Prologue

Part 1

May 5. 1898.

British Columbia 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-and-fifty head of fat beeves that would be driven north to the gold fields around Dawson City, Yukon Territory—the so-called “Klondike” District. 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; albeit, the rewards at the end of it could be quite phenomenal, for beef was rumoured to be 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 aspect for his father, Cory had the same cock-sure attitude that had enabled Spencer to become one of the largest ranch holders in British Columbia.

He would also be placing a fair amount of reliance on his recently acquired foreman, Jefferson “Reb” Coltrane; a Southerner from down Texas way.  Coltrane had no brush-driving experience, per se, but he did have plenty of trailing experience. This included several drives over the famous “Chisholm Trail,” and more recently from the Panhandle of Texas north to Montana. Equally important, Coltrane had the sort of steady, self-assured 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.

***

Spencer Hartford Twilingate had been born on his family’s ancestral estate in Somerset, England. His father, the fifth Earl of Ardmore,[ii] had seven children of whom Spencer was the youngest and most precocious. Following several incidents that saw him expelled from two, prestigious boys’ schools, the staunchly Victorian earl drew the line when young Spencer impregnated a kitchen maid at about Cory’s age. Consequently, in 1861 Earl Twilingate took steps to prevent a ‘bastard’ child from entering his noble line by shipping her off in one direction, and young Spencer to Canada with a dockside handshake and a small inheritance of £5,000.

At first he was utterly devastated on account of being alienated from his first young love, and especially from his (by now) newborn son, but his pleas to marry her and adopt the child fell upon completely deaf ears. Before he left England, however, Spencer arranged for one of the other servants to secretly smuggle a “Twilingate Medallion” to him on the understanding that he would not inquire after his whereabouts.

A Twilingate Medallion had a symbolic significance inasmuch as a gold one attested to the legitimacy of a male offspring, and it also gave him an official standing on the family roster. However, some male members of the family defiantly chose to recognize their illegitimate sons with a silver version of the same design. It had no official standing, per se, but it was an acknowledgement of a child born out of true love. Consequently, the medallion that Spencer had struck for his son was made of the finest silver he could liberate from the Earl’s prized, 18th-century tea service.

He then disassociated himself from his aristocratic family, and set about making a new life among the hardy Canadian colonists. Consequently he tried his hand at farming for a while, but found it rather arduous work for the little money it returned. At about this time, however, there were rumours of rich gold finds in a place called British Columbia, and lured by the promise of adventure he sold the farm in 1863 and set out with a horse and a pair of pack mules for the 2,700-mile-long migration.

Until he could orient himself for the trek west of the Mississippi he steered south through the northern American States, and while in Chicago he fell in with a roguish-looking cowhand by the name of Jason “Jaycee” Collins. From his boyish appearance and rakish tilt to his Stetson, Collins appeared to be roughly Spencer’s age and disposition, but his most distinguishing feature was a mischievously lopsided grin.

“Where y’all headin’, Limy?” he asked when he spied Spencer’s distinctively British, Bowler hat.

Taking this as a slight Spencer didn’t shrink from it. “None of your damned business, Yank,” he replied as he prepared to defend his British honour against this cheeky American rebel.

Collins merely grinned and offered his hand. “No offence intended, Brit. It’s just my way o’ talkin’. So, where y’all headin’?”

Spencer quickly backed down as well. There was something distinctly likeable about this brash, young cowhand, and Spencer found it quite disarming. He therefore accepted his hand, and they both laughed about it over a few mugs of beer—which Spencer bought.

“I’m on my way to British Columbia to do some prospecting,” he finally told him.

“Ya don’t say,” he remarked with interest. “What trail ya takin’?”

“I’m not sure, yet,” Spencer replied. “I’ve never been that way before.”

“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. But I don’t expect there’s a lot of ranches up that way, and being as how them miners can’t chew gold I figure I’ll take a few critters along with me. That way I won’t come away empty-handed.”

Spencer thought about this for a moment, and it made sense. Besides, it offered the adventure of a cattle drive; something he had only read about in England.

“Want a partner?” he asked.

“Got any money?”

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

“You can do the buyin’ then,” Jaycee said. “I’ll do the pickin’ and I’ll split ya thirty-seventy fer showin’ ya the way.

“Eighty-twenty,” Spencer countered. “Since you’ll be going that way anyway, I can just follow you.”

Jaycee thought about this. “Twenty-five-seventy-five … and I’ll even learn ya how t’ be a cowpuncher,” he bargained. “How about that?”

“Deal,” Spencer smiled, persuaded by the last part. “When do you want to start?”

“Buy us a couple o’ tickets on the Union Pacific fer the morning. 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 in Oregon.”

Spencer agreed although he knew he was being exploited in a way, but it was worth it to learn what Jaycee had to teach him. Moreover, the idea of spending the time with this roguish scamp appealed to him even if he couldn’t say why.

The next morning Jaycee met him outside the train station carrying an extra Stetson in his hand. “Here. Wear this,” he said as he handed it to him. “No offence, Limy, but that dinky l’il hat o’ yours ain’t no good fer trailin’. Besides, ya got t’ at least look the part if ‘n yer goin’ t’ get any respect.”

