Prologue

Part 1

British Columbia, Canada, May 5. 1898.

Rancher Spencer Twilingate smiled proudly as he watched his seventeen-year-old son, Cory, cut a range-bred steer from the herd. All the Prodigal Son Ranch hands were in the process of rounding up the two hundred head of fat beeves to be driven north to the gold fields around Dawson City, Yukon—the so-called “Klondike”. To the best of Spencer’s knowledge such a drive had never been attempted before, but those who had travelled this route described it as a gruelling, fifteen-hundred mile trek through rugged wilderness and miring swamps. Nevertheless the rewards could be quite substantial, even phenomenal, for it was rumoured that beef was selling for an incredible forty-eight dollars per pound,[i] making an average steer worth its weight in gold dust.

This would be Cory’s first-ever drive, but Spencer had every confidence in him. Cory was a lot like he was at that age; boyishly handsome with a serious but pleasant expression, tousled brown hair, and a trim but sturdy body. Moreover, and probably the most gratifying, Cory had the same cock-sure attitude that had enabled Spencer to become one of the largest land holders in British Columbia.

Accompanying them would be his recently acquired ranch foreman, Jefferson “Reb” Coltrane, a Southerner from down Texas way.  Coltrane had no bush-driving experience, not like the interior of British Columbia, but he did have plenty of trailing experience. This included several drives over the famous “Chisholm Trail,” and more recently north from the Panhandle of Texas to the Yellowstone River District of Montana. Equally important, Coltrane had the sort of steady, self-confident attitude that Spencer looked for in a lead hand. In his mind experience could be gained over time, but attitude was something a man was either born with or not.

***

These medallions had significance inasmuch as a gold one attested to the legitimacy of a male offspring, and gave him a place on the family’s official roster. Nevertheless, some renegade members of the family had adopted the practice of giving their illegitimate sons a silver version of the same design. It gave the child no official standing, per se, but it did acknowledge that he was conceived and born out of love. Consequently, the medallion that Spencer had struck for his estranged son had previously been a part of the Earl’s crested tea service.

He then turned his back on his aristocratic family and set about making a new life among the hardy Canadian colonists. For a while he tried his hand at farming in Upper Canada, but hearing rumours of rich gold finds in a place called British Columbia, he sold the farm and boldly set out with a good horse and a pair of pack mules for the three thousand mile trek across country. To orient himself for the journey west of the Mississippi, he first steered south through the populated northern states, and while in Chicago he encountered a roguish cowhand by the name of Jason “Jaycee” Collins. Collins appeared roughly the same age as Spencer, and from the rakish angle of his Stetson he had the same precocious nature as well.

“Where y’all headin’, Brit?” he asked when he saw Spencer’s Bowler hat.

“I don’t believe that’s any of your business, Yank,” Spencer was quick to reply, “But if you must know, I’m on my way to British Columbia to search for gold.”

Collins remained quite unfazed by the terse remarks, grinning lopsidedly and offering his hand. “No need t’ take offence, Brit. It’s just my way o’ talkin’. Where I come just about everybody has a handle ‘sides their own. So what trail are ya takin’ west?”

Spencer was quick to back down, as well. “I’m not sure, yet,” he admitted. “That’s why I’m here to find out.”

Collins thought about this for a moment. “How be I show ya, then?”

“Why? Are you thinking of doing some prospecting, too?” Spencer asked in surprise.

“Oh, I might just fer the hell of it,” he replied, “but I hear there’s a good market fer beef up that way. So if a fella was t’ take a few critters with him he could make a tidy buck or two,” he added rather tantalizingly.

Spencer considered this for a moment, and it did make sense. In addition, it offered the experience of a real cattle drive; something he had only read about in England. “How does one go about that?” he asked.

“Got any money?” Jaycee seemed to pounce on the idea.

“A few p—, uh … dollars,” Spencer replied.

“Good,” Collins grinned triumphantly. “I’ll do the pickin’ an you do the buyin’. Then I’ll split ya seventy-thirty fer showin’ ya the way.”

“But you’ll be going that way, anyway,” Spencer pointed out. “So I’ll be willing to go eighty-twenty.”

Jaycee thought about this. “I’ll tell ya what,” he began. “I’ll show ya the way, be yer lead hand, and I’ll even learn ya how t’ be a cowpuncher fer twenty-five percent. How’s that?”

“Deal,” Spencer laughed, persuaded by the last part and Collins’ precocious charm. “When do you want to start?”

“Buy us a couple o’ tickets on the Union Pacific fer tomorrow mornin’. We’ll go by way o’ Kansas City. That might be the long way round, but it’s a whole lot safer ’n takin’ a herd of cattle through Sioux country. Besides, the price o’ beef is cheaper where I come from in Oregon.”

Spencer knew he was being exploited in a way, but he rationalized that he needed Collins’ experience to make this whole idea work. Besides, the thought of spending a few months with Collins had a certain appeal as well.

The next morning Jaycee met him outside the train station, carrying a new Stetson. “Put this on,” he said as he handed it to him. “No offence, Brit, but that puny hat o’ yours ain’t no good fer trailin’. You’ll be sunburnt redder n’ a berry in no time flat. Those fancy duds have t’ go too, but that can wait ‘til we get t’ Kansas City. There ain’t no real workin’ togs here in Chicago. If yer goin’ t’ be a cowpuncher ya got to start by lookin’ like one.”

Spencer laughed good-naturedly and put the hat on his head. Jaycee then spent some time adjusting it before he was finally satisfied. “It still looks a bit new,” he mused, critically, “but that’ll soon change. A few thunder storms and a bit o’ hail ‘ll take the store-bought look off of it just fine.”

Spencer’s eyes widened. “You’re exaggerating, surely?”

“Maybe, and maybe not,” Jaycee grinned lopsidedly. “C’mon, or we’ll miss the train.”

They both boarded the Union Pacific then, and after nearly fourteen hours on the rails they arrived in Kansas City, Kansas. From there they rode on horseback across Colorado, Utah, Nevada territories, and finally into Oregon State some two-and-a-half-weeks later. There they hurriedly assembled a herd of two hundred cattle at nine dollars a head, and after hiring a crew of waddies[1] they immediately set out for the Crown Colony of British Columbia. Six weeks later they crossed the international border near Osoyoos and followed the Old Cariboo Trail north to Barkerville.

In the meantime Spencer soon learned that Jaycee was only partially exaggerating about the weather conditions, and the Indians were just a little less friendly than the mountain grizzlies. Nevertheless, with Jaycee’s irreverent guidance he soon adapted quite well.

“C’mon, Brit,” Jaycee would say as they set out to round up strays. “I’ll learn ya how t’ round up strays.”

“Don’t worry ‘bout me, Yank,” he would laugh, mimicking Jaycee’s Texas lingo. “Just keep up or I’ll round up more critters than you.”

“Two bucks says ya won’t, neither.”

“You’re on,” Spencer would retort, and off they would ride at full tilt. At first Jaycee did quite well with this wager, but after a bit they good-naturedly passed the two dollars back and forth at the end of the day.

Now darkly tanned and smudged with trail dust most of the time, Spencer was becoming indistinguishable from the other cowhands; a fact that Jaycee commented on one day. “I’m beginin’ to believe you’ll make a cowpuncher, yet,” he observed. “Leastwise, you’re startin’ t’ look like one.”

Spencer was truly flattered, especially since Jaycee seemed to be quite sincere in his observation. Even though a man admired another man’s appearance, it was quite unusual for him to say so, openly.

“Why thank you, Jaycee,” he responded with feeling. “That’s very good to know.”

“Of course, the hat makes all the difference,” Jaycee quickly added with a grin.

At Barkerville[ii] the two of them were rewarded by a ravenous demand for beef for which the hungry miners were quite willing to pay up to fifty cents per pound, and after only a week of slaughtering they divided nearly $75,000 in profits between them. Almost giddy with success, Spencer and Jaycee went to the saloon for a well-deserved celebration.

