Trouble Trail

by J. T. Edson

  ‘Asking your pardon, Miz Bos—Tradle, ma’am,’ Muldoon aid, coming to a halt in a parade ground brace and throwing her a salute straight out of the drill manual. ‘Could we speak with you?’

  ‘Certainly, gentlemen. Would you care to sit down?’

  ‘ ‘Tis a formal thing, ma’am,’ the burly sergeant replied. You’ll be knowing we lost three men in the fighting.’

  ‘I know,’ Eileen agreed.

  ‘T’would be the senior officer’s lady’s place to write to their kin, ma’am, only the cap’n’s not married, yet. So we wondered if you’d do it for us.’

  A lump rose in Eileen’s throat as she realised the honour the men gave her. She saw young Grade standing to one side of the men, clearly having given his permission for them to approach her with the request.

  ‘Have I the right to do so?’ she asked.

  Taking off his hat, the young lieutenant looked at the hole in the top of its crown and thought of the hooves of the attacking brave’s pony as they sounded behind him. He knew what Eileen must have gone through deciding whether to chance shooting with the risk of killing him while trying to save his life.

  ‘Yes, ma’am, Boston,’ he said. ‘You’ve earned the right.’

  ‘We’d take it kind if you’d do it, ma’am,’ put in one of the troopers, a grizzled veteran who had joined years before the Dragoon Colt appeared to be damned as a new-fangled contraption that would never last.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ Eileen replied and, had he been there to see it, her husband would have marvelled at the quiet, genuine humility in her voice. ‘I’d count it a privilege to do it.’

  Coming to her feet, Eileen went to the wagon and returned with pen, ink and paper. Muldoon produced a box for her to sit upon and the men gathered around her. While she had known none of the dead men, except as familiar faces among Bigelow’s troop, Eileen wrote letters to their next-of-kin which would long be treasured. She wrote simply, sincerely, without mawkish sentiment; and the wet-caused wrinkles the distant readers found on the paper were not placed there as an affectation but came from the tears which trickled down Eileen’s cheeks as she wrote.

  ‘Damned smoky fire,’ she said, wiping a hand across her eyes after finishing the last letter.

  ‘Yes, Miz Bos—Tradle.’

  ‘Make it Boston and save your spluttering, Muldoon,’ Eileen said.

  ‘Yes, ma’am, Miz Boston, ma’am!’ grinned the burly sergeant. ‘And thanks.’

  ‘You could have asked Miss Johnson to write the letters,’ Eileen pointed out. ‘She and Captain Bigelow are engaged.’

  ‘Aye. But she’s not Army—yet.’

  ‘Stick your chest in, gal,’ Calamity said, walking up after Muldoon’s party threw Eileen salutes and marched away. ‘You look like to burst.’

  ‘I’ve become accepted as Army, Calam,’ Eileen replied.

  ‘Sure, I always knew you would. Soldiers always go for mean, ornery gals like you and me. Which’s why you ‘n’ me never got on at first, we’re too damned much alike.’

  ‘Time was when I wouldn’t have taken that as a compliment,’ smiled Eileen, then the smile died. ‘Everybody looks miserable, Calam.’

  ‘Sure do,’ agreed Calamity. ‘Most of ‘em, especially those who lost somebody, or got wounded on their hands, are asking themselves why the hell they came West. Happen they come up with the wrong answer most of them’ll be licked right now.’

  ‘Then we have to make them forget today, or get them over it,’ Eileen stated firmly but grimly.

  ‘You’re the eddicated one, Boston, gal. You tell me how.’

  Eileen explained her plan and together the Boston socialite and the wild Western girl went around the train. Using the power of their combined personalities, they gathered every man and woman who could walk, calling them all together around the main fire in the centre of the camp. There Eileen addressed them, speaking as she had earlier written, saying the things those gloom-ridden travellers wished to hear and urging them to carry on. Then Eileen stopped talking and Calamity stepped forward. In a quiet voice, she told them of the future, the land ahead of them, the new life waiting for them and of the importance of looking forward instead of back.

