“I’m not sure I want this naked varmint in the chuck wagon, with Lorna driving,” Cal said doubtfully.
“I’m not afraid of him,” said Lorna. “I’ve seen all there is to see, and I’m not in the least impressed.”
Nevertheless, Cal and Tom rearranged the contents of the wagon, moving most of the supplies toward the front. That provided a considerable barrier between the wounded Bud and Lorna, when she took her position on the wagon box. McDaniels’s saddle was piled into the chuck wagon, and his horse was taken to the remuda. Having lost two hours, the herd again moved out.
“Damn it,” said Tom Allen, “why couldn’t Jasmine have had a sister, instead of a scrub-tailed little varmint of a brother?”
Cal laughed. “That’s why it pays to have friends. We can’t choose our kin.”
ALONG THE POWDER RIVER, WYOMING TERRITORY.
MARCH 20, 1876
Fair weather continued, and the Lone Star outfit took full advantage of it. Even Monte Nance seemed to put forth an extra effort, and on most days, the drive traveled at least fifteen miles. Goose scouted ahead, but found no Indian sign.
“They’re gathering to raise some hell in the Dakotas,” Brazos predicted.
“That’s likely,” said McCaleb, “and it’s in our favor. As long as Red Cloud and the Sioux are tangling horns with the army, they may overlook us.”
The outfit had just settled the herd and supper was under way when a stranger hailed the camp. He led a limping horse, and a holstered Colt was tied low on each hip.
“I don’t like the looks of him,” Will Elliot said. “He’ll be wantin’ a horse, and we can’t spare one.”
“Howdy,” said McCaleb, when the stranger was close enough. “I’m Benton McCaleb, trail boss for Lone Star.”
“Stanton Horseley,” the stranger replied. “I been follerin’ you for a while. My horse is lame, and I’m needin’ to swap him for another.”
“Sorry,” said McCaleb. “All we have is our remuda horses, and we can’t spare even one of them.”
“His leg will heal in a couple of days, and he’ll be good as new,” Horseley said.
“Then I’d suggest you camp somewhere until he heals,” said McCaleb.
“I can’t spare the time,” Horseley said. “My grub’s runnin’ low.”
“You’re welcome to eat with us tonight and in the morning,” said McCaleb.
“I’m obliged,” Horseley said.
He unsaddled the lame bay horse, allowing the animal to roll. Silently, Rebecca brought him a tin cup of steaming coffee. He took a sip of his coffee, and then he spoke.
“I never seen a trail drive comin’ through here before. Where you folks bound?”
“Deadwood,” said McCaleb, wishing Horseley hadn’t asked.
“Well, don’t that beat a goose a-gobblin’. That’s where I’m headed,” Horseley said.
“Why?” Penelope asked innocently. “You’re not a miner or a cowboy.”
Horseley laughed. “Matter of fact, I’m not. Cowboying is dirty, low-payin’ work, and so is blistering your hands with shovel and pick handles. I mine my gold across a poker table.”
Monte Nance looked interested, and it prompted McCaleb to speak.
“There’ll be no gambling in this camp, Horseley.”
“Fine,” said Horseley. “I never gamble with friends.”
“He doesn’t look like the kind who would have any friends,” Susannah said softly.
“I doubt that he has,” said Will. “He said that, hopin’ it’ll give him an edge later on. I think we’ll be watching the horse remuda mighty close tonight.”
After supper, McCaleb made the rounds, speaking to every rider in the outfit. Monte Nance, Will Elliot and Jed and Stoney Vandiver took the first watch.
“Good thinking,” Brazos Gifford said. “If he tries anything foolish, it’ll be after midnight, I reckon.”
“You didn’t assign me to either watch,” said Penelope.
“Then take the first one,” Brazos replied.
“No,” said Penelope. “I won’t be on the same watch with that bastard Monte Nance.”
“Penelope,” Brazos said, “you know how your mother feels about your . . . talk.”
“I know,” said Penelope cheerfully, “but she’s not listening. Besides, I don’t talk any worse than you. Are you going to tell on me?”
Brazos sighed. “I reckon not.”
McCaleb laughed. “Just what we need, amigo. A female Brazos Gifford.”
4
LONE STAR’S FIRST WATCH rode out at dusk, and Horseley had made no suspicious moves. When the second watch took over at midnight, the stranger was rolled in his blankets.
