A Big Sky Christmas (7 page)

Moses Danzig invited Jamie to share his wagon, but Jamie told the young rabbi that he would just spread his bedroll underneath the vehicle. “I'm pretty sure it's not going to rain, and I've spent many a night sleeping on the ground. Maybe that's not as comfortable for these old bones as it once was, but it doesn't bother me all that much.”

“Suit yourself, Mr. MacCallister,” Moses said.

“Call me Jamie.”

“All right, Jamie. Since we didn't get around to meeting everybody, I'll introduce you to the rest of the group in the morning.”

“You're acquainted with everybody in the wagon train, are you?” Jamie asked.

“Well, most of them, anyway. Once you get to know me, you'll see that I'm the gregarious sort.”

“Does that mean friendly and talkative?” Jamie asked, even though he knew that was exactly what the word meant.

“Yes, it does.”

“Reckon I'd sort of figured that out already,” Jamie said dryly.

He had put his horses in the corral after unsaddling Sundown and moving his supplies from the pack horse to the back of Moses's wagon. He would use the pack animal as an extra saddle mount if he needed one and eventually press it into service again as a beast of burden once he parted ways with the immigrants after they reached Montana Territory . . . although he might not be leaving Eagle Valley right away, he realized. That would depend on the weather. If snowstorms closed the passes, it was possible he might have to remain with the pilgrims until spring, unable to reach his home in Colorado until winter was over.

He spent the night under the wagon, and as he had predicted, he slept just fine. His muscles creaked a little and his joints popped when he crawled out of his bedroll the next morning, but there was nothing uncommon about that.

As usual, he was up well before dawn, had a fire going and his coffeepot boiling by the time Moses crawled out of the wagon with his hair rumpled and a sleepy expression on his face.

“What time is it?” Moses asked.

“Time for folks to be up and stirring around,” Jamie told him. “Most of them already are.”

It was true. The women had cook fires blazing, and the men were tending to the animals. Jamie had already checked on his horses and knew they were all right.

Moses dropped from the tailgate to the ground and ran his fingers through his tangled hair. He put his hat on and hunkered next to the fire. The days were still pleasant some of the time but the nights were almost always cold. His breath fogged a little in front of his face as he held his hands out toward the fire's heat.

Jamie handed him a tin cup of Arbuckle's. “That'll warm you up.”

Moses sipped the strong black brew gratefully.

“Once we're on the trail, we'll be moving by this time of the morning every day.” Jamie waved a big hand toward the arching gray vault of the eastern sky. “There's enough light for the men handling the teams to see where they're going. That's all we really need.”

“You weren't joking when you said that the days would be long ones, were you?”

“Not one blasted bit. What do you usually do for meals?”

“I, uh, prevail upon the generosity of some of my fellow pilgrims, and in return I provide them with some supplies. I'm afraid that I'm not much of a cook myself.”

“Well, no need for you to do that anymore. I'll fix us some flapjacks and fry up a mess of bacon.”

“Uh, Jamie . . . I don't exactly eat bacon . . . You know, because of my religion . . .”

Jamie vaguely recalled hearing something like that about the Hebrew religion. He wasn't sure how anybody could live without eating bacon or salt jowl, but he supposed that was Moses's business, not his. “We'll just stick with the flapjacks, then, if they're all right for you to eat.”

“Sure,” Moses said with a smile. “Actually, that sounds really good.”

After they had finished breakfast, Moses offered to clean up.

Jamie thanked him. “While you're doing that I'll go talk to Cap'n Hendricks. Point me to his wagon.”

“Of course.” Moses told him how to find the captain's wagon, and he began to walk around the big circle that formed the camp.

He had passed about a dozen of the covered vehicles when a figure stepped out from behind one of them and confronted him. Jamie recognized the man Moses had identified as Reverend Bradford. He and the two children with him had disappeared by the time Moses had started introducing Jamie to the rest of the group the previous night.

It appeared that Bradford was intent on meeting him. He planted his feet and stood with a stern expression on his face.

Jamie could have moved him out of the way if necessary, but it would have taken a little work.

“You're MacCallister,” the big man said bluntly. “The new wagon master and guide.”

“That's right.” Jamie didn't feel any instinctive liking for the reverend, but he was willing to wait and see what the man had to say, so long as Bradford didn't waste too much of his time. He held out his hand to see if Bradford would shake.

