McDaniels laughed. “I never would have let the mules run away with the wagon. It was your fault, sister dear.”
Not wishing to listen to another harsh tirade from Bud McDaniels, the rest of the outfit had quickly distanced themselves. They never knew what he might say. But Jasmine said something to him—that only he could hear—and he exploded in a blind, cursing fury. He seized a corner of the blanket covering Jasmine’s lower body, whipping it away from her. Tom Allen and Cal Snider started after him at the same instant, and Bud made an almost fatal mistake. He went for his gun, but he wasn’t quite fast enough. Tom had his weapon in his hand when Cal’s Colt roared. The slug ripped into Bud’s right arm, just above the elbow. Bud dropped the Colt and then went to his knees, seeking to seize the weapon in his left hand.
“Don’t,” Cal warned. “Try that one more time, and I’ll kill you for the hairy-legged, ornery coyote that you are.”
“You shot me, you son of a bitch,” Bud snarled.
“If he hadn’t, I would have,” said Tom Allen, “and it would have been a hell of a lot more serious than a slug through the arm.”
After the situation had turned violent, the rest of the outfit had moved in close.
“Bud, come to the fire and I’ll see to your arm,” Lorna said.
“I don’t want none of you touching me,” said McDaniels.
“Let him go, Lorna,” Jasmine said. “Don’t dirty your hands with him.”
Bud McDaniels had only a flesh wound, and without another word, he began saddling his horse.
“Just where do you think you’re going?” Cal asked.
“To Deadwood,” growled Bud. “When you get there—if you ever do—I’ll be waiting to take my share of the money. I’ll consider taking Curley too, if she can stay out of that Indian’s blankets.”
“Wait for me,” Curley shouted, “and you’ll be waiting till hell freezes.”
“Bud,” said Cal, “you don’t know that half the Sioux nation isn’t gathering somewhere ahead of us. For the sake of the outfit, I’m not going to stop you from riding out, if you won’t have it any other way, but at least wait until Quickenpaugh returns with a report on the Sioux.”
“One damn Indian’s no better than all the others,” said Bud, “and I don’t want nothing from your, pet Comanche.”
He mounted and, with only a quantity of jerked beef in his saddlebags, rode away.
“Jasmine,” Cal said, kneeling beside her, “I’m sorry. I never expected him to do that.”
“I wouldn’t fault you if you’d killed him,” said Jasmine. “Would one of you bring me another blanket?”
Tom hastened to get the blanket Bud McDaniels had flung away. Cal got hastily to his feet, aware that, because of her splinted legs, Jasmine wore only a wool shirt. Everybody was in a somber mood. While Bud McDaniels had been a constant problem, he had also been part of the outfit since Nelson Story’s historic drive from Texas to Virginia City.
“For Jasmine’s sake, I feel just awful about Bud leaving,” Lorna said.
“So do I,” said Cal, “but he’s been building up to this for a while.”
“I’m just glad you got to him ahead of Tom. Tom would have killed him,” Lorna said. “How do you suppose this is going to affect Curley and Quickenpaugh?”
“I don’t even want to think about that,” said Cal, “but I’m not going to stick my nose into somethin’ that’s none of my business. Quickenpaugh’s Comanche, but nobody can deny he’s a man in every way that matters.”
Fifty miles east of the trail drive, Quickenpaugh had stopped to rest his horse. He had obeyed Cal’s instructions, riding almost to the no the white man called Little Big Horn. Now he was on his way back to meet the cattle drive, and he knew what he must tell Cal would create serious problems for them on the trail ahead. Suddenly Quickenpaugh’s horse nickered and another answered. In an instant, the Indian had his Winchester cocked and ready, for the oncoming rider would know someone was waiting for him. Quickenpaugh, keeping to cover, left his horse and advanced on foot. There was a clearing to the south and, reaching the edge of it, he watched and waited. On the far side of the clearing, there was movement of a newly budded bush, and the head of a horse emerged. Bud McDaniels was leading the animal, and with Winchester under his arm, he paused.
“Cuidado,” Quickenpaugh said. “Cuidado.”
