Assault of the Mountain Man

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A LONE STAR CHRISTMAS

by William W. Johnstone with J. A. Johnstone

SMOKE JENSEN. MATT JENSEN. FALCON AND DUFF MACCALLISTER—TOGETHER FOR THE FIRST TIME

They just wanted to get home for Christmas ... but fate had other plans.

The year is 1890. A Texas rancher named Big Jim Conyers has a deal with a Scottish-born, Wyoming cattleman named Duff MacCallister. Along with Smoke and Matt Jensen, the party bears down on Dodge City, Kansas, to make a cattle drive back to Fort Worth. Soon the drive turns into a deadly pursuit, then a staggering series of clashes with bloodthirsty Indians and trigger-happy rustlers. And the worst is yet to come—the party rides into a devastating blizzard, a storm so fierce their very survival is at stake.

From America’s greatest Western author, here is an epic tale of the unforgiving American frontier and how, amidst fierce storms of man and nature, miracles can still happen.

ON SALE NOW, WHEREVER PINNACLE BOOKS ARE SOLD

CHAPTER ONE

Marshall, Texas, March 12, 1890

It was cold outside, but in the depot waiting room, a wood-burning, potbellied stove roared and popped, glowing red as it pumped out enough heat to make the room comfortable, if one chose the right place to sit. Too close and it was too hot, too far away and it was too cold.

Two weeks earlier, Benjamin Conyers, better known as Big Ben, had taken his twenty-one-year-old daughter Rebecca into Fort Worth to catch the train to visit with his sister in Marshall. It was time for Rebecca to return home, and her aunt Mildred had come to the depot with her to see her off on the evening train.

Everyone agreed that Rebecca Conyers was a beautiful young woman. She had delicate facial bones and a full mouth. She was slender, with long, rich, glowing auburn hair, green eyes, and a slim waist. She was sitting on a bench in the Marshall depot, the wood polished smooth by the many passengers who had sat in the same place over the last several years. Just outside the depot window, she could see the green glowing lamp of the electric railroad signal.

“Rebecca, I have so enjoyed your visit,” Mildred said. “You simply must come again, sometime soon.”

“I would love to. I enjoyed the visit as well.”

“I wish Ben would come with you some time. But I know he is busy.”

“Yes. Pa always seems to be busy.”

“Well, he is an important man. And important men always seem to be busy.” Mildred laughed. “I don’t know if he is busy because he is important, or he is important because he is busy. I imagine it is a little of both.”

“Yes, I would think so as well.” Rebecca turned to her aunt. “Aunt Mildred, did you know my mother?”

“Julia? Of course I know her, dear. Why would you ask such a thing?”

“I don’t mean Julia,” Rebecca said. “I mean my real mother. I think her name is Janie.”

Mildred was quiet for a long moment. “Heavens, child, why would you ask such a thing now? The only mother you have ever known is Julia.”

“I know, and she is my mother in every way,” Rebecca said. “But I know, too, that she isn’t my birth mother, and I would like to know something more about her.”

Mildred sighed. “Well, I guess that is understandable.”

“Did you know her? Do you remember her?”

“I do remember her, yes. I know that when Ben learned that she was pregnant, he brought her out to the house. You were born right there, on the ranch.”

“Pa is my real father though, isn’t he? I mean he is the one who got my real mother pregnant.”

“Oh yes, there was never any question about that,” Mildred replied.

“And yet he never married my mother,” Rebecca said.

“Honey, don’t blame Ben for that. He planned to marry her, but shortly after you were born Janie ran off.”

“Janie was my birth mother?”

“Yes.”

“What was her last name?”

“Garner, I believe it was. Yes, her name was Janie Garner. But, like I said, she ran off and left you behind. That’s when Ben wrote and asked me to come take care of you until he could find someone else to do it.”

“That’s when Mama, that is Julia, the woman I call Mama, came to live with us?”

“She did. She and Ben had known each other before the war, and everyone was sure they were going to get married. But after the war, Ben seemed—I don’t know—restless, I guess you would say. Anyway, it took him awhile to settle down, and by that time he had already met your real mother. I’ll tell you true, she broke his heart when she left. Julia came after that, when you were two months old.”

“Why did my real mother leave? Did she run away with another man?”

“Nobody knows for sure. All we know is that she left a note saying she wasn’t good enough for you. For heaven’s sake, child, why are you asking so many questions about her now? Hasn’t Julia been a good mother to you?”

“She has been a wonderful mother to me,” Rebecca said. “I couldn’t ask for anyone better, and I love her dearly. I’ve just been a little curious, that’s all.”

“You know what they say, honey. Curiosity killed the cat,” Mildred said.

Hearing the whistle of the approaching train, they stood up and walked onto the depot platform. It was six o’clock, and the sun was just going down in the west, spreading the clouds with long, glowing streaks of gold and red. To the east they could see the headlamp of the arriving train. It roared into the station, spewing steam and dropping glowing embers from the firebox. The train was so massive and heavy it made Rebecca’s stomach shake as it passed by, first the engine with its huge driver wheels, then the cars with the long lines of lighted windows on each car disclosing the passengers inside. Some looked out in curiosity, others read in jaded indifference to the Marshall depot, which represented but one more stop on their trip.

“What time will you get to Fort Worth?” Mildred asked.

“The schedule says eleven o’clock tonight.”

“Oh, heavens, will Ben have someone there to meet you?”

“No, I’ll be staying at a hotel. Pa already has a room booked for me. He’ll send someone for me tomorrow.”

“Board!” the conductor called, and Rebecca and her aunt shared a long good-bye hug before she hurried to get on the train.

Inside the first car behind the express car, Tom Whitman studied the passengers who were boarding. He didn’t know what town he was in. In fact, he wasn’t even sure what state he was in. It wasn’t too long ago he left Shreveport. He knew Shreveport was in Louisiana, and he knew it wasn’t too far from Texas, so he wouldn’t be surprised if he was in Texas.