Spencer laughed good-naturedly and put it on. Jaycee then spent some time adjusting it before he was finally satisfied. “It still looks a bit new,” he observed, critically, “but that’ll soon change. A few thunder storms and a dust storm or two will shape it up just fine. ”

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

“You’ll soon see,” Jaycee grinned again. “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. From there they rode by horseback across Colorado, Utah and Nevada territories, and finally into Oregon State some two weeks later. There they hastily acquired a herd of three hundred head of cattle at nine dollars a head, and after hiring drovers and equipping supply and chuck wagons they set out north, through Washington Territory for British Columbia. At the international border they crossed near Osoyoos and followed the Okanogan Trail to Kamloops. There they veered west to the Thompson River before heading north on the “Old Cariboo Trail” to the William’s Lake area.

Meanwhile, Spencer soon learned that Jaycee was only half exaggerating about the weather, 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, Limy,” Jaycee would say as they set out to round up strays. “I’ll learn ya how t’ be a cowboy.”

“Don’t worry about me, Yank,” he would laugh. “Just keep up to me or I’ll round up more critters than you will.”

“Five bucks says ya won’t, neither.”

“You’re on,” Spencer would retort, and off they would ride at full tilt. At first Jaycee managed to do quite well at this standard wager, but after a bit they good-naturedly traded the five bucks back and forth at the end of the day.

Now tanned and covered with trail dust most of the time, Spencer was indistinguishable from the other cowhands, and Jaycee seemed pleased with the transformation. “I believe you’ll make a cowpuncher, yet,” he remarked one day. “Leastwise, you’re beginin’ t’ look like one.”

Spencer was truly flattered, especially since Jaycee had said it quite serious. A man might admire another man but it was rare that he would express it openly. “Why thank you, Jaycee,” he responded with feeling.

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

Spencer was somewhat deflated, but he knew Jaycee was merely putting him on. “Thanks, anyhow,” he grinned in return.

At Barkerville[iii] the two young drovers were rewarded by a ravenous appetite for beef. Moreover, the hungry miners were quite willing to pay up to seventy-five cents per pound for beef that had been purchased for mere pennies-a-pound south of the border. Consequently, after a week of slaughtering they divided up the nearly $120,000 in profits. Almost giddy at their 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. “From what I’ve seen there’s a lot more money in cattle than prospecting.”

Plans were then made to return to Oregon for the winter, and to drive a much larger herd north in the spring of 1864. With business settled they then proceeded to get fairly drunk, and at the end of the evening it was decided to get a room upstairs for the night. However, since the upstairs bedrooms were mostly used for brief encounters between miners and local whores, the room they managed to acquire had only a single bed and a blanket to share between them. Undaunted, they stripped to the trousers and crawled in.

“Don’t go stealin’ my half o’ the blanket, Limy,” Jaycee joked.

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

This good-natured jibe prompted a playful scuffle between the two of them before they each rolled over to sleep, back to back. Toward morning, however, Spencer awoke to find Jaycee pressed quite snugly against his back with his arm wrapped firmly around his waist. It surprised him at first, but since it seemed that Jaycee was sleeping quite soundly he merely smiled and settled back to sleep again.

Jaycee’s snoring continued unabated, but somewhat oddly his hand began to creep below Spencer’s belt as though it had a mind of its own. Indignant at first, Spencer was about to wake him for an explanation, but on second thought he held back. If Jaycee was truly asleep, which he appeared to be, this would no doubt cause him acute humiliation. Worse still, it could cause a rift in their friendship that would be difficult to bridge.

That is how he rationalized it as he lay there with his pulse racing and his rapidly-hardening dick straining against the buttons on his fly. It was the same breathless feeling he had experienced when the kitchen maid first put her hand down there, and mindful of that incredible moment of discovery he lacked the will to resist it. He therefore quietly returned his head to the pillow and waited. 

 As though interpreting this as an unspoken leave, Jaycee first took hold of Spencer’s throbbing pecker through his trousers, and finding no objection there he next slid his hand inside to grasp bare flesh, drawing back the foreskin at the same time. A veritable tidal wave of sensations then raced through Spencer’s body, and in spite of his guise of passive-involvement he let out a gasp as he quickly unbuttoned his trousers to allow Jaycee easier access to him. Jaycee also guided Spencer’s hand to his own rigid dick, and together they went on to explore one another in silence. The silence seemed a prerequisite, perhaps a denial of their deeds, but under the cover of darkness neither of them could deny the lustful pleasure they were experiencing.

Finally, when the crescendo of their feelings could peek no higher, they climaxed almost simultaneously with gasps and moans but not words, and when this was done they quickly rolled back to back again.

When morning dawned there was a careful avoidance of any reference to the night before, but the spectre of it hung over them in the way they averted their eyes and spoke in guarded phrases. This awkwardness pursued them out of the hotel and down the street to Monsieur Gaston’s Restaurant and Saloon. Beef on the menu today, the sign read in large letters, and inside there was a half-hearted attempt at an ambiance with only slightly-soiled tablecloths atop plank tables. However, in keeping with the ambiance an eight once steak was priced at nearly $3.50 per plate, or roughly seven dollars per pound. Nevertheless, they both ordered a steak with their eggs, and when it arrived Jaycee tried cutting into his with some effort.

“I believe I remember this here critter,” he remarked offhandedly as he continued to saw away at it. “She was a tough whore t’ drive, too.”

