by John Babb
He came to a rough log bridge that covered a shallow, clear spring that ran off to the south. Waiting in line for his horse to get a drink, a man on a snow-white mule behind him said, “Where ye fer, Californy er Oregon?”
“I’m headed for California, and I’m looking for my pa. He probably got here a few days ago—you wouldn’t know a man named Daniel Windes would you?”
The man was dressed in buckskins, had a bowie knife at least a foot and a half long stuffed into his belt, and wore a big revolver tied high on his right leg. He was extremely red-faced. It was hard to tell if he was just sun-burned or if that was his usual color. “Don’t believe I know yore pa. Reckon it’s alright to water yore horse here at Spring Branch, but if I was you, I wouldn’t drink here myself. Bunch of people got sick off this here spring after they put a stable upstream on the next street, above Mistuh Purdom’s house.”
“Fact is, last summer they say about fifty people died of the cholera here in West Port. They’re all buried about a half mile north of here. Don’t know that it was this here spring—I was out on the Trail at the time—but some mornin’s they’s a downright brownish cast to that water. I either do my drinkin’ up above that stable or at one of them grog shops. I don’t want no water with shite in it.”
B. F. grinned. “Thank you for the advice, sir. I’ll be sure I do the same.”
“Name’s Delbert Coggins. Most call me Del. What’s your name, boy?”
“Name’s B. F. Windes, Mister Coggins.”
“Not Mister—just Del. Say, you had that hoss long?”
“Only a few days. I got him over in Lexington when I got off a steamboat.”
“A steamboat? Some of these days I swear I’m gonna take a ride on one of them, no matter how much racket they make. Seems like I never gone anywhere ’cept sittin’ on my backside on old Bony here.” He patted his mule. “Has anybody told you that yore hoss ain’t likely to make it crossin’ the Trail?”
“What do you mean? He seems healthy enough. And he’s easy to ride.”
“Once you get in the high country, hosses don’t do too good. They get colicky on what grass there is, and there just ain’t anythin’ else to eat. Hosses gen’ly give out some wheres in that fourth month out. And if you expect mules to pull one of them big Conestogas, they give out too about the time ye start askin’ them to climb the big mountains. Mules can make it if ye just ride them, but a purty good number of ’em cain’t pull them wagons to Oregon. Your best bet is a couple o’ braces of oxen—between three and five year old, and built sorta thickset.”
“Sounds like you’ve been out there before,” B. F. said.
“I been across and back four times. I seen maybe a dozen hosses make it, outa thirty or forty what started. Probably the ones that make it without no problem is Injun ponies. Them animals could get by with eatin’ dirt and drinkin’ mud. If I was you, I’d sell that hoss to some feller that lives here, or maybe somebody goin’ to Santa Fe. Headin’ down south don’t seem to be near as hard on hosses. If you aim to ride, you’re gonna need a mule.”
“I sure hate to give up this pony, but I don’t want him dying on me either. Do you suppose I can make a trade?”
“Shore. But you gonna need at least four or five dollars boot. Where you figure on settin’ up camp? I’m east of here about a half mile, just on the far edge of Tent City. They’s maybe ten of us out there. Plenty of room for you if ye like.”
He couldn’t hide the relief on his face. “Thanks, Del. It’s been a long day, and I do need a place to sleep.”
“Looks to be a clear night, so you oughta stay dry. We’re just sleepin’ on the ground. Ain’t no cover out there to speak of, save folks sleepin’ in their wagons.”
The sun was far gone as they rode back along the Trail and out of the crowded town. Within five minutes, Del turned south toward a lone campfire and B. F. followed. He realized he knew nothing about this man, let alone his friends, but he also acknowledged that there were few options available that didn’t involve having to trust people he didn’t know. For the second time in two days he wished he and his horse could just become invisible while it was dark. And for at least the tenth time in the last month, he wished he was brave.
Del dismounted and walked his horse into the firelight. “Evenin’ fellers. Say howdo to my friend B. F.”