“We are on the threshold of the twentieth century, Tom,” a friend had told him a couple months ago. “Do you have any idea what a marvelous time this is ? Think of all those people who went by wagon train to California. Their trip was arduous, dangerous, and months long. Today we can go by train, enjoying the luxury of a railroad car that protects us from rain, snow, beating sun, or bitter cold. We can dine sumptuously on meals served in a dining salon that rivals the world’s finest restaurants. We can view the passing scenery while relaxing in an easy chair, and can pass the nights in a comfortable bed with clean sheets.”

At the time of that conversation, Tom had no idea he would actually be taking that cross-country trip. He was in one more town of the almost countless number of towns—and ten states—he had been in the last six days.

The town wasn’t that large. Although there were at least ten people standing on the platform, only four were boarding, as far as he could determine. One was a very pretty young, auburn-haired woman. He watched her share a good-bye hug with an older woman, whom Tom took to be her mother.

One of the passengers who had boarded was putting his coat in the overhead rack in front of Tom.

“Excuse me,” Tom said to him. “What is the name of this town?”

“Marshall,” the passenger answered.

“Louisiana, or Texas?”

“Texas, mister. The great state of Texas,” the man replied with inordinate pride.

“Thank you.”

“Been traveling long?”

“Yes, this is my sixth day.”

“Where are you headed?”

“I don’t have any particular destination in mind.”

“Ha, that’s funny. I don’t know as I’ve ever met anyone who was travelin’ and didn’t even know where they was goin’.”

“When I find a place that fits my fancy, I’ll stop,” Tom said.

“Well, mister, I’ll tell you true. You ain’t goin’ to find any place better than Texas. And any place in Texas you decide to stop is better than any place else.”

“Thank you. I’ll keep that in mind.” In the week since he had left Boston, Tom had shared the train with hundreds of others, none of whom had continued their journey with him. He had managed to strike up a conversation with some of them, but in every case, they were only brief acquaintances, then they moved on. He thought of the passage from Longfellow.

Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing,

Only a signal shown and a distant voice in the darkness;

So on the ocean of life we pass and speak one another,

Only a look and a voice; then darkness again and a silence.

With a series of jerks as the train took up the slack between the cars, it pulled away from the station, eventually smoothing out and picking up speed. Once the train settled in to its gentle rocking and rhythmic clacking forward progress, Tom leaned his head against the seat back and went to sleep.

Once Rebecca boarded, found her seat, and the train got underway, she reached into her purse to take out the letter. She had picked the letter up at the post office shortly before she left Fort Worth to come visit her aunt Mildred. The letter, which was addressed to her and not to her father, had come as a complete surprise. Her father knew nothing about it, nor did she show it to her aunt Mildred. The letter was from her real mother, and it was the first time in Rebecca’s life she had ever heard from her.

Rebecca’s first instinct had been to tear it up and throw it away, unread. After all, if her mother cared so little about her that she could abandon her when Rebecca was still a baby, why should Rebecca care what she had to say now?

But curiosity got the best of her, so she read the letter. Sitting in the train going back home, Rebecca read the letter again.

Dear Becca,

This letter is going to come as a shock to you, but I am your real mother. I am very sorry I left you when you were a baby, and I am even more sorry I have never attempted to contact you. I want you to know, however, that my not contacting you is not because you mean nothing to me. I have kept up with your life as best I can, and I know you have grown to be a very beautiful and very wonderful young woman.

That is exactly what I expected to happen when I left you with your father. I did that, and I have stayed out of your life because I thought it best. Certainly there was no way I could have given you the kind of life your father has been able to provide for you. But it would fulfill a lifetime desire if I could see you just once. If you can find it in your heart to forgive me, and to grant this wish, you will find me in Dodge City, Kansas. I am married to the owner of the Lucky Chance Saloon.

Your mother,

Janie Davenport

Rebecca knew about her mother. She had been told a long time ago that Julia was her stepmother. But she didn’t know anything about her real mother, and the few times she had asked, she had always been given the same answer.

“Your mother was a troubled soul, and things didn’t work out for her. I’m sure she believed, when she left you, that she was doing the right thing,” Big Ben always said.

“Have you ever heard from her again?” Rebecca wanted to know.

“No, I haven’t, and I don’t expect I will. To tell you the truth, darlin’, I’m not even sure she is still alive.”

That had satisfied Rebecca, and she had asked no more questions until, unexpectedly, she had received the letter.

From that moment, she had been debating with herself as to whether or not she should go to Dodge. And if so, should she ask her father for permission to go? Or should she just go? She was twenty-one years old, certainly old enough to make her own decision.

She just didn’t know what that decision should be.

She read the letter one more time, then folded it, put it back in her reticule, and settled in for the three and one-half hour train trip.

Fort Worth, Texas

The train had arrived in the middle of the night, and when Tom Whitman got off, he wondered if he should stay, or get back on the train and keep going. Six and one-half days earlier he had boarded a train in Boston with no particular destination in mind. His only goal at the time was to be somewhere other than Boston.

As he stood alongside the train, he became aware of a disturbance at the other end of the platform. A young woman was being bothered by two men. Looking in her direction, Tom saw that it was the same young woman he had seen board the train in Marshall.

“Please,” she was saying to the men. “Leave me alone.”

“Here now, you pretty little thing, you know you don’t mean that,” one of the men said. “Why, you wouldn’t be standin’ out here all alone in the middle of the night, if you wasn’t lookin’ for a little fun, would you now? And me ’n Pete here are just the men to show you how to have some fun. Right, Pete?”

“You got that right,” Pete said.

“What do you say, honey? Do you want to have a little fun with us?”

“No! Please, go away!”

“I know what it is, Dutch,” Pete said. “We ain’t offered her no money yet.”

“Is that it?” Dutch asked. “You’re waitin’ for us to offer you some money? How about two dollars? A dollar from me and one from Pete. Of course, that means you are going to have to be nice to both of us.”

“I asked you to go away. If you don’t, I will scream.”