With that Spencer began to snicker, and in a moment Jaycee joined him so that soon the barrier between them quickly began to evaporate. All the while they were looking directly into each others eyes with affection, and Spencer began to realize how very special Jaycee was to him. It was a friendship that had been forged mile after mile, shoulder-to-shoulder in both heat and dust, and as a result their bond was now nigh unbreakable. Moreover they had spilled their seed together, and that made it almost sacred as well.

The next day they set out for Oregon, spending the winter with Jaycee’s parents near the tiny settlement of Seneca, in Grant County, and in the spring they headed north with eight hundred head of fresh cattle. However, in the meantime things had changed quite significantly.  After a long and uncomfortable winter with little to show for it, the disillusioned prospectors had abandoned their claims in droves. Consequently, Spencer and Jaycee were left with over two hundred head of unsold cattle on their hands, and with very little profit from the cattle they had sold.

“What now?” Jaycee asked, dejectedly.

“Well, it’s not worth driving them back,” Spencer observed. “But I’m beginning to like this part of the country, and so I think I will start my own outfit. Want to join me?”

“I don’t have the capital fer that,” Jaycee replied, apologetically. “And there’s no tellin’ how long the market ‘ll take to come back around here. Besides, I sort of like drivin’ the brutes. Ya get t’ see more o’ the country that way,” he added with a grin. “But if ya want, I’ll stay with ya ‘til fall.”

Spencer was disappointed that Jaycee wasn’t going to stay, for his friendship was just starting to mature into something deeper. Something akin to love, but he hesitated to call it that. To call it “love” would be an admission that he was a man-lover—a deviant—and Spencer wasn’t ready to do that—not yet. He nonetheless went ahead and registered a claim for two thousand acres (800 hectares) of prime ranch land in the Cariboo District, and applied for his own brand as well.

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

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

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

“I believe so, too,” Spencer laughed.

As he had promised Jaycee stayed for the remainder of the summer, and working together they built a one-room cabin in a picturesque valley surrounded by aspen-covered hills. A gentle stream ran through it as well, and in the background were the magnificent snow-clad peaks of the Rocky Mountains. It was a paradise begging to be settled, and so their days were filled with industry while their nights were frequently spent exploring each other in silence. At times Jason would initiate this, 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, and not something they acknowledged in the light of day.

They also rounded up over two hundred head of cattle to brand with Spencer’s brand new “P/S” brand. At first it took him quite a while to get the knack of roping and branding, but with Jaycee’s guidance—and irreverent kidding as well—he managed to get quite handy at both. A crew of experienced cowhands had to be hired as well: ‘ropers’ to rope and drag the bellowing critters to the flankers (or “rastlers”), who would flip and hold them down. Next an experienced “iron-man” would do the actual branding, while the “knife-men” would castrate the young bulls.

In order to gain an understanding of these various tasks, Spencer tried his hand at all three but quickly handed over 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 had already turned yellow against a darkening sky, and noisy flocks of geese were forming “V” as they headed south. Therefore, on the evening before his departure they quietly washed at the stream, and afterward they reminisced over a bottle of whiskey. Sex was almost inevitable on such an occasion, 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 for what could be the last time.

“I’m goin’ to miss ya, Limy,” Jaycee unexpectedly spoke up, breaking the code of silence between them at such a time.

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

“How about a kiss then … t’ remember ya by?” Jaycee suggested.

Spencer hesitated. It wasn’t something they had done before, but they were trail mates after all, and that called for something more than a handshake. Therefore he leaned forward to press his lips almost chastely against Jaycee’s. Jaycee did the same at first, but then he suddenly wrapped an arm around Spencer’s neck to draw him into an open-mouthed, French kiss. Taken by surprise Spencer’s first reaction was to resist, but as the mood overtook him he eagerly responded with an enthusiasm that surprised even Jaycee. Now, with their lips locked together, and their tongues probing each other’s mouths, a new level of possibility was opened up for them to explore in their love making.

Jaycee was quick to take advantage of this by shifting his body on top of Spencer’s and hoisting his legs in the air. Nevertheless, Spencer made no attempt to stop him. On the contrary, he wanted to feel Jaycee inside him so that they would be symbolically coupled from that moment on. For, no matter what happened in the future, he wanted this night to remembered for all time.

Jaycee then spit on his free hand to lubricate his eager cock as he slowly pressed forward to insert it in Spencer’s willing rectum. At first Spencer experienced ferocious pain, and several attempts had to be made before penetration was finally achieved—the last using bacon grease—but once inside Jaycee rode him like a bronco-buster, driving his dick deeper with each thrust until they both cried out in ecstasy.

Afterward it took quite a while for them to come down from their euphoria, but eventually Spencer lay quietly in Jaycee’s arms, spent but happy.

“Why don’t you stay, Yank?” he urged him. “We can make a good life together, and when the herd is built up we can go trailing again.”

“It all sounds great, Limy, but it’s not that easy for two men t’ live together like that. Sooner or later people would start t’ talk. I’ve seen it happen afore. I recall a couple of boys lived like that in El Paso, Texas … nice boys they were, too … but word got around that they was diddling one another. Nobody really knew it fer certain, but this one preacher claimed the Lord had revealed it to him. Somethin’ bout Leviticus said so … whoever he is. Anyway, after a while it got so bad that these two fellers could hardly go out of the house without being set upon by this preacher and his ‘holy-roller-types,’ and so one night they hung themselves … Or so the story went. Mind you it’s sort o’ hard to hang yourself with yer hands tied behind yer back. That’s what one fella who cut ‘em down told me, and so I think I’d better move on afore we get in too deep.”

