A Lone Star Christmas

“You should have listened to me when I suggested that you switch over to Herefords,” Walter said.

“I know.”

“Well, now is a good time to do it, seeing as you don’t have any cattle.”

“I know.”

“So are you?”

“Am I what?”

“Are you going to switch over to Hereford cattle?”

“I’m thinking about it,” Big Ben said. “I just haven’t made up my mind yet.”

“Here is a little something to help you make up your mind,” Walter said. “Hereford are selling for twelve dollars a head in Kansas City. They cost no more to raise, and they cost no more to drive up to Dodge City, but they are bringing in twelve dollars a head, compared to what? I think Longhorn are now down to about three-fifty a head.”

“Don’t rub it in,” Big Ben said.

Walter laughed. “All right, I won’t,” he said. “I promise, I won’t say another word about it. I’ll just enjoy the picnic.”

After the meal, some of the cowboys performed for the others. One of the performers was Dusty McNally. Dusty, whose real name was Abner Coy McNally, was, fifty-two years old, and looked up to by all the younger cowboys. His hair was gray, his eyes blue, and his skin weathered, with permanent creases around his eyes. He was short, only five feet seven, and he wore a sweeping handlebar moustache that covered his mouth. Born in Tennessee, Dusty was the son of a part-time preacher and full-time farmer. His father had died when he was kicked in the head by a mule. His mother had remarried, but Dusty couldn’t stand his stepfather, who abused both him and his mother. When Dusty was fifteen, he had killed his stepfather and ran away. He had been on his own ever since. He met Big Ben during the Civil War. Big Ben was a colonel and Dusty was a private, but when Big Ben lay gravely wounded among the boulders of Devil’s Den at Gettysburg, under the observation and in the range of Yankee sharpshooters, no officer or sergeant could find the courage to go to the aid of their fallen commander. It was Private Dusty McNally who braved Yankee fire to drag him back to safety.

The battlefield was a cacophony of sound; from the thunder of cannonading artillery, the loud bang of muskets and pistols, the screams of terror and the cry of the wounded, to the distinctive buzz and whine of Minie balls. Private Dusty McNally was comparatively safe behind a long line of boulders, but he abandoned that safety to dart out into the open field toward his fallen colonel.

“Get him! Get that Reb!” a Union soldier shouted and several of the enemy soldiers fired at Dusty. He could hear the bullets so close to him that they popped as they passed by, then hitting the rocks to ricochet off into the distance with a loud whine.

Dusty was five feet seven inches tall, and Colonel Conyers was almost a foot taller, and twice as heavy. Dusty tried to pick him up, but fell back on his first try.

“Jesus, Colonel, I don’t mean nothin’ by this, but you are one big sum’bitch,” Dusty said as he tried again to pick him up. “Can you sit up?”

“I think so,” Colonel Conyers said.

“All right, sit up.”

Colonel Conyers sat up, then Dusty squatted down in front of him. “Put your arms around my neck,” Dusty said.

The colonel did so, then Dusty put his arms under Colonel Conyer’s arms and stood up, lifting the colonel to his feet as he did so. After that he put his shoulder into Conyer’s stomach and lifted the colonel so that he was draped across his shoulder. Carrying him in that way, he turned and started back toward the relative safety of the line of boulders.

It wasn’t until then that he realized no one was shooting at him, and just as he reached the boulders, he was cheered, not only by the Confederate troops but by the Union soldiers as well.

“Good job, Reb!” one of the Yankee soldiers shouted. “Now, you and that big fella you just hauled off the field, keep your heads down, ’cause we’re goin’ to commence shootin’ again!”

For all intents and purposes, the war ended when Lee surrendered to Grant at Appomattox, Virginia, but for many veterans of that terrible war, the surrender was just the beginning of a much more personal conflict. Young men who had lived their lives on the edge for four years found it nearly impossible to return home and take up the plow, or go back to work in a store, repair wagons, or any of the other things that were the necessary part of becoming whole again.

Some took up the outlaw trail, continuing to practice the skills they had learned during the war. Though few on the ranch knew it, Dusty had taken that path and was, in his own words, on the trail to perdition when he came to Live Oaks and asked for work. Big Ben gave him a job, and Dusty had been with him ever since.

Dusty was a master with ropes, and he gave the others a demonstration which had them all cheering.

Mo Coffey was next. Mo Coffey was about twenty-two years old. He told everyone he was about that old, because he had no idea how old he really was. His mother, whom he had never met, had left a newborn infant wrapped in a coffee-bean bag on the doorstep of Our Lady of Mercy orphanage. The sisters at the orphanage named him Coffey after the coffee bag, and Moses because of the story of the baby Moses being left in the bull rushes.

“All right,” Mo said. “Now let me show you fellas a thing or two.”

He picked up two bottles, gave one to Dalton and one to Dusty.

“Alright, when you are ready, throw the bottles into the air,” Mo said.

“You don’t have your gun out yet,” Dalton said.

“Don’t worry about that. Just throw the bottles up into the air.”

Mo bent his knees slightly into a crouch, and held his right hand about six inches above his pistol.

“You going to say when?” Dusty asked.

“No, that would be cheating. You throw them when you are ready, then I’ll draw.”

Dusty threw his bottle up first; then seeing him, Dalton threw his up as well. Mo drew quickly and fired twice, breaking both bottles in the air.

The applause for his feat was even more enthusiastic than it had been for Dusty’s roping exhibition.

There were a few other exhibitions as well, including Dusty playing the guitar and Rebecca singing.

When darkness fell, everyone gathered for the fireworks show, which consisted of rockets and aerial bombs.

Rebecca and Tom found themselves together in the darkness and some distance from the others. When Tom put his arm around her and drew her to him, she didn’t resist. Nor did she resist when he kissed her.

“Oh, Tom,” she said, saying his name even as they were kissing, so that he felt her lips moving under his. “I love you.”

“No!” Tom said. He pulled away from her. “Rebecca, you don’t mean that.”

“What’s wrong? Of course I mean that.”

“You can’t love me, Rebecca,” Tom said. “Because I can’t love you. I can’t love anyone, ever.”

“Tom, what are you saying?”

“You don’t understand, Rebecca. I’m not worthy of your love. I’m not worthy of any woman’s love, ever again.”

Tom turned and walked away from her, quickly blending in with the other celebrants.

Rebecca felt her heart shatter, and crying bitter tears, she turned and ran back into the house.

When Big Ben went into the house after everyone was gone, he saw a lantern burning low in the parlor, and when he went in to extinguish it, he saw Rebecca sitting in the shadows.

“Rebecca, what are you doing here?” he asked.

“Nothing, just sitting here,” Rebecca said. “I’ll go to bed now.”

Rebecca turned her head away, but not before Big Ben saw a tear streak glistening in the lantern light.

“What is it, Rebecca? What is wrong?”

“Oh, Papa, I’m in love,” Rebecca said.

“You’re in love but you are crying? I may be an old fogey, but I thought people were happy when they were in