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Wild West Christmas

By Lena Nelson Dooley, Kathleen Y'Barbo, Darlene Franklin, Vickie McDonough

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Chapter 1
Hill Country Texas, Spring 1890

Harold Miller, III, twisted on the train’s bench, trying to find a more comfortable position. Every time he moved, all the thin padding under the leather upholstery shifted away from him. After spending the night in the Pullman, he wished for his plush featherbed back home. If his father hadn’t insisted he come out West, he’d be rested, not aching and weary. Just the thought brought a strong twinge in his stiff neck. And he’d be working with the numbers he loved, instead of heading toward some godforsaken place in Texas. Why would anyone name a town Horsefly? He hoped it wasn’t an indication of what he’d find when he arrived.
The monotony of rail travel compelled him to purchase a dime novel before he boarded. In any other circumstance, he never would have considered reading one. He preferred the classics to this drivel. After pulling the paperback book from his pocket, he studied the cover. A pen and ink sketch of a cowboy in full regalia–hat, boots with spurs, long-sleeved shirt, bandanna around his neck, and chaps over his trousers–was crowned with the title Black Bart’s Nemesis. He opened it to the middle where he’d left off reading the exciting, but preposterous, tale.
James Johnson vaulted into the saddle from across his horse’s rump and took off flying over the vast prairie after Black Bart. This time the dastardly outlaw would not get away.
Leaning close to Champion’s neck he urged the strong stallion faster and faster, hoping Bart wouldn’t start shooting at him. He didn’t want to have to kill the man. He just wanted him brought to justice. Thudding hooves stirred up smothering clouds of dust, and the outlaw and his horse left a wake of waves in the tall, dry prairie grass, much like the waves on the ocean.
Harold doubted the writer of this book had ever seen an ocean, especially if he compared it to dry prairie grass. And dust couldn’t be compared to the salty tang in the cooling air currents blowing across open water. He remembered sitting on the dock at his family’s cottage on Cape Cod, tasting the familiar fragrance, with the waves lapping under his feet.
James pulled his bright red bandanna over his nose to keep from breathing too much dirt into his lungs. Hot wind fanned by the mad dash across unfamiliar terrain jerked his hat from his head. If he hadn’t had the cord knotted under his chin, he’d have lost his prized Stetson. Instead it bounced against his back, keeping time with the hoof beats.
He was fast approaching his prey when suddenly Champion pitched forward and fell to the right. James had to leap sideways from his saddle to keep the gigantic horse from crushing him. Momentary fear robbed him of breath. Quickly, he jumped to his feet, sucking deeply from the hot dry air which brought a slow burning sensation to his lungs. He pulled off his hat and surveyed the damage while he beat his headgear against his leather chaps, trying to get some of the accumulated tan dust off.
He walked wide around the troubled horse, trying to find what had tripped his usually surefooted mount. Of course, the prairie dog town had been hidden by tall grass, and Champion stepped into one of the holes. “Oh, d–.”
Harold refused to voice the curse word even in his thoughts.
“I hope you didn’t break your leg.”
The horse rolled back and forth, his hooves flailing, before finally making it up on all four hooves.
James stared ahead, watching the figure of Black Bart and his mount recede until he was just a bouncing dot on the horizon. “Foiled again! But tomorrow is another day.”
“Don’t believe everything ya read in them dime novels.”
Harold stared up into the face of the friendly conductor. “I’m sure that’s true. I only brought it to help pass the time.”
“Ya did say you’re gettin’ off in Horsefly, didn’t ya?”
Feeling uncomfortable holding a conversation with the man who towered over him, Harold rose to his feet. “Yes.”
“We’ll be pullin’ inta the station in about five minutes.”
“Thank you.” Harold tipped his hat before turning and shoving the book into his black, leather Gladstone traveling bag.
The conductor ambled farther down the car.
“Sir.” Harold called after him.
Without breaking stride, the man wheeled around and returned in a trice.
“Will I be able to hire a buggy in Horsefly, or will I need to ride a horse?” He hoped the conductor couldn’t tell how much he dreaded the last alternative.
[sb]
“Hey, Charlie!” One of the cowhands shouted, catching Charlsey’s attention. “Bring on the next ’un.”
Charlsey Ames settled her sombrero more firmly on her head and opened the chute. A half-grown calf stumbled toward her. She bulldogged the Hereford and slid it closer to the huge fire, trying to keep the smoke out of her eyes. Today was unusually hot for spring. It felt more like summer. Too bad they needed such a strong fire for the branding irons.
