A Frontier Christmas (6 page)

Many of the businesses in Chugwater were shut down so that friends of R.W. Guthrie could make the trip to Rawhide Buttes for the funeral of his son and family. Jason McKnight and Fred Matthews had gathered enough carriages, buggies, coaches, buckboards, and wagons to transport fifty-three people the thirty-one miles. It was a cold and dreary day when the vehicles came together to form a convoy on First Street.

Duff's mount Sky was tied behind the coach in which Duff, Meagan, Elmer, and Vi were riding. Another horse—Sonny—was tied behind R.W.'s coach. It was supposed to have been Timmy's Christmas present.

Jason McKnight, who had appointed himself as wagon master, would make the trip on horseback. After a ride up and down the length of vehicles to make certain that all was in readiness, he returned to the front and let out a yell. “Heah! Wagons, roll!”

“Ha!” Elmer said. “Listen to ole' Jason sing out like that. You'd think he was taking a wagon train across country.”

Wrapped as they were in a blanket to keep out the cold, Duff put his arm around Meagan and pulled her close to him. She leaned into him and soon was sleeping peacefully. He stared out at the cold, gray day.

Three hours into what would be a five-hour trip, they stopped for lunch. Buford Hampton said it reminded him of the time he came west with a wagon train, when he was a young man, back in 1855.

Fred came over to talk to Duff. “I'm worried about R.W. and Martha. We can't get them to eat anything. I don't know if either of them have eaten anything at all since they first heard about this.”

“It's hard to eat when you're grieving.” Duff was speaking from experience, recalling how he had felt after his fiancée Skye was killed back in Scotland.

“I wish you would go talk to the mayor. He sets quite a store by you.”

“All right,” Duff agreed. “Meagan, would you like to come with me?”

“All right. I don't know if I can say or do anything that will make them feel better, but I'll come with you, if you want me to.”

“I do.”

They walked up the line of vehicles until they reached the lead coach. R.W. was sitting on a stool behind his coach, staring at the horse he had bought for Timmy.

“It's a beautiful horse, R.W.,” Duff said.

“Yes.” The one-word response was barely audible.

Duff walked over and squeezed the horse's ear. The horse lowered his head in appreciation.

“R.W., are you a believing man?” Duff asked.

“I thought I was. Until this happened. Now . . . I don't know. All I know is that my son and my grandchildren have been taken from me.”

“No, they haven't.”

“I know, I know,” R.W. said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I'll see them all in the by-and-by.”

“You can see them right now.”

“What do you mean?”

Duff leaned back and crossed his arms. “Have you ever heard of a man called Kierkegaard?”

R.W. looked up. “No, who is he?”

“He was a writer and a theologian. He wrote once that when we die, we are kept in God's memory. That's a pretty powerful thing when you stop to think about it. Is there any particular moment with them that you can recall, right now? A moment that gives you pleasure?”

“Yes. The last time they came to visit, we went to Chimney Rock Mountain for a picnic.” Despite his grief, R.W. managed a smile. “Timmy scooped up a bunch of tadpoles and started chasing Suzie with them.”

“According to Kierkegaard, that moment is in God's memory. That means that all you have to do is think about it, and as you are remembering, John, Nora, Suzie, and Timmy are actually reliving that very moment, right now.”

“He hasn't caught her yet,” R.W. said. “Timmy's chasing her, but he hasn't caught her.”

It didn't escape Duff's notice that R.W. said Timmy “is” chasing her, rather than he “was” chasing her.

Duff smiled, nodded, then turned to walk back to his own coach. Meagan, who had watched the exchange between them without offering any word of her own, followed him.

“Duff?” R.W. called.

The Scotsman turned back toward him.

“Thanks.”

Duff nodded again.

“How did you do that?” Meagan asked.

“How did I do what?”

“How did you manage to get a smile from R.W. after what he has been through?”

“I just gave him something positive to think about.”

“Do you believe that? I mean that, once someone has died, all you have to do is think about them, and they are there, just on the other side of your thought?”

“Aye, 'tis one of my strongest beliefs,” Duff said.

“That is beautiful. I'll have to remember that.”

“Yeah, it's still there,” Jesse said, pointing to a small log cabin.

“I'll be damned. I didn't think it would be here,” T. Bob said.

“I told you it would be. It's been five years since we last seen it, but it's well built. It'll more 'n likely be here a hunnert years from now.”

“Who owns it?” Sunset asked.

“Don't nobody own it no more,” Jesse said. “It was built by a trapper named Crowley fifty years or so ago. That's how come they call it Crowley's Gulch. He's been gone for a long time now, ain't no tellin' how long he's been dead. Anyhow, it's tight against the wind, and even has a fireplace. There's a creek out back for water.”

“The creek will be all froze up,” Sunset complained.

“We can break out ice and melt it,” Jesse said. “We'll hole up here for a while. Let's get moved in.”

“How long you plannin' on us stayin' here?” Sunset asked.

“You got someplace else you need to be?” Jesse asked.

“No place in particular, but you may have took notice, there ain't no saloon around here. There ain't no girls, you know the kind I mean, around here, neither. Hell, there ain't even no cafés around here.”

“We got bacon, beans, coffee, flour, sugar, and salt. You want more 'n that, we got a whole forest filled with critters we can kill 'n eat. You afraid you're goin' to starve?”

“It ain't that. It's just that what good is it to have money, if you ain't got no place to spend it?”

“You can't spend money if you're dead,” Jesse answered. “And right now, what with ever' one knowin' we was the ones that killed the Guthries, there ain't no place we can go for a while, without maybe bein' seen and recognized.”

