This Calder Range (36 page)

The first cowboy who happened by thought for sure he was seeing things. After two shots of whiskey, he informed Fat Frank that he was doomed to fail, since nobody came this way but once in a blue moon. Fat Frank immediately added another sign to his storefront, a smaller one, proclaiming “Blue Moon, Montana Territory.” Whether the story about the cowboy was true or not, Fat Frank told it to everyone that chanced by and pointed to the Blue Moon sign. The tale made good telling around the campfire, and the word spread.

The place offered a closer source of supplies than Miles City. With that possibility in mind, Benteen rode to Fat Frank's store and saloon to look it over. The squat building made a strange sight, plopped in the middle of the plains with nothing around it for miles. The whiskey sign was like a beacon on that frosty October morning. His shaggy-coated horse pricked its ears at the sight and picked up the pace. It snorted in
interest at the two horses tied to a rail outside, its warm breath making a hoary cloud.

Reading brands was a habit. When Benteen noticed the Ten Bar's mark on the saddled horses in front of the store, his gaze sharpened. He was aware the two herds they'd sent up the trail had arrived about the same time Jessie had. They had located their headquarters on some fair range to the east and north of him, but this was the first that he'd met up with any of their riders.

He dismounted and looped the reins around the hitching rack. There was no hurry in his measured stride as Benteen walked to the rough-planked door. His spurs made a muted jingle in the quiet. The door swung inward on rawhide hinges as Benteen walked into the store. His gaze made a sweep of the jumble of boxes and crates used to display wares in the front section.

From the back there was the low murmur of voices, the soft, drawling sound of Texans. Unbuttoning his coat, Benteen moved in their direction just as a fat man waddled forward to greet him. It was obviously the proprietor.

“Good morning, sir.” It was a glad-handing voice. “Welcome to my humble establishment. The name's Fitzsimmons but everybody calls me Fat Frank.” He patted his rotund dimensions with pride. “What can I do for you this fine day?”

“Your sign outside said whiskey.”

“And it's real whiskey I've got, too,” Fat Frank declared. “Not that watered-down rotgut you fellas call whiskey. Just step back here to the back of the store where I got me a little bar set up.” Puffing with the effort of carrying around so much weight, he led the way. Benteen caught the sharp side glance the fat shopkeeper sent him and noted the shrewdness underneath the jovial facade. “You wouldn't be Benteen Calder, would you?” the man guessed.

“Yes.” Benteen didn't bother to ask how the man had known. Saloons in the middle of nowhere, like this
one, were always fountainheads of gossip. And the man would have made it his business to ask about potential customers.

“I heard a lot of talk about you,” Fat Frank admitted. “I been wondering when you'd be stoppin' by. You'll find my prices are fair, and I got just about anything you'll need. If I don't have it, I can get it. If your wife needs yard goods or ready-made clothes, just ask Fat Frank.”

“I'll keep it in mind.” Benteen didn't commit himself.

The back corner of the building was where the liquor was sold. A board laid across two barrels served as a bar, with open-ended crates behind it where the bottles were kept. There was a potbellied stove against the wall that bore a striking resemblance to the man's shape—round and huge, with spindly legs. Two crude chairs sat next to it, inviting customers to sit and warm themselves. In addition, there was a small table with two more chairs. They were occupied by Loman Janes and Bull Giles. Benteen nodded to the pair and continued on to the makeshift bar Fat Frank walked behind. Uncorking a bottle, he poured the whiskey into a shot glass, then pushed it to Benteen.

“On the house,” he insisted when Benteen started to reach inside his coat to pay for the drink.

“Obliged.” He nodded and took a swallow, feeling the pure fire burn its way down his throat.

“I told you it was the real stuff,” Fat Frank reminded him.

“You did,” Benteen admitted, and let his hand stay around the glass as he turned, angling his body toward the two other customers.

“You acquainted with Mr. Janes of the Ten Bar?” Fat Frank asked, as if prepared to make introductions.

“I am.”

“I swear all you Texans know each other.” The shopkeeper laughed.

“Who's mindin' the Ten Bar with you up here, Janes?” Benteen inquired with semi-interest.