  ‘By cracky, ladies,’ said an elderly man whose youngest son died with a Cheyenne arrow through his chest. ‘You’re right. My Jimmy wouldn’t want us all to sit grieving for him and letting everything we all worked for go.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs. Boston, Calamity,’ a woman who had lost her husband went on. ‘You’ve given me heart to finish the trip.’

  Once more Calamity and Eileen had helped hold the wagon train together and given it their strength at a time when such strength stood badly needed.

  Molly came through the crowd followed by her children, forming them up in a neat block facing her two friends. Raising her right hand, she halted the crowd as it prepared to break up.

  ‘Before you go,’ she said, ‘the children and I would like to pay a tribute to two gallant and for-real ladies. In doing this, Boston, I don’t want you to think I’m belittling you, or holding a grudge for our little contretemps at Battle Creek—’

  ‘If that means when you had the fight, who won?’ called a man.

  ‘We’ll say it was a stand-off,’ Molly answered, her eyes sparkling. ‘Anyways. here is a little tribute to two real game girls. You would have been included in this, Eileen, but who in the world could make a rhyme with Boston.’

  Turning, she motioned to the children and they began to sing.:

  ‘Calamity, Calamity,

  The best danged gal you ever did see,

  There’ll never be, there’ll never be,

  Another girl like Calamity.’

  And Miss Martha Jane Canary, that rough, tough reckless and unemotional hard-case frontier girl stood blushing like a house on fire and promising herself what she would do to a certain little blonde schoolmarm when they were alone. While the song would not cause Stephen Foster to turn in anxiety in his grave at a threat to his position as America’s greatest song writer, it went down well with its biased little audience and by morning when the wagons rolled the words rang out from mouth to mouth across the plains.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  MISS CANARY HUNTS BUFFALO

  ‘No sign of the Cheyenne,’ Beau Resin announced, halting his Appaloosa by Calmity’s fire and looking at the three girls, Bigelow and Killem who sat around it. ‘But I saw a fair-sized herd of buffalo not a mile off.’

  It was two days after the fight with the Indians and the wagon train had made good time. However, Bigelow knew that fresh meat would come in very handy, saving the train’s depleted food supply. Hunting had been restricted for the past couple of days due to the chance of a further Cheyenne attack. If such an attack came and wiped out a hunting party, it might give Sand Runner’s followers heart to make a further attempt upon the train.

  ‘Buffalo!’ Calamity whooped. ‘Boston, gal, you’ve got to try roast buffalo hump.’

  ‘I was supposed to try fresh-caught brook trout fried in butter, I seem to remember,’ Eileen replied, ‘but somebody else wound up eating them.’

  ‘Shucks, didn’t Molly and me apologise for that?’ asked Calamity.

  ‘You didn’t.’

  ‘Must’ve been so busy we forgot,’ Calamity remarked.

  ‘Calamity tried to catch some. I saw her throw a couple of worms into a river one night,’ Molly went on.

  ‘Want me to fetch Russian Olga fora partner, Boston?’ asked Resin hopefully. Then he swung round from his horse and looked at Bigelow. ‘Do I take a small party out and collect us some meat, Wade?’

  ‘We sure need it,’ Bigelow replied. ‘Is it safe out there?’

  ‘Like I said, there’s no sign of the Cheyenne—and I looked careful.’

  ‘Then how about you and I doing the hunting? I reckon Dave Grade can handle things at this end, with Muldoon helping him.’

  ‘Reckon they can. Muldoon’s so lucky that if they got the train lost,
they’d wind up in San Francisco,’ grinned Resin.

  ‘If it’s that safe, why not take Molly along, Wade?’ Eileen asked. ‘In which case I will have to come along as chaperone.’

  ‘I think that’s why you suggested it,’ grinned Bigelow.

  ‘It is. It is,’ chuckled Eileen.

  ‘Declare a school holiday, Molly, gal,’ Calamity ordered. ‘We’re going buffalo hunting in the morning.’

  ‘Hold hard there, red top!’ barked Killem. ‘I ain’t said you can go yet.’

  ‘If you don’t, you’ll wish you had,’ Calamity threatened.

  ‘Eileen and I will see to that,’ Molly warned.

  ‘Danged if one of ‘em wasn’t more’n enough!’ groaned Killem. ‘Now I got three to pester and bedevil me.’