It was intended as a warning, to alert McDaniels, lest he begin shooting at first sight of an Indian. The Winchester in his left hand, Quickenpaugh raised his right, in a sign of peace. Without hesitation, McDaniels raised the Winchester and began firing. Slugs ripped into the brush all around Quickenpaugh as he took cover. Lead tore into his left side, as yet another slug plowed a bloody furrow along the side of his head. Unconscious, he fell. Hearing nothing, Bud McDaniels mounted and rode on, not looking back.
Darkness had fallen, and there had been no sign of Quickenpaugh. Nobody spoke, for they all privately feared something had happened to the Indian. Arch Rainey, Mac Withers, Hitch Gould, Lorna and Curley were circling the herd on the first watch.
“I heard somethin’,” said Hitch, reaching for his Colt.
Arch, Hitch and Mac waited, listening.
“It’s a horse walking,” Mac whispered, “and he ain’t bein’ guided or led.”
“Maybe,” said Hitch, “but let’s be sure. Identify yourself. You’re covered,” he shouted.
There was no reply. The only sound they heard was that of two horses being led by Lorna and Curley.
“What is it?” Lorna asked.
“A loose horse, we think,” said Mac. “Some of you cover me, and I’ll go see.”
“Careful,” Arch said. “It could be a trick.”
But Mac quickly discovered it was no trick. The moon had yet to rise, but in the dim light of distant stars, Mac recognized Quickenpaugh’s horse. The Indian lay on the ground unmoving. He had managed to reach camp before falling from his horse.
“It’s Quickenpaugh,” Mac shouted. “He’s alive, but he’s hurt.”
The riders for the second watch had heard and in an instant were out of their blankets and running. Mac Withers had already taken the Indian’s arms, while Arch Rainey had hold of his feet. Hitch Gould led Quickenpaugh’s horse.
“Come on, Curley,” said Lorna. “Let’s get a fire going and some water on to boil.”
Quickenpaugh was placed on a blanket near the chuck wagon as Lorna and Curley got a fire going from earlier coals.
“What is it?” Jasmine cried from the wagon. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s Quickenpaugh,” said Tom Allen. “He’s been shot. We’re not sure how bad.”
“All of us can’t see to him without getting in one another’s way,” Cal said, “and right now there’s nobody with the herd. Oscar, I want you to see how badly he’s hurt, and do what you can for him. Lorna and Curley, do whatever you can to help Oscar. The rest of us will take over the watch.”
As concerned as they were for Quickenpaugh, the outfit took over the first watch, as Oscar, Lorna and Curley sought to do what they could for the wounded Indian.
“His head been just creased,” Oscar said. “It ain’t what’s hurtin’ him.”
“He’s bleeding from a wound in his left side, low down,” said Curley. “We’d better take his moccasins and leggings off.”
Quickly they stripped Quickenpaugh, covering him with a blanket until the water had begun to boil.
“Build up that fire some,” Oscar ordered. “Make it burn bright, so’s I can see.”
Lorna and Curley began adding wood to the fire, and by the time the water was hot, the fire had flamed up with sufficient light for Oscar to see. The wound in Quickenpaugh’s left side no longer bled, but the lead had not passed through.
“It gonna be hard on him,” Oscar said. “The slug still be in there.”
Lorna sneaked a look at Curley, and she stood there with her eyes closed, silent tears leaking out and streaking her cheeks.
“What
can we do to help, Oscar?” Lorna asked.
“Pray,” said Oscar. Removing his Bowie, he placed the blade of the big knife in the coals of the nearby fire.
Cal rode up and dismounted, wishing to know what Oscar had learned. Oscar had but little to say. Pointing to the Bowie, its blade heating, he told Cal only what he had told Lorna and Curley. Jasmine had dragged herself forward in the wagon and had heard Oscar talking to Cal.
“Cal,” Jasmine cried, “will you help me out of the wagon? I can’t sleep.”
Cal didn’t much like the idea, but he went to the rear of the wagon and lowered the tailgate.
“I ought to send Tom to do this,” said Cal. “All this moving about, and you’re likely to hurt the knitting of your bones. I’d hate to get the blame for that.”
“Oh, stop fussing,” Jasmine said. “If I mess up my bones, it’ll be my fault. I’ll slide to the rear of the wagon. You just lift me up and set me down, leaning me against one of the wagon wheels.”
“All right,” said Cal. “Hand me a blanket, so I don’t set you on the ground.”
