Authors: William W. Johnstone

A Lone Star Christmas (27 page)

BOOK: A Lone Star Christmas

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C
HAPTER
T
WENTY

“That was sweet of you to give me my own star,” Rebecca said later that night as Tom got ready to ride on night herd and she got ready to go to bed.

“I can be very generous when it doesn't cost me anything,” Tom teased. “If you notice, I even gave one to Maria and Sally.”

Both were wearing fur-lined sheepskin coats, and as they breathed and spoke, clouds of vapor filled the air between them.

“Yes, but my star is, by far, the most beautiful,” Rebecca said.

Tom smiled. “If you say so.” Tom looked around and saw that they were shielded from everyone's view by the hoodlum wagon.

As Tom looked at her, Rebecca saw a smoldering flame in his eyes, and she felt a tingling in the pit of her stomach. He moved toward her, paused for a moment, and encountering no resistance, put his hand behind her head and pulled her lips to his.

It was dark enough here that they could move in to the wagon and no one would ever be the wiser. Why not give in to the need that was clearly driving them both?

“Tom, are you ready?” Dusty called. “Let's get out there.”

Tom and Rebecca jerked apart as abruptly as if Dusty had come upon them. Tom pulled his hands back, and Rebecca felt her skirt fall back into place. They stared at each other through the darkness for a long moment, the vapor in the night air almost luminous as it hung between them.

“I must go,” Tom said.

“Yes, you must,” Rebecca said.

“Tom, come on! You know that Matt and Falcon are getting cold out there!”

“I'll be right there,” Tom called back, and with one last long gaze at Rebecca, he hurried out to join Dusty for the night.

Tom realized that he had gone too far now. He couldn't treat Rebecca this way unless he was willing to make a commitment. Could he find the strength to make the commitment? And if he did, would Rebecca be strong enough to stand up to her father?

Red River, December 11

A strong wind came up during the night, making the cold even more difficult. Then, the next morning, as all were gathered around the breakfast fire for its warmth as well as breakfast, Dusty pointed to the west.

“That doesn't look good, Clay,” he said.

To the west was a huge reddish-gray wall that, at first glance, looked like nothing more than a building cloud. But closer examination showed that it was an approaching sand storm.

“Get everything in the wagons that we can!” Clay said, and for the next five minutes there was a flurry of activity as everyone worked frantically to make certain that nothing loose was left outside. Then, the sand and dust storm struck them, and it was as if night had fallen again, only worse, for at night they had the moon and stars, and even lanterns to help them. The dust storm blinded them beyond the power of the sun, or of any lantern.

The cattle reacted to the storm, first by lowering their heads and turning their backs to the wind. Then, driven by the wind, they began to drift in one large mass. In the meantime the air was filled with the blowing sand which not only blinded the cowboys, but stung their skin as if they were being rubbed down with sandpaper.

The horses were having a hard time keeping their feet, and they trembled with fear, not quite aware of what was happening to them. Smoke, Falcon, Clay and Dusty managed to make it to the front of the herd, and they started shooting their pistols into the ground, hoping by the noise to check their movement. But so loud was the dust storm, and so abrasive were the wind-tossed granules of sand, that the men on the flank and to the rear of the herd couldn't even hear the gunshots.

Rebecca, Sally and Maria huddled together in the hoodlum wagon listening to the roar of the wind, to the canvas flapping against the wagon bows, and to the rattle of the sand.

“Oh, the poor animals,” Maria said. “How awful this must be for them.”

“It's not all that good for our men folk either,” Sally said.

“Maria, you don't look well,” Rebecca said. “Are you ill?”

“I think maybe the baby will come sooner than I thought. I have been having some pains.”

“Maria, when you say very soon, you aren't sayingâI mean, you don't think that the baby will be born before we get home, do you?” Rebecca asked.

“I don't know,” Maria said. “Clay says he thinks we will be home before Christmas, and Mama says the baby will come in January.”

“Mrs. Bustamante? Not a doctor?”