B. F. couldn’t really make out faces in the dark, but all said their howdies. He tried not to reveal to them what a novice he was by limping when he got off his horse and walked the animal over to where Del led his mule. He hobbled the pony and began struggling with his saddle. He wasn’t having much luck when a slightly built man grabbed the saddle and lifted it easily to the ground. “Thanks, Mister. I wasn’t getting anywhere.”
“Me name’s Patrick Dowd. These uncivilized divils refer to me as Saint Patrick. Now mind you, I don’t hold with makin’ fun of the greatest saint in the history of Ireland. ’Tis Paddy I prefer meself.”
“Thank you Paddy. My aunt married a man from Ireland back in Indiana—a Sean Finnerty. I don’t suppose you’d know him?”
“Might he be a short, ugly man?”
“Why yes, he is. So you know him?”
“Never heard of him.” He clapped his hands together and laughed out loud as he walked back to the fire. B. F. searched his bag and retrieved one of Gertie’s biscuits. Could it have just been this morning when he met her? He ate it quickly before walking into the glow of the fire, as he had too little to share with the others, Five or six of them were saddling their mules. A voice in the dark said, “We’re headin’ in town to get a supper and some liquid fortification. Comin’ with us, Saint Patrick?”
Paddy leaned toward the horsemen and gave an exaggerated sniff. “Might I suggest to ye, Nathan Allen, ye rude little Scot, that ye keep yer distance from that red-haired Minnie Quick over at the Bottom’s Up Saloon. Ye know perfectly well that black-hearted card cheat is her beau—and he might catch a whiff of all that bay rum ye’ve drowned yerself in, let alone you tryin’ to wiggle yer little trouser schnauzer at his lady friend.”
“Now don’t get yer knickers in a knot. There ain’t no crime in smellin’ good, insteada resemblin’ horse sweat, like some people I know. Would you care to bet the farm on my chances with Miss Minnie?”
“I’ll not even wager the outhouse on you gettin’ through the evenin’ without the undertaker fitting you for your own private pine box!” He nodded toward the five of them. “Just remember, if ye start something in that place, there’ll be lots of hair and eyeballs scattered around the floor—probably belongin’ to the bunch of you ne’er-do-wells.”
“Well, ain’t none of us gonna leave this world alive.”
Paddy turned his head and winked in B. F.’s direction. “I suppose not, but I’d just as soon not leave it tonight.”
B. F. slept with his head on his traveling bag, feet on his saddle, and his blanket pulled over him. As much as he would have liked to take them off, he kept his boots on all night—he just didn’t know these men.
My story. On April 3 year of 1849
I never expected to acquaint myself with the likes of such folk on this journey and will tell Pa of their ways when we meet. I do not recollect such learning in school as I have had on the trip to West Port. I dare not tell him all for he might send me back home where I would not find comfort. Except I do so miss Abbie’s biscuits and gravy and find myself sorely hungry more often than not.
As I travel these miles I have many hours to reflect upon my new life and have now taken a new name, B. F. Windes. The old Ben Windes is left behind forever and I feel different somehow—older—not just a boy anymore.
He was surprised that morning to find that only Del and Paddy were there, and Del was still in his bed roll. Paddy was kneeling over the fire, but the other men were nowhere to be seen. Either the fun in town had lasted all night long, or Paddy’s prediction had come true.
B. F. was hoping to be offered some of the bacon he could smell that was
starting to come to life in a skillet. He realized he had not had a meal since he bought one from the Negro cook a couple of days before. “How are you this morning, Paddy?”
“It’s always a good day when I wake up on the top side of the grass, lad.” He couldn’t help but notice the hungry look on the boy’s face. “You got a cup?” Paddy asked.
“Yes sir, I do.”
“Come drink some of this coffee just to be certain it’s safe for Paddy Dowd’s consumption.” He poured into B. F.’s bowl.
The smell of the bacon was overpowering. B. F. couldn’t stand it. “Paddy, I’d like to make you a trade. I’ll trade you a sure enough hair cut for some of that bacon.”
