“That wagon won’t be going anywhere until the sun dries up some of the mud. I’d say we’ll be here at least through tomorrow night. For now, we’ll take turns sleeping two or three hours.”
“In all this mud?” Becky asked.
“Only if you prefer it,” said Lonnie shortly. “Otherwise, you can take some of those lengths of spare canvas from the wagon and spread them on the grass. I’m going to take an axe and try to cut some dry wood from the downside of a fallen tree.”
“I’ll take the other axe and go with you,” Gus said.
“I’ll keep watch,” said Dallas, “if a couple more of you will join me. The rest of you can get some sleep.”
“I watch,” Wovoka said.
“So will I,” said Elliot Graves.
Taking the axes from the wagon, Lonnie and Gus set off upriver, looking for fallen trees that might yield some dry wood.
“I reckon we won’t have to worry much about dry weather in this part of the world,” Gus said.
“I reckon not,” said Lonnie, “if the last few hours were a sample of it.”
Several wind-blown trees didn’t rest entirely on the ground, and the branches cut from their undersides yielded dry wood. With little else to do, Lonnie and Gus cut enough of a proper length to replenish the wagon’s possum belly. By suppertime, the entire outfit had been able to get enough sleep to keep them going. Now with an ample supply of dry wood, they had supper and the first watch mounted their horses. With a starry, cloudless sky above them, the night was peaceful, and they all greeted the dawn in a better frame of mind. But the ground was still too muddy to move the wagon, and they all spent a long, restless day. The graze had begun to play out, and they had no choice except to move the herd and the horse remuda farther upriver.
“I know there’s been no Indian sign,” said Dallas, “but I don’t like the idea of this.”
“Neither do I,” Lonnie said, “but the herd and the horses need graze. With any luck, the ground should be dry enough by tomorrow for the wagon.”
Southwestern Colorado Territory. September 11, 1853.
There was more than the usual chill in the air as the outfit greeted the dawn. Along the Gunnison River, where the recent rain had overflowed the banks, the ground was still muddy.
“We should be able to make it,” Lonnie said, “if we keep the wagon far enough from the river. As chill as the nights are becoming, I think we’d better try.”
“I’ll do my best,” said Becky, whose turn it was with the wagon.
The sun no longer seemed as hot, and the unseen fingers of the wind plucked dead and dying leaves from the trees. Within them all was the uneasy feeling that time was running out, that one day soon, the big gray clouds from the west would not bring rain, but snow.
“Head ’em up, move ’em out,” Lonnie shouted.
With Lonnie and Wovoka riding ahead, the outfit moved out. Becky pulled the wagon in behind the horse remuda, careful not to get near the still-muddy riverbank. It seemed, after the endless hours of rain and a veritable sea of mud, that their good fortune had returned, for Lonnie estimated the drive had covered at least thirty miles. Another day of similar good fortune would take them to within thirty miles of the Utah territorial line, where they would then have thirty miles in which to find a suitable crossing of the dreaded Rio Colorado.*
“The wind’s colder than it was yesterday,” Dallas observed, as they sat down to supper at the end of the day.
“We’ve been lucky,” said Justin Irwin. “Last time I was in this high country near this time of year, that wind was blowin’ snow ahead of it.”
“Suppose we do reach Green River ahead of the snow,” said Laura. “We’ll still have all the winter ahead of us, with no shelter.”
“I’ve been thinking of that since we left Texas,” Lonnie said, “and I don’t really know how we’ll weather this first winter. I think we’ll be forced to build a single log shelter for us all on one of the claims, and another for the horses. I’ve been hoping we still might get there in time to accomplish that ahead of the first snow. Now I’m not so sure.”
“I wish we had followed the Green south when we left Fort Laramie on our return from California,” said Kirby Lowe. “All we know is, we’ve got eight sections, four on each side of the river. There might be a cave, high riverbanks, or maybe a canyon.”
“Cañon,” Wovoka said. “Wovoka know.”
“There is a stretch of the Green that flows through a canyon?” Lonnie asked excitedly.
