SOUTHERN MONTANA TERRITORY.
APRIL 16, 1876
“I feel so completely useless,” said Jasmine, as Cal and Tom carried her nearer to the fire. “My legs feel like they weigh a hundred pounds apiece.”
“It’s not easy to cut decent splints with only an axe,” Tom said. “You’ll just have to live with them until the bones knit.”
“What about the wagon?” Jasmine asked. “Can it be fixed?”
“Bill Petty says it can,” Cal said. “We did bring a few tools, including a hammer, a pry bar and a handsaw. There’s nails too, and spare parts for front and rear wheels.”
“I feel responsible for the wagon having been wrecked,” said Jasmine. “I just didn’t have the strength to control the teams. I suppose I’d better return to drag and let Lorna or Curley have the wagon.”
“You’re not going to do anything until we know for sure your legs are healed,” Cal said. “Then you’ll take your turn in the wagon. Until you’re able, Curley or Lorna will be in charge of the wagon, and you’ll be riding with them.”
Lorna and Curley had supper in progress. Quickenpaugh knelt next to Jasmine, looking at her bulky, splinted legs.
“Quickenpaugh, thank you for coming to my rescue,” said Jasmine.
The Indian seemed embarrassed, for he got to his feet and moved quickly away. None of the outfit seemed to have noticed, except Bud McDaniels, and when he spoke, there was a trace of his old arrogance.
“Was I old Tom, I wouldn’t turn my back on that redskin. His interest in you goes a mite deeper than your busted legs.”
“If I could get up, I’d claw your eyes out,” Jasmine gritted. “Quickenpaugh’s more of a gentleman than you’ll ever be.”
“Maybe I ain’t a gentleman by your standards,” said Bud, “but I’m a white man.”
“No advantage, in your case,” Jasmine said. “Now get away from me, or I’ll call Tom and Cal.”
Bud started to say something, but bit his tongue. A dozen yards away, Quickenpaugh was watching him.
Bill Petty and Smokey Ellison were both adept with their hands and skilled in the use of tools. The following day, using spare parts, they constructed a new right front wheel for the chuck wagon. They emptied a crate of goods within the wagon, using the wood to repair other damage. It was near suppertime when they finished, and Cal regarded their work with considerable appreciation.
“It’s at least as strong as it was,” said Petty.
“We done the best we could with what we had,” Smokey added.
“I’m proud of you both,” said Cal. “Let’s hitch up the teams and move the wagon closer to camp.”
There were cheers from the outfit as the chuck wagon approached. Cal went in search of Tom Allen.
“Tom,” Cal said, “I have a decision to make, and I need your help.”
“I’m flattered,” said Tom, “but you’re trail boss. None of us will go against you, ’cept maybe Bud.”
“I know that, and I’m obliged,” Cal replied, “but this has to do with Jasmine’s condition and our need to move on. I reckon you’ve noticed the grass is greening late and the graze is gettin’ almighty thin.”
“I have,” said Tom, “and we can’t afford any more delays. Jasmine will understand, and she’ll be ready to go when you are.”
“Then we’re movin’ out in the morning at first light,” Cal said. “I’ll caution Lorna and Curley to keep to high ground as much as possible, and if the wagon gets stuck, we’ll just have to harness a couple of teams of horses and haul it out. I want you to pad that wagon seat with as many blankets as you can, and wrap several around Jasmine’s splinted legs.”
“I will,” said Tom, “and I appreciate your concern, but we must get the herd on into the Dakotas and on some decent graze. They’re startin’ to look like racks of bones, and so are the horses.”
Cal announced his intentions to the outfit before supper. Bud McDaniels spoke up with the expected opposition.
“You don’t care a damn for my sister’s busted legs, do you? Bouncin’ around on that wagon seat will be hard on her.”
“Bud,” said Tom, “Cal talked this over with me, and I’ve talked to Jasmine. We have to move on.”
“Tom’s right,” Jasmine said. “Now back off and leave it alone.”
The following morning, the wagon seat was padded with blankets and made comfortable as possible for Jasmine. Lorna would be at the reins.
“I’ll be all right,” said Jasmine, when Cal and Tom lifted her to the wagon seat.