Pete took off his bandanna and wadded it into a ball. “It’s goin’ to be hard for you to scream with this bandanna in your mouth.”

Tom walked down to the scene of the ruckus. “Excuse me, gentlemen, but I do believe I heard the lady ask you to leave her alone.”

Tom was six feet two inches tall, with broad shoulders and narrow hips. Ordinarily his size alone would be intimidating, but the way he was dressed made him appear almost foppish. He was wearing a brown tweed suit, complete with vest, tie, and collar. He was also wearing a bowler hat and was obviously unarmed. He could not have advertised himself as more of a stranger to the West if he had a sign hanging around his neck proclaiming the same.

The two men, itinerant cowboys, were wearing denim trousers and stained shirts. Both had Stetson hats on their heads, and pistols hanging at their sides. When they saw Tom, they laughed.

“Well now, tell me, Dutch, have you ever seen a prettier boy than this Eastern dude?” Pete slurred the word Eastern.

“Don’t believe I have,” Dutch replied. To Tom he said, “Go away, pretty boy, unless you want to get hurt.”

“Let’s hurt him anyway,” Pete said, smiling. “Let’s hurt him real bad for stickin’ his nose in where it don’t belong.”

“Please, sir,” the young woman said to Tom. “Go and summon a policeman. I don’t want you to get hurt, and I don’t think they will do anything if they know a police officer is coming.”

“I think it may be too late for that,” Tom replied. “These gentlemen seem rather insistent. I’m afraid I’m going to have to take care of this myself.”

“Ha!” Pete shouted. “Take care of this!”

He swung hard, but Tom reached up and caught Pete’s fist in his open hand. That surprised Pete, but it didn’t surprise him as much as what happened next. Tom began to squeeze down on Pete’s fist, putting viselike pressure against it, feeling two of Pete’s fingers snap under the squeeze.

“Ahhh!” Pete yelled. “Dutch! Get him off me! Get him off me!”

Dutch swung, and Tom caught Dutch’s fist in his left hand, repeating the procedure of squeezing down on the fist. Within a moment he had both men on their knees, writhing in pain.

“Let go, let go!” Pete screamed in agony.

Tom let go of both men, and stepped back as they regained their feet. “Please go away now,” he said with no more tension in his voice than if he were asking for a cup of coffee.

“You son of a ...” Pete swore as he started to draw his pistol. But two of his fingers were broken, and he was unable to get a grip on his pistol. It fell from his hand.

The young woman grabbed it quickly, then pointed it at the cowboys. “This gentleman may be an Eastern dude, but I am not. I’m a Western girl and I can shoot. I would like nothing better than to put a bullet into both of you. If you don’t start running, right now, I will do just that.”

“No, no. Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!” Pete cried out. “We’re goin’! We’re goin’!”

The two men ran off, and the young woman laughed. To Tom, her laughter sounded like wind chimes.

She turned to him with a broad smile spread across her face. “I want to thank you, sir.” She thrust her hand toward him, but when he shied away she looked down and saw that she was still holding the pistol. With another laugh, she tossed the gun away, then again stuck out her hand. “I’m Rebecca Conyers.”

“I’m Tom—” He hesitated before he said, “Whitman.”

“You aren’t from here, are you, Mr. Whitman?”

He chuckled. “How can you tell?”

Rebecca laughed as well. “What are you doing in Fort Worth?”

“This is where the train stopped,” Tom replied.

Rebecca laughed again. “That’s reason enough, I suppose. Are you looking for work?”

“Well, yes, I guess I am.”

“Meet me in the lobby of the Clark Hotel tomorrow morning. Someone will be coming to fetch me from my father’s ranch. Pa is always looking for good men. I’m sure he would hire you if you are interested.”

“Hire me to do what?”

“Why, to cowboy, of course.”

“Oh. Do you think it would matter if I told l him I have never been a cowboy?”

Rebecca smiled. “Telling him you have never been a cowboy would be like telling him you have blond hair and blue eyes.”

“Oh, yes. I see what you mean.”

“It’s easy to learn to be a cowboy. Once he hears what you did for me tonight, you won’t have any trouble getting on. That is, if you want to.”

“Yes,” Tom said. “I believe I want to.”

As Rebecca lay in bed in her room at the Clark Hotel half an hour later, she wondered what had possessed her to offer a job to Tom Whitman. She had no authority to offer him a job; her father did the hiring and the firing, and he was very particular about it.

On the other hand, before she left to go to Marshall, she heard him tell Clay Ramsey that he might hire someone to replace Tony Peters, a young cowboy who had left for Nevada to tr y his hand at finding gold or silver. Rebecca had a sudden thought. What if he has already hired someone to replace Peters?

No, she was sure he had not. Her father tended to be much more methodical than to hire someone that quickly. But that same tendency of his to be methodical might also work against her, for he would not be that anxious to hire someone he knew nothing about.

Well, she would just have to talk him into it, that’s all. And surely when her father heard what Tom Whitman had done for her, he would be more than willing.

Rebecca wondered why she was so intent on getting Mr. Whitman hired? Was it because he had been her knight in shining armor, just when she needed such a hero? Or was it because he might be one of the most handsome men she had ever seen? In addition to that, there was something else about him, something she sensed more than she saw. He had a sense of poise and self-assuredness she found most intriguing.

Because Tom liked to sleep with fresh air, he had raised the window when he went to bed. He had taken a room in the same hotel as Rebecca because she had suggested the hotel to him. He was awakened by a combination of things, the sun streaming in through his open window and the sounds of commerce coming from the street below.

He could hear the sound of the clash of eras—the whir of an electric streetcar, along with the rattle and clatter of a freight wagon. From somewhere he could hear the buzz and squeal of a power saw, and the ring of steel on steel as a blacksmith worked his trade. Newspaper boys were out on the street, hawking their product.

“Paper, get the paper here! Wyoming to be admitted as state! Get your paper here!”

