A Lone Star Christmas

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Cattleman’s Bank of Fort Worth, November 24

“That is a pretty large amount of cash to be carrying around, Mr. Conyers,” C.D. Matthews said. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather me issue a bank certificate for the money?”

“No, I want cash,” Big Ben said.

“Very well, I’ll have the teller make it up and bring it to you. No need for you to have to stand in line with the others.”

“Thank you,” Big Ben said.

Matthews wrote on a piece of paper, then handed it to a clerk. The clerk nodded, and took off to attend to his errand.

“I hear you are bringing in a herd of Black Angus cattle,” Matthews said.

“I am indeed. I have rid myself of every Longhorn.”

“Well, that’s going to be an interesting experiment,” Matthews said. “I’m told that, pound for pound, they are worth much more than Longhorns. What have you heard from the other ranchers for depressing the market even further for them?”

“Mostly they express interest and curiosity,” Big Ben replied. “So far there have been no examples of animosity or hostility.”

“That is good,” Matthews said. At that moment a teller arrived, carrying a bundle of money. Matthews took the money, then counted it out to Big Ben.

“I would ask if you had Christmas in mind for this money, but it isn’t even December yet, so it seems a little too early for that,” Montgomery said.

“It is not too early for the Christmas I have in mind,” Big Ben said.

Our Lady of Mercy Orphanage, Fort Worth

Sister Mary Katherine sat at her desk in Our Lady of Mercy Orphanage, going over the budget. Father Pyron of St. Patrick’s Cathedral had just given her the church’s orphanage allotment, and it didn’t look good. At present there were seventeen children in the orphanage: six girls, from infant to fourteen, and eleven boys, from three to sixteen. The sixteen-year-old would be turned out on his own when he reached seventeen, his birthday being the coming January.

From time to time the parishioners, and even the people of Fort Worth, would donate money, food, and various items to the orphanage. Thanksgiving was on the 27th, just three more days. She had wanted so, this year, to have enough money to have a big Thanksgiving Day dinner for the children, but it didn’t look as if that was going to happen. They would be lucky this Thanksgiving if they had beans and bacon.

Sister Mary Katherine was seventy-three years old. She was the Mother Superior of Our Lady of Mercy Orphanage and had been for thirty years. Before that, she was with the St. Mary’s Orphanage in Charleston, South Carolina. She had dedicated her life to serving her Lord by serving His homeless children. She had been through times that were good and times that were bad, and right now it was as bad as it had been since just after the war.

Though Sister Mary Katherine and the other sisters made life as pleasant for the children as they could, life in an institution, even a benevolent institution, could not compare with having a family. The older children did what they could for the younger ones, and already this year some of them, in order to make up for the lack of money for any Christmas gifts, were secretly making wagons, rocking-horses, and other toys.

“Mother Superior?” a nun said, sticking her head in through the open door. Had the door not been open, Sister Dominique would have never presumed to break in on the Mother Superior. She would have knocked, even though Sister Mary Katherine was not that much of a stickler for protocol.

“Yes, Sister Dominique?”

“There is a gentleman to see you.”

“Do you know what it is about?”

“I believe he wants to make a gift of some kind.”

“A gift is it? Then, by all means, do show him in,” Sister Mary Katherine said. She stood and waited for the visitor.

“Right in there, sir,” she heard Sister Dominique say.

The man who came into the office was very large, one of the biggest men she had ever seen. He filled the doorway.

“Sister ... ? Is that the proper way to address you?”

“Yes, Sister Mary Katherine, or Mother Superior. And you are?”

“Benjamin Conyers.”

“Please, Mr. Conyers, have a seat,” Sister Mary Katherine invited. “What can I do for you?”

“Do you remember a young man you had here once, named Mo Coffey?”

“Moses Coffey? Of course I remember him,” Sister Mary Katherine said. “Why, I remember vividly the night we received him. We found him lying on the front stoop, warmly wrapped on a bag that had been used for coffee. He was with us for sixteen years. A fine young man, and quite intelligent as I recall.”

