A Lone Star Christmas (11 page)

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Authors: William W. Johnstone

BOOK: A Lone Star Christmas
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C
HAPTER
E
IGHT
Union Stockyards, Fort Worth, October 1
“I understand that you have yet to replace your stock,” Hurley said. The two men were in William Hurley's office, a place that had almost become Big Ben's home away from home since he sold all his stock.
“I haven't yet, but I'm going to have to do something fairly soon,” Big Ben said. “Otherwise I'll be having to let some of my permanent hands go and I would hate to do that. But there is only so much make-work that can done on a ranch that has no cows.”
“Are you going to buy Herefords?”
“I suppose I will,” Big Ben said. “I certainly see no profit in buying any more Longhorns. I sure hate having to do that though. Walter Hannah is my friend, but if he gets something on you, he never lets go of it. The moment the first Hereford sets foot on my ranch is the moment he will start crowing.”
“Maybe you would feel better about it if you knew that Herefords were bringing thirteen dollars a head this morning,” Hurley said.
“Yes. Well, that's why I came into town today. I wanted to check the highest price being paid, just to reinforce my decision. So I guess I'll be buying Herefords.”
“That's a good move,” Hurley said. He chuckled. “Though the truth is, if you were just buying according to the highest price, you wouldn't be buying Herefords.”
“I wouldn't?” Big Ben replied, curious by the strange answer. “What would I be buying?”
“Black Angus.”
“Black Angus? Yes, I think I have heard of those. I haven't seen any in Texas, though.”
“That's because there aren't any Black Angus in Texas,” Hurley said.
“Wait. You mean if I brought Black Angus into Texas, I would be first?”
“That's exactly what I mean.”
Big Ben laughed, then slapped his hand on his knee. “That would put a sock in Walter Hannah's mouth, once and for all, wouldn't it?” he said. “Tell me, Will, what are Black Angus going for right now?”
Hurley looked at a piece of paper on his desk until he found the figure he was after.
“As of ten o'clock this morning, they were sixteen dollars and thirty cents a head.”
“That's even higher than Herefords,” Big Ben said. “Now, the next question, is where can I find some to buy?”
“Well, they are my competition,” Hurley said. “But setting that aside, my best guess would be the Stock Exchange in Kansas City.”
“You wouldn't feel like I'm going behind your back by going there?” Big Ben asked.
“Not if you do business with me once you get your cows.”
Big Ben smiled and stuck out his hand. “You've been a good friend to me, Will,” he said. “Of course I will be doing business with you.”
Stock Exchange, Kansas City, Missouri, October 13
The building was divided into two parts. On one side there was an area that everyone referred to as “the bullpen.” It was so called because here, there were six desks crowded rather close together. Behind the desks toiled the inventory clerks, men who came to work and buried their head in endless rows of numbers.
A long counter separated the “bullpen” from the much larger and better decorated director's room where Jay Montgomery had his desk. On the back wall was a large blackboard upon which figures were written, the figures representing the latest quotes from the cattle market. In the corner was a ticker-tape machine, and at the moment one of the clerks was standing by it, holding the tape in his two hands, reading it as it came from the machine. As soon as he got all the numbers, he would transfer them to the blackboard.
Big Ben, who had left Fort Worth the day before, walked up to the low railing and stood there for a moment, waiting for someone to notice him. One of the clerks who had just finished putting numbers on the blackboard turned, and seeing Big Ben, flinched in surprise. He had never seen a man quite that big.
“Yes, sir, can I help you?”
“My name is Benjamin Conyers. I would like to speak with Mr. Jay Montgomery.”
“Just a moment, sir,” the clerk said as he hurried out of the bullpen and into an office at the back. A moment later a tall, silver-haired, dignified-looking man came out of the office with the clerk. Smiling, he approached Big Ben with his hand extended.
“Mr. Conyers,” he said. “It is so nice to actually meet you, after doing business all these years. Have you come to arrange a cattle sale?”
“No, sir. A cattle buy,” Big Ben said.
