“They got ’ny wives, kids, anything like that?”
“No, neither one of them was married.”
“Then it looks to me like you just inherited a saloon.”
At first the bartender was surprised by the comment, then its possibility sank in, and a broad smile spread across his face. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, it does look like that, doesn’t it?” He poured the whiskey, slid it in front of Houston, then addressed the others in the saloon, calling out loudly.
“Step up to the bar, boys! Drinks are on the house, compliments of the new owner!”
As everyone was hurrying to the bar they avoided any contact with Houston, not wanting to do anything that might irritate him. However, one man did step up to him.
“Mr. Houston, my name is Clem Daggett. Sam Logan sent me to fetch you.”
“Yeah?” Houston said. “What does my cousin want?”
“He wants you to do a job for him.”
Chapter Nine
Onboard the Western Eagle, on the Union Pacific Line
Ten-year-old Winnie Churchill sat between his mother and the window as the train hurtled across the long, empty spaces.
“Mama, have you ever seen a place so large as America?” Winnie asked.
“Of course I have, dear. I was born here, remember?”
“Does that make me half American?”
“It does, indeed.”
“Then if I wanted to be an American cowboy when I grow up, I could be?”
Lady Churchill laughed, and patted her son on the shoulder. “Oh, heavens, darling, I certainly don’t think your father would like for you to be running around out here in the American West as a cowboy,” she said.
“But Uncle Moreton is a cowboy, is he not? And he isn’t even American. I could be an even better cowboy because I am half American.”
“I suppose if you put it that way, you could,” Jennie said. “Although I’m not sure that Moreton considers himself a cowboy. I think he considers himself a rancher.”
She chuckled. “From what I have heard, though, he is not a particularly good one, but please don’t tell him I said so.”
“Well, I am definitely going to be a cowboy when I grow up,” Winnie said. “I am going to ride a horse and carry a gun and fight wild Indians.”
“You are still young. I’m sure that by the time you grow up, some occupation other than being a cowboy will strike your fancy.”
While on the train, Winnie continued to write in his journal. He wrote about the Great Lakes and the city of Chicago. But it wasn’t until they started across the great western plains that his writing really came alive.
The American plains are a grand and impressive sight, vast, and seemingly lifeless but that isn’t so, because all manner of creatures reside here from the mighty buffalo to the small prairie dogs. The prairie dogs are most interesting and do not live alone, but construct entire villages as do people. I believe that as the train passes them by they observe us with as much curiosity as we observe them.
When nighttime comes the porter makes up a berth for my mother and me, and provides us with blankets so that we can be snug and warm. It is good to lie in the berth and look through the windows at the darkness which is so well lighted by the moon that one might think it is all a painting done in black and silver.
I would like to see a village of wild Indians, but have not been so fortunate.
At one of the train stops, a man got on who was obviously drunk. He staggered down the aisle, then settled in a seat across the aisle from the seat that Winnie and his mother were occupying. Jennie Churchill was an exceptionally pretty woman, Winnie knew that. He also knew that there were disquieting rumors about her, rumors that, though unsubstantiated, were nonetheless believable because Jennie was not only pretty, she was flirtatious.
But she liked to be in control of her flirting episodes, and always made certain that they were most discreet. She certainly had no interest in interacting with a drunken train passenger. He had no such reservations, however.
“Well now, ain’t you a purty thang, though?”
Jennie showed no reaction.
“I’m talkin’ to you, sweet thang. You’re ’bout the purtiest woman I ever seen.”
Jennie continued to stare straight ahead.
“What’s the matter, Missy? Do you think you’re too good for the likes of Dewey Butrum?”
Winnie got up from his seat and stood in the aisle between his mother and Dewey Butrum.
“Mr. Butrum, to answer your question, my mother is much too good for the likes of you.”
“Get out of the way, kid. I’m talkin’ to your mama.”
“I have no intention of getting out of the way.”
“Then I’ll just get you out of the way,” Butrum said. Standing up, he started toward Winnie, but Winnie kicked him hard in his shin.
Butrum lifted his leg and grabbed his shin, then began hopping around on one leg.
“Ow! You little shit, I’m going to teach you how to respect your elders.”
“No, you’re not,” another man said, and, looking up, Winnie saw that at least three more men had gotten up from their own seats. “If that little fella has the courage to stand up for his mama, we intend to see that nothing happens to him or her. There’s an empty seat at the back of the car. You go sit there.”
“The hell I will. I like where I’m sittin’,” Butrum said.
“Mister, you’ll either go back there peacefully, or we will throw you off this train,” the man said.
Grumbling, Butrum walked back to the last seat in the car and sat down.
“I thank you gentlemen for coming to our rescue,” Winnie said.
The spokesman for the group touched the brim of his hat, and smiled. “I’m not sure we did rescue you, son,” he said. “It looked to me like you were doing pretty good on your own.”
The three men returned to their seats, and Winnie returned to his.
“You know who those three men were, Mama?” he asked.
“No.”
“They were knights.”
Winnie’s mother reached over, took his hand, then squeezed it. “No,” she said. “You are my knight in shining armor.”
“Ha! I’m not wearing any armor.”
“Oh but you are, dear. You are girded with the armor of courage and righteousness.”
Thistledown
William Teasdale was sitting at his desk in the office of his house, examining the figures on the paper before him. So far, he had bought almost two thousand head of cattle from Sam Logan and the Yellow Kerchief Gang, paying them five dollars a head for cattle that would bring him forty dollars a head at the market. For now, all the rustled cattle were being kept away from his main herd in a part of his ranch that was the most remote from what people normally regarded as Thistledown. They would be kept there until the brands could be changed. Once that was accomplished, the stolen cattle would be integrated into his herd.
Teasdale chuckled at how easy it was to convert the capital letter F, for Frewen, to his own brand, which was the letter T with two crossbars. That double-bar T, that stood for Teasdale – Thistledown, was not only branded on the cattle but was painted on the side of his coach, as well as on the sign at the entrance to his ranch.
THISTLEDOWN RANCH
William Teasdale, Esquire
Of course there was a double advantage to the rustled cattle: it not only increased his herd and profit, but it also decreased Frewen’s herd, and increased his debt. Teasdale was certain that Frewen had not the slightest suspicion that Teasdale himself was behind all his troubles. The only fly in the ointment now was Matt Jensen. But Logan had told Teasdale this morning that Kyle Houston was already in Sussex, just waiting for Jensen to show up.