The Deadwood Trail

by Ralph Compton

  MARCH 12, 1876

  Cal Snider and Quickenpaugh struggled on, and it became more and more difficult to control nine horses on lead ropes. Tom Allen’s bay continually snaked his neck around, trying to see what had become of his rider.

  Back in camp, there was only Jasmine, Lorna and Curley, and they looked at one another worriedly. “I know we can’t ride out looking for them,” Jasmine said, “but there is something we can do that might help them. Let’s build one of the fires as high as the treetops. They’ll need something to guide them in.”

  So the three of them set about building a fire big enough that it might be seen from a distance, even in the blowing snow. They threw pine knots into the fire, knowing the rich pine would burn with plenty of black smoke. The fire responded to the added fuel, and the fierce wind sent flames leaping into the sky. A mile to the west, Quickenpaugh pointed to the east. Against the murky, low-hanging clouds, there were frequent flashes that might have been lightning, but Quickenpaugh knew better. The Indian shouted something that was lost in the wind, but Cal Snider had seen the flashes and understood. They struggled on, until at last, even through the blinding snow, they could see the enormous fire ahead.

  “Tom!” Jasmine cried, when they rode into the circle of the fire’s radiance.

  “He’s alive, but he’s half froze,” said Cal, through chattering teeth. “Get him out of his clothes, wrap him in blankets and give him a heavy dose of whiskey.”

  “We’re going to do that for all of you,” Lorna said. “Cal, you and Quickenpaugh peel out of those clothes. Curley, bring all the extra blankets and the whiskey from the wagon.”

  Behind one of the breaks, out of the wind, Cal tried, but his fingers were numb. Lorna helped him. Not until Curley returned with the blankets and the whiskey did Jasmine or Lorna realize Quickenpaugh and the horses were gone.

  “That damn Indian’s going to freeze to death,” said Jasmine.

  But Quickenpaugh had promised Nelson Story he would deliver the horse herd, and he had taken the recovered horses and loosed them with the rest of the herd. Only then did he return to the fire. Cal and Tom were belly-down on blankets, where Jasmine and Lorna massaged their frozen feet and legs. Neither man wore a stitch, and the Indian eyed them with some amusement.

  “Come on, Quickenpaugh,” Curley said. “Out of those clothes. I’ll take care of you.”

  Quickenpaugh shook his head, moving closer to the fire.

  “Have some whiskey, then,” said Curley. “It’ll warm you up.”

  “No whiskey,” Quickenpaugh said. “Coffee.”

  He got himself a tin cup from the wagon and went to one of the coffeepots that sat on a bed of coals. The nearness of the fire and the massaging of his legs and feet restored Tom Allen’s awareness. He sat up and looked around.

  “Where’s Quickenpaugh?” Tom asked.

  “On the other side of the fire, hunkered down and drinking coffee,” said Curley. “When I tried to see to him like Jasmine and Lorna were caring for you and Cal, he wouldn’t have it. He acted strange, like something was wrong.”

  “Tell him I want to see him,” said Cal, who had been listening.

  Curley told Quickenpaugh, and the Indian said nothing, waiting for Cal to speak.

  “Quickenpaugh, you were as near froze as Tom and me. Curley wanted to help you.”

  “Bud no like,” Quickenpaugh said, his dark eyes on Curley. “Fight.”

  For a long moment, nobody spoke, for they all knew what Quickenpaugh meant.

  “Quickenpaugh,” said Cal, “Mr. Story has confidence in you, and so do I. You’re part of this outfit, and anybody going after you will have to step over me first.”

  “That goes double for me,” Tom Allen said. “You’re one bueno hombre.”

  “Oh, damn,” said Curley, “I’m so ashamed.”

  “Don’t be,” Jasmine said. “It’s not your fault.”

  When Cal, Tom and Quickenpaugh had driven the chill from their bones, they saddled fresh horses and went to relieve some of the other riders who had remained with the herd.

  “We can’t spare all of you at one time,” said Cal. “Three of you can go now.”

  “I aim to be one of the three that goes now,” Bud McDaniels said. “I done my share.”

  “I be stayin’ awhile,” said Oscar Fentress.

  “So will I,” Bill Petty and Quanah Taylor said, in a single voice.

  “Count me in,” said Smokey Ellison.

