A Lone Star Christmas (6 page)

Authors: William W. Johnstone

BOOK: A Lone Star Christmas

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In the Big House at that exact moment, Clay Ramsey was visiting with Big Ben. Ranching came easily to Clay Ramsey. He could ride and rope with the best of them, and he could bulldog a calf better than most. He also had a sense of leadership that stood him well with the other cowboys. One would think he had been born and raised on a ranch, but nothing could be further from the truth. His parents had come to Texas even before it was a state, believing it would offer great opportunities for the ambitious and industrious. His father opened a store in Marshall, and though he never realized his goal of being a wealthy merchant, he was able to make a decent living.

Clay had gone to work for his father when he was ten years old, working after school and in the summers. Clay had nothing but respect for his father, but he knew, early in his life, that he had no desire to ever work in a store. When he was sixteen he signed on with a cattle company taking a herd to market in Dodge City. From that day forward he was hooked, and he laid his future out. He wanted to be a cowboy, then trail boss, then the foreman of a great ranch. He had achieved that and was perfectly happy with his life.

He was also happily married, though there were many who had told him that being married wasn't that good of an idea for a cowboy.

“Four dollars and seventy cents a head? Are you sure?” Big Ben said, responding to what Clay had just told him.

“Yes, sir, that was the quote they gave me when I went to Fort Worth this morning,” Clay replied.

“That's only a dollar a head more than it costs me to raise them,” Big Ben said. “And figuring seventy-five cents a head to drive them up to Dodge City, that means I'd be making a profit of twenty-five cents a head.”

“Yes, sir,” Clay said. “Well, the plain truth is, Mr. Conyers, folks just don't want Longhorn beef anymore.”

“What's wrong with Longhorn beef? I've been eating it for fifty years.”

“They say it's tough and stringy.”

“It's always been tough and stringy,” Big Ben countered.

“Hereford beef isn't tough or stringy,” Clay said.

“Yeah, I know,” Big Ben said. “Just as a matter of curiosity, what are Herefords bringing?”

“Twelve dollars a head.”

“Walter Hannah is running Herefords and has been for the last five years,” Big Ben said. “He tried to get me to switch over when he did, but I didn't listen to him. If I were to switch now, it would be the same as admitting that he was right and I was wrong. And if I know Walter, that is something he would never let me live down.”

“It isn't my place to say, Mr. Conyers,” Clay said. “But is hanging on to your pride worth twenty-five cents a head?”

“You have a point,” Big Ben said. “But right now I have to decide what to do about the five thousand head of Longhorn I have. It is barely worth mounting a drive to take them to market, but I don't see as I have any alternative.”

“Would you like a suggestion?”

“Yes, by all means.”

“I know that Mr. Hurley at the Union Stockyard in Fort Worth is looking to buy cattle.”

“Yes, but I understand he is paying a dollar less than they are paying at Kansas City,” Big Ben said.

“But consider this,” Clay said. “You won't have the expense of driving the herd to Dodge City, and the rail cost of taking them to Kansas City. And, you won't have the risk of losing any of your cattle.”

Big Ben stroked his chin. “You may have a point,” he said. “I won't make any money, but I won't lose any, either. And if I get rid of this herd, that will leave me the freedom to decide what I need to do next. All right, Clay, I'll ride into town tomorrow and meet with Mr. Hurley. If we can come to some sort of an arrangement, we'll deliver the herd to him at the stockyards.”

For the drovers heading Longhorn cattle up the Chisholm Trail to the railheads, Fort Worth was the last major stop for rest and supplies. Beyond Fort Worth they would have to deal with crossing the Red River into Indian Territory. So, because Fort Worth was on the route north, between 1866 and 1890 more than four million head of cattle were trailed through the town.

Then, when the railroad arrived in 1876, Fort Worth became a major shipping point for livestock. This prompted plans in 1887 for the construction of the Union Stockyard Company located about two and one half miles north of the Tarrant County Courthouse. The Union Stockyard Company, was now in full operation.

William Hurley, founder and president of the Union Stockyard Company in Fort Worth, was an average-sized man, though he was dwarfed by Big Ben's towering presence. Hurley, who wore a Vandyke beard, invited Big Ben into his office, offering him a seat across from his desk. A brass locomotive acted as a paper weight for the many pieces of paper that were piled up on this busy man's desk.

