Sam Moves Up

     Sam Burton, a young, unmarried cowboy, had lived in Miles City, Montana for exactly a year and a half. Miles City was known as a major hub for shipping cattle, and it was said the human population of the city was outnumbered by cattle a thousand to one, or at least when it was autumn and time to ship the cattle to market. The town had only been incorporated in 1887, and it was now October of 1888. Sam knew the new mayor of Miles City, Eugene Henry "Skew" Johnson, by sight, but lately he steered clear of Mayor Johnson. That was on account of how the mayor’s only daughter, Beatrice, was thoroughly and unabashedly in love with Sam, but not nearly as much as she was in love with someone else. Sam was not stuck on himself, but he took care to keep his hair and mustache neat and trimmed. Even while traveling on long cattle drives, Sam always kept a small comb in his knapsack.

     Since his mother had raised him to be a gentleman, Sam had courteously tipped his hat to the nineteen-year-old Beatrice, who was as blonde and blue-eyed as most of the women in her Swedish and English ancestry. He was particularly taken by Beatrice’s attractive, curled bangs. Even if Beatrice was surrounded with her silk-and-lace bedecked female friends, Sam was uncommonly brave to greet her on significant occasions, such as when he had come into town to the church socials and dances on Harrison and Main Street. A couple of months ago, at the urging of his boss, Delbert Connor of the Barstow ranch, Sam had even asked Beatrice to go for a couple of rides in a horse-drawn buggy he had borrowed from Delbert. But how could Sam have known on their first buggy ride that Beatrice would talk on and on and ON about another young man, D.J. O’Malley? That cowpoke, O’Malley, was only twenty-one and therefore just a pup, compared to Sam’s ripe old age of twenty-eight. Besides, D.J. O’Malley worked on the N Bar N ranch, which was a pale imitation of the Barstow ranch that Sam worked for himself. ‘Course, there was only a difference of about five hundred head of cattle between the total livestock at the two outfits, if he would care to admit that to Beatrice.

     Here he was, on the second buggy ride with Miss Beatrice Johnson, but another thing nagged at Sam’s sense of well-being. It was how Beatrice always seemed to outshine him when it came to dressing up. He had taken pains to wear a clean, ironed shirt, but it seemed she was always dressed in the latest fashion from back East. This afternoon, Beatrice was dressed in a pale lavender creation, with two rows of lace around the high collar, and three layers around the bottom hem. An elegant cameo brooch with a carved white rose on the bottom border was the only jewelry Beatrice wore, except for two small pearl earrings. Sam reckoned Beatrice surely must have had as many as six or seven dresses at any given time. His own mother had only had two dresses at a time—one for everyday wear, and one for Sunday best, to wear to church.

     “Oh, Sam,” sighed Beatrice. Sam suddenly remembered he was supposed to be listening to the young lady seated next to him, instead of stewing about their last buggy ride. “D.J. says the nicest things. This is what he recited to me last night:

“Now I wonder whose fault that so many

Will be lost at the great final day,

When they might have been rich and had plenty

Had they known of the dim narrow way.[1]”

     Sam pulled up on the reins a little. The horses, Silas and Simon, shook their heads a little at the tightening. “Hey,” Sam objected. “I thought I heard that in a song that some of the other cowboys were singin’ on our last cattle drive.”

     “That’s right,” beamed Beatrice. “D.J.—well, he’s really named Dominick John O’Malley, went and talked to a musical man named Will Barnes to get him to set D.J.’s words to music. And now everyone and anyone can hear that song around campfires on the trails all over this side of the country. What do you think it would be like to be married to a famous cowboy songwriter?”

     Sam cleared his throat uncomfortably. “I could not say, Miss Beatrice.”

     Beatrice continued brightly. “And what do you suppose the ‘dim narrow way’ refers to?”

     There went that Beatrice again, asking Sam questions that he really had no answer for. Sam had always hated getting questions like those asked of him long ago in Sunday School. “Well, Miss Beatrice,” he answered, with some hesitation. “I reckon the lead cowboy’s lantern blew out in one of those stiff canyon winds that come over the crest of Buck Mountain in the Pine Hills, ‘less’n that youngster, D.J., was referrin’ to a temporary shortage of tallow candles.”

     Beatrice laughed, and her laugh both thrilled and irritated Sam. “Oh, Sam, I do believe you’re jealous, callin’ Mr. O’Malley a youngster, of all things.”

     Sam blushed in spite of himself. “It’s not like it’s a curse word, Miss Beatrice. After all, I’ll be turnin’ twenty-nine next May. And your Mr. O’Malley is just a spring chicken, seein’ as he’s only twenty-one, which you told me three—no, FOUR times the last time we went ridin’ together.”

