A Wild West Christmas Read online

  Hallam whooped and waved the rifle and crowded the flanks of the wildly running cattle. Whitley did likewise. Slowly, the leaders of the stampede began to turn. Hallam glanced ahead and saw that Ted, with some breakneck riding, had caught up to Julie. The boy grabbed her horse’s harness and forced the animal to veer the other way, away from the direction Hallam and Whitley were turning the herd. A few more seconds, and both the youngsters were out of danger.

  The cattle slowed and turned until they were just milling around aimlessly. The threat of the stampede was over.

  The same couldn’t be said of the threat from the angry rancher and his men.

  Bradford hadn’t been hurt in the spill. He was in the saddle again now, and he charged up to Hallam and Whitley with a gun in his hand. His men were right behind him.

  “You!” Bradford said when he recognized Hallam. “I knew you were part of this bunch of rustlers, you no-good gunfighter!”

  “Slow down, Bradford,” Whitley said. “I don’t even know this man’s name. I know he saved my boy’s life when you tried to lynch him, though!”

  “We’ll string up the whole bunch of you! We caught you red-handed, blast it!”

  It was hard to argue with the evidence. Whitley and his sons were guilty, right enough.

  But they wouldn’t just allow themselves to be hanged without putting up a fight, Hallam thought as he watched the three older boys galloping toward them. The tension in the air was so thick not even a blue norther could blow it away.

  “Pa! No! Don’t do anything!”

  That was Julie crying out to her father as she and Ted hurried toward the confrontation from the other direction. Bradford, realizing for the first time that she was here, stared at her and exclaimed, “Julie! What in blue blazes–”

  Julie and Ted rode up and reined in. The girl’s face was bright red from the cold as her fair hair streamed around it.

  “Pa, you’ve got to let them go. Ted and his father and this other man saved my life. If not for what they did, that stampede would have gotten me.”

  “Blast it, there wouldn’t have been any cattle out here to stampede if they hadn’t stolen ’em from me in the first place!”

  “But they’ll give them back.” Julie looked at Ted’s father. “Won’t you, Mr. Whitley?”

  “Shoot, no,” Whitley responded instantly, and Hallam wondered if he could get the kids out of the way fast enough to save them from the gunplay that was sure to break out.

  But Whitley went on, “There’s a box canyon less’n a mile from here where they can ride out the storm that’s comin’ without any trouble. That’s where me and the boys were takin’ ’em. They were out in the open when we found ’em, and chances are they would’ve froze to death before mornin’ if we hadn’t done something. We were just tryin’ to save your cattle for you, Bradford.”

  The rancher glared at him. “You expect me to believe that loco story?”

  “It’s the truth,” Whitley insisted.

  Hallam had a pretty good idea it wasn’t, but yet it contained enough of a kernel of truth that Bradford couldn’t simply ignore the possibility.

  “You hate me and my boys so much you went out chasin’ after Ted instead of tendin’ to your own stock,” Whitley went on.

  “We didn’t know there was a blue norther comin’ up,” Bradford growled.

  “Well, maybe you ought to pay more attention to the important things like the weather...and your daughter.”

  “Don’t you tell me how to tend to my daughter, you...you turkey-necked rustler!”

  “I’ll let that go, seein’ as how you’re upset,” Whitley said. “We best get these cows movin’ if we’re gonna see ’em safe in that canyon before the snow starts fallin’.”

  No matter what had happened before, Whitley was right about that. There might not be time to drive the herd all the way back to Bradford’s ranch. Already, a few white pellets were spitting down from the gray sky.

  Bradford came to a decision. “All right, let’s go.” He turned to his men. “Start those cows movin’! Whitley will show you the way!”

  With everyone working together, it wasn’t difficult now to point the cattle in the right direction and drive them at a fast pace. Hallam took the point with Whitley.

  “You got mighty lucky today,” he told the man. “You and your boys could’ve been wiped out. And we both know you actually were stealin’ those cows.”

