“Refill the pots one more time,” Cal said.
While Lorna and Jasmine refilled the coffeepots, the Crows dug into the food.
“Dear Lord,” said Jasmine. “I’ve never seen the like. They eat as though this is the first decent meal they’ve ever had.”
“It might well be the case,” Tom Allen said. “This appears to be a roving band, and that means no permanent camp. They may go for days at a time with only dried venison or a handful of pemmican to keep them alive.”
When the Crows had eaten all the food and scraped the pans, Quickenpaugh approached them. Beaver Tail spoke. Quickenpaugh nodded, saying nothing.
“What did Beaver Tail say?” Cal asked, when Quickenpaugh returned.
“Them stay night,” said Quickenpaugh.
“Well, that answers my question,” Lorna said. “We’ll have to cook two breakfasts. One for them, and one for us.”
Cal laughed. “I think you’d better do theirs first and let them be on their way. They’ll eat as long as there’s food in sight, and the rest of us may go hungry.”
True to his word, Cal kept the entire outfit on watch, paying particular attention to the horse herd. But none of the Indians made any suspicious moves, and the horses were not molested. By first light, Jasmine, Lorna and Curley had the breakfast fires going. When the food was ready, Quickenpaugh invited the Crows to eat. They did so, while the outfit watched and waited impatiently. When the visitors had cleaned up every scrap of food and had gone through four pots of coffee, Beaver Tail grunted his thanks. Without further delay, the eight of them mounted their horses and rode west.
“I don’t begrudge any man grub, when he’s hungry,” said Bill Petty, “but I still think they had something else in mind. They saw we were suspicious, that we had a heavy watch on the horse herd, and decided not to risk it.”
“I think you’re right,” Cal said, “and there’s nothing to stop them from riding back under cover of darkness to try their luck. For the next few nights, we’ll continue to keep a close watch on the horses.”
But all the outfit didn’t take the threat seriously. During the night, Quickenpaugh discovered Bud McDaniels asleep. A quick tally proved that seven of Story’s horses had been taken. Adding insult to injury, the marauders had made off with Bud’s horse and saddle. When he was awakened by Cal and Quickenpaugh, he held only the severed reins in his hand.
“Hell, I was up all night last night,” McDaniels snarled, “and I was beat. How did any of us know the varmints would come back tonight?”
“All of you were warned that they might,” said Cal angrily, “and apparently everybody except you heeded that warning. Now get up.”
McDaniels knew what was coming. Getting to his knees, he swung the severed reins at Cal’s head. But Snider backstepped, caught the reins and flung McDaniels belly-down. He then seized McDaniels by his belt and, dragging him to the swollen river, pitched him in. The rest of the first watch had witnessed the spectacle, but only Tom Allen spoke.
“That water’s still mighty deep and swift. He could drown.”
“I don’t much give a damn if he does,” said Cal in disgust. “But he won’t. You can’t drown a varmint that was born to be hung.”
McDaniels managed to escape the clutches of the swollen river, and by the time he had found his way back to camp, everybody—including Jasmine—knew of his folly. But they all waited for Cal to speak.
“At first light tomorrow,” Cal said, “we’ll go after the stolen horses. Obviously, all of us can’t go. Tom Allen and Quickenpaugh will ride with me.”
“I’m goin’ too,” said Bud McDaniels. “They took my horse.”
Bill Petty laughed. “All the more reason for you not to go. They’d likely steal the hoss from under you, with you in the saddle.”
“Damn it,” McDaniels shouted, “I’m part owner of this herd. I have a right to go.”
“This involves the horses, not the cattle,” said Cal, “and you don’t have a stake in Mr. Story’s horse herd. Stay in camp and catch up on your sleep.”
At first light, Cal, Tom and Quickenpaugh only took the time to eat. The stolen horses were all shod, and trailing them wasn’t difficult. Not more than two miles west, they found Bud McDaniels’s abandoned saddle.
“Leave it there,” said Cal. “He can come and get it himself.”
Cal sent Quickenpaugh ahead, lest they ride into an ambush, and when the Comanche returned, he had some interesting news. He raised his right hand, showing four fingers.