“I’ll avoid all the rough places I can,” Lorna said.
Cal rode to the point position, and when he waved his hat, the riders started the cattle and horses moving. Lorna came behind the horse herd with the chuck wagon. The terrain was rough, and Lorna often fell behind, as she sought better ground over which the wagon could pass.
“Stop being so concerned about me, and keep up with the horse herd,” said Jasmine.
“I’m in charge of this damn wagon,” Lorna said, “and I aim to see that nothing else happens to you. Break those bones again, and you may end up sittin’ on a folded blanket from now on.”
After a favorable day on the trail, the outfit’s spirits were high. The weather was fair, and there was new grass springing up all over. But all optimism and tranquillity vanished in a puff of gun smoke during the second watch. In the stillness of the night, a Colt roared. Not once, but four times, in quick succession.
“What the hell?” Tom Allen shouted.
But there was no time for questions or answers. The cattle were on their feet, off and running, the horse herd running with them. So unexpected had been the stampede, none of the riders were in a good position to head the spooked herd. Cal tried to get ahead of the leaders, with Tom Allen, Oscar Fentress and Smokey Ellison galloping close behind. They all reined up when it became obvious the cause was lost.
“Just let me get my hands on the idiot that fired those shots,” said Cal.
“Speaking of idiots,” Tom said, “where’s Bud McDaniels?”
“It’s possible he might have been caught up in the stampede,” said Smokey Ellison. “I reckon we’d better look for him.”
They were about to backtrack when they heard a horse coming.
“Identify yourself,” said Cal.
“Bud,” came a voice from the darkness.
“Come on and step down,” Cal said. “You’ve got some talkin’ to do.”
“Yeah,” said Tom. “What’n hell came over you, shoot-in’ four times, practically in the midst of the herd?”
“I saw somethin’ in the brush,” Bud said. “Maybe a cougar. I was afraid the varmint might stampede the herd.”
“So you stampeded it yourself,” said Cal.
“I didn’t aim to,” Bud shouted.
“That’s a considerable comfort,” said Tom, “now that the cattle and horses have been scattered to hell and gone.”
The rest of the outfit—except for Jasmine—soon arrived on foot.
“What in thunder went wrong?” Quanah Taylor asked.
“Bud thought he saw something in the brush, and reckoned it might stampede the cow and horse herd,” said Cal, with considerable sarcasm.
“I didn’t hear any cattle or horses runnin’ until he cut loose with his pistol,” said Bill Petty.
“Neither did I,” Lorna and Curley said, in a single voice.
Quickenpaugh had come with the others, and only he had nothing to say. Tom Allen sighed with exasperation, as though words failed him.
“Back to your blankets, all of you,” said Cal. “We’ll begin the gather at first light.”
“With the herds gone,” Bud said innocently, “why go on with the second watch?”
“Because I said to,” Cal exploded, “and if I catch you so much as nodding, I’ll stake you out belly-down and use a doubled lariat on your backside.”
Nobody laughed. The riders who had been sleeping returned to their blankets, and but for Tom All
en, the second watch mounted their horses.
“I’d better take a few minutes to talk to Jasmine,” said Tom. “She’s bound to be awake and wondering what’s happened.”
“Go on,” Cal said. “Before we start the gather in the morning, we’re going to take a close look in the direction Bud was shooting. If we don’t find some tracks, I may beat the hell out of him yet.”
“You won’t get any argument from Jasmine or me,” said Tom.
Jasmine listened, while Tom told her as much as he knew about what had happened.
“I thought Bud was changing,” Jasmine said. “Now I’m not so sure. Have you and Cal considered he might have fired those shots on purpose, to stampede the herd?”
“No,” said Tom. “At least I haven’t, and I doubt that Cal has. He aims to look around the place Bud was shooting, to see if there are any tracks. I hope there are, for the sake of your little brother.”
“Oh, God,” Jasmine groaned, “must you keep reminding me?”
Before breakfast, Cal and Quickenpaugh went to look for tracks in the direction Bud had fired his Colt. Cal could see nothing, but Quickenpaugh knelt for a closer look.
“Oso,” said Quickenpaugh.
