by Stan Himes
“You’ll do what you’re told!” bellowed Ruth, her natural inclination toward Pearl overriding the short-lived peace.
“Now don’t start!” Mary took a moment and surveyed us all. It was clear her mind was working, but it hadn’t landed on a decision yet. “Any other thoughts?”
Ernestine raised her hand like Prudence always did, but she didn’t wait to be called on. “I promised my grandfather I wouldn’t get killed.”
I said, “I think we’re all in favor of you keeping that promise.”
Mary mulled again, not looking at any of us but knowing that we were staring at her. She had become a trusted leader. We would follow her orders, whatever they were. It still wasn’t her way, though, to just bark out orders. Still thinking, still mulling, her frustration showed as she kicked the dirt.
“Going back means losin’ the ranch.”
“Jonas’d rather have you and Katie than the ranch,” said Ruth. “You know that.”
Mary again gazed at the trail ahead. “Comin’ this far just to go back don’t sit well with me.”
“Me neither,” said Katie. I’m sure her mind was on saving the ranch, but I’m also sure at least a piece of it knew that going back wouldn’t get her closer to Parker.
“We’ve been through too much to turn tail and run,” Mary continued. “Even heading back, they might catch us anyway.”
Prudence didn’t raise her hand, but she did her usual fine job of laying out the situation. “If we can’t go forward without getting gunned down or worse, and going backward flat out stinks, what do we do?”
Enough mulling. Mary turned to Clean Through. “How far to the Chisolm?”
At the unexpected question, Clean Through’s eyebrows nearly leaped off his forehead. “Ain’t close, that’s for sure.”
“We head due east, we’ll hit it?”
“Sure. Miles of hard ground and scrub brush between here and there. Can angle up northeast and save a little time. But Abilene is still a long way off.”
“We don’t have to get to Abilene. Parker said the railroad goes through Newton now.” Despite the tense situation, Katie’s lips curled up at the sound of Parker’s name. They weren’t married or officially betrothed, but her man was already helping. Mary stood tall with the strength of her decision. “Cattle’ll sell as good in Newton as they will in Dodge. So we’re goin’ east. I said before that you were either in all the way or out. Given the new terms, I’m openin’ that up again. We’re in for harder times than we’ve known, so if you ain’t up for it, I won’t think less of you for turnin’ around. But do it now.”
I wish I could turn this into a big dramatic moment with all sorts of life-changing decisions being weighed and debated, but Katie and Pearl stepped forward at once. Sally and I didn’t hesitate—we just weren’t as quick as Katie and Pearl. Ernestine stepped up as well, followed right away by Prudence. All eyes were now on Ruth.
“Do I really have to take a step forward? You know I’m still hopin’ to shoot a few men.”
Mary turned to Clean Through, who nodded his affirmation. “I follow my trail boss.”
“Then let’s stop talkin’ and start movin’. I want as much distance as we can between us and those men.”
She didn’t need to tell us twice. We hopped onto our horses and moved in position to turn the herd. Mary mounted her horse as well, but Clean Through stopped her before she rode off. “There’s still enough wet ground from the rain that we’ll be leavin’ a clear trail.”
“I know. Have to hope they don’t come lookin’ for it.”
“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!!!!!!!!!!”
Ernestine’s ability to frighten the herd in any direction was a blessing. Turning the cattle off of the trail and into the brush, however, was a definite turn for the worse. Now that we wanted to drive the herd at a fast pace, unconcerned about how much meat we ran off of them, it was impossible to move quickly through this uncleared land. If there had only been the leafy dogwood trees—their spring flowering long past—moving around wouldn’t have proven so difficult since their branches tend to be high up. But add in the eastern red cedar, which is sort of like an evergreen that’s chest-high on a cow, other scattered trees and brush and vines, thick grass that hadn’t been trampled or eaten by other herds, and the general muck and mud from the earlier rain, and, well, let’s just say that our trailblazing did not include blazing speed. I instantly missed the clearing of the trail with its deep green grass, open space and clear view. Once off the proven trail, the going was tough.