“Sí,” said Wovoka. “Rim. Much grass.”
“That could be the saving of us all,” Becky said, “but suppose it isn’t on our land?”
“I don’t care a damn whose land it’s on,” said Lonnie. “If there’s a long enough stretch of the river flowing through a deep canyon, those canyon rims can protect us, the horses, and the herd from the snow until spring.”
“I’m more excited than when we started the drive,” Mindy cried.
“We find soon,” said Wovoka, pleased that he had contributed to the excitement of his companions.
“I want to keep moving until we reach the Colorado,” said Lonnie. According to the map, we can follow it maybe thirty miles into Utah Territory before we have to cross it. Once we reach the Colorado, we shouldn’t be more than a hundred miles from Green River.”
The outfit kept the herd bunched, moving them at as fast a gait as they could. Before the sun sank below the western horizon, they left the Gunnison and found themselves on the high banks of the formidable Rio Colorado.
“Well, we made it,” Dallas said. “Now the question is, how far along it do we have to go before we find the banks low enough to get the herd to water?”
“Maybe too far, before dark,” said Lonnie. “We’re going to backtrack to where we left the Gunnison, so there’ll be water for the herd tonight. Tomorrow, I want you riding point. Wovoka and me are going to ride the Colorado until we find a place we can cross the herd and the wagon.”
“Suppose there isn’t such a place?” Becky asked.
“Then we’ll look for banks low enough to get the herd and the horses to water, and on across to the other side. Then, if there’s no other way, we’ll find a narrow enough place and build a log bridge for the wagon.”
“You’re serious about that, I reckon,” Dirk McNelly said.
“I am,” said Lonnie, “unless you can think of a better way.”
“Well, I hope we ain’t still cuttin’ logs for that bridge when the snow comes,” Kirby Lowe said.
“If we are,” said Lonnie grimly, “you’ll just have to work harder. It’ll help to keep you warm. Now let’s turn this herd around and move it back to the Gunnison for the night.”
“Why didn’t he think of this before we left the Gunnison?” April whispered to Becky.
Becky laughed. “Two reasons. He’s a hardheaded Texan, and he’s Lonnie Kilgore. He was hell-bent on reaching the Rio Colorado today, and he did.”
“A stubborn man,” said April.
“Stubborn, hell,” Becky said. “He’s beyond that. He’s been known to take his britches off over his boots.”
*They reach the Rio Colorado near the present-day town of Grand Junction, Colorado.
18
The Rio Colorado. September 12, 1853.
Dallas,” said Lonnie as he and Wovoka prepared to ride out, “keep the drive moving at as rapid a gait as you can. Somewhere within the next twenty-five or thirty miles, we must at least find a place where the Colorado’s bank is low enough for us to water the herd and the horses, and we don’t know how far along the Colorado that will be.”
“Yeah,” Dallas said. “I reckon I’d better not ask what we’re goin’ to do if you ride a thirty-mile stretch without finding a low enough bank for us to reach the water.”
“I reckon you’d better not,” said Lonnie. “This is a highstakes game we can’t afford to lose. Just don’t let any grass grow under your feet.”
“Head ’em up,
move ’em out,” Dallas shouted as Lonnie and Wovoka rode away.
Dirk and Kirby were the swing riders, Gus and Waco the flankers. Sandy, Benjamin, Elliot, and Justin rode drag. Mindy kept the wagon right on the heels of the drag, while Becky, Laura, and April rode beside the wagon.
“Lord,” said April, “those riverbanks are awful steep. I hope they’re not like that for the next hundred miles.”
“No matter,” Becky replied. “You heard what Lonnie said.”
“I heard him,” said Laura, “and I suppose we can build a bridge for the wagon. But he can’t take the cows and horses across a bridge unless he leads them one at a time.”
“That’s not very amusing,” Becky said. “He might do exactly that, if there’s no other way.”
“But we’ll need water for the cows and horses tonight,” said April.
April’s companions looked at her without responding. It was the gospel truth, and none of them dared consider what might be the result if, at day’s end, the only water was at the foot of the Colorado’s steep banks.