“What d’ya say we go back for another bunch?” Jaycee suggested.

“I’m all for that,” Spencer responded straight off. “There appears to be a lot more money in cattle than prospecting.”

“I figured y’d see it my way,” Jaycee grinned lopsidedly, “so you can buy the next round on account of it was my idea.”

Spencer merely laughed and anted-up for the next round of drinks.

Plans were then made to return to Oregon for the winter, and to drive a much larger herd north in the spring. With the business settled they then proceeded to get pleasantly drunk, and at the end of the evening it was thought best to get a room for the night. This they did, but since the upstairs bedrooms were mostly used for brief encounters between miners and the local whores, the room they acquired had only one bed and a blanket to share between them. Nonetheless, they stripped to the trousers and crawled under it.

“Don’t go stealin’ my half o’ the blanket, Brit,” Jaycee teased.

“And don’t you go trying to cover up your Yankee ego,” Spencer retorted, “otherwise, we’ll need a blanket twice this size.”

This good-natured banter prompted a playful scuffle between them before they rolled over to sleep, back to back. However, toward morning Spencer awoke to find Jaycee pressed quite snugly against his back, and with his arm draped around his middle. It disturbed him at first, but since Jaycee seemed to be sleeping quite soundly he merely smiled and settled down to sleep again.

Jaycee’s snoring continued unabated after this, but at the same time his hand began to edge below Spencer’s belt as though it had a mind of its own. Confused and indignant, Spencer was on the verge of waking him for an explanation, but on second thought he held back. If Jaycee was truly sleeping, as he appeared to be, this would no doubt cause him untold embarrassment. Worse still, it could cause a rift in their friendship that would be difficult to mend.

In the meantime his pulse had quickened so that he could hardly breathe, and his rapidly-stiffening pecker was straining against the buttons on his fly. Indeed, it was the same heady sensation he had experienced when his kitchen maid had first put her hand down there, and mindful of that incredible moment of discovery he finally returned his head to the pillow to await his fate. 

 As though interpreting this as tacit leave Jaycee next took hold of Spencer’s throbbing dick through his trousers, and when this too was met with no objection he slid his hand inside, drawing back the foreskin at the same time. A veritable tsunami of sensations then coursed through Spencer’s mind and body, sweeping away any lingering resistance with it, and in response he hurriedly unbuttoned his trousers to allow Jaycee greater access to him.

Jaycee reacted by guiding Spencer’s hand to his own rigid dick, which Spencer unhesitatingly grasped as if it were his own, and together they went on to explore each other in rapt silence. This cloak of silence was perhaps their last concession to propriety, for it was as though it denied the deed. Nevertheless, there was no denying the pleasure each was deriving from it.

Their fondling exploration lasted for only a short while before they both climaxed prematurely with loud gasps, but not words, and when this was done they quickly turned over to sleep—back to back once again.

The next morning there was a noticeable avoidance of any reference to the night before, but the spectre of it nevertheless hung over them in the way they averted their eyes and spoke in guarded phrases. This palpable awkwardness pursued them out of the hotel and down the boardwalk to a restaurant with a large sign in the window: Fresh beef on the menu today, it read. Inside there was a half-hearted attempt at an ambiance with only slightly-soiled tablecloths atop plank tables, but in keeping with the ambiance an eight ounce steak was priced at nearly $3.50 per serving, or roughly seven dollars per pound. Nevertheless, they both ordered steak with their eggs, and when it arrived Jaycee began cutting into his with some difficulty.

“I believe I remember this here critter,” he remarked offhandedly, “she was a tough whore t’ drive, too.”

Hearing this Spencer began to snicker, and before long Jaycee joined him, causing the barrier between them to evaporate like the morning mist. At the same time they looked into each other’s eyes with a new kind of meaning; the sort that only men who have ridden shoulder-to-shoulder over hundreds of miles of trail, and taken that one step beyond, can know.

Still no words were spoken, except with their eyes.

The next day they set out for Oregon, spending the winter with Jaycee’s parents near the tiny settlement of Seneca, and in the spring of 1864 they headed north with nearly eight hundred fresh cattle. In the interim, however, circumstances had changed quite significantly. Following a long and uncomfortable winter the disillusioned prospectors were abandoning their claims in droves, and so Spencer and Jaycee were left with little profit and over four hundred head of cattle on their hands.

“What now?” Jaycee asked rather dejectedly.

“Well, it’s not worth driving them back,” Spencer observed. “But I’m beginning to like this part of the country. There’s a grandeur about it, and there’s plenty of unclaimed land available for ranching, so I think I’ll start my own outfit. Want to join me?”

At first Jaycee appeared in agreement, but then he seemed to change his mind. “I’d like t’, Brit, but I think I’d better mosey on. For one thing, I don’t have that sort of capital needed t’ get started, and there’s no tellin’ when the market ‘ll come back.” Then he flashed one of his typically lopsided grins, “Besides, I sort of like drivin’ the brutes. I’ll stay with ya ‘til fall, though,” he added.

Spencer sensed there was something else, but out of respect for Jaycee’s privacy he didn’t pursue it. He was truly disappointed, nonetheless.  Their friendship was just beginning to mature into something deeper; something akin to love, but he wasn’t ready to call it that. Not yet. To call it “love” would be to admit that he was a man-lover, a “sodomite,” which he refused to accept. Perhaps this was what was holding Jaycee back as well, and if so he could understand his reluctance.

Over the next few days they drove the herd south and west until they found a spot about forty miles west of Williams Lake. It was a broad, picturesque valley surrounded on three sides by aspen-covered hills, and in the background the snow-clad peaks of the Cascade Mountains pierced the azure-blue sky. A pretty stream ran through it as well, flowing out of the hills to form a pool before rushing off toward the mighty Fraser River in the east. It seemed ideal from every stand point, and so Spencer staked his claim to the valley and five thousand acres of surrounding ranch land. He also applied for his own, distinct brand.

“What’re ya goin’ t’ call yer outfit?” Jaycee asked while they were filling out the papers.

Spencer thought for a moment, and then he smiled sardonically. “Prodigal Son,” he replied, “The Prodigal Son Ranch.”

Jaycee grinned at him. “I believe that suits ya,” he observed.

“I believe so, too,” Spencer laughed. “Except this prodigal is already home.”

As he had promised Jaycee stayed for the remainder of the summer, and with his help Spencer built a sturdy one-room cabin and a temporary animal shelter. Consequently, their days were filled with industry while their nights were frequently spent exploring each other in silence. At times Jason would initiate it, but just as often Spencer would be the instigator. Still, there was never any mention of their activity before or afterward. It was something they did in the dark, not something they acknowledged in the light of day.

They also rounded up over six hundred head of cattle and recently born calves to brand with Spencer’s “P/S” mark. At first it took some doing for Spencer to acquire the knack of roping and branding, but with Jaycee’s guidance—and irreverent chiding—he managed to get quite proficient at both. Some  experienced cowhands had to be hired as well; ropers to rope and drag the protesting critters to the flankers (or “rastlers”) who, in turn, would flip and hold them while the “iron-man” applied the hot branding iron, and finally the “knife-men” would castrate the young bull calves.

To gain an understanding of all these jobs Spencer took his turn at all three, but he quickly relinquished the knife after his first attempt at castration.

Eventually, however, the time came when Jaycee had to take his leave. The aspens on the surrounding hills were turning yellow against a darkening sky, and noisy flocks of geese were forming long V-formations as they headed south. On the evening before his departure they quietly washed at the stream, and afterward they reminisced over a bottle of whiskey. Sex was inevitable, of course, for there was no way of knowing when or even if they would ever see each other again, and so it was with mixed emotions that they lay exploring each other that night.