“You've befriended the Israelite,” Bradford went on, ignoring Jamie's hand and making the words sound like an accusation of some sort.

“If you're talking about Moses, I believe he's from Poland,” Jamie said as he lowered his hand. His eyes narrowed. It seemed that his initial dislike of Bradford had been right on the money.

“I don't care where he's from, he's a Hebrew, and someone like that has no place among decent, God-fearing folks like the ones with this wagon train.”

“Now hold on a minute,” Jamie snapped. “He's got a right to be here, same as anybody else—”

Before Jamie could go on, rapid footsteps sounded behind him. He whirled around, instinct making his hand flash to the butts of the .44s holstered at his hips.

He stopped before he made the draw, as two youngsters skidded to a halt in front of him. Their eyes widened at the sight of the big frontiersman looming over them in a slight crouch, clearly ready to jerk his Colts from leather and set those deadly smokepoles to work.

“Good Lord!” Bradford exclaimed. “MacCallister, no! Those are my children.”

Jamie straightened, took his hands away from his revolvers, and willed the snarl off his face. He drew in a deep breath and smiled as he nodded to the children. “Sorry, younkers. I didn't mean to spook you. It's not a good idea to come running up behind an old-timer like me, though. We spook easy.”

The boy swallowed. “That's all right, mister. We didn't mean to scare you.”

That brought a genuine chuckle from Jamie. “That's all right. Just don't do it again.”

“This is a perfect example of why we don't need some gunman accompanying this wagon train,” Bradford said from behind him. “Guns never bring anything but trouble.”

Jamie glanced over his shoulder at the reverend. “If you ever get set upon by Indians or road agents, you'll be mighty happy to have somebody around who knows how to handle a shooting iron. Now, why don't you introduce me to these young'uns of yours?”

Grudgingly, Bradford performed the introductions. “This is my son Alexander and my daughter Abigail.”

“We're twins,” Alexander told Jamie.

Jamie nodded. “I can see that. How old are you?”

“We're ten,” Alexander replied.

“And our mama's dead,” Abigail added.

Jamie looked at Bradford again. “I'm sorry to hear that.”

“It's true that I'm a widower,” the preacher said. “My dear wife, rest her soul, went to be with our Lord more than a year ago.”

“So you've been raising these little ones by yourself since then?”

“That's right,” Bradford said. “Bringing them up in the way they should be raised.”

Alexander said, “We're not so little.”

“That's right,” Abigail said. “We're just the right size for our age.”

Jamie grinned down at her. “I reckon that's true, missy. I didn't mean any offense.”

“That's all right,” Abigail said graciously. “You're pretty big for
your
age, aren't you?”

“I reckon you could say that.”

Bradford asked, “What do you children want? I thought you were going to play with the Harper youngsters today.”

“We were,” Alexander said, “but we saw you talking to Mr. MacCallister. Billy Harper says that he's a famous gunman and Indian fighter. We wanted to get a look at him close up.”

“Do you think the Indians will scalp us, Mr. MacCallister?” Abigail asked.

“Don't you worry about that,” Jamie told her. “It's my job to see to it that nobody hurts you, Indians or anybody else.”

“You'll take care of us, then?”

“Well . . . that's really your pa's job. But I'll help him any way I can.”

“All right,” Alexander said, evidently satisfied by Jamie's answer. “Let's go, Abby. Billy said he knew where there was a dead frog we can look at.”

The two children turned and ran off. Jamie watched them go, then looked at Bradford. “That's a couple of fine youngsters you got there. I've got quite a few children myself, and a passel of grandchildren and great-grandchildren.”

“You and your wife must be proud of them,” Bradford said stiffly.

“My wife's dead, too,” Jamie said, his voice hard and flat. “So I reckon we got that in common, Reverend. Because of that I won't take any offense about what you had to say about my friend Moses . . . this time.”

Bradford glared, but he didn't say anything else. He just turned and stalked off.

Jamie shook his head as he watched Bradford walk away. He hadn't known many Jewish fellas in his life, but Moses Danzig seemed like a decent hombre and Jamie was willing to give any man the benefit of the doubt.

Bradford, on the other hand, rubbed him the wrong way. Jamie would try to keep things civil between them because he liked the man's kids. Bradford must not be all bad, he told himself, if he'd had a hand in raising Alexander and Abigail.

Jamie started toward Lamar Hendricks's wagon again, but he hadn't gone very far before he was intercepted again. Three men stepped up and barred his path. They wore belligerent expressions and planted their feet as if they didn't intend to move until they'd had their say, whatever that was.