When the reddened metal touched the calf, the acrid stench of burning hide filled her nostrils, a truly unpleasant odor, mixed with excrement and other things that accompanied it. Branding wasn’t one of her favorite chores, but she could rope the calf and tie its legs together faster than any of the other hands. That way the calves didn’t suffer as much trauma because their branding was over quickly.
While she was bulldogging the next calf, her father rode up and dismounted. Funny how she could be intent on what she was doing, but also aware of all her surroundings. Pa said that made her the best hand on the ranch, though her sisters might disagree. And the cowboys respected her.
She released the calf and stood, winding her lariat into a manageable circle, then swiping her sleeve across her sweaty brow.
“Charlie!” Once again the cowboy shouted for a calf.
Pa held up his hand. “Not right now. I need to talk to Charlie a minute. Why don’t the rest of you take a short break?”
The cowboys rushed toward the chuck wagon for coffee, and Charlsey approached her father. “What’s going on?”
“I forgot to tell you I received a telegram yesterday from Harold Miller in Boston.” He took off his hat, wiped his forehead with his bandanna, then stuffed the soiled cloth into his back pocket. “He bought a packing plant in Chicago, and he’s sending his son to buy some of our beef.”
Charlsey broke up a dirt clod with the toe of her boot. “Have you met his son?”
“Nope, and I haven’t seen Harold in over thirty years. Not since we worked the King ranch together. He lives somewhere back East.” He put his dusty Stetson back on his head. “I was actually surprised he wants to buy cattle from us. I didn’t know he’d kept up with me all these years.”
Charlsey stared across the fence line toward the undisturbed pasture, brilliant with bluebonnets, Indian paintbrush, and buttercups. She loved the colors of spring and the fresh fragrance of wildflowers. “When do you expect the younger Mr. Miller?”
“Today or tomorrow. If I knew for sure which day, I’d send a wagon for him, but I can’t have one of my hands sitting at the station most of two days.” Pa reached for his horse’s reins. “I’ve alerted your sisters. We might have company for a few days. You’ll want to dress for dinner. . .and all that stuff.”
His offhand wave told her what she needed to know about his expectations. She didn’t mind entertaining guests, but it would be a bother in the middle of branding.
[sb]
Harold exited the rail car onto the wooden platform. He surveyed the thriving western town surrounding the depot. Trees shaded many of the streets. Not the majestic white pines, hickory, hemlock, ash, and maple trees he was familiar with near his home in Massachusetts. The buildings were not the same either. Although a few were built of wood, most had rock walls. Others were part rock, part wood. Interesting. Not at all like the dime novel he’d been reading.
He welcomed the coolness when he entered the depot. Stone walls evidently helped combat the higher temperature. But even inside, he was glad he’d chosen to wear his lighter-weight suit, a blend of wool and silk. After glancing at the people around him, he knew the four-button cutaway and his flat-crowned derby would stand out in this town. Not one man wore a suit. Their headgear didn’t resemble his either.
He hoped to conclude business in a timely manner and be on his way back to civilization. He’d have to purchase something to wear if he stayed more than a day or two. They all looked cooler in their colored cotton shirts and denim trousers.
When the station master finished talking to the family clustered near the counter, Harold approached him. “Where can I hire a buggy?”
The man glanced up from the paper he was writing on and peered at him over the top of his spectacles. “Depends on where you’re going.”
Harold cleared his parched throat. “I need to get to the Ames ranch.”
“Too bad you didn’t get here half an hour ago.” The man spoke with a lazy drawl. “One of their hands picked up a shipment. Could’ve hitched a ride with him.”
“That would have been nice.” Did everything in this town move as slowly as this conversation? Harold just wanted the information so he could find somewhere to get a drink.
“You’ll have to cross the tracks.” The man laid down the pencil and pointed. “Go about four blocks south. Livery’s on the other side of the street. Can’t miss it.” He picked up the pencil again, then looked back at Harold. “Before you go, you’re welcome to head out back and get a drink from our well. I know how hot and thirsty you get traveling on the train.”
The man must have been a mind reader. After thanking him, Harold hefted his bag and headed to the water. He cranked the wooden bucket down. It took a while before he heard a splash. A deep well. When he finished cranking the filled container up out of the opening, he set it on the waist-high rock wall surrounding the well, spilling some of the water on the leg of his trousers in the process. With this heat, it should dry quickly, and the cold water felt good against his leg. He just hoped the fabric wouldn’t wrinkle much more than it already had.