Lonnie and Wovoka had paused to rest their horses. The animals had been kept at a walk, and Lonnie estimated they had ridden five miles. The Colorado’s banks seemed about as steep as ever. Lonnie was tempted to ask Wovoka what he thought of the situation, but a look at the Indian’s impassive face told him Wovoka likely had no ideas at the moment. They rode on, Lonnie becoming more uneasy all the time. As they progressed, the river’s banks became more rocky, with an occasional ledge reaching out from their bank toward the opposite one. It was just such a ledge—or the collapse of it—that brought Lonnie a ray of hope. The rock ledge had slid into the river, taking with it other stones and quite a portion of the riverbank. Lonnie reined up, Wovoka beside him.
“I know we can’t take the wagon down that bank,” Lonnie said, “but the cows and the horses could get down.”
Wordlessly, Wovoka pointed toward the opposite rocky bank, which looked every bit as formidable as ever. It was a valid observation, but Lonnie was looking at the results of the landslide from their own bank. Rocks and dirt had created a barrier, raising the water level of the river considerably.
“If we could bring that other bank down,” said Lonnie, “we could cross the herd and the horses here.”
“No wagon,” Wovoka said.
“Not without some work,” said Lonnie, “but we’ll have the beginning of a bridge. This is likely the best we’re going to find. Let’s ride back and meet the drive. I want that bolt of muslin, a keg of black powder, and a shovel.”
Wovoka said nothing. He had been profoundly impressed when Lonnie had used the black powder to intimidate the hostile Paiutes. It was with considerable anticipation that he followed Lonnie back the way they had come. He wanted to see the white man’s magic take down the far bank of the mighty Colorado to the equal of that which had been leveled by a landslide.
“Keep the drive moving, Dallas,” Lonnie said, when they met the herd. “The bank on our side of the river’s been cut down by a landslide. We’re going after some black powder, hoping we can equalize the situation.”
“Bueno,” said Dallas. “Can we cross the wagon there?”
“Not without considerable work,” Lonnie said, “but if we can bring down that opposite bank, we can water the stock and drive them across.”
Lonnie and Wovoka rode around the herd, waiting until the wagon reached them.
“Mindy,” said Lonnie, “stop just long enough for me to get a keg of black powder, a shovel, and some muslin. The drive’s going on, and you can catch up.”
“What are you going to do?” Becky asked.
Quickly, Lonnie explained, while Mindy went into the wagon after the items Lonnie had requested. She found the powder first, and Wovoka took it. Then she handed down the muslin, followed by the shovel. With his knife, Lonnie estimated and cut half a dozen three-foot lengths of muslin, each a yard wide. The rest of the bolt he returned to Mindy.
“Now catch up to the herd,” said Lonnie. “Maybe we’ll have a place to cross the herd and the horses by the time you get there.”
The wagon soon caught up to the drag. Becky, April, and Laura rode along with the drag riders long enough to tell them what Lonnie hoped to accomplish.
“I’ve never seen as hell-bent an hombre as Lonnie Kilgore,” Justin said admiringly. “If he decided to tackle hell with a bucket of water, I reckon I’d grab a bucket and follow.”
“He does have a way about him,” said Sandy Orr, “and I think he’s the kind it’ll take to settle this frontier. I’m looking Forward to this Green River ranch.”
Lonnie and Wovoka reached the place where a landslide had caved in the riverbank. They dismounted, and using his knife blade, Lonnie removed the screws from the wooden lid of the keg. The ground being dry and grassy, he spread out one of the muslin squares. Upon it, he poured a large amount of black powder. Pulling the muslin’s four corners together, he knotted them into a sack. Wovoka had spread out the other muslin squares, and Lonnie quickly made three more bags of the explosives.
“We’ll hold off on the other two,” Lonnie said. “We may not need them.”
He then studied the farthest bank of the river. Among the many stones, there was an upright one—like a huge finger—that stood almost as tall as a man. Taking his lariat from his saddle, Lonnie built a loop. After several failed casts, he got the loop around the tall Stone. The lariat had barely been long enough.