“Yes, ma’am. Mo came to work for me out at Live Oaks. That’s my ranch.”

“Yes, Mo has dropped by from time to time to visit us and the children we have here now. He did tell us he was working on a ranch, and as I recall, he gave the children a demonstration with the rope. They enjoyed it so much. Please do give Mo my regards,” Sister Mary Katherine said, smiling broadly.

“I wish I could do that, ma’am, I truly do,” Big Ben said. “But the truth is, I got a telegram from my ranch foreman. Mo went to Dodge City with some of my other hands to pick up a new herd of cows. And while he was there,” Big Ben paused, not wanting to drop the news on her, but not knowing any other way to say it, just said it. “Well, I’m afraid, Sister, that Mo was killed.”

“Oh!” Sister Mary Katherine gasped. The smile left her face, and her eyes filled with tears. “Oh, dear,” she said again. “I am so sorry to hear that.” She crossed herself. “God rest his soul.”

“I was sorry to hear it as well. And I thought you might want to know.”

“Yes, thank you, that was very decent of you to tell us.”

“I’m sorry I had to be the one,” Big Ben said.

“How did he get along with the others? What I mean is, did he have friends?”

“Oh, yes, ma’am, he had wonderful friends,” Big Ben said. “Everyone on the ranch thought the world of him. In fact, he was my own son’s best friend.”

“I am so heartened by that. I am saddened by the news that Moses was killed, but I am cheered by the fact that he found friends and a purpose for his life.”

“Yes, ma’am, he did that, all right,” Big Ben said. “I was thinking, Sister Mary Katherine, perhaps there is something I could do for the orphanage, in memory of Mo.”

“Oh, we would be most grateful for anything that you might do.”

“I thought about a memorial or something like that, then I got to thinking, perhaps it should be more practical. Suppose I just gave you some money, and let you do what you wanted with it.”

“Oh, yes, that would be wonderful,” Sister Mary Katherine said. She looked down at the budget she had been working with. “In fact, Mr. Conyers, if it would not be too forward of me to ask, if you could find it in your heart to provide a monetary gift large enough for us to have a wonderful Thanksgiving Day dinner for our children. I’ve been trying to find a way to bring that about.”

“You want me to buy Thanksgiving Day dinner for the orphanage?”

“Yes. I know that is very forward of me, Mr. Conyers, and if that is asking too much, please understand that we will be extremely grateful for whatever you can give.”

“How about if I buy the Thanksgiving Day dinner, and give you five thousand dollars?” Big Ben said.

Sister Mary Katherine gasped, then stepped back to her chair, falling rather than sitting in it.

“Sister Mary Katherine, are you all right?” Big Ben asked.

The elderly nun looked up at Big Ben and moved her mouth, but no words came out.

“Sister! Sister, come in here quick!” Big Ben called, and a moment later an anxious Sister Dominique came running into the room.

“What is it? What has happened?” she asked, anxiously.

“I don’t know,” Big Ben said. “She just suddenly. . . ,” he didn’t know what to say so he made a motion with his hands toward her.

“Sister Dominique,” Sister Mary Katherine said, her voice strong and clear. “Do you have any idea what this—this wonderful gentleman has just done?”

“What?”

“He has just given us five thousand dollars!”

“Oh. God bless you, sir. God bless you!” Sister Dominique said.

Big Ben took the packet of money from his jacket pocket, fifty one-hundred-dollar bills, and put them on the corner of the desk.

“I will stop by Wagner’s Grocery Store and tell him to give you whatever you need for your Thanksgiving Day dinner,” Big Ben said. “I’ll settle with him afterward.”

“God, indeed, sent you to us,” Sister Mary Katherine said.

“There is something I would like for you to do for me,” Big Ben said. “If you would, I would like for you to pray for my daughter. I mean, I can pray for her myself, and I do, but I have to sort of believe the prayers would mean more coming from you.”

“Of course we will pray for her. Is she ill?”