  “With the weather like this, Bradford couldn’t prove it in a court of law,” Whitley responded with a grin. Then he grew more solemn and shrugged. “But I promised Ted we’d leave off rustlin’ from now on, and I reckon I ought to keep my word.”

  “That’s the only way to keep from goin’ to jail...or gettin’ your neck stretched.”

  “You’re probably right about that! Anyway, Ted’s sweet on that gal, and he can’t very well court her if his daddy and hers are always tryin’ to kill each other, now can he?”

  “Not hardly,” Hallam said.

  The snow was coming down harder now as the canyon mouth came in sight. They would have time to get the cattle driven in there where they would be out of the wind and the drifting snow.

  “Bradford and his men will have a hard time gettin’ back to their place before that blizzard hits,” Hallam pointed out.

  “We can put ’em up for the night. Got some room in the main house, and a bunk house we don’t use that was built by the fella who owned the spread before I did. Bradford’s girl is the only relative he’s got left, so there’s nobody back at his place to miss ’em.”

  “So, the Whitleys and the Bradfords are gonna spend Christmas together,” Hallam mused as he and Whitley reined aside and the others began driving the cattle into the canyon.

  “Yeah. Don’t that beat all? And you’ll join us, I reckon?”

  “Sure,” Hallam said. Somebody had to keep the peace, and it looked like the job had fallen to him. “Wouldn’t do to have a bunch of feudin’ and shootin’ on Christmas Day.”

  A Creature Was Stirring

  A BUFFALO NEWCOMB STORY

  The bullet came out of nowhere and hit Buffalo Newcomb as he straightened from the spot where he'd been kneeling beside a fast-flowing creek. He'd been trying to reach into the water and grab one of the trout that swam by, tantalizing him. For such a big man, his hands were incredibly fast.

  The impact was like a hammer blow on the back of his left shoulder. It made him stumble forward, and since he was a little off-balance to start with, he had no chance to catch himself. He toppled forward into the creek with a huge splash.

  "I got him! I got me a skookum!"

  Well, that was just rude, thought Buffalo as his face went under the icy water and he came up sputtering. True, he was pretty big, and there was no denying that he was pretty hairy as well, especially in the long, shaggy buffalo-hide coat he was wearing. But that didn't mean he could pass for a dang monster!

  On the other hand, he told himself as he tried to crawl out of the stream, he supposed there was a slight resemblance...

  Buffalo's muscles wouldn't cooperate with what he wanted them to do. His whole left side was numb. He wound up flopping around at the edge of the creek like one of those trout would have if he'd caught it and tossed it up on the bank. It was humiliating.

  Not to mention dangerous, because whoever had shot him was still out there in the woods and might come along to finish the job. Buffalo lifted his head and looked around, searching for any sign of the bushwhacker.

  Rugged mountains rose all around him. The trees that covered their slopes were mantled in white from the snow that had fallen a few days earlier, but most of the snow on the ground had melted. The winds off the Pacific kept it from getting too cold on this side of the Cascades, even in December.

  It was beautiful country, but Buffalo didn't see anybody moving around in it. Even the birds had flown off, spooked by the shot.

  Buffalo thought back on that shot. He'd heard the report at the same instant as
he was hit. Hadn't sounded like a particularly big gun, he thought, but big enough to put him on the ground, obviously. And the voice that had called out exultantly, yelling about getting a skookum, it had been high-pitched, like that of a woman or a...

  A kid.

  Buffalo turned his head toward a suddenly rustling in the brush, so he was looking straight at the spot where a boy about nine or ten years old suddenly appeared, carrying a single-shot rifle. The youngster wore a battered old hat crammed down on a shock of reddish blond hair. He stopped short and stared in surprise at Buffalo, who looked right back at him.

  "You ain't a skookum," the boy finally said. "You're a man! I shot a man!"

  Buffalo would have agreed with that, but all he could do was groan. A wave of black weakness washed over him, and his head fell forward. That put his face underwater again. He reckoned he was going to die here, drowned in half a foot of water, and there wasn't a blasted thing he could do about it.