  ‘We’ll fetch back a wagon-load of meat,’ Calamity promised. ‘And I’ll save you the two biggest tongues.’

  Which was a prospect Dobe Killem could look forward to with pleasure. No food in the world appealed to his palate as much as buffalo tongue prepared as only his cook could handle it.

  ‘All right, Calam, we’ll empty our chuckwagon. Take a couple of fellers along to do the butchering,’ Killem said. ‘And make damned certain sure that I get them tongues or I’ll tan your hide for sure—all three of you.’

  ‘Love those masterful men,’ smiled Eileen.

  At dawn the following morning the party prepared to go on their buffalo hunt. Calamity used two of her team horses in the now empty chuckwagon and a couple of the train’s men who were skilled butchers had agreed to go along and attend to cutting up the meat. After some discussion the previous night Molly and Eileen elected to travel on horseback for the trip, especially as if the hunt proved successful the wagon would be piled high with meat on the return trip.

  The remainder of the wagon train would continue on its way under Grade’s guidance and the hunters expected to join up with it at its next camp ground, or during the day’s march whichever came first.

  ‘I’ve never been on a buffalo hunt,’ Molly said, although her enthusiasm stemmed more from going with Bigelow than because she liked the idea of hunting.

  ‘I have,’ Calamity grunted, sounding anything but excited.

  ‘My father and his friend, the other congressman, both killed their buffalo on a straight run,’ Eileen stated and smiled as she remembered the last time she had mentioned her father and his influential, important friends.

  ‘That’s one way of doing it,’ Calamity answered, refusing to be drawn into an argument about dudes hunting for fun and sport.

  ‘How do you mean, on a straight run?’ asked Molly.

  ‘When the herd is started running and you ride after it, pick the animal you want, gallop alongside it and shoot it on the move,’ Bigelow explained, his eyes gleaming with the thought of the thrill to come.

  ‘That’s how they do it,’ agreed Calamity and in his excited anticipation Bigelow Overlooked the emphasis she placed on the word ‘they.’

  ‘It’s the only sporting way, ladies.’

  ‘Huh huh!’

  ‘And what might that mean, Calamity?’ Eileen asked.

  ‘Means “huh huh”,’ explained Calamity. ‘Let’s get moving.’

  Having told Calamity the direction to take, Resin had pulled out earlier to locate the herd. The rest of the party showed considerable faith in Calamity’s judgment and skill, for none objected as she led them across the range. Mostly the talk dealt with various types of hunting and was carried out between Bigelow and the other two men for Calamity did not say much and Eileen and Molly appeared to be quite content to enjoy their ride while listening to the men’s conversation.

  ‘There’s ole Beau wig-wagging for us,’ remarked Calamity after they had covered almost two miles at a tangent from the train.

  All the others stared ahead, searching for some sign of the big scout and his spot-rumped Appaloosa stallion on the rolling, bush and tree dotted range. Much to their surprise, they could see nothing of Resin.

  ‘All right,’ Eileen sniffed. ‘So you can see him and we can’t, But I can embroider better than you.’

  ‘And I can write a better song,’ Molly went on. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘See that clump of bushes ahead there, on top of the humpbacked rim we’re coming to?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Eileen doubtfully, squinting her eyes.

  Raising her hand, Calamity waved it over her head. Not until the scout gave an answering wave did any bf the others pick out his position, for his clothing tended to blend into the background. Once he moved, all could see him and wondered how they ever managed to overlook anything so obvious.

  ‘Keeping still’s the best way to stay hid,’ Calamity commented when the others complimented her on her keen sight. ‘And the best way to find something’s to look for it all the time.’

  ‘I’ll go on ahead,’ Bigelow told the others and sent his horse forward at a faster pace.

  ‘My mother warned me not to marry a hunting man,’ smiled Eileen, glancing at Molly.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I married one and spent most of my honeymoon on a deer hunt in the Adirondaks. It was wonderful.’

  Molly glanced at Eileen, caught the other girl’s wink and started to blush as she remembered using the same words in much the same tone on the morning of the fight with the Cheyenne.