“Oh, my throat.” The tail end of a breeze brought Ernestine’s complaint my way. Her hollers to keep the herd in constant motion had become fainter and less frequent. Sally, Ruth and Pearl whooped and bellowed to fill the gap, but it was a true chore to push the herd. Every time we came upon a tree, which was pretty much all the time, the cattle would split up to go around it on each side.
“One Uncle Angus is enough!” I shouted at a group that sheared off. It took both Prudence and me to drive them back. All of us forced the herd together as tight as possible. It was tiring for the horses, and the long, pointed horns on the cattle meant we had to stay on constant alert.
Still, we kept moving. There were no thoughts of an early camp. We all knew distance was our best ally.
I became a true believer in workpants during that leg of the journey. From the pine branches that scraped across me to the mosquitoes we stirred up to thorns on the brush to the dangers of horns from being so close to the cattle, I could easily have become a bloodied mess. Those blue pants of ours had lost considerable color due to the constant wear, work and storms, but they had lost none of their toughness. From the waist up, I was battered and stung, but at least my bottom half was protected.
While the physical work was hard on Ruth, Sally, Prudence and me, the others had far more weighing on them. Clean Through didn’t dare take time to blink, staying alert for holes and fallen trees and numerous other obstacles that disagreed with the chuckwagon’s right to forward motion. The high wheels helped the chuckwagon pass above most of the brush, but it wasn’t built for use on uncleared land. He drove it with the reins tight in his hands, directing the mules this way and that, his shoulders tightening from the non-stop duress. “Oomph!” was a common refrain as he felt every rut and bump, but he kept that wagon going. If his hair hadn’t already been gray, the effort he was making would have done the job.
Ernestine snapped her head around to look back, counted to ten, then looked forward again. Then Pearl did a version of the same. Despite Ernestine’s voice growing weak, Pearl could still hear her counting, “One, two, three…” and had begun her own series of look-backs whenever Ernestine reached five. Being at the back of the herd, they felt compelled to watch behind them for the onslaught of rustlers, killers and women-stealers that could arrive at any moment. The rumble of the cattle, breaking branches, snapping brush, hollering women and more meant they would never hear a gang approaching. So their necks received no shortage of exercise, turning from front to back more often than the swivel wheels on my father’s fancy desk chair.
Katie rode Pitch and the remuda followed Pitch. How a horse can hold such power over other horses is beyond my knowledge, but whether you call it nature or personality or animal magnetism or just plain luck, Pitch had it. If Katie moved Pitch left, all the horses went left. Same for going right. I think if Katie could have sent Pitch up a tree that the others would have climbed right along without so much as a snort.
Despite the advantage that Pitch gave Katie, she kept twitching her shoulders and jerking her head this way and that. Her wide blue eyes seared into every shadow, sure that a gaggle of marauders hid behind each tree, that bands of unfriendly Indians angry that we turned east to head deeper into Cherokee country crouched low in back of every rise. Like Pearl and Ernestine, she snapped her head around often expecting gangs of outlaws to come swarming from behind, though all she saw were horses, cattle and dust. Maneuvering past a small grove of red cedars,
the branches were like bandit’s arms reaching out to snatch her. The third time a branch brushed her and she clenched in the saddle, Pitch turned his head back. More than likely he was reacting to a sound, but she took it as a scolding to settle down.
“Sorry.”
She squared her shoulders and told herself to calm down and stop letting her mind race with the many, many ways her mother’s plan could go awry. She swore at her fears and then swore that she would fall victim to them no more. She knew she had her mother’s tendency to worry, but she also had her mother’s resolve and her father’s strength, and she pulled them to the surface, pushing her qualms deep down inside where she hoped they would stay forever. She had no time for such distractions, and she gained nothing by them. Keep your mind on your duties, she thought. And remember why you’re out here. To save the ranch. To be ready for a future with Parker. Above all else, to help her mother keep everyone alive.