“Four Crows?” Cal asked.
“Si,” said Quickenpaugh. “No ambush. Ride fast, far.”
“Four Indians,” Tom Allen said. “That don’t sound like Beaver Tail’s bunch.”
“We’ll know, when we catch up to them,” said Cal. “Eight horses on lead ropes may slow them down some. Let’s ride.”
SOUTH FORK OF THE POWDER RIVER,
WYOMING TERRITORY.
MARCH 12, 1876
“While we’re following the Powder and there’s plenty of water, we’ll drive as late as we can,” said McCaleb. “If the weather holds, we might reach Deadwood without enduring another snowstorm.”
But the favorable weather didn’t continue. At the end of their second day along the Powder, the wind changed directions. Blowing out of the northwest, it was cold.
“We got another dose of it coming,” Brazos predicted. “Tomorrow night, at the latest. Startin’ in the morning, we’d better begin lookin’ for some natural shelter, or a hill where we can make our own.”
“I’ll have Goose ride out at first light,” said McCaleb. “If there’s no canyon, we’ll have to set up our canvas windbreaks and make the best of it.”
The wind had grown markedly colder by morning, raising some doubt that the coming storm might hold off until night. Goose rode upriver as far as the herd was likely to go in a single day without finding suitable shelter.
“Hill,” said Goose, when he returned to the outfit. “No more.”
“I had hoped we might do better,” McCaleb said, “but a hill will be a windbreak. How far, Goose?”
Goose held up five fingers, estimating the distance at five miles.
“We’ll be there by midday,” said Brazos. “That’ll give us time to raise our shelters and drag in plenty of firewood.”
But there was an unexpected delay when the chuck wagon’s right rear wheel chunked into an unseen hole and snapped the axle where it passed through the hub. Susannah had been at the reins. She stood beside the disabled wagon, a stricken look on her face.
“It wasn’t your fault, Susannah,” McCaleb said. “It might have happened to any of us.”
“But there’s a storm coming,” said Susannah. “Now there may not be time to reach the place Goose found.”
“We’re going to make a run for it,” McCaleb said. “I’ll have Brazos take over the herd and the rest of you can go on. Will and me will stay behind and replace the wagon’s axle.”
“But it’s so dangerous,” said Susannah. “Suppose the Sioux—”
“It’s a risk we’ll have to take,” McCaleb said.
By then, the leaders had been headed and the herd had begun to mill. Other riders had arrived and stood looking ruefully at the disabled wagon.
“Brazos,” said McCaleb, “I want you to take the herd on to that camp Goose found. Will and me will be along when we’ve repaired the wagon.”
“I don’t like leaving you and Will here alone,” Brazos said. “If the Sioux should attack, you wouldn’t stand a chance.”
“Then we’ll just have to gamble that they won’t,” said McCaleb. “Without Will and me, you’ll be shy two riders. You can’t spare any more, or you’ll be inviting the Sioux to attack the herd. Take our horses with you. Susannah can ride one of them.”
“Move ’em out,” Brazos shouted.
The herd lurched into motion. Brazos had picked up the gait until the drag riders were soon out of sight of the crippled wagon.
“
Thank God we brought a spare rear axle,” said Will. “We’d be here the rest of the day hewing out a new one with an axe.”
McCaleb and Will worked frantically, jacking up the wagon. With a hub wrench, pulling the wheels was a simple matter. Most of the work involved breaking loose the U-bolts and replacing the old axle with the new.
Brazos had given Goose the point position, for the Indian knew where he must take the herd. Brazos looked back often, hoping to see a spiral of dust that would assure him Will and McCaleb were catching up. But there was no such sign. Finally they reached the place Goose had chosen, and bedded down the herd.
“Monte, Pen, Jed and Stoney, you’ll go with me,” Brazos said. “That storm won’t hold off much longer, and we have to drag in as much firewood as we can.”
Monte Nance laughed. “Well, ain’t you one hell of a trail boss? We could of erected the canvas windbreaks, but you left them in the chuck wagon.”
“Don’t let it bother you,” said Brazos. “The chuck wagon will be here before we’re able to drag in enough firewood.”