“So you want to sell me some cows, do you?” Hurley asked.

“I do.”

“Good.” Hurley opened a wooden box and handed Big Ben a cigar. “Try this, I think you will like it. It comes from Cuba.”

Big Ben nodded as he accepted the cigar. He took a small cutter from his pocket, nipped off the end, then ran his tongue up the side of the cigar. Before he reached for his own matches, Hurly struck a match, let the carbon burn away, then held the flame to the tip of Big Ben's cigar.

“I think,” Hurley said as Big Ben puffed on the cigar, securing the light and sending up a white puff of aromatic smoke, “that if a cowman like you, one of the men who made the Texas cattle industry, would start using the stockyard, it would spread to others. And that would be good for Texas.”

“And particularly good for you, I would expect,” Big Ben replied around the edge of his cigar.

“I'll admit that if I could start a thriving cattle market, right here in Fort Worth, it would be good for me,” Hurley said.

“Speaking as a cattleman, I have to tell you that the problem we would have in dealing with you, Will, is the fact that you don't pay enough. It is my understanding that you are paying one dollar a head below the Kansas City market.”

“That is true,” Hurley admitted. “But, like you, I have to get the cows to Kansas City, and I do that by train, which is quite expensive.”

“What you should do is start a meat-processing plant right here in Fort Worth,” Big Ben suggested.

Hurley chuckled. “Mr. Conyers, you are a brilliant man, for that is exactly what I plan to do. I have been discussing this very subject with Mr. Phillip Armor, of the Armor Meat Packing Company.”

“When you get that done, I think you will have a lot of cattlemen dealing with you. I know that I will.”

“I appreciate that,” Hurley said. “In fact, to show you how much I appreciate your business, if you will let me use your name in talking to others, I will make you a special deal on your cattle,” Hurley said. “Instead of paying one dollar below market price, I will give you ninety cents below market price.”

Big Ben was pleased with that proposal, for that wouldn't be much less than he would make if he drove the entire herd to Dodge City, especially considering the fact that he was certain to lose some cattle during the drive. But he knew better than to show how pleased he was with that offer, so he made a counter-bid.

“Suppose I took half a dollar less?”

Hurley shook his head. “I couldn't do that,” he said. “But I might be able to go eighty cents below market.”

“Make it seventy cents, and you have a deal,” Big Ben said.

“Mr. Wiggins,” Hurley called through the open door of his office.

A small, bald-headed man stepped into the door. “Yes sir, Mr. Hurley?”

“What is the latest market price for Longhorns in Kansas City?”

“Four dollars and ninety cents.”

“Thank you.”

Hurley did some figuring, then looked up. “I can give you four dollars and fifteen cents a head. That's seventy five cents below market and quite frankly, Mr. Conyers, this is the best I can do.”

Big Ben extended his hand across the desk. “Mr. Hurley, I'll have the cattle here by day after tomorrow,” he said.

C
HAPTER
F
IVE

Chugwater, Wyoming, June 27

When Biff Johnson saw a tall man with golden hair, wide shoulders, and muscular arms come into Fiddler's Green, the saloon Biff owned, he reached under the bar to find the special bottle of Scotch that he kept just for his friend, Duff MacCallister. He also poured one for himself, then held his glass up.

“Here's to them that like us, and to them that think us swell,” Biff said.

“And to them that hates us, long may they roast in hell,” Duff replied, as, with a laugh, the two friends touched their glasses together.

Biff Johnson was a retired U.S. Army sergeant who had been with Benteen's battalion as part of Custer's last scout. When he retired he had built a saloon in Chugwater and named it Fiddler's Green, after an old cavalry legend: Anyone who has ever heard the bugle call Boots and Saddles will, when he dies, go to a cool, shady place by a stream of sweet water. There, he will see all the other cavalrymen who have gone before him, and he will greet those who come after him as he awaits the final judgment. That place is called Fiddler's Green.

In the three years since Duff had come to America, he and Biff had become good friends, partly because Biff was married to a woman from Scotland, and partly because of an incident that had happened shortly after Duff arrived.

“MacCallister!” Malcolm called from the darkness of the saloon. “Why don't you come back out into the street, and I will as well? We can face each other down. What do you say? Just you and I, alone in the street.”

“You don't expect me to believe that, do you?” Duff called back.

“Believe what?”

“That it would just be the two of us.”