“A cattle buy? Well, I'm sure we can accommodate you there. What kind of cattle do you want to buy, and how many?”
“I want to buy twenty-five hundred head of Black Angus,” Big Ben said.
Montgomery blinked. “Twenty-five hundred head of Angus? That's—uh—quite an order,” he said.
“Yes, sir, I suppose it is,” Big Ben said. “Can you fill it?”
Montgomery shook his head. “No, sir, I'm afraid I can't. There aren't so many Black Angus in the country for us to have such a large reserve.”
“Damn,” Big Ben said.
“I understand what you are trying to do, Mr. Conyers,” Montgomery said. “All the cattlemen are getting rid of Longhorn now. They simply are no longer profitable. But everyone is going into Herefords, and if you would be interested in that, then we would be able to help you.”
“I may have to do that,” Big Ben said. “But I don't mind telling you that I was set upon buying Black Angus. How many other places are there like yours? What I mean is, what would be the chances of putting together a herd as large as the one I need?”
“Oh, Mr. Conyers, I don't know,” Montgomery said. “I suppose I could check with all the other cattle exchanges in the country, and among those who have any Angus at all, put together a herd for you. But you would have to gather them from all over, and by the time you did that, counting transportation costs and everything, they are likely to cost you thirty dollars a head. That would make them completely cost-prohibitive.”
Big Ben breathed out a sigh of disappointment.
“Yes,” he said. “I see what you mean.”
“Unless ... ,” Montgomery said, brightening, and holding up one finger.
“Unless what?”
“Unless you would be willing to buy them all from a private rancher.”
“You know a rancher who has enough Black Angus to be able to sell me two thousand, five hundred head?”
“Yes, I think I do,” Montgomery said. “His name is Duff MacCallister, and he lives in Chugwater, Wyoming.”
Montgomery walked over to the desk of one of the many clerks and, making a motion for paper and a pen, started writing.
“Here is his name and how to get in touch with him,” Montgomery said. “When you write to him, you can mention my name. It might do you some good. We have done business together quite frequently over the last three years.”
“Thank you,” Big Ben said. “By the way, what is the market price for Angus, today?”
“Seventeen dollars,” Montgomery said without having to check. He smiled. “I just got a quote this morning.”
“That's up from the last time I checked,” Big Ben said.
“Yes, Black Angus are the most active right now.”
“I'll have to keep that in mind when I make my buy,” Big Ben said.
Sky Meadow Ranch, Wyoming, October 24
Duff Tavish MacCallister was standing on the front porch of his ranch house at Sky Meadow drinking coffee and watching the light show that the setting sun played upon the long, purple range of mountains called Laramie Ridge. His ranch, Sky Meadow, one of the most productive ranches in all of Wyoming. It was also the location of a producing gold mine. The mine did not produce enough gold to merit full-time operation, but it did produce enough to enable him to build Sky Meadow, and to populate it with Black Angus cattle.
Duff had raised Black Angus back in Scotland; he was well familiar with the breed, and knew of its superiority to Longhorn and even Hereford cattle. He now had the largest Angus herd in the West, and one of the largest herds in the nation.
Earlier in the day, Elmer Gleason, Duff's ranch foreman, had gone into Chugwater. Duff drank his coffee and watched as his foreman rode through the front gate, about fifty yards down the road from the house itself. Elmer was wiry and raw-boned. He had a full head of white hair and a neatly trimmed beard. Duff didn't know exactly how old Elmer was, and Elmer never said. But he knew some of Elmer's past from riding with Quantrill, and later Jesse James, to being a seaman on China Clipper. He knew also that he had never known a man more loyal than Elmer Gleason.
“You got some mail,” Elmer said as he dismounted onto the front stoop. He handed the letter to Duff. “But I'd be careful reading that letter if I was you,” Gleason said.
“Why is that?”
“Well, sir, because it's postmarked from Texas, and you bein' from Scotland 'n all, like as not you don't know about them Texans. But they ain't none of 'em to be trusted.”