  “Arch, Hitch and Mac, go ahead,” said Cal. “When you’ve rested a couple of hours and warmed up some, ride on back, so Oscar, Smokey, Quanah and Bill can take a turn.”

  “Damn you,” Bud shouted, “I told you I’m goin’.”

  “Then go on,” said Cal, “but I have something to say to you. If you reach Deadwood alive, one of us won’t be returning to Montana Territory. I won’t ride the same range as a yellow coyote standin’ on his hind legs like a man.”

  “I don’t care what you think,” Bud snarled. “For that matter, I don’t care what Story thinks. I don’t give a damn what any of you think.”

  “Bud,” said Tom, “for Jasmine’s sake—”

  McDaniels laughed. “It’s you that’s sleepin’ with her. She’s got no excuse for leadin’ me around by the nose.”

  Tom Allen put all his strength and fury into his right, and when it struck McDaniels on the jaw, he was literally lifted off his feet. He landed on his back in the snow, and for a moment, all the wind had been driven out of him. In a rage he reached for his Colt, only to find that Cal Snider had him covered.

  “Pull that iron,” Cal said, “and I’ll kill you.”

  McDaniels got unsteadily to his feet, mounted his horse and rode toward the distant fires. Arch, Hitch and Mac eventually followed.

  “I don’t know what’s goin’ to become of him,” said Tom Allen. “How much does a man have to put up with, when his brother-in-law’s a damn fool?”

  “I don’t know,” Cal said, “but I don’t think you should cut him any slack for Jasmine’s sake. I don’t aim to.”

  When McDaniels reached the fire, he was in a savage mood. Curley ignored him, and he grabbed the girl around the waist, drawing her to him. Curley seized one of his fingers, bending it back, and he cursed her. Releasing Curley, he kicked her in the behind, and she fell face-down, almost in the fire. McDaniels stood there breathing hard, looking into the muzzle of a Colt that was steady in Jasmine’s hand. McDaniels laughed shakily.

  “Don’t you ever let me see—or even hear—of you mistreating her again,” Jasmine said. “Gut-shooting’s too good for you, and I’ll aim six inches lower.”

  Curley got to her knees, snow and dirt clinging to her coat and her face. She spoke not a word, and in the flickering light from the fire, Jasmine and Lorna could see silent tears streaking her cheeks. Arch, Hitch and Mac had arrived just in time to witness the sorry spectacle, and stood there in awkward silence.

  “There’s plenty of hot coffee,” Jasmine said. “Come and get it.”

  They did, and it drew attention away from Curley, allowing the girl to compose herself and to dry her tears. Bud McDaniels poured a tin cup full of coffee and hunkered by the fire as though nothing had happened. He sneaked an occasional look at Jasmine, only to find her eyes on him, stormy and unrelenting. Curley had gotten as far from him as she could and was ignoring him. None of them cared if he lived or died, McDaniels decided, and before he was done, he would make them sorry they had ever come down on him.

  POWDER RIVER, WYOMING TERRITORY.

  MARCH 14, 1876

  The storm raged for two days and nights, and during the second day, McCaleb and his riders had to brave the snow and icy wind to drag in more firewood.

  “I’m tired of draggin’ in firewood out of the snow, while that damn Indian don’t lift a hand,” Monte Nance complained.

  “Goose does his share and then some,” said Benton McCaleb. “Somebody has to keep the herd and the horses settled, and Goose is just
a hell of a lot better at it than you are.”

  Penelope had chosen to ride with them, and when the girl laughed, Monte turned his furious eyes on her. Only when he found McCaleb watching him did he avert his gaze.

  “Let’s try to snake out enough wood this time, so that we don’t have to come again,” McCaleb said. “It’s gettin’ colder.”

  “Snow’s thinnin’ out some,” said Brazos. “It’ll likely end some time tonight.”

  “It’ll still be almighty cold,” Will said, “and when the sun comes out, we’ll be here for a week, waitin’ for the mud to dry up.”

  The six of them dragged in as much fallen timber as they could and then took turns with the four axes from the chuck wagon, cutting the logs into manageable lengths for their fires.

  “I’m riding out with Pen, Jed, Stoney and Goose,” Penelope announced.

  “I think you’ve spent enough time out in this cold,” said Rosalie. “It could be the death of you.”

  Penelope laughed. “It could be the death of any of us. I’m no more special than any of the rest of the outfit.”