Jamie stopped and studied them. The one on his left was tall and lean, but the ropy muscles of his arms and shoulders testified to his strength. His hands were clenched into knobby-knuckled fists. The one on the right was tall, but broad-shouldered and powerful-looking. He sported a bristly black beard, while the other two were clean shaven.

The man in the middle probably looked shorter than he really was, since he was standing between the two tall men. He seemed almost as broad as he was tall, and small, piggy eyes were buried in deep pits of gristle above a prominent nose in his round, sunburned face.

He was the one who spoke. “You're MacCallister.”

“That's right.”

“The man who attacked Jeb Ralston for no good reason and broke his leg.”

“Well, you've got that half right,” Jamie drawled. “Ralston started the fight. As for breaking his leg, that wasn't my intention. It just sort of happened in the heat of battle.” Jamie's voice hardened. “But I didn't lose any sleep over it last night.”

“Jeb is a good man and a top-notch wagon master. He deserves better.”

“I don't plan on wasting my time arguing with you,” Jamie said. “Step aside.”

“No, sir,” the piggish man snapped. “We hired on with Jeb as scouts. We've worked with him before. Now we hear you figure on waltzin' in here and takin' over.”

“Agreeing to take this train to Montana wasn't exactly my idea. But I've said that I'll do it, and that's what I plan to do, with you men or without you. It makes no never mind to me. We'll get there either way.”

“One of us should've got that job, blast it! It's not right that you cripple Jeb and then take his job!”

“You've seen Ralston?” Jamie was mildly curious about the man's condition. “How's he doing?”

“The sawbones says it'll be months before he can walk normal again, if he ever does. He may not ever get over what you done to him.”

Jamie shrugged. “He should've let it go after I threw him over that bar, instead of coming after me again.” In a voice like flint, he added, “He's lucky I didn't kill him.”

“Mister . . . by the time we get through with you, you're gonna wish it was the other way around!”

All three men attacked at the same time, charging at Jamie with fists swinging.

That didn't surprise Jamie. He'd been able to tell as soon as the men got in his way that they were on the prod. They'd just taken a few minutes to talk themselves up into doing something about it.

At least they hadn't come after him with guns or knives. Maybe he wouldn't have to kill the stupid varmints.

That thought flashed through his brain as he planted his feet and hit the short man first, since he was the closest of the three hombres. Jamie's fist crashed into that prominent nose and flattened it. Blood spurted hotly across his knuckles. The blow rocked the man's head back and stopped him as abruptly as if he'd run into a stone wall.

The lanky man with the malletlike fists darted in quickly. Jamie didn't have time to block the punch he threw. All he could do was lean his head to the side and let the man's bony fist scrape along the side of his head. That hurt his ear a little but didn't do any real damage.

Jamie hooked a hard left high into the man's midsection, just under the heart. The man hunched over and his face turned a sick shade of gray. He tried to throw another punch, but it was wide and flailing.

After dealing with the first two, Jamie couldn't hope to avoid taking a punch from the third man. His fist landed solidly against Jamie's jaw, sending him staggering to the side as his hat flew off his head. The bearded man was the biggest of the three, and he hit hard.

Still on his feet, Jamie's head and eyesight were clear. He grinned at his opponent. “That the best you got, son? Can't even put an old, old man like me on the ground?”

That gibe had the desired result. The man roared angrily and charged. Jamie twisted out of the way, grabbed the man's shoulder, and slung him up against the nearest wagon. The man crashed headfirst into the heavy side boards and bounced off. He fell on the ground and rolled over, stunned.

“Look out, Mr. MacCallister!” a little girl's voice cried.

Jamie wheeled around in time to meet another charge from the short, broad man who had recovered his wits after the painful blow that had broken his nose. Blood streamed from his nostrils, smearing the bottom half of his face and giving him a fearsome look. He threw punch after punch as he bored in at Jamie, landing some of them.

The big frontiersman shrugged off the blows, and threw a couple of his own, a left-right combination that landed on the attacker's gut and chin. Jamie would have hit him again, but a couple arms like thick cables wrapped around him from behind, pinning his arms to his sides.

“I got him, Keeler!” a harsh voice yelled in Jamie's ear. It belonged to the tall, lanky man recovered from Jamie's initial blow. “Teach the old codger a lesson!”