“I’m goin’ to miss ya, Brit,” Jaycee unexpectedly spoke up, breaking the code of silence that had prevailed between them.

Spencer was surprised but relieved. “I’ll miss you too, Yank. It’s going to be deucedly lonely around here without you.”

“How about a kiss then … T’ remember ya by?” he quickly added.

Spencer hesitated. It was not something they had done before, but with Jaycee leaving in the morning this was no time to worry about propriety. He therefore leaned forward to press his lips somewhat chastely against Jaycee’s. Jaycee did the same, but then he suddenly drew Spencer into an open-mouth embrace that nearly took his breath away. It went well beyond what might be dismissed as a trail mate’s parting kiss, but he nonetheless returned it with a growing passion that soon consumed him. He therefore responded with an eagerness that surprised even Jaycee, and with their lips locked together, and their tongues probing each other’s mouth, they reached a new level of passion.

Jaycee was quick to take advantage of this as he rolled on top of Spencer’s body, raising his legs in the air at the same time. Spencer made no attempt to stop him. On the contrary he encouraged him by clawing at his back and moaning in his ear. “Yes, Yank. Give me something to remember you by.”

Jaycee then spit on his free hand to lubricate his member and slowly pressed forward. At first Spencer experienced ferocious pain, and so several attempts had to be made before penetration was achieved with the help of some bacon grease left over from breakfast. Even following that it took quite a while before Spencer was comfortable with it, but soon eventually Jaycee was able to ride him like a bronco buster while they both cried out in ecstasy.

Afterward it took quite a while for them to come down from their euphoria, but eventually Spencer lay in Jaycee’s arms, spent but happy. “Must you leave, Yank?” he finally asked. “We can make a good life together, and when the herd is built up we can go trailing again.”

“You know I want t’ stay, Brit, but it ain’t that easy. Sooner or later people’d start t’ talk, an’ when that happens there ain’t no escapin’ it. I’ve seen it happen afore. I recall these two boys in El Paso, Texas … Nice boys they were, too … But talk got around that they was diddlin’ each other. Nobody really knew it fer a fact, but this one preacher claimed the Lord had revealed it to him. So he kept preaching against these boys, saying that some feller by the name of Leviticus wanted their blood, and soon it got t’ be so bad that these fellers couldn’t go outside the house without being set upon. Then one night they hung themselves in an old barn… Or so the story goes. Mind you, it’s pretty hard t’ hang yerself with your hands tied behind your back. Leastwise, that’s what one fella told me that helped cut them down. But everybody was so scared of this here preacher nobody would say anythin’ about it. That scared the hell out o’ me,” he went on earnestly, “so I think I’d better move on afore it happens here.”

Spencer was shocked by what had happened to the two boys, but now he knew the real reason behind Jaycee’s reluctance, and he could understand it. He had heard whispers of the dangers for sodomites, and scandal was the reason he had been sent from Britain. It had never materialized, of course, but it had cost him a son just the same.

“Will you stay in touch, then?” he asked him.

“You can count on it, Brit,” he replied. “I’ll leave ya the address of my folks in Oregon. No matter where I get to I always check back with them.”

They drifted off to sleep then, and in the morning they made love in the light of day before Jaycee set off down the trail, stopping now and then to wave until he disappeared over a hill and was gone.

It was a long and lonely winter that year, and the only relief came from penning lengthy letters to Jaycee, or receiving a response from him. These brief epistles generally began with, Hello, Brit. I’m fine. How are you? And ended with, Sure do miss ya, tho. But Spencer treasured every one—reading and re-reading them while lying in his bed, alone.

Winter finally passed, and in the spring he was encouraged to discover that the cattle had not only survived, but had also multiplied just as nature intended them to do, so that now he was the proud owner of close to nine hundred head of range-hardy specimens. Nonetheless there was still no appreciable market for beef, and so he decided to diversify. He therefore used some of the money from his first drive to build a dam across the stream, and then constructed a saw mill to accommodate the settlers who were beginning to arrive in the area. He also increased Prodigal Son Ranch by an additional five thousand acres, giving him ten thousand acres in all.

The saw mill proved to be a successful venture, and because of it several settlers inquired about purchasing town lots adjacent to it. Intrigued by the notion of having a settlement attached to Prodigal Son, like the medieval village attached to Ardmore Manor in England, he drew up a plan of subdivision and began leasing out lots. His rationale for leasing was that if he decided against any one of them he could always revoke it. The rents from these leaseholds were only a token amount each year, not enough to rely on, and so he added a general store and post office as an income property.

The cattle count continued to increase as well, and over the intervening years it had grown to nearly seventeen hundred head. These did not come without additional costs, however, for at the same time he had to hire three full-time ranch hands, seasonal-workers for the spring and fall roundups, add a bunk house to house them all, build feed barns to store winter hay, and so forth. To help cover these expenses he eventually undertook a drive of three hundred and fifty head to Westminster—approximately 200 miles to the south—and it was there that he met Emma Fergusson, the daughter of a successful merchant. Having been educated at a girls’ school in the East, Emma was most agreeable company during the week-or-so it took to sell and slaughter the beef, and by the end of that time they had become quite close friends. The merchant was also quite taken with the idea of having an earl’s son as a prospective son-in-law, and so he encouraged their friendship.

It also occurred to Spencer that Emma represented an agreeable compromise between the sort of love he held for Jaycee, and the undeniable risks associated with it. Moreover, he still longed for a son to fill the void of the one he had lost, and so using Prodigal Son as collateral he arranged for a fine new house to be built: “With lots of room for children,” he instructed the carpenter.

The house took nearly two years to complete, and in the meantime he asked Emma if she would marry him when he had things in order. It wasn’t a formal proposal per se, but she wrote back that she would wait regardless. Meanwhile the herd had increased exponentially, now numbering over three thousand head, and in need of money to pay for the house and an anticipated family, he wrote to Jaycee to ask if he would join him on an extraordinary cattle drive to Chicago the following spring.

Jason was quick to respond that he would head north as soon as the weather permitted, and to have everything in readiness for what he figured would be an eight-month venture. Shortly after spring thaw, therefore, Spencer had several large holding corrals built, and he and a crew of specially-hired waddies rounded up a thousand head of prime beeves. His own men helped too, but they would be needed at home to look after Prodigal Son while he was away.

A week or so later Jaycee finally arrived, and while in public they greeted with handshakes and claps on the back; however, that night they eagerly renewed what they had left in abeyance over ten years before. They could now talk openly about it, but even so there were certain words that were held back. Words like love and forever that dwelt in their hearts, and sometimes on the tips of their tongues, but nonetheless remained unsaid. For Spencer it was the fact that he was all but betrothed to Emma, and for Jaycee it was the risk of becoming too involved because of it.

The following day the four supply wagons were loaded, and Spencer emptied the last of his savings from the office safe; hoping that the saw mill and store would generate enough income to pay the bills while he was away. Then, in the early morning of April 21, 1876, the corral gates were flung open to start a thousand head of cattle and thirty head of horses down the road and through the settlement. It was a spectacular sight with the sun glinting off the horns and hooves of the animals, and because of it people came from miles around just to watch. Even a reporter from the British Colonist newspaper was there to report that:

<Begin excerpting here>

Mr. Spencer Twilingate of Prodigal Son Ranch, Cariboo District, proposes to take one thousand head of beef cattle from British Columbia to Chicago, Illinois. There presently being a large number of cattle in the interior, a band of beeves this size would hardly realize fifteen dollars per head if sold at home. However, at present, at Chicago, they will net about forty dollars a head.”

<End excerpt here>

As a result, Spencer and Jaycee received quite a rousing send off as they rode at the head of this column of hooves and horns nearly a mile long.