Tom got out of bed, shaved, then got dressed. Catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror, he frowned. He was wearing a three-piece suit, adequate dress if he wanted to apply for a job with a bank. But he was going to apply for a job as a cowboy, and his outfit would never do.

Stepping over to the window, he looked up and down Houston Street. On the opposite side, he saw the Fort Worth Mercantile Store. Leaving his suitcase in his room, he hurried downstairs, and then across the street and into the store.

A tall, thin man with a neatly trimmed mustache and garters around his sleeves stepped up to him. “Yes, sir, may help you?”

“I intend to apply for employment at a neighboring ranch,” Tom said. “And I will need clothes that are suitable for the position.”

“When you say that you are going to apply for employment, do you mean as an accountant or business manager?” the clerk asked.

“No. As a cowboy.”

The expression on the clerk’s face registered his surprise. “I beg your pardon, sir. Did you say as a cowboy?”

“Yes,” Tom said. “Why, is there a problem?”

“No, sir,” the clerk said quickly. “No problem. It is just that, well, sir, you will forgive me, but you don’t look like a cowboy.”

“Yeah,” Tom said. “That’s why I’m here. I want you to make me look like a cowboy.”

“I can sell you the appropriate attire, sir,” the clerk said. “But, in truth, you still won’t look like a cowboy.”

“Try,” Tom said.

“Yes, sir.”

It took Tom no more than fifteen minutes to buy three outfits, including boots and a hat. Paying for his purchases, he returned to the hotel, packed his suit and the two extra jeans and shirts into his suitcase, then went downstairs, checked out, and took a seat in the lobby to wait for the young woman he had met last night.

As he waited for her, he recalled the conversation he had had with his father, just before he left Boston.

“You are making a big mistake by running away,” his father had told him. “You will not be able to escape your own devils.”

“I can try,” Tom said.

“Nobody is holding it against you, Tom. You did what you thought was right.”

“I did what I thought was right? I can’t even justify what I did to myself by saying that I did what I thought was right. My wife and my child are dead, and I killed them.”

“It isn’t as if you murdered them.”

“It isn’t? How is it different? Martha and the child are still dead.”

“So you are you going to run away. Is that your answer?”

“Yes, that is my answer. I need some time to sort things out. Please try to understand that.”

His father changed tactics, from challenging to persuading. “Tom, all I am asking is that you think this through. You have more potential than any student I ever taught, and I’m not saying that just because you are my son. I am saying it because it is true. Do you have any idea of the good that someone like you—a person with your skills, your talent, your education, can do?”

“I’ve seen the evil I can do when I confuse skill, talent, and education with Godlike attributes.”

His father sighed in resignation. “What time does your train leave?”

“At nine o’clock tonight.”

His father walked over to the bar and poured a glass of Scotch. He held it out toward Tom and, catching a beam of light from the electric chandelier, the amber fluid emitted a burst of gold as if the glass had captured the sun itself. “Then at least have this last, parting drink with me.”

Tom waited until his father had poured his own glass, then the two men drank to each other.

“Will you write to let me know where you are and how you are doing?”

“Not for a while,” Tom said. “I need to be away from everything that can remind me of what happened. And that means even my family.”

Surprisingly, Tom’s father smiled. “In a way, I not only don’t blame you, I envy you. I almost ran off myself, once. I was going to sail the seven seas. But my father got wind of it, and talked me out of it. I guess I wasn’t as strong as you are.”

“Nonsense, you are as strong,” Tom said. “You just never had the same devils chasing you that I do.”

Tom glanced at the big clock. It showed fifteen minutes of nine. Shouldn’t she be here by now? Had she changed her mind and already checked out? He walked over to the desk.

“Yes, sir, Mr. Whitman, may I help you?” the hotel desk clerk asked.

“Rebecca Conyers,” Tom said. “Has she checked out yet?”

The clerk checked his book. “No, sir. She is still in the hotel. Would you like me to summon her?”

“No, that won’t be necessary. I’ll just wait here in the lobby for her.”

“Very good, sir.”

Huh, Tom thought. And here it was my belief that Westerners rose with the sun. As soon as he thought that, he realized she had gone to bed quite late, having arrived on the train in the middle of the night. At least his initial fear that she had left without meeting him was alleviated.

When Rebecca awakened that morning she was already having second thoughts about what she had done. Had she actually told a perfect stranger that she could talk her father into hiring him? And, even if she could, should she? She had arisen much later than she normally did, and as she dressed, found herself hoping he had grown tired of waiting for her and left, without accepting her offer.

However, when she went downstairs she saw him sitting in a chair in the lobby. His suitcase was on the floor beside him, but he wasn’t wearing the suit he had been wearing the night before. He was wearing denims, a blue cotton shirt, and boots. If anything, she found him more attractive, for the denims and cotton shirt took some of the polish off, giving him a more rugged appearance.

Although Tom had gotten an idea the young woman was pretty, it had been too dark to get a really good look at her. In the full light of morning he saw her for what she was—tall and willowy, with long, auburn hair and green eyes shaded by long, dark eyelashes. She was wearing a dress that showed off her gentle curves to perfection.

“Mr. Whitman,” she said. “How wonderful it is to see you this morning. I see you have decided to take me up on my offer.”

“Yes, I have. You were serious about it, weren’t you? I mean, you weren’t just making small talk?”

Rebecca paused before responding. If she wanted to back out of her offer, now was the time to do it. “I was very serious,” she heard herself saying, as if purposely speaking before she could change her mind.

“Do we have time for breakfast? If so, I would like to take you to breakfast.”

Rebecca glanced over at the clock. “Yes, I think so. And I would be glad to have breakfast with you. But you must let me pay for my own.”

“Only if it makes you feel more comfortable,” Tom said.

“Let’s sit by the window,” Rebecca suggested when they stepped into the hotel restaurant. “That way we will be able to see when Mo comes for me.”

“Mo?”

“He is one of my father’s cowboys. He is quite young.”

