A Frontier Christmas (11 page)

“Isn't she a darling little girl?” Cora asked Meagan after Mrs. Hastings and Laura were gone.

“Yes, but I'm a little worried about her. I hope Mrs. Hastings takes her to a doctor.”

“Why bother? Everyone knows there's nothing you can do about a cold, except just ride it out.”

“If that's what it is,” Meagan said.

“Why do you say that? Do you think it might be something other than a cold?”

“I don't know,” Meagan admitted. “Maybe not. But the sore throat, the wheezing, the way her voice sounded. That is a little worrisome, as if it might be something more than just a cold.”

“Well, if it gets worse, I assure you that Mrs. Hastings will see the doctor. She is a very good mother, and she dotes on that child.”

“I'm sure she does. Please don't think I'm casting aspersions on her.”

“I make no such assumptions. I know you're just concerned.” Changing the subject, Cora pointed to one of the dresses Meagan had brought with her. “You said a few minutes ago that I should attach a bow to the bodice. What color would you suggest?”

“Oh, I would say red,” Meagan replied with a broad smile. “The color will be in accordance with the season.”

“Will you be spending Christmas here in Rawhide Buttes?” Cora asked, as she went through a box of colorful ribbon bows.

“No, I'll be returning to Chugwater a few days before Christmas. We have a Christmas dance every year, and I don't want to miss it.”

“You don't want to miss the dance? Or you don't want to miss someone who will be at the dance?” Cora asked with a knowing grin.

“Well, if you must know, I don't want to miss someone who will be at the dance.”

“Aha! I knew it!” Cora said. “It's Mr. MacCallister, isn't it? I know you were together while you were here for the funeral. They said he was here for the trial, too, but I didn't attend the trial. I've heard of him. I think everyone in Wyoming has heard of him. He is quite the hero, but what is he like?”

“I'm not sure I know how to answer that,” Meagan said. “He's a Scotsman—charming, imperious, and uncompromising.”

“I would say that you answered it fairly well,” Cora said. “He's more than just a friend, isn't he?”

“Yes,” Meagan said without going into any more detail.

“Well, would you let me buy you lunch?” Cora asked.

“Yes, I would appreciate that.”

 

 

The dining room at the Rocky Mountain Hotel was very well appointed. The tables were covered with white tablecloths and the crystal and silver gleamed from the gaslights in the large, glass globes that hung from the ceiling.

The two young women were greeted when they arrived at the dining room. “Hello, Cora. Your table is ready for you and your guest.”

“Thank you, May Ellen. This is Miss Meagan Parker. She is the wonderfully talented dressmaker who will be supplying my shop with a whole line of new dresses.”

“How wonderful!” May Ellen said, and led them to a table.

They sat, they ordered, then as they waited for their meal they talked about Cora's dress shop.

“If you get very successful, and I know you will, I won't be able to supply you with enough dresses to keep you going,” Meagan said. “You're going to have to hire a full-time seamstress.”

“I know. I've already spoken to a lady here about coming to work for me. I intend to make your dresses the top of the line.”

“Has she agreed?”

When Cora nodded, Meagan continued. “Before I return, I'll help you decorate your store for Christmas.”

“Oh, I just love Christmas, don't you?”

“Yes, I do . . . though this Christmas will be quite melancholy back in Chugwater.”

“Oh, yes, of course. You are talking about Mayor Guthrie, aren't you? What a terrible tragedy it was to lose an entire family like that. At least the men who did it have been caught, and will pay a just punishment.”

“Yes, I saw the sign as I came into town. I knew that once Duff started after them, they would be caught.”

“It seems like it just come on to her,” a man at the next table was saying. “First it was Billy; he started coughin' and wheezin' and havin' a hard time breathin'. Now it's his mama.”

“It's goin' around,” said the other man at the table. “I hear Booker is took down with it too. An' he's got a awful fever. Al Peterson said his wife is sick with it.”

“What does the doctor say about them?”

“I don't know. I ain't a' heered. What's he say about your wife and boy?”

“I ain't sent for him yet, but I aim to if they ain't neither one of 'em any better by tomorrow.”

Cora looked at Meagan and frowned. “That sounds like what Laura Hastings has.”

“Yes, it does. And it doesn't sound good.”

“I'm sure it's no more than a few cases of catarrh,” Cora said. “That seems to be quite a common illness during the winter. I'm sure Laura will be over it by Christmas.”

 

 

In another part of town, Dr. George Poindexter was examining Laura Hastings. He gave her a glass of water. “Take a sip of this.”

“I'm not thirsty.”

“You don't have to take but one sip.”

Laura took a drink of water, then winced as she swallowed.

“Does it hurt to swallow?” he asked.

“Yes sir.”

He put his fingers to both sides of her throat and felt that the lymph nodes were swollen. “Open your mouth and say ‘ahh' for me, would you, honey?”

“Ahh.” Laura said. Her voice was hoarse, and she was wheezing with every breath she took.

He looked up at Mrs. Hastings. “Has her nose been running?”

“Yes, it has.”

“I want you to keep her home from school over the next few days. And don't let anyone get around her.”

“How can I not let anyone get around her? I have to be around her. I'm her mother.”

“Of course,” Dr. Poindexter said. “That doesn't apply to you, anyway. You've already been exposed. I mean, don't let anyone else around her.”

“Exposed? What do you mean, exposed?”

“I'm not sure that it means anything, yet. We'll just have to wait and see.”

