The Abilene Trail

by Dusty Richards

  “Reckon he was trampled?”

  “No, him and the horses aren’t in sight. Maybe I can find some sign of them. The horses weren’t with the steers.”

  “I’ll try to get some supper fixed,” Hap said with a sigh.

  “Do that. Part of them will be coming in when they get them settled out there.”

  “I can see one thing, Ben.”

  “What’s that?”

  “This cattle-driving business sure ain’t for the faint of heart.”

  Ben agreed. Where was his celestial?

  Chapter 18

  The horse tracks were easy for Ben to follow once he cleared the cloven-hoofed ones of the herd. In the last of the day’s light, with the sun firing the tops of the eastward-bound clouds, he short-loped the roan northward. The horses had broken to the north while the steers went west.

  It would be too dark for him to even read track in thirty minutes. The moon wouldn’t be up for an hour, but if Lou Song was after the remuda, maybe he had halted them already somewhere ahead and was trying to get back.

  Ben kept pushing, the trampled grass and prints obvious, as some even cupped rain water. There was no way to ever get to Kansas without his horses. They couldn’t handle the longhorns on foot. He’d heard stories of outfits who had lost their remuda to Indian raids and were forced to buy more horses to proceed.

  Ben let Roan walk. The moon rose and he felt he was still on the track. Hours passed, and he hoped Chip and Mark had made some good decisions on the night-herding chores. Between them and Hap he felt satisfied the matters in camp were handled. How far had the horses run?

  He paused on a high place and listened. A horse whined, then another. There was timber in the swale under him. Must be a stream down there. Soon the sharpness of woodsmoke came on the wind, and he wondered if Lou had built a fire.

  Ben rode farther west, parallel to the valley, and saw the fire’s light. Something made the hair on the back of his neck stand up and itch. No way that boy would have made such a blaze. He felt for the Colt on his hip. Satisfied the handgun was there, he booted Roan downhill. The cool wind drew goose bumps on his arms.

  He could hear men’s voices in the night, and saw the fire’s glow dancing off a canvas shelter erected in the trees.

  When he was close enough, he shouted, “Hello, the camp.”

  “Hello, yourself,” someone answered. “Come on in.”

  Wary of everything around him, he recalled the words of advice from another drover who’d been to Baxter Springs, Kansas, the year before: The Injuns can be bad up there, but the white men in the Nation are a real desperate lot.

  “Howdy stranger,” a man wearing a stovepipe hat said, and came from the direction of the fire. “You’re out kinda late, ain’t ya?”

  “I’m looking for my horse wrangler and horses.”

  “Guess you came to the wrong place for that. Me and the guys ain’t seen ’em.”

  Ben stopped before entering the light of the fire. Right off, he didn’t trust the man behind the beard facing him, holding on to the sides of his coat. His words didn’t ring true.

  “When the storm came, it spooked my horses. Lou Song is a short Chinese boy, about this high.” He held out his hand to show the boy’s height.

  “Ain’t seen no Chinaman. No horses but our own. We got some barley coffee; you want some?”

  Ben felt undecided. He could see several men lounging around the fire. They looked tough enough. By himself he would have lots to handle if things got out of hand. If he thought they’d done anything to that boy he’d handle them. At the moment he thought the leader knew more than he was saying.

  “Name’s Graham. Udal Graham.”

  “McCollough’s mine.”

  “Mr. McCollough, you must have a big herd of cattle.” Graham led him like a Judas goat toward the firelight.

  “Big enough,” Ben said, keeping his wits about him.

  “I mean if you have a herd of horses. You must have bunch of cowboys.”

  “Several.”

  “Boys, this here is Mr. McCollough. He’s lost his horses.”

  The men were seated on the ground, some in leather; others wore parts of uniforms. They laughed at Graham’s words.

  “Man loses his horses up here in the Nation, he might never find them,” said a hard-looking man in his thirties wearing an eye patch, sitting cross-legged.

  There were six men around the fire, plus Graham who was pouring some steaming coffee in a cup for Ben. “Here.”

  Two of them looked like breeds, besides One-eye and another with a thin, patchy blond beard, who Ben guessed was under twenty years old. The others were older, probably war vets.

