“Yeah, I read that,” Red said.
“Conyers. As in Big Ben Conyers,” Prewitt said, emphasizing the name. “Don’t you know who he is?”
“I’ve never heard of him before this article,” Red said. “Should I have heard of him?”
“Richard King, John Chisolm, Shanghai Pierce, Big Ben Conyers,” Prewitt said. “They are the cattle giants of Texas, and there isn’t a one of them who would stand by and let their herds be taken.”
“It’s not his herd yet,” Red said easily. “I won’t be taking a herd from Conyers. I’ll be taking it from Smoke Jensen.”
Prewitt’s eyes opened wide. “Smoke Jensen? Good God man, that’s even worse. Don’t you know who Smoke Jensen is?”
“Yeah, I know who the son of a bitch is,” Red said. “And I have a score to settle with him.”
“Smoke Jensen doesn’t scare you off?”
“No,” Red said. “Does Conyers scare you off?”
Prewitt paused for a moment before he answered. “I’ll say this. I would like nothing better than to take Big Ben’s cows away from him.”
“Well, sir, I’m the man that can do it for you,” Red said. “All we have to do is come to some agreement on my cut.”
“Let’s take a walk down to Western Union,” Prewitt said.
“Western Union? What for?”
“I know how much Longhorns opened for this morning. I’d like to get a report on these Black Angus.”
Lars Prewitt was an average-sized man, but he elevated his height with high-heeled boots and a high-crowned hat. His eyes were such a pale blue that one had to look twice to see any color.
Prewitt was well known in Amarillo, and as he and Red ambled down the boardwalk between the White Elephant Saloon and the Western Union office, several of the citizens spoke to him.
When they stepped into the Western Union office, it smelled of the pipe tobacco the telegrapher was smoking. At the moment, he held the pipe clenched tightly in his teeth as he bent over the clacking telegraph key, writing on a pad the message that was coming in. Prewitt and Red remained quiet until the telegrapher worked the key to sign off. The telegrapher tore the page off the pad, folded it double, then turned in his swivel chair.
“Mr. Prewitt,” he said, recognizing one of the county’s leading citizens. “What can I do for you?”
“How about getting in touch with the cattle exchange market in Kansas City for me. I want you to check some prices.”
“I can save you some money, Mr. Prewitt,” the telegrapher said. “I checked on the Longhorns for the newspaper editor, not an hour ago.”
“I’m not interested in Longhorns,” Prewitt said.
“Oh? What are you interested in?”
“Black Angus.”
“Black Angus, you say? Well, now, that’s interesting. Who are you checking for? As far as I know, nobody in the whole county has Black Angus.”
“I have a chance to buy some Black Angus cattle at, what I think, is a good price. But I want to be certain.”
The telegrapher nodded, then bent over his key and gave it a few taps. There was a pause, then a response. The telegrapher responded again, then a moment later the key clacked very quickly as he took the message. When it was finished he swiveled around in his chair again.
“The latest price paid on Black Angus is as of two fifteen this afternoon,” automatically, they all looked at the clock, it was two forty-one. “And at that time it was seventeen dollars and seventy-five cents.”
“Thank you,” Prewitt said, and he gave the telegrapher a dollar.
The two men stepped back out onto the boardwalk in front of the telegrapher’s office.
“Do we have a deal?”
“Come out to the ranch,” Prewitt said. “This isn’t anything I want to talk about in town.”
Live Oaks Ranch, December 13
Two of Big Ben Conyers’ ranch hands, Roy Baker and Gene Finely, drove a wagon up to the front of the house. There was a coniferous tree in the wagon so large that the top, and fully one third of the tree, extended from the back of the wagon.
“This is about the largest one we could get in the wagon, Mr. Conyers. Fact is, it might be too big to go into your house,” Roy said.
“If we can get it in through the door without breaking off too many of the limbs, we can set it up in the parlor,” Big Ben said. “It has a twenty-foot-high ceiling.”
“I reckon we can get it in,” Gene said. “If we take it in bottom first, it’ll cause the limbs to bend up, and that way they won’t break off.”
“As soon as we get this one up, I want you to find another good tree, and take it in town to the Our Lady of Mercy Orphanage. I told the Sisters there that I’d be bringing them a tree.”
“Yes, sir, we got a real nice one picked out,” Roy said. “Soon as we get this one up for you, we’ll go get that one.”
There were at least ten children of the ranch hands, varying in ages from four to twelve. This being Saturday, there was no school, and as the tree was off-loaded from the wagon—it took four men—and moved toward the house, the children all gathered around in excitement.
“I’m going to need a lot of help with this tree,” Big Ben said. “I just don’t know who I can find to help.”
“Me, me!” one of the boys shouted, and he was joined by all the others.
“Well, I suppose you can help. Also, Mrs. Conyers made some peppermint candy—way too much for me to eat. I’ll need some help with that as well.”
Again the response was enthusiastic.
“Well, come on in then, we may as well get started,” Big Ben said.
The stand for the tree had been built long ago, a crisscross of boards that not only supplied a receptacle for the base of the tree, but also had long enough arms to hold the tree steady. Roy, Gene, and the other two cowboys got the tree mounted and secured.
“Well, I thank you men, I guess I don’t need the boys and girls after all,” Big Ben said. “The tree is in, we’re all finished.”
“No we aren’t,” a nine-year-old boy said.
“What do you mean, we aren’t? The tree is up, isn’t it?”
“But it’s not decorated,” the boy said.
“Oh!” Big Ben said, hitting himself in the forehead. “I knew it didn’t look right. Mrs. Conyers, do we have any decorations we could put on this tree?”
“How about this?” she asked, putting a box down on the floor.
With shouts of delight, the children opened the box and began applying the decorations.
“Nobody on the ladder unless you are at least twelve years old,” Big Ben ordered.
Roy, Gene, and the other two cowboys remained to help the children decorate the tree, especially the upper part of it. Big Ben and Julia stood back, drinking coffee and smiling as they watched.
“I certainly hope that Rebecca and Dalton are back by Christmas,” Julia said.
“I think they will be. And if they aren’t, well, we’ll just have a delayed Christmas, is all.”
With the herd
That same night while in camp, Dalton was riding night herd when his horse stepped into a hole, causing the horse and rider to go down. The sleeping herd, disturbed by the unexpected noise, came to their feet as one, and started running.
Dalton got to his feet quickly, but his horse, frightened now by the onrushing herd, ran away, and Dalton suddenly found himself standing in front of the herd with no way to escape.
Tom was the other night rider, and as the entire herd broke into a stampede, he saw at once the danger that Dalton was in. Although the riders rotated their horses from day to day, it was a fortunate turn of events that Tom just happened to be astride Thunder, who was the fastest and strongest horse in the entire remuda.
Tom urged Thunder into a gallop, quickly overtaking the running herd. He dashed across the space in front, and without breaking stride, leaned down from his saddle far enough to wrap his right arm around Dalton’s waist. Then, lifting him up from the ground and carrying him with one arm, as if he was a football, he galloped ahead of the herd until he had enough of a lead on them to take an angle to get out of their way. Once he was clear of the running herd, he stopped, then put Dalton down.