“I have to go to school,” Laura said. “I'm in the Christmas play.”

The doctor put his hand on her shoulder. “Well, we have a few more days until Christmas. Let's just see how this plays out, shall we?”

 

 

Later that same evening, Deputy Jason Masters stepped up to the cell occupied by the Cave brothers. “Do you boys see this here?” He held up something for their inspection. “This here is a calendar. Today is Monday, December fifteenth. Christmas is Thursday, December twenty-fifth. That means there's only ten more days till Christmas.

“When you two was kids, did you get excited, countin' off the days till Christmas? I know I did. What do you say we count off the days together? Today is the fifteenth, tomorrow is the sixteenth . . . this is fun, ain't it? Where did we stop? Oh, yeah, next day is the seventeenth and . . . uh . . . wait a minute. Somethin' is s'posed to happen on the seventeenth, ain't it? What is it? Oh yeah, I know. You two boys is goin' to get your necks stretched come the seventeenth, ain't you? And guess what, that's just two days from now.” Masters laughed.

“Oh, have you looked out the window? From your cell, you've got a real good view of the gallows that was built just for you. Ain't nobody else ever been hung on it. That ought to make you feel real proud. I've talked to Mr. Dysart, the photographer. He's going to get a picture of the two of you hangin' there. It's goin' to make you boys real famous.

“Some folks, when they get hung, why their tongue sticks out like this.” Masters stuck his tongue out and made a sound deep in his throat, like someone strangling.

“I hope you two boys do that. It'll make a real good picture, seein' you with your tongues all stuck out like that.”

Jesse and T. Bob glared at him, but made no response.

As the deputy walked away from the cell, still chuckling, T. Bob climbed up onto the bunk and looked through the barred window. “He's right, Jesse, they've done got the gallows built already.”

“Get down from there and quit lookin' at it,” Jesse said. “That won't do nothin' but drive you crazy.”

“They're goin' to do it, Jesse. They're goin' to hang us,” T. Bob said.

“They ain't hung us yet.”

“But they're goin' to. There ain't no way we're goin' to get out of this.”

“I told you, get down from there and quit lookin' at it,” Jesse said again.

“I can't help but look at it. It's just outside the window.”

Jesse clenched his teeth. “Then don't look through the window.”

In the wee hours of the seventeenth, Wally Jacobs lit a candle to push away the darkness inside the livery stable. Following the bubble of light, he found his horse and the two horses Dingo had given him. He saddled them, then led them out quietly, across the street and down the alley until he reached the back of the jailhouse. There, he tied the horses off.

One of the horses whickered, and Jacobs looked around quickly to make certain nobody was observing him.

 

 

Inside the jailhouse, Deputy Jason Masters was dozing at his desk when something awakened him. Opening his eyes, he glanced around the nearly dark room, illuminated only dimly by the low flame of a kerosene lantern. It was very cold outside, but a potbellied, coal-burning stove was keeping the room warm. A blue-steel pot of coffee sat on the stove, perfuming the room with its rich aroma.

Outside the small building the wind moaned, rattling the shutters and whistling through the cracks.

He looked toward the clock on the wall, its pendulum moving back and forth in a measured
tick-tock
. According to the clock, it was three-thirty in the morning. He stood up, rubbed his eyes, stretched, then walked over to the stove to pour himself a cup of coffee.

Holding the coffee, he stepped over to the jail cell to look inside. The two brothers were wide awake, sitting on their bunks.

Masters took a slurping drink of his coffee. “Can't you fellas sleep any?”

“No,” Jesse growled.

“Oh I get it. You're excited about Christmas, aren't you? Yes, it'll be here in a couple days and . . . oh, no, wait. Doggone it.” Masters snapped his fingers. “Come to think of it, you won't be here for Christmas, will you? You're goin' to hang in another”—he looked toward the clock—“five and a half hours. Well, I'll tell you what. Come Christmas Day, I'll step into the saloon and have a drink for you two boys. How will that be? Merry Christmas,” he said with a malevolent chuckle.

Masters turned away from the cell, the grin still on his face. He was startled by the sight of someone standing by his desk. “Who the hell are you? How'd you get in here?”

“The name is Wally Jacobs, and I've come to visit your prisoners.”

“Are you crazy? It's three-thirty in the morning. There's no visiting at three-thirty in the morning.”

“Deputy?” Jesse called.

“Now, what the hell do you want?” Masters asked, turning back toward the jail cell. Both prisoners were standing just on other side of the bars, and they were grinning broadly.

“Is that any way to treat our cousin?” Jesse asked.

“Your cousin?” Masters replied, a look of concern on his face. At that moment, he felt a hand clasp over his mouth, while another hand flashed quickly across his neck. There was a stinging sensation, then a wetness at his collar.

Jacobs let go of him and stepped back. Masters dropped his coffee, felt his legs turn to rubber, then he fell to the floor. Putting his hand to his throat, he pulled it away and looked in horror at the blood on his fingers. He screamed, but the scream was in his head only. His windpipe had been cut, and he could make no sound.

As he was losing consciousness, he saw Jacobs opening the cell door.

The two men hurried out, and T. Bob stepped over to look down at the fallen deputy. “Now who won't be celebrating Christmas?” He sneered.

“The horses are saddled, and in the alley behind the jail,” Jacobs said. “Let's get out of here.”

“We ain't goin' nowhere yet,” Jesse said. “We got other business to take care of.”

“What business?” Jacobs asked.