“Let me talk to Monte once more, Bent,” said Rebecca. “I’ll try to talk some sense into him, and if I fail, then do what you must.”
McCaleb nodded, unspeaking. He knew what the hard words had cost her.
As the riders assigned to the first watch mounted their horses, distant thunder relied somewhere far to the west. Lightning—like the flicking tongue of a rattler—danced along the horizon as though on stepping-stones the Almighty had created there for just such a purpose.
“Sounds like a mean one coming after us,” McCaleb said. “If that thunder and lightning get too close, we’ll have one hell of a time holding ’em. The first watch will be ready to join those of us on the second watch, the moment it becomes necessary.”
“We’ve had too many damn stampedes,” said Brazos, “and I’m ready to head this one off, if we can. We know the ground will be hock-deep in mud, with standing water everywhere, and no place to spread our blankets. I believe all of us should stay in the saddle at least until first light, or until the storm’s passed.”
There was a long silence. To the shame of them all, Penelope spoke.
“I’d as soon ride all night as to try to sleep on the wet, muddy ground. I’ll go.”
“We’re an outfit,” Will Elliot said. “Whatever danger comes, we’ll face it together.”
“All of you I can count on tonight, raise your hands,” said McCaleb.
It quickly became a unanimous decision, but for Monte Nance. He neither raised a hand nor spoke. He seemed to be awaiting a reaction from McCaleb, and McCaleb well knew it, so he let the incident pass. He caught Rebecca’s eye, and found no reassurance there. It would be up to her . . .
“Let’s keep ’em bunched as tight as we can,” said McCaleb, as the watch began.
The rest of the outfit had begun saddling their horses in preparation for the coming night. Not caring to hear what McCaleb had to say, Roscoe Yates and his two daughters had shied away. Monte was headed toward their wagon when Rebecca spoke.
“Monte, I want to talk to you.”
“Well, I don’t want to talk to you,” Monte said. “Tell McCaleb anything he wants me to know, he’ll have to tell me to my face. I won’t listen to any secondhand preaching from him, while he hides behind a female.”
“Any preaching I do,” said Rebecca, “will come straight from me. Bent’s washed his hands of you, and I’m glad. I suspect Brazos and Will see you in much the same light, and that they’ll all vote to cut you loose once we reach Deadwood and the cattle are sold.”
“Then don’t look for me to do a damned thing from here on,” Monte snarled.
“We won’t,” said Rebecca, “and don’t you expect trail wages from here on.”
“That’s about what I expected of a cheap bastard like McCaleb,” Monte said.
“It’s not McCaleb’s idea,” said Rebecca. “It’s mine. Without you in the saddle, it’ll be hard on all the other riders. I’m going to suggest to Bent that all we would have paid you be split among the rest of the outfit.”
“Do that,” Monte hissed. “All I expect from McCaleb is payment for my part of the herd. Then all of you can go to hell.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way,” said Rebecca. “If you decide you want to go on being a part of Lone Star, you’ll have to mend your ways before we reach Deadwood.”
“Whatever you and big bad McCaleb do when we reach Deadwood won’t bother me,” said Monte. “I’m fed up bein’ a cow nurse. I have plans of my own.”
Rebecca mounted her horse and joined the rest of the outfit circling the herd. McCaleb waited awhile, allowing her to collect her thoughts and compose herself. Finally, when she reined up and dismounted, so did McCaleb.
“No luck, I reckon,” McCaleb said.
“None,” said Rebecca. “Threatening to kick him out of Lone Star didn’t bother him in the slightest He says he has plans of his own.”
“I suspect those plans have something to do with Roscoe Yates,” McCaleb replied. “The man’s hands are soft, and I doubt he’s ever seen an honest day’s work in his life. He has the look of an hombre playing with a stacked deck.”