  With that, she was gone, into the swirling snow.

  “Her and her cowboy ways are going to be the death of me” said Rosalie.

  “She’ll grow out of it,” Brazos assured her.

  But none of them knew Monte Nance had plans for the girl, when the time was right.

  MONTANA TERRITORY.

  MARCH 20, 1876

  “Head ’em up, move ’em out,” Cal shouted.

  Following the two-day storm, there had been enough sun to melt the snow and suck up much of the resulting mud. Cal rode point, while Tom Allen and Oscar Fentress were the swing riders. Smokey Ellison and Quanah Taylor were the flankers. Bill Petty and Bud McDaniels, accompanied by Jasmine and Curley, rode drag. Lorna drove the chuck wagon, trying to avoid holes and drop-offs that might further damage the vehicle.

  “Bill,” said Jasmine, “how far do you think we’ve come?”

  “I’m not sure,” Petty replied. “I looked at a map once, and I figured it fifty miles from Virginia City to the Yellowstone. If nothin’ else slows us down, we oughta be reaching the Boulder in a couple more days.”

  “Then we won’t be quite a hundred miles from our home range,” Curley said.

  “That’s how it stacks up,” said Petty. “As trail drives go, we’re behind schedule.”

  Suddenly a brindle bull decided he no longer wished to be part of the drive. Galloping off to one side, he avoided Bud McDaniels, who was the closest rider. McDaniels lit out after the animal, only to have his horse ram a left front foot into a deep hole. McDaniels was pitched over the head of the unfortunate horse and landed belly-down. He lay there, unable to breathe, for the wind had been knocked out of him. Bill Petty had kicked his horse into a gallop, but the troublesome bull reached McDaniels first. The animal hooked at Bud, managing to get one sharp horn under the waistband of McDaniels’s Levi’s. The mighty bull reared, shaking his head, trying to free himself of the unwelcome human burden. Bud McDaniels screamed, and it seemed to further infuriate his captor. The bull gave a mighty heave, and McDaniels’s belt broke. His Levi’s were dragged down to his ankles, unable to go any farther because of his boots. He was free of the bull for the moment, but the animal had by no means given up.

  “Damn it,” Petty shouted, “get out of those boots and run for it. I’ll draw him away from you.”

  But the bull had decided Bud McDaniels was the cause of all his troubles, and ignoring Bill Petty, the animal again charged McDaniels.

  “Shoot the bastard,” McDaniels squalled.

  But it was too late. McDaniels was on his knees, trying to get to his feet, when one of the bull’s horns raked his bare backside. Recognizing the problem, Jasmine had un-limbered her lariat and roped the bull. Bill Petty dropped a second loop over the animal’s head, and helpless between the two of them, the bull was forced back into the herd. But the herd was no longer moving. The swing riders had alerted Cal to the problem, and with the help of the flank and swing riders, the drive had been halted. McDaniels lay face-down, unable or unwilling to get up. His Levi’s had been ripped into two pieces, and there was a terrible bloody gash where the bull’s horn had raked him from knee to waist. The horse herd and the chuck wagon had been following the cattle, and the horse wranglers arrived just in time to witness McDaniels being raked with a horn. Lorna reined up the chuck wagon’s teams, her eyes on Curley, but Curley made no move. The wranglers—Arch, Hitch, Mac and Quickenpaugh—looked on in silence. It was an awkward situation, and nobody spoke until Cal Snider arrived.

  “McDaniels,” said Cal, “you can lay there on your belly and bleed, or you can get up and have that wound attended.”

  McDaniels struggled to his knees, sparing his bloody backside. When he finally was on his feet, he balanced on one foot and then the other, removing his boots. He then ripped off what remained of his ruined Levi’s and flung them away. He stood there, wearing only his shirt, glaring at all of them defiantly.

  “Bud,” Jasmine said, “I think everybody’s seen enough. You do have another pair of britches, don’t you?”

  “In my bedroll,” said McDaniels sullenly.

  “No hurry for that,” Cal said. “The river’s handy and we have water. That wound can’t wait until day’s end.”

  “There’s dry wood in the chuck wagon’s possum belly,” said Lorna. “I’ll start a fire.”

  “Then I’ll get a pot of water ready,” Jasmine said. “Curley, do you want to help?”