“No. She is—we had a disagreement and she has left home. She is on her way back home now, and I would like you to pray for her safety, and, if it is not too much, for an agreeable reunion between us.”

“What is her name?” Sister Mary Katherine asked.

“Her name is Rebecca. Rebecca Jane Conyers.”

“We will do a Novena for her,” Sister Mary Katherine promised.

“Thank you,” Big Ben said.

“No, Mr. Conyers, we thank you. And, God bless you,” Sister Mary Katherine said.

The two sisters walked him back out to his surrey. It sagged under his weight, then he reached for the reins, clucked to his horse, and drove off.

“This will be the most wonderful Thanksgiving and Christmas our children have ever known,” Sister Dominique said as they walked back into the orphanage. “In fact you might say this is a Christmas miracle.”

“It is Moses Coffey’s Christmas miracle,” Sister Mary Katherine said.

“Moses Coffey?”

“You didn’t know Moses,” Sister Mary Katherine said. “He left before you arrived. He was one of our young men who left and worked for that wonderful gentlemen who just stopped by to visit. Poor Moses was killed a few days ago, and this money was given us in his honor.”

“Then we must remember him in our prayers,” Sister Dominique said.

“I will remember him in my prayers for the rest of my life,” Sister Mary Katherine said.

On the trail, November 24

With the wagons already gone ahead to find a spot for the noon break, the cows were strung out for three quarters of a mile, heading south. Duff and Clay were riding point, one on each side, Matt and Smoke were on the east side of the herd, while Falcon, Tom, and Dusty were on the west side. Dalton was riding drag.

Duff and Clay rode well back from the lead cattle but moved forward, closing in as the occasion required. That way, they could control the belled steer and set the course. The main body of the herd trailed along behind the leaders as if this were some great army in loose marching order.

The swing men, those riding on either side of the herd, had the job of seeing that none of the herd wandered away or dropped out. Although it was a cattle drive, there was no real driving to do. Once underway, the cattle moved of their own free will.

“The secret of driving cattle,” Dusty had told the others that morning, “is to never let them know they are being drove. From the moment they start out in the morning, you need to let them think they are on their own. Then it becomes just a matter of ridin’ along and sort of loafin’ in the saddle.”

“Hard to loaf when you’re eatin’ a lot of dust,” Dalton said.

“Son, you are the one who didn’t want to drive the hoodlum wagon anymore,” Clay said. “Now which would you rather do?”

“I’d rather ride point,” Dalton said.

“And I’d rather be riding in a fine carriage somewhere, with pretty ladies tendin’ to me,” Dusty said.

The others, including Dalton, laughed.

They had bacon, beans, and cornbread for lunch.

“I tell you what,” Dusty said. “I’ve been on a lot of cattle drives in my life. But I ain’t never ate no better’n what we done comin’ up, or goin’ back. And I ain’t never been on a cattle drive where we had such beautiful ladies to look at. You boys just don’t know how lucky you are.”

The three women smiled at the compliment.

“Dusty, I hope that compliment wasn’t just to get a piece of apple pie,” Sally said.

“No, ma’am, it sure wasn’t,” Dusty said. “But if you happen to have some pie, well, that would be just fine.”

“We don’t have any pie,” Sally said.

“Well, who needs pie with a fine meal like this?”

“But I did make some bear claws,” Sally said.

“Wow!” Matt said. “Dusty, you are in for a treat. There is nobody in the world who can make bear claws like Sally.”

“Pearlie and Cal should be here,” Smoke teased, thinking of how much his two cowboys liked Sally’s bear claws.

“If they were here there wouldn’t be any left for anyone else,” Sally said as she brought a large tin bowl out, filled with the pastries.

After lunch, as the wagons were preparing to move out, Clay came over to Tom.

“Tom, would you take a look at the left rear wheel on the hoodlum wagon? Rebecca says it is squealing something awful, and Maria says she and Mrs. Jensen can even hear it from their wagon.”

Tom looked over toward the wagon and saw Rebecca standing there. He almost asked Clay to ask someone else to do it, but he kept it to himself.