They settled at a table and ordered breakfast, drinking coffee and making small talk until their meals arrived. Rebecca had a poached egg and toast. Tom had two waffles, four fried eggs, a rather substantial slab of ham, and more biscuits than Rebecca could count.

“My, you must have been hungry,” Rebecca said after Tom pushed away a clean plate. “When is the last time you ate?”

“Not since supper last night,” Tom said, as if that explained his prodigious appetite. “Oh, I hope I haven’t embarrassed you.”

“Not at all. Tell me about yourself, Mr. Whitman. Where are you from? What were you doing before you decided to come West?”

“Not much to tell. I’m from Boston. I’m more interested in you telling me about the ranch.”

“Oh, there’s Mo,” Rebecca said. “I won’t have to tell you about the ranch, we’ll be there in less than an hour.”

Tom picked up his suitcase and Rebecca’s, then followed her out to the buckboard.

“Hello, Mo,” Rebecca greeted.

Mo was a slender five feet nine, with brown eyes and dark hair, which he wore long and straight.

“Hello, Miss Rebecca,” Mo said with a broad smile. “It’s good to see you back home again. Ever’one at the ranch missed you. Did you have a good visit?”

“Oh, I did indeed,” Rebecca answered.

Seeing Tom standing there with the two suitcases, Mo indicated the back of the buckboard. “You can just put them there.” Turning to Rebecca, he whispered, “Uh, Miss Rebecca, you got a coin? I come into town with no money at all.”

“A coin?”

Mo nodded toward Tom. “Yes ma’am, a nickel or a dime or somethin’ on account of him carrying your luggage and all.”

“Oh, we don’t need to tip him, Mo. His name is Tom, and he’s with me. He’ll be comin’ out to the ranch with us.”

“He’s with you? Good Lord, Miss Rebecca, you didn’t go to Marshall and get yourself married up or somethin’, did you?” Mo asked.

Rebecca laughed out loud. “No, it’s nothing like that.”

“Sorry I didn’t bring the trap,” Mo said to Tom. “This here buckboard only has one seat. That means you’ll have to ride in the back.”

“That’s not a problem,” Tom said. “I’ll be fine.”

“I hope so. It’s not all that comfortable back there and we’re half an hour from the ranch.”

Tom set the luggage in the back of the buckboard, then put his hand on the side and vaulted over.

“Damn,” Mo said. “I haven’t ever seen anybody do that. You must be a pretty strong fella.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Rebecca said.

CHAPTER TWO

Live Oaks Ranch

Just north of Fort Worth, 120,000 acres of gently rolling grassland and scores of year-round streams and creeks made Live Oaks Ranch ideal for cattle ranching. Two dozen cowboys were parttime employees, and another two dozen were full-time. Those who weren’t married lived in long, low bunkhouses, painted white with red roofs. At least ten of the permanent employees who were married lived in small houses painted green with red roofs, adjacent to the bunkhouses. There was also a cookhouse large enough to feed the single men, a barn, a machine shed, a granary, and a large stable. The dominating feature of the ranch was what the cowboys called “The Big House.” It was a stucco-sided example of Spanish Colonial Revival, with an arcaded portico on the southeast corner, stained-glass windows, and an elaborate arched entryway.

Inside the parlor of the Big House, the owner of Live Oaks, Rebecca’s father, was standing by the fireplace. Big Ben Conyers was aptly named, for he was six feet seven inches tall and weighed 330 pounds. Rebecca had just introduced Tom to him, explaining how he had come to her aid when she had been accosted by two cowboys.

“I thank you very much for that, Mr. Whitman.” Big Ben shook Tom’s hand. “There are many who would have just turned away.”

“I’m glad I happened to be there at that time,” Tom replied.

“Mr. Whitman is looking for a job, Pa,” Rebecca said. “I know that Tony Peters left a couple weeks ago, and when Mo picked me up this morning, he told me you hadn’t replaced him.”

“I don’t know, honey. Tony was an experienced cowboy,” Big Ben said.

“Nobody is experienced when they first start,” Rebecca said, making Big Ben laugh.

“I can’t deny that,” he said. “Where are you from, Mr. Whitman?”

“I’m from Boston, sir.”

“Boston, is it? Can you ride a horse?”

For several years Tom had belonged to a fox hunting club. Uunlike the quarter horses, bred for speed in short stretches that were commonly seen out West, fox-hunting thoroughbreds were often crossed with heavier breeds for endurance and solidity. They were taller and more muscular, and were trained to run long distances, since most hunts lasted for an entire day. They were also bred to jump a variety of fences and ditches. Tom was, in fact, a champion when it came to riding to the hounds.

The sport got mixed reactions, from those who felt sorry for the fox, to those who thought it was a foolish indulgence, to those who did not understand the skill and stamina such an endeavor required.

“Yes, sir, I can ride a horse,” he said.

“You don’t mind if I give you a little test just to see how well you can ride, do you?” Big Ben asked.

“Pa, that’s not fair,” Rebecca said. “You know our horses aren’t like the ones he is used to riding. At least give him a few days to get used to them.”

“I don’t have a few days, Rebecca. I have two hundred square miles of ranch to run, and a herd of cattle to manage. I need someone who can go to work immediately. Now, maybe you’re right, everyone has to get experience somewhere, so I’m willing to give him time to learn his way around the ranch. But if he can’t even ride a horse, I mean a Western horse, then it’s going to take more time than I can spare.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Whitman,” Rebecca said. “If you don’t want to take Pa’s test, you don’t have to. We’ll all understand.”

“I’d like to take the test,” Tom said.

“Good for you,” Big Ben said. “Come on outside, let me see what you can do.”

A tall, gangly young man with ash-blond hair and a spray of freckles came up to them. “Hello, Sis. I heard you were back.”

“Did you stay stay out of trouble while I was gone?” Rebecca asked. Then she introduced the boy. “Mr. Whitman, this is my brother, Dalton.”

“Are you going to work for Pa?” Dalton asked.

“I hope to.”

“Then I won’t be calling you Mr. Whitman. What’s your first name?”

“Dalton!” Rebecca said.