“Mama is a
comadrona
,” Maria said. “How do you sayâshe is one who helps women have babies.”

“Midwife?” Sally asked.

“Si.
Comadrona
, midwife.”

“I hope she is right. I would hate for you to have to have the baby during this drive.”

“If she delivers during the drive, we'll just take care of it,” Sally said reassuringly. “Hundreds of babies were born on the wagon trains going west.”

“That is true, isn't it?” Rebecca said. “Still, I hope the baby doesn't come until we get back to the ranch.”

Outside the wagon, the dust storm continued to roar and, even inside the wagon, with the canvas stretched over the bows to protect them against the sharp sting of the sand, the air was so full that they could barely see each other.

The wagon was broadside against the wind, and once or twice the two wheels on the right side of the wagon lifted slightly from the ground.

“We are going to have to turn the wagons into the wind,” Sally said. “If we don't, they will surely tip over.”

“Not into the wind, away from the wind,” Rebecca suggested. “That way the mules will have some protection.”

“Yes,” Sally agreed.

Even as the men were out with the cattle, the three women, working on their own, managed to prod the mules into turning so that the backsides of the mules, as well as the backsides of the wagons, were into the wind. What normally would have taken no more than a minute or two took at least fifteen minutes because the mules were so hesitant to move.

Now, there was no longer any danger of the wagons tipping over, but without the canvas sides to stop the wind and the blowing sand, they whipped through the wagons at full force.

By the time the dust storm ended, the cattle had drifted more than three miles away. The good thing was that they had stayed together, so it was fairly easy to drive them back to where the wagons were waiting. It was late afternoon, and with the dust gone, the cold winter sky was a clear, bright blue. However it was late enough so that already the sun was sinking in the west. In addition the men, who had been fighting the dust storm for the entire day, were much too exhausted to push the cattle across the river, so they made the decision to spend one more night here.

Sally and the women warmed a big kettle of water and the men washed their faces, which were raw from the cold and the blowing sand. Tom's eyes looked like two glowing embers glaring out from a sheet of parchment. Everyone else's eyes looked the same.

Rebecca handed Tom a warm, wet cloth, and watched as he washed his face and his eyes. Inexplicably, she giggled.

“What is it?” Tom asked, surprised by her laughter.

“It is your eyes,” Rebecca said. “They are so red that I wonder if they will glow in the dark.”

“I'm Mephistopheles, Rebecca, didn't you know that?” Tom said, making a frightening face.

Rebecca laughed again. “Don't do that,” she said. “You'll frighten the others.”

Amarillo, Texas, December 11

Lars Prewitt was a slender man with slumped shoulders and long arms. He had sunken cheeks and a Vandyke beard that was dark in color, contrasting sharply with his gray hair. Prewitt was also the largest cattleman in Potter County, Texas. What nobody in Amarillo or Potter County knew was that Prewitt had help in building his ranch. That help came by way of his providing a ready outlet for stolen stock, and every cattle rustler between Fort Worth and Denver knew that they could sell their stolen beef there.

At the moment, Prewitt was sitting at a table in the White Elephant Saloon, having a drink and a conversation with Red Coleman.

“Why do I need more cattle?” Prewitt asked, in response to a proposal made by Red. “Hell, I damn near have to give away the cows I got now, no more'n they are paying for them at the market.”

“What are they paying for Longhorns right now?” Red asked.

“The market opened this morning at four dollars and twenty cents a head,” Prewitt said. “I can barely feed them for that.”

“Uh, huh,” Red said, smiling broadly. “Suppose I told you I could get you two thousand, five hundred head of cattle that are paying seventeen dollars per head?”

“What kind of cattle would that be?” Prewitt asked.

Red reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out the article about the cattle drive he had torn from the Dodge City newspaper. He showed it to Prewitt.

“Yeah, I've read some about these Black Angus cows,” Prewitt said shortly after he got into the article. He read for a moment, then slid the article back to Red. “You're right, it says here that they are seventeen dollars a head.”

“It might even be more. And those cows could be yours.”

“What do you have in mind?” Prewitt asked.