The gaunt-cheeked foreman idly rolled his glass in a half-circle on the table. “Ollie Webster is runnin' the Texas end.”

“Good man.” Benteen inclined his head in a silent admission of the cowboy's abilities. He'd worked with him a few times.

“There been much Indian trouble?” Loman asked.

It was a question from one cattleman to another, and Benteen treated it as such. “Some. They run off a few head from time to time.”

“Poor, starving savages.” Fat Frank shook his head. “More than half the supplies the government promised 'em never makes it to the reservations. And that scum up on the Missouri don't help the situation, selling them whiskey.”

“What are you talking about?” Loman Janes asked, lifting his head with frowning interest.

“There's a pack of ex-buffalo hunters and wood-hawks that's nested on the Missouri River.” Wood-hawk was the term applied to men who chopped wood for the steamboats that trafficked the river. “They're an unsavory bunch. The minute they found out the Canadian government was paying the Crees and Bloods some money every autumn, they been selling them rotgut and separating those savages from their money. I understand it's getting so the Indians spend most of the winter on this side of the border.”

“I guess that explains why I lost more beef last winter than usual,” Benteen murmured, and studied the liquor left in his glass, knowing the situation was likely to get worse before it got better.

“I thought you were new to this area.” Loman Janes studied the fat man with close interest.

“I traveled some before my wagon broke down here. You see; you learn.” The man lifted his pudgy hands in a weighing gesture and shrugged. “And it so happened that I ran into the leader of the bunch. I knew him a few
years back when he was hunting buffalo in Kansas. He was a mean sort then. Now he's just plain bad. They call him Big Ed.”

“Big Ed,” Bull Giles repeated. “Big Ed Sallie? He's got a scar running clear across his right cheek?” He ran a finger diagonally across his own cheek from eye to chin.

“That's him.” Fat Frank nodded.

“You know him?” Loman Janes glanced at Bull as the stoutly muscled man straightened from his slouched position.

“I hunted buffalo with him one season a few years back. I saw him get into a knife fight with another hunter—slashed him to ribbons.” Bull took a sip of whiskey and seemed to hold it in his mouth before swallowing it.

“Indians are enough trouble when they're sober,” Loman Janes remarked. “Drunk, it's worse.” His glance raised to Benteen. “You got a lot more range to cover this winter than I do.”

“Yeah.” Benteen listened for something else in the comment, but didn't hear it. If the Indians started raiding the stock, this was one time size would be a hindrance. Loman Janes wouldn't have that problem with his smaller herd ranging over less ground. “I figured you'd be down in Texas, Bull, throwing together another Ten Bar herd to bring up the trail.”

“I decided to stay the winter,” Bull replied. “I had my fill of that alkali dust for a while.”

Bull Giles never got along with anybody for very long. Benteen couldn't imagine him taking orders from Loman Janes all winter.

“You planning on working for Janes?” He came right out and asked.

Loman Janes responded. “I heard the wolves were bad, so I told Bull he could spend the winter cuttin' down their number, since he was going to be here. We're pickin' him up some supplies and ammunition.”

All the Ten Bar cattle were getting their first taste of
a northern winter, so it was a sensible plan to cut down on the number of predators stalking the cattle's range. Benteen had issued ammunition to his men with orders to shoot any wolf they saw, but those gray wolves could be as elusive as ghosts. Hiring a wolver wasn't a bad idea, but it could be an expensive one, since they got paid three times or more what a regular cowhand made.

That thought prompted Benteen to inquire, “Does Boston know about this?”

“I put it in the last report.” Janes stiffened at the implication he didn't have the authority to do it without Judd Boston's okay.

Benteen finished his whiskey. “In your next report, give him my regards.”

“Why don't you wait until spring, then you can deliver them in person?” Loman Janes suggested with a cool smile.

Covering his surprise, Benteen eyed the Ten Bar foreman. “Boston is coming here? Why?”

“He's going to open a bank,” Janes informed him. “With all these Texans coming up here, he thought they'd rather do business at a bank owned by a fellow Texan than with these Yankees.”

“As I recall, Boston was a Yankee himself when he came to Texas,” Benteen remarked cynically. “Now he's claimin' to be a Texan, huh?”