The storm held off until well past midnight, and when it struck, there was only wind and rain. Thunder still rumbled from a distance, and golden shards of lightning still walked grandly across the western horizon. The cattle were restless, several times rising to their feet, but the constant presence of the riders overcame their fears. Two hours before first light, the rain became a drizzle, eventually ceasing. There was always dry wood beneath the wagon, in the possum belly, so there was plenty of hot coffee for breakfast. Most of the outfit was aware of the standoff between Benton McCaleb and Monte Nance, and they all waited with some anticipation to see how McCaleb would handle it. McCaleb wasted no time, and right after breakfast announced the positions for various riders during the day.
“Brazos, I want you and Will as flank riders. Jed and Stoney, you’ll be riding swing. Pen, I want you, Rebecca, Penelope and Rosalie at drag. Susannah will handle the chuck wagon. When Goose has scouted ahead, he’ll remain at the point position with me. Any questions before we move out?”
Nobody spoke, but many eyes were on Monte Nance, especially those of Roscoe Yates. It seemed all were waiting to see what Monte would do, once the herd took the trail.
“Head ’em up, move ’em out,” McCaleb shouted.
Monte Nance dropped all pretense, falling back beside the Yates wagon. The trail drive went on its uneasy way, and for the first time, concern for trouble within their own ranks was greater than any danger that awaited them on the trail ahead.
EASTERN MONTANA TERRITORY.
MAY 23, 1876
The riders stood to eat, not wishing to sit on the sodden ground.
“We was almighty lucky last night,” said Smokey Ellison. “Way that lightning flashed and the thunder rolled, I was lookin’ for the grandaddy of all stampedes.”
“So was I,” Cal said. “If I had it to do over, I think we’d have started this-drive with at least four more riders.”
“The cattle and horses are trail-wise,” said Tom, “so it’s not all that hard when they’re on the move. But when they’re bedded down—even bunched—they can get spooked and come at you in a front half a mile wide. You’re bettin’ your life on a fast horse, and even if you do get ahead of them, they may just keep coming.”
“That’s precisely why we avoid any such risks,” Cal said. “I’d rather spend a week trying to gather a stampeded herd than one hour burying one of you.”
“There’s mud and standing water everywhere,” said Quanah Taylor. “Are we goin’ on?”
“I think so,” Cal said. “Curley, it’s your turn on the chuck wagon. How do you feel?”
“I feel we should go ahead,” said Curley. “I’ll do my best, keeping to higher ground. We’ve already lost too many days on account of the chuck wagon.”
Curley’s enthusiasm quickly caught on, and the outfit took the trail. One more day’s drive to the north, and they would again turn eastward. When the herd was moving well, Cal left his point position and rode back to the tag end of the drive, to the horse herd.
“Quickenpaugh,” said Cal, pointing the direction the herd was headed.
“Si,” Quickenpaugh replied. He rode north, not so much seeking for Indian sign as for sign of the expected soldiers.
“My God,” said Jasmine, as the wagon jounced along, “I’ll be so glad when I’m able to ride a horse again.”
“The first couple of days after Oscar removes those splints, maybe you ought to stay with the wagon,” Curley said. “If something went wrong and the horse pitched you off, it might break those bones all over again.”
Jasmine laughed. “When you’re used to the saddle, this wagon seat’s no rocking chair.”
The wagon followed the horse herd, and the wranglers—Arch, Hitch, Mac and Quickenpaugh—kept the horses bunched, on the very heels of the drag riders. The animals were trailing well, and their go
od behavior allowed the riders some freedom. Quickenpaugh, on occasion, wheeled his horse and rode back the way they had come, studying the backtrail.
“Why do you suppose he’s doing that?” Curley wondered.
“It gives him a chance to look at you,” said Jasmine. “Don’t you know anything about men?”
“Not much, I reckon,” Curley said. She was reluctant to speak, lest there be talk of her ill-fated marriage to Bud McDaniels.
But it seemed Jasmine had accepted Bud’s death. When she again spoke, it was more to the point.
“What do you aim to do with that Indian, after our business in Deadwood is finished and we return to our home range in Virginia City?”
“Lorna’s got a big mouth,” said Curley.
Jasmine laughed. “On the trail we’re all together every day. But when this drive’s done and we return to the ranch, you’ll be in that cabin all alone. If Quickenpaugh comes calling, everybody in the outfit’s going to know things are serious between you.”