“Wovoka,” said Lonnie, “after I’ve climbed up onto that 3ther bank, I want you to tie these bags of black powder to the rope so I can pull them up. Then send me the shovel.”
“Sí,” Wovoka said.
Lonnie checked his shirt pocket, finding his oilskin-wrapped matches there. He then tied a loop in the lariat, passing it over his head and under his arms. Even after the landslide, the water was above his waist. Removing his gunbelt, he hung it around his neck. Taking a firm grip on the rope, hand over hand he raised himself to the edge of the farthest riverbank. Scrambling up to firm ground, he removed his gunbelt and buckled it around his waist. He then loosed the lariat, and with one end still looped over the vertical stone, dropped the free end of it to Wovoka. He caught it, and securely tied it to the neck of one of the bags of black powder. Quickly, Lonnie drew that one up, and Wovoka sent up the others in similar fashion. Last came the shovel.
“Now,” Lonnie said, “go back to the other bank and lead the horses back far enough so you’re out of reach of any flying rock.”
Lonnie began studying the ground, seeking a place where the first blast might prove the most effective. A dozen feet back from the edge of the river’s bank was a fissure that ran parallel to the river for a few yards. It was narrow, requiring some hard work with the shovel to make room for a bag of the black powder. On second thought, Lonnie dug a second powder placement near the other end of the fissure. There was a huge mass to be moved, and even two charges might not be enough. Lonnie paused. There was one element he hadn’t considered. He must light both muslin bags and still reach a safe distance before the explosions.
There was a light wind from the west, sufficient to extinguish a match. He removed two matches from his oilskin pouch, just in case. Kneeling with his back to the wind, shielding the match with his hat, he popped it alight with his thumbnail. Even with protection, the flame flickered as he touched it to the mouth of one muslin bag. The flame caught quickly with the wind fanning it, and Lonnie ran to the next charge. As he had half-expected, his movement sucked out the flame of the match. Not knowing how much time he had, he knelt by the second charge. Again shielding the match with his hat, he lit it and touched it to the muslin.
Then, hat in hand, he ran for all he was worth. Even then, he was barely in time. The first explosion shook the earth, and like an echo, the second one followed. The concussion threw Lonnie to the ground, and he was showered with dirt and hunks of rock. He sat up, unable to hear, and only half-conscious. A stone the size of his fist had struck him in t
he head. He could feel blood running down to mix with the dirt on his face. Unsteadily he got to his feet, wiping his eyes on the sleeve of his shirt. On the other bank, he could see Wovoka. He had left the horses, approached the river, and regarded the devastating result of the explosions with awe. Lonnie examined his handiwork with considerable surprise. Apparently the fissure had run much deeper than he had thought, for the river’s bank had been collapsed to the level of the opposite one. The new debris had combined with that of the landslide to create a hump a dozen feet wide across the river. While it still wasn’t level enough for the wagon, there was more than a foundation for a bridge. Quickly the river’s water had backed up, and was already flowing across the added obstruction. Lonnie was able to walk across to the other bank, and the water wasn’t over the tops of his boots.
“Grande,” said Wovoka.
“It was a mite impressive,” Lonnie said. “Let’s empty the rest of this black powder back into the keg. Then we’ll ride back to meet the herd.”
Within five miles, they met the oncoming herd.
“How much of that powder did you use?” Dallas asked. “It sounded like the world was coming down on our heads.”
“Maybe too much,” said Lonnie, “but two charges of it got the job done. Without any work, the herd and the horses can drink, as well as cross to the other side. We’ll have to level it some more for the wagon, though.”
“You and Wovoka can take over the point,” Dallas said, “and I’ll return the shovel, arid that keg of powder to the wagon.”
“Bueno,” said Lonnie, “and on your way, you might as well tell the others that likely the hardest part of our problem is solved.”
When the herd reached the newly created crossing, Lonnie waved his hat. After the herd and the horses had been headed, the rest of the outfit approached the blast area.
The Green River Trail Page 27