“All right,” he said. “I’ll see what it needs.”

“Probably just needs some grease,” Clay said.

There was a bucket of grease hanging from underneath both wagons, and Clay reached under the hoodlum wagon to pull it out.

“I’m sorry,” Rebecca said. “It looks like you are going to get your hands all greasy because of me.”

“It’s not your fault,” Tom said. “When a wheel axle has skeins instead of bearings, you are going to get friction. And that friction is going to cause squeaking.”

He got down on one knee, then leaned over and studied the wheel hub. “Yes,” he said, pointing. “It’s nearly dry.”

“Tom,” Rebecca said. “We have to talk.”

“Talk about what?” Tom said. “I was a fool, I know that now. I hurt you deeply. I should have told you that I was married before.”

“And she hurt you? Are you divorced?”

“She is dead.”

“Oh, Tom, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”

“You couldn’t have known. I didn’t tell you, because I couldn’t tell you.”

Tom stuck his hand into the bucket, pulled out a big gob of grease, then started packing it into the hub, working it around the metal extension, or skein, of the axle.

“I didn’t leave because you hurt me. At least, not exactly.”

“Then why did you leave?” he asked.

“Because father said I could not see you anymore,” she said. “He said that he would send you away.”

“Send me away where, Rebecca? He could fire me, he could tell me he didn’t want me on his land anymore, but that’s it. He couldn’t send me away.”

“I know. I have thought about that a lot over the last four and a half months. I know I made a mistake Tom. All I can say is that I’m sorry.”

“What about the saloon?”

“What about it?”

“What were you doing there?”

“Tom, do you think I became a prostitute? Do you think I ran off because I couldn’t have you, and became a prostitute in the process?”

Tom shook his head. “No, I don’t think you became a prostitute,” he said. “I don’t know exactly what you were doing in that saloon, or why you were there, but I don’t think you became a prostitute.”

“Oscar Davenport, the man who runs the saloon, is a wonderful man,” Rebecca said.

“I’m sure he is.” The tone of Tom’s voice was almost sarcastic. “I’m sure all the girls there just loved him. And I’m sure he loved all of them.”

“Oscar Davenport was married to my mother,” Rebecca said resolutely.

“Your mother? How can that be? Your mother is at Live Oaks.”

“Julia Conyers is my stepmother,” Rebecca said. “She is the only mother I have ever known, since she and my father were married when I was a baby, but she is my stepmother. My real mother lived in Dodge City, Kansas, and was married to Oscar Davenport. So you see, I didn’t just run away, I had a destination in mind when I left.”

“What does your mother, your real mother, think about you returning to Live Oaks?” Tom asked.

“My real mother is dead,” Rebecca said. “She died two weeks ago.”

“I’m sorry,” Tom said.

“Did you mean it, Tom?” Rebecca asked. “Did you mean it when you said you couldn’t love me?”

“There is more to it than that,” Tom said.

“What more is there?”

Tom shook his head. “You don’t need to know.”

“Yes, I do. Please, Tom, don’t you understand? I have laid my heart out for you. I have to know why my love can’t be returned. Is it because your wife died? I can understand how that would hurt, but don’t you think I could help you heal?”

“You don’t understand,” Tom said.

“I’m trying to understand,” Rebecca said. “Please help me understand.”

“My wife is dead, Rebecca, because I killed her,” Tom said flatly.

Indian territory, November 25

After breakfast the next morning, the three women washed the dishes, then began loading the wagons, preparing to leave. Two of them were loading the wagons, Rebecca was just finishing with the hoodlum wagon and Sally was closing up the chuck wagon. Maria was standing to one side between the two wagons.

Clay rode over to Maria, then dismounted.

“About ready to go?” he asked.

“Si,” Maria replied. “How far do you think you will go before noon?”

“I expect we will reach the Cimarron just about noon,” Clay answered.

“Do you want to have lunch on this side or the other side of the river?” Maria asked.

“Find a place on this side. We’ll cross after we eat,” Clay said.