“I don’t care a damn what everybody knows,” Curley said. “What do you know?”
“Only what I’ve been hearing,” said Jasmine. “The outfit’s betting you’ll never get him to stand before a preacher and that the pair of you will end up sleeping on a blanket on the floor.”
“Well, I reckon all of you will just have to wait and see,” said Curley.
Despite Curley’s skills with the teams, the wagon’s right front wheel slid into a hole. The hole had filled with mud and wasn’t visible, but there was rock at the bottom.
“Oh, damn,” Curley groaned, “it’s that same wheel that was busted last time.”
“Now we have no replacement,” said Jasmine, “and it’s my fault for allowing the teams to run away, breaking that same damn wheel. Maybe it didn’t hurt the wheel. If it’s just bogged down in the mud, the teams might be able to pull it out.”
“I don’t think so,” Curley said. “It felt like something broke, and if it’s only a couple of spokes, dragging it out could snap off the rest of them. I’ll get that shovel out of the wagon.”
The horse wranglers had discovered the chuck wagon was no longer moving, and Arch rode ahead to warn Cal. The rest of the riders were watching Cal, and when he signaled a halt, they began milling and bunching the herd. Curley was busily shoveling the mud away from the stricken wheel when Cal rode up and dismounted.
“Sorry,” said Curley. “It all looked like solid ground.”
“Luck of the draw,” Cal said.
Taking the shovel from Curley, he shoveled down to rock and then cleared a decent space around the wheel. The wooden oval where the spokes met the rim had split. Three spokes were hanging loose.
“Somehow, we have to repair that part of the wheel that’s split,” Cal said. “Oscar, you and Bill are handy with tools. What do you think?”
“I think it ain’t gonna be easy,” said Oscar Fentress. “What you reckon, Bill?”
“About the same as you,” Bill Petty said. “Cal, did you bring that big roll of stovepipe wire?”
“That and a couple pair of pliers,” said Cal.
Smokey Ellison emerged from the wagon with the wagon jack. Cal climbed in and began moving things about, looking for the roll of wire and the pliers. Bill Petty had taken the shovel and was shoveling away the mud, seeking solid ground upon which the jack could rest. By the time Cal had found the pliers and wire, Petty had the jack in position under the wagon’s front axle. Once the damaged wheel was raised off the ground, the iron tire popped off and hung loose.
“Fixin’ that gonna take some doin’,” said Oscar Fentress, “and the first bad jolt, she’ll bust again.”
“Then we’ll just have to jack up the wagon and wire it together again,” Cal replied.
“Bill,” said Oscar, “gimme a hand and we’ll get started.”
“Do the best you can,” Cal said. “The rest of us will bed down the horses and the herd. We may be here awhile.”
There being plenty of water and improved graze, the stock settled down and began taking advantage of it. The riders unsaddled their horses, allowing the animals to roll.
“Will some of you help me down from the wagon?” Jasmine asked. “I need a rest from this wagon seat.”
“Give me a hand, Cal,” said Tom.
It wasn’t easy, lifting Jasmine down with two splinted legs, but they managed to get her on a folded blanket, her back to one of the wagon’s rear wheels. Quickenpaugh had remained near the horse herd, ever watchful. Curley stood beside him, silent, alone with her thoughts. She was startled when suddenly he spoke.
“Quickenpaugh learn white man’s tongue. You help?”
“I’ll help,” Curley was quick to assure him.
Not another word was spoken. Quickenpaugh continued staring into the distance, where the seemingly endless plains met the blue of the Montana sky. Curley was about to return to the wagon when Quickenpaugh placed his hand on her arm. When he spoke, it was with genuine regret.
“Lo siento mucho. Bud die.”
Curley turned to face him, and for the first time, there was an expression in his dark eyes. Curley’s heart leaped, and it didn’t matter that the rest of the outfit was probably watching. She took one of the Indian’s strong hands in both of hers and spoke softly.
“You tried to save him, Quickenpaugh,” said Curley. “What happened to him was his own fault.”
