A Frontier Christmas (7 page)

Smoke and Sally were sitting with the Stevensons on the front porch of the colonel's quarters. It was a cold and clear night, but they were bundled up warmly.

“There is no place in the world I would rather be than right here,” Colonel Stevenson said. “And when I say here, I don't necessarily mean Fort Russell. I mean any army post. There is something about a fort at this time of night, just before taps, that is almost spiritual. The men are in their barracks, playing cards, telling stories . . .”

From somewhere they could hear someone singing, accompanied by the strum of a guitar.

“And singing,” the colonel continued.

“I would think that the men would be very lonely,” Sally suggested.

“No,” Colonel Stevens replied. “They aren't lonely. That isn't to say that they don't miss the family they left behind, but they aren't lonely. They're never lonely. They have a new family.”

“You're part of their family, aren't you?” Sally asked.

“I like to think that I am.”

Mrs. Stevenson laughed. “I'll tell you how much a part of the family he is. Every Christmas since we have been here, he has dressed up as Santa Claus for the children of the post. The first year he suggested that, I told him I thought it might be beneath the dignity of a post commandant, and he said ‘dignity be damned,' he was going to do it. Now, I not only go along with it, I'm proud of him for doing it.”

“No man is taller than when he stoops to help a child,” Sally said.

Mrs. Stevenson beamed. “Oh, what a wonderful thing to say.”

“Yes, but I'm quoting someone. That was something Abraham Lincoln said.”

“Oh, look, Harris is playing the bugle tonight,” Mrs. Stevenson said as a bugler walked toward the salute cannon under the flagpole. “Nobody plays the calls more beautifully.”

The salute cannon was glistening in the moonlight as Harris stopped beside it, raised the bugle to his lips, then played it into the pylon-mounted megaphone. The young soldier played the call slowly and stately, holding the higher notes, gradually getting louder, then slowing the tempo as he reached the end, and holding the final, middle C longer than any other note before allowing it to echo back across the quadrangle.

“Man, that has to be Harris,” cried a voice coming from one of the barracks.

“I cannot hear that played without getting a lump in my throat,” Colonel Stevenson said. “For an old soldier like me, that is mother's milk. Every note resonates in my soul.

“There are words to the song. Would you like to hear them?”

“Yes, please,” Sally said.

Colonel Stevenson cleared his throat. “I'm not going to try to sing them, I'll speak them.”

“Colonel, the words couldn't be more eloquent,” Sally said.

 

 

“It's strange,” Smoke said a short time later as he and Sally were going to bed. “I've never served in the army, but as I sat there, listening to the bugle, I could almost feel what the colonel was feeling. I know what he means by the words resonating in his soul.”

Sally kissed him. “That's because you have a good soul, Kirby Jensen.”

Duff didn't get away from Rawhide Buttes until after four o'clock, but it took him just under two hours to make the ten-mile ride. It was already dark by the time he arrived at the small town on the Platte River. A sternwheeler, the
Prima Donna
, was moored alongside the pier with a gangplank stretching from the side of the boat to the bank. He reined in Sky to watch some men rolling beer barrels down from the boat, then loading them onto the back of a wagon. He could see the captain in the lighted wheelhouse, occupying his position of authority with all the dignity due his station.

“Hey, what if one of these barrels was to accidentally break open?” one of the stevedores called out. “You reckon we'd have to drink it all up?”

The other workers laughed at the joke.

As Duff rode on into Millersburgh, he passed several houses, and could smell the aroma of frying chicken. Somewhere a dog was barking, and at another house, a baby was crying. Riding on into town, he saw that the lamplighter was making his rounds. Most of the businesses were closed, but he headed toward the biggest and most brightly lit building on the street—the Cottonwood Saloon, the first saloon he came to. Stopping in front, he looped Sky's reins around the hitching rail a couple times, then stepped inside.

“What will it be, friend?” the bartender asked when he moved down to stand in front of Duff.

“A decent scotch, if such can be had,” Duff replied.

The bartender nodded, stuck a toothpick in his mouth, then turned to pull a bottle down from the wall behind him. He poured a glass and slid it in front of Duff.

Duff lifted it to his nose, took a whiff, then set it back. “This is bourbon, not scotch.”

“What difference does it make?”

“It makes a lot of difference to someone who prefers scotch. You keep this, I'll have a beer.”

The bartender pulled the cork on the bottle and poured the drink he had put in front of Duff back into the bottle. Then he took down a mug and stepped back to the beer keg.