Paddy stroked the wild thatch of hair on his head. “I don’t know as I need a haircut. I had one in Oregon just last September.” He hesitated for a minute. “But you got yourself a deal. Just be careful with them nippers, as the ladies do like me hair.”
Both of them were pleased with their agreement. B. F. received four thick slices of bacon and a second dose of coffee, while Paddy was having a hard time letting loose of the mirror, just making sure he had admired his new haircut from every conceivable angle. When Del woke up, he didn’t recognize the Irishman until he spoke a few words in his lilting voice. It was only then that he would accept that the new face belonged to Paddy. Once Del realized their new friend had a real skill, he asked for a haircut as well.
B. F. obliged, but when Del offered to pay, he waved him off. “If you’ll let me bunk with you for a few more nights, there’s no charge.”
Del had an idea. “If you’re willin’ to cut hair on some wild characters, you oughta ride over to the edge of Shawnee land about a mile west of town. Men comin’ in from Santa Fe generally stop out yonder to spruce up a bit in the crick afore they get to town. They’d be wild as a buck Indian, but you could get mebbe fifty cents for a haircut.”
“You said Shawnee Land.” He tried to ask his question in a calm manner. “Are there likely to be Indians out there?”
“When you get to OK Crick, that’s the western border of the United States. Everthin’ the other side is the Injun Territory, and the Shawnee has the first of it. The law won’t allow no white people to live west of OK Crick. Cain’t be no towns or anythin’ civilized out there except Army forts and trading posts. So when you hear West Port is a jumpin’ off place, that’s the cold truth. Course it ain’t the Injuns ye hafta look out for around here.”
Paddy helped B. F. with his horse. They shook hands all around, and B. F. headed to town to look for his pa. The proposal to cut hair appealed to him. He certainly needed extra money, but he hated the vulnerable way he felt when everybody knew he had money. He passed by the vineyard again and then rode into a pandemonium of incessant banging from blacksmith, farrier, wheelwright, and carpenter hammers on either side of the road as he entered the business center of West Port. Signs out front proclaimed Wagons Ready for the Trail, Oxen and Mules Shod, and Wagons Repaired.
B. F. heard a loud scream from a building next to a saloon. He looked at several people on the street, but they had either not heard the terrible sound or were just indifferent to it. But as he looked closer, there was an explanation printed on a sign in the window.
Joseph Halifax, Painless Dentist
Last Dental Surgeon twixt here and the Pacific Ocean
Don’t go west without a good set of teeth
Looks and feels like the real thing
Guaranteed to please
Upon reaching Walnut Street, he was stopped by a line of bigger wagons coming up from the river at West Port Landing and then turning to the west on Main Street. It appeared to B. F. that there were no families in this train, but rather each wagon was only manned by what seemed to be a professional teamster. He gathered that this was a freight outfit engaged in moving supplies and gear to Santa Fe, as each wagon was uniformly outfitted and pulled by four pairs of big mules.
If a team hesitated, they were immediately rewarded with the crack of a braided whip over their backs. The teamsters had no sympathy for dawdling animals, as they only made money when freight was moving. There was no doubt these men were experienced in the ways of draft animals. Likewise, they all were ready for anything else that might come their way. All wore at least one pistol at their waist, and most had a rifle beside them on the seat. Moving along with them were five men on horseback. One was obviously the Trail Boss, as all gave deference to his commands. The others were likely scouts and hunters—always necessary for the safety and well being of the train. Forty wagons and maybe ninety guns—probably more fire power than a full cavalry troop.
As the train moved off to the west, his attention was drawn to loud conversation from a gathering group of men on the north side of the road between Cross and Water Streets. B. F. rode closer to see if he could spot his pa in the crowd. The discussion seemed to be focused on when they could depart on the Trail. As B. F. crowded nearer, he was surprised to see Del Coggins stand stiff-legged in the stirrups on his white mule in the front of the group and speak. “It’s just the third of April. There ain’t no good reason to leave afore April ten.”