  “About my horses,” Ben said, taking the cup in his left hand with a nod for thanks. “I intend to get them back.”

  His words drew more laughter that only grated him. Ben noticed Graham wore a small revolver in his waist band, probably a .30-caliber handgun. One-eye had a rifle leaned against a crate close by. White Beard dressed in buckskin with fringe wore a cross-draw holster with a large Walker Colt in the center of his stomach as he sat cross-legged in the fire’s light.

  “McCollough here says he lost a Chinaman,” Graham said to the others. “I ain’t never worried none about losing a damn chink. Have any of you boys?”

  His question drew more laughter.

  “That’s fine,” Ben said. “If anything’s happened to my horse wrangler, there’ll be hell to pay.”

  “Oh, Mr McCollough, we ain’t done nothing with your—”

  Ben tossed the cup’s hot contents in Graham’s’ face. He dropped the cup as the man screamed, jerked him around by the lapel of his coat to use him as a shield, and drove the muzzle of his Navy .44 into the man’s lower belly.

  “Don’t move or I’ll blow daylight through his guts,” he ordered.

  “You’ll never get away with this,” Graham whined.

  “I may not, but you’ll be with me, ’cause I’m writing your ticket to hell, mister!”

  “Do as he says,” Graham said over his shoulder.

  Ben jerked the short gun out and stuck it in his waistband; then he roughly whirled Graham around to face them. “Now, what did you do with my boy?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Your memory need a few knots on your head?” Ben said in his ear.

  Hell broke lose. The breed on the left rolled sideways and Ben had to shove Graham aside to shoot at him. The second one drew a knife, and Ben shot One-eye in the side reaching for his rifle. In the gunsmoke and confusion, Graham screamed, and the breed’s knife was sticking in his shoulder when Ben tried to survey the gang members in the fog of black powder.

  “Don’t none of you move!’ he shouted, and his orders took hold. He edged over and took the rifle away from the groaning One-eye. The knife-tossing breed scowled at him, and the kid with his hands raised looked bug-eyed.

  “Where’s the boy at?” Ben demanded.

  “Wagon.” The kid swallowed. “I never did a thing to him.”

  Ben’s gaze still on the crew, he edged over to look in the wagon. The sight of Lou’s expression in the half light from the fire, though he was tied and gagged, made Ben feel much better.

  He got out his jackknife with his left hand and cut Lou’s hands free, and the boy quickly shed the kerchief over his mouth.

  “I tell them you come shoot them asses off, Mr. Ben.” Lou scampered out of the wagon and hit the ground. “They no listen me. Say they kill you. Ha, they not know Ben McCollough, huh?”

  “They’ve been learning. Gather up their guns.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Ben. They think China boy him crazy, huh?” Lou jerked the pistol from the kid’s holster. “Yes, you think me crazy?”

  “No,” warbled the kid.

  “You get bullet in you?” he asked the wounded breed, while taking a knife from his scabbard. “Bad deal, maybe you die, huh?”

  With the gang tied up, Ben considered what he should do next. Three needed medical t
reatment. They weren’t his concern. The horses, Lou said, were, as he suspected, down the draw.

  “Good, we’ll keep the fire up tonight and take turns watching them. Come morning we’ll get the horses and head back,” Ben said.

  “Plenty good.”

  “What did they have to eat?” Ben asked, looking around.

  ‘Me fix us some food,” Lou said. “Me damn hungry too.”

  “What about us?” the kid asked.

  “When you get loose of those ropes you can fix your own damn food,” Ben said, and winked at Lou, who beamed.

  Between guarding and sleeping with one of his eyes half-open, Ben found little rest. The wounded ones moaned and groaned, but they didn’t draw any sympathy from him or Lou. Before daylight, Lou made breakfast from their chuck box. Ben knew he’d be glad to get back to real coffee; the roasted barley was a piss-poor excuse for it.

  “I’m leaving you a team of your stock to pull one wagon, but taking the rest. That should get you back to a doctor.”

  “What about . . . ?”