“All right,” Maria replied. “Don’t be late,” she said with a smile.

Clay kissed her, then helped her climb up onto the wagon. It was difficult for her to climb and he noticed it.

“Are you all right?”

“I am fine.”

“You just seem to be having a harder time getting around.”

“I am pregnant, remember,” she said, speaking so quietly that only Clay could hear her.

“I thought you said that wasn’t going to be a problem.”

“It isn’t a problem.”

“I shouldn’t have let you come.”

“You can always send me back home,” Maria teased.

“All right, you have made your point. But do be careful. Let the other ladies do all the hard work.”

“They are already doing all the hard work,” Maria said.

Sally, who had been closing up the back of the wagon, came up on the other side, then climbed into the driver’s seat to pick up the reins.

“I told Maria, I think you should stop just on this side of the river. We’ll cross it after lunch,” Clay said.

“All right,” Sally said. She called back to Rebecca. “Rebecca, are you ready?”

“I’m ready,” Rebecca answered.

“Let’s move them out,” Sally said, slapping the reins against the backs of the team of mules.

Clay watched the two wagons start out, then he mounted his horse and called out to the others.

“Let’s get these critters moving!”

His call galvanized the others into action. It was always difficult to get the cows started moving each morning. There were several reasons for that. The campsites were purposely selected for the abundance of grass and water, and an area wide enough to allow the cows to bed down for the night. As a result, the cows were quite comfortable where they were, and that made them reluctant to leave.

Clay and the others would have to shout, poke them in the sides with sticks, and swing ropes at them to get the herd underway. After five or ten minutes of this the cows would eventually begin to move. Then, once the herd was underway, it would change from twenty-five hundred individual creatures into a single entity with a single purpose. The same inertia that had tended to keep the herd at rest now became an asset, as it would keep the cows plodding along for as long as the cowboys wanted to keep them in motion.

A herd this size made its presence known in several ways. It was a black, slow-moving mass, a quarter of a mile long, lifting a cloud of dust that could be seen for many miles. The sound of the hooves and the bawling of the cattle to each other provided a music that quickly became familiar to the cowboys who were working the herd.

But perhaps the most distinctive signature of the herd was its aroma. The smells came from sun on their hides, dust in the air, and especially from the animals’ droppings and urine. The odor was pungent and perhaps, to many, unpleasant. To the cowboys who had spent half their lives with cattle, however, it was an aroma as familiar and agreeable as their mothers’ home cooking.

As the two wagons moved on ahead of the herd, Rebecca looked toward the western horizon and saw the gray streaks of rain slashing down from the sky, but it didn’t look or feel as if the rain would come this way.

What did Tom mean when he said that he had killed his wife? He had not elaborated on the subject. Surely he didn’t mean that he had killed her in a fit of jealous rage, did he? She knew that some men did that from time to time.

But Tom?

No, he couldn’t have. She could not be that wrong about him.

Still, it was obvious he was running from something. There was so much of his past that she didn’t know. And she had never seen a man so out of place as Tom was here. He was obviously educated, extremely educated. It appeared as if money meant little to him. He was silent, but not sullen, a gentleman, but not a weak sister.

No, he wasn’t a murderer. She was as sure of that as she had ever been sure of anything in her entire life. If he had killed his wife, it had to have been some sort of tragic accident, something that had scarred his soul. All she had to do was get through that scar tissue.

Cimarron River

Marcus Doyle had rounded up fifteen men. He and Seth Lovejoy brought the number to seventeen, and now they were waiting on the south side of the Cimarron.

Seth Lovejoy had been a Colonel in the Union Army during the war, and he understood the tactics of cover, concealment, and overlapping fields of fire. Because of that, he had his men well-positioned.

“Morrell is coming back,” Doyle said, and even as he spoke the others could see a single rider galloping toward them.

Lovejoy and his men had been in position for two days, and he had sent Morrell out both days to keep an early lookout for the approaching herd.