The blanket she had handed him had been the one covering the upper part of her body, as Cal quickly discovered. He almost dropped her in his eagerness to settle her against the wagon wheel.
“The blanket I was lying on is still in the wagon,” Jasmine said.
“I’ll get it for you,” said Cal, hoping Lorna wasn’t aware of the situation. Passing her the critical blanket, he moved closer to the fire, pausing beside Oscar.
“Is there anything any of us can do, Oscar? You have one knife in the fire. Do you need another?”
“I got two,” said Oscar. “One of them’s his.”
Cal mounted his horse and rode away. Oscar took the big knife that belonged to the Indian and held its blade in the flames a few seconds, cleansing it.
“Curley,” Lorna said, “I don’t think we ought to watch this.”
“I’m staying,” said Curley. “If it gets so bad I can’t watch, I’ll close my eyes.”
Using Quickenpaugh’s knife, Oscar began probing for the lead. Unconscious though he was, Quickenpaugh groaned.
“Hold on just a little longer, pard,” the black man grunted. “I almost got it.”
Finally, Oscar dropped the Bowie and began sleeving sweat from his eyes.
“Oh,” cried Curley, “did you find it?”
“Found it,” Oscar said. “Tore him up somethin’ awful ’cause it hit a rib, but I reckon that kept it from goin’ through his vitals.”
“Thank God,” said Lorna. “Do you need a bottle of the whiskey?”
“Maybe later,” Oscar said. “I goin’ to cauterize his wound when the knife gets hot.”
Lorna and Curley remained throughout the ordeal.
“Curley and me can bandage him, Oscar,” said Lorna.
“You can’t, neither,” Oscar said. “The skin around his wound has been burnt, and it’ll need the open air to heal. Spread a blanket over him and leave him where he’s at. Later tonight, if he gets feverish, feed him a jolt of that whiskey.”
“You deserve a rest, Oscar,” said Curley. “Where are you going?”
“This be a trail drive,” Oscar said. “I gonna take my turn on watch.”
Quickenpaugh was restless during the night, and at dawn was running a high fever.
“Are we going to move out today?” Lorna asked Cal.
“No,” said Cal, “for several reasons. We can’t afford to hurt Quickenpaugh’s chances by moving him while he has a fever, and until he’s able to talk, we won’t know what he’s learned about conditions ahead of us. We’ve been here a week, so another couple of days won’t seem that long.”
SOUTHEASTERN MONTANA TERRITORY.
MAY 20, 1876
Two days following Quickenpaugh’s return to camp, his fever broke and he started to recover.
“Today or tomorrow, he be able to talk,” said Oscar Fentress during breakfast
“It’s going to be interesting, finding out what happened,” Tom Allen said. “Either he was bushwhacked, or shot by somebody he knew and trusted. Neither his Colt or his Winchester had been fired.”
“It’s possible that Quickenpaugh ran into some soldiers,” said Cal. “They might have cut down on him just because he’s an Indian. That would account for Quickenpaugh not returning fire.”
“We know he was shot by a white man,” Bill Petty said. “It’s unlikely the Sioux would be armed with much more than bows and arrows.”
Nobody said anything, but they all had their suspicions. Jasmine sat with her back to a wagon wheel, head bowed, her eyes on her folded hands. She knew.
It was near suppertime when Curley discovered Quickenpaugh was awake. He raised the blanket that covered him, and his dark eyes met those of Curley.
“You?” said Quickenpaugh.
Curley laughed. “Lorna and me. We took your buckskins off so Oscar could see to your wound. Cal wants to talk to you, when you feel able.”
“Quickenpaugh talk,” said the Indian.
“Cal,” Curley said, “Quickenpaugh’s ready to talk. Are all of us allowed to listen?”
“I reckon,” said Cal. “We’re all part of the same outfit, and what he has to tell us of the trail ahead may be almighty important. Come on, all of you. Supper can wait.”
Jasmine sat with her back against a wagon wheel, her splinted legs covered with the usual blanket. Quickenpaugh was nearby, and she resisted the urge to question him before the others arrived.
“Quickenpaugh,” Cal said, when the outfit had gathered around, “who shot you?”
“Bud,” said Quickenpaugh. “I don’t shoot.”