  Ben nodded to the kid holding out his bound hands. “You’ll just have to figure out how to untie yourself. I damn sure ain’t.”

  With that he stepped up onto Roan and motioned to Lou that he was ready to leave. They gathered the horses and Ben cut out two feather-legged drafthorses that looked like a team. He drove them toward the camp, while Lou waved his lariat and pushed the horses up the hill.

  Ben came back and helped the boy. When he looked up he could see in the golden light two riders on the hilltop.

  “Got company, Lou,” he shouted, and motioned to the ridge.

  “Ah, more good men. Chip and Ward, they come too. Everyone worry about guy from China, huh?”

  Ben laughed aloud. Yes, everyone worried about the guy from China. We’re moving, Jenny, headed north again. Thank God.

  Chapter 19

  On the move again, the steers stretched out in a column of four and five. The rain helped settle the dust some. The sky was a clear azure blue, not a cloud in sight, and a cool north wind drew a chill on Ben’s arms under his sleeves. He rode ahead to scout where they’d find water later that afternoon, and where they might find wood, a scarce commodity on the grassland, save along a few creeks and draws.

  Dried buffalo or cow chips usually spoiled Hap’s disposition. Ben noticed Hap had begun stockpiling any wood he could find. In fact, the supply wagon was plumb full of sticks and split pieces—what wasn’t taken up by their food goods and bedrolls. Moving north every day, Ben considered, if the McCoy map were any account to scale, they were halfway to the Arkansas River. Meadowlarks sang to him, red-tailed hawks observed him, and bobwhite quail flushed at his approach.

  He reined Roan up and studied the five figures on the rise to the west. They were no doubt Indians, hatless, and they appeared to be armed. He’d seen a few villages, though he’d skirted the herd wide of them. These had to be Indians. No hats. Were they sizing him up? Were there others on horseback? His hand reached back and brought the Colt around where it would be handy on his hip.

  There was no need to ride on. If they intended to stop or raid him, he wanted an answer. If war was about to be declared, he needed to know, to break out the rifles, get the boys ready. They might raid his outfit, but they’d not get the herd without paying a real price for it.

  He rode up to what he considered a safe distance, perhaps an eighth of a mile, and stopped Roan. If they came whipping around the hill on their ponies he might not have enough lead time to escape; otherwise, he felt safe.

  Soon two of them came off the hill toward him to palaver. One wore a buffalo headdress; the other one wore a single eagle feather that rustled in the afternoon wind.

  “Ho,” Buffalo Head shouted.

  “Ho,” Ben shouted back.

  “You bring cattle over our land?”

  “You have any marks for your land or fences?” Ben looked around as if searching for them.

  “Great White Father give us this land.”

  “I’m moving north. Be out of here in a few days.”

  “You want to cross my land you pay me.”

  “I’d be glad to give you a couple crippled steers. They’re only sore-footed. Let them at grass they’ll be fine and fat in no time.”

  “Want ten good ones,” Buffalo Head insisted.

  “Wanting and getting are two different things. I can’t pay that many.” Ben shook his head. No way.

  “You pay or you no go by here.”

  “Where’s your village?” Ben asked.

  “My village is that way.” Buffalo Head pointed northwesterly. “You bring ten head my village.”

  “Well, I ain’t paying no ten head. I might give you two.”

  “Me make war.” He pointed at Ben and shook his head in rage.

  “You want to go see spirit in the sky?”

  “Huh?” Buffalo Head frowned at Ben, then at the buck with him.

  “Well, you get in my way you might go there—real quick-like.”

  Ben had enough of the belligerent devil and told him he would see him. He turned Roan and rode off before Buffalo Head could say anything else to make him mad.

  That afternoon, Ben and Mark cut out two footsore oxen and headed them toward the village. The animals went slowly, but they were easy to herd, unable to run back to the rest. They came over the last ridge, and the smoke of cooking fires reached Ben’s nose.

  “Lodges, huh?” Mark asked.

  “Lodges, they ain’t the tepee kind.”

  “Ain’t got any ponies either,” Ben said, observing things.

  “Where did they go? Men ride them away?”

  “Don’t know, Mark. I ain’t heard any dogs either.”

