“Get ready,” Cal shouted. “It’s coming.
Gray sheets of rain rode the wind in from the northwest, as the riders thonged down their hats. Thunder crashed, seeming to take the weary earth in its clutches and shake it to its very foundation. As one, the cattle were on their feet, bawling their terror. By prior arrangement, all the riders threw their efforts toward securing the horse remuda. Holding the two hundred horses that was the Story herd was impossible. They would have to be gathered along with the stampeded cattle.
“Looks like the rain may continue at least for today, and maybe tonight,” Cal said. “We might as well find some high ground and start our gather tomorrow.”
“Just another four or five days,” said Arch, “and we would of had these varmints in Deadwood. Now we got another damn gather on our hands.”
“You’d better hope this bunch don’t run too far,” Tom Allen said. “We don’t know how widespread these diggings are. We might find hungry miners claiming our cows and gunning them down.”
“By God, he’s right,” said Mac Withers. “Come daylight, we’d better ride as long and as hard as we can. Can you imagine what them well-broke Story horses will be worth in a boomtown?”
“Kill,” Quickenpaugh hissed.
“No,” said Cal. “We can’t let it come to that. We’ll have to find our herds and take control of them. I think by the time we finish the gather, we’ll be near enough to Deadwood for some of us to ride in and make a deal for the cattle.”
The rain continued for most of the night, and by dawn the land was sodden beyond belief. Wet weather springs spouted from what had been dry land.
“I think we’ll leave the chuck wagon where it is,” Cal said. “Lorna, I want you to stay with the wagon, and Quickenpaugh, I want you to stay with her. The rest of us are going after the cattle and horses. The lack of water won’t be a problem for a while, so we’ll just drive them back here. Quickenpaugh, you have a Winchester, and there’s one in the wagon. If there’s any sign of trouble, one of you fire some warning shots. We’ll be downwind from you, and the sound will carry.”
It wasn’t the best arrangement, but it was the most sensible. While Quickenpaugh felt the gathering of the scattered horses worthy of his stature, he didn’t share that feeling for the cattle. Therefore, he could remain with Lorna and the chuck wagon in the event of any possible danger, without offending his dignity by having to round up cattle. If he sensed any compromise, he was careful not to show it. There was still plenty of dry wood in the wagon’s possum belly, and when the outfit had ridden out, Lorna stirred up the fire and put on another pot of coffee. Quickenpaugh hunkered down by the fire, waiting. Despite his faithfulness, Lorna felt ill at ease with him. How did she converse with him—or with any man—who had been having a nightly rendezvous with Curley, her friend? She found herself wishing Curley had spared her and Jasmine a detailed report of nightly carryings-on between her and Quickenpaugh. He wore only moccasins and buckskin trousers so tight they left very little to the imagination. Lorna dared not ignore him, so she knelt on the other side of the fire, as though waiting for the coffee to boil. Despite all her efforts to avoid eye contact, Quickenpaugh’s eyes met hers. Suddenly all of Curley’s whisperings came to mind, and she felt herself blushing furiously. Suddenly Quickenpaugh laughed. Never, in all the years he had been with them had she heard him laugh. It was a strange, guttural sound from deep in his throat.
“Cómico,” said Quickenpaugh. “Curley talk.”
Lorna blushed all the more, and Quickenpaugh laughed again. The damn Indian knew he was embarrassing her, and was enjoying it to the utmost. Deliberately, she forced from her mind all the mental pictures Curley had painted, and when she spoke, it was in her normal voice.
“Yes,” said Lorna boldly, “Curley talks. Jasmine and I know all the two of you have done. Do you intend to punish Curley?”
Quickenpaugh shook his head. Contrary to what Lorna had expected, he seemed pleased that word of his prowess had reached the ears of Curley’s friends. His arrogance seemed akin to that of the late Bud McDaniels, and suddenly Lorna was angry.
“Damn you,” Lorna said, “you’re having your way with Curley, and like any feather-legged coyote, you want to sing out to the world. What do you aim to do with her, when we return to Virginia City? Will you round up a few squaws to help her entertain you?”
Lorna swallowed hard, aware that her words might infuriate Quickenpaugh to an extent that he might slit her throat in a moment of fury. To her surprise, Quickenpaugh laughed. He then spoke mildly, in as friendly a manner as ever.
“No squaw. Have ranch.”
Despite herself, Lorna laughed. “You? With a ranch? You hate cows. Do you aim for Curley to do all the work herself?”
“Not cow ranch,” said Quickenpaugh. “Horse ranch.”
Suddenly it began to make sense, and since Curley had said nothing about such a thing, Lorna could only conclude that Quickenpaugh hadn’t told her what was on his mind.
“When will you tell Curley?” Lorna asked.
Quickenpaugh shrugged his shoulders.
“She ought to know,” Lorna persisted. “She needs to know there’s more in her future than having you strip her and have your way with her on a blanket on the ground.”
“No blanket,” said Quickenpaugh solemnly.
“You bastard, you’re laughing at me,” Lorna shouted.
“Not cómico,” said Quickenpaugh. “Curley talk, you talk. You tell.”
“You want me to tell Curley your intentions,” Lorna said. “That’s not right. She needs to hear it from you.”
Quickenpaugh shrugged his shoulders and said no more. The coffee was ready, and Lorna fetched two tin cups. Pouring one full, she passed it to Quickenpaugh. She then filled the second one for herself. She again knelt down across the fire, where she and the Indian stared at each other in uneasy silence. Despite Quickenpaugh’s limitations, he had told her that his thoughts for his future and that of Curley went considerably beyond his and Curley’s nightly frolic. But suppose this strange Indian didn’t tell Curley?