They followed the same route south as they had taken north in 1863, and after crossing the international boundary at Osoyoos they continued south through Washington Territory and Oregon, and then eastward across Idaho until they reached Northern Utah seven months later. Here Spencer was utterly devastated to learn that prices in Chicago had unexpectedly plummeted to $16 a head, making the entire trip practically purposeless for a mere dollar more per head. Furthermore, as if to add insult to injury, it stood to cost him an additional $250 per carload to ship them from Salt Lake City to Chicago. Some $6,000 in total.

“What am I to do, Jaycee?” he asked with his head in his hands. “This will bankrupt me. I don’t care about myself so much, but I’ve put Prodigal Son at risk, too. To me that’s like my father losing Ardmore. It’s unthinkable.”

Jaycee thought for a moment. “Maybe not,” he said. “How much money have ya got left?”

“Seven thousand dollars, I suppose … Maybe a bit more.”

“Good,” Jaycee grinned one of his lopsided grins. “That’s enough t’ get us through the winter. A lot can change in three months, so we’ll dig in fer now and see what happens in the spring.”

“What if nothing changes by then?” Spencer asked, still feeling uncertain.

“Then I’ll learn ya t’ be a waddie like me,” Jaycee grinned again.

Spencer smiled too. It was one of those times when the word “love” came very close to his lips, but once again he held back. Nonetheless, he and Jaycee made that night in a Salt Lake City hotel—one of the few times they had risked doing so with the other men around—and after that they herded the cattle from tents to save money.

Although the market for beef improved somewhat toward spring, it was nowhere near what was needed to make the trek worthwhile, and Spencer was still looking at a serious financial shortfall. In the meantime, however, a traveller had stopped by to inform them that a drought had wiped out a good portion of the cattle industry in California, and suggested that a herd like theirs would bring far more in San Francisco than in Chicago.

“What d’ya think?” Jaycee asked Spencer.

“Do you know how to get there from here?” Spencer asked in return.

“Not exactly, but I have a good enough idea.”

“Let’s go, then,” Spencer said straight off. “I’ve gambled everything I have on this drive, so another eight hundred miles isn’t going to make much difference if it pays off.”

They then turned the cattle west through Nevada and across California, traversing mountainous country, Indian country, dry country, and all new and strange to both of them. Nevertheless, in the summer of 1877 they arrived in San Francisco with nearly twelve hundred head of cattle, including  two hundred strays they had picked up along the way, for a return of seventy-dollars per head; netting Spencer nearly seventy thousand dollars—minus Jaycee’s usual twenty-five percent.

Intimately, he and Jaycee had kept a very low profile while on the trail, fearing what might happen if they should be discovered, but in San Francisco they rented a suite in one of the finest hotels and remained there for a full week. It was a carefree interlude filled with copious amounts of love-making, and if Spencer hadn’t already committed himself to Emma he might have given in to forever. Nonetheless they carried on as if it was “forever” until the dawn of the final day, and only then did Spencer mail a letter to Emma saying that they would marry as soon as he got back. He and Jaycee then followed the Siskiyou Trail north to Oregon, a ride of nearly two week’s duration, but because of Spencer’s formal commitment to Emma they refrained from sex. Jaycee went along with this arrangement, blaming himself in part for refusal to stay with Spencer when he was asked the first time. Regardless, he accompanied him to Oregon’s northern border before they said their goodbyes.

“Would you consider being my best man?” Spencer asked him as they prepared to part.

“I’ll be yer best man anytime ya want, Brit,” Jaycee grinned lopsidedly, all but hiding the melancholy look behind it. “But I’d be out o’ place at yer wedding. You know it the same as me. But I’ll be thinkin’ about ya … always,” he added somewhat wistfully.

Spencer nodded. “You’ll be in my thoughts too, Yank,” he said as they both leaned forward to press their lips together while still in the saddle. Then, to conceal his threatening tears, Spencer wheeled his mount and rode north without looking back.

***

He and Emma were wed in Westminster that September, and the spacious new house—now named Valley View—was finally occupied. However, the “lots of children” part of it was not to be. After several miscarriages Emma and Spencer had almost given up hope of children when, on October 28th, 1881, Cory Jason Twilingate was delivered in apparent good health, and even though the doctor told Spencer that Cory would no doubt be their last, he was the proudest man in all the Cariboo District. To mark Cory’s third birthday he therefore purchased a small Shetland pony with a custom-made saddle, and then paraded both of them through the settlement—now the size of a small village—for all to see. It was fair to say, therefore, that Cory grew up in the saddle, and by his sixth birthday he could gallop alongside Spencer while his father taught him how to lasso calves with a lightweight lariat. “Just like a real cowboy,” Spencer told him, and Cory would beam with pride as he swung his rope with remarkable accuracy for his age.

There being no school in the vicinity, Cory’s education fell upon Emma to deliver, but at first Cory was a reluctant student. His first preference was to be out working with his father and the other cowhands, riding boundaries or rounding up strays, and he especially liked it when the men would playfully tussle with him after work. Nevertheless, since Spencer insisted, he would reluctantly join the handful of village children who attended classes in the old cabin that Emma had converted into a schoolhouse.

“Why do I have to learn this dumb ole stuff?” he complained to Spencer one day. “I’m going to be a rancher just like you when I grow up.”

Stifling a smile, Spencer pointed to a herd of cattle grazing on the hills above the valley. “How many head do you suppose are up there, son?” he asked him.

Cory shrugged. “I don’t know,” he admitted.

“Then I guess you better learn to count,” he said, and then pressed the point even further. “All told there are about eight thousand head on Prodigal Son,” he informed him, “so, at eighteen dollars a head, how much money does that come to?”

Cory shrugged once again.

“Then I guess you’d better learn to multiply, as well,” Spencer smiled as he ruffled his hair.

A few days later Cory came running up to him. “One hundred and forty-four thousand dollars,” he blurted out quite proudly.

It took Spencer a moment to realize what he was talking about, but then he remembered their previous discussion. Nonetheless, as much as he admired his remarkable tenacity he continued to challenge him. “Yes, but did you subtract expenses?” he inquired.

“What expenses?”

“Wages for the full-time hands, extras for the roundups, the new land tax and veterinary fees, just to name a few,” he responded. “So you have to subtract expenses before you can put the money in the bank.”

“Aw, do I have to learn subtracting, too?” Cory lamented.

“You do if you want to be a rancher,” Spencer chuckled. “The cowhands don’t have to worry about such things as bookkeeping, but you do. Your share comes after everyone else gets theirs. Always remember that and you’ll prosper, son.”

Cory thought about this for a moment, and then he went back to his studies with the same determination he had demonstrated learning how to lasso calves.

“What on earth did you say to Cory?” Emma laughed a short time later. “He’s up in his room reciting multiplication tables.”

Spencer chuckled. “I told him it’s the secret to being a rancher,” he joked.

Reading was one part of learning that Cory did enjoy without being coerced into it, and a book he found particularly intriguing was an arcane thesis called, Eros and Polis in Classical Greek Military. It was a scholarly tome that he discovered on the top shelf of Spencer’s personal collection, but by standing atop a bucket on his father’s large oak desk he was able to reach it. Thereby he learned about the brave exploits of Spartan warriors, and especially the so-called “Sacred Band of Thebes.”

He didn’t quite understand the concept of men loving men, although it was a thought that appealed to him when he put it in terms of cowhands, but he was utterly intrigued by those men—also called “cohorts”—who committed themselves to one another in the way the author described it:

<Begin excerpting here>

The remarkable success of the Sacred Band was said to be thus: Eros, being the oldest of the gods, conferred greatness by inspiring a lover to earn the admiration of his beloved by showing bravery on the battlefield. Nothing shames a man more than to be seen by his beloved as committing an inglorious act. Therefore, when a lover fell his beloved fought on beside him so that their spirits would be joined in death and the hereafter. 

