The Abilene Trail

by Dusty Richards

  “Time you were sixteen?”

  “I was a Texas Ranger, fighting Injuns, drinking raw whiskey, and taking on all the girls in the cantina when I came in.”

  “So what’s so bad about what he’s done?”

  Hap looked off at the fiery sunset that filled the western sky. He shook his head. “Just ought to be different. He’s got schooling; I never had any. You told me if you went to school you was supposed to be more civilized.”

  “It ain’t always that way.”

  “How old were you when you discovered there’s a difference in boys and girls?”

  “Fifteen, I reckon. On a wagon train, when my family was coming to Texas. There was girl named Posey. Seventeen. She asked me if I ever did it. I told her lots of times. She called me a liar. Afterward, she said maybe I wasn’t a liar.” Ben shook his head, amused at the recollection. “She married Arthur Morton when the train got to Austin.”

  “Break your heart?”

  “I think so—did for the moment, anyway.”

  “Why haven’t you ever married?” Hap brought the pot over to refill Ben’s coffee cup.

  “I’ve had some bad luck with women I intended to marry. Guess why I worry about Jenny from time to time.”

  “Well, Ben, you and her deserve each other. She’s a fine lady. Damn, if you’d sent me over there with one more deer I’d have married her myself. It’s going to work out for you two, and we keep going, you’ll be back and married before the summer’s over.”

  “I hope so,” Ben said, with her on his mind.

  Chapter 20

  They crossed the Washita without a problem or the loss of a single head of steer. Scouting ahead, Ben met a small company of soldiers. The shavetail lieutenant acted cordial enough that Ben paused to visit with him.

  “Lots of you Texans coming up here with herds,” the lieutenant—who introduced himself as Barry Clements—said as they sat their horses.

  “All looking for markets for our cattle.”

  “Been some problems up near Baxter Springs with cattlemen and locals, I heard.”

  Ben nodded. “Reason that I’m this far west. Joe McCoy’s supposed to have a shipping yard ready at a place called Abilene. That’s west of the Kansas deadline for Texas cattle.”

  “All these cattle I’ve been seeing going past here, the price may be way down.”

  “That would be my luck. Indians are peaceful, I guess.”

  “Most of them.”

  “Most of them are starving, I’ve seen.”

  “Not my job to feed them. I agree they don’t have much to eat. The buffalo are all west of here.”

  Ben nodded. “I better get to moving. Most of these creeks have rock bottom north of here?”

  “Yeah, you’ve crossed the boggy ones. I ain’t never crossed the Arkansas, though.”

  “It’s still a ways north?”

  “A good ways.”

  “Thanks,” Ben said, then threw him a salute and set the gray to a short lope. He needed a place to stop for the night. Besides, it looked like more rain was coming. It beat having a drought, but in the mud, cattle got hard to drive, and the way was hard for Hap, his wagon, and the mules.

  In midafternoon he shot a fat deer, bled it, and hung it in a cottonwood beside a stream big enough to water the herd. Then he started back to find Hap. Rain arrived before he found the wagon, and he pointed out the way. Hap in his slicker on the seat looked exasperated, but simply grumbled at him.

  “There’s a deer hanging in a cottonwood.”

  “I’ll find it.” Then, with a shout at his ear-flicking mules, he went on.

  “Hap not in good mood,” Lou said when Ben stopped to talk to him.

  “Reckon he’s sitting on a cactus pad?”

  “Maybe so. Him mad since sun came up.”

  “Guess he’ll have to get glad by himself.” Ben shook his head as the rain came off the brim of his hat. “How’s the horses doing?”

  “Two crippled, but they get better. Must pull muscle in leg getting steer out of mud.”

  “Couple need some salve. They’ve got saddle sores.”

  “Oh, me treat them. Every night we get to camp.”

  “Good, we need them all well. It’d still be a ways to walk to Kansas.”

  “We get there, I shout, have fireworks, big time, huh, Mr. Ben?”

  “All that and more.” Ben smiled and turned the gray into the light rain. Best he go find the swing riders, Mark and Chip. It would be a long afternoon at this rate to make camp.