  “Where would they be?”

  “Ate them, if they’re as hungry as they look.” Ben nodded to the thin-faced woman standing by her lodge doorway wrapped in a tattered blanket.

  “Oh, that’s horrible.” Mark made a face.

  “Ate their horse herd to get by on.” Ben cranked his head around when the two steers stopped.

  An old man came out of a lodge with a red-and-blue blanket wrapped around him. His thin white hair was in braids.

  “Chief, you can eat these two wahoos.”

  “Eat two.” The old man bobbed his head in agreement. “You get down. You eat too. My people plenty glad you come.”

  “One with buffalo head on?” Ben made signs like he wore the headdress.

  “Black Bull?”

  “I don’t know his name. But he threatened me. I was mad. I can see that your people need food.”

  “No buffalo here,” the old man said, holding his hands out to mean anywhere around him. “Shoot him with guns till he run away. Indians kill with arrows, not scare buffalo.”

  “Tell Black Bull, I’ll bring more wahoos.”

  “You good man.” Then he said something guttural and women began to appear, armed with butcher knives.

  In seconds the steers laid bleeding on the ground, their throats cut. The army of females young and old began to skin and dissect the still-trembling cattle. Mark made a face at Ben, who shook his head to refrain him from saying anything.

  A stout Indian woman worked deftly, with her blade slicing open the belly of the first one and exposing the purple and pink viscera. She sliced away the brownish liver and then held it up in one hand while her assistant poured the gall juices over it. She stepped over and offered it to Ben.

  When he hesitated, she insisted. “You eat some. Make you better man.”

  He took the liver and her knife, bit off a hunk, sliced the rest free close to his face.

  “Him too,” she ordered, motioning to Mark.

  His mouth full of the hot, bitter liver, Ben nodded for Mark to continue. Each chew only increased the strong flavors. Ben hoped it did him as much good as she thought it would, as the fumes even burned his nose.

  Poor Mark, he thought, but the youth followed his lead; then he handed the knife and liver bac
k to her. The squaw boldly slapped him on the leg and shouted something made the rest of the butchers laugh. Ben felt sure she had mentioned that it would improve Mark’s virility.

  Ben reined the roan around and nodded to the old chief. “Tomorrow I will bring you four more.”

  “You are brother to my people,” the man said, and they left the camp.

  Away from their camp, Mark rinsed his mouth out with water from his canteen and spit it away. “Oh, that was bad.”

  Ben reached back and found the bottle of whiskey in his saddlebags. He handed the pint across to Mark. “Try a little of this.”

  “Whew, anything’s better than raw liver. Damn! And why pour all that bitter gall on it?”

  “I’m not Indian; can’t say.”

  “You see that one woman eating that piece of gut and squeezing the crap out the other end?”

  “That’s hunger.”

  “Yeah, worse than I ever saw. What will they do for food?” Mark asked, looking back.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Bothered you, didn’t it, Ben?”

  “Would have bothered anyone. No one deserves to starve.”

  “I agree.” Mark shook his head and his shoulders quaked in revulsion.

  “Boy, that liver was the worst thing I ever had in my mouth.”

  “Let’s lope,” Ben said after he put the whiskey away.

  In camp later, Ben squatted on his heels and sipped Hap’s coffee. He’d finished telling him what they’d found in the Indian’s camp.

  “That Mark’s getting him a hell of a education this summer,” Hap said. “Been drug off to a Mexican cat-house by Miguel, shot some Mexican bandits, swam the Red River, been in a stampede and a tornado, and now ate raw liver with an Indian squaw. His poor maw would die if she knew all that’s happened in his sixteenth summer.”

  “How old were you?” Ben asked, letting the coffee’s steam soften the beard stubble around his mouth.

  “I was fourteen when I shot my first man. He was a Comanche climbing in the window of our ranch house. I blew his head half-off with that shotgun—my knees were shaking so bad they were clattering.”

  “When did the rest happen?”

  “I met me the finest little señorita in San Antonio that summer. My, my, she was sweet. I can still recall looking at her without any clothes on and them knees of mine liked to caved in. Whew-ha.”