“I can’t figure him out,” Brazos said, as he and McCaleb circled the herd. “He knows as well as we do that horse of his will be just as lame in the morning as he is tonight. I look for him to offer to join the drive without pay, for the use of a horse.”
“I’d have to turn him down,” said McCaleb. “Right now, every rider has three mounts in his string, and they’re all needed. If we can’t spare him even one horse, how in thunder would we come up with three?”
“We can’t,” Brazos said, “but I can’t help thinking there’ll be trouble.”
“You may be right,” said McCaleb. “In the morning, I want you to keep Rosalie and Penelope well away from Horseley. I’ve already spoken to Rebecca, and Will promised to tell Susannah.”
“I see what you mean,” said Brazos, “and I’ll do my part. We don’t know what kind of pistolero this pilgrim is, so Will and me will side you.”
“I’m obliged,” McCaleb said.
“Ganos,” said a voice from the darkness.
“Come on, Goose,” said McCaleb.
The Lipan Apache seemed to materialize where there had been only shadows a moment before.
“Dos Pistolas no sleep,” Goose said.*
“Thanks, Goose,” said McCaleb quietly. “I want you to watch him until first light. If he makes a move toward any of the horses, stop him.”
“Kill?”
“If that’s the only way you can stop him,” McCaleb replied. “I trust your judgment.”
Silently, like a shadow, the Indian was gone.
“At least he won’t try anything during the night,” said Brazos.
Rebecca, Rosalie and Susannah started breakfast at first light, and nothing seemed out of the ordinary. The coffee was ready first, and Horseley lined up with the others, pouring himself a tin cup full. When breakfast was over, the Lone Star riders went to saddle their horses. Stanton Horseley lifted the hoof of his own lamed mount, apparently to examine it. But next to his horse, Penelope was saddling her own. Horseley suddenly rolled under his mount and, lightning-quick, came to his feet and seized the startled Penelope.
“Now,” said Horseley, a Colt in his hand, “I reckon I’m is a position to bargain for a horse.”
“You’re in a position to get yourself shot dead,” McCaleb said. “Let her go, and maybe we’ll forget this ever happened.”
Horseley laughed. “It don’t pay to be too trusting, McCaleb. This little filly’s goin’ to ride with me a ways. Maybe a long ways, if any of you follow.”
But Penelope had other ideas. While Horseley had a brawny arm about her waist, the girl had full control of her feet. She stomped on her captor’s toes, and involuntarily his grip loosened just enough. Penelope went limp and slipped to the ground. It was just the break McCaleb was waiting for, and when Horseley went for his Colt, McCaleb
drew. His weapon rode butt-forward on his left hip, for a cross-hand draw, and his Colt roared an instant ahead of Horseley’s. The lead slammed him back against Penelope’s saddled horse, and Penelope caught the reins of the animal before it could run. Horseley slumped to the ground, unmoving.
“Damn him,” said Brazos, “he waited until he knew I couldn’t get a clear shot at him. Are you all right, Penelope?”
“Sure,” Penelope replied.
“Th
en go to your mother,” said Brazos. “She’s not all right.”
“I will,” Penelope said, “but there’s something I have to do first.”
She threw her arms around McCaleb’s neck, kissing him long and hard. She then made her way to Rosalie.
Brazos laughed. “Instead of picking up my habits, she may start acting more like you.”
Rebecca was smiling, and, taking that as favorable, McCaleb said nothing. Brazos turned the lame horse in with the remuda. Jed and Stoney Vandiver had begun digging a grave for the dead man. Will Elliot and Pen Rhodes searched Horseley and then his saddlebags.
“He was more an outlaw than a gambler,” said Will. “Look what we found in his saddlebags.”
McCaleb studied the WANTED dodger on which there had been drawn a reasonable likeness of the dead man.
“Wanted for murder in Texas,” McCaleb said. “No wonder he was bound for Dakota Territory.”
“There’s a reward,” said Monte Nance, “but it don’t say how much.”
“Won’t matter if it’s ten thousand dollars,” McCaleb said. “We’re in the midst of a trail drive. When we plant this hombre, we’re movin’ out.”
It was a mild reprimand, but nonetheless serious to Monte Nance. He said nothing, but Rebecca didn’t like the way he looked at Benton McCaleb . . .
YELLOWSTONE RIVER, MONTANA TERRITORY.
MARCH 25, 1876
“It took us a mite longer to get here than it should have,” Bill Petty said, “but it may be just as well. Any sooner, and it would have been running bank-full, from all the snow.”