  “No,” said Curley. “I’ve seen all I ever want to see of him, with or without britches.”

  “Tom,” Cal said, “take everybody with you except Jasmine, Lorna and Curley. See that the horse herd and the cattle are settled. We’ll be here awhile.”

  When the riders had gone, McDaniels stood there saying nothing, blood streaming down his bare leg. The fire was going, and Jasmine was hanging a pot of water over it.

  “Bud,” said Cal, “you have a serious wound. You have three choices as to who doctors you. There’s Jasmine, Lorna or me.”

  “None of you, damn it,” McDaniels growled. “I want Curley.”

  Curley laughed bitterly. “I hope you get blood poisoning and it rots off everything from your belly button to the ground.”

  “Then I’ll do the doctoring,” said Jasmine.

  “I’ll help you,” Lorna said.

  “No,” McDaniels shouted. “I want Curley.”

  “I reckon there’s hombres in hell wantin’ springwater,” said Cal. “You’ll take what you can get. Then we’ll clear a space in the chuck wagon where you can lay on your belly and whine for the next two weeks.”

  Cal rode back and joined the rest of the riders who were circling the herd. Jasmine and Lorna waited for the water to boil, while McDaniels lay belly-down, watching them warily. Jasmine went closer, the better to examine the wound, and found it had stopped bleeding.

  “Damn you,” said Bud. “You just can’t wait to get your hands on me, can you?”

  “Only because nobody else wants the damn job,” Jasmine said bitterly. “Lorna, you don’t have to watch this. I can manage.”

  “I’ll stay,” said Lorna. “It’s not fair that you be stuck with all the dirty work.”

  She had taken the pot of boiling water from the fire, and at that point, Bud McDaniels said exactly the wrong thing.

  “Let her stay,” Bud said. “She just wants to see me without my Levi’s.”

  Lorna sloshed half the pot of boiling water on McDaniels’s bare backside. Shouting in pain and fury, McDaniels got to his knees and began cursing Lorna in particular, and the rest of the outfit in general.

  “Lorna,” said Jasmine, “why don’t you use the rest of that boiling water?”

  There was cheering from the rest of the riders, all of whom had gathered to watch from a distance. McDaniels, aware that he was entertaining them by making a fool of himself, gritted his teeth and said no more. Jasmine took the
pot containing the balance of the hot water and approached Bud.

  “Don’t you even think about it,” McDaniels snarled.

  “Then get on your feet,” said Jasmine. “I want this over and done with.”

  McDaniels laughed. “You got more than just a hornrakin’ that needs doctorin’ now. That little wench scalded me with hot water.”

  “The noblest thing this little wench has ever done,” Lorna said. “My one regret is that I didn’t have enough to drown you.”

  “You’ll get your behind doctored where you were raked with a horn,” said Jasmine. “We have no means of treating a burn. It’ll be left unbandaged, and hopefully the open air will help to heal it.”

  “Meanin’ I got to lay on my belly until it heals,” McDaniels said.

  “So what?” said Jasmine. “You’ll be on your belly until your wound heals. Unless you think you’re man enough to sit a saddle.”

  Jasmine said no more. The water had cooled somewhat, and, tilting the pot, Jasmine poured the rest of it on McDaniels’s backside and bloody leg.

  “Yeeeow,” McDaniels squalled. “That’s too hot.”

  “No matter,” said Jasmine cheerfully. “That’s all of it.”

  Lorna had taken the medicine chest from the wagon. Opening it, she and Jasmine began looking for some disinfectant. The bottle, when they found it, was three-quarters full of an amber liquid. Jasmine poured some of the disinfectant on a clean cloth and began at the lower end of the wound, just above Bud’s knee. Aware that the rest of the outfit was still watching with amusement, McDaniels gritted his teeth to avoid crying out. Jasmine finally concluded her work with the disinfectant.

  “Lorna,” said Jasmine, “hand me a tin of sulfur salve.”

  Lorna did so, and Jasmine coated the wound with it. Bud had been scalded, and she applied some of the salve where it was needed. Cal approached, and Jasmine got to her feet.

  “I brought his other pair of Levi’s,” Cal said.

  “He won’t be needing them for a while,” said Jasmine. “They would keep that wound rubbed raw. I think we’d better put him belly-down in the chuck wagon, just like he is, and allow the open air to do the healing.”