Malcolm laughed. “You think that because I have friends with me, that I may take unfair advantage of you, MacCallister? Alas, that is probably true. Tell me, what does it feel like to know that you won't live long enough to see the sun set tonight?”

All the while Malcolm was talking, Duff was keeping one eye on the mirror and the other on the corner of the watering trough. Then his vigil was rewarded. Duff saw the brim of a hat appear, and he cocked his pistol, aimed, took a breath, and let half of it out. When he saw the man's eye appear, Duff touched the trigger. Looking in the mirror he saw the man's face fall into the dirt, and the gun slip from his hand.

“Carter! Carter!” the man at the end of the trough shouted. Suddenly he stood up. “You son of a bitch! You killed my brother!” He started running across the street, firing wildly. Duff shot one time, and the man running toward him pitched forward in the street.

Duff heard the bark of a rifle, then he saw someone tumbling forward off the roof of the dress shop. The man had had a bead on Duff, and Duff hadn't seen him. Looking toward the sound of the rifle shot, Duff saw Biff Johnson. Smiling, Biff waved at him, then stepped back behind the corner of the Curly Latham's Barber Shop.
¹

“Will you be coming into town for the Fourth of July celebration?” Biff asked.

“When is that?”

“The Fourth of July is on the fourth,” Biff answered with a laugh. “Funny thing about that holiday, but it comes on the fourth, every July.”

“What day of the week?” Duff asked, laughing with him.

“I know what you meant, I was just teasing you. It's next Friday. Of course, being a Scotsman, our Independence Day holiday won't mean much to you.”

“Nae, that's where you're wrong, Laddie,” Duff said. “For 'twas on that date that you stole America from the English. And any evil done to the cursed English warms the cockles of any true Scotsman's heart.”

“This is sort of a double celebration for us this year. Wyoming is being admitted as a state on the tenthâI don't know why they didn't decide on the fourth. Seems to me like that would be ideal, to celebrate the birth of our country and the birth of our state on the same day,” Biff said.

“Maybe they thought Wyoming should have its own birthday,” Duff suggested.

“I suppose so. Anyway, there is going to be a dance,” Biff said. “And I expect Miss Parker will be wanting you to come. You will be there, won't you?”

“She's my business partner,” Duff said. “I have to come.”

“Speaking of your business, how big is your herd now?”

“Just over ten thousand head.”

“I remember when all the other ranchers teased you about raising Black Angus,” Biff said. “They weren't hearty enough, some said. Others said it was a temporary thing; that Americans were used to Longhorns and wouldn't take to Angus. Now your herd is the envy of all of Wyoming.”

“Not just my herd,” Duff said. “Don't forget, Meghan Parker owns one fourth.”

“What are Angus bringing at the market now?”

“About fifteen dollars and seventy cents a head.”

Biff took a tablet and pencil from under the bar, then did some figuring. “That makes her share worth thirty-nine thousand, two hundred fifty dollars, which is about ten times more that her dress store is worth. She's not only beautiful, she is one smart lady.”

“Aye, she is that, all right,” Duff said. He tossed down his drink, then with a salute of his empty glass started to the door. “
SlÃ inte, sonas agus beartas
to ye, m' friend,” he called back over his shoulder.

“Health, wealth, and happiness to you as well, Duff,” Biff called back.

Chugwater, July 4

There had been a baseball game between the cowboys and the merchants of the town, the game won by the merchants as they had played it much more often. There were also foot races and horse races.

Duff had watched the baseball game, though he had no idea what was going on. He enjoyed the foot racing and horse racing because at least he could understand what it was.

It was Meghan who came up with the William Tell idea. She advanced the proposal that Duff was a good enough shot that she would trust him to shoot an apple off her head from fifty paces. Duff protested and would have absolutely refused, had not Sir Anthony Wellington made his comment.

“I've never yet met a Scotsman who would match his purse with his mouth.”

Wellington was an Englishman who had come to America to buy some ranching property, taking advantage of the ill fortunes of those who had lost much during the great freeze and die-out of a few years earlier.

“Mayor Matthews,” Duff said. “Did I not hear some discussion as to the cost of building a new school in Chugwater?”

Fred Matthews, who owned the mercantile and was one of Duff's first friends upon moving to Chugwater, was the current mayor of the town.

“It has been discussed, but so far we haven't been able to raise enough money.”

