The Deadwood Trail

by Ralph Compton

  “I don’t know,” Curley said. “You think he means it?”

  “I believe he does,” said Jasmine. “It’s just that he feels sheepish, just as he damn well should. Don’t make it easy for him. Make him say the words.”

  Curley was gone almost an hour, and when she returned to the fire, the change in her was nothing less than remarkable.

  “Well,” said Jasmine, “I reckon he said some of the right things.”

  “He did,” Curley said. “Lying on his belly, he stood tall, like a man should. He wants to see Quickenpaugh, if Quickenpaugh will come.”

  Hearing his name, Quickenpaugh stood up.

  “Quickenpaugh,” said Curley, “Bud wants to see you.”

  The Indian said nothing, and his expressionless face told them nothing. They had every reason to believe he was going to refuse, when Quickenpaugh spoke to Curley.

  “Why?”

  “He knows you saved his life, and he wants to thank you,” Curley said.

  “Quickenpaugh no want thank-you.”

  “Quickenpaugh,” said Jasmine, “we’re forcing Bud to become a man, to try and make something of himself. Will you go?”

  Quickenpaugh nodded and started for the wagon. Jasmine waited until he had reached the rear of it, and then hurried to the front of the canvas-topped wagon. Bud McDaniels had his work cut out for him, for Quickenpaugh wasn’t interested in making friends with McDaniels. He said nothing, waiting for Bud to speak.

  “Quickenpaugh,” said Bud, “I’m sorry I’ve been such a . . . a . . .”

  “Bastardo,” Quickenpaugh finished.

  “Yeah,” said Bud. “That, and worse. Can’t we be amigos?”

  “Muchos mañanas,” Quickenpaugh said.*

  Ignoring Bud’s extended hand, the Indian walked away. When he had gone, Jasmine took his place behind the wagon.

  “Damn him,” said Bud, “I tried, but he wouldn’t have it.”

  “He didn’t turn you down,” Jasmine said. “He’ll wait and watch you, because he’s had more than enough of your words. You’ll have to prove yourself.”

  “I can’t read his mind,” said Bud. “How can I become his friend?”

  “You’ll find a way,” Jasmine said, “and when the time comes, you’ll know.”

  A cold northwest wind whipped the wagon canvas.

  “I think it’s time for me to get out of here and go to the fire,” said Bud.

  “Come on, then,” Jasmine said, “and I’ll help you as much as I can. You may be weak in the knees.”

  McDaniels slid off the wagon’s tailgate, using it to support himself. Jasmine removed two blankets from the wagon, draping them around Bud so that he could hold them in place. He took one short step, and would have fallen if Jasmine hadn’t caught him.

  “Stay here by the wagon,” said Jasmine, “while I get some help. You’re too much for me.”

  Already there was a flurry of windblown snow, and Tom Allen had just snaked in a new load of wood.

  “Tom,” Jasmine said, “Bud’s wanting to get to the fire, but his legs are weak. He’s too heavy for just me. Will you help?”

  “Better than that,” said Tom, “I’ll get Cal to help me, and you stay out of it. You’re a married woman, and you have no business fooling around with another man who’s all of thirty and jaybird naked.”

  “Bud’s my brother,” Jasmine snapped. “How can you make something of that?”

  “You’ve been wiping his nose for all the years I’ve known you,” said Tom, “and I’m just not completely sure how far you’d go to please him. Now pour yourself some coffee and set down by the fire.”

  Furious, Jasmine bit her tongue, holding back the angry words that might well become a wedge between her and Tom. She watched as he spoke to Cal and the two of them went to the chuck wagon. With both of them supporting Bud McDaniels, he was able to walk to one of the fires. Quickenpaugh ignored Bud, looking into the fire and seeing nothing. By early afternoon, the day had become as night, with dirty gray clouds stretching from horizon to horizon. Tom Allen had moved the chuck wagon beyond the fires, so its bulk and canvas might serve as a wind- and snow-break.

  BISMARCK, DAKOTA TERRITORY.

  APRIL 2, 1876

  The tent flap fluttered wildly in the wind as Major Marcus Reno and Captain Frederick Benteen stepped into the tent that had become the Seventh Cavalry’s headquarters. Smartly they saluted their commander, General George A. Custer.

