“I think,” Hurley said as Big Ben puffed on the cigar, securing the light and sending up a white puff of aromatic smoke, “that if a cowman like you, one of the men who made the Texas cattle industry, would start using the stockyard, it would spread to others. And that would be good for Texas.”
“And particularly good for you, I would expect,” Big Ben replied around the edge of his cigar.
“I’ll admit that if I could start a thriving cattle market, right here in Fort Worth, it would be good for me,” Hurley said.
“Speaking as a cattleman, I have to tell you that the problem we would have in dealing with you, Will, is the fact that you don’t pay enough. It is my understanding that you are paying one dollar a head below the Kansas City market.”
“That is true,” Hurley admitted. “But, like you, I have to get the cows to Kansas City, and I do that by train, which is quite expensive.”
“What you should do is start a meat-processing plant right here in Fort Worth,” Big Ben suggested.
Hurley chuckled. “Mr. Conyers, you are a brilliant man, for that is exactly what I plan to do. I have been discussing this very subject with Mr. Phillip Armor, of the Armor Meat Packing Company.”
“When you get that done, I think you will have a lot of cattlemen dealing with you. I know that I will.”
“I appreciate that,” Hurley said. “In fact, to show you how much I appreciate your business, if you will let me use your name in talking to others, I will make you a special deal on your cattle,” Hurley said. “Instead of paying one dollar below market price, I will give you ninety cents below market price.”
Big Ben was pleased with that proposal, for that wouldn’t be much less than he would make if he drove the entire herd to Dodge City, especially considering the fact that he was certain to lose some cattle during the drive. But he knew better than to show how pleased he was with that offer, so he made a counter-bid.
“Suppose I took half a dollar less?”
Hurley shook his head. “I couldn’t do that,” he said. “But I might be able to go eighty cents below market.”
“Make it seventy cents, and you have a deal,” Big Ben said.
“Mr. Wiggins,” Hurley called through the open door of his office.
A small, bald-headed man stepped into the door. “Yes sir, Mr. Hurley?”
“What is the latest market price for Longhorns in Kansas City?”
“Four dollars and ninety cents.”
“Thank you.”
Hurley did some figuring, then looked up. “I can give you four dollars and fifteen cents a head. That’s seventy five cents below market and quite frankly, Mr. Conyers, this is the best I can do.”
Big Ben extended his hand across the desk. “Mr. Hurley, I’ll have the cattle here by day after tomorrow,” he said.
CHAPTER FIVE
Chugwater, Wyoming, June 27
When Biff Johnson saw a tall man with golden hair, wide shoulders, and muscular arms come into Fiddler’s Green, the saloon Biff owned, he reached under the bar to find the special bottle of Scotch that he kept just for his friend, Duff MacCallister. He also poured one for himself, then held his glass up.
“Here’s to them that like us, and to them that think us swell,” Biff said.
“And to them that hates us, long may they roast in hell,” Duff replied, as, with a laugh, the two friends touched their glasses together.
Biff Johnson was a retired U.S. Army sergeant who had been with Benteen’s battalion as part of Custer’s last scout. When he retired he had built a saloon in Chugwater and named it Fiddler’s Green, after an old cavalry legend: Anyone who has ever heard the bugle call Boots and Saddles will, when he dies, go to a cool, shady place by a stream of sweet water. There, he will see all the other cavalrymen who have gone before him, and he will greet those who come after him as he awaits the final judgment. That place is called Fiddler’s Green.
In the three years since Duff had come to America, he and Biff had become good friends, partly because Biff was married to a woman from Scotland, and partly because of an incident that had happened shortly after Duff arrived.
“MacCallister!” Malcolm called from the darkness of the saloon. “Why don’t you come back out into the street, and I will as well? We can face each other down. What do you say? Just you and I, alone in the street.”
“You don’t expect me to believe that, do you?” Duff called back.
“Believe what?”
“That it would just be the two of us.”
Malcolm laughed. “You think that because I have friends with me, that I may take unfair advantage of you, MacCallister? Alas, that is probably true. Tell me, what does it feel like to know that you won’t live long enough to see the sun set tonight?”
All the while Malcolm was talking, Duff was keeping one eye on the mirror and the other on the corner of the watering trough. Then his vigil was rewarded. Duff saw the brim of a hat appear, and he cocked his pistol, aimed, took a breath, and let half of it out. When he saw the man’s eye appear, Duff touched the trigger. Looking in the mirror he saw the man’s face fall into the dirt, and the gun slip from his hand.
“Carter! Carter!” the man at the end of the trough shouted. Suddenly he stood up. “You son of a bitch! You killed my brother!” He started running across the street, firing wildly. Duff shot one time, and the man running toward him pitched forward in the street.
Duff heard the bark of a rifle, then he saw someone tumbling forward off the roof of the dress shop. The man had had a bead on Duff, and Duff hadn’t seen him. Looking toward the sound of the rifle shot, Duff saw Biff Johnson. Smiling, Biff waved at him, then stepped back behind the corner of the Curly Latham’s Barber Shop.1
“Will you be coming into town for the Fourth of July celebration?” Biff asked.
“When is that?”
“The Fourth of July is on the fourth,” Biff answered with a laugh. “Funny thing about that holiday, but it comes on the fourth, every July.”
“What day of the week?” Duff asked, laughing with him.
“I know what you meant, I was just teasing you. It’s next Friday. Of course, being a Scotsman, our Independence Day holiday won’t mean much to you.”
“Nae, that’s where you’re wrong, Laddie,” Duff said. “For ’twas on that date that you stole America from the English. And any evil done to the cursed English warms the cockles of any true Scotsman’s heart.”
“This is sort of a double celebration for us this year. Wyoming is being admitted as a state on the tenth—I don’t know why they didn’t decide on the fourth. Seems to me like that would be ideal, to celebrate the birth of our country and the birth of our state on the same day,” Biff said.
“Maybe they thought Wyoming should have its own birthday,” Duff suggested.
“I suppose so. Anyway, there is going to be a dance,” Biff said. “And I expect Miss Parker will be wanting you to come. You will be there, won’t you?”
“She’s my business partner,” Duff said. “I have to come.”
“Speaking of your business, how big is your herd now?”
“Just over ten thousand head.”
“I remember when all the other ranchers teased you about raising Black Angus,” Biff said. “They weren’t hearty enough, some said. Others said it was a temporary thing; that Americans were used to Longhorns and wouldn’t take to Angus. Now your herd is the envy of all of Wyoming.”