  Bringing his horse to a halt by Resin’s side, Bigelow reached for the rifle in the saddleboot. An exclamation of annoyance left his lips as he found that his striker, usually a most reliable man who obeyed orders to the letter, had mistakenly given him the single-shot Remington Rider rifle instead of his Winchester.

  ‘Damn the man!’ he growled, although mostly he would never think of his striker in such terms. ‘He’s given me the Remington.’

  ‘I know,’ drawled the scout. ‘I told him to.’

  ‘You?’

  ‘Why sure. I come across him taking your Winchester to the hoss lines and told him you’d need something with more power and range, so to get that fancy Rolling Block rifle you showed me.’

  ‘But the Winchester is handier to use from the saddle,’ Bigelow objected.

  ‘Sure is,’ agreed Resin, glancing to where his horse stood concealed among the bushes, ‘if we aimed to shoot ‘em off hoss’s back that is.’

  ‘That’s the only sporting way to do it.’

  ‘Yep. Only we’re not here for sport, we’re shooting meat for the train, so we want the critters down close together not spread out over a good country mile.’

  After Bigelow secured his horse, Resin led him up the slope. Flattening down on the top of the rim, they looked to where a small herd of black, shaggy-humped Great Plains buffalo grazed some three hundred yards from their position. A trophy-hunter’s gleam came into Bigelow’s eyes as he studied the herd and picked out a big old bull as his first target. Bringing up the rifle, he aimed at the old bull; but, before he could squeeze the trigger, Resin caught him by the arm and gave a warning head-shake.

  ‘Not yet.’ breathed the scout. ‘And don’t drop that big old cuss, he’d be tougher to eat than old leather. This’s how we do it—and I tell you now, there’ll be damned little sport in it.’

  ‘Tell on. good mentor,’ replied Bigelow.

  ‘First we lung-shoot one of the bulls. Yeah, we go out to wound him instead of taking a straight kill. He’ll die in minutes anyway. The smell of blood and the way he staggers’ll hold the attention of the others. I figured four’ll be enough for what we need. Never took to shooting a critter just to see it fall and leaving its body to rot. Another thing, shoot for the head—’

  ‘That will spoil his skull.’

  ‘Sure, only we don’t ear the skull, so hit there instead of the body where we’d lose meat.’

  The system, worked to perfection by hide hunters like Frank Myers—who frequently shot up to fifty buffalo at one stand by using it—produced good results. On Resin’s first shot, using a Sharps rifle borrowed from Killem, on
e of the young bulls gave a lurch and started to stagger, coughing frothy blood. Instantly the rest of the bulls gathered, hooking viciously with their horns at their wounded companion and ignoring the sound of the shot. With two bullets Bigelow tumbled over a pair of average-sized young bulls and Resin dropped the fourth. Then the remainder of the herd took fright at the noise of the shots and fled across the plains at a fair speed, considering their bulk and ungainly build.

  ‘Get the hosses and wave the others up,’ Resin suggested, rising to his feet and finishing the lung-shot bull with a bullet through the head.

  However, there proved to be no need to go. Calamity knew enough about the principles of buffalo hunting to stay back until she heard the shooting start. Once she heard shots, she gave the signal to her party and brought them up the slope then down towards the killing ground.

  ‘You got ‘em,’ she said, eyeing the four bodies on the ground.

  ‘Naw!’ scoffed Resin. ‘These bunch up and died of old age. Them we shot at’s still running.’

  ‘The way you pair shoot, we can believe that,’ Eileen remarked and looked with interest at the dead buffalo. Somehow they seemed larger and more impressive than the mounted heads her father and his friend brought home from their hunt.

  Not only Eileen looked at the bulls and took note of their size. The two butchers stared at the animals with growing concern. While both were skilled at their trade, neither had ever been called on to perform a piece of major butchery under such primitive conditions. Looking at the huge shaggy shapes, the two men could not even decide how to set about removing the skins. An average-sized Great Plains buffalo, such as Resin and Bigelow had shot, stood around five foot nine inch at the shoulder and weighed well over seventeen hundred pounds. To handle such bulky creatures the two men would expect to make use of block and tackle, which they possessed but had not brought along. Yet both knew enough about their work to realise that the hides must be removed quickly or would set Like iron upon the flesh underneath and be almost impossible to peel off.