Spencer was shocked sober by his tale. He had heard of such cruelties happening elsewhere, such as the hanging of deviants in the British Navy, but he never thought it would threaten him. Moreover, he thought about the scandal it would cause in his father’s family—maybe to his own son as well—and so he reluctantly agreed to let Jaycee go.

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

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

They drifted off to sleep after that, and in the morning they made love in the light of day before Jaycee set off down the trail, stopping now and then to waive until he finally disappeared over one of the hills and was gone.

After that it was a long and lonely winter with the only relief coming from writing lengthy letters to Jason, and receiving his cryptic responses in return. These brief epistles generally began with Hello, Limy. I’m fine. How are you? and ended with Sure do miss you, tho, but Spencer treasured every one—reading and re-reading them while lying in his bed, alone.

The winter finally passed, and with the spring he was gratified to discover that the cattle had multiplied just as nature intended, so that he was now the proud owner of close to four hundred head of range-hardy specimens. Nonetheless, there was still no appreciable market for beef. To offset the drain on his finances he decided to diversify. He still had some money remaining from his first cattle drive, and with that he built a dam across the stream and constructed a saw mill to accommodate the settlers who were starting to arrive in the area. He also claimed a further three thousand acres to add to the Prodigal Son Ranch.

Over the next three years this venture proved quite successful, and some settlers were inquiring about purchasing land adjacent to it. Intrigued by the notion of having a settlement like the village attached to Ardmore Manor back in England, he drew up a rough plan of subdivision and began leasing lots on a ninety-nine year basis. However, the rents from these amounted to only a token sum per year, and so he went on to add a general store and post office as income properties.

The cattle count continued to increase as well, and over the intervening years it had grown to nearly fifteen hundred head. This did not come without associated costs, however, such as several full-time ranch hands, additional seasonal-workers for the spring and fall roundups, feed barns for winter hay, and so forth. To offset these he eventually drove two 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 an exclusive girls’ school in England, Emma was fitting company during the week-or-so it took him to slaughter and sell the beef, and by the end of that time they had become quite close friends. The merchant was also happy for the prospect of having the offspring of an earl as his son-in-law, and so he encouraged them to continue their friendship.

It occurred to Spencer that Emma represented an agreeable compromise between the sort of love he held for Jaycee, and the possibility of scandal if he were to pursue it. Moreover, he still longed for a son to fill the void of the lost one. Consequently, he returned to Prodigal Son, and using the ranch 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 kept up a steady correspondence with both Emma and Jaycee. He told them both of his plans to marry, and Emma wrote back to say that she would wait. Meanwhile his herd had increased exponentially to over two thousand animals, and needing money to pay for the house and future family, he wrote to Jaycee to ask if he would join him on a major drive to Chicago the following spring. [1]

Jason was quick to respond, saying that he would head north as soon as the weather permitted, and to have everything in readiness for what he figured would be an eighteen-month venture. With this in mind Spencer had several large holding corrals built, and shortly after spring thaw he and a crew of “waddies” (itinerant cowhands) rounded up a thousand head of prime beeves. His own men helped as well, but they would be needed at home to look after Prodigal Son while he wad away.

A week or so later Jaycee arrived, and in public they greeted rather innocuously with a handshake and pat on the back, but that night they eagerly renewed what they had left in abeyance nearly ten years previous. Moreover, as they clung to one another in the after-glow of sex, the word “love” was finally uttered between them. It wasn’t a mushy sort of utterance, but a heart-felt declaration between two men who cared deeply for one another. The word “forever” was also heard in the same context.

The following day the supply wagons were loaded and Spencer emptied the office safe of the last of his savings to cover expenses, leaving only enough for the sawyer and head clerk to maintain the sawmill and store. Then, in the early morning of April 21, 1876, the corral gates were flung open to start a thousand head of cattle and thirty 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 since such a spectacle had never before been seen in the history of the colony, people came from miles around just to watch. Even a reporter from the British Colonist newspaper was there to report:

<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>

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

They followed the same route south they had taken north in 1863, and after crossing the international boundary at Osoyoos, they continued south through Washington Territory and Oregon State, and then eastward across Idaho until they reached Northern Utah seven months later. Here Spencer was nearly devastated to learn that prices in Chicago had unexpectedly plummeted to $16 a head for three year olds, about the same as he could have got back in British Columbia, and moreover it would cost $250 a carload to ship them from Salt Lake City to Chicago.

At that rate he would be fortunate if he could make enough money to cover expenses, and this would surely put Prodigal Son in jeopardy as well. Consequently, there were many sleepless nights until it was decided that they would winter in Utah with the hope that the market would improve by spring. Beyond that Spencer dared not think, for the prospect was too devastating  to contemplate.

In the meantime a traveller stopped by to inform them that a drought had wiped out thousands of cattle in California, and suggested that a herd like theirs would no doubt bring far more in San Francisco than in Chicago.

“What d’ya think?” Jaycee asked.

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

“No, but I have a general idea.”

“Let’s go, then,” Spencer said. “I’ve gambled nearly everything I have on this drive, and another eight hundred miles isn’t going to make much difference.”