A vicious grin split the bloody face of the short, piggish Keeler. He laughed, clenched his fists, and rushed at Jamie, obviously intent on dealing out a lot of damage.

Jamie let him get fairly close, then lifted his right leg and planted his boot heel in Keeler's belly. The collision made Jamie's leg bend, but his muscles caught the weight and straightened his leg.

That sent Keeler flying away from him, and drove him and his lanky captor backward. The man tripped and lost his balance. When he fell, Jamie's massive form came crashing down on top of him.

Jamie rolled away, came up on hands and knees, and surged to his feet. All three of his opponents were still on the ground, stunned. A lot of the immigrants had gathered around to watch the battle, although he hadn't been aware of that while he was fighting. All his attention had been focused on his opponents.

Some of the people looked excited, as if the brawl were a welcome break from the monotony of their journey. Others appeared to be shocked and upset by the violence.

Reverend Bradford stood to one side, the usual frown of disapproval on his face. Jamie picked up his hat and slapped it against his leg to get some of the dust off of it. “What's the matter, Reverend? Fighting bother you just as much as dancing does?”

Bradford snorted. “To tell the truth, Mr. MacCallister, I didn't really expect any better of you.”

Before Jamie could respond to that, Lamar Hendricks hurried up and demanded, “What's going on here? Someone told me there was a fight.”

“If you can call it that, Captain,” one of the immigrants said. He waved a hand at the men on the ground. “Mr. MacCallister just whipped all three of these fellows!”

“Is that right?” Hendricks asked Jamie.

“Seems they hold a grudge against me because of what happened to Ralston. They ran their mouths some, then jumped me.” Jamie shrugged and nodded toward Keeler. “Well, that fella there is really the one who did all the talking.”

“Keeler,” Hendricks said, making a little face as if the name tasted bad in his mouth. “I'm not surprised. He's a hothead and too fond of drink, just like Ralston. It's no wonder they're friends. But Ralston swore these men were good scouts.”

“Maybe they are. You can be good at your job and still be a polecat.”

Hendricks frowned. “Do you want me to discharge them? I'd assumed they would work for you the same way they were going to work for Ralston, but if there's going to be trouble between you all the way . . .”

“That's up to them,” Jamie said. “I don't hold a grudge against any man over a little ruckus like this.”

He didn't say it, but he reserved his grudges—and his vengeance—for animals like the outlaws who had murdered his wife.

The three men were groaning and moving around on the ground. Hendricks strode over to them and said sharply, “Keeler! Holcomb! Gilworth! Get up.”

The three men gradually climbed to their feet and shook their heads as they tried to get their wits back about them. Keeler and Holcomb, the tall, lanky one, glared murderously at Jamie, but big, bearded Gilworth looked sort of confused as he stood there shaking his head slowly.

“What's the meaning of this?” Hendricks snapped at them. “You had no call to attack Mr. MacCallister.”

“Ain't you even gonna listen to our side of the story, Cap'n?” Keeler asked in a whining tone.

“That's what I'm doing. Why did you attack our wagon master?”

“Because he hadn't ought to be the wagon master!” Holcomb said. “Jeb's the rightful wagon master, and we're his scouts.”

“Not anymore. Mr. MacCallister has the job now, and you'll work for him and take his orders.”

“Damned if I will!” Holcomb said.

“The same goes for me,” Keeler rumbled in his gravelly voice.

“Then you can gather your gear and get out of here,” Hendricks said with a curt nod. “And since we haven't left Kansas City yet, you won't have any wages coming to you.”

“That ain't right,” Keeler insisted. “It's been four days since Jeb hired us. That's four days we could've been workin' at some other job.”

“No, it's more likely four more days you would have spent lying around whatever saloon or house of ill repute Ralston found you in. Get out of this camp or I'll summon the authorities.”

With surly, hate-filled glares, Keeler and Holcomb stumbled off. The crowd parted to let them through. Several of the women looked repulsed by the two men.

Hendricks looked at the third man. “Well, how about you, Gilworth? Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

“Yeah, I do.”

Gilworth took a step toward Jamie.

The crowd drew back a little, and a mutter of anticipation went through the group of immigrants. They expected to see more fighting.