“How much do you need?”

“We think twenty-five hundred dollars would be enough to build it,” Matthews said.

“Mr. Wellington, would you care to wager?” Duff asked.

“Actually, that would be Lord Wellington,” Wellington corrected.

“Nae, not in America. Here, in America, on the day of its celebration of independence from the black-hearted English, here,
Mister
Wellington, there are no Lords.” He looked over at Meghan and smiled. “But there are ladies,” he said.

“You wish to wager for twenty-five hundred dollars to build the school? How gallant of you, sir. Yes, I shall wager twenty-five hundred dollars. And I will even buy the apple,” he said.

Word quickly spread throughout town that Duff MacCallister was going to shoot an apple off Meghan Parker's head, and a crowd gathered on First Street to watch the demonstration.

When Wellington returned with the apple, everyone in the crowd gasped. The apple was no bigger than an average-sized plum.

“That's not fair!” Guthrie shouted. Guthrie, another of Duff's friends, owned a building supply store. “The bet was that he would shoot an apple.”

“I bought this in His Honor the mayor's own store,” Wellington said. “It was represented to me as an apple. Am I to believe that the mayor is dishonest?”

“You bought the smallest apple you could find, and you know it,” Biff said.

“Nevertheless, it is an apple,” Wellington said. “And the wager is only that, from fifty paces, he will shoot an apple from the young lady's head. There were no specifications as to how large the apple must be.”

“Put the apple on a stake,” Duff said. “I will shoot it from fifty paces.”

“Oh, no, no, no, my dear sir,” Wellington said. “The wager is that you will shoot the apple as it rests upon her head. It is such a pretty head too. It would be a shame to see some injury befall her.”

“Give me the apple,” Meghan said.

The fifty paces had already been stepped off, and she went to the place marked for her, turned to face Duff, and put the apple on her own head.

“Meghan, I ... ,” Duff started, but Meghan interrupted him.

“Do it, Duff,” she said. “Do it, and only your name will be on my dance card tonight.”

Duff nodded, smiled, raised his pistol, aimed, and pulled the trigger. The apple flew into pieces as the bullet penetrated the pulp. The crowd applauded, as much in relief as from appreciation of the marksmanship.

True to her promise, Duff was the only name on Meghan's dance card that night, though she had confided with her friend that his name already was the only one on her card.

Live Oaks Ranch, July 4

The banner read: “Happy 114
^thBirthday, America!” In addition to the banner, all the posts and pillars of all the buildings of Live Oaks Ranch were decorated with red, white, and blue bunting. The cowboys, enjoying a rare day of festivities, were laughing and shouting, and running about, setting off firecrackers.

Two very long tables, each one capable of seating forty diners, had been built by placing planks across several sawhorses. The tables under the spreading live oak trees that gave the ranch its name were filled with cakes, pies, biscuits, potato salad, baked beans, sliced tomatoes and cucumbers.

Early this morning two of the cowboys, Dusty McNally and Mo Coffey, had built a fire of mesquite, then spitted half a steer over the fire. And though only Coleman, the cook for Live Oaks, had the right to apply his “special” barbeque sauce, the rest of the cowboys had taken turns during the day turning the beef slowly over the fires and filling the compound with the delicious aroma of roasting meat.

Everyone on the ranch had eaten beef all their lives, but all agreed that they had never tasted anything this good, and they all complimented Coleman on the wonderful job he did cooking.

“It wasn't nothin' particular I done,” Coleman said. “It was the beef. It was Hereford, come over from the Rocking H.”

There would be no Live Oaks cattle drive this season because Big Ben had, in accordance with his agreement with William Hurley, sold all his cattle to the Union Stock Exchange in Fort Worth. But Big Ben's friend Walter Hannah, who owned the Rocking H, a neighboring ranch, would be driving his cattle north. In fact, the drive would get underway on the next day after the 4th of July, and because of that, the Rocking H did not celebrate the Fourth. Instead, Hannah presented a side of Hereford beef to Big Ben as his contribution, and he and his cowboys came over to celebrate with the people at Live Oaks.

“What do you think of this beef?” Hannah asked. He and his wife, Louise, were at a table with Big Ben, Julia, and Rebecca. Dalton, by his own request, was sitting at the long table with the cowboys.

“It's good beef,” Big Ben said.