“Sure 'n back in Scotland they say that about the Highlanders,” Duff said, chuckling as he opened the letter. “Well now, 'tis a fancy letter on monogrammed stationery it is.”
Benjamin Conyers
Live Oaks Ranch, Texas
 
Dear Mr. MacCallister:
I am informed by Mr. Jay Montgomery that you have the largest and most superior herd of a breed known as Black Angus in the United States. I have been running Longhorns for many years, but as the price of Longhorns at the market has decreased sharply in the last few years, I have sold off my entire herd and now have 120, 000 well watered acres, with ample grass, but no cows.
At my last telegraphic query, Black Angus were bringing $17 a head at the Kansas City Market. If you can deliver 2500 head of Black Angus to me here, at Live Oaks, I am prepared to pay you $20 a head, provided there are no steers, but enough bulls and heifers to enable me to increase the size of the herd. However, I shall require delivery before the end of the year. I know that a winter drive may be difficult, but should you make it by Christmas, you will be welcome to celebrate the birthday of our Lord at my ranch. If you agree to these terms, please respond soonest by telegram.
Sincerely,
Benjamin Conyers
“Are you going to do it?” Elmer asked, after reading the letter when Duff showed it to him.
“Aye, that's three dollars a head more than I can get anywhere else,” Duff said. “But he is wanting to start a herd so he wants only bulls and heifers, so I've only got about fifteen hundred head that I feel like I can ship.”
“You could ask Smoke Jensen to add some of his cattle to the shipment,” Elmer said. “You might recall that he started running Black Angus after he lost so much of his cattle in the big freeze and die-out a couple of years ago.”
“That's right, he did,” Duff said. “I'll ride into town tomorrow and send him a telegram.”
“Will you be callin' on Miss Meghan when you go into town?” Elmer asked.
“And why wouldn't I be calling on her, she being my business partner?”
“It ain't just the business that has you sniffin' around her all the time, my friend,” Elmer said.
Duff laughed. “Sure, Elmer, 'n you remind me of a Scottish laird, brokerin' a marriage for his tenants. ‘Tis no doubt but that I'll be seeing her. But don't be ringing the wedding bells just yet, my friend.”
Big Rock, Colorado, October 31
Smoke Jensen was in Longmont's saloon sitting at a table with two of his closest friends in town, Louis Longmont, the owner of the saloon, and Sheriff Monty Carson.
“How long are you going to be in Cheyenne?” Louis asked. “I ask only because I want to know if there will be enough time for me to use my French charm to win the beautiful Madame Sally away from you.”
Sheriff Carson laughed. “Louis, if you had until the Second Coming, you couldn't win Sally away from Smoke.”
“One can always try,” Louis said. Louis winning Sally away from Smoke was a running joke, and everyone knew that it was. But his admiration for her was genuine; aboveboard, but genuine.
“I'm not sure how long I'll be there,” Smoke said. “Just long enough to conclude some business, or at least, discuss the business if not conclude it.”
“Who are you meeting with?” Sheriff Carson asked.
“Duff MacCallister,” Smoke said. “He is a cousin of Falcon's, not too long a resident of the U.S. He is the one I bought the Black Angus from, after the great die-out.”
“Oh, yes, I remember that,” Sheriff Carson said. “How are the cows working out?”
“Great. I've got quite a large herd now. Not as many as I had when I was running Longhorn, but more than I would have thought by now. In fact, I have enough to be able to help Duff out with his project.”
The whistle of the approaching train could be heard and Smoke stood, then reached down for his grip. Not until he stood could someone get a good enough look at him to be able to judge the whole of the man. Six feet two inches tall, he had broad shoulders and upper arms so large that even the shirt he wore couldn't hide the bulge of his biceps. His hair, the color of wheat, was kept trimmed, and he was clean-shaven. His hips were narrow, though accented by the gunbelt and holster from which protruded a Colt .44, its wooden handle smooth and unmarked.
Fifteen minutes later, Smoke was on the train, headed for a meeting in Cheyenne with Duff MacCallister.

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