It was a peaceful camp. The sun was hot by the time it was noon-high, and the graze had improved dramatically. There was a spring-fed water hole a quarter of a mile distant. It was clear and deep, with a stone bottom, a jumble of boulders circling it. It was an ideal place to wash clothing and blankets, and the women took advantage of the opportunity.
“We’re going to wash clothes and blankets, if you want to go along,” Rebecca told the Yates girls.
“If they go, I’m not going,” said Penelope.
“Then don’t,” Rosalie replied. “Wear dirty clothes and sleep on dirty blankets. You’re old enough to do your own wash, and you’re going to, starting now.”
Rebecca, Rosalie and Susannah saddled horses and set out with their wash. The Yates girls followed, each riding a mule bareback. Penelope found all her own clothing and dirty blankets hadn’t been touched. With an exasperated sigh, she saddled her horse, gathered up her wash and started for the water hole.
“Do the three of you wash for everybody?” Kate Yates asked.
“No,” said Rebecca. “We wash our clothes and blankets, and those of our men. The single men do their own washing.”
“Here comes one of the cowboys,” Connie Yates said.
“It’s my daughter Penelope,” said Rosalie. “She’s bringing her wash.”
Dismounting, Penelope spoke only to Rosalie.
“I couldn’t find any lye soap. Do you have it all?”
“Here,” said Rosalie, “and there’s not that much, so use it sparingly.”
The Yates girls hadn’t begun washing. They stood on a tongue of stone that reached out over the water. Penelope climbed up the stone parapet behind them, and they heard her coming.
“Well, praise be,” said one of the girls, “it’s Madame Cow Stink herself, come to wash off some of the smell.”
She was totally unprepared for what followed. Penelope gave her a shove, and with a startled screech, she went headlong into the water below.
“Damn you,” the second girl cried, “you pushed her.”
“Yes,” Penelope said with some satisfaction. “Like this.”
She shoved the second girl off, and then threw their bundles of dirty clothes in after them. Rebecca, Rosalie and Susannah were on the far side of the water hole, and while they hadn’t seen the start of it, all the cursing and commotion quickly got their attention.
“Penelope,” Rosalie shouted, “were you responsible for that?”
“What do you think?” Penelope replied innocently. “This is a slippery rock.”
For Rosalie’s sake, Rebecca and Susannah managed not to laugh, as the Yates girls climbed up on one of the stones surrounding the water hole. But the Yates duo had another card to play. First they tugged off their boots and poured the water from them. They then unbuttoned their Levi’s and skinned out of them. Finally they removed their shirts. Carefully they spread the sodden garments out on one of the rocks.
“My God,” said Susannah, “they’re stark naked. Suppose some of the men are watching.”
“I don’t care,” Rosalie said. “Penelope calls them a pair of whores, and I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if she’s right.”
“But they’re with their father,” said Rebecca.
“You don’t know he’s their father,” Rosalie said. “What better excuse for an old goat like him to travel with a pair of fillies to warm his blankets?”
Penelope had found a place to do her wash and, ignoring the Yates girls, got started. Not having as many clothes and blankets to wash, she finished ahead of Rebecca, Rosalie and Susannah. The Yates girls still lay on the huge flat stone. As Penelope was mounting her horse, Rosalie called to her. Penelope rode around to her and reined up, waiting.
“Penelope,” said Rosalie, “I don’t want you saying anything to the men about this.”
Penelope laughed. “I’m going to tell them all. It’s not near as crowded now as it’ll be in a Deadwood whorehouse.”
With that, Penelope kicked her horse into a gallop riding back toward camp.
“You think she will?” Susannah asked.
“I won’t be a bit surprised,” said Rosalie. “If she does, they asked for it.”
But when the three women had finished their washing, the Yates girls hadn’t moved, and there was no sign of any of the men.
