Colonel Francis Clay Mosby buttoned his overcoat tightly about his throat as he stepped out onto the porch of the Ambrosia Club. He pulled on his fine leather gloves and paused for a moment to survey his kingdom. Things were pretty quiet on this snowy winter day; everything appeared to be in order. Mosby noted with satisfaction that all the town businesses were open, each one busily earning tax dollars to enrich his, er, the town’s coffers. Who could blame the man if he swaggered slightly as he continued down the boardwalk? It was good to be the lord of all he surveyed.
Clay smiled and doffed his hat to several attractive young ladies as they sashayed past him. The girls tittered behind their daintily gloved hands and blushed. It wasn’t every day they could attract the attention of the town proprietor.
Clay was almost across the street, still smiling to himself, when ker-thwack! A snowball hit him squarely in the back of the head. He spun around angrily, looking for the perpetrator, but he didn’t see anyone. Why, no one was even looking in his direction. Imagine that! Call was ensconced on his bench, napping as usual, his dirty hat pulled down low over his face. He couldn’t have done it. Or could he? Mosby eyed the bounty hunter suspiciously for a few moments before deciding it wasn’t worth his time. It wouldn’t do to get his feathers ruffled. He had important matters to attend to. He straightened his vest and continued on his way.
The incident was forgotten until later that afternoon when Clay was heading to the Dove for his lunch. He was somewhat annoyed. In the afternoon sun, the main street of town was a mess of thawing ruts, interspersed with half-frozen mud puddles. Clay sighed. The southern gentleman had never gotten used to the cold, messy winters of Montana. It still annoyed him no end that his fine leather boots were usually less than spiffy, the way he liked them. The sooner he turned Curtis Wells into a new Atlanta, he mused, the happier he would be living in it.
Our illustrious colonel was deep in thoughts of this nature as he negotiated the messy street, when out of the blue, another frozen missile found its mark. Mosby’s hat was knocked clean off his head, and it landed in the muck at his feet. This time, however, there were several witnesses to the crime. Mosby snatched up his hat, glaring around him and daring anyone to laugh. “Who’s responsible for this outrage?” he demanded.
No one said a word.
Clay scowled at Call, who was awake this time and was smirking at him from his bench across the street. “Think this is funny, do ya, Call? We’ll, do ya?”
Call got up and sauntered over to him. “What you gettin’ so excited for, Clay? It’s just a little snow, is all.”
“Did you throw it?”
Call looked steadily back at him. “The day I throw snow at you’s the day you eat it, and you know it. It’s not me you need to blame.”
Clay was furious. “This matter is far from over,” he snarled as he shook the muddy water off his hat. He didn’t bother replacing it on his head but stalked towards the Dove bareheaded, his gleaming curls bouncing with indignation at every step.
Call shrugged and headed off to find Luther. He could use a drink.
But Call was not quite so nonchalant the next time he tried to take a leisurely snooze on his bench. Whack! Whack! Several snowballs hit him at once, nearly knocking the poor man off his perch. He wiped the snow from his face and looked wildly about to see who had done the deed. Hmmm. The streets were deserted, but that didn’t mean Mosby wasn’t behind it somehow. Call’s eyes narrowed. Nothing went on in Curtis Wells that Mosby didn’t know about. Well, this time he was treading on thin ice.
And the same thing happened to Call the next afternoon. As he wiped the snow out of his eyes, he saw Mosby conversing with Amanda on the porch of the Dove. Jumping to his feet, he stalked angrily up to him and poked him in the chest. “You throw that, or was it one of your hired goons?”
Clay looked insolently back at him. “Why, Mr. Call, just what is it you are accusin’ me of?”
“You know very well, Mosby,” Call answered, digging the last bit of snow out of his ear.
“What’s the matter, Call, afraid you’ll wipe off some of your protective dirt layer?”
“I’m warning you, Mosby . . .”
“Really, Call, this juvenile behavior has gone on long enough. Why don’t you go on back to your bench? You’re makin’ a spectacle of yourself.”
“The only one puttin’ on a show is you, Mosby -- playin’ at bein’ innocent.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you are referrin’ to, Call. I have more important things to do than entertain myself at your expense. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” Clay made to push past the irate bounty hunter.
“Not so fast, Mosby,” Call said, grabbing hold of the other man’s arm.
Just then Zeke and Pratt showed up and knocked Call out by hitting him on the head with a large chunk of ice. Otherwise he would never have let it go because, well, you know how Call is.
Anyway, on with our story.
That evening, Clay came riding back into town from that place he goes to in the Mosbyless episodes. He put Blackjack away in his stall and stepped back out into the chill night air. Whistling Dixie, he headed for the Ambrosia and his warm bed.
Suddenly, he stopped. What was that rustle in the bushes? A wild animal? “Who’s there? Show yourself,” he called out nervously, his hand hovering near his weapon.
Just then he was tackled from behind. Clay fell helplessly to the ground beneath the crushing weight of his assailant. It was impossible to guess the identity of the unknown attacker. Mosby’s past in all its haunting anguish flashed before his eyes. But before he could hear the screams in his own head, he woke to the cold reality of copious amounts of snow being shoved down his back. And then, to add insult to injury, whoever it was washed his face with the stuff. Oh! The indignity of it all!
As the perpetrator disappeared into the darkness without a backward glance, Mosby sputtered and got to his feet. “Come back here and face me, you coward!” he called after the retreating form.
But Clay was left alone to plot his revenge for all the indignities that he had suffered. Oh, the poor, poor man!
Early the next morning, Mosby stalked out the door of the Ambrosia and straight to Call’s bench. He was not in an amiable mood as he addressed the grimy young man. “I’ve had enough, Call; I’m callin’ you out. I’m goin’ to have to make an example of you.”