<End excerpt here>

This idea resonated inside him with such intensity that he was literally shaken by it, and letting the pages shift loosely in his hands he noticed an old newspaper clipping tucked between them. Now intrigued even further, he immediately set the volume aside to read the news story of a two-thousand-year-old prophecy and of two martyred lovers named Strabos and Polymenos.  Their names seemed to leap off the page as though they had been waiting for him to discover them as well, and so Cory was certain it meant something quite significant. Therefore, since the prophecy was attributed to Apollo, he said a silent prayer for him to reunite the lovers as he had promised.

He also continued to pray for his two “cohorts,” for in his mind he was somehow spiritually connected to them, and each time he asked Apollo to reunite them for an eternity. He had no way of knowing whether the god heard him, or even if he spoke English, but nevertheless Cory had faith that someday the lovers would indeed be united.

***

By 1894 Prodigal Son Ranch had grown to 40,000 acres with fifteen thousand cattle on it, and was now the largest outfit in the province. However, even though the transcontinental railway had come to British Columbia in 1883, the market for beef had not kept pace with the expansion, and Spencer frequently found himself with far more land and cattle than cash. Consequently, although he had not seen or heard from Jaycee since the California drive, he wrote to him at the Oregon address asking if he would join him on a major drive south the following year. However, when his letter was returned marked “moved-address unknown” he quietly rode up into the hills to contemplate. A drive like the one he had planned—involving twenty-five hundred cattle or more—was possible with someone else in the lead, but the memories of Jaycee as his lead hand would dog him nearly every mile of the way. Therefore, he ultimately abandoned the idea altogether in favour of shipping several trainloads east at barely break-even prices.

One final opportunity at a “boom” market of old did come in 1896 when gold was discovered near Dawson City, Yukon Territory. Nevertheless, there were several major difficulties associated with it. For one thing Dawson City was located in one of the remotest parts of Canada, almost inaccessible by land or sea. Some hardy entrepreneurs had tried shipping beef by sea to Skagway, Alaska, and then inland through the White Pass—also known  as “Rotting Horsemeat Trail” on account of the perils along the way.

From Skagway the trail was deceptively flat at first, but then it began to rise with a series of precipitous hills that were only separated by belly-deep bogs.

First came “Devil’s Hill,” around whose slate cliffs wound a narrow path barely two-feet wide in places, and many a badly loaded packhorse met its unfortunate demise on the jagged rocks nearly five hundred feet below.

Next there was “Porcupine Hill,” a veritable roller-coaster of hills and gulches, and where the wretched animals had to squeeze their way around ten-foot boulders.

“Summit Hill” followed after that: A thousand-foot climb with rivulets of liquid mud streaming down its slippery slopes, and where yawning mud holes swallowed up the desperately floundering beasts, packs and all.

“Summit Hill” finally marked the border between Alaska and Canada, but it was by no means the end of the trail. The slender path now skirted a network of lakes until it encountered “Turtle Mountain”—another thousand-foot challenge—that descended into Tutshi Valley. A further mountain pass had to be overcome to finally gain access to the Yukon River and Dawson City. That was where the trail ended for both men and beasts, but only for those hardy enough to survive it.

Not surprisingly, only a tiny handful[2] of the legions of men and women who attempted to cross the White Pass ever saw the other side. One man described the tortuous movement over the pass with that of a retreating army: “Those in front struggling on against hopeless odds, followed by a line of stragglers moving forward like a beaten rabble.”[iii]

Spencer was well aware of these difficulties from the graphic newspaper accounts, and so he began asking the Natives if they knew of any land route that might lead to Dawson City. It was through them, therefore, that he learned of a trail that had been cut by the Collins Overland Telegraph Company to connect Siberia with the United States by cable. However, in 1866, the Anglo-American Telegraph Company successfully laid a cable across the Atlantic Ocean, and the Collins trail was subsequently abandoned at Telegraph Creek—about 250 miles from the Yukon border.

A crude map was eventually developed, a deceptively simple pen scratch through miles of rugged territory, but Spencer studied it over and over again for all the possibilities. Such a venture was an unprecedented gamble fraught with countless unknown risks, but even if he could get a small herd through at a rumoured $50 per pound it would mean the end of his money worries forever. The more he thought about it, therefore, the more he felt it could be done.

Now seventeen Cory frequently joined him in these deliberations, adding his opinions where he could, but it was his enthusiasm that Spencer found particularly gratifying. It seemed like only yesterday he was teaching him to rope calves from the stubby-legged pony, and now he was discussing a major cattle drive with him. This was definitely man’s business, and Spencer fairly burst with pride to be including his son in it.

Reb Coltrane also joined them from time to time. He and Cory got on fairly well for the most part, but at other times their independent wills would cross paths. These impassses generally arose when Reb would exercise his rightful authority as ranch foreman, but as the “old man’s”[3] son Cory would balk at it, insisting on his own way of doing things, and when no compromise could be found the matter would end up in front of Spencer for a resolution.

Spencer would generally smile inside, for he admired both for their spirits, but on the outside he had to maintain a stern demeanour as he rendered his Solomon-like judgement.

“You have to learn to take orders before you can give them, son,” he told Cory on the latest occasion. “So use this opportunity to learn from Reb like you would a mathematics lesson.”

Cory knew exactly what his father was getting at, and although it might not sit too well he relented. The respect he held for his father was all it took to settle the matter.

“You need to explain things to him,” he told Reb in private. “He’s a bright lad, but he can be quite stubborn unless he understands all the whys and wherefores.”

“He can be at that,” Reb agreed. “Sort of reminds me of me at his age.”

“I thought that might be the case,” Spencer smiled, thinking of Jaycee as well.

Cory was then called inside, and Spencer had the two of them shake hands in his presence. The matter was therefore settled—for the time being.

***

Jefferson “Reb” Coltrane had been born to a former-Confederate family once possessed great wealth until Sherman made his triumphant march to the sea. With that their privileged lifestyle came to a fiery end, and by the time young Jefferson came into the world in 1868, they were living in a rented house in Natchez. His father, a proud man with a smouldering resentment for his loss of fortune, had taken to drink and frequently vented his frustration on his family—especially young Jefferson. His older brothers had long since fled his father’s drunken tirades, and at thirteen Jefferson yearned to do the same.

Even at this young age Jefferson possessed an independent spirit; perhaps a throwback to his illustrious grandfather. He had arrived in the New World with nothing more than his wits and determination, and had then gone on to amass a considerable fortune in land, cotton and slaves. There was also a family legend that this illustrious ancestor had been born the illegitimate son of an English earl, but since he refused to discuss it during his lifetime, there was no way of proving it was so.

“I haven’t the time for such nonsense,” he would tell them. “The past is dead, and so let it lie in peace.”

He did leave a clue in the form of a small coin, a medallion with a strange crest on it, but  oddly it was passed on to his grandson, not his own son, and this was something that didn’t sit well with Jefferson’s father, either.

All of this came to a climax one night after yet another unprovoked thrashing, and determined he was going to take it anymore Jefferson finally packed an old carpet bag and sneaked out his of his father's house for the last time. Once outside he headed for the Mississippi and crept aboard a steamship that was headed for New Orleans. “Nawlins,” as the locals pronounced it, was the gateway to the entire world, and so he felt this would be a good place to start looking for an ultimate destination. He did have Texas in mind, for he had often dreamed of becoming a cowboy, but that take money. Therefore, he decided to stay in New Orleans long enough to earn his passage, perhaps a month he figured, and with all this worked out in own mind he went to sleep on a bale of cotton.

In the morning the steamer resumed its southerly journey, and when the purser made his rounds Jefferson laid out his case with earnest—explaining that he was on his way to New Orleans to make his fortune, but that he was willing to work for his passage. The purser, a kindly man, laughed and agreed. “Far be it from me to stand in the way of a young fella on his way to make a fortune,” he chuckled.  Therefore, Jefferson stacked crates of fresh fruits and vegetables—of which he ate his fill at the same time.