When Rebecca, Rosalie and Susannah returned to camp, Roscoe Yates was stretched out beneath his wagon, asleep. Penelope had gone far enough from camp to spread her newly washed things on rapidly greening grass. The rest of the outfit had occupied themselves with various duties, such as cleaning and oiling their weapons, and nobody seemed curious as to what had become of the Yates girls. The girls returned just before supper, and afterward, the first watch mounted and rode out, Penelope riding with them. Those who would take over the second watch at midnight had rolled in their blankets. The herd was quiet, and rather than ride, Penelope was on foot, leading her horse. She paused, thinking she had seen something move. Then, near the Yates wagon, two shadows detached themselves from their bedrolls. Leaving her horse, Penelope followed them afoot. There was an early moon, and combined with the starlight, she could see them ahead of her. Suddenly she dropped to the ground, holding her breath. Someone was following her. The cautious footsteps came on, and Monte Nance came within a few feet of the crouching Penelope. He wasn’t following her; he was following the Yates girls.
Penelope waited until he was well ahead of her, and then followed him. By the time he reached the water hole where the women had done their wash, Connie and Kate Yates had stripped and were standing on one of the stones above the water.
“It took you long enough,” one of the girls complained.
“Well, hell, I had to wait till everybody was on watch or asleep,” Monte Nance said.
Monte stood there looking at them in the moonlight, and Penelope gritted her teeth.
“Are we going in the water or not?” one of the girls asked.
“I didn’t come here to go in the water,” Monte said.
He wrestled off his boots, unbuttoned his shirt and then his Levi’s. One of the girls laughed, and Penelope waited to see and hear no more. She stumbled back toward camp, a lump in her throat and tears on her cheeks . . .
11
SOUTHEASTERN MONTANA TERRITORY.
MAY 22, 1876
ALL OF CAL’S EFFORTS to have Quickenpaugh ride in the wagon were in vain.
“No like wagon,” said the Indian. He saddled his horse without any sign of weakness.
“He’s one damn tough hombre,” Tom Allen observed.
The condition of the cattle and horse herd had greatly improved, and as Cal had most recently learned from Quickenpaugh, there was much more grass to the north and east. As the outfit made ready to move out, they saw a riderless horse coming in from the east.
“Bud’s horse,” said Quanah Taylor. Mounting his horse, he went to meet the animal. He seized it by its bridle, for the reins had been snapped by the horse stepping on them.
“Arrow wound on his flank,” Oscar said, as Quanah led him in.
“Unsaddle him and use some sulfur salve on that wound,” said Cal.
Smokey Ellison had taken the Winchester from the saddle boot and examined it.
“It’s fully loaded and ain’t been fired,” Smokey announced.
The outfit had been ready to take the trail. Jasmine was already seated beside Curley on the wagon box.
“Tom,” said Cal, “Jasmine’s seen the horse and will know what it means, but maybe you should talk to her. We can wait a few more minutes.”
Tom Allen started for the wagon, not wishing to add to the load of grief Jasmine bore already. Curley was expressionless, staring straight ahead, apparently interested in the behinds of the mules.
“Jasmine,” Tom said, “I . . . thought . . .”
“You don’t have to say anything, Tom,” said Jasmine dully. “I know.”
She said no more, and Curley kept her silence, never revealing
what she might have been thinking. Tom rode back to the herd.
“Head ’em up, move ’em out,” Cal shouted, waving his hat and pointing northward.
The cattle took the trail first, followed by the horse herd. Behind it came the chuck wagon. Quickenpaugh, Arch, Hitch and Mac kept the horses bunched, right on the heels of the drag riders. The stock had been well fed and watered, and caused no trouble. When the drive came upon an unknown creek—which they believed was a tributary of the distant Yellowstone—Cal signaled for the riders to mill the herd. Sundown was just an hour away. By the time the riders had the horse herd and the cattle settled down, Curley had unharnessed the mules and was leading them to graze with the horses.
“I figure we’re still maybe two days south of the Yellowstone,” Bill Petty said. “Do you still aim to go that far north?”
“Maybe not,” said Cal. “That’s a long ways out of our way. The Little Big Horn flows from somewhere north. We failed to ask Quickenpaugh where these Sioux are dug in along the river. I’ll talk to him again after supper, so we don’t have to travel any farther north than necessary.”