Cal followed Quickenpaugh’s lead, and they soon could see the retreating tracks of the big grizzly. Quickenpaugh looked at Cal with some amusement. Lorna had followed them.
“Come on,” Cal said. “We’ll be late for breakfast.”
Nobody had any questions regarding the tracks, and Cal volunteered nothing. Only when the outfit began saddling their horses did Cal speak.
“Lorna, I want you and Curley to stay here with Jasmine and the chuck wagon. Keep a Winchester handy, and one of you cut loose if there’s so much as a hint of trouble.”
While there was some risk for the women, nobody argued, realizing that Cal was in no mood for it. He rode out, taking the lead, the others following.
“I feel so sorry for Cal,” Jasmine said. “I feel like he’s going easy on Bud just for my benefit. I’m sick of Bud taking advantage of me, as well as the rest of you.”
“I heard Quickenpaugh say they found bear tracks,” said Lorna.
“Thank God for Quickenpaugh,” said Jasmine. “At least Bud thought he saw something in the dark.”
“It seems early in the year for grizzlies to be up and about,” Curley said, “but I’m glad this one was for real, for Bud’s sake.”
“In a way, so am I,” said Jasmine, “but for whatever reason, the cattle and horses are scattered God knows how far, and there’ll be time lost gathering them.”
There was more truth to that than Jasmine realized. While the riders soon began finding grazing cattle, there were no horses to be seen.
“Damn it,” said Cal, “I’d sooner lose the cattle than Mr. Story’s horse herd.”
Quickenpaugh said nothing, but he well recalled Nelson Story assigning him responsibility for delivering the two hundred horses to the military in Dakota Territory. Finally, Quickenpaugh’s patience was rewarded when Cal spoke to him.
“Quickenpaugh, we have to find those horses. Do you have any ideas?”
“Si,” said Quickenpaugh. “Crow horse tracks. Crow take.”
“I couldn’t make heads or tails of all the horse tracks, but that’s the best answer I’ve heard so far,” Tom Allen said. “We’ve been following the tracks of our horses for a good twenty miles, and the critters haven’t slowed down in the slightest. That tells me they’re being driven.”
“That means the Crows must have been watching, waiting for their chance,” said Cal. “The stampede gave them the opportunity to take our horses without any risk to themselves. But how much farther can they go toward the east? If they go too far, they’re likely to run headlong into a party of Sioux.”
Quickenpaugh shook his head, pointing north.
“He thinks they’ll turn north,” said Bill Petty, “and he could be right. They have a six-hour start on us, and it’s possible they aim to run fast enough and far enough to wear us and our horses down. Remember, we have no extra mounts. We’re just damned lucky all of us had a horse close by last night.”
“It’s up to you, Cal,” Tom Allen said. “Do we go ahead, following the tracks, or turn toward the northeast and try to head ’em off?”
“I think we’ll ride toward the northeast,” said Cal. “Do any of you disagree?”
The eyes of every man were on Bud McDaniels, and he wisely said nothing. Mounting their horses, the outfit rode toward the northeast, Quickenpaugh in the lead.
THE FORK OF THE POWDER RIVER, WYOMING TERRITORY.
MAY 1, 1876
Having scouted ahead, Goose had just returned.
“Tomorrow we reach our last camp on the Powder,” said McCaleb, after Goose had reported to him.
“No more for-sure water,” Pen Rhodes said.
“In the morning, Goose will scout ahead of tomorrow’s camp,” said McCaleb. “He’ll be looking for water for our next camp, as well as Indian sign.”
“The couple of maps I’ve seen, I don’t remember there bein’ any rivers in Wyoming that are east of the Powder,” Brazos said.
“There may not be,” said McCaleb, “but in this high country, there’ll be some water, if only in springs and water holes.”
The mild weather continued, and they reached the fork in the Powder barely ahead of a thunderstorm. The rain came at them in slashing gray sheets, riding a turbulent wind out of the northwest. There was no supper, and no time for any, for every rider was in the saddle, seeking to calm the herd. While there was no nearby lightning, thunder rumbled in the distance, and the herd became restless. The thunder eventually subsided, but the pouring rain continued until well past midnight. Mud was everywhere, and the horses slipped and slid with every step. Horses and riders were exhausted. McCaleb jogged his horse alongside Rebecca’s.