  That thought was the last thing that went through his mind before he passed out.

  ****

  "Just lie still," the woman's voice said. "I got the bullet out, and I'll have the wound bandaged in a moment."

  Buffalo didn't know where he was, but he wasn't dead, so that was something to be thankful for. His shoulder and his side weren't numb anymore, either. In fact, they hurt like blazes. He was almost thankful for that, because the pain proved he was still alive.

  "Is he gonna die, Ma? Is he?"

  "No, I don't think so, Tom...no thanks to you."

  "Aww! If I'd knowed he was a man, I wouldn't have shot him. I seen him hunkered there beside that creek and I thought for sure he was a skookum!"

  "Yes, I know," the woman said with a dry tone of disapproval in her voice. "And if he had been a creature like that, and you only wounded him, what do you think would have happened when you came running up to him like you told me?"

  "Well, uh... I guess he probably would'a et me."

  The woman heaved a frustrated sigh and said, "He would have eaten you. And I don't suppose it would do any good to correct your other grammatical mistakes, either, would it?"

  "Prob'ly not," the kid said. "Is he awake?"

  "I think so. He stirred around a little, a minute ago."

  While the woman was talking, she continued patching up the wound in Buffalo's shoulder. Her hands were strong but gentle as she tied a bandage around him. He realized he was lying face down on some sort of hard surface. A table, maybe, or even a floor.

  "There," the woman said. "Sir? Sir, are you awake?"

  Buffalo pried his eyes open. He saw her, blurry at first before his vision sharpened some. Her head was tilted 'way over so she could see his face.

  "I'm on...the floor...ain't I?" he said.

  "Indeed, you are. It was difficult enough for my son and me to drag you in here. We couldn't have even gotten you here to the cabin without the help of our mule, Bess. We lack the strength necessary to lift a man of your stature onto a bed or a table."

  "You're sayin'...I'm big as...a buffalo."

  "Or a skookum," the boy piped up. His mother shushed him.

  Buffalo had to chuckle, even though it hurt. "That's...all right...kid," he said. "I been called...a lotta things. That's how I come to be known...as Buffalo. Only name...I got now. Buffalo Newcomb."

  The woman said, "You do understand, Mr. Newcomb, that my son shot you by accident? You're not angry with him?"

  "Well, maybe...a little. But, yeah...I understand."

  "Good." She sounded relieved. "You can stay here, and we'll be glad to take care of you while you recover. You can have my bunk, but you'll have to get up and walk to it by yourself. Like I said, we can't lift you."

  Buffalo was feeling groggy again. He said, "If it's all right with you...ma'am...reckon I'll just...rest right here a mite. I'll feel better then. You can just...walk around me."

  She smiled, and that was when Buffalo realized how doggone pretty she was, with that fluffy fair hair around her face and eyes deep enough and blue enough for a fella to swim around in.

  If a man had to pass out, as he was in the midst of doing, he could do worse than having that sight be the last thing he saw for a while.

  ****

  As Buffalo predicted, when he woke up again he felt better. Some of his strength had come back. All the rugged years he had spent on the frontier, adventuring from south of the Rio Grande to north of the Milk River, had given him an iron constitution. That rifle shot might have knocked him down and out for a little while, but it really wasn't that bad.

  He was even able to stand up with the help of the woman and the boy and walk over to sit down on a bench at a rough-hewn table. The woman put a cup of coffee and a bowl of stew in front of him, and Buffalo realized that he was even hungrier than he'd thought when he was trying to catch that fish.

  "I'm much obliged to you," he said around a bite he had taken from the hunk of bread she gave him as well. "Been a while since I et, and a fella as big as me needs fuel."

  "See, Ma," the kid said. "Mr. Newcomb says et, too."

  "That still doesn't make it right." The smile she gave Buffalo took any sting out of the words. "We haven't been properly introduced, Mr. Newcomb. We know your name, but you don't know ours. My name is Ella Villard, and this is my son, Tommy."