  “At ease, men,” said Custer, returning the salute. “I have received unofficial word that there will be a comprehensive campaign against the Sioux within the next sixty days. Our regiment will be detailed to the column under Commanding General Alfred H. Terry. Weil be marching from Bismarck to the Yellowstone, and as far west as we must, to engage the enemy.”

  “About time, sir,” said Captain Benteen. “The men are weary of close-order drill seven days a week.”

  “Let them get used to it,” Custer snapped. “Until we are ordered to march north, you and your men may expect close-order drill twice daily. Dismissed.”

  The officers were well away from the tent when Benteen spoke.

  “That’s just too damned much drill, with knee-deep snow and freezing wind. The men are going to hate his guts.”

  Major Reno laughed. “You think he cares? He thinks of us all as means to an end, and he’d sacrifice us, to the last man, for another star.”

  ALONG THE POWDER RIVER, WYOMING TERRITORY.

  APRIL 2, 1876

  “Thank God,” said McCaleb, when the blowing snow ceased.

  “That’s the good news,” Brazos said. “The bad news is that, even if we didn’t have the chuck wagon, the snow’s so deep, the horses and cows couldn’t make it. We may be here a week before the sun melts it and sucks up enough of it for us to move on.”

  “Unless it warms up almighty fast,” said Will, “we’ll have to break trail for our horses and go looking for more firewood. Three fires swallow it up mighty quick.”

  “By tomorrow, we’ll know if it will warm up anytime soon,” McCaleb said. “If we need more wood, we’ll just have to find it and drag it in.”

  As she often did, Penelope took a basin of hot water to the chuck wagon, so that she might have privacy for bathing. Inside, she closed the canvas pucker so that nobody could see inside. There was barely room for her, and with supplies piled high all the way to the wagon box, she was unable to close the canvas pucker at the front. Quickly she removed her coat and gloves, then her boots, Levi’s and woolen shirt. The water had already begun to cool. Naked, her teeth chattering, she hurried her bath. Suddenly some of the things at the front of the wagon shifted, and a heavy tin of Winchester shells fell, striking her bare foot.

  “Who’s there?” Penelope cried.

  Nobody answered, and Penelope felt her injured foot. It was numb, and she had no idea how badly it was hurt. Hurriedly, she got into her shirt and Levi’s, before attempting to get her boots on. To her dismay, she could feel the foot beginning to swell, and was unable to flex it enough to get the boot on. She donned her heavy coat and gloves, and, in her bare feet, untied the canvas pucker at the rear of the wagon.

  “Help me,” the girl cried. “Somebody help me.”

  While the snow had ceased, the wind had not, and it snatched away her frantic cries for help. But there was a spare Winchester—fully loaded—in the chuck wagon. Penelope pointed its muzzle through the wagon’s pucker and fired three times. McCaleb and Brazos came on the run, but Goose was there ahead of them.

  “Somebody was watching me through the front of the wagon,” said Penelope. “A heavy tin of shells fell on my left foot, and I can’t get my boot on.”

  “Just as well,” Brazos said. “We’d have to cut the boot off. I’ll tote you to the fire, and we’ll get that foot into some hot water before the swelling gets any worse.”

  Understanding the situation, Goose had gone to the front of the wagon and was there when McCaleb joined him. Boot tracks led to the wa
gon from the south, while the tracks leading away were of a much longer stride.

  “She’s right,” said McCaleb. “Somebody was watching her.”

  Goose was already following the tracks, and McCaleb hurried to catch up to him. The trail was clear enough in the deep snow, but a hundred yards south of the wagon, it led into a thicket along the east bank of the Powder. There they lost the trail, for the thicket and the riverbank had served as a snowbreak, and the bare ground was frozen so hard that tracks were out of the question.

  “Damn it, he went somewhere,” said McCaleb. “Let’s follow the riverbank back to our camp and look for more tracks.”

  But there were no more tracks. While the snow had blown in and frozen to the water line on the river’s east bank, there was virtually no accumulation along the upper bank.

  “What did you find?” Rebecca asked anxiously, when McCaleb and Goose returned to camp.