“I’ll tell Curley what your plans are,” said Lorna.
Quickenpaugh only nodded, saying nothing.
After riding for miles, Cal and the outfit had reined up to rest their horses. They had seen not a sign of their cows and Story’s horse herd, except the muddy tracks that seemed to go on forever.
“I’ve never seen ’em run this far without somethin’ or somebody chasin’ ’em,” Hitch Gould said.
“I reckon you could say the storm was chasing them,” said Cal. “They lit out quick, in the same direction the storm was moving, and it must have seemed like the thunder and lightning were following them.”
“That means they run until the thunder and lightning played out, or they was totally give out,” Smokey Ellison said.
“There’s been enough rain to swell every river, creek and water hole,” said Tom Allen. “Comin’ up on a river runnin’ bank-full could stop their running.”
“Ahead of us, the only river I know of is the Little Missouri,” Cal replied, “and I’m not sure how far we are from it. I know it flows to the southwest, and even if the stampede ends there, our stock could drift for miles. We must find them in a hurry.”
After another hour’s ride, they reined up on the west bank of what they believed to be the Little Missouri.
“It’s got to be the Little Missouri,” said Tom Allen. “Years ago, a trapper told me it’s the last river you cross in Montana, without bein’ in Dakota Territory or the southeastern corner of Wyoming Territory.”
“Whatever it is, our stock stopped here,” Cal said. “The question is, how far must we ride up- or downstream before we find them?”
“I don’t know,” said Jasmine, “but I’m thinking it was a mistake, not bringing the wagon with us. The wind’s died, and we’re so far away, Lorna or Quickenpaugh could fire a cannon without us hearing.”
“Damn it, I didn’t know the sta
mpede would run this far,” Cal said defensively. “But I reckon you’re right. It makes no sense, gathering the herd and then takin’ hours driving ’em the wrong direction. Who’s willing to go after the wagon?”
“I’ll go,” said Jasmine. “With a trail half a mile wide, there’s no danger of me getting lost.”
“Tell Lorna to keep the wagon out of the trail left by the stampede,” Cal said. “There’ll be mud hub-deep. Tell her to look for some high ground and stay with it. If she should get bogged down, your horse and Quickenpaugh’s can be harnessed with the mules.”
It was all so obvious, Jasmine was mildly irritated. Without a reply, she rode west.
“We have to start somewhere,” said Cal. “Let’s ride downstream a ways and see what we can find.”
Finally, in the distance, they could see grazing cattle and a few horses.
“That’s a start,” said Smokey Ellison.
“I don’t be too sure of that,” Oscar Fentress said. “Some of them critters ain’t wearin’ our brand. See them first two cows with a star on their hips?”
“Oscar’s dead right,” said Cal. “We’ve come up on somebody else’s herd. We’d better ride downstream a ways and find the hombres with the drive. Maybe we can join forces and help one another.”
They didn’t have far to ride. Heading upstream toward them were five riders. When the lead rider raised his hand, his companions reined up beside him. He looked them over for a moment before he spoke.
“I’m Benton McCaleb, trail boss for Lone Star, out of Wyoming. To my right is Pen Rhodes. To my left is Brazos Gifford, his daughter Penelope and Monte Nance.”
“Cal Snider, and I’m trail boss for the Story outfit, out of Virginia City, Montana. Some of our folks are trying to move the chuck wagon over here. I’ll introduce you to the rest, since it looks like we have a common problem.”
Quickly, Cal introduced the outfit, and when he got to Quanah Taylor, he found the young cowboy’s eyes fixed on Penelope. His attention didn’t go unnoticed, for Penelope wore a half-smile while Monte Nance wore a frown.
“We got on the trail of our herd as soon as it was light enough,” said McCaleb, “and I reckon our chuck wagon’s maybe ten miles back. Goose, our scout, and my wife Rebecca are there with it now. Monte, ride back and join them. Tell Rebecca to take her time with the wagon, but to come on.”
“Oh, hell,” Monte growled, “the damn wagon will get stuck every hundred yards.”
“You have a lariat and so does Goose,” said McCaleb. “Pull it out.”
“Where are the rest of your riders?” Cal asked.
“Downriver,” said McCaleb. “I hope most of our cows are there. This is a long ways from the three thousand we started with.”
“God, how I envy you,” Cal said. “We have more than five thousand cows, and at least two hundred horses.”
*North to the Bitterroot (Sundown Riders #1)
16
LITTLE MISSOURI RIVER, DAKOTA TERRITORY.
JUNE 25, 1876
JASMINE SOON REACHED THE chuck wagon where Lorna and Quickenpaugh waited. Quickly she relayed Cal’s instructions.
“High ground, hell,” said Lorna. “All I see is mud everywhere.”
“Do the best you can,” Jasmine said. “They’re a long ways off, maybe twelve miles or more. The chuck wagon has to be closer to the gather than that.”
“I’ll get it there somehow,” said Lorna. “Why don’t you tie your horse on behind and ride the box with me?”
Lorna did, while Quickenpaugh rode a few yards ahead of the wagon. Jasmine listened in amazement as Lorna told her of the strange conversation with Quickenpaugh.
“That just might work out,” Jasmine said. “I’ve never seen a man—Indian or white—who had such a feeling for horses as Quickenpaugh. He couldn’t be more concerned with Nelson Story’s horse herd if they were his own.”
“I’m glad, for Curley’s sake,” said Lorna. “By the time this drive ends, she might be in the . . . the . . .”
“Family way,” Jasmine finished.
“That would