  "Tom," the boy said. "I'm gettin' too old to be called Tommy."

  "Of course," his mother said with a nod.

  She was wearing a wedding ring, Buffalo noted, but so far he hadn't seen any sign of a husband around here. She had said that she and Tom couldn't lift him by themselves. Of course, it was possible that her husband was just gone somewhere and would be back soon.

  None of his business, anyway, Buffalo reminded himself.

  He ate half the bowl of stew, slurped down several big swallows of the coffee, and then paused to say, "I had a horse."

  "Tom brought it in. It's in our shed, out back, along with our mule."

  Buffalo glanced around the cabin. It was like a hundred other log cabins he'd seen, but Ella had tried to put some homey touches to it. The windows had curtains on them, and there were rugs here and there on the puncheon floor. The cabin had only one room and a loft, but some blankets had been hung up to close off a part of it, probably where the woman's bed was. The boy probably slept in the loft.

  Tom's single shot rifle leaned against the wall near the door. A Henry repeater was hung up on pegs, and so was a double-barreled shotgun. The weapons appeared to be well cared for. That was an indication there was a man around the place.

  Either that, or Ella Villard knew that there were times on the frontier when a person's life depended on a gun doing what it was supposed to.

  "If you don't mind my curiosity, Mr. Newcomb, what brings you to this part of Oregon?" she asked as she sat on the bench on the other side of the table.

  "My horse and the wind," Buffalo replied. "I'm a drifter, ma'am. Pretty much no-account."

  "Oh, I wouldn't say that," Ella protested. "You seem like an intelligent man, if not an overly educated one."

  Buffalo used his sleeve to wipe away some stew that had dribbled into his thick, bushy black beard.

  "Like I told you, I been called a lot of things," he said. "I ain't sure intelligent's ever been one of 'em."

  But in truth, he was smart enough to have lived this long, he thought. That had to count for something, especially when a man had lived a troubled life with stints on both sides of the law. He'd had a fortune in his hands on several occasions, but somehow, riches were like water: he just couldn't hold on to them. He had knife and claw and bullet scars all over his massive body, and his knuckles were knobby from all the pounding he'd done on cussed varmints who deserved a good thrashing. He'd just about burned up under a blazing sun, and he'd come close to freezing to death more times than he liked to think about. But he had endured.

  That was why he wasn't worried about a piddling little bullet hole.

  "I'm feelin' a heap better already,"
he went on. "Soon's I finish this here meal–which is mighty good, by the way–I reckon I'll be on my way so's I don't bother you folks no more."

  Ella looked surprised. "But you're injured," she said. "You shouldn't be traveling right away. You should rest and recover for a few days first."

  "Aw, shoot, I'll be fine–"

  "No," she said firmly. "I insist."

  Buffalo's eyes narrowed. "Mr. Villard may not like it when he gets back and finds a big galoot like me here with his wife and kid."

  Ella's lips tightened, and Tom looked away. Buffalo wished he could take back the words.

  "My late husband would have extended his hospitality to you every bit as much as we do, Mr. Newcomb," Ella said. "Besides, there's another reason you shouldn't leave. In three more days it'll be Christmas...and no one should be alone at Christmas time."

  ****

  Christmas wasn't something Buffalo thought about very often. One day was pretty much like another when you were just drifting along through life. But he supposed it wouldn't hurt to celebrate a holiday for a change.

  Besides, Ella was a good cook, and if there was one thing he liked, it was good food and plenty of it.

  His strength came back quickly over the next twenty-four hours, and during that time he also learned more about Ella Villard and her son. Tom liked to talk, and although his mother tried to shush him now and then, it didn't do much good.

  Andre Villard had been French-Canadian, a trapper who came down across the border and found himself this nice little valley in Oregon. He'd decided this would be a perfect place for a man to settle down, farm a little, maybe raise a few horses. He would need a wife to do things right, though. He had found her in Portland.