A long-handled metal dipper hung on a nearby nail. Rather primitive, but Harold was thirsty enough to drink out of almost anything. He dipped it in the liquid and welcomed the soothing coolness as it slid down his parched throat.
Three full dippers later, he trudged down the dusty street. Thankfully, several patches of shade kept the sun off most of the time. He passed cross streets with houses nestled among trees. Flowers grew in many of the yards.
With a name like Horsefly, he hadn’t known what to expect. The town was much more pleasant than he’d thought it would be.
Soon Harold was ensconced in a black surrey with bright red fringe skirting the top. Reviewing the livery man’s detailed instructions, he settled back and enjoyed the ride. The horses handled easily, affording him the chance to study the landscape. He headed back north, and after passing the depot, he encountered a hotel. He considered checking in now, but decided against it. He’d wait until he got back from the ranch.
Down the road a bit, a saloon stood on the other side of the street. Just before he reached the building, the swinging doors flew open banging against the wall and two men tumbled through. They rolled off the boardwalk, landing in the dust punching and kicking each other. Gawkers filled the open doorway, and their raucous taunts held many words Harold preferred not to hear. Maybe Horsefly was more like the dime novel than he had first thought.
Leaving the town behind, he turned onto the road the livery owner indicated he should take. It led over a couple of hills. Scattered trees and bushes rested beside large rock outcroppings, and grass seemed abundant. This area wasn’t dry and dusty like in Black Bart’s Nemesis. He shouldn’t have even started reading that junk.
After the first couple of miles, he topped a higher hill, and a large valley spread before him. Glints of sunlight caught his eye from a river that meandered through the scene below. Trees grew along the banks of the river, and a meadow in the distance had a distinct blue cast to it. He knew they had bluegrass in Kentucky, but he’d never heard of any in Texas.
Finally he topped another smaller hill and gazed across a field of blue flowers unlike any he’d ever seen. Other colors, red, pink, and yellow dotted the azure blanket covering the ground. He just might like being in Texas–so different from what he’d heard and read in that stupid novel.
He knew the moment he reached the Ames ranch. Above the gate, ironwork proclaimed Rocking A, and at each end of the sign were capital a’s on rockers. Probably the brand. Strong fences stretched as far as he could see. He followed the drive around another hill. It led to the two-story ranch house built out of the same sandy-colored stone he’d seen on some of the buildings in Horsefly.
Harold tied the reins of the buggy to the hitching rail by the fence around the yard and walked up on the porch. Before his fist had time to tap the door, it opened.
“You must be Mr. Miller.” A tiny young woman with flashing brown eyes and dark hair smiled up at him.
He quickly removed his hat and held it in front of him. “At your service, Ma’am.”
“Pa said to send you out to the pasture.” She continued to give him instructions, her hands doing as much talking as her mouth.
Harold followed the twin dirt tracks past various out buildings before he topped another hill. On the other side, he found the Texas from his dime novel. Tall prairie grass covered the ground and rippling waves rolled in the occasional breeze, but it wasn’t the dry brown as described by the author of Black Bart’s Nemesis. Instead, the tall skinny stalks were light green, not the rich green of grass back home.
A short distance away in a clearing without any vegetation, a raging bonfire stoked the heat in the already hot air. He thought about removing his suit coat, but he wanted to make a good impression. His linen shirt had to be a mass of wrinkles after the day he’d had, and they could already see all the wrinkles on the dried leg of his pants.
As he approached the group of busy cowboys, a horrendous odor overcame him, making him want to retch. Whatever could that smell be? Surrounded by smoke, dust, and bawling cattle, he needed a breath of fresh air. Grabbing his handkerchief from his pocket, he covered his nose and mouth.
“Charlie.” A raucous call rang out. “Bring on the next ’un.”
A slim cowboy, in a hat larger than anyone else was wearing, pulled a lever to open a gate. A young cow stumbled out of the chute. That same cowboy jumped from her horse, roped it, tied all four legs together, then dragged the animal closer to the fire. Another man lifted what had to be a branding iron. Harold had never seen a real one before. When the hot iron touched the calf, he understood where the putrid burning odor came from as he heard the sizzling sound and watched steam escape from under the metal utensil. And the ground was littered with filth.
Fascinated, he held the handkerchief closer to his nose as he watched the cowboy quickly untie the calf and release it. Then the one called Charlie turned toward Harold. Eyes the clear blue of the Texas sky above them stared hard, and a look of disgust covered Charlie’s lightly tanned face. Or was that disdain? What was that all about?

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