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Ely Stanton worked with them on the spring roundup. At a noon break, he came over to stand
with Benteen, surveying the morning’s gather.
“Mary and me was talking before I left,” Ely began. “We started out the same time you and Lorna did. All we had was about three hundred cows and you had … seven, eight times that. But all we got today is ‘bout four hundred. An’ look what you’ve done for yourself.”
“You’ll start increasing.” Benteen knew the parity of growth was due to a lack of aggression on Ely’s part.
“No.” Ely shook his head. “A man’s gotta take a hard look at himself sometimes. I know about cattle an’ the land, but I ain’t got no head for the business side of ranchin’. I can be the best damned foreman that ever forked a saddle for somebody like you—and not worth a plug nickel for myself.”
“Ely—” Benteen began on a deep breath of regret, because it was undeniably true.
“Mary and me talked it over, and we wanta sell out our claim to you—if you’re interested,” Ely interrupted. “You just buy up our claim like you’re doin’ with the rest of the boys. An’ as for the cattle, you pay us for them when you can. We know you’re good for it. An’ if you need a good foreman, I’m available full-time.”
“The job’s yours, Ely, but”—there was a vaguely incredulous frown tracking across Benteen’s forehead —”the ranch and livestock, you could sell to some other outfit for a handsome price. You’re offering to practically give it to me. You shouldn’t do that.”
“Like I said”—there was a rare gleam of amusement in the quiet man’s eyes—”I got no head for business ’tall.” Then he extended his hand to shake on the deal.
* * *
Mail was a rarity, but early summer brought a windfall of letters from Texas, some dated more than nine months ago. Lorna received two from her parents. One was a joyous acknowledgment of the birth of their first grandson, Webb Matthew, and the second was a Christmas letter. Lorna wondered if they had gotten her letter yet, informing them of their second grandson’s entrance into the world and describing the fat-cheeked baby she’d named Arthur William after her father.
Her friend Sue Ellen had written, too. Lorna had laughed aloud at some of the passages where Sue Ellen hinted that she knew Lorna was enduring untold horrors in that wild, primitive land. She sounded certain Lorna had been at death’s door when she gave birth to Webb. Included in the letter, Sue Ellen passed on some information from an article she’d read in a New York newspaper that some salesman had left in her mother’s millinery store. It caught her eye because of the letter Lorna had written about the English lady she had met in Dodge City. The article said that the Earl of Crawford had taken ill and died while in the city before leaving for England, and that his widow, Lady Crawford, would be sailing for England, where his remains would be laid to rest at the ancestral home. Sue Ellen thought Lorna would be interested in learning about the “tragedy.”
Lorna recalled the brief chat she’d had with Lady Crawford, and the kindness she’d shown when she sent her maid to Lorna’s room with the small jar of lotion. It was all gone now, but Lorna had kept the jar as a memento of the incident to show her children as proof that she had met and talked to a real “lady” once. The story had a sad ending now. According to the date in Sue Ellen’s letter, the Earl of Crawford had died nearly a year and a half ago.
The mail also included a hastily scratched note from Jessie Trumbo. He expected to leave Texas the last week of March with a mixed herd of three thousand. The Ten Bar was sending up two herds of that number. In addition, there were four other herds that he personally knew about heading for the Montana country.
The open range was going to fill up fast.
With the arrival of more Texas herds in eastern Montana, other changes began. Ranches needed supplies and cowboys needed a place to spend their wages. Miles City began to take shape as a cow town.
That September, a man named Fat Frank Fitzsimmons came to the territory with two wagons of supplies and whiskey. When one of his wagons broke an axle out in the middle of nowhere, he decided fate had taken a hand in choosing a location for his new store. Within two weeks he’d thrown up a crude building of sorts and was open for business. His sign read simply: “Fat Frank’s—WHISKEY.”
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