Mary did not have the luxury of burying her worries. Lives depended on her and she questioned her ability to protect them. In fact, she questioned everything. We were racing through the terrain, relatively speaking due to the muck and brush and trees, but nowhere near as fast as her mind was racing. Had she made the right decision to turn east off the trail? After all, Jonas had said they’d likely face bandits, then Indians, and then rustlers. They’d survived a rough-go with the bandits and had met only friendly Cherokees. Maybe they should have faced the rustlers head on. That’s what Jonas would have done. But, she reminded herself, she wasn’t Jonas and the group of women were friends, not hired guns. But avoiding the fight irritated her as a cowardly act. But she didn’t know how many rustlers awaited them. But heading east to the Chisolm would take days, probably longer. But… every sentence in her mind started with a but. No, she thought, the decision has been made and we’ll all just have to make the best of it. She couldn’t stop the worries, but she wouldn’t let them rule her. She wiggled on her saddle to straighten up her posture and ride tall. There were at least two hours of daylight left and she planned to use every second.
She motioned to Clean Through to keep moving forward, and he acknowledged with a nod. He understood the situation. Then she circled over to Katie. “Keep ’em moving. We don’t stop until nightfall.” Like Clean Through, Katie gave a nod of understanding. She thought Pitch might have nodded as well, but perhaps she was starting to give the stallion too much credit.
Mary continued back, telling me, then Prudence, then Ernestine of the plan to ride until it was too dark to go farther. The decisiveness and encouragement in her voice belied her inner struggle with her confidence. We fed off it and grew more confident ourselves.
After talking with Ernestine and before moving over to Pearl, Mary took a moment to glance back at where we’d been. The almost straight line of trampled brush, broken limbs and muddy soil imprinted with thousands of hoof prints gave her a moment of pride—we had performed with great skill to keep the herd moving in so direct a course under these conditions. Yet we also left a trail that couldn’t be missed by rustlers even if they were blindfolded and asleep. Knowing there wasn’t a thing she could do about it, Mary let it go and rode on to Pearl, then Sally, and then Ruth. The message was always the same. Keep moving.
We did indeed push the herd until dark and then some. Had there been a full moon, Mary might have kept us going even farther. I’ll tell you something about cattle that I didn’t know. They can trot a long way. There isn’t a lick of athletic grace in a cow from any angle, but there sure is lung power. Whether it was Ernestine’s squeals or they could sense the danger we felt, I don’t know. But they kept moving until we said stop. Being every bit as exhausted as we were, they came to a fast stop and we had little fear of them wandering off. A few laid down to rest, but most stood in place and reached for whatever grass they could find to nibble on.
With the herd needing little attention, we made a fast camp. Clean Through made a small fire for coffee, then snuffed it out with dirt to limit the smoke. Dinner was cold beans and day-old biscuits and some jerky, and we were glad to have it. Clean Through had always been such a miracle worker that I half expected him to pull out a pie. Had a long-burning fire been available, though, I still doubt he would have been baking that night. After driving the chuckwagon around hazards all day, his arms had to be aching. Probably his backside, too. Mine was.
The last cup of coffee Clean Through handed out was to Mary, and then he sat down on the ground beside her to rest. Tired and drawn, Mary welcomed the chance to share her thoughts with a veteran of the trail. “Runnin’ meat off the herd, but at least we’ve made some distance.”
“We can fatten ’em up later. All we can do now is keep makin’ ground.”
“Do you think this has a chance of working?”
“Everything has a chance.”
“I mean it. Don’t dance around. Do we have a chance? Did I make the right decision?”
Clean Through took a sip of coffee and rubbed his whiskers. “It’s a lot like believin’ in God.”
Mary knitted her eyebrows. “How’s that?”
“Well, you know, you have faith in God, but you don’t know if the faith is justified until you die and see if there’s another life. If there is, then you made a good decision in believin’ in God.”
Mary’s confused face brightened to a wry smile. “So we won’t know if it was a good decision until we know if it works.”
Clean Through smiled back. “Life. Trail ridin’. Anything. It wouldn’t be an adventure if we knew all the answers.”