“I have in mind to take that herd when they get into Texas,” he said. “After I have the herd, I'll bring 'em to you for four dollars a head.”

“You are going to take the herd? Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

“You expect the cowboys who are driving the herd to just watch you ride away with the cows, do you?”

“In a manner of speaking, yeah, I do,” Red said. “From what I've been able to gather, there are only seven of them. Seven cowboys trying to drive two thousand, five hundred head four hundred fifty miles. That means they are goin' to be all spread out. If I hit them with, oh, say eight men, in the middle of the night, I don't expect any resistance at all.”

“This article says the cows are going to Ben Conyers,” Prewitt said.

“Yeah, I read that,” Red said.

“Conyers. As in Big Ben Conyers,” Prewitt said, emphasizing the name. “Don't you know who he is?”

“I've never heard of him before this article,” Red said. “Should I have heard of him?”

“Richard King, John Chisolm, Shanghai Pierce, Big Ben Conyers,” Prewitt said. “They are the cattle giants of Texas, and there isn't a one of them who would stand by and let their herds be taken.”

“It's not his herd yet,” Red said easily. “I won't be taking a herd from Conyers. I'll be taking it from Smoke Jensen.”

Prewitt's eyes opened wide. “Smoke Jensen? Good God man, that's even worse. Don't you know who Smoke Jensen is?”

“Yeah, I know who the son of a bitch is,” Red said. “And I have a score to settle with him.”

“Smoke Jensen doesn't scare you off?”

“No,” Red said. “Does Conyers scare you off?”

Prewitt paused for a moment before he answered. “I'll say this. I would like nothing better than to take Big Ben's cows away from him.”

“Well, sir, I'm the man that can do it for you,” Red said. “All we have to do is come to some agreement on my cut.”

“Let's take a walk down to Western Union,” Prewitt said.

“Western Union? What for?”

“I know how much Longhorns opened for this morning. I'd like to get a report on these Black Angus.”

Lars Prewitt was an average-sized man, but he elevated his height with high-heeled boots and a high-crowned hat. His eyes were such a pale blue that one had to look twice to see any color.

Prewitt was well known in Amarillo, and as he and Red ambled down the boardwalk between the White Elephant Saloon and the Western Union office, several of the citizens spoke to him.

When they stepped into the Western Union office, it smelled of the pipe tobacco the telegrapher was smoking. At the moment, he held the pipe clenched tightly in his teeth as he bent over the clacking telegraph key, writing on a pad the message that was coming in. Prewitt and Red remained quiet until the telegrapher worked the key to sign off. The telegrapher tore the page off the pad, folded it double, then turned in his swivel chair.

“Mr. Prewitt,” he said, recognizing one of the county's leading citizens. “What can I do for you?”

“How about getting in touch with the cattle exchange market in Kansas City for me. I want you to check some prices.”

“I can save you some money, Mr. Prewitt,” the telegrapher said. “I checked on the Longhorns for the newspaper editor, not an hour ago.”

“I'm not interested in Longhorns,” Prewitt said.

“Oh? What are you interested in?”

“Black Angus.”

“Black Angus, you say? Well, now, that's interesting. Who are you checking for? As far as I know, nobody in the whole county has Black Angus.”

“I have a chance to buy some Black Angus cattle at, what I think, is a good price. But I want to be certain.”

The telegrapher nodded, then bent over his key and gave it a few taps. There was a pause, then a response. The telegrapher responded again, then a moment later the key clacked very quickly as he took the message. When it was finished he swiveled around in his chair again.

“The latest price paid on Black Angus is as of two fifteen this afternoon,” automatically, they all looked at the clock, it was two forty-one. “And at that time it was seventeen dollars and seventy-five cents.”

“Thank you,” Prewitt said, and he gave the telegrapher a dollar.

The two men stepped back out onto the boardwalk in front of the telegrapher's office.

“Do we have a deal?”

“Come out to the ranch,” Prewitt said. “This isn't anything I want to talk about in town.”

BOOK: A Lone Star Christmas

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