Gilworth stuck out his big paw of a hand. “Sorry, Mr. MacCallister. I went along with the others 'cause they got so worked up about what happened to Ralston, but to tell you the truth I was never that fond of the fella myself.” He grinned sheepishly. “I reckon I like a good fight, too. From what I'd heard of you, I figured we'd get one.” He grunted. “Never figured you'd whip all of us, though. I mean, one—”

“One old man?” Jamie finished for him when Gilworth stopped short in his sentence.

“Well, yeah. No offense, but you ain't no spring chicken, that's for sure.”

Jamie snorted. “I'm not ready to be put out to pasture yet, either.” Gilworth's hand was still out, so he gripped it. “Jamie Ian MacCallister.”

“Hector Gilworth. I've heard a heap about you, Mr. MacCallister, and I'm mighty pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“You want to scout for this wagon train and work with me, Hector?”

“Yes, sir. I'd plumb admire to,” Hector said with a decisive nod. “That is, if you'll have me.”

“You don't make a habit of getting liquored up, do you?”

“Not when there's a job to do. Don't get me wrong, Mr. MacCallister. I like to blow off steam just as much as the next man, but I reckon there's a time and place for it.”

Jamie clapped a hand on Hector's shoulder. “You'll do—at least until you give me reason to think otherwise. And you can call me Jamie.”

“That'd be an honor. I've heard a whole heap about you, Mister—I mean, Jamie. I won't let you down.”

Jamie looked over at Hendricks. “There's still a problem. We'll need a couple more scouts, since those two quit.”

“If you know anyone . . .” the captain began.

“That's just it, I don't,” Jamie said. “I didn't know a soul in Kansas City until yesterday, and I've been a mite too busy to make any acquaintances except here among your bunch.”

Hector said, “I might know somebody.”

“Friend of yours?”

“My cousin. Name of Jess Neville. I don't think he ever worked as a wagon train scout before, but he's been a fur trapper and a prospector and a bullwhacker and done plenty of wanderin' around. Reckon he probably knows the ground between here and Montana about as well as anybody else would.”

“He's here in Kansas City?”

“Yes, sir, and he's at loose ends. He just quit workin' for a freight outfit not long ago.”

Hendricks said, “He wasn't fired for drinking or causing trouble, was he?”

“No, Jess is the one who up and quit. He never did like stayin' in the same job for too long. When we were growin' up, folks said he was shiftless, but I think it's more like he gets tired of doin' the same thing.”

Jamie said, “If you can hunt him up, I'll talk to him. If I like the look of him, we'll give him a job, but he'll have to stay with it until the wagons get where they're going. He can't just go wandering off if he feels like it.”

“Yes, sir. I'll make sure he understands that.”

“Even if you hire this fellow Neville, you'll still need at least one more scout, won't you?” Hendricks asked.

“That's right,” Jamie said with a nod. “Hector, let's go see that cousin of yours, and while we're at it we'll see if we can't come up with somebody else.”

“I really appreciate you puttin' so much faith in me, Jamie.”

Jamie grinned. “I like to think I can size up a fella's character pretty good, especially after I've swapped punches with him. You'll do. At least, like I said, until you prove different.”

“You don't have to worry about that,” Hector said fervently. “If you want to go hunt up Jess right now, I know where he's been stayin'.”

As the two big men, one young and one old, were leaving the wagon camp, they passed a group of children who stopped playing to gaze up at them in awe-struck admiration. Jamie spotted the Bradford twins among them and paused to say, “Abigail, that was you who called out that warning to me a little while ago, wasn't it?”

The little girl looked embarrassed and didn't say anything, but Alexander replied, “It sure was, Mr. MacCallister. She just beat me to it, though. I was about to yell for you to look out when Abby did it.”

“I appreciate the two of you looking out for me,” Jamie told them. “How about we make the two of you honorary wagon train scouts?”

Their faces lit up with grins. Abigail said, “You mean it, Mr. MacCallister?”

“I'm not in the habit of saying things I don't mean,” Jamie said. “But that's a serious job I'm giving you. You've got to keep your eyes open for trouble, and if you see anything that doesn't look right, you come find me or Mr. Gilworth or Captain Hendricks and tell us about it, all right?”

They nodded solemnly in unison, and Alexander promised, “We sure will.”

Jamie lifted a hand in farewell, and he and Hector walked on.

Hector said, “Those are cute kids. The preacher's young'uns, ain't they?”

“That's right.”

Hector made a face. “I probably shouldn't say it, but I'm not all that fond of their pa.”

“Can't argue with you there,” Jamie said. “Come on, let's find your cousin.”