The Deadwood Trail

by Ralph Compton

  “Penelope,” said Rosalie, “you’ve made a shameful, unladylike spectacle of yourself.”

  “If I have,” Penelope said, “I don’t care a damn. The two of them came down over here and jumped on Rebecca. Are you all right, Rebecca?”

  “Bruised and dirty, mostly,” said Rebecca, “and I could use a shirt.”

  Jed and Stoney had given up on their attempts to repair the wagon wheel, watching in amazement as the four women had fought. Connie and Kate sat on the ground, savagely cursing all who were within hearing. Penelope had started toward the troublesome pair once more when McCaleb spoke angrily.

  “Get up, both of you, and return to your wagon. You’re not welcome in our camp, or near any of our riders.”

  “Not till that little wench returns my knife,” Kate shouted.

  Penelope drove the blade deep into the hard ground. Snapping off the thin blade, she threw the useless haft at Kate. Brazos laughed, and Rosalie cast him a sour look. The two bloodied, dirty Yates girls got to their feet and headed toward the distant wagon, where old Roscoe apparently waited.

  “Girl,” said Rebecca, putting her arms around Penelope, “you can side me in a fight anytime you’re of a mind to.”

  “I think you’d better save that,” McCaleb said. “You need a bath and a shirt. Let’s all get away from here so Stoney and Jed can finish repairing that wheel. Sorry for all the trouble, boys.”

  “Wasn’t no trouble,” said Stoney. “That was worth twice what Yates paid us to fix his busted wheel.”

  McCaleb did his best to look disgusted, but his cause was lost. Rebecca and Penelope walked arm-in-arm, grinning like two old warriors who had gone forth and conquered the enemy. Even Rosalie had adopted a weak smile.

  “Well,” said Brazos, “it was a mite ugly, but I reckon it was somethin’ that had to be done.”

  “You’re damn right it did,” Penelope said, “and if there’s ever a need, I’ll do it allover again.”

  Brazos laughed, while Rosalie pretended she hadn’t heard.

  *The Western Trail (Trail Drive #2)

  *Some fifty miles west of Miles City, at the mouth of Rosebud Creek, General Terry sent Custer and his regiment south in an attempt to locate the enemy Sioux.

  15

  MONTANA TERRITORY.

  JUNE 21, 1876

  “HEAD ’EM UP, MOVE ’em out!” Cal shouted.

  Aware of the possibility of a clash between the soldiers and the Sioux, the riders kept the cattle and the horses at a faster than usual gait. They easily reached the Tongue River in time to set up their camp before dark.

  “If my memory serves me right,” said Bill Petty, “we got two more rivers ahead.”

  “That’s mostly right,” Cal said. “It’ll be a long, hard drive tomorrow, but I’m aiming for us to reach Pumpkin Creek. Another long day should see us to Powder River. Beyond that is the Little Missouri.”

  “It’s time we was headin’ more to the south,” said Oscar Fentress.

  “We’re going to,” Cal said, “just as soon as we cross the Powder. We’ll be crossing the Little Missouri where it flows across the southeastern corner of Montana Territory. I figure we’ll then be maybe sixty miles from Deadwood.”

  “Once we’re a day out of Deadwood,” said Tom Allen, “some of us had better ride in and find the hombre that aims to buy the herd. Enough hungry miners in a bunch could lynch us and take the cattle and the horses.”

  “I think we’ll have to do exactly that,” Cal said. “I haven’t forgotten how it was when some gold was discovered along the Bitterroot. Miners are likely to eat anything, or just go hungry to avoid leaving their diggings.”*

  The weather continued fair and warm, and there was an abundance of grass. Cal had kept Quickenpaugh on the second watch, while Lorna, Jasmine and Curley were together on the first, along with Oscar Fentress, Smokey Ellison and Tom Allen. The arrangement allowed Cal to tighten security on the more crucial second watch, with himself, Quickenpaugh, Bill Petty, Arch Rainy, Hitch Gould, and Mac Withers.

  “Curley,” said Lorna, when they were alone, “you haven’t seen much of your Indian lately. Has he learned all he wants to know of the white man’s tongue?”