     Beatrice laughed again, but then she pouted. “Say, why don’t you remember the time I told you that your eyes were as blue as the Powder River’s water?”

     Sam frowned. “But you also told me I was as dry as the sand on the riverbanks there, Miss Beatrice. You seem to think I am less entertainin’ than your famous Mr. O’Malley. I don’t know if I care to compete.”

      “Aw, Mr. Burton,” Beatrice shook her head. “Maybe you just don’t like poetry.”

     Sam reddened. “Consarn it, Miss Beatrice. My sainted mother read poetry to us every Sunday. Psalms was her favorite book in the Bible, too.”

     “Oh, naturally you would think of Psalms. And so would I. But I think Dominick John O’Malley is meant for greatness in this world. That is to say, in the field of poetry, or music, or maybe even somethin’ else. It’s just a feelin’ I have. Same as I have a feelin’ that this buggy ride is goin’ to be cut short, on account of how one of your horses there is startin’ to limp a little. Maybe he has a pebble stuck between his hoof and his shoe, or maybe the horseshoe has started to come loose.”

     Sam’s jaw dropped. Here he was, thinking the young lady knew nothing about ranch life and horses, and yet Beatrice had noticed the change in the horses’ rhythm before he had. He pulled up on the reins to bring the borrowed horses to a halt, then resigned himself to turning the buggy and his date around on the dirt road to head back to the mayor’s large house. He wasn’t quite ready to admit Beatrice was right, but he didn’t want to risk saying anything sharp.

     When the young couple pulled up in front of Mayor Johnson’s house, the mayor’s wife looked out the window of their elegant parlor, which Sam had only sat in once so far. She gave a slight wave of her lily-white hand toward Sam and Beatrice.

     “I’ll let you attend to your noble steed, Sir Sam,” Beatrice teased. “Maybe we can go ridin’ another day, if Mr. O’Malley hasn’t asked me out on the town by then.”

     “Aw, I bet O’Malley is turnin’ his tongue black, by lickin’ his quill pen while writin’ his verses! But let me help you down from the buggy, Miss Beatrice. Thank you most kindly for your company, but I won’t be botherin’ you again for a while.”

     Beatrice looked only slightly miffed. “Farewell, Mr. Burton. Mother and I will be havin’ a dinner for eligible bachelors and young ladies in town in about a month. Maybe I will invite you to that.”

     “If it pleases you.” Sam’s reply was cool, but he carefully helped Beatrice down from the buggy and followed one step behind her to her front door. He tipped his hat and turned without another word.

…..

     Back in Miles City the next week, Sam and the foreman, Delbert, had ridden back into town to purchase another dozen head of cattle. Delbert was a hard worker who had light brown hair and a short beard. Once in a while another cattle rancher grew tired of the long, hard winters in Montana and would sell out to move back East or even to the South. These twelve steers that Delbert and the ranch owner, James Wells, were interested in  were selling for half the usual market price, since their current owner was one of those Easterners who had decided ranching was harder than any office or store job he could get elsewhere. Delbert Connor, a man nearly forty years of age, was happily married. His wife, Josephine, or Josie as she was known by most, was one of two cooks that the Barstow Ranch had hired to cook for the owner’s family and all the hired hands and cowboys. Mr. Wells’ wife, Elizabeth, was not fond of cooking nor standing long hours in the ranch house kitchen. Josie and Delbert had their own small, three-room clapboard house on the ranch house property, although once in a while they would invite cowhands to leave the musty camaraderie of the bunkhouse to come play cards in their clean, white-washed parlor.

     Delbert and Sam had hitched a rope around the neck of each newly-purchased steer, then knotted them together around three old horseshoes lashed together. The triple-horseshoe was then tied to the top of a hitching post near the hitching post their horses were tied to securely, so that the steers could not take off on their own. Delbert had brought one of their best ranch dogs, Hugo, along to watch the steers, so that Delbert and Sam could grab a quick meal at a small but busy café at the north end of Miles City.

     Delbert and Sam ordered, paid for, and consumed a bowl of beef stew with pretty fair sourdough bread and canned peaches, all within the space of less than half an hour. But when they left the café’s interior, they noticed two head of cattle out of the dozen were missing. The two men looked at each other. The dog, Hugo was still there, but he was lying down and licking his front leg, which had not been sore before. He whined as the men knelt down next to him, as if to reproach them for not returning sooner.

     “I guess someone struck poor Hugo on his leg to get away with those two steers. We must not have heard him barking because of the crowd in the café and the kitchen noise.” Delbert mused aloud.