There was a bar girl standing a few feet down the bar from Duff. Lantern light was kind to her, and her skin glowed soft and golden so that the dissipation of her life didn't show so badly. She managed to look almost as young as her years.

“You are a foreigner?” she asked, smiling at him.

“Aye, lass. 'Tis from Scotland, I am.”

“Oh, you are Scotch?”

“Nae, lass, scotch is the drink. Scot is the man.”

“Oh, and it's quite a handsome man that you are, too. And I like the way you talk.”

The bartender put the beer in front of Duff.

“And would ye be serving the young lass?” Duff asked.

“What will it be, Lydia?”

“My usual,” she said as she moved toward Duff. “I thank you for the drink.”

Duff recognized the silver brooch she was wearing—a Lion rampant. He had given it to young Suzie Guthrie for her birthday, back in September. He reached out to touch it.

“Do you like my brooch?” the bar girl asked.

“Aye, and would ye be for tellin' me how you acquired it?”

“Someone gave it to me a few days ago.”

“Would you take five dollars for it?” he asked.

“Five dollars? You're willing to give me five dollars for this pin? Why?”

“ 'Tis a Scottish Lion brooch and it reminds me of m' home.”

“Sure, mister, if it means that much to you. You can have it for five dollars.”

“I thank you, lass.” As soon as he had the brooch in his hand, Duff examined the back of it and saw a mark that he knew was there. It was indeed the same pin.

“You said someone gave it to you. Can you tell me anything about the three men?”

Lydia frowned. “How did you know there were three of them?”

“I'm guessing.”

“Well, you guessed right,” the bartender said. “There was three of 'em. Two of 'em was kind o' redheaded like maybe they was kin, or somethin'. And their skin was sort of blotchy red. The other fella had him a big nose and dark, evil-lookin' eyes.”

“Hell, they all had evil-looking eyes, Clyde,” Lydia said. “I don't know that I ever heard any of their names, though. But that's not unusual. Most of the men who come to see me don't bother to give their names.”

“Their names were Jesse and T. Bob Cave, and Sunset Moss,” Duff said.

“T. Bob, yes,” Lydia said. “Now that you mention it, I did hear one of them called T. Bob. He's the one who gave me the brooch.”

Duff held the brooch out to look at it again. “The man who gave you this took it from the body of a fourteen-year-old girl he had just raped and murdered.”

“Oh, Lord. You're talkin' about the Guthrie family down near Rawhide Buttes, aren't you?” the bartender asked. “Yes, I read about that in the paper!”

Lydia shuddered, then handed the five-dollar bill back to Duff. “Here. I can't take money for that. I . . . I can't believe I even wore it.”

“I don't suppose you have any idea which way they went from here, do you?” Duff asked.

“No, but I got a good look at their horses as they left,” the bartender said. “One was ridin' a paint and the other two was on bays.”

“One paint and two bays?” Another man had been standing at the end of the bar and, though he had been listening, this was his first comment.”

“Yes,” the bartender answered.

“Well, hell, mister. I can not only tell you which way they went, I can more'n likely tell you
where
they went.”

“How so?” Duff asked.

“On account of 'cause I passed three fellas, two of ' em ridin' bays and one ridin' a paint, just this afternoon as I was comin' into town. Headin' north they was. If they're on the run, they'll more'n likely hole up in Crowley's Gulch.”

“Crowley's Gulch?”

“It's about ten miles north of here. It's named after an old trapper that built a cabin there. He's long dead, but the cabin is still there. It's still sound. Hunters use it ever' now 'n then. It'd be my guess that's where they are.”

Duff took out two more five-dollar bills and gave one to the bartender, and one to the man who had just given him the information. Then he returned the bill to Lydia.

“No, I told you, I can't accept that,” Lydia said, holding her hand palm out.

“You keep it, Lydia,” Duff said. “It's not for the brooch, 'tis for the information.”

“Oh.” She smiled. “Well, in that case.”

Duff started toward the door.

“Why, you're not goin' after 'em now, are you, with full dark comin' on?” the bartender asked.

“Aye. I've nae intention of letting the miscreant devils escape justice. And I'll nae be losin' them because I wouldn't go out into the dark.”

“I hope you catch them,” the bartender said.

“I appreciate your good wishes. And I will catch them,” Duff said as he stepped through the door.

“You know what I think?” Lydia asked after Duff left the saloon. Without waiting for a response she answered her own question. “I think he must have known the little girl who was wearing that brooch.”

“I wouldn't be surprised,” the bartender said.

“I wonder who he is,” said the patron who had provided the information.

“I don't know,” the bartender replied. “But I wouldn't want to have that man after me.”