The following spring they 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 eleven hundred steers, cows, bulls and newborn calves for a return of seventy-dollars per head; netting Spencer nearly seventy thousand dollars—minus Jaycee’s twenty-five percent that Spencer still maintained was his fair share.

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 acquired a suite in one of the finest hotels and remained there for a full week. It was a carefree interlude filled with copious love-making, and if Spencer hadn’t already committed himself to Emma he might have considered doing this forever. Nonetheless they clung to those few days with a tenacity that defied the reality of it until they were faced with the final one. Spencer then mailed a letter to Emma saying that they would wed as soon as he got back, and following that he and Jaycee rode north on Siskiyou Trail to Oregon. Along the way they abstained from making love on account of Spencer’s commitment to Emma, which he now felt obliged to observe, and so Jaycee went along with this as well. He also stayed with him until they reached the Washington border, and there their journey together ended.

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

“I’ll be yer best man anytime ya want, Limy,” Jaycee grinned lopsidedly, all but hiding the look of sadness behind it, “but I’d feel outa place at yer wedding. You’ll be in my thoughts, though … always,” he added wistfully.

“You’ll be in mine too, Yank,” Spencer said as they both leaned forward to kiss while still in the saddle. Then, to conceal his threatening tears, Spencer wheeled his mount about and rode north without looking back.

He and Emma were wed in Westminster that September, and the spacious new house—now named “Beau Vale”—was finally occupied. However, the “lots of children” part 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 him that Cory would no doubt be their last, Spencer was the proudest man in all the Cariboo District. To celebrate Cory’s second birthday, therefore, he purchased a small Shetland pony and custom-made saddle, and then paraded them through the settlement nearly every day. As a consequence it was fair to say that Cory grew up in the saddle, and by his sixth birthday he could gallop, reins free, alongside Spencer while he taught him how to lasso calves with a lightweight lariat. “Just like a real cowboy,” Spencer would assure him, and Cory would beam with pride as he swung his rope with remarkable accuracy for his age.

There being no school in the immediate vicinity, Cory’s education fell upon Emma to deliver. At first Cory was not an enthusiastic scholar, preferring to work outside with his father and the other ranch hands. He especially liked it when the cowhands tussled with him for the experience of being held captive, and smelling their distinctly masculine scent of sweat and leather.  Nevertheless, since Spencer insisted on his schooling, he reluctantly joined the handful of children from the settlement 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 with you when I grow up.”

Stifling a smile Spencer pointed to a herd of cattle grazing on the hills above the house. “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. Then he pressed the point even further. “Give or take a few hundred there are about eleven thousand head on Prodigal Son,” he told him, “so, at eighteen dollars a head, how much money does that come to?”

Cory shrugged once again.

“Then I guess you better learn your times tables, too,” he smiled as he ruffled his hair.

A few days later Cory came running up to him with a smug look on his face. “One hundred and ninety-eight thousand dollars,” he blurted without an explanation.

It took Spencer a moment to realize what he was talking about, and then it struck him. Nonetheless, he continued with his challenge. “Yes, but did you subtract expenses?” he inquired.

“What expenses?”

“Wages for the cowhands, hiring waddies for the roundups, paying the farmers for harvesting winter hay, the new land taxes and the like” he responded off the top of his head. “You have to subtract all those expenses before you can put money in the bank.”

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

“You do if you want to be a rancher, son,” Spencer chuckled. “Cowhands don’t have to worry about those sorts of things, but as a rancher you have to do it for them. They depend on you, and you depend on them. Always remember that and you’ll do well.”

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

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

Spencer chuckled. “I told him there was money in it,” he joked.

Reading was an aspect of learning that Cory did enjoy without prompting, and one of the books he found most intriguing was an arcane study of Classical Greece, titled Eros and Polis in Classical Greek Military. He discovered this scholarly tome in Spencer’s personal collection, hidden on the top shelf of a tall bookcase, but to Cory this only made it all the more tantalizing. Therefore, by balancing an Ottoman on top of his father’s large office chair he was able to discover such topics as the Sacred Band of Thebes. This was a troop of picked soldiers, consisting of 150 male couples called “cohorts,” of which the author said,

<Begin excerpting here>

“…although a mere handful, they would overcome the world. For what lover would not choose to forfeit his own life rather than desert his beloved or fail him in the hour of danger?”

<End excerpt here>

 Cory was utterly fascinated, and although he didn’t quite comprehend the sexual aspect of it, he nonetheless liked the notion of males as lovers. There was something truly admirable about it, like some of his father’s cowhands who looked out for one another, and so when he found an old newspaper clipping tucked into Spencer’s book he focussed his entire attention on the two martyred lovers it described, Strabos and Polymenos. It was as though their spirits had transcended time to speak to him, and so he said a silent prayer to their god, Apollo, to reunite them. He also made it a habit of doing the same after Spencer or Emma had heard his own nightly prayers.

As time went by he frequently neglected his daily payers, but he never forgot Strabos and Polymenos.

***

In 1871 British Columbia become a province of Canada, and in order to secure the deal the federal government under John A. MacDonald promised to build a railway to the West by 1881. In fact, MacDonald’s Government was prepared to offer the fledgling province almost anything to keep the territory and resources out of the hands of the Americans.