     Sam nodded, then suggested, “What’s the chance we could locate those two steers? We know what brand they had.”

     Just then, a young boy about eleven years of age, with rather straw-like, mussed hair and long-lashed, brown eyes stepped out from the shade near the hitching post. Sam recognized him as being the son of one of the nearby hotel’s maids.

     “Say, mister, I saw who took your steers. There were two of them, in fact. I’ll tell you who they were, if you give me a dime.”

     Delbert frowned slightly at first, but then he smiled at the boy as he fished a coin out of his pocket. “Usually it takes a whole hour to earn a dime, boy, but if you can save us an hour of work, this dime is all yours. Now, who did you see?”

     The boy looked both ways up and down the dusty street. He took a step toward Delbert and Sam. “It was Willie Howard and Pete Scatcher. They’re always stealing stuff from the hotel. They hired me once to keep their shoes shined for an entire month, and they promised me two whole dollars. But they paid me with two silver dollars which they had taken most of the silver out of. My mother was real sore about that, because I had worked nearly an hour every day on those two rascals’ shoes. She was tryin’ to teach me the value of work, but when she took me to the bank to open my own account, the banker said the dollars were tampered with. I dunno what Willie and Pete did, but they weren’t worth two whole dollars anymore.”

     “Gee, that’s pretty lowdown, to cheat a child,” Delbert shook his head sympathetically.

     Sam spoke up. “I guess you were concealed, so those thieves didn’t know you saw them?”

     “Yes, sir,” the boy nodded. “And I think their latest scam is to steal cattle wherever they can find them, then they burn or rub off the brand and sell them again as strays. A couple of my friends have actually found real stray cows and returned them to ranchers for a reward. But Willie and Pete take a shortcut by stealing steers or cows just a few at a time. So even if someone comes after them for rustlin’, they can claim they just sold off a larger herd of strays that had no brands, and they were keepin’ the branded animals to try and find out who the owners were. They’re pretty slick, all right.” The boy shook his head, in almost the same way Delbert had.

     “How did you find out about the way they work?” Delbert inquired.

     “Ah, I overheard them talkin’ one time, when I brought back their polished shoes to their hotel room door. The door isn’t as thick as most people think, and men’s voices carry through the wood if you listen carefully. Sometimes they have card games in their hotel room, but they aren’t supposed to do that, either.”

     Delbert passed the dime to the boy. “Will you tell me your name? I think the sheriff will wanna know what you overheard.”  And if you happen to know where they keep the cows they steal, we’d appreciate knowin’ that, too.”

     “Well, if you need me again, just ask for Joey. I’m Betsy Randall’s boy. My mother works at the Jumpin’ Jack Hotel on Main Street.”

     Sam nodded at the familiar reference. Sam had stayed at that hotel before being hired at the Barstow ranch, which was why Joey looked familiar to him, since he had been a shoeshine boy a year and a half before as well. Sam thought of a follow-up question. “If you happen to know where Willie and Pete keep the steers they steal, we’d appreciate knowin’ that, too.”

     Joey’s gaze dropped. “Aw, I never found that out. I usually spend my time near the end of the hallway in the hotel. Those two men thought I didn’t know they cheated me, so they hired me again to shine their shoes. They’re in room 11 on the second floor. You can tell the sheriff that. Thank you for the dime, though.” He ran back into the shadows.

     Delbert and Sam spoke together a few moments longer before deciding to visit the sheriff a few blocks away, riding their horses slowly so the remaining ten steers and the dog, Hugo, could keep up easily. Delbert hitched up their horses again, and Sam tied up the steers as they had before.

     “This time, you stay with the steers, Sam. I’ll go talk to the sheriff.”

     Sam nodded. “Yeah, we can’t afford to lose more of Mr. Wells’ stock.”

…..

     The third buggy ride that Sam and Miss Beatrice Johnson went on was considerably different from the first two. Neither Sam nor Beatrice wanted to wait an entire month to see each other again, and Delbert was generous with the horse-drawn buggy again. After all, Sam was one of the very best cowboys on the ranch.

     Beatrice hardly interrupted at all as Sam told the story. “And that’s how the sheriff tracked down two very clever cattle rustlers, Miss Beatrice. Those two rascals learned they oughtta steer clear of steers!”

     Beatrice giggled and held onto to Sam’s arm while he deftly steered the horses, Silas and Simon. “You’re just as funny as any cowboy poet, any songwriter, or anyone else I can think of.”

     Sam grinned and slowed the horses down a little more, as the setting sun warmed his shoulders, including the one Beatrice leaned against happily.