In New Orleans he first deposited his satchel at a saloon, and spent the rest of the day on the street looking for employment while staring hungrily at the display of pies and cakes in a bakery window. It was then that he remembered a Bible he had packed for good luck, and feeling as though he needed some fortune just then he sold it for twenty-five cents. After that he invested fifteen-cents in a mince pie.

That night he stowed away inside an empty dry goods box, and bright and early the next morning he continued his job-search without much success. He therefore spent half of his worldly wealth—ten cents—on a ginger cake and went to sleep in a pile of straw behind a livery stable.

On the third day he had better luck when he met up with a hack operator who was looking for a boy to take care of his horses. However, he went on to say that he wouldn’t be returning to the stable until after midnight. A meeting was then set up for that time, and in anticipation of a hot meal and a warm bed Jefferson went to the place almost as soon as it got dark. Nevertheless, the appointed hour came and went with no sign of the hack driver. Still he waited, gaining heart with each hack that came into view, but losing it again as it passed by without stopping.

Finally, at about two in the morning he had lost what little hope he had managed to muster, and not having anywhere else to go he remained seated on the curb and weeping bitterly from the combination of gnawing hunger and disappointment. It was then that he felt a gentle tap on his shoulder.

“Is there anything I can do for you, little man?” asked a smallish man dressed in a satin dressing gown.

Overwhelmed by this simple act of caring and suffering from an acute case of loneliness, Jefferson let loose a veritable cascade of tears as he explained his dilemma to the last, pitiful detail.

The little man listened sympathetically, tut-tutting now and then, and then took him across the street to where he was lodged in a hotel.  There he ordered a hot meal be brought from the kitchen, and Jefferson ate it ravenously, wiping the last morsel of gravy from the bare plate before accompanying the man to his room. Inside, the little man removed the dressing gown over a pair of silk pyjamas, and Jefferson stripped to his trousers; not wanting to go any further on account of the lack of drawers beneath.

He then crawled into bed with the kindly stranger. The bed felt incredibly warm and soft, and Jefferson revelled in it for moment before he closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep. Toward dawn, however, he awoke to find the man’s hand inside his trousers.

“What the hell…!” he exclaimed as he jumped from the bed. He was more shocked than angry, but not knowing how else to deal with the situation he gathered his belongings and ran out into the street. After that he spent the remainder of the night remembering the warmth of the bed with regret as he shivered uncomfortably in a doorway.

The next morning he went back to canvassing every well-dressed gentleman he encountered about a job. At the same time he vowed that he would accept a hot meal and a bed if it was offered to him, regardless of the outcome. 

As fate would have it, however, he wasn’t called upon to follow through. “Young man, you must surely be in desperate straights, for this is the third time you have asked me that same question,” a prosperous-looking man said to him. “But as you seem eager to work, follow me. I will find you a job before this day is over, or hire you myself.”

He then took him to the largest hotel in the town and asked the snooty desk clerk if he needed a bellboy.

“No,” was his terse reply after one look at Jefferson’s rag-a-muffin appearance. “He would never do.”

Nevertheless, the stranger insisted he see the manager. He then introduced himself as an attorney and pleaded Jefferson’s case as though it were in a court of law. He also pointed out, in passing, that hotel was in violation of several city ordinances that could be costly if prosecuted. The outcome was that Jefferson was hired at ten dollars a month, with one month in advance in order to buy some new clothes. Thereafter, he stayed with that job nearly two years until a Yankee bellboy called him a liar, and to defend his honour Jefferson knocked him senseless with a well-placed punch to the side of his head.

To make matters worse the haughty desk clerk—a Yankee as well—sided with the other boy and slapped Jefferson’s face on account of it. Consequently, Jefferson laid him out with one of his ledgers, and after hastily packing his belongings he left that employment without a reference.

He was now fifteen and the idea of becoming a cowboy still beckoned to him. Therefore he wandered down to levee to discover that the Lone Star was leaving for Texas in the morning, and as he had done before he stowed away until the ship was well out to sea before he revealed himself. The captain was furious and threatened to throw him overboard, but a wealthy West Texas rancher intervened by paying his fare and hiring him at the same time.

“He’s a dang Yankee cuss,” the rancher remarked disdainfully, “but you sound like a good Southern boy.”

“O, I am, sir,” Jefferson assured him. “Bred and born … and I’m a good worker, too,” he added for good measure.

“What’s your name then, son?” the man asked him.

“Jefferson … Jefferson Coltrane.”

“Hmm. That’s a bit stiff fer a cowpoke,” he mused. “But how about Reb … Seeing as how you’re from the South and all?”

“I like it,” the newly christened “Reb” Coltrane smiled, feeling like a cowboy already.

“Then Reb it is,” the rancher laughed and slapped him on the back. “Welcome to Texas, Reb.”

The Texan’s outfit, Rancho Grande, was located near Matagorda, and was of such immense proportions that it nearly staggered Reb’s imagination. Indeed, in his first season he and the other “green” hands branded nearly ten thousand head of cattle. Nevertheless, he revelled in it. It was as though fate had somehow picked this destiny for him, and now he had discovered it for himself. He even began to adopt the cowboys’ rustic lingo so that he would fit in more readily, and in a short while he was practically indistinguishable from the other cowhands.

The rancher seemed quite pleased with him as well, and as a reward he let him choose a mount of his own—provided he could rope and break it to saddle. Reb was delighted, and began by circling the remuda of mostly wild mustangs until he spied a filly that seemed to be batting her languid brown eyes at him. It was love at first sight, and using his experience of roping mavericks he easily put the rope around her neck on the first toss. However, then came the part he knew little about; the breaking her to saddle. Moreover, she wasn’t about to give in that easily, high rolling[4] and fish-tailing both at once, and so after he was thrown several times an older cowhand suggested he should snub her to the corral fence and sleep next to her that night.

“Let her get a snuff o’ ya,” he counselled. “A spirited filly needs t’ know her man afore she accepts him.”

The other cowhands nodded knowingly, but Reb couldn’t be certain he was having his leg pulled in jest. Nevertheless, he got his bedroll from the bunkhouse and spread it next to his intended where she could get a “snuff” of him. At first she eyed him suspiciously, but throughout the night they communicated through the fence: Her with gentle nudges, and him with reassuring words—almost wooing in nature.

When morning finally came the other cowhands perched themselves atop the corral fence to watch the fun as he reassured her one more time before swinging into the saddle. As expected she gave a few spirited bucks while he hung on to the pummel as if his reputation depended on it—which it did—but as if she had had her say she then sashayed from the corral like a blushing bride from a church, and with him grinning astride her like a bashful groom.

All the cowhands hooted their approval, and the rancher was all smiles as well. “It looks like you’ve earned yourself a filly, son. What are you goin’ t’ call her?”

“Belle,” he grinned proudly. “She puts me in mind of a Southern gal, fer sure.”

In the spring of 1881 they were sent to rope and brand nearly twelve hundred head to of mavericks to be driven up the Chisholm Trail to the railhead at Kansas City. This was a contract lot, meaning that the Rancho Grande was contracted to supply a certain number of cattle to a middleman, and from there he would be responsible for the drive itself. The contract also stipulated that two of Rancho Grande’s cowhands should accompany the herd as far as the railhead. Reb was one of these, and the other was a new hand by the name of “Jaycee” Collins.

Reb knew little about Jaycee except that he had a quick wit and an impish grin, and apart from being a top-notch cowhand he made Reb laugh whenever they were together. Jaycee had also travelled far and wide, including Canada, which he talked about almost wistfully.

“Do y’all have a gal up that way?” Reb asked as they drove the herd to meet the middleman and his crew.

Jaycee regarded him out of the corner of his eye, and grinned lopsidedly. “What makes ya think that?”

“Well, when ya talk about bein’ up that way ya get this far-away look in yer eye, and that generally means a fella’s pining fer some gal.”