It was a complicated question, and with a stick, Cal had made a drawing on the ground for Quickenpaugh to study.
“Río Yellowstone,” Cal said, pointing to a long line stretching from the east.
“Si,” Quickenpaugh replied.
“Río Little Big Horn,” said Cal, pointing to a line that angled down from the north.
“Si,” said Quickenpaugh.
Tom Allen and some of the other riders had eased in close enough to observe what Cal had drawn on the ground, and to hear Quickenpaugh’s answers. Cal then got to the part of the question that was of utmost importance. With his finger, he started at the beginning of the drawn line representing the Little Big Horn. Moving south, making small impressions with his finger at one- or two-inch intervals, he followed the line to what he estimated was the mountainous region that was Wyoming Territory.
“Sioux,” Cal said. “Where?”
Using his finger, Quickenpaugh drew a line across the lower end of that representing the Little Big Horn. He then moved his finger south of the line he had just drawn.
“By God,” said Mac Withers, “they’re holed up not too far from the Big Horns.”
“One more day’s drive to the north should have us clear of them,” Cal said. “Then we can head east again.”
“There’s somethin’ botherin’ me,” said Bill Petty. “I ain’t doubtin’ them Sioux are dug in to the south along the Little Big Horn, but what’s to stop ’em from ridin’ north?”
“Nothing,” Cal said, “except that if everything turns sour and their medicine is bad, they can retreat into the Big Horn Mountains. That wouldn’t be possible if they’re too far north. The soldiers could ride them down.”
“I reckon you’re right,” said Petty. “If they get into the Big Horns, there ain’t enough soldiers in the United States to root ’em out.”
“We won’t take any chances,” Cal said. “When we change directions, starting east, I’ll have Quickenpaugh scout ahead maybe thirty miles. At least until we’re well beyond the Little Big Horn.”
The fire was put out when supper was done, well before dark.
“We’ll go with the usual watch,” said Cal. “Tom, you take Arch, Hitch, Mac, Curley and Lorna. I want Quickenpaugh with me on the second watch.”
It was a wise precaution, for experience had proven that when there was trouble on the trail, it generally started after midnight, in the small hours of the morning. Curley and Lorna walked their horses side by side, talking quietly.
’Except for speaking to Tom before we moved out, Jasmine hasn’t said a word all day long,” Curley said.
“I think she believed there was some hope, until Bud’s horse came in,” said Lorna. “In the West, an empty saddle is almost always proof the rider won’t be comin’ back.”
“I couldn’t stand Bud the way he was,” Curley said, “and I don’t miss him. But I wish this hadn’t happened, for Jasmine’s sake.”
“You’ve just inherited Bud’s part of the herd,” said Lorna. “What do you intend to do, after we’ve sold the cattle?”
“Travel with the rest of you back to Virginia City, I suppose,” Curley said. “It’s all the home I have. I don’t know what I’ll do, unless I go back to cowboyin’ for Mr. Story.”
“What about Quickenpaugh?” Lorna asked.
“Damn it, Bud was bad enough,” said Curley. “Now don’t you start.”
“Oh, Curley,” Lorna said, “I’m not raggin’ you. I’m serious.”
“To answer your question,” said Curley, “I don’t know. I’m fond of Quickenpaugh, and my feelings could become . . . stronger.”
“The question is, how does he feel?” Lorna asked.
“I don’t know,” said Curley. “How do you get an Indian who knows maybe ten words of English to share your blankets?”
Lorna laughed. “I don’t see that as a problem. Whatever else he is, he’s a man. When we return to Virginia City, you’ll have enough of a stake to begin ranching on your own.”
Curley sighed. “That’s another problem. Quickenpaugh has more pride in one finger than Bud had in his whole body. With my damn luck, Quickenpaugh will think of me as a rich squaw, too far above him.”
“Then do this,” said Lorna. “We’ll be a while getting to Deadwood. Don’t even think about later, when you’ll have money, and don’t you dare mention it to Quickenpaugh. On the trail, there must be some way you can get that Indian’s attention.”