The Prodigal Son Ranch now covered an area of 40,000 acres, and with fifteen thousand head of cattle on it, it was one of the largest outfits in the Cariboo District. However, the market for beef had not kept pace with his expansion, and Spencer frequently found himself land and cattle rich, but cash poor. Consequently, he considered another major drive to the south, but when his letter to Jaycee was returned marked “deceased” he quietly rode up into the hills to mourn and think. A drive like that would not only be difficult without Jaycee, but the memories of their previous drive to California would also haunt him nearly every mile of the way. Therefore, he finally abandoned the idea to scrape by as he did before.

Prosperity did come for a short time when the builders of the Canadian Pacific Railway (CPR) arrived in the Cariboo in 1883, and Spencer signed a lucrative contract to supply this small army of workers with fresh beef at twenty-five cents a pound, dressed-weight. Nevertheless, when the last spike was driven at Craighellachie, British Columbia, in the fall of 1885, the market quickly dwindled once again, and although Spencer could now ship beef to the eastern markets, he was also competing with cattle producers right across the country.

One final chance at a “boom” market came in 1896 when gold was discovered near Dawson City, Yukon Territory. Nevertheless, there were several major difficulties connect to it. For one thing Dawson City was located in one of the remotest parts of Canada, almost inaccessible by both land and sea. Some hardy risk-takers 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 that awaited them.

From Skagway the inland trail was deceptively flat at first, but then it began to rise with a series of precipitous hills that were separated by belly-scraping 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 up hills and down gulches, and where the wretched animals had to pick 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.”[iv]

Spencer was well aware of all this from reading the graphic newspaper reports, and so he entered into a correspondence with the province’s Minister of the Interior regarding some overland route that might lead to Dawson City, and it was through him that he learned of a trail that cut by the Collins Overland Telegraph Company in an attempt to connect Siberia with 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 map showing this route was provided—a deceptively simple pen scratch through the rugged interior, but Spencer studied it over and over again as he assessed all the possibilities. Such a venture was an unprecedented gamble fraught with countless, unseen risks, but even if he managed to get only a small herd through at nearly $50 per pound it would mean the end of his money worries forever. Therefore, the more he thought about the more he felt it could be done.

Now seventeen Cory frequently joined him for these deliberations, adding his opinions where he could, but it was his enthusiasm that Spencer found most engaging. It seemed like only yesterday he was teaching him to rope calves on his 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 at the thought of including him.

Reb Coltrane also sat in on these from time to time. He and Cory got along fairly well for the most part, but their iron wills sometimes clashed as well. These standoffs generally arose when Reb would exercise his legitimate authority as ranch foreman, but as the “old man’s”[3] son Cory would question it, and so they would frequently end up in front of Spencer for a resolution.

At such times Spencer would secretly smile inside because he admired both their uncompromising spirits; nevertheless, on the outside he maintained the stern demeanour of a judge while he rendered his Solomon-like decisions. “You have to learn to take orders before you can give them, son,” he would tell Cory. “So learn from Reb like you did your mathematics lessons.”

Cory would then recall that previous time, and after thinking about it he would invariably relent. The respect he held for his father was all it took to settle the matter.

“You have to take the time to explain things to him,” he would tell Reb in private. “He’s a bright lad, but he can be quite stubborn unless he understands the why and wherefore of a thing.

“He can at that, alright,” Reb would chuckle. “I don’t have any younguns of my own, but if I did I’d be proud t’ call Cory one o’ them. He’s a spunky one fer certain.”

Cory would then be called back in, and Spencer would have them shake hands in his presence. That would generally settle matters—for the time being.

***

Jefferson “Reb” Coltrane had been born to a post-Confederate family who had once possessed considerable wealth until Sherman made his fiery march to the sea. With that their privileged lifestyle came to an abrupt and 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 very few skills beyond being a plantation owner, had taken to drink on account of his misfortune, 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 he possessed an independent spirit; perhaps a throwback to his 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 rumour that his illustrious ancestor had been born the bastard son of an English earl, but since he refused to discuss it during his lifetime no one really knew for certain.

“I haven’t the time for such nonsense,” he would tell them. “This is a new country, and so it’s what you do that counts,” he added.

However, this indomitable attitude had apparently by-passed Jefferson’s father to find a more promising candidate in young Jefferson—a fact that didn’t sit well with his father, either.

All of this came to a head one night after yet another thrashing, and determined not 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 hat was headed for New Orleans. “Nawlins,” as the locals pronounced it, was the gateway to the world, and so he felt this would be a good place to start looking for an ultimate destination. He did have Texas in mind, though, for the notion of becoming a cowboy had always appealed to him. However it would take money to get that far, and so he would stay in New Orleans long enough to earn his passage; perhaps a month, he figured. With this all worked out in own mind, he resigned himself to fate to do the rest—as his grandfather had done before him.

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 the way to New Orleans to make his fortune, but that he was willing to work 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 with the coloured worker, and 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 was needed some 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, five-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 would not be returning to the stable until after midnight. A meeting was then set up for that time, and in fond 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, 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?” a smallish man nattily dressed in a satin dressing gown inquired.

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

The little man listened sympathetically, tut-tutting as well when he heard about the hack driver’s callousness, and then took him across the street to where he was permanently lodged in a hotel.  There he ordered a hot meal be brought from the kitchen, and Jefferson ate it ravenously, wiping the last dribble 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 satin pyjamas, and Jefferson stripped to his trousers; not wanting to go any further on account of his lack of drawers, beneath.

