she waited. She had an eye for detail and was able to pick out such things as the unit guidons of the 1st Cavalry and the 30th Infantry, the map designating the regiments' areas of responsibility, a picture of President Harrison, a picture of Secretary of War Redfield Proctor, and a picture of the commanding officer of the post, John Stevenson.

A moment later, the sergeant major reappeared. “Gentlemen, you and the lady may enter.”

“Thank you, Sergeant Major,” Smoke said as he walked Sally to the colonel's office, then followed her in. Matt fell in behind them.

Colonel Stevens had very dark sideburns that came down to join with the moustache over his mouth. He had no chin whiskers. “You have come to sell horses, is that right?”

“Yes. We've been in touch with the War Department,” Smoke said. “I have a letter of introduction.”

Colonel Stevens smiled. “You don't need it. I've already been contacted by the War Department. It is my understanding that the horses can't be delivered until after Christmas?”

“Yes, sir. The horses are still back in Colorado,” Matt said.

For the time being, Pearlie and Cal were looking after the horses. They actually belonged to Matt, but because he was keeping them on Smoke's ranch, and Smoke's ranch hands had been tending to them, half the profit would belong to Smoke.

Colonel Stevenson started to offer cigars to Smoke and Matt, but he demurred, and glanced over toward Sally. “With your permission, ma'am.”

Sally smiled. “Colonel, if the smell of cigar smoke bothered me, I would have expired long ago. Please, feel free to enjoy your smoke.”

Colonel Stevenson lit the Jensen men's cigars before he lit his own, then said, “You guarantee that these horses are broken? You know that we get a lot of young soldiers who have never been on a horse before.”

“Matt, Pearlie, and Cal spent the last month breaking them,” Smoke said.

Stevenson puffed on his cigar for a moment until his head was wreathed in smoke. “All right, the army has authorized me to buy up to one hundred mounts at two hundred dollars per mount. That's twenty thousand dollars.” The colonel smiled. “I'd say that's enough money for you to have a happy Christmas.”

“I have to agree with you, Colonel,” Smoke said.

“I will telegraph the War Department today, I expect to have the final authorization within a week. Can you stick around until then? You and your wife will be my personal guests, and Matt, you can stay in the BOQ. Of course, you understand that the money isn't to change hands until after the horses are delivered, and that won't be until after Christmas.”

“True. But the anticipation of it will carry us through Christmas,” Matt said.

Colonel Stevenson laughed. “Yes, I suppose it would.” He sighed, and shook his head. “It's ironic, isn't it, that I have the authority to spend as much money in one transaction, as I can earn in seven years?”

“Colonel, it has been said, and I believe it, that those who serve in the army do so more from a sense of duty, than money,” Smoke said.

Colonel Stevenson nodded. “Ah, yes, duty, honor, country. The motto of West Point is inculcated in the cadets of the Corps, so that it truly does become our watchword. If I served only for money, I would have left the army long ago.

“Will you be here for Christmas? I know that Mrs. Stevenson has become quite fond of your wife, and we would love to entertain you.”

Smoke shook his head. “I thank you very much for the invitation, Colonel, but we will be spending Christmas with our friend Duff MacCallister up in Chugwater.”

“Duff MacCallister, you say?”

“Yes.”

“I have heard much of him. Almost as much as I have heard about you two. What an indomitable three you would be, should anyone challenge you.”

Smoke laughed. “This is Christmas, Colonel. I would hope that we face no challenge any more formidable than having to sing Christmas carols.”

“Well, as you must remain here for the final authorization, that means there will some post activities you will be able to see and enjoy. So many of these men are far from home, and we like to make their Christmas as pleasant as possible.”

“I look forward to it,” Smoke said.

“Have either of you ever served in the army?” Stevenson asked.

“My father served during the war,” Smoke said. “I've never served.”

“My father also served,” Matt said. “But I have not.”

“Your father? But isn't Smoke your father?” The colonel was confused by the comment.

“No,” Matt said, without further explanation.

Jim Merrick dismounted in front of John Guthrie's house. He was surprised to hear the cow bellowing in pain and knew that it needed to be milked. He knew John well and that didn't make sense. John was a man who took good care of his animals.

Merrick stepped onto the porch, surprised again. The door was standing wide open. What was it doing, standing open, on such a cold day?

He went inside, calling, “John? John? Mrs. Guthrie? Is anyone here?”

As he passed through the dining room, he saw that the table was set for a meal, including food. The pork chops and mashed potatoes were cold, and the bread was stale. It looked as if the table had been set for some time.

Looking toward the kitchen, he saw an arm on the floor. “What the hell?”