“But there are three of them, and only one of him,” Lydia pointed out.

“Lydia, with a man like that, numbers just don't count.”

 

 

Although the temperature had been relatively mild when he had left Rawhide Buttes, it had dropped by several degrees, and since leaving Millersburgh, it had turned bitterly cold. Duff pulled the collar up on his wool-lined coat, but he could still feel the biting winter wind that blew in wicked swirls, peppering him with a stinging spray of sand.

“I know, you're cold, Sky. We both are, laddie.” Duff had developed the habit of speaking to his horse on long, lonely rides. If anyone asked why he was talking aloud he would explain that it was to reassure the horse. But the truth was there were times when he just wanted to hear a human voice, even if it was his own. And speaking to his horse, he reasoned, was better than talking to himself.

Snow started falling, not drifting down slowly, but swirling about in the cold, biting wind. As it continued to fall, drifts began to gather on the ground, despite being whipped around by the wind. It was getting increasingly difficult to see.

“I know you want to stop, Sky, but consider this, lad. It's just as hard on those raping outlaws we're following as it is on us. And we've the anger in our blood to warm us.”

 

 

After riding for almost three hours, Duff saw the dark block of what he knew must be Crowley's Gulch in front of him. He considered riding on in, but thought that if the Cave brothers and Moss were there, and he gave himself away, they might be able to escape in the darkness. He decided to wait outside and go in at first light in the morning.

Looking around, he saw a gully that was deeper than his horse was high, and he led Sky down into it. Taking the canvas wrap from around his bedroll, and using rocks to weight it down, he made a cover to stretch over the top of the gully. It reached back just far enough to cover Sky's head.

“Sorry, Sky, this will have to do. I'll take off the saddle and leave the saddle blanket, but I dast not start a fire, lest it be seen.”

With such shelter as could be constructed, Duff put his bedroll on the ground, then rolled up in the blankets. His position at the bottom of the gulley kept the wind off, and that made his condition tolerable. He fell into a fitful sleep.

 

 

The morning sun rose in a clear sky, and Duff was awakened by the quiet whicker of his horse. He carried a sack of oats with him on such trips, and filled his hat with the grain, fed Sky, then took a handful for his own breakfast. After that, he saddled him, then let the reins hang down. “You stay here, out of sight. I'll call for you when I need you.”

Crawling out of the gully, he started toward the buttes. Though he had seen nothing yet, he could smell smoke and knew it had to be the men he was trailing.

 

 

“You check the horses, Sunset?” Jesse asked after Moss came back into the little cabin. “They coulda got loose last night. I wouldn't want to be out here on foot.”

“They didn't go nowhere.” Moss walked over to the fireplace, then, using his hat as a hot pad, took the coffee from the iron grill over the fire, and poured himself a cup. “Are we leavin' here today?”

“No, why should we leave?”

“You said we'd leave if there come up a good snowstorm. Well, one come up.”

“Yes, it did,” Jesse said. “And it for sure wiped out our tracks so's no one could trail us. A week or two with no trail to speak of and things will die down. Then we'll leave.”

“We kilt Guthrie 'n his whole family,” T. Bob put in. “There ain't goin' to be no calmin' down.”

“True, I didn't mean the folks was goin' to calm down. What I was talkin' about was the comin' after us,” Jesse said. “They lose our trail, they get cold, and the next thing you know they'll all be wantin' to go home to have Christmas with their families.”

“Christmas.” T. Bob punched his left hand with his right. “Damn. I near forgot 'bout that. What do you think we ought to do for Christmas?”

“What do you want to do? Go to church? Go carolin'? Decorate a Christmas tree?” Jesse asked with a snarl. “I swear, sometimes, T. Bob, you can say the damndest things. Are you sure there wasn't somebody else that got into Ma's pants before you was whelped? You sure as hell ain't got none of Pa in you.”

“You ought not to say things like that,” T. Bob complained.

“Why don't you fry us up some bacon?” Jesse suggested.

“All right,” T. Bob agreed sullenly.

“Just bacon? That's a hell of a breakfast, ain't it? You know what I'd like? I'd like some bacon and eggs, and maybe a couple o' biscuits. And some butter and blackberry jam,” Sunset said.

“We ain't got none of those things. I reckon if you was in hell, you'd be complainin' that you was wantin' ice water,” Jesse said. “I tell you what, Sunset, if you don't want any bacon, don't eat it. Me an' T. Bob will eat your part.”

“Didn't say I wasn't goin' to eat it. I was just sayin' what I would like to have.”