“If there’s dry wood in the wagon’s possum belly,” said McCaleb, “will you start a fire and boil us some coffee? Take Susannah, Rosalie or Penelope with you. We can handle the herd, with no wind, lightning or rain.”
The heavy gray clouds had been swept away, and a halfmoon added its pale light to that of the distant stars. Susannah was nearest, and Rebecca spoke to her. Fortunately, the chuck wagon had been taken to high ground, and within minutes, a cheery fire was going, and soon they could smell the welcome aroma of coffee.
“Come and get it,” Rebecca shouted, “or we’ll pour it in the river.”
“Brazos, Will, Penelope and me will stay with the herd,” said McCaleb. “The rest of you have some coffee.”
The ground was a virtual sea of mud, and the riders chose to spend the rest of the night in the saddle, taking turns riding to the wagon for hot coffee. The following morning the sun rose in a clear sky, but the ground remained soggy, with standing water everywhere.
“Well,” said Monte Nance, in his most infuriating manner, “look at all the mud. Is the mighty McCaleb goin’ to kill another week, waitin’ for it to dry up?”
“The mighty McCaleb’s goin’ to break your neck if you say just one more damn word,” McCaleb gritted.
McCaleb made it a point to say nothing of his intentions until after breakfast. Before saying anything to the outfit, he spoke to Goose. The Indian mounted his horse and rode away to the east. Only then did McCaleb tell them what was on his mind.
“Goose is goin’ to ride maybe forty miles,” said McCaleb. “He’ll be looking for Indian sign as well as water for the next several days. We’ll consider moving out at first light tomorrow, depending on the condition of the ground and the availability of water.”
“Hell, McCaleb, you’re stalling,” Monte said. “There’s standing water everywhere.”
McCaleb saw the pained expression in Rebecca’s eyes and ignored the remark, but the slack was taken up by Penelope.
“Monte Nance, you’re stupid,” said Penelope. “When that big orange ball of fire’s up there in the sky, it sucks up all the extra water.”
“Penelope,” Rosalie said wearily, “please don’t argue. Apologize to Monte.”
“I’m sorry you’re stupid, Monte Nance,” said Penelope.
Rosalie paled, while Brazos appeared to be overcome with a coughing fit. Monte Nance turned away, for Penelope had left him speechless. Without Rosalie seeing, McCaleb winked at Penelope. The rest of them kept a straight face, but Brazos was still hacking and coughing. Monte Nance had poured himself some coffee and was hunkered by the fire. He didn’t look pleased when Rebecca knelt beside him.
“Monte,” said Rebecca, “that remark to Bent was uncalled for. I’m ashamed of you.”
“You’ve always been ashamed of me,” Monte whined. “I don’t like McCaleb, and damn it, you know why. The first time I met him, the bastard shot me,”
“Only when you drew on him without cause,” said Rebecca. “He could have easily shot you full of holes, instead of just getting a slug into your shoulder.”*
“You’ll never let me forget that, will you?” Monte shouted.
“No,” Rebecca shouted back. “You swagger around with two guns, but you’re no gunman. Others may not be as considerate as McCaleb. One day you’ll draw on somebody, and you’ll be shot dead.”
“Then you won’t have me to preach to,” said Monte.
“I’m not preaching to you,” Rebecca said. “Some men are headed for hell on greased skids, and no amount of preaching can save them. I’m only going to do one thing more for you. When the time comes, I’ll see that you’re put in a pine box and buried deep.”
It had become a noisy exchange, and the rest of the outfit had no trouble hearing. One look at Rebecca’s pale face and tragic eyes, and none of them laughed.
*The Goodnight Trail (Trail Drive #1)
8
SOUTHEASTERN MONTANA TERRITORY.
MAY 2, 1876
FOLLOWING QUICKENPAUGH’S ADVICE, THE outfit gave up tracking the horses. Quickenpaugh in the lead, they rode northeast, a direction that would take them to the Yellowstone.
“I believe Quickenpaugh’s thinking straight on this,” said Tom Allen, as he rode next to Cal. “I just hope old Beaver Tail’s not behind this. I kinda liked him.”
The Deadwood Trail Page 12