“I don’t mean nothin’ by it,” Dalton said. “I’m just friends with all the cowboys, that’s all.”

“My name is Tom. And I would be happy to be your friend.”

“Yes, well, don’t the two of you get to be best friends too fast,” Big Ben said. “First I have to know if Tom can ride well enough to be a cowboy. Clay!” Big Ben called.

A man stepped out of the machine shed. “Yes, sir, Mr. Conyers?”

“Get over here, Clay, I’ve someone I want you to meet.” To Tom, Big Ben added, “Clay is the ranch foreman. I’ll leave the final word as to whether or not I hire you up to him.”

“Good enough,” Tom said.

Clay Ramsey was thirty-three-years-old with brown hair, a well-trimmed mustache, and blue eyes. About five feet ten, he was wiry and, according to one of the cowboys who worked for him, as tough as a piece of rawhide.

“Saddle Thunder for him,” Big Ben said, after he explained what he wanted to do.

“Pa, no!” Rebecca protested vehemently.

“Honey, I’m not just being a horse’s rear end. If he can ride Thunder, he can ride any horse on the ranch, and there wouldn’t be any question about my hiring him.”

“I can ride a horse, Mr. Conyers,” Tom said. “But I confess I have never tried to ride a bucking horse. If that is what is required, then I thank you for your time, and I’ll be moving on.”

“He’s not a bucking horse,” Clay said. “But he is a very strong horse who loves to run and jump. If you ride him, you can’t be timid about it. You have to let him know, right away, that you are in control.”

“Thank you, Mr. Ramsey. In that case, I will ride him.”

“Ha!” Dusty McNally, one of the other cowboys, said. “I like it that you said you will ride him, rather than you will try to ride him. That’s the right attitude to have.”

Thunder was a big, muscular, black horse who stood eighteen hands at the withers. Although he allowed himself to be saddled, he kept moving his head and lifting first one hoof, then another. He looked like a ball of potential energy.

“Here you are, Mr. Whitman.” Clay handed the reins to Tom.

“Thank you.” Tom pointed toward an open area on the other side of a fence. “Would it be all right to ride in that field there?”

“Sure, there’s nothing there but rangeland.” Clay pointed. “The gate is down there.”

“Thank you, I won’t need a gate.” Tom slapped his legs against the side of the horse and it started forward at a gallop. As he approached the fence, he lifted himself slightly from the saddle and leaned forward.

“Come on, Thunder,” he said encouragingly. “Let’s go see if we can find us a fox.”

Thunder galloped toward the fence, then sailed over it as gracefully as a leaping deer. Coming down on the other side Tom saw a ditch about twenty yards beyond the fence, and Thunder took that as well. Horse and rider went through their paces, jumping, making sudden turns, running at a full gallop, then stopping on a dime. After a few minutes he brought Thunder back, returning the same way he left, over the ditch, then over the fence. He slowed him down to a trot once he was back inside the compound, and the horse was at a walk by the time he rode up to dismount in front of a shocked Big Ben, Clay, and Dusty. Rebecca was smiling broadly.

Tom patted Thunder on his neck, then dismounted and handed the reins back to Clay. “He is a very fine horse,” Tom said. “Whoever rides him is quite lucky.”

“He’s yours to ride any time you want him,” Big Ben said. “That is, provided you are willing to come work for me.”

“I would be very proud to work for you, Mr. Conyers.”

“Come with me. Tom, is it?” Clay invited. “I’ll get you set up in the bunkhouse and introduce you to the others.”

“Tom?” Rebecca called out to him.

He looked back toward her.

“I’m glad you are here.”

“Thank you, Miss Conyers. I’m glad to be here.”

Tom ate his first supper in the cookhouse that evening. Mo introduced him to all the others.

“Where is Mr. Ramsey?” Tom asked. “Does he eat somewhere else?”

“Mr. Ramsey?” Mo asked. Then he smiled. “Oh, you mean Clay. Clay is the foreman of the ranch, but there don’t any of us call him Mr. Ramsey. We just call him Clay ’cause that’s what he wants us to call him.”

“Clay is married,” one of the other cowboys said. “He lives in that first cabin you see over there, the only one with a front porch.”

“He married a Mexican girl,” another said.

“Don’t talk about her like that,” Mo said. “Maria is as American as you are. Emanuel Bustamante fought with Sam Houston at San Jacinto.”

“I didn’t mean nothin’ by it,” the cowboy said. “I think Señor Bustamante is as fine a man as I’ve ever met, and Mrs. Ramsey is a very good woman. I was just sayin’ that she is Mexican is all.”

“I assume that none of you are married,” Tom said. “Other wise you wouldn’t be eating here in the dining hall.”

“Ha! The dining hall. That’s sure a fancy name for the cookhouse.”

“I don’t mean any disrespect for Clay,” Mo said. “But it don’t make a whole lot of sense for a cowboy to be married. First of all, there don’t none of us make enough money to support a family. And second, when we make the long cattle drives, we’re gone for near three months at a time.”

“And Dodge City is too fun a town to be in if you are married, if you get my meanin’,” one of the other cowboys said, and the others shared a ribald laugh.

A couple cowboys decided to razz the tenderfoot that first night. Tom had been given a chest for his belongings, and while Tom and the rest of the cowboys were having supper, Dalton and one of the cowboys slipped into the bunkhouse and nailed the lid shut.

When Tom and the others returned, Tom tried to open the lid to his footlocker, but he was unable to get it open.

“What’s the matter there, Tom? Can’t get your chest open?” Dalton asked.

He had told the others what he did, and all gathered around to see how Tom was going to react. Would he get angry, and start cursing everyone? Or would he be meek about it?

Tom looked more closely at the lid, and saw that it had been nailed shut by six nails, two in front and two on either side. “That’s odd. It seems to have been nailed shut.”

The others laughed out loud.

“Nailed shut, is it? Well, I wonder who did that?” Dalton asked.