“There is,” Curley said, “but I believe Cal’s considered that. Quickenpaugh’s always on the second watch, while I’m on the first.”
“Cal wants Quickenpaugh on the second watch because he believes there’s more likely to be trouble,” said Lorna. “You and me are on the first watch because he thinks we’ll be safe there.”
“When we have a chance,” Curley said, “I’ll have Quickenpaugh start teaching me the Crow tongue again.”
“What’s so interesting in that?” Lorna asked.
“Nothing,” said Curley. “I don’t care a damn for the Crow tongue, but how else do I get Quickenpaugh to spend any time with me?”
The grass definitely had begun to green toward the north. Cal halted the drive after estimating they had traveled at least twelve miles. The horses and cattle were bedded down along the unidentified stream they had been following.
“One more day’s drive to the north should put us well beyond the reach of the Sioux,” Cal said. “Then we can go east, toward the Dakotas.”
“There may be a problem we haven’t considered,” said Tom. “While we’ll be avoiding the Sioux, suppose we encounter the soldiers? They’ll likely march west, along the Yellowstone.”
“Unless the military has declared martial law,” Cal said, “they can’t stop us. After all, we’ll be far enough north until the Sioux will be of no danger to us.”
“They ought to be grateful to us,” said Tom Allen. “Thanks to Quickenpaugh, you can pretty well tell them where the Sioux are gathering.”
“If they try to give us a hard way to go, don’t tell ’em nothing,” Smokey Ellison said. “Let them find the Sioux on their own.”
That seemed to be the prevailing mood among the riders, for they well remembered the time they had trailed a Texas herd to Virginia City. The military had ordered them to turn back, but Nelson Story had defied them, taking the Bozeman Trail at night.*
After the camp had settled down, Oscar Fentress stopped to see how Jasmine was feeling.
“How much longer will I be wearing these splints on my legs?” Jasmine asked Oscar.
“I reckon at least two more weeks,” said Oscar. “Take ’em away too soon, and them bones breaks loose. Then you be stuck with ’em twice as long, and maybe they don’t mend at all.”
EASTERN WYOMING TERRITORY.
MAY 20, 1876
The Lone Star outfit spent a week in camp, allowing th
e horse remuda and the cattle to feed on the new grass. It might have been an enjoyable, restful time, had it not been for the presence of Roscoe Yates and his supposed daughters, Connie and Kate. Not knowing quite how to handle the errant females, Benton McCaleb managed to arrange a conversation with Rebecca. McCaleb got right to the point.
“What am I goin’ to do about them damn brass-plated females?”
Rebecca laughed. “You gave them permission to trail with us.”
“I didn’t see anything wrong with that,” McCaleb said. “Old Roscoe’s their daddy, and he’s always around. Besides, we’ll be taking the trail tomorrow.”
“If that old man’s their daddy, he should be tarred and feathered,” said Rebecca.
“The reason being that the rest of you women don’t like the daughters,” McCaleb said. “That day they returned from washing their clothes, the two of them looked like they had been dunked in the water hole. They slipped, I reckon.”
“I’m sure they did,” said Rebecca with a straight face.
“Granted that old Roscoe hasn’t done his duty with the girls,” McCaleb said, “but that rule should be for any parent, shouldn’t it? What about Brazos and Rosalie?”
“What about them?” Rebecca asked.
“Penelope,” said McCaleb. “She’s become a little wretch, and you can see the hate in her eyes when she looks at the Yates women.”
Rebecca laughed. “Is that all? She’s been the only single female in the outfit for so long, she thinks it’s her right. She’s jealous, not just of the Yates girls, but of any single female coming into her territory.”
“You think so?” McCaleb said. “Penelope’s bitter, and to some degree, I think she has a right. These Yates females are taking unfair advantage, doing things . . . that Penelope dares not do.”
“Things?” Rebecca asked.
“Like stripping off naked, when they went to wash clothes,” said McCaleb.
Rebecca laughed. “Benton McCaleb, you old dog! You were watching.”
The Deadwood Trail Page 17