Moving quickly into the kitchen, he gasped at what he saw. Mrs. Guthrie and her daughter were lying naked on the floor, their bodies caked with dried blood. The boy was on the floor, too. John was nowhere to be seen. “Where is he? What happened here?”

Merrick looked around and noticed a trail of dried blood on the floor. He followed the trail into the study, and there he saw John slumped across his desk. When he got closer, he saw a sheet of paper on the desk, and he picked it up to read.

That was as far as the note got.

“Oh John. I'm so sorry this happened to you and your family. I'm so sorry.” Merrick folded the note over and put it in his pocket. He would take it to town and show it to Marshal Worley. Being just a city marshal, Worley would have no authority, John's ranch being beyond the city limits, but at least he would have some idea as to what needed to be done next.

Merrick started toward the front door, then stopped. He couldn't leave the bodies of Mrs. Guthrie and her daughter like that. He went into one of the bedrooms, stripped off a couple quilts, and returned to the kitchen, where he covered the nude bodies.

As Duff stepped into the saloon owned by his friend Biff Johnson, he remembered his first visit to Fiddlers' Green. It was shortly after he had filed a homestead claim on his land, on what was now Sky Meadow, and he had come with his kinsman, Falcon MacCallister. The name of the establishment had intrigued him, so he'd asked how the name came to be.

Biff greeted Duff as he approached the bar. “In town for the mayor's shindig, are you?”

“Aye, that I am,” Duff replied. “Will you be going?”

“I'll be there,” Biff replied.

The shindig Biff was talking about was an event that R.W. Guthrie held every year during the Christmas season. The dinner, held in the ballroom of the Dunn Hotel, was for the business owners of the town. Although Duff wasn't a business owner from the town, his cattle ranch contributed significantly to the town's economic well-being, so he had been invited. In truth, he would have been there, anyway, because Meagan Parker, who did own a business in town, would have invited him as her guest.

“You'll be going with Meagan, I suppose?”

“Unless I can find another lass who'll go with me,” Duff replied.

“Ha! You try that and I would hate to see what Meagan does to her, to say nothing of what she would do to you!” Biff replied with a laugh.

“Aye, 'tis better I go with Meagan.”

“Yeah, I would think so. Do you have time for a scotch before you step over to get her?” Biff asked as he poured a shot of the amber liquid into a glass.

“Aye, and how long does it take to have a nip?” Duff asked, lifting the glass to his lips to toss it down quickly. Wiping his lips with the back of his hand, he threw a wave at Biff and started toward the door.

“I'll see you there,” Biff called out to him.

 

 

“Did you stop by Fiddlers' Green for a bit of the creature?” Meagan teased when Duff stepped in to her establishment.

“Sure, now, and were you thinkin', lass, that I could face this night without a wee drink?”

“Duff MacAllister! Is it that hard to be with me?”

“What? No, that's not it. I meant—”

“I know what you meant.” Meagan laughed. “I was just teasing you. I'm not looking forward to it, either. But R.W. does set great store by these Christmas dinners, and there are some things that we do for people just because they are our friends.”

“Aye, that's true, and now 'tis feeling bad, I am, for complaining.”

“Come, walk me to the hotel,” Meagan invited.

A broad smile spread across Duff's face. “Good idea. For how can I feel bad if I have the most beautiful lady in all the county on my arm?”

Meagan chuckled. “Are you sure you are Scottish and not Irish? You do have a bit of the blarney in you.”

As they walked toward the hotel, they passed under the street lamps and in and out of the bubbles of light that spilled onto the boardwalk. The air was cold and crisp, but the night sky above was filled with glistening stars.

“What a beautiful night,” Meagan said, hugging herself as she looked up at the stars. “It's as if God Himself is decorating for Christmas.”

A streak of gold flashed across the sky.

“Oh, make a wish!” Meagan said. “All wishes made on shooting stars come true.”

“Aye, but only if you can make a wish before the star is gone,” Duff replied.

“Oh, pooh. What a joy killer you are. I'm going to make a wish anyway.”

“What do you wish?”

“Do you think I'm going to tell you? Wishes never come true if you tell.”

“Aye, 'tis what I've heard as well.”

Duff frowned. “What?”

“I didn't say anything,” Meagan said.

“Kiss her,”
the voice said again. It sounded amazingly like Skye's voice.

“All right, if you think I should.”

Meagan stopped walking. “Who are you talking to?”

Duff didn't answer. He took her into a dark space between the leather goods store and the gun shop. There, he kissed her.

“Well,” Meagan said, smiling. “I don't know who you were talking to, but I like it.”