Brazos and his four companions rode out in search of windblown and lightning-struck trees, so that they might stay warm during the coming storm.
“That storm ain’t waitin’ till tonight,” Stoney Vandiver said, his eyes on the big dirty gray clouds rolling in from the west.
“I’m afraid you’re right,” said Brazos. “We’ll have to work fast.”
By the time they rode out the third time, particles of snow and ice were being whipped into their faces by a rising wind.
“This will be the last,” Brazos shouted. “We’ll have to take the axes to some of it just as soon as we can. I have a feeling this one’s a mean storm.”
MONTANA TERRITORY.
MARCH 12, 1876
“We don’t have much time,” said Tom Allen. “Lay some snow over these tracks, and it’s adios to Mr. Story’s horses.”
“I’d gamble the Indians who took the horses are counting on that,” Cal replied. “That likely had a lot to do with their timing. Besides that, there’s always a chance they might bushwhack us. Quickenpaugh, ride on ahead a ways and look around.”
Cal and Tom continued following the trail of the stolen horses, while Quickenpaugh kicked his mount into a fast gallop. Time was running out . . .
Back in camp, led by Bill Petty, the rest of the outfit set about preparing for another storm. Rather than erecting the tents, the riders used the canvas to construct some large windbreaks.
“Now,” said Petty, “it’s time to saddle up and drag in some fallen trees for firewood.”
Hastily, they performed all the necessary tasks that Cal Snider would have asked of them. By the time the wind blew in the first flurry of snow, they had the camp as secure as it could be made.
“I’m worried about Cal, Tom and Quickenpaugh,” Lorna said. “When this land’s deep in snow, it all looks the same, as far as you can see.”
“I’m sure they won’t forget that,” said Jasmine. “They must recover the horses soon, or give them up for lost. The snow will wipe out the trail.”
“I’m not nearly as worried about losing Mr. Story’s horses as I am about perhaps losing Cal, Tom and Quickenpaugh,” Lorna said. “Cal may try to recover those horses despite the danger of being stranded in a blizzard.”
Far to the west, Cal and Tom reined up, as Quickenpaugh approached.
“No ambush,” said Quickenpaugh. “Them run. Take horses.”
“Come on,” Cal said, “and no shooting. We only want the horses, but they won’t know that. We’ll ride them down.”
With snow blowing into their faces, the three riders kicked their horses into a fast gallop. Ahead of them, the Crows struggled to the crest of a ridge, the eight horses on lead ropes. One of the Indians looked back, shouted something, and his three companions turned to look. Their pursuers were riding hard, and the four Indians dropped the lead ropes and rode for their lives.
“Let them go, and get the horses,” Cal shouted.
The horses ran only a little way before allowing themselves to be captured. Leading the recovered horses, the trio started back, only too much aware that the snow had already begun covering their westbound trail. The sky was a leaden gray, and the rapidly falling snow reduced visibility to a few feet. Quickenpaugh had an uncanny sense of direction, and it was he who took the lead. The temperature had dropped rapidly, and the wind screamed like a live thing. The only advantage they had was the wind at their backs. Suddenly Cal realized Tom was no longer following. He turned, and through the blowing snow, he was barely able to see Tom lying face-down. The horses waited patiently.
“Quickenpaugh!” Cal shouted.
The Indian wheeled his horse and came on the run. Looping lead ropes about saddle horns, Cal and Quickenpaugh dismounted and knelt beside Tom.
“. . . can’t go on,” Tom mumbled. “Froze . . .”
“Come on, pardner,” pleaded Cal. “We’ll help you.”
But Tom Allen said no more, becoming a dead weight. He had but one chance, and Cal and Quickenpaugh knew it. They stretched him across his saddle, belly-down, using a rope to secure his ankles to his wrists beneath the horse’s belly. Struggling to lead nine horses, they went on, unable to see more than a few feet ahead. There was only the unceasing squall of the wind, the numbing cold, and the ever-deepening snow . . .
*The Western Trail (Trail Drive #2)
*The Virginia City Trail (Trail Drive #7)
3
SOUTH FORK OF THE POWDER RIVER,
WYOMING TERRITORY.