“Oh, I expect it was a mistake of some sort,” Tom said. “I don’t really think anyone would nail the lid shut on my chest as a matter of intent.”

“Do you think that?” Dalton asked, and again, everyone laughed at the joke they were playing on the tenderfoot.

“All right, fellas, you’ve had your fun,” Mo said. “Wait a minute, Tom, I’ll get a claw hammer and pull the nails for you so you can get the lid open.”

“Thank you, Mo,” Tom said. “I don’t need the claw hammer to get the lid open.”

“What are you talking about? Of course you do. How else are you going to open the lid if you don’t pull the nails out first?”

“Oh, it won’t be difficult. I’ll just open it like this.” Reaching down with both hands, Tom used one hand to steady the bottom of the chest and the other to grab the front of the lid. He pulled up. With a terrible screeching noise as the nails lost their purchase, the lid came up. Reaching into the footlocker, Tom removed a pair of socks. “Ahh. That’s what I was looking for.”

“Good God in heaven,” someone said reverently. “Did you see that?”

“Dalton, I don’t think you ought to be messin’ any more with this one. He’s as strong as an ox.”

Sugarloaf Ranch, Big Rock, Colorado May 1, 1890

“Did you get a count?” Smoke asked Pearlie.

Pearlie held up the string and counted the knots. There were fourteen knots. “I make it fourteen hundred in the south pasture.”

“I’ve got another eleven hundred,” Cal added.

“And I’ve got just over fifteen hundred,” Smoke said.

“Wow, that’s better than four thousand head,” Pearlie said. “We’ve got almost as many back as we had before the big freeze and die-up.”

The big die-up Pearlie was talking about happened in January three years earlier when there had been a huge seventy-two hour blizzard. After the blizzard, the sun melted the top few inches of snow into slush, which was frozen into solid ice by minus thirty-degree temperatures the following day. Throughout the West, tens of thousands of cattle were found huddled against fences, some partially through and hanging on the wire, many frozen to death. The legs of many cows that survived were so badly frozen that, when they moved, the skin cracked open and their hooves dropped off. Hundreds of young steers wandered aimlessly around on bloody stumps, while their tails froze as if they were icicles to be easily broken off.

Humans died that year too—men who froze to death while searching for cattle; women and children in houses where there was no wood to burn and blankets could not hold back the sub-zero temperatures. The only creatures to survive and thrive that winter were the wolves who feasted upon the carcasses of tens of thousands of dead cattle.

Sugarloaf Ranch had survived, but nearly all the cattle on the ranch had died. Then Smoke heard from his friend, Falcon MacCallister. Falcon’s cousin, Duff MacCallister, recently arrived from Scotland, was running a new breed of cattle—Black Angus.

He had been spared the great die-up disaster because his ranch was located in the Chugwater Valley of Wyoming, shielded against the worst of winter’s blast by mesas and mountain ranges. His ranch, Sky Meadow, had no fences to prevent the cattle from moving to the shelter of those natural barriers. The Black Angus breed of cattle Duff MacCallister was raising was better equipped to withstand the cold weather than were the Longhorns.

Smoke had gone to Sky Meadow to meet with Duff, and after his visit, agreed to buy one thousand head of Black Angus cattle. That one thousand head had grown into a herd of nearly four thousand in the last three and a half years, and it had been a very good move for Smoke. Whereas the market price for Longhorn had fallen so low Smoke’s neighbors, who were still raising that breed, were doing well to break even on their investment, the market price for Black Angus, which produced a superior grade of beef, was very high.

“You men take care of things here,” Smoke said. “Sally is coming back today, and I’m going to meet her at the train station.”

“I’ll go get her,” Cal volunteered.

Pearlie chuckled. “I’m sure you would, Cal. We’ve got calves to brand and you’ll do anything to get out of a little work.”

“It’s not that,” Cal said. “I was just volunteering, is all.”

“Thanks anyway,” Smoke said. “But she’s been back East for almost a month and I’m sort of anxious to see her again.”

When Smoke reached the train depot in Big Rock, he checked the arrival and departure blackboard to see if the train was on time. There was no arrival time listed, so he went inside to talk to the ticket agent. He was huddled in a nervous conversation with Sheriff Monte Carson.

“Hello, Monte, good evening, Hodge,” Smoke said, greeting the two men. “How are you doing?”

“Smoke, I’m glad you are here,” Sheriff Carson said. “We’ve got a problem with the train.”

“What kind of problem? Sally is on that train.”

“Yes, I know she is. We think the train is being robbed.”

“Being robbed, or has been robbed?” Smoke replied, confused by the remark.

“Being robbed,” Sheriff Carson said. “At least, we think that it what it is. The train is stopped about five miles east of here. There is an obstruction on the track so it can’t go forward, and another on the track to keep it from going back.”

“How do you know this?”

“Ollie Cook is the switch operator just this side of where the train is. When the train didn’t come through his switch on time, he walked down the track to find out why, and that’s when he saw the train barricaded like that. He hurried back to his switch shack and called the depot.”

“And I called Sheriff Carson,” Hodge said.

“I’m about to get a posse together to ride out there and see what it’s all about,” the sheriff said.

“No need for a posse. Deputize me,” Smoke suggested. “Like I said, Sally is on that train.”

“You are already a deputy, Smoke, you know that.”

“Yes, I know. But I don’t want people thinking I’ve gone off on my own just because Sally is on the train. I need you to authorize this in front of a witness.”

“All right,” Sheriff Carson said. “Hodge, you are witness to this. Smoke, you are deputized to find out what is happening with that train, and to deal with it as you see best.”

“Thanks.”

Hurrying back outside, Smoke jumped into the buckboard. Slapping the reins against the back of the team, he took the road that ran parallel with the railroad. He left town doing a brisk trot, but once he was out of town, he urged the team into a gallop. Less than fifteen minutes later, he saw the train stopped on the railroad tracks. Not wanting to get any closer with the team and buckboard, he tied them to a juniper tree, then, bending to keep a low profile, ran alongside the berm until he reached the front of the train. Hiding in some bushes, he looked into the engine cab and saw three men. The fireman and engineer he could identify by the pin-striped coveralls they were wearing. The third man had a gun in his hand, waving it around every now and then, as if demonstrating his authority over the train crew.