“Not me,” Jaycee laughed. “I gave up pinin’ a long time ago. But I do sometimes think o’ someone up that way, so I guess that might be it.”

“I knew it!” Reb hooted at his own cleverness. “Why don’t ya go up there ‘n’ get her, then? Yer still a mighty fine lookin’ fella.”

“Married,” Jaycee replied without elaboration.

“Oh…” Reb remarked somewhat apologetically. “Sorry.”

It was a cold, rainy evening when the cattle were finally counted and turned over to the middleman. He was what Reb referred to as a “short horn,” meaning a novice, and his men didn’t appear any more experienced. For one thing they all wore shiny new boots and Stetsons that had obviously never seen any trail dust or weather. Noticing this, Reb and Jaycee exchanged concerned glances as they rode into camp to lay out their bedrolls.

“Looks more like a banker’s convention than a cattle drive,” Reb remarked on the side.

“I believe yer right,” Jaycee agreed. “An’ there’s a hat-dampener blowin’ up. Might be some thunder bangers, too.”

“Noticed that,” Reb said, sensing the moisture in the air. “What d’ya say we get a little shut eye an’ get back out there? If those critters decide t’ spook they’re liable t’ run all the way t’ El Paso.”

“What the hell,” Jaycee shrugged with a grin. “Probably couldn’t sleep thinkin’ about it, anyhow.”

They then ate slept until midnight, and afterward they went back on watch. However, apart from a steady drizzle things remained fairly calm, and do now and then Reb and Jaycee would stop for a brief chat. Jaycee had a slicker that had been purchased from a sea captain in Port Lavaca, and on a chilly damp night like this Reb envied it.

“I wish I had one of them things,” he told Jaycee as he shivered aboard Belle. “I’m near froze.”

“Here …” Jaycee said as he rode closer, opening the coat in an attempt to cover Reb’s shoulders. With the both horses’ girths between them, however, the slicker wasn’t nearly wide enough to reach. Jaycee then suggested that Reb should double-up with him until he could recover from the chill. It was a guileless offer, for Spencer was the only man he had ever wanted sexually, but nevertheless he felt he had to reassure Reb it was safe. “There ain’t nothin’ wrong with two fellas doubling up t’ get warm,” he assured him. “Besides, we’re not likely to see them other goomers until mornin’.”

Reb listened, and after looking around instinctively he quickly changed mounts to sit in front of Jaycee on the saddle.

It was a snug fit with Jaycee holding the loose flaps around him, and as a result Reb began to think of the little man in New Orleans. It was a thought that had come back to him more frequently of late, and always with a stirring in his groin as well. Nevertheless he tried to ignore it, concentrating instead on the warmth of Jaycee’s embrace, and presently he started to doze off and dream. He was in that same soft bed but with Jaycee wrapped around him, and instead of bolting he shifted about to place his lips against Jaycee’s. It was at that moment that he awoke to discover his actions.

 “Holy crap, Jaycee!” he exclaimed, as he quickly straightened himself around. “I … I didn’t mean nothin’ by it … Really! I was dreamin’,” he stammered, terrified of what the result might be.

Jaycee merely chuckled. “It must o’ been quite a dream,” he observed, matter-of-factly.

Reb was utterly dismayed, but also relieved. “Ya mean yer not pissed with me?” he asked somewhat incredulously.

“Well, let’s put it this way,” Jaycee drawled, “I’d sooner be kissed than kicked in the knackers, if ya know what I mean. But best not tell anybody I said so,” he chuckled.

Now relaxed, Reb managed to laugh as well. “You can count on that,” he assured him. “I wouldn’t want the two of us to get hung up by our balls. Thanks, Jaycee. You’re a true mate.”

He then switched back to Belle and continued on his watch. It was still a good half-hour before their shift ended, so he hunkered down in the falling rain to think. He still couldn’t quite get over how unconcern Jaycee had been over his stupid blunder. Men could get shot for something like that. Yet, Jaycee had acted as though nothing had happened—or perhaps as though he enjoyed it. However, having thought that he quickly admonished himself. That’s crazy. Jaycee’s one of the best cowhands I ever met. Besides, I started it, so…

That next thought caused the hair on the back of his neck to rise, for he suddenly remembered the full erection he had when he was dreaming of being in bed with Jaycee. Maybe I’m a diddler and don’t know it, he mused. Could such a thing be?

Before he could answer his own question a brilliant streak of lightning lit up the entire sky, followed by a tremendous snap-crack of thunder that brought the who herd to its feet.

“I believe they’re gettin’ set t’ run, Reb,” Jaycee called from across the way. “We’d best get ahead o’ them afore they do.”

Reb agreed and urged Belle forward at a steady pace, knowing that any sudden movement could set them off like a flock of startled birds. He and Jaycee also began to sing a soothing lullaby, letting their voices sooth and reassure the fidgeting animals. This seemed to work as it was supposed to, for soon a few of them began to bed down again.

Seeing this, Reb let out a sigh of relief. No time was good for a run, but being as dark as it was made this was a particularly bad night for it. No sooner had he and Jaycee relaxed, however, when the shorthorn foreman came dashing from the camp, calling out at the top of his lungs, and with that the whole herd was off and running. Moreover, to make matters worse, the direction they chose put Reb in their path, and it was only by Belle’s speed and understanding that he was able to out distance the oncoming tsunami of beef.

The common strategy for handling a run like this was to keep the herd together until they exhausted, and then to turn the leaders back upon the others in a “mill.” With this in mind Jaycee took the right point with Reb to the left, and together they rode at full tilt for about two miles when suddenly a large thicket of mesquite loomed out of the darkness. It was directly in front of them, and so without a choice both men and cattle charged directly into it with the hair-raising clatter of breaking branches and bellowing cattle. With his heart pulsing against his ribs Reb took a dead-man’s grip on the pummel and cantle, and giving Belle a free rein he hung on for dear life. Belle then responded with all the agility of a jack rabbit, dodging both beasts and mesquite bushes to finally emerge unscathed on the other side.

Although the width of the thicket was over a hundred yards, and should have slowed the herd in crossing, once through it the cattle merely resumed their previous pace. The foreman was now nowhere to be seen, and so Reb rode out in front to confront the leaders. Jaycee joined him, and together they harassed the lead steers by lashing their snouts with quirts and lariats until they finally began to lose interest in the run. This much accomplished, it took another mile or so before they finally brought them to a rest.

The foreman then came riding up hatless, his face and arms streaked by mesquite bushes as well.

“Where’d y’all learn t’ drive cattle?” Jaycee asked him straight off, his annoyance clearly evident.

“I’ve trailed quite a few,” he replied defensively.

“Is that a fact … And how many would that be?”

“Maybe half a dozen.”

“I thought so,” Jaycee remarked in disgust, and then he and Reb turned their back on him as they began to guide the herd back to the original bedding ground.

The remainder of the drive went without incident, and although Jaycee seemed somewhat guarded most of the time, Reb did get to know some things about him. For example, he learned that he lived a nomadic life since his parents had died in Oregon.

“It suits me,” he explained. “A tumbleweed don’t put down roots once it gets goin’.”

“Ever think o’ goin’ back t’ Canada?” Reb asked out of curiosity.

“Oh, I might some day,” he replied pensively. “I think about it now and then, but I figure the time ain’t ight just yet.”

“But, how will ya know when it is?” Reb continued to pursue it.

“Oh, I’ll know,” Jaycee replied confidently. “If it’s ever meant to be, I’ll know it.”

“Sounds like ya follow yer fate, like I do,” Reb mused. “I hold great store in it myself. The only problem is, ya never know where it’s headin’ ‘til ya get there.”

Jaycee laughed. “That’s half the fun of it, I figure.”