  “Tracks,” said McCaleb, “but we lost them downriver, where there was very little snow on the riverbank, and the ground’s frozen too hard for tracks.”

  “Then Penelope was right,” Rebecca said. “Somebody was watching her, and I’m sorry to say, but I believe I know who it was.”

  “So do I,” said McCaleb. “Where is he?”

  They saw Monte Nance emerge from a thicket along the riverbank, well above where McCaleb and Goose had lost the trail.

  “I heard shooting,” Monte said. “Anything wrong?”

  “Plenty,” said McCaleb, “and you took long enough getting here to check it out. Where the hell have you been?”

  “Squattin’ in the bushes,” Monte said, “and I wasn’t in no position to hurry. You got reasons for doubtin’ that?”

  “A damn good reason,” said McCaleb. “I aim to have another look at those tracks that lead away from the wagon.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Brazos said, for he too had seen Monte Nance approaching from the river.

  “How’s Penelope’s foot?” McCaleb asked, as he and Brazos made their way through deep snow to the wagon.

  “Rosalie’s soaking it in hot water,” said Brazos. “It doesn’t look broken, but it could be fractured. I want to get my hands on the yellow coyote that left those tracks.”

  “That tin of shells falling on her foot was an accident,” McCaleb said.

  “I’m not denyin’ that,” said Brazos, “but the no-account varmint that was watchin’ her was no accident.”

  But the tracks told them nothing, for the snow was deep, and the edges of the tracks had crumbled. There was no identifiable footprint.

  “Damn it,” Brazos said, “somebody could have made them holes with a corral post.”

  “There’s no way we can prove anything,” said McCaleb.

  “Maybe not this time,” Brazos said grimly, “but the next time one of our ladies takes a pan of water and heads for the wagon, I’ll be watching.”

  When they returned to the fires, Penelope had her foot in a pan of hot water, with a full pot heating on the coals.

  “Did you learn anything?” Rosalie asked anxiously.

  “No,” said Brazos. “Snow had caved into all the tracks, and there was no identifying any of the footprints. All we know for sure is that Penelope was right. Somebody was near the front of the wagon, watching her.”

  Penelope glared at Monte Nance, and he grinned at her. It was an uneasy situation, all of them stranded because of deep snow, knowing there was one in their midst who could not be trusted.

  “I hate this,” Brazos said, “knowin’ something needs doin’, but not able to do it.”

  “We can’t be hasty, if only for Rebecca’s sake,” said Rosalie. “Right now, I’m far more concerned with Penelope’s injured foot than I am Monte Nance watching her take a bath. There’s no way any of us can be sure the tin of shells wouldn’t have fallen on her foot whether Monte was there or not.”

  “Now that you mention it,” Brazos said, “that tin of shells should have been on the floor, or close to it. Because of the load shifting, heavy items are never loaded on top of lighter ones. Somebody’s been moving things around.”

  “I suppose you can blame Penelope for that,” said Rosalie. “I told her she could use the wagon for bathing, as long as there was enough room. I suspect she piled everything a little higher to make a place for herself in the back of the wagon.”

  Brazos sighed. “Then tell her no more baths in the chuck wagon, and tell her I’ve laid down the law. If she wants to argue with that, tell her real cowboys don’t get baths until the end of the drive.”

  Rosalie laughed. “Why don’t you tell her?”

  “You don’t think I will, do you?”

  “No,” said Rosalie, “because it sounds like we’re blaming her for the whole thing, and penalizing her so that it doesn’t happen again.”

  “We are,” said Brazos. “She’ll be nineteen by the time we reach Deadwood, and we’ll not be able to watch her every minute. The best we can do is try to keep her out of any situation that might turn out like this one has.”

  Rosalie laughed. “You just shot yourself in the foot while loading the gun. When some cowboy comes calling on her, are you going to always be there to see that she keeps her boots on and both feet on the floor?”

  “I don’t want her interested in men until she’s thirty-six,” said Brazos. “No cowboys, even then.”

  “Like it or not, Penelope’s a grown woman, old enough to have a child of her own,” Rosalie said. “She can do what she wants, whether we like it or not.”

  “Not on this trail drive, she can’t,” said Brazos. He crossed to the other fire, where Penelope sat soaking her foot, and knelt beside her.