  Cattle grazing at last, the riders not on guard were huddled under Hap’s canvas fly to escape the downpour.

  “Be to the Arkansas River in a week?” Chip asked.

  “I think so.” Ben nodded, listening to the pitter-pat on the cloth ceiling.

  “How wide you reckon it is?”

  “Can’t say. But we’re upstream some from where others been crossing it in years past. If the snowmelt in the West hasn’t reached this far yet, it shouldn’t be too hard to ford.”

  Chip nodded like he was satisfied. Ben knew the river crossings bothered Dru worse than the boys. The older man grew more silent the farther they went. He mentioned once to Ben that he should never have come. When Ben quizzed him on why, he shrugged. “Cattle driving ain’t my thing.”

  Ben imagined that when Dru collected his hundred dollars’ salary he’d head straight for some bar and drink until the money was gone. Plenty of soldiers came home from the war and did the same thing—fell in the bottle.

  “Mr. Ben?”

  He turned and nodded to Billy Jim. “What’s that?”

  “Be lots of Yankees in Kansas?”

  “I guess. But the war’s over.”

  “I sure hope so.”

  “We all need to get on with our lives and forget it.”

  “My paw won’t; he hates them. I just hope I can recognize them when I see them so I can avoid them.”

  Ben shook his head in amusement. “Billy Jim, they look just like the rest of us.”

  “Hell, how’ll I know ’em?”

  “When they open their mouth to talk,” Chip said, and everyone laughed.

  Hap broke up the party by serving fried apple pies to everyone. The surprise treat mellowed out the entire crew; even Dru acted pleased.

  “Thought you was mad about something?” Ben asked when they were to the side. The sweetness of each bite flooded his mouth with saliva.

  “I was mad. Can’t remember why now. Must not have been important, ’cause after me and Lou got the deer butchered in the rain, I figured we all needed some cheering up.”

  Ben held up the half-eaten pie. “Good idea.”

  The deep fork of the Canadian furnished a rock bottom and they went through it with ease, then the Salt Fork of the Arkansas. But the land beyond that crossing was slashed with deep ravines and no timber. Until they crossed Grapevine Creek, the grazing was slim, too. But the thick grass on the north side filled the steers up quickly. Ben decided to scout the Arkansas, so he told the boys they’d rest there with the good water and wood, and graze the herd for two days.

  Mark rode with him, and they hurried across the prairie. Neither man said much from the bluff looking at the wide river they must conquer: six hundred yards across, hemmed in by steep bluffs. There was no bottom land to hold the herd, and wherever they went in, they would need a route to get out also.

  They found some places where others had gone over. Stripped down to underwear they went across on horseback, finding that the water was deep enough to force their horses to swim for only a hundred yards. The current worried Ben some. On the far shore they discovered some logs that others must have used to keep their wagons afloat.

  “We can snake them back, we can use them to float Hap’s rig,” Ben said.

  “We’ll have to move him over first,” Mark said, more as a statement than a question.

  “I think so. Be easier on the mules. All those wet steers coming out of the river would make this hillside
slick for the mules’ footing.”

  “We get Hap and the horses across, then bring up the steers.”

  Ben agreed, and they rode up to the top of the hill. Northward the hills were taller, but covered in rich-looking grass. The only good thing on Ben’s mental list: Kansas wasn’t far.

  They rode back, took the logs with them on lariats, forded the river, and, after drying some in the sun, dressed and headed back for the herd. They arrived in late afternoon.

  “How wide is it?” Billy Jim asked.

  “Over a quarter mile,” Mark said.

  “But there’s only a short distance the horses have to swim,” Ben added.

  “Short? Like how far?”

  “It’ll be a damn sight easier to cross than the Red. There’s current, but I think we can make it smooth enough,” Ben said.

  “Billy Jim, we’re all going to make it,” Mark said with finality.

  “Well, okay.”

  The next day, Billy Jim, Chip, Mark, and Ben went back to drag more logs to the south bank. The floats for the wagon were drawn back and stacked up, ready to lash onto Hap’s rig.