“You should have listened to me when I suggested that you switch over to Herefords,” Walter said.

“I know.”

“Well, now is a good time to do it, seeing as you don't have any cattle.”

“I know.”

“So are you?”

“Am I what?”

“Are you going to switch over to Hereford cattle?”

“I'm thinking about it,” Big Ben said. “I just haven't made up my mind yet.”

“Here is a little something to help you make up your mind,” Walter said. “Hereford are selling for twelve dollars a head in Kansas City. They cost no more to raise, and they cost no more to drive up to Dodge City, but they are bringing in twelve dollars a head, compared to what? I think Longhorn are now down to about three-fifty a head.”

“Don't rub it in,” Big Ben said.

Walter laughed. “All right, I won't,” he said. “I promise, I won't say another word about it. I'll just enjoy the picnic.”

After the meal, some of the cowboys performed for the others. One of the performers was Dusty McNally. Dusty, whose real name was Abner Coy McNally, was, fifty-two years old, and looked up to by all the younger cowboys. His hair was gray, his eyes blue, and his skin weathered, with permanent creases around his eyes. He was short, only five feet seven, and he wore a sweeping handlebar moustache that covered his mouth. Born in Tennessee, Dusty was the son of a part-time preacher and full-time farmer. His father had died when he was kicked in the head by a mule. His mother had remarried, but Dusty couldn't stand his stepfather, who abused both him and his mother. When Dusty was fifteen, he had killed his stepfather and ran away. He had been on his own ever since. He met Big Ben during the Civil War. Big Ben was a colonel and Dusty was a private, but when Big Ben lay gravely wounded among the boulders of Devil's Den at Gettysburg, under the observation and in the range of Yankee sharpshooters, no officer or sergeant could find the courage to go to the aid of their fallen commander. It was Private Dusty McNally who braved Yankee fire to drag him back to safety.

The battlefield was a cacophony of sound; from the thunder of cannonading artillery, the loud bang of muskets and pistols, the screams of terror and the cry of the wounded, to the distinctive buzz and whine of MiniÃ© balls. Private Dusty McNally was comparatively safe behind a long line of boulders, but he abandoned that safety to dart out into the open field toward his fallen colonel.

“Get him! Get that Reb!” a Union soldier shouted and several of the enemy soldiers fired at Dusty. He could hear the bullets so close to him that they popped as they passed by, then hitting the rocks to ricochet off into the distance with a loud whine.

Dusty was five feet seven inches tall, and Colonel Conyers was almost a foot taller, and twice as heavy. Dusty tried to pick him up, but fell back on his first try.

“Jesus, Colonel, I don't mean nothin' by this, but you are one big sum'bitch,” Dusty said as he tried again to pick him up. “Can you sit up?”

“I think so,” Colonel Conyers said.

“All right, sit up.”

Colonel Conyers sat up, then Dusty squatted down in front of him. “Put your arms around my neck,” Dusty said.

The colonel did so, then Dusty put his arms under Colonel Conyer's arms and stood up, lifting the colonel to his feet as he did so. After that he put his shoulder into Conyer's stomach and lifted the colonel so that he was draped across his shoulder. Carrying him in that way, he turned and started back toward the relative safety of the line of boulders.

It wasn't until then that he realized no one was shooting at him, and just as he reached the boulders, he was cheered, not only by the Confederate troops but by the Union soldiers as well.

“Good job, Reb!” one of the Yankee soldiers shouted. “Now, you and that big fella you just hauled off the field, keep your heads down, 'cause we're goin' to commence shootin' again!”

For all intents and purposes, the war ended when Lee surrendered to Grant at Appomattox, Virginia, but for many veterans of that terrible war, the surrender was just the beginning of a much more personal conflict. Young men who had lived their lives on the edge for four years found it nearly impossible to return home and take up the plow, or go back to work in a store, repair wagons, or any of the other things that were the necessary part of becoming whole again.

Some took up the outlaw trail, continuing to practice the skills they had learned during the war. Though few on the ranch knew it, Dusty had taken that path and was, in his own words, on the trail to perdition when he came to Live Oaks and asked for work. Big Ben gave him a job, and Dusty had been with him ever since.

Dusty was a master with ropes, and he gave the others a demonstration which had them all cheering.