MARCH 12, 1876
As BENT MCCALEB AND Will Elliot struggled to mount the heavy wheels on the new axle, snow swirled about them in an ever-increasing mass. McCaleb had freed the mules from their harness until the wagon had been repaired, and as the storm increased in intensity, the animals turned their backs to the wind and tried to drift.
“The wagon will have to wait until we catch the mules,” McCaleb said.
The mules were quickly caught and their lead ropes tied securely to a wagon wheel, but the chore had taken some time that couldn’t be spared. Once the wheels were mounted on the new axle and the hub nuts secured, Will and McCaleb set about harnessing the teams. By the time they were able to pursue the rest of their outfit, there were no tracks. There was an unbroken expanse of white as far as the eye could see.
“I hope Goose picked a place near the river,” Will shouted above the wind.
“If they’re too far from the river, somebody will come to meet us,” said McCaleb.
In the Lone Star camp, no fires had been started and no windbreaks set up, because the canvas and axes were in the chuck wagon. The entire outfit strained their eyes to see through the swirling snow, back the way they had come. Since McCaleb had left Brazos in charge of the drive, Susannah and Rebecca went to him with their plea. Brazos was saddling his horse.
“Brazos,” said Rebecca, “we’re not that close to the river. Someone should meet Will and McCaleb, to help them find our camp.”
“Someone’s goin’ to,” Brazos said, “just as soon as I finish saddling my horse.”
Reaching the river, Brazos rode south. He couldn’t hear the rattle of the wagon above the howling wind, and was practically face-to-face with the mules before realizing he had found McCaleb and Will. Knowing they couldn’t hear him, and that they would understand why he had come to meet them, Brazos got ahead of the wagon and started back toward camp. Reaching it, he found the rest of the outfit—women included—were in the saddle and circling the cattle and the horse herd. McCaleb reined up the teams on the lee side of the ridge, among the trees. Quickly, he and Will climbed down from the box.
“We don’t have the windbreaks up, and no fires going,” Brazos said, “because we left the canvas and axes in the chuck wagon.”
“I know,” said McCaleb. “We’ll put up the windbreaks and get some fires going.”
The storm-bred wind gleefully snatched the canvas, all but ripping it
from their hands, as they sought to lash it to trees. Once the windbreaks were lashed in place, the three of them took axes from the wagon and began chopping the dragged-in trees into a suitable length for firewood. With dry kindling from the chuck wagon, they soon had two roaring fires going.
“Come on,” McCaleb said. “Let’s relieve the women. They can get some coffee on and start supper.”
Many of the cattle had refused to bed down, standing with their backsides to the wind and bawling their misery. The horse herd was less bothersome because the animals had been enclosed in a rope corral. McCaleb sought out Rebecca, Susannah and Rosalie, sending them back to camp. But McCaleb had no such luck with Penelope.
“They can get supper without me,” Penelope said. “I’m needed out here.”
“I can’t argue with that,” said McCaleb, “but your pa may have other ideas.”
Penelope laughed. “I’ll keep you out of trouble. I’ll tell him you ordered me to go, and that I refused.”
McCaleb rode to find Brazos Gifford. It never ceased to amaze him how much Penelope had become like Brazos, though she wasn’t his blood kin, and had been almost twelve when Brazos had come into her life. When McCaleb found Brazos, they backed their horses to the wind so they could talk without shouting.
“Rebecca, Rosalie and Susannah are ridin’ back to camp,” McCaleb said. “I wanted to send Penelope with them, but she refused to go.”
“Then let her stay out here until her backside freezes to the saddle,” said Brazos. “If she’s hell-bent on being a cowboy, then let her have a good dose of it. All I’ve promised Rosalie is that I’ll see that she don’t swim the rivers naked.”
McCaleb sent Pen Rhodes, Monte Nance and Jed and Stoney Vandiver back to camp to get the chill out of their bones. When they returned several hours later, McCaleb, Brazos, Will and Goose then took their turn by the fire. Only then did Penelope go, and when they returned to the herd, the girl saddled a fresh horse and rode with them.
MONTANA TERRITORY.
The Deadwood Trail Page 5