The surly bounty hunter pushed up the brim of his hat and regarded Clay indifferently. “That so?”
“Stand up when you address me, Call.”
“I am standing up.”
The two men sized each other up for a long moment. Then Clay broke the silence. “Very well, I’ll see you at high noon.”
“Fine by me,” Call answered him.
When the appointed hour arrived, the two men faced each other in the street. Mosby’s leather duster fell open, revealing hands full of large snowballs. Surely, his were the largest snowballs in town. “It’s been a long time comin’, Call.”
Call had large snowballs too. His hand hovered near them. “It’s just you and me . . .”
The tension mounted.
Suddenly, without warning, splat! Splat! Snowballs hit Mosby and Call simultaneously.
The two men looked up to see a grinning Unbob making snowballs and handing them to Luther. The burly stage driver wore a look of pure delight as he took aim and let fly.
Call and Mosby exchanged one brief, shocked expression and dove behind a wagon that was conveniently parked in the street.
Splat! Splat! The missiles kept coming, hitting the sides of the wagon and flying over the two men’s heads as they cowered behind it.
Call and Mosby gave each other a brief nod, realizing that they were on the same team. It was them against Luther and Unbob. (Yessir, we love it when they work together!) The two men rose to the occasion, and snowballs were soon flying in all directions.
Mattie came out of her shop, headed for the water pump and was hit in the side of the head. “What the hell?” she was heard to say. But when she saw what was going on, she laughed and joined right in.
Amanda met a similar fate when she poked her head out of the Dove to see what the commotion was all about. Splat! A stray snowball hit her in the chest and filled her cleavage with snow. “Oh, that’s it!” she said and jumped into the fray, lobbing snowballs from her defensive position behind a porch post.
It was a free-for-all!!
When Ruby and Eula Mae Longbottom, Curtis Wells’ old maid gossip sisters peeked out of their parlor door, they too became targets. Why, Ruby got one right in the kisser! Right away the pair of them began making snowballs too, letting fly at anyone or anything that moved.
Josiah opened the front door of the Montana Statesman and was met with heavy fire. “Watch it!” he said, “I’m the mayor!” But no one paid him any heed, and he had to jump back inside where he was content to watch the rest of the fight through the window, ducking down below the sill whenever a snowball made contact with the glass.
Even Twyla’s girls got a piece of the action. With Twyla herself directing their efforts, the town hussies had a field day. One of them caught Dr. Cleese right between the eyes, knocking off his glasses. The poor man dropped to his knees, groping around in the slush for them. But soon the good Dr. gave up and started hurling blindly at anyone in range of his short arms. One of his snowballs hit Sheriff Austin Peale who was lurking around the corner of the general store, and soon he too was busy pelting stray cowboys, Mosby men, and anyone else who hadn’t offered him a bribe recently.
Peering out from behind the wagon, Call was surprised to see Unbob loading his latest whirligig with snowballs. Soon he was firing them off with the speed of a Gatling gun. Call decided that he had better have a talk with the simple man. Luther’s practical joking was starting to rub off on him. As a matter of fact, Call decided he’d better be having a talk with Luther as well. He was out of control. Kersplat! Call ducked his head back down behind the wagon as one of Austin’s snowballs narrowly missed its mark.
Things were going from bad to worse. At one point, Clay feared for the safety of the windows in the Ambrosia Club, as the building was taking many direct hits. He stood up to protest. “Now see here!” Splat! Splat! He had to dive back behind the wagon as a barrage of snowballs pelted his regal personage. With renewed vigor, he rejoined Call in the battle.
Just when it looked as if things were never going to settle down, Call decided to call a halt. Stepping out from behind the wagon, he made the safe sign with a broad sweeping motion of his arms. “That’s enough!” he called out. A couple more snowballs hit him, (brave souls), and then there was silence followed by bursts of laughter. Everyone ventured out and began to shake hands with their fellow citizens.
Well, a lot of pent-up frustrations had been taken out that day — old grudges settled without any bloodshed, though Dr. Cleese never did find his spectacles, and the wash on the line back of Twyla’s had to be completely redone. But it was a small price to pay for the good will people felt toward their neighbors. Amanda invited everyone to come to the Dove for hot chocolate.
In hotel dining room, Clay sidled up to Call. “I think I handled that rather well,” he drawled over his steaming cup.
“Don’t give your self calluses, patting yourself on the back, Clay,” Call replied coolly.
“Well, I suppose I have to give you some of the credit, Call. After all, you’ve got a pretty good arm — all that lassoin’ cows when you were Newt, I expect.”
“I expect,” was Call’s terse reply.
Just then Luther and Unbob joined them.
“Did you see how fast my whirligig fired snowballs, Call? Did you see it?” Unbob asked excitedly.
“Perhaps your invention could be put to better use, Unbob,” Mosby admonished him. “You nearly put Carson’s eye out today. The last thing I need is a one-eyed bartender.”
“What’s the matter, Mosby, afraid he might accidentally serve up some of the good stuff instead of that watered-down rotgut you peddle”? was Call’s helpful comment. Then he smirked.
“Very funny, Call. No. I was merely observin’ that Unbob could put his talents to better use. One jokester in this town is quite enough,” Clay finished, giving Luther a disapproving look.
“Aw, let him alone, Mosby; we was just havin’ us a little fun, is all. Things was too quiet around here.” Luther slapped Clay on the back, causing him to choke on his hot chocolate. He turned to the bounty hunter. “I don’t know about you, Call, but I could use a drink. Come on. I’m buyin.”
The stage driver put his arm across Call’s shoulders and said conspiratorially in his ear, “I just saw Austin go into the outhouse. What say you and me make a few more snowballs—keep him in there for a spell?”
Call sighed. It was going to be a long winter.
The End
3/2004