A skinny man that had the look of a storekeeper about him spoke up. “What makes you say that, Mister? The weather is mild. We want to be the first train out of here this spring.” Plenty of others joined in with agreement.
“There’s sure enough good reason to be one of the first trains. But if you start now, you’ll be sittin’ on the south bank of the Kaw River for at least a week, waitin’ on low water after that rain two nights ago. Ain’t no wagon master worth his pay gonna head to Oregon afore the tenth. That train what just left here is headed for Santa Fe. They need to leave early, because by July they cain’t hardly find no water atall where they’re goin.”
The storekeeper again. “So what do you know about the Trail?”
“I been out and back four times on that there ‘Great American Desert.’ Three of them I was master. If you go now, you’ll just sit out there and eat up yore vittles, waitin’ on low water. Besides, the grass ain’t started growin’ good enough yet for yer animals to pasture. A good rule to go by is to wait ’til grass is four inches high afore ye head west.”
Another man spoke up from the crowd. B. F. realized it was Paddy. “Ya sound like an experienced mon to me. I’ve been lookin’ for a good mon for a week, and it’s little success I’ve had. How much would ye be chargin’ to lead a train, sir?”
“Pickin’ a master is serious business. Ye need to be sure ye pick a good one.”
The storekeeper again. “Some of us are bound for California, and others are going to Oregon. What happens when we split?”
“I’d lead a train to Oregon. Them that’s headed to Californy can hire a guide at Fort Hall. That’s where the trails go their separate ways.”
“Are you a drunkard sir? We can’t have no drunkard leading us.”
“I take a drink—but I ain’t no drunkard.”
“How much do you charge?”
“The goin’ rate is twenty dollars a wagon or ten dollars for a single man. I expect cash money the mornin’ we leave. Every man, woman, and child needs a hunert pounds of flour, fifty pounds of bacon, five pounds of salt, twenty pounds of meal, ten pounds of coffee, and sugar if you got a taste for it. Don’t figure on bummin’ food off yer neighbor. Pay yer own way or stay right here. Fill yer water barrel outa the spring yonder, but fill it up above that new stable. Don’t want nobody sick the first day out. Oh yeah, If yer wagon breaks down, the train don’t wait for ye.
“Remember, the train I master leaves here at sunup, the mornin’ of April ten. If ye don’t like them rules, find another feller what’s been across that desert and them mountains as much as I have.”
Del stood taller in the stirrups and looked out across the crowd. “Who’ll be goin’ with me?”
The first man made a show of stepping forward—it was Paddy—“’Tis a lovely trip we’ll be havin’, I’ll wager.” He was quickly joined
by three others, and within five minutes, almost the entire group was confirming their participation in his train. At one point, Del looked over in his direction. B. F. pointed at his chest and nodded his head. Del smiled. He was signed up for the Trail!
Remembering his conversation with Del at the spring, B. F. turned north up Water Street to see what kind of market there might be for his pony. He passed a blacksmith’s forge that appeared to be devoted entirely to the wheelwright trade, as there were at least a hundred iron-rimmed wagon wheels stacked out front. Conveniently, a ready-made customer, a wagon manufacturing operation, was situated immediately across the street.
Sure enough, there was a corral and stables behind the McCoy Trading Post and passing directly down the hill below was the Spring Branch. It was pretty easy to see why the water “had a brown tinge to it” some mornings.
Tying his pony to the hitching rail, B. F. entered the store, noticing the place was packed with would-be travelers. There was a large, hand-lettered sign occupying one wall, which he studied intently.
SUPPLY LIST FOR THE TRAIL
All Sold Here at McCoy’s
Wagon Canvas Oxen or Mules
Ox-Yoke Ox shoes Axle Grease 10 pounds
Harness Water Barrel Tarpaulin
Scrub Board Iron Pot Iron Skillet
Dish Pan Looking Glass Knife/Fork
Canteens (2) Stout Knife Rifle
Gun Powder Bullet Mold Powder Horn
Lead 8 pounds Boots or Brogans Tin Dishes