In a moment of inspiration, Curley pointed a finger toward Quickenpaugh, and then toward herself.
“Si,” Quickenpaugh said, the light of understanding in his eyes.
The men had been concerned with the repair of the wagon wheel or were circling the cattle and horse herds, but Lorna and Jasmine were watching Curley and Quickenpaugh.
“Are my eyes failing me,” Jasmine said, “or did you see that too?”
Lorna laughed. “I saw it. I’d just like to know what Curley said that made it happen. I have never seen any expression on that Indian’s face in all the years he’s been with us. He was wounded, hurting like hell, but there was no hint of it in his eyes.”
As Curley started back toward the wagon, Quickenpaugh mounted his horse and started circling the grazing herds. Curley tried not to look at Jasmine or Lorna, but they refused to let her be. With a sigh, she hunkered down with them.
“We saw that,” Jasmine said. “How did you get him so interested?”
“I don’t know,” said Curley. “He put his hand on my arm and said he’s very sorry that Bud died.”
“He was in no way to blame for that,’-’ Jasmine said, “and I hope you told him so. Bud would be alive today if he had listened to Quickenpaugh instead of shooting him.”
“I told him that,” said Curley, “and he seemed to accept it as the truth.”
She didn’t tell them, however, of the new understanding between Quickenpaugh and herself. It was Lorna who came to the obvious conclusion.
“Instead of Quickenpaugh teaching you the Crow tongue, you should be teaching him as much English as you can.”
It was Curley’s turn to laugh. “We’re considerably ahead of you. He’s already asked me to teach him the white man’s tongue.”
Bill and Oscar spent almost two hours wiring together the split wooden sections of the wheel around which the iron tire of the wagon wheel must go.
“That’s all we can do with it,” said Petty. “There’s still plenty of wire left, but if this won’t hold it, I doubt the rest will be of any help to us.”
“We have spikes,” Cal said. “Maybe we can put some of them to use. Once I was in Old Mexico, and the streets were full of big two-wheeled wooden carts. The wheels were of wood, made in two sections. Each section was like a half-moon, and when the flat edges of two were placed together, there was a wheel. They then took strips of hardwood and spiked them down across the two joined halves.”
“But we got no hardwood,” said Petty. “If this heavy wire don’t hold, it’s unlikely that anything else will.”
�
��You may be right,” Cal said, “but let’s improve our chances some, if we can. Get the axe from the wagon. I’m goin’ for some wood to brace that wheel.”
“I’ll ride with you,” said Petty.
The two of them saddled their horses and rode out. Cal found a slender fir that looked promising, felled it, trimmed it, and chopped off a twelve-foot length.
“You got enough for two braces,” Petty said.
“I know,” said Cal. “I have in mind spiking one of them to the outside of the wheel, and the other to the inside, if we can. We’ll have to see how much leeway there is between the front wheel and the wagon box. If it gets in the way of the wheels turning, we’ll have to forget about the inside brace.”
Reaching the wagon, Cal and Bill positioned the heavy fir trunk across the outside of the wagon wheel. With the axe, Cal notched the wood where it would be cut. He then cut it to the right length, using the axe to flatten each end. The result was a sturdy piece of fir that crossed the wheel just below the hub, with each end spiked to the wooden rim on opposite sides. Cal turned the wheel over, considering a second brace.
“That be enough,” said Oscar. “Ain’t gonna be room for another one of them braces on the inside of the wheel, next to the wagon box.”
“I expect you’re right,” Cal said. “With this one, and all that wire, we should be able to go on. Put that piece of fir in the wagon’s possum belly, in case we need it later.”
“We don’t have more than two hours of daylight left,” said Tom. “Are we going on?”
“I don’t think so,” Cal said. “There’s water aplenty. Leave the wagon on the jack, take that wheel downstream a ways and put it underwater. If there are any loose spokes, they should be swollen tight by morning.”
The following morning, while breakfast was being prepared, Bill and Oscar mounted the repaired wagon wheel.
“She’s swelled up good,” said Oscar. “The spokes is all tight.”
The Deadwood Trail Page 19