“You’re likely right,” said Cal Snider, “but we’re not going to waste any time crossing it. We’re due for another storm, and that may bring more high water.”*
“We’d better get started, if we aim to cross before dark,” said Tom Allen.
“Why don’t we just wait for first light and do it tomorrow?” Lorna asked.
Cal laughed. “I thought you was cowpuncher enough to know that. Cattle won’t cross with the sun in their eyes.”
“Well, damn,” said Lorna. “It’s been ten years since we brought a herd from Texas to Virginia City, and I don’t remember everything.”†
The cattle were taken across first, followed by the horse herd, and then the remuda. Cal went looking for a shallows where the chuck wagon could cross, and he returned just minutes before sundown. Jasmine sat on the wagon box, waiting.
“Get down,” Cal said, “and I’ll take it across. Water’s a mite deep.”
Jasmine stepped down from the wagon box, and Cal handed her the reins to his horse. Mounting the box, Cal drove downstream. Without being asked, Smokey Ellison and Oscar Fentress mounted their horses and followed. Reaching the shallows where the banks were low enough
for crossing, Cal guided the mules into the river. But the water was deeper than it should have been for such a crossing, and the swift current lurched the chuck wagon to the right. But Smokey and Oscar had ridden their horses into the river on the downstream side of the wagon, and they each seized a wagon bow, steadying the wagon. Glad to be on solid ground again, the mules gave it their all, and the wagon lurched up the east bank of the Yellowstone. Cal reined up the teams a hundred yards upstream from the cattle and the horses. He had completely forgotten about the injured Bud McDaniels in the back of the wagon, until McDaniels spoke.
“You ain’t much of a teamster, Snider,” said McDaniels. “You don’t care a damn about me, do you?”
“Not really,” Cal said. “Anytime you figure ridin’ in the wagon’s too risky, and you’re able to mount a horse, saddle up. Or you can walk.”
It had been long enough since the last storm that there was dry wood at hand, and by the time Cal got the wagon across, Jasmine, Lorna and Curley had the fires blazing. The coffeepots were immediately filled and put on to boil.
“I need some help back here,” Bud McDaniels shouted.
“I’ll see what he wants,” said Jasmine wearily.
“I want my damn Levi’s,” McDaniels said. “I ain’t layin’ here another minute.”
“Thank God for small miracles,” said Jasmine. “I’ll get them.”
“Here’s his Levi’s,” Cal said, “but there was no extra belt in his bedroll.”
“No matter,” said Jasmine. “His wound hasn’t healed. He won’t be wearing them very long, because he’s in no condition to ride. He’s just being cantankerous.”
But the injury had taken its toll, and during the night, Bud McDaniels’s condition worsened. At dawn, Jasmine found him talking out of his head and burning with fever. The infection had not only returned, but had worsened. Cal faced the outfit before breakfast, and they knew by the grim set of his jaw that something was wrong.
“The infection’s back, and Bud’s in a bad way,” Cal said. “He’s in no condition to be moved. We’ll be here awhile.”
At first, nobody said anything. It had been one delay after another, and they had but little progress to show for almost a month on the trail. Jasmine took one of the pots of boiling water that had been intended for coffee and had started toward the chuck wagon.
“I’ll help you tend him,” said Lorna.
“So will I,” Curley said. “I have a lot to forgive. I reckon I’d better get started.”
The three of them worked over Bud McDaniels for an hour, and not once did he know them. His meaningless mumbling was mingled with curses and, occasionally, tears.
“My God,” said Lorna, “what more can we do for him, that we haven’t done already?”
“I don’t know,” Jasmine said softly. “May God have mercy on him.”
“Pour some of the whiskey into the wound,” Curley said. “It may be stronger than the disinfectant.”
“It’s worth a try,” said Jasmine. “We don’t have anything to lose.”
Jasmine poured whiskey into the festering wound, and Bud groaned. Curley and Lorna said nothing, their eyes on Jasmine’s stricken face. Silent tears crept down her cheeks as she looked upon the kid brother who had brought her nothing but misery and despair. It was time for Jasmine to let go. With Lorna on one side of her and Curley on the other, they drew her back against the wagon canvas. She wept until she could weep no more. She wiped away the tears on the sleeves of her shirt, and only then did she speak.
“The others are waiting for breakfast. We must get it started.”
“You and Lorna go ahead,” said Curley. “I’ll stay with him.”