At this point the Cimarron was broad, but only about a foot deep. This was the only ford for several miles in either direction that would accommodate a herd of cattle. Lovejoy knew about it, because it was used in the spring by all the Texas herds that were coming north.

Morrell continued the gallop across the river, his horse’s hooves sending up splashes with each footfall. When he reached the south side of the river he dismounted.

“They’re comin’, Mr. Lovejoy,” he said.

“How far back?”

“No more’n three, maybe four miles. I expect they’ll be here in an hour or so. The wagons is just over that ridge. They’ll be here in about ten minutes or so.”

“Do we kill the wagon drivers?” Doyle asked.

“They’re women,” Morrell replied, answering before Lovejoy could respond to Doyle’s question.

“What?” Lovejoy asked.

“The wagon drivers,” Lovejoy said. “They’re women. Three of ’em.”

“Three wagons?”

“No, only two wagons, but one of ’em is bein’ drove by two women.”

“I ain’t goin’ to be shootin’ no women,” one of the men Doyle had recruited said.

“Me neither,” another said.

“All right, we’ll let the women on through,” Lovejoy said. “The only one I’m really wantin’ to kill is the one that shot my boy.”

“Like I said, Mr. Lovejoy, them wagons will be here any minute now.”

“Right. Good job, Morrell. Now, get your horse out of sight and take a position.”

“Whoa, mules,” Sally said, pulling back on the reins and using her foot to push on the brake.

Sally’s wagon and the one behind it squeaked to a stop as the dust trail that had been following now moved up to envelop them.

“The first thing we need to do is get a fire going,” Sally said as she climbed down. “Not only for cooking, but for warmth. It’s getting cold.”

Sally reached up to help Maria climb down, just as Rebecca came up to them.

“Maria, are you all right?” Rebecca asked.

“We may as well tell her,” Sally said. “She’s going to be with us every day for the next month.”

“Si,” Maria replied. Then to Rebecca. “I am going to have a baby,” she said.

“Maria,” Rebecca said with a broad smile. “That is wonderful!”

“Nobody knows except Clay,” Sally said. “And Maria would like to keep it that way.”

“I won’t say a word,” Rebecca said. “Why I’ll be as quiet as ...” Rebecca halted in mid-sentence and the expression on her face changed from one of joy for Maria to one of concern as she stared across the river.

“Rebecca what is it?” Sally asked. “You look as if you have seen a ghost.”

“I just saw Mr. Lovejoy,” Rebecca said. “He’s on the other side of the river.”

Sally chuckled. “You mean you did see a ghost? Isn’t he the one that Matt shot?”

Rebecca shook her head. “No,” she said. “This is Seth Lovejoy. He is the father of the man Matt shot.”

Now Sally’s face showed concern as well. “That’s not good,” she said. “It can’t just be a coincidence that the father of the man Matt shot is waiting on the other side of the river. If he is over there, he has something in mind.” She looked across the river. “I don’t see anyone,” she said.

“He’s—” Rebecca started to raise her hand to point, but Sally reached out to take her hand and prevent her from raising it.

“Don’t point,” Sally said. “If he is over there, we don’t want him to know we have seen him.”

“He’s not the only one over there,” Maria said. “I just saw some more men.”

“How many?”

“Three. Maybe four,” Maria said.

“Maybe we should leave,” Rebecca suggested.

“No, if we try and leave now, he would know we saw him. Chances are he would chase us down to keep us from warning the others,” Sally said.

“Then what can we do?” Maria asked.

“We’ll start a fire,” Sally said. “Rebecca, you start gathering firewood. Keep moving over toward the wood line over there. Once you are far enough inside the wood line to be seen, drop the firewood and start back toward the others, going as fast as you can. Tell them what we have seen.”

“I hate leaving the two of you here all alone.”

“We’ll be all right as long as they don’t suspect anything,” Sally said. “Now, get going. Maria, we’ll start a fire with the wood we’ve got.”

There was a canvas sling beneath the chuck wagon and as Rebecca moved around picking up pieces of wood, Sally and Maria pulled the wood from the canvas sling. They began building a fire.