  “Mark, you and Chip will each have long ropes tied to the front chain. You two will go ahead and be close to the bank when the mules hit the water deep enough that they have to swim. With both of you using your horses to pull them, they should get over here safe and sound.”

  Chip nodded, impressed. “I worried about the Comanche donkeys and how they’d do out there. That’ll solve that problem.”

  “Then we’ll go back, get the herd, and bring them over.”

  “Your map show any more rivers?” Billy Jim asked, standing around in the bright sunshine with the others in their wet underwear.

  “This is the biggest one,” Ben promised.

  “I may turn out to be a fish before we get there,” Billy Jim said, and started to dress.

  “Least you had two baths today,” Chip said. “You won’t smell so bad that way.”

  Everyone laughed, and Billy Jim shook his head in disapproval.

  They ate before daylight the next morning, and Hap drove the wagon to the river. Ben left the two Mexican boys with the herd and the rest went along to help. Logs were tied tight to each side in bundles. Hap had the look of man at a funeral when Ben clapped him on the shoulder.

  “How many times we do this in the war?”

  “Yeah, but those were the army’s wagons, not mine,” Hap said, and checked a knot on the top log.

  Ben sent the boys in the lead with their tow ropes. When the boys reached the point in the stream where their ropes were tight, Hap laid the reins to the mules. They went off into the Arkansas on their tiptoes. Used to crossing, they didn’t do badly, though there was some hesitation and more cuss words when they hit the part where that horse had to swim. The boys made the bank with their wet ponies digging in, and to Ben’s relief the mules soon found footing and a hurrah went up. The wagon was across.

  The logs undone, Hap took his mules up the grade. Lou came off the bluff through the wide draw with the horse herd and they headed straight for the bank.

  “Looks good, Ben,” Mark said as the wrangler went up the far hill with the remuda and waved to them.

  “Now get eight hundred and forty more across, plus us, and we’re headed for Abilene,” Ben said.

  It was ten A.M, according to the sun, when Mark and Chip choused the black steer, Stonewall Jackson, in the murky brown water. The faraway sandstone bluffs towering above the river looked even farther away to Ben than when they first swam their horses across two days earlier. The file of steers coming by fours and fives looked orderly enough from his position. A few acted like fools and leaped out in the shallow water like they were going off a bluff. Their incisive bawling picked up. Miguel and Toledo moved out to hold the cattle in a line. He noticed that Billy Jim and Dru were working opposite sides and keeping the cattle in a steady stream. Back at the rear, Digger brought the stragglers.

  It was as orderly as any army’s movement, Ben decided over the noise of the steers splashing and cowboys shouting commands. He pushed the gray off the hillside. Digger would need some help; the last ones always were reluctant to take to water.

  He was making the gray work back and forth, to keep the end of the line moving, when he heard Billy Jim shout, “Dru’s fell off his horse!”

  Digger jerked his pony around and frowned. There was no time for explanations; Ben wheeled the gray to take to the hillside and pass the herd. He pushed the gelding hard through the brush and emerged on the river’s edge. From his vantage point, he could see Billy Jim swimming his horse through the cattle to get to Dru. A riderless horse was headed for the bank a hundred yards down the Arkansas.

  Ben and the gray plunged into the river. “No, Billy, let me.” The gray charged into the stream, stepped off into a hole, and began to swim. The youth never heard him above the bawling cattle—Ben still could not see Dru. Then he spotted a familiar hat floating away downstream. He clung to the saddle horn as the big horse swam. His boots were full, and the cold water saturated his clothing.

  Where was Dru? It made no sense. Why didn’t he surface?

  “Bill! Head for the shore,” he shouted, and the wild-eyed youth on his circling horse looked at him like he’d said the impossible.

  “But Ben—”

  “I know, but your horse ain’t a fish. You’ll wear him down. Head for the shore. Now!”

  “What about Dru?”

  Ben raised himself as high as he could above the dog-paddling gray and saw no sign of the man, only the wide, rippled brown surface. He shook his head and waved Billy away. “Go on; we’ve done all we can.”