He then crawled in 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 into a most peaceful 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 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 warm bed 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 debated whether he would accept a hot meal and a bed if it was offered to him, and after some thought he decided that he would if no employment came along that day.

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 a large hotel 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 asked to see the manager. He then introduced himself as a district attorney and pleaded Jefferson’s case as though he were in court of law. He also mentioned in passing that hotel hadn’t properly displayed its licence to operate, as required by law, but said he wouldn’t prosecute it if the manager could see his way fit to hire Jefferson.

The pay was ten dollars a month, and he received one month’s salary 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 Southern honour Jefferson laid him out with a well-placed punch to the side of the 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 the guest books, and after packing his belongings he left that employment without a reference.

He was now fifteen and the idea of becoming a cowboy still intrigued him. Therefore he wandered down to levee and discovered that the Lone Star was leaving for Texas in the morning, and that night he stowed away on board, waiting until they got well out to sea before he revealed himself. The captain was furious and threatened to throw him overboard, but a wealthy Texas rancher intervened by paying his fare and giving him an employment 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. “Born and bred … and I’m a good worker, too,” he added for good measure.

“What’s your name then, son?” he asked.

“Jefferson … Jefferson Coltrane.”

“Hmm. That’s a mouthful fer a cowboy,” he mused. “But how about Reb … seeing as how you’re from the South and all?”

“I like it,” the newly minted “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 looked and sounded like a native-born Texan.

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 appeared to be batting her languid 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 nothing about; the breaking her to saddle. Moreover, she wasn’t about to give in that easily, and so after being thrown several times one of the older cowhands suggested he should snub her to the corral fence and sleep next to her overnight.

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

The other cowboys laughed, and Reb wasn’t certain whether 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.

Morning finally came, and with all the other cowpokes perched on top of the corral fence he gave her one last reassurance before he swung into the saddle. As expected she gave a few spirited bucks while he hung on as if his reputation depended on it—which it did—but having had the last word she then sashayed from the corral like a blushing bride from a church, with him aboard grinning like a bashful groom.

All the cowhands reacted with hoots and hollers, and the rancher smiled as well. “It looks like you’ve earned yourself a filly, lad. What are you goin’ t’ call her?”

“Southern Belle,” he grinned proudly. “I believe she’s a Southern gal, fer sure.”

In the spring of 1881 they were sent to rope and brand nearly twelve hundred head 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 newly hiredd hand by the name of “Jaycee” Collins.

Reb knew nothing about Jaycee except that he had a quick wit and impish grin, and apart from being a first-class cowhand he made Reb laugh whenever they were together. Jaycee had also travelled far and wide, including Canada, which he talked about with a special kind of affection.

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

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

“Well, when y’all talk about it 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 I left up there, so I guess that must 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’ man.”

“Married,” Jaycee replied, vaguely.

“Oh…” Reb said 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 capable. For one thing they each wore shiny new boots and Stetsons that had obviously never seen any trail dust of weather. Seeing this, Reb and Jaycee exchanged concerned glances as they rode into camp to lay out their bedrolls.

Although they were feeling somewhat jaded after the long trek they soon went back on guard—fearing what the gang of shorthorns might do if an expected storm blew in. However, apart from a steady drizzle things remained fairly calm. Reb and Jaycee rode in opposite directions to keep the herd in tact, but now and then they would stop for a brief chat. Jaycee had a slicker that had been purchased from a sea captain in Port Lavaca, and on a dreary 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. However, with the horses’ girths between them the slicker wasn’t nearly wide enough to reach. Jaycee then suggested that Reb should double-up with him. It was a guileless offer, for Spencer was the only man he truly desired sexually, but to alleviate any concerns Reb may have he went on to reassure him. “It’s after midnight, so there won’t be nobody around fer a while,” he pointed out. Reb listened, and after looking around to be certain, he quickly changed mounts to sit in front of Jaycee on the saddle.

It was a snug arrangement with Jaycee holding the loose flaps of the slicker around him, and as a result Reb began to experience a distinct stirring in his groin. Nevertheless he tried to ignore this, concentrating instead on the warmth as he began to doze off. However, his psyche had ideas of its own, for in the dream it conjured up he was in a soft bed with Jaycee wrapped around him, and instead of bolting from it he shifted about to place his lips against Jaycee’s just as he awoke to discover his actions.

 “Holy crap!” he exclaimed, as he quickly straightened himself around. “I’m sorry, Jaycee. I didn’t mean nothin’ by it … Really! I was dreamin’,” he stammered, terrified of what might result on account it being a “killin’” offence to some.

Jaycee merely grinned back at him. “It must o’ been quite a dream,” he remarked, matter-of-factly. “Was she pretty?”

Reb was utterly dismayed by his reaction. “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 that,” he chuckled.

Now relieved, 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.”

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 their 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.

“For a while a lot of people figured I was dead,” he chuckled. “Me ‘n my ole man shared the same first name, and so a lot of my letters got returned marked ‘deceased.’ I should o’ had the post office change it, I suppose, but at the time I figured it was best t’ leave it that way … Less temptation t’ horn in where ya don’t belong,” he added, thoughtfully.