Mo Coffey was next. Mo Coffey was about twenty-two years old. He told everyone he was
about
that old, because he had no idea how old he really was. His mother, whom he had never met, had left a newborn infant wrapped in a coffee-bean bag on the doorstep of Our Lady of Mercy orphanage. The sisters at the orphanage named him Coffey after the coffee bag, and Moses because of the story of the baby Moses being left in the bull rushes.

“All right,” Mo said. “Now let me show you fellas a thing or two.”

He picked up two bottles, gave one to Dalton and one to Dusty.

“Alright, when you are ready, throw the bottles into the air,” Mo said.

“You don't have your gun out yet,” Dalton said.

“Don't worry about that. Just throw the bottles up into the air.”

Mo bent his knees slightly into a crouch, and held his right hand about six inches above his pistol.

“You going to say when?” Dusty asked.

“No, that would be cheating. You throw them when you are ready, then I'll draw.”

Dusty threw his bottle up first; then seeing him, Dalton threw his up as well. Mo drew quickly and fired twice, breaking both bottles in the air.

The applause for his feat was even more enthusiastic than it had been for Dusty's roping exhibition.

There were a few other exhibitions as well, including Dusty playing the guitar and Rebecca singing.

When darkness fell, everyone gathered for the fireworks show, which consisted of rockets and aerial bombs.

Rebecca and Tom found themselves together in the darkness and some distance from the others. When Tom put his arm around her and drew her to him, she didn't resist. Nor did she resist when he kissed her.

“Oh, Tom,” she said, saying his name even as they were kissing, so that he felt her lips moving under his. “I love you.”

“No!” Tom said. He pulled away from her. “Rebecca, you don't mean that.”

“What's wrong? Of course I mean that.”

“You can't love me, Rebecca,” Tom said. “Because I can't love you. I can't love anyone, ever.”

“Tom, what are you saying?”

“You don't understand, Rebecca. I'm not worthy of your love. I'm not worthy of any woman's love, ever again.”

Tom turned and walked away from her, quickly blending in with the other celebrants.

Rebecca felt her heart shatter, and crying bitter tears, she turned and ran back into the house.

When Big Ben went into the house after everyone was gone, he saw a lantern burning low in the parlor, and when he went in to extinguish it, he saw Rebecca sitting in the shadows.

“Rebecca, what are you doing here?” he asked.

“Nothing, just sitting here,” Rebecca said. “I'll go to bed now.”

Rebecca turned her head away, but not before Big Ben saw a tear streak glistening in the lantern light.

“What is it, Rebecca? What is wrong?”

“Oh, Papa, I'm in love,” Rebecca said.

“You're in love but you are crying? I may be an old fogey, but I thought people were happy when they were in love.”

“I love him, but he doesn't love me,” Rebecca said.

“Really. Well, I know it hurts now, darlin', but I reckon there isn't a person in the world who hasn't had the experience of loving someone and not being loved back. I'll say this, though. Anyone who would turn down your love must be an absolute fool. Who is it? George Posey? The banker's son? I know you think that would be a good match, but to tell you the truth, he's always been sort of a weak sister as far as I'm concerned. So if he doesn't love you, then you haven't lost much.”

“No, Papa!” Rebecca said, interrupting him with impassioned shout. “It isn't George Posey,” she said. “I never even see him except in church from time to time.”

“Well then, who is it?” Big Ben asked.

“It's Tom Whitman.”

Big Ben blinked a couple of times, as if he didn't understand her.

“Tom Whitman? You mean the cowboy who works for me? What on earth would make you say something like that?”

“I love him, Papa,” Rebecca said, fighting hard to keep the words from breaking in her throat.

Big Ben walked over to the front of the fireplace and stood there for a long moment, looking down at the shining brass andirons. Finally, he responded.

“Have you told him this?” Big Ben asked. He did not turn away from the fireplace as he spoke.

“Yes.”

“And what did he say?”

“He said he wasn'tâworthy of me.”

“He's right about that,” Big Ben said. “His kind isn't worthy of you.”

“What do you mean by âhis kind'?”

“I mean his kind,” Big Ben repeated. “Where did he come from? What is he doing here?”

“He came from Boston,” Rebecca said. “You know that. He told us that the first day he came here.”

“That's the next question. What is he doing here?”

“He said he wanted to see the West.”

“How do we know that he isn't running from the law?” Big Ben asked.

“He isn't. I just know he isn't.”