  “I don’t envy you,” said Rebecca, who had heard some of the conversation. “Which of them is causing you the most trouble?”

  “Brazos,” Rosalie said. “He’s determined to protect her from cowboys, and most of them are the salt of the earth. Like that redheaded one over there talking to Penelope.”

  ALONG THE YELLOWSTONE RIVER, MONTANA

  TERRITORY.

  APRIL 2, 1876

  “Two or three more days, and we should be able to move on,” said Cal Snider.

  “I’ll be able to ride by then,” Bud McDaniels said.

  Bud’s manner had changed dramatically, and with the exception of Quickenpaugh, the outfit’s attitude toward him had changed accordingly. The Indian remained aloof, watching, saying little. Cal sought out Quickenpaugh after supper.

  “Quickenpaugh, we may be here another two or three days, but tomorrow I’d like for you to scout a few miles ahead. Look for water, and for any sign of the Sioux.”

  Quickenpaugh nodded, sipping his coffee.

  Immediately after breakfast, Quickenpaugh rode east.

  “Cal,” said Bill Petty, “after all this snow, every water hole, creek and river in the territory will be bank-full, and all the Sioux are likely gathered in the Dakotas.”

  “I reckon,” Cal said, “but I keep remembering what we learned from Beaver Tail and the Crows, about there being soldiers who would try to keep us out of the Dakotas.”

  “The army’s always seemed a little high-handed, to me,” said Petty. “I’m not forgetting they used all manner of threats—including military arrest—to stop us from bringing the Nelson Story herd up the Bozeman Trail.”*

  “That’s been strong on my mind,” Cal said, “and if it comes to a standoff, we’ll take this herd through just as Mr. Story did.”

  “I’m with you till hell freezes,” said Tom Allen, who had been listening.

  “We all be with you,” Oscar Fentress said. “Mr. Story give us a chance to drive our own cows to market. We be more than just forty-and-found cowboys.”

  “Damn right,” said Cal, “and we’ll do it. I’m hoping that Quickenpaugh can keep track of where the soldiers are without them knowing about us. We’ll avoid them, if we can.”

  “One thing we haven’t considered,” Tom said, “and that’s Story’s two hundred
horses we’re delivering to the military near Deadwood. These horses can’t sprout wings and fly, and how is the army going to get them, if we don’t drive ’em there?”

  “Good point,” said Cal, “and we might use that argument if we get boxed in. But I’m of a mind to just avoid any soldiers, if we can.”

  “We can always follow the Yellowstone to Miles City and then turn south,” Tom said. “I have my doubts that this face-off between the soldiers and the Sioux will take place so far north.”

  “We’re going to consider that, if that’s what it takes to avoid the soldiers,” said Cal. “Following the Yellowstone is not the shortest way, and I figure it would cost us at least four extra days, but that’s better than a stand-off with the army.”

  Quickenpaugh was gone more than four hours, and when he returned, he had nothing to report.

  “That’s good news, up to a point,” Cal said, “but we know damned well the Sioux are going to act, and that the military will react.”

  “There’s always a chance that Beaver Tail lied to us about there being soldiers,” said Tom. “That, or they’re somewhere south of us.”

  “I believe Beaver Tail told the truth,” Cal said. “Lying wouldn’t have benefited him or the Crows in any way. All we can do is what we’re doing. I’ll send Quickenpaugh to scout thirty or forty miles ahead of the drive. If he finds there are soldiers, we’ll have enough time to drive farther north, avoiding them.”

  The following morning—after several days of sun—Cal made the decision to continue the trail drive. Bud McDaniels still had some healing to do and, since he wasn’t ready for the saddle, volunteered to take the reins of the chuck wagon. He folded as many blankets as he could, attempting to soften the hard seat.

  Jasmine, Lorna and Curley rode drag, while Arch, Hitch, Mac and Quickenpaugh came behind them with the horse herd and remuda. Behind the horses came Bud McDaniels with the chuck wagon. Cal was at point position, Tom Allen and Oscar Fentress were the swing riders, while Quanah Taylor and Bill Petty were the flankers. Watered and rested, the herd behaved well. At drag, Jasmine, Lorna and Curley took advantage of it, trotting their horses close to one another so they could talk.