“I sure wouldn’t mind knowing how this’ll pan out.”
They sipped their coffee in silence, each staring into the darkness that loomed all around. At last, Mary spoke what was on both of their minds. “They’ll come, won’t they?”
“Lazy men smellin’ easy money. Yep, they’ll come.”
Chapter 20
As I’ve mentioned enough times to likely be annoying, I’m doing all I can to maintain honesty and accuracy throughout this book. In that spirit, let me make it clear that this next section is pure guesswork. From what I’ve pieced together, the gang of men waiting for us on the Western Trail included Sean, Brute and six others. But none of us were there, of course, so please keep in mind that the following conversation and any subsequent writing about these men at times when witnesses weren’t present is my best guess at what may have been taking place at the time.
Here, then, is my approximation of what the rustlers may have been experiencing the morning after we turned off of the trail. I’ll try not to make it overly dramatic, but I must admit I’m a bit excited about the prospect of making something up.
They were about 20 miles south of Dodge City. Six of the men were spread out, three on each side of the trail, hiding behind trees or rocks or shrubs. Though not expecting us quite yet, they kept their eyes on the trail as anyone could be on it at any time. Rustlers prefer to surprise others rather than be surprised themselves.
Like most ruthless leaders, Sean stayed behind the men where it was safer. He sat lazily behind a large rock, chewing on jerky, his gun and horse handy should he get word that we were near. By his calculations, based on the information from Dusty, it should be a day, probably two, before our herd came over the ridge. Having already stolen two herds in the past six weeks, he was confident in his ability to judge the distances and travel time.
Brute was less confident, or at least less patient. He lumbered up behind Sean, his spacious shadow arriving well before him. “Shoulda seen ’em by now.”
“Patience, Brute. We’re waitin’ on women and cattle, and neither take kindly to bein’ hurried.”
Scowling, Brute took a long draw on his cigarette and blew the smoke out through his nose like a mythical dragon. “I ain’t sittin’ and waitin’ no more. Gonna go see how close they are.” He turned away, not waiting for a reply.
“Don’t let them see you.”
“I’ll get behind a tree.”
“Make sure it’
s a big tree,” Sean muttered to himself.
Parker had completed his delivery in Caldwell and, having no idea that we were heading east, was heading west toward Dodge City. But before you think that he was going to ride into our group by accident and save the day, picture that awful map I drew. He was well north of us, riding easy, smiling at the thought of meeting up with Katie again.
It was his intention to meet us in Dodge City and carry out an idea he was quite proud of. Since he wasn’t able to meet directly with Katie’s father but was anxious to move forward with the courtship, upon arriving in Dodge he would send a wire to Jonas declaring his intentions. It wasn’t the same as meeting the man and offering a firm handshake, but it would, he felt, add a layer of honor that the man should and would respect. (And, he thought with a broader smile, it would make him even grander in Katie’s eyes, and that could only be a good thing.) What he didn’t know, of course, is that a wire could sit in a basket at Edward’s store for weeks or who knows how long. Jonas could be a grandfather three times over before learning that his daughter was being courted.
He composed the telegram as he rode, whispering it to himself to see how it sounded. “‘Mr. Bartlett’… no, ‘Sir. Mr. Bartlett Sir’… Huh uh… Just ‘Mr. Bartlett. I wish I could meet you in person to share my intention of courting your beautiful’… no, ‘wonderful, daughter, Katie. Stop. However, please know that my intentions are honorable. Stop.’” He etched in his mind the importance of using the word honorable. “‘I have met your wife and she looked kindly upon my prospects’… No, that’s odd-sounding… ‘I am part owner of a horse ranch and your wife agrees that my prospects are good.’ That’s better. ‘I love Katie, sir,’ … Yes, that’s when to use sir. ‘and she loves me. Stop. I will be a good husband to her if she will have me. Stop. I hope to meet you soon to show you I am worthy. Stop.’ That’s a good ending. That’s all I need right there.”