“It’ll come,” Mo said. “Just keep practicing. It’ll come.”
“I’ve never been to Dodge City,” Dalton said. “They say it’s a wild town.”
“Oh, it’s wild all right,” Mo agreed. “But it’s the most fun town I’ve ever been in. I tell you what. When we get to Dodge, you stick with me. I’ll show you the town and we’ll have us a fine old time.”
“Mo?”
“Yeah?”
“You ever wonder who your Ma and Pa is?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Whoever they was, they didn’t care enough about me to keep me, so why should I worry any about them?”
“But don’t you ever wish you had a family?”
“I got a family,” Mo said. “Clay, Dusty, all the other hands at the ranch. Even you. You’re all the family I need.”
“I don’t have any brothers,” Dalton said. “You can be my brother.”
“I already am,” Mo said.
Dodge City, November 18
Dodge City had holding pens and feeder lots sufficient for 30,000 head of cattle, so Duff, Smoke, and the others had no difficulty in finding accommodations for their herd once they arrived. The last telegram Duff had received from Big Ben said that Clay Ramsey would meet him at the Dodge House.
Duff didn’t have to go to the Dodge House because, even as the four trains were off-loading the cattle, a man walked up to him. He had brown hair, a well-trimmed moustache, and blue eyes. About five feet ten, he was thin, but Duff knew better than to mistake his slender form for weakness.
“Would these cattle be bound for the Live Oaks Ranch in Texas?” the man asked.
“Aye, they would be,” Duff replied. He stuck out his hand. “I’m Duff MacCallister. You would be Clay Ramsey?”
Clay took Duff’s hand. “I am, yes, sir.”
Duff waved at Smoke, Matt, and Falcon. “I want you to meet the men who are with me. This is Smoke Jensen, Matt Jensen, and Falcon MacCallister.”
As Duff introduced the others, Clay’s eyes widened noticeably. “My God,” Clay said. “I never thought I would meet any one of you, and now, all three together? I have heard about you—I have read about you. This is quite an honor.”
“Don’t believe all you read, Mr. Ramsey,” Smoke said.
“If I can believe only one tenth of what I have read, I am still honored to meet such genuine American heroes,” Clay replied.
“How is Big Ben doing?” Smoke asked. “It’s been several years since I’ve seen him.”
“Still big,” Clay said, “somewhat ornery, and still honest.”
“Honesty is accolade enough for anyone,” Smoke said.
Clay glanced toward the holding pen, which was filling with the introduction of the cattle. “So it’s true, Black Angus really don’t have horns,” he said.
“Nothing to write home about,” Smoke said. “Certainly nothing like the magnificent rack Longhorns have.”
“They look a lot bigger.”
“They are. They’ll weigh in anywhere from two to five hundred pounds more than a Longhorn,” Smoke said.
“How soon can we start south with them?” he asked.
“We discussed that,” Smoke said. “And seeing as these are about to become your beeves, and seeing as you know the area, I reckon that makes you the trail boss. So I figure when we start south is up to you.”
“I appreciate the confidence,” Clay said. “All right, if I’m to be the trail boss, I would like to start back tomorrow. That is, if you think you and the cows are up to it. If possible, I would like to get back to Live Oaks before Christmas.”
“Yes,” Duff said. “I believe Big Ben said something about inviting us to a Christmas celebration.”
“I’m sure he did. Big Ben has always done Christmas up big. I think you will have a good time.”
“We’ll be looking forward to it,” Matt said.
“Oh, by the way, I should tell you that my wife, Maria, is with us. She signed on to cook for us. I hope you don’t have some superstition or something about having a woman on a trail drive.”
“I’d be in a fine pickle if I did,” Smoke said. “My wife, Sally, is with us.”
Clay smiled, broadly. “Really? Why, that’s wonderful. Maria will enjoy having another woman along.”
“I believe Mr. Conyers said you would have some other drovers with you,” Smoke said. “Is that true?”
“Yes, I have four men with me, in addition to my wife.”
“Good,” Smoke said. “Your four drovers, plus you, make five. We four, plus Sally, make five, so that gives us ten drovers, plus your wife as a cook. I don’t think we will have any problem in moving this herd down to Texas. Where would be the best place to take supper, do you think?”
“I imagine it would be the Dodge House,” Clay replied.
“Well then, how about you and your men join us for dinner tonight?” Smoke suggested.
“Maria and I would be glad to join you,” Clay said. “And I suspect one of my men, an older fella named Dusty, would join us as well. We can invite Tom, Mo, and Dalton, but they have already stated their intention to take in the town.”
“Smoke, if you don’t mind,” Matt said. “I think I’d like to look those fellas up and see the town with them.”
“Don’t mind at all,” Smoke replied.
“I tell you what, Matt,” Clay said. “If you’ll come with me now, I’ll introduce you to them. It will keep you from having to look them up on your own.”
“Thanks,” Matt said. “I would appreciate that.”
With the chuck and hoodlum wagons parked at the wagon park and the horses stabled, the Live Oaks outfit had checked in at the Dodge House. Tom took a room with Dusty, while Mo and Dalton shared another room. Dusty was up in the room taking a nap for, as he said, “When you are cow-boyin’, you never pass up a chance to get some sleep.”
But Tom decided that he wanted to “see the town” with Mo and Dalton, so he was waiting in the lobby for them to come down. As he was waiting, he picked up a copy of the Dodge City Times and began to peruse it while waiting for his two young friends to join him.
He was immediately drawn to a story at the top of the page, in the second column from the left.
A SHOOTING INCIDENT.
Last Monday afternoon, one of those little episodes which serve to vary the monotony of frontier existence occurred at the Lucky Chance Saloon. Bob Shaw, the man who started the amusement, accused Frank Lovejoy of having acquired three aces in a game of poker by means other than the luck of the draw. Mr. Lovejoy, our readers will remember, recently dispatched two soldiers from Fort Dodge when they leveled the same accusation. In the case of the shooting of the soldiers, Mr. Lovejoy accorded the soldiers the opportunity to withdraw their pistols from their holsters before opening the ball, the engagement ending in the death of both soldiers.
In the more recent encounter with Bob Shaw, somebody, perhaps in an attempt to prevent further bloodshed, started out in search of a Deputy City Marshal, and finding him, hurried him to the scene of the impending conflict.
When the deputy arrived, he observed Shaw near the bar with a huge pistol in his hand and a hogshead of blood in his eye, ready to relieve Frank Lovejoy of his existence in this world and send him to those shades where troubles come not, and six-shooters are unknown. Not wishing to hurt Shaw, but anxious to quiet matters and quell the disturbance, the marshal ordered him to give up his gun. Shaw refused to deliver and told the deputy to keep away from him. The deputy then gently tapped belligerent Shaw upon the head with his shooting iron, merely to convince him of the vanities of this frail world. The aforesaid reminder upon the head, however, failed to have the desired effect, and, instead of dropping, as any man of fine sensibilities would have done, Shaw turned his battery upon the officer and let him have it in the right breast. The ball, striking a rib and passing around, came out under the right shoulder blade, paralyzing’ his right arm so that it was useless, so far as handling a gun was concerned. The deputy fell, and Mr. Lovejoy, perhaps moved by the affront of an attack upon an officer of the law, discharged his pistol, which until that moment had remained in his holster, in the direction of Shaw. The ball, thus energized, struck Shaw with devastating effect, as he quickly expired from the wound.