Only then did they become aware that Quickenpaugh stood at the wagon’s tailgate, his eyes on the stricken Bud, lying belly-down. Curious as to what the Indian had in mind, some of the outfit had followed him.
“No burn, him die,” Quickenpaugh said.
Jasmine and Lorna didn’t understand, and so that they might hear better, they slid off the wagon’s tailgate. To emphasize his words, Quickenpaugh drew his Bowie knife, pointing it toward the distant breakfast fire. Although Quickenpaugh couldn’t find the proper words, Cal Snider understood what he was trying to tell them.
“You would heat the cuchillo in the fire and burn away the poison,” said Cal.
“Si,” Quickenpaugh said.
“Quickenpaugh wants to cauterize the wound,” Cal said. “It involves heating the Bowie blade red-hot and searing the wound.”
“I’ve never seen it done, but I’ve heard of it,” said Tom Allen. “Trouble is, it can be one hell of a shock to the body. A man with a weak heart might not live through it.”
“True enough,” Cal said, “but it’s the only chance he has, and then only if the poison hasn’t gotten into his blood. Jasmine, as his next of kin, it’s up to you.”
Jasmine’s eyes were on the silent Quickenpaugh, and in her mind she thought back to the many occasions when Bud McDaniels had baited and ridiculed the Indian. When finally she spoke, it was directly to Quickenpaugh.
“You would do that . . . for him?”
Quickenpaugh shook his head. “I do that for you.”
&
nbsp; “My God,” said Arch Rainey, “there stands a man.”
From within the wagon, Curley couldn’t believe her ears. She stared at Quickenpaugh as though seeing him for the first time. The Indian, in his own way, had just justified her decision to forgive the abusive Bud McDaniels. Jasmine approached Quickenpaugh until she was looking into his dark eyes. Only then did she reply.
“If you believe you can save him, Quickenpaugh, please do it.”
Quickenpaugh nodded, pointing to Bud and then to the fire.
“Tom,” said Cal, “he wants Bud taken near the fire. Give me a hand.”
Curley climbed out of the wagon, and with Bud McDaniels lying belly-down on a pair of blankets, Cal and Tom managed to take him near the fire. It had died down, but Lorna piled on more wood, and it flamed to life anew.
“Dos cuchillo,” Quickenpaugh said.*
Without a word, Oscar Fentress drew his own Bowie, as long and lethal as Quickenpaugh’s own. He presented the weapon to Quickenpaugh haft-first, and the Indian took it. When the fire had become a mass of glowing coals, Quickenpaugh—using a stick—heaped live coals upon the blades of the two Bowie knives.
“He’s using two knives,” said Tom Allen. “Who else would have thought of that?”
“By the time one knife cools, the other will be ready,” Cal said. “Ether way, it’ll be almighty unpleasant. Jasmine, Lorna and Curley, I don’t think you should watch.”
“I aim to watch,” said Curley. “If he lives, I want him never to forget that his life has been spared by an Indian who might only have wanted to see him dead.”
Several times, Quickenpaugh tested the knives, returning the blades to the coals. When they became red-hot, he withdrew one, and when he hunkered down before Bud McDaniels, the blade had cooled to a silver-gray. Cal stood by the fire, prepared to see that the other knife was ready when Quickenpaugh needed it. Quickenpaugh began with the lesser part of the wound, on McDaniels’s left leg. He held the Bowie in position for only a second, moving it upward. Even in his unconscious condition, Bud McDaniels screamed and tried to get to his knees. Tom Allen held down his feet, while Oscar Fentress and Smokey Ellison each captured one of his flailing arms. But the knife blade had cooled, and Quickenpaugh presented it, haft-first, to Cal, who shoved it back into the coals. The Indian stooped and withdrew the second knife from the fire, taking up where he had left off in the cauterizing of Bud McDaniels’s terrible wound. There was the sickening odor of seared flesh, but little more than a grunt from Bud, for he was unconscious. Quickenpaugh alternated knives a dozen times before he felt he had accomplished what he had set out to do. Wordlessly, he drove the blades of both Bowie knives into the ground, cleaning them. He then sheathed his own Bowie and, haft-first, returned Oscar’s. Despite Cal’s warning, after McDanieis had ceased screaming and fighting, Jasmine and Lorna had crept up beside Curley, their eyes drawn to the terrible drama taking place before them.
The Deadwood Trail Page 7