Reb figured he was referring to the married lady in Canada. “Ever think o’ goin’ back up there?” he asked out of curiosity.

“Oh, I might some day,” he replied. “I think about it now and then, but the time ain’t right”

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

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

“Sounds like ya believe in fate, too,” Reb mused. “I hold great store in it myself, but ya never know where it’s goin’ ‘til ya get there.”

Jaycee laughed. “You’ve got that right, mate.”

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 before 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 that dream again.”

Reb laughed as he recalled that night, and also felt the same stirring in his groin as he stared up at him. Then, with the drinks urging him on, he threw his arm around Jaycee’s neck to kiss him again. “Do ya remember that?” he grinned.

Jaycee quietly returned his kiss, and for a moment he was tempted; however, he had made a pact with himself that he would not lie with another man unless he loved him, and since he was already in love that ruled out just about everyone else. Besides, Reb was just a horny kid with too much drink under his belt, and so he would probably feel differently in the morning. He therefore gently untangled himself from his arms. “Yes, I do,” he said as he was leaving. “But we’d best leave that in dreamland. Night, kid.”

The next morning Reb awoke with both 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. However, he had left a note at the desk. It read: Hope you find what yer pinin’ for. Meet ya up the trail sometime. J.C.Collins.

At first Reb wasn’t certain what Jaycee meant by “what yer pinin’ for,” but on his return trip to Rancho Grande he had plenty of time to think about it. Jaycee had no doubt guessed what was on his mind the night he kissed him in the hotel. Reb also tried to tell himself that it was the drink that had put him up to it, but as he rode through the wilderness by day, and sat idly poking at the fire by night, the truth was finally drawn out of him. He was capable of desiring another man. It was a revelation fraught with risk, and so it had to be someone he desired enough to overcome this, but beyond that he willing to consider it.

In the years that followed Reb worked his way north as the lucrative drives began to dwindle on account of the expanding railroads. Consequently he beginning to feel somewhat concerned 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.

“Hell, we’ve got an outfit in Canada that owns half the Province of British Columbia … And that’s about ninety-six thousand square miles larger than Texas, you know,”[v] the Canuck responded authoritatively.

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

“Several thousand, I believe,” 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 a thousand head all the way to San Francisco. It was in the newspaper and all.”

Reb had to concede that this was a pretty fair drive, for Canadians that is. “What’s the name of this outfit?” he asked out of interest.

“Hmm,” the Canadian mused, searching his memory. “It’s something biblical … something to do with a fatted calf. “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 find this remarkable outfit. Fortunately his timing couldn’t have been better, for Spencer’s aging foreman had just retired on account of his health, and he needed someone younger to replace him. Moreover, Reb not only met Spencer’s idea of self-reliance, 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, and although he found him a bit cocky he could handle cattle as well as anyone he had ever met for his age. Moreover, he was almost beguilingly handsome with green eyes, straight nose, sideburns and a generous mouth. Nonetheless, because he was the boss’s son it was merely an observation on Reb’s part.

***

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 for such a major undertaking, but now he had it all in place. As usual his regular hands would be staying behind to look after the ranch while he and the others were away, and so the majority of drovers would be made up of waddies. A wrangler named Ike Falwell, and a cook by the name “Shorty” McIntyre completed the complement.

Falwell would be in charge of a remuda of twenty horses, a bit light in number for a trip of this duration, but like Spencer, Cory and Reb planned to take their own mounts—Shaman and Belle. Therefore he was satisfied that there would be enough spares to do.

Spencer felt good as he rode his big chestnut gelding, “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 felt certain that he was smiling down on him from somewhere, and was probably impatient to get underway.

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 hey 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; however at about half way down Chinook unexpectedly missed his footing, and pitching sideways he pinned Spencer’s leg beneath him. A sharp spike of pain told Spencer that the leg was broken, and all his plans had suddenly changed with it.

Cory and Reb had witnessed the spill as well, and in a few minutes they were both beside him. Spencer was then carried down on a makeshift stretcher, and a wagon was quickly brought to transport him back to the house.

It was a major setback for Spencer because he had gambled nearly everything he had, including borrowing money against the ranch to mount this venture, and so there could be no turning back. Someone had to carry on in his place.

A doctor was summoned from the village 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 cock-sure attitude. “I’ve been herding cattle around here ever since you first taught me, so trailing them 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 said as he handed him a bundle of bank notes totalling nearly $1,500. “I’m putting you in charge of this,” he told Cory, “but you should rely on Reb when it comes to the drive. I think we all 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.”

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

He then turned to Cory to offer his hand, and Cory accepted it. Nevertheless, Cory wasn’t particularly happy to be placed on an equal basis with a hired hand. It wasn’t that he didn’t respect and admire Reb, because he did, but when his father wasn’t around it should be him in control. Nevertheless it was something that they could sort out on the trail, and so he went along with it for now.

As a momento of his first cattle drive Emma encouraged him to maintain a journal, and so she presented him a writing case as a travel gift. She was immensely proud of her handsome son, but for her part things were not well. For some time her energy had waning, but she steadfastly kept it a secret for fear of interfering with Spencer’s plans. Therefore, as the sun cleared the surrounding hills on May 20th, 1898, she and Spencer stood in the doorway of Beau Vale 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 to those behind, and the flankers began to urge the cattle forward. Thus began Cory’s extraordinary coming of age on the trail.