“So, we're just goin' to stay here?”

“Why not? We've got us a house. And anyone who might be comin' lookin' for us is goin' to have to come right through this draw. There ain't no other way in, unless they come over the mountains.”

“That's right,” T. Bob agreed. He chuckled. “And the only way they can come here like that, is if they're ridin' mountain goats.”

“It just don't seem right, us havin' to stay here,” Sunset complained.

“Well, Sunset, if you want to go now, go on. Go back to Millersburgh, or to Rawhide Buttes, or Bordeaux. Maybe they haven't heard of you yet.”

“And maybe they have. You'll more 'n like get your neck stretched if they have.” T. Bob made a fist, then put it beside his neck and made a retching sound in his throat. He let his head flop over to one side and laughed.

“That ain't funny,” Sunset grumbled.

“Then I reckon you'd better stay with us for a while longer. Tell you what, come the first big snowstorm—I mean a really big one so's nobody is out lookin' around—we'll leave here, and head south.”

“South where?”

“I've always sort of wanted to see Texas,” Jesse said.

Located in the Laramie Mountains, the gorge was so well concealed by the rocks and ridgelines that guarded its entrance that it couldn't be seen unless someone was specifically looking for it. At the entrance to the canyon was a pinnacle from which someone could keep a watchful eye, thus preventing anyone from approaching without being seen. Down inside the canyon, a fork from the North Fork Laramie River supplied a source of water.

Those were the virtues that had caused Sidewinder Gorge to be selected as an outlaws' hideout. There, too, were built a dozen adobe structures to house the outlaws who had made it their hideout.

Max Dingo, the recognized leader of the group, and Wally Jacobs and Nitwit Mitt arrived after holding up the stagecoach at Pulpit Rock. Their take from that holdup had been a very disappointing one hundred and fifteen dollars.

“Damn. It was hardly worth it,” Dingo said in disgust. He was sitting at a table with a woman known as Bad Eye Sal, so called because she had a drooping eyelid. The eyelid was the result of a run-in with a drunken customer when she was a saloon girl down in New Mexico. Two weeks later, she killed the man who had cut her up, then left town. She lived in Sidewinder Gorge, along with twelve men and three other women.

The men paid their way by rustling cattle or holding up stagecoaches and robbing stores. The women paid their way by providing their services to the men.

Bad Eye Sal leaned over the table. “Dingo, I want to leave this place.”

“Where would you go if you left?”

“I'd probably go to St. Louis. I have a sister there.”

“Does she know you've been whorin'?”

“I expect she does. But I'm her sister, so that won't make any difference.”

Dingo grinned. “You're right about that. It won't make any difference, 'cause you ain't goin' nowhere, woman. You ain't leavin' Sidewinder Gorge.”

“I promise you, I'll not tell anyone about this place. I'll go far away, where nobody has ever heard of you.”

“I told you, you ain't goin' nowhere.”

Bad Eye Sal frowned. “You can't keep me here against my will.”

“The hell I can't. You belong to me. All four of you belong to me, bought and paid for.”

“We might be for your pleasure, but we ain't bought and paid for. What's to keep us from just walkin' out of here?”

“What's to keep you from walkin' out? A bullet in the head ought to do a pretty good job of it,” Dingo said with an evil laugh.

The large convoy made quite a stir when it arrived in town late that afternoon. Marshal Craig had wired ahead to Marshal Worley, advising him as to how many would be arriving, so the citizens of Rawhide Buttes had set up a wagon park to accommodate the wheeled vehicles. Room had been made in the livery stable to receive all the horses.

There was not enough hotel space to provide rooms for all the arrivals, so the citizens of the town opened up their homes to the visitors. Mark Worley, the town marshal, hosted Duff, while Meagan was hosted by Cora Ensor, who also owned a dress shop.

“It will be a sad Christmas for Rawhide Buttes,” Marshal Worley told Duff that evening. “John and his whole family had many friends in town.”

“Do you have any leads on where the ones who did it might have gone?” Duff asked.

“I heard that they may have been seen up in Millersburgh, but that don't seem all that likely to me.”

“Why not?”

“It's too close to Rawhide Buttes. I'd think they would want to get farther away.”

“Perhaps they don't realize that we know they're the ones who did it,” Duff suggested.

“I'm sure they know by now. Their names have been in just about every newspaper in the entire state.”

“Nevertheless, after the funeral tomorrow, I think I'll ride up to Millersburgh and see if I can get a lead on them.”

“I would offer to deputize you,” Marshal Worley said, “but I've got no authority up there, so me deputizin' you wouldn't do any good.”

“No need,” Duff said. “I contacted Sheriff John Martin down in Cheyenne. He is going to send a warrant, by telegram, for me to be sworn in as a deputy sheriff. That will give me the all the authority I need.”

“You have a very nice dress shop here, Cora,” Meagan said after Cora had shown her around.

“Nothing like yours,” Cora replied.

“Yes, but you're just getting started. It takes a while to get it just the way you want.”

“I had counted on Christmas helping me get started this year, but with this business about Mr. Guthrie and his whole family getting killed, I don't know.”

“Christmas may be just what people need to help them get through this,” Meagan said. “I've got an idea. Suppose after the funeral, I go back home, gather up a lot of dresses, then come back and help you get your store ready for Christmas?”

“You would do that?”

“Sure, I'd be very happy to do it.”

“Oh!” Cora said as a wide smile spread across her face. “I would love that! Thank you!”