“We know you didn’t,” Tom Allen said. “Neither of your weapons had been fired.”
“You sure Bud knew it was you?” Smokey Ellison asked.
“Si,” said Quickenpaugh. “Cuidado.”
“So you tried to warn him,” Cal said. “Of what?”
“Sioux,” said Quickenpaugh. “Many, like the stars. Along Río Little Big Horn.”
“My God,” Bill Petty said, “we’ll be headin’ right toward ’em.”
“No,” said Cal. “We’ll drive north to the Yellowstone, and then east, if we must. There should be enough graze now. It’d cost us a couple of days, but that’s a small price to pay if it keeps us out of the coming battle the Sioux have planned.”
Quickenpaugh tired quickly and was left to rest. Lorna found herself alone with Cal.
“Bud won’t be waiting for us in Deadwood, will he?”
“No,” Cal said, “and I think he got just what he deserved. Quickenpaugh tried to warn him, but was gunned down and left for dead.”
“I feel so sorry for Jasmine,” said Lorna. “He was her only kin.”
“I know,” Cal said, “but he’s been a constant thorn in her side since we brought the Story herd from Texas. Time heals, and she’ll get over it.”
“That means Curley’s entitled to the money from the sale of Bud’s cows,” said Lorna.
“I reckon it does,” Cal said. “What do you reckon she’ll do?”
Lorna laughed. “She stayed with Quickenpaugh the whole time he was out of his head with fever. Does that tell you anything?”
“More than I want to know,” Cal said. “I just want Quickenpaugh well enough to ride, and Jasmine out of those damn splints.”
“I saw you tote her out of the wagon, two-thirds naked,” said Lorna.
“But she wore a long-tailed shirt,” Cal said. “I didn’t see a thing.”
LITTLE BIG HORN RIVER, WYOMING TERRITORY.
MAY 20, 1876
Aware of the Sioux threat, Bud McDaniels kept to cover, sparing his horse as much as he could. He recalled an occasional landmark, the result of his having crossed much of Montana Territory with the Story trail drive. Somewhere just ahead of him should be the Little Big Horn. There he would rest himself and his horse. The bushes that lined the river had begun to bud and the sun was warm as Bud dismounted. He list
ened, and heard no sound of any wild thing. Not even the chirp or cry of a bird. But he attributed that to his own presence, and when he judged his horse was ready, he led the animal to a shallows to drink. When the horse had drunk its fill, McDaniels bellied down to satisfy his own thirst. Suddenly there were reflections in the water, and cold chills crept up Bud’s spine. Fearfully lifting his head, his horrified eyes met the murderous gaze of five Indians on the opposite bank. As he struggled to his feet, an arrow ripped into his left shoulder, while a second one raked the flank of his horse. The animal nickered, reared and, before McDaniels could seize the reins, galloped back the direction they had come. In a fury, Bud drew his Colt, but he never fired a shot. Simultaneously, three Sioux arrows thudded into his chest. He lay on his back, his life dribbling away, making no move when one of the Sioux took his gunbelt and the Colt from his stiffening fingers. Bud McDaniels had ridden his last trail . . .
EASTERN WYOMING TERRITORY.
MAY 8, 1876
The morning after the arrival of Roscoe Yates and his daughters, Yates sought out Benton McCaleb.
“Mr. McCaleb,” said Yates, “if it’s not asking too much, we’d like to follow you from here on to Deadwood. We have our own grub.”
“I have no objection to that,” McCaleb said. “It’s you that’s in a hurry. We’re going to remain here for maybe a week, allowing the grass ahead of us to green. Right now there’s not enough graze.”
“I fear we’ll be up against the same problem, then,” said Yates. “Our mules are lookin’ a little gaunt. We’ll take a few days of rest and move on when you do.”
“That’s up to you,” McCaleb replied. “We average about twelve miles a day, and some days considerably less.”
Neither of the Yates girls offered to help with breakfast, and when it was over, they contributed nothing toward the cleaning up.
“I won’t wash another pan or make another pot of coffee as long as they’re here,” Penelope vowed.
“Then don’t,” said Rosalie. “You can saddle your horse and be just one of the cowboys while Rebecca, Susannah and me do the cooking and cleaning up. And don’t go whining to Brazos. I’ve already talked to him.”
The Deadwood Trail Page 16