When they finally reached Kansas City the middleman paid them off in cash, and they both headed for the nearest saloon to celebrate. After years of trail-end celebrations Jaycee had learned to pace his drinks accordingly, but not Reb. With plenty of money in his pocket and a good friend to share it with, he imbibed quite liberally until Jaycee finally steadied him up the stairs to his room.

“Sleep tight, kid,” he said as he covered him over with a blanket. “Hope ya find yer dream someday.”

“Do ya remember that?” Reb grinned, and then without warming he drew Jaycee into a drink-inspired kiss.

Jaycee passively returned his kiss, and for a moment he seemed ready to follow up on it, but then he gently untangled himself. “Yes, I reckon I do,” he said as he was leaving. “But you’re flyin’ on barleycorn right now and my rightful feelings are with someone else, so we’d best leave it in dreamland where it belongs. Night, kid.”

The next morning Reb awoke with a hangover and a bad taste in his mouth, and after washing his face he went down the hall to knock on Jaycee’s door. Getting no response there, he continued downstairs to find that he had already checked out of the hotel. Nevertheless, he had left a note at the desk for him. It read:

<Begin excerpting here>

So long, Buckaroo

Hope ya find yer dream real soon, and when ya do be sure to hang on to it. Don’t end up like me wishin he’d put down roots when he had a chance. Fate seldom comes a fella’s way twice.

Here’s hopin we meet down the trail sometime.

 J.C.Collins.

<End excerpt here>

At first Reb wasn’t certain what Jaycee was getting at. The term dream—as they used it—referred to men kissing and such, and so was Jaycee telling him to pursue it? And if so, he must have guessed what was really on his mind the night he kissed him in the hotel. It was a topic that stayed on his mind as he rode back to Rancho Grande, and as he rode through the wilderness by day, and sat idly poking at the fire by night, the truth was slowly drawn out of him. He was capable of desiring another man. It had to be someone he admired, a trail mate like Jaycee, but given that he was willing to consider it.

In the years that followed Reb worked his way north as the big drives began to give way to expanding railroads. Consequently, he began worrying about his future when he happened to meet an encyclopaedia salesman from Canada, and after a few drinks they got to bragging.

“I used t’ work fer this outfit that covered half the State of Texas,” Reb boasted, extravagantly.”

“Well, we’ve got an outfit in Canada that owns half the Province of British Columbia,” the salesman retorted, equally extravagantly, “And that’s about ninety-six thousand square miles larger than Texas,”[iv] he added for good measure.

Reb found this rather hard to believe, but since the man sold encyclopaedias he wasn’t about to argue the point. Besides, he was more interested in this mega spread north of the Canadian border. “Is that a fact?” he responded. “How many cattle do they range?”

“Upwards of fifteen thousand, so I’ve heard,” the little man replied.

Now Reb was truly interested. “Do they ever do any drives?” he went on to inquire.

“Why, yes,” the Canuck replied. “I recall reading that they once drove over a thousand head all the way to San Francisco. I believe you’ll find it recorded in one of our encyclopaedias.”

Reb had to concede that this was a pretty fair drive—for a non-Texas outfit, that is. “What’s the name of this spread?” he asked with continuing interest.

“Hmm,” the Canadian mused, searching his memory. “It’s something biblical … Something to do with a fatted calf, if I recall. Ah, yes,” he suddenly beamed, “The Prodigal Son Ranch!”

Reb made a mental note of it, and when his employment ended in the fall of 1896, he rode north to see this spread for himself. Fortunately his timing couldn’t have been better, for Spencer’s aging foreman had just retired on account of his health, and he was looking for a younger man to replace him. Moreover, Reb not only met Spencer’s idea of dependable hand, but he had an impressive array of drives behind him as well. Consequently, Spencer hired him on the spot.

Reb was then introduced to the rancher’s teenage son, a handsome kid with soft brown eyes and a pretty mouth, and although he found him a bit cocky he could handle cattle as well as anyone he had ever met. Nonetheless this was the boss’s son, and so Reb consciously suppressed any thoughts that weren’t in keeping with the situation.

***

May 19, 1898

Spencer rode out to meet Cory and Reb as they drove the last of the cattle toward the holding corrals. For the past several days he had been preoccupied with organizing the myriad of details required to launch a major undertaking like this, but at last he felt he had everything in place. As usual his regular hands would be staying behind to look after the ranch, and so the majority of drovers would be made up of waddies. A brooding wrangler and supply wagon driver by the name of Ike Falwell, and a nearly toothless cook named “Shorty” McIntyre completed the roster.

Falwell would be in charge of the remuda of twenty horses, a bit light in number for a trip of this duration, but like Spencer with “Chinook,” Cory and Reb planned to take their favourite mounts—“Shaman” and “Belle”—as well.

Spencer felt good as he rode Chinook over the hills. It reminded him of when he and Jaycee were preparing for the drive south, and the only thing missing from this one was Jaycee himself. Nevertheless, he smiled at the thought and sent a silent message out into the ether in hope that it would somehow reach him.

Topping a large hill he finally spied Cory and Reb moving slowly along the trail below. He then hailed them with a loud “halloo,” and when they responded he started down the grade to join them. It was a fairly steep incline, but Spencer was an expert rider and Chinook was sure-footed. Nevertheless, half way down Chinook unexpectedly lost his footing on a patch of loose gravel, and pitching sideways he pinned Spencer’s leg beneath him. A severe spike of pain told Spencer that his leg was broken, and all his plans had suddenly changed on account of it.

Cory and Reb had witnessed the spill, and in a matter of minutes they were both beside him. Spencer was then carried down on a makeshift stretcher, and a wagon was brought from the barn to transport him back to Valley View.

This was a major setback for Spencer, for as before he had speculated heavily on this venture, including borrowing money from the bank in Quesnel, and so there could be no turning back. Someone had to carry on in his place, but was Cory ready for such a responsibility?

A doctor was summoned from the settlement to set the leg, and as soon as Spencer was made comfortable he called Cory and Reb to his bedside.

“I know this is a lot to put on your shoulders, son, but there’s no alternative. You’ll have to carry on without me. I have every confidence that you and Reb can do it, but how do you feel about it?”

“I can do it, dad,” Cory replied with his usual cocksure attitude. “Heck. I’ve been herding cattle around here ever since you first taught me, so trailing can’t be all that different.”

Reb raised his eyebrows when he heard this, but said nothing in front of Spencer.

“Bully for you, son,” Spencer smiled as he handed him a bundle of bank notes totalling nearly $1,500. “I’m putting you in charge of the finances. This will give you a chance to be a rancher in practice, but you must take Reb’s advice when it comes to the drive. He knows best about that end of it. Is that understood?”

Cory nodded but said nothing.

“Good. I think you both know how important this drive is to Prodigal Son, but I don’t want any martyrs, either. Your lives are more important than anything else in the long run. Just do the best you can.”

“We’ll do just fine, sir,” Reb reassured him.

He then turned to Cory to extend his hand, and Cory accepted it. Nevertheless, Cory wasn’t particularly happy to be in a partnership with a hired hand. It wasn’t that he didn’t respect and admire Reb, but he was his father’s son and therefore Segundo in his mind. He nevertheless let it go. It was something that he could sort out on the trail without concerning his father for now.

To chronicle his first ever cattle drive Emma encouraged him to maintain a journal, and so she presented him a handsome writing case as a going away gift. She was immensely proud of her handsome young son, but she herself was not faring well. For some time she had noticed her energy waning, but she had kept it from Spencer and Cory for fear of interfering with their plans. Therefore, as the sun cleared the surrounding hills on May 20th, 1898, she and Spencer stood on the spacious veranda surrounding Valley View to proudly waive au revoir to their manly son. Indeed, he looked truly grown-up as he rode Shaman to the head of the line with Reb and Belle.

“Move ‘em out!” he called out commandingly to the cowhands behind him, and with that the flankers and swing men began to urge the cattle forward. Thus began Cory’s extraordinary coming of age on the trail.