  Mark had ridden down the bank to help them. Ben saw him standing on his saddle, hands cupped against the glare, looking, when he reached the water’s edge.

  “I’m sorry, Ben. I just wanted to save him.” Billy Jim looked depressed, standing in his sodden one-piece underwear.

  “You did the right thing.”

  “He never came up. He fell off and never came up,” Billy said in disbelief.

  Ben clapped him on the shoulders. “Not anyone’s fault. He had the best horse to cross on. We told him how.”

  “Why did he rein him up?”

  “No telling. Maybe he got scared.”

  Ben looked over the last of the herd coming out of the cold water and shaking a spray. The black cowboy’s sleek ebony skin shone in the sun—he owned no underwear. Digger waved his rope and slapped cattle with his pooper on the end. Ben could regret not undressing beforehand as he poured water out of his boot, expecting a fish. He’d dry—Dru wouldn’t.

  Chapter 21

  They held services for Dru, though they searched for a day and no body was recovered. It was like the Arkansas swallowed him, some of the boys said.

  In the early morning they bowed their heads, and Ben read Psalms from the tattered Bible he’d carried through the war. Hap had carved a cross out of red cedar for Dru and planted it to the side of the crossing.

  “Boys, Dru wasn’t happy in this world. Perhaps God called him to Him. May he rest in peace, amen.”

  “Amen,” came the chorus.

  “We’re two weeks or so from Abilene, boys. We’ll take our time; these steers still look slick to me despite the drive. Maybe we can sell them and get home before summer’s over.”

  Nodding their heads, their faces solemn, they set out.

  Ben marked them off on his map each day: Spring Creek. Prairie Creek, Rock, and Walnut. He met a small detachment from Fort Wichita on his scout.

  “How many cattle you all got in Texas, anyway?” the old sergeant asked with shake of his bald head as he replaced his cap.

  “Plenty,” Ben said.

  “I’d say so. Have any Injun trouble in the Nation?”

  “Only one bunch, and they were starving.”

  “Be more of them hungry than that. We ain’t seen a buffalo in three days.”

  Ben agreed.

  “Well, if y
ou Rebs stay on this furrow you’ll make it to the shipping pens.”

  “I expected to run into an Indian trader, half-Cherokee called Chisholm,” Ben said. “Several boys been up the trail before talked about him being along in here.”

  “Back on the Arkansas Fork and west a little was his trading post. John died last winter from eating bad bear grease. Buried him down on the Canadian.”

  “Guess I won’t meet him then in this world.”

  “No, you won’t. He was a good man,” the sergeant said. “He was at lots of peace conferences. He could talk I don’t know how many languages. But he sure was hospitable.”

  “That’s what I heard.”

  “You figuring on making this cow driving your living now?” the sarge asked, shifting in the McClel land saddle.

  Ben shook his head. “I get these sold I’ll be happy to stay home.”

  “Take care, Reb.”

  “You too.”

  They parted, men who might have sighted rifles at each other only a few years before. Both of them were old enough and smart enough to know the war was over. A hundred yards farther on, Ben flushed a covey of quail from the stirrup-high grass. McCoy’s man had cut the furrow and mounded the sod in piles. The route was as well marked as turnpikes in the East. Their effort must have taken several ox teams to ever churn up this thick a matt of grass and roots. Probably they’d had one of those new steel plows someone named Deere had recently patented.

  Three men rode a ridge to Ben’s right. He was unsure how long they’d been out there. They wore cowboy hats. Ben realized they’d shadowed him for close to an hour. Anyone who would do that had to be up to something, Ben decided. Sizing him up. He reached the bottoms of Cottonwood Creek, where he intended to camp for the night, and reined Roan into a copse of trees.

  He eased the Spencer out and waited, sitting on horseback. Birds chirped in the trees; robins darted about; Roan stomped a hoof at an occasional fly. The wind began to pick up in the cottonwoods. A fish flopped in the creek. There was no sign of the riders; Ben dismounted and searched for any sign of them from cover. Nothing.