  “He’s not my Indian,” Curley said. “He’s kept shy of me since Bud . . . left. He’s learned to cuss like a mule-skinner in the white man’s tongue. I’m not sure he’s interested in the rest of it.”

  “I think he feels a little . . . uneasy, since you were married to Bud,” said Lorna. “Maybe he feels like he ought to wait awhile. There’s generally a mourning period.”

  “Mourning?” Curley laughed bitterly. “I’m not that much a hypocrite.”

  “We all know the rocky road you walked with Bud,” said Lorna, “and I doubt that any of us—even Jasmine—will fault you for getting on with your life.”

  “Thanks,” Curley said, “but I’m doing about all I can, which is helping get the herd to Deadwood. How can I get Quickenpaugh’s attention without his pride coming between us? I don’t want him thinking I’m a pushy, no-account squaw.”

  “He’s on the second watch,” said Lorna, “but he either sleeps light or not at all. Last night, while we were on first watch, I caught him wide awake, his Winchester in his hand. The first watch is always quiet. Jasmine and I could cover for you, if you were to . . . ah . . . visit Quickenpaugh when he’s supposed to be sleeping.”

  “I don’t want to cause any trouble within the outfit,” Curley said.

  “I can’t see it causing any trouble, if you spend a little time with Quickenpaugh during the first watch. Just don’t get him so involved he forgets he’s on the second watch with Cal.”

  “Damn you, Lorna Snider, you’re making fun of me,” said Curley. “Quickenpaugh’s an Indian. What could . . . how could . . .”

  Lorna laughed. “He’s an Indian, but he’s a man first, and he’s not insensitive. Much as he had a right to hate Bud, Quickenpaugh was genuinely sorry after what happened. I saw it in his eyes.”

  “Sometimes I think he’s more interested in Jasmine than he is in me,” said Curley. “He spent a lot of time with her while there was just a blanket between her and naked. What’s wrong with Tom Allen? Are his eyes failing him?”

  “I don’t think Tom and Jasmine have a problem,” Lorna said, “but you do. You’ve got a bad case of jealousy.”

  “Me? Jealous of a damn Indian?” said Curley.

  “Yes,” Lorna said, “and it’s all without cause. Quickenpaugh would have been just as concerned over you or me as he was over Jasmine. Besides that, I’m not completely sure this strange Indian hasn’t used Jasmine’s condition to stir the jealousy in you. He wants you to show some interest in him, and I don’t mean teaching him the white man’s tongue.”

  “If you was anybody else,” said Curley savagely, “I’d rip your eyeballs out.”

  “If I was anybody else, I wouldn’t give a damn,” Lorna said, “but I like Quickenpaugh and I like you.”

  For a while there was only an uneasy silence between them. Finally, without looking at Lorna, Curley spoke.

  “You’re my friends, you and Jasmine. It’s kind of you to think of me, and I’m a wretch to doubt your intentions. Does Jasmine feel . . . the way . . . you do?”

  Lorna laughed. “It was Jasmine who wanted me to talk to you.”

  “Well, then,” said Curley, “maybe tonight we’ll find out where Quickenpaugh the Indian ends and Quickenpaugh the man picks up the slack.”

  As had become their custom, the three women took their positions as part of the first watch. There wouldn’t be a moon until late, and no sound disturbed the stillness of the plains except the occasional cry of a coyote. The riders on watch were afoot, and nobody except Lorna and Jasmine were aware that Curley had slipped away from the herd.

  “I hope she’s doing the right thing,” said Lorna.

  “She is,” Jasmine whispered. “There are white men on the frontier who would slit an Indian’s throat if he so much as lo
oked at a white woman, and Quickenpaugh knows that. Have you forgotten how Bud hated Quickenpaugh because he’s an Indian?”

  “No,” said Lorna, “and you’re right. Quickenpaugh’s going to have to be sure of how his own outfit’s going to feel, if he’s seriously interested in Curley.”

  “Yes,” Jasmine said, “and before he worries too much about how the outfit feels, he’s got to be sure of Curley.”