Smoke moved up onto the track, but since he was in the very front of the locomotive, he knew he couldn’t be seen. He climbed up the cow catcher, then up onto the boiler itself, still unseen. He walked along the top of the boiler, then onto the roof of the cab. Lying down on his stomach, he peeked in the side window on the left side of the locomotive.

The man holding the gun had his back to that window so he couldn’t see Smoke, but the engineer and the fireman could, and their eyes widened in surprise. Smoke hoped the gunman didn’t notice.

“You two fellas are doin’ just fine,” the gunman said. “As soon as we collect our money from all your passengers, why we’ll move the stuff off the track and let you go on.”

Smoke leaned down far enough to make certain the cab crew could see him, then put his finger across his lips as a signal to be quiet.

“You got no right to be collecting money from our passengers,” the engineer said.

“Well, the Denver and Rio Grande collects its fees, and we collect ours,” the gunman said with a cackling laugh.

In mid-cackle, Smoke reached into the engine cab, grabbed the man by his shirt, and pulled him through the window, then let him fall headfirst to the ground.

“Hey, what—” was as far as the man got, before contact with the ground interrupted his protest. Looking down at him, Smoke could tell by the way the man’s head was twisted that his neck was broken, and he was dead.

Smoke swung himself into the engine cab.

“Who are you?” the engineer asked.

“Smoke Jensen. I’m a deputy sheriff. How many more are there?”

“Four more,” the fireman answered.

“Five,” the engineer corrected. “I saw five.”

“Where are they now?”

“Well, sir, after they found out we wasn’t car-ryin’ any money in the express car, they decided to see what they could get from the passengers, and that’s what they are doing now.”

“How about the two of you going down to move that body? I don’t want any of the others to look up this way and see him lying there.”

“Yeah, good idea. Come on, Cephus, let’s get him moved.”

As the two train crewmen climbed down to take care of their job, Smoke crawled across the coal pile on the tender, then up onto the top of the express car. He ran the length of that car, then leaped across to the baggage car and ran its length as well. Climbing down from the back of the baggage car, he let himself into the first passenger car.

“One of your men has already been here,” an irate passenger said. “We gave him everything we have.”

“Shhh,” Smoke said. “I’m on your side. I’m a deputy sheriff. Where are they?”

“There was only one in here, and he went into the next car.”

“Thanks.” Holding his pistol down by his side, Smoke hurried through the first car and into the second. He saw a gunman at the other end of the car, holding a pistol in his right hand and an open sack in the other. The passengers were dropping their valuables into the open sack.

“What are you doing in here? You get back in the other car and stay there like you were told!” The gunman said belligerently.

“I don’t think so.” Smoke raised his pistol. “Drop your gun.”

“The hell I will!” The train robber swung his pistol around and fired at Smoke. His shot went wide and the bullet smashed through the window of the door behind him.

Smoke returned fire, and the gunman dropped his pistol, staggering backward, his hands to his throat. Blood spilled through his fingers as he hit the back wall of the car, then slid down to the floor in a seated position. His head fell to one side as he died.

Women screamed and men shouted. As the car filled with the gunsmoke of two discharges, Smoke ran through the car, across the vestibule, and into the next car.

The gunman in the next car, having heard the shot, called for his partners. “Red! McDill! Slim, get in here quick!”

Smoke and the gunman exchanged fire, with the same result. The gunman went down and Smoke was still standing. Running into the next car, he saw the robber dashing out the back door. He chased after him but didn’t have to shoot him. The gunman was taken down by a club wielded by the porter in the next car.

“Good job,” Smoke said.

“The other two has done jumped off the train,” the porter said.

Smoke jumped down from the train, then moved away from it to get a bead on the two who were running along the tracks. He snapped off a long shot, but missed. He didn’t get a second shot. The outlaws were on horseback and galloping away.

Smoke stood there, holding his smoking pistol as he watched the two robbers flee.

“You need to develop a better sense of timing,.”

Turning, Smoke saw Sally standing on the ground behind him. He embraced and kissed her, then he pulled his head back. “What do you mean, a better sense of timing?”

“If you had been five minutes earlier, the robbers wouldn’t have gotten my reticule.”

“Sorry. How much did they get?” Smoke asked.

“Just my purse,” Sally said with little laugh. “I had already taken everything out of it.”

Several others came down from the train and all thanked Smoke for coming to their rescue.

“Look here!” someone shouted. “The two that got away dropped their sacks!”

“The ones inside never even made it off the train with their sacks,” another said. “Ha! Ever’-thing they took is still here!”

“Cephus, how long will it take you to get the steam back up?” the conductor asked.

“Fifteen minutes,” Cephus said. “Maybe half an hour.”

Smoke looked at Sally. “Do you want to wait until they get the steam back up? Or do you want to come with me now? I left a buckboard just up the track a short distance.”

“My luggage is on the train,” Sally said.

“Ma’am, after what your man just did, if you want your luggage, I’ll personally open the baggage car and get it,” the conductor said.

Mitchell “Red” Coleman and Deekus McDill were the two robbers who got away. They got away from Smoke’s avenging guns, but they did not get away with any money.

“Nothin’!” McDill said. “We didn’t get a damn thing!”

“Maybe the day ain’t goin’ to be a total loss,” Red said.

“What do you mean, it ain’t a total loss?”

“Look over there.”

“What, a store? What good is a store goin’ to do us? We ain’t got no money to buy nothin’.”

“Who said we were goin’ to buy anything?” Red said.

Finally understanding what Red was talking about, McDill smiled and nodded.

Fifteen minutes later they rode away from Doogan’s store. Behind them, Jake Doogan and his wife lay dead on the floor. The total take for the robbery was seventy-eight dollars and thirty-five cents.