“He's lived there longer than most,” Janes defended the claim.

“I guess he has.” Benteen stepped away from the bar and nodded to Fat Frank. “Thanks for the whiskey.”

“Come back anytime and bring your wife,” the owner invited.

Out of the corner of his eye, Benteen saw Bull Giles reach for the whiskey bottle that sat on the small table. The timing of it came right on the heels of the reference to Lorna. The big man still coveted his wife, which made Benteen wonder why Giles hadn't been around
the ranch pestering her. But whatever was keeping the man away, Benteen wanted it to stay that way.

As he rode from the store, the cantering of his horse's hooves seemed to drum out the name Judd Boston. A Texas bank in Montana. It was a brilliant move. The man would end up making money on every outfit up here, not just his own. Benteen had to give the man credit. He was a smart and shrewd businessman. like him or not.

The winter was a mild one. The warm, dry chinook wind that came from the eastern slopes of the Rockies was blowing across the plains, melting the snow and exposing the cured grasses to the grazing cattle.

It was dark when Benteen rode into the ranch after taking supplies to Shorty out at one of the line camps. He unsaddled his horse and the packhorse, turning both of them into the corral. As he walked to the cabin, he studied the curling ribbon of smoke bending over to be whisked into the night by the chinook.

When he entered the cabin, Lorna was balancing a fussing little Arthur on her hip while stirring a pot on the stove. Webb was hanging on her skirt and sobbing. Benteen noted the harassed and impatient look on her face and smiled as he turned away to remove his coat.

“What's the problem, Webb?” He crossed the room, rolling up his shirt sleeves to wash his hands.

But his older son wailed louder and tried to climb up Lorna's skirt. “He wants me to hold him.” Lorna irritably tried to push the little boy away from the hot stove.

It seemed dark in the cabin. Benteen glanced around and realized only one lamp was lit. “How come you haven't lighted the other lamp?” He poured water in the basin and reached for the chunk of lye soap.

“The kerosene's getting low. I'm trying to make it last.”

“I'd like to see what I'm eating. Light it anyway and
I'll ride over to Fat Frank's tomorrow or the next day and pick up some more.”

“Webb, you're going to get burned if you don't keep away from this stove. Who is Fat Frank?” Both sentences came all in one breath, without a break in between.

“It's that little general store east of here.” Benteen wiped his hands and glanced over to see his whimpering son still hovering close to the hot stove. “Can't you make your son do what he's told?”

“And hold little Arthur and cook your supper all at the same time, I suppose,” Lorna flared, and dropped the spoon in the pot, leaving it unattended. “I'll just let supper scorch.” She plunked a fussing Arthur in his cradle, and he immediately let out an ear-piercing wail. She smacked Webb on his bottom and sat him on a chair, where he immediately began crying in earnest. Pausing, she lit the second lamp and set it on the table with an abruptness that made the glass chimney rattle. There were angry words in the look she sent Benteen as she swept past him to the stove.

“Is something wrong?” He tried hard not to smile at her display of temper.

“You never mentioned anything about a general store east of us, certainly not a man named Fat Frank.”

“Didn't I?” He quirked an eyebrow in mild surprise, then shrugged and laid aside the towel he'd dried his hands on. “It must have slipped my mind. The place went up just this last fall.”

“A lot of things have been slipping your mind lately.” Lorna began dishing food onto the plates and setting them on the table. Webb was still crying. She shoved a spoon in his hand and pushed him closer to the table. “Be quiet and eat.”

Sitting down, Benteen waited until she had returned to the table with the wailing one-year-old in her arms and sat down with him. “What things have been slipping my mind?” he asked.

“Everything.” It was an all encompassing answer as she forced a spoonful of food into Arthur's mouth. “I don't know anything that goes on anymore. You have men working for you that I've never even met. You don't tell me anything that's going on.”

“I didn't realize I was supposed to introduce you to every new hand I hired.” He frowned. “Considering that the three men are vaqueros who came up with the herd last summer, it's a little late to be getting upset over an oversight. At the time, you were busy taking care of little Arthur and Webb. It hardly seemed important.”