  They continued talking in soft tones as Curley crept toward the place well beyond the chuck wagon, where Quickenpaugh spread his blankets. Curley strained her eyes, seeking the dim bulk that would be the Indian in his blankets. Suddenly, from behind, her arms were imprisoned, and there was a strong hand over her mouth. She bit the hand and it was removed. Hands seized her by her shoulders, lifted her off the ground and she found herself face-to-face with Quickenpaugh.

  “Quickenpaugh,” she whispered desperately, “it’s me, Curley.”

  Quickenpaugh said nothing. Releasing her, he took one of her arms and led her well away from the area where the second watch would be sleeping. He paused beneath a huge tree whose new foliage created a deep shadow. Only then did he speak.

  “You like Quickenpaugh?”

  “Yes,” said Curley. “Can’t you tell?”

  She caught her breath as she felt his strong fingers unbuttoning her shirt. He peeled off the shirt and began working on the buttons of her Levi’s.

  “Desnudo” Quickenpaugh said.

  “No,” said Curley. “Boots first.”

  “Si,” Quickenpaugh said.

  Picking her up bodily, he stretched her out on the ground, and in the best cowboy fashion, drew off her boots. The Levi’s followed, and not for an hour did Curley return to her position on watch.

  “Well,” Jasmine asked anxiously, “did you convince him?”

  “If I didn’t,” said Curley, “him and all men can go straight to hell.”

  But there was a decided difference in Quickenpaugh the following day and for every day thereafter. While he made no obvious moves toward Curley, there was a new light in his dark eyes, and their nightly rendezvous continued. Cal was first to mention the change to Lorna.

  “I don’t reckon you know what’s goin’ on between Quickenpaugh and Curley, do you?”

  “Who says anything’s going on?” Lorna asked in response. “If it was, would it bother you?”

  “Maybe,” said Cal. “Quickenpaugh’s an Indian. Not a troublesome one, but an Indian in the eyes of every white man. White women who have taken Indian men have been stripped and beaten to death, while an Indian man taking a white woman is subject to being strung up, gut-shot or shot in the back. I wouldn’t want to see any such thing happen to Curley or Quickenpaugh.”

  “But they’re both part of Mr. Story’s outfit in Virginia City,” said Lorna. “They’re as much part of it as any of us. How could any such thing happen?”

  “I don’t know,” Cal said. “I’m just considering the possibilities. I have an idea that our General Custer is getting in over his head with the Sioux. A Sioux victory and a pile of dead soldiers would have white men shooting anybody who even looks Indian, and we’re on our way into a boomtown where there will be few women.”

  “I . . . I’ll talk to Curley,” said Lorna. “Once we’re done in Deadwood . . .”

  “No,” Cal said. “I don’t want Quickenpaugh having his impression of the white man get any worse. Maybe we can set up camp far enough from town to keep him out of it.”

  EASTERN WYOMING TERRITORY.

  JUNE 23, 1876

  “If memory serves me right,” said Benton McCaleb, “we’ll cross Beaver Creek a couple of days before we enter Dakota Territory. It can’t be more than fifty or sixty miles on to Deadwood.”

  “It’ll be nice to reach a stream with plenty of water,” Brazos said. “We haven’t had a decent creek since we left Powder River.”

  Not until after supper did Rebecca speak to McCaleb on a subject he’d been dreading.

  “Bent, every night, Roscoe Yates and those . . . women are getting closer and closer to our camp. If you don’t tell them to back off, I’m going to.”

  “I’ve already told them,” said McCaleb. “What would you suggest I do that I haven’t done?”

  Rebecca sighed. “I don’t know. I . . . I just want to be rid of them.”

  “I figure we’re not more than four or five days out of Deadwood,” McCaleb said. “We can stand them another three days, can’t we? I figure we’ll bed down the herd maybe two days out of Deadwood, until I can ride in and talk to Milo Reems. At that point, if I have to, I’ll tell Yates that’s as far as we go, that he’s to go on without us.”

  “I suppose we have no choice,” said Rebecca gloomily. “I just hope Monte—”

  “I just hope Monte’s learned his damn lesson,” McCaleb said.

  But Monte Nance had not. While he no longer pursued the Yates women, he had begun trying Penelope’s patience.

  “Damn you, Penelope,” Monte whined, “why won’t you . . . be nice to me?”

  “Because your idea of me being nice to you is giving in to you, and you don’t deserve it,” said Penelope. “I don’t want some varmint pawin’ over me that’s been with every lowlife whore in Wyoming Territory.”

  “But you ain’t always felt like that,” Monte protested. “You was stripped that day in the wagon—”

  “That was before you spent a week enjoying the favors of those Yates whores right under my nose,” said Penelope. “If you’re so desperate, why don’t you talk to them? They should be ready for another roll in the hay by now.”

  As had become his custom, Goose rode out the next morning, seeking Indian sign, as well as a source for water for the night’s camp. He returned in a little less than three hours, meeting the oncoming herd.

  “Creek,” said Goose, jogging his mount alongside McCaleb’s.

  “Bueno,” McCaleb said. “How far?”

  “Reckon ten mile,” said Goose, in a drawl he had picked up from the Texans.

  There was still no Indian sign, and McCaleb sighed with relief. But his relief was very short-lived. Well before noon, the wind had risen out of the northwest, bringing with it the distinctive smell of rain.

  “Warm as it is, rain won’t be a bother,” Will Elliot said, “but last time, all we got was wind and rain. We’re overdue for thunder and lightning.”

  “Don’t remind me,” said McCaleb. “I’ve been saying all the prayers I could think of, in the hope that we might actually reach Deadwood without having these varmints scattered all over eastern Wyoming again.”

  But the weather turned bad and the herd ornery before they reached the creek Goose had found. The wind grew stronger, and when the rain came, the big drops slammed into the cows’ behinds like buckshot. In itself, that wasn’t bad, for the animals had their backs to the coming storm, and it pushed them generally in the direction they must go. But the worst was yet to come. Lightning danced across the leaden sky, and thunder rumbled not too far distant.

  “She’s buildin’ up to a bad one,” McCaleb shouted.

  It was Rosalie’s day on the chuck wagon. Every other rider was in the saddle and all eyes were on the approaching storm.

  Quickly McCaleb made the rounds, cautioning them, “If there’s thunder and lightning, we may not be able to hold them. If they run, don’t try to head them, unless they try to run north or south. If they’re hell-bent on running, let’s do our best to see they stampede the way we want them to go, which is east.”

  The thunder and lightning became more intense. Thunder shook the earth, one continuous clap after another, while lightning flared across the leaden sky in its glorious hues of blue, green and gold. The cattle, bawling their unease, picked up the gait until they were almost running. Thunder rolled, one horrendous clap merging with the next, and at the very height of it, lightning struck. As one, the frightened bawling herd stampeded eastward with the wind and rain at their backs. The riders had managed to hold the horse
remuda, and they all came, together near the chuck wagon. The chuck wagon mules were skittish, and Brazos held their bridles, calming them.

  “We’ll move on to the creek Goose found,” said McCaleb. “The rain looks like it might have set in for the day and maybe tonight. We’ll give it till tomorrow before we start our gather. Some of ’em may gather along that creek up yonder ahead of us.”

  Rebecca looked back, and through the driving rain she could see the Yates wagon as it followed them.

  “They’re still coming,” said Rebecca, just loud enough for Rosalie to hear.

  “I know,” Rosalie said, through clenched teeth. She slapped the misbehaving mules with the reins, sending them in a trot the direction the herd had stampeded.

  SOUTHEASTERN MONTANA TERRITORY.

  JUNE 23, 1876

  The storm, with its thunder and lightning, swept across the Rocky Mountains, drenching the Wyoming, Montana and Dakota Territories. Cal Snider and his outfit watched with despair as their horses and cattle responded predictably to the commotion created among the elements.

  “The worst of the thunder and lightning ain’t hit us yet,” Bill Petty shouted. “When it does, they’re goners.”

  “If we can’t stop them from running,” Cal shouted back, “let’s try to at least head the varmints the way we want ’em to go.”

  It would be the best they could do. Once the frightened herd began to run, more than twenty thousand pounding hooves would create a moving avalanche of death. They could only hope to keep the stampeding animals heading eastward, the direction in which the trail drive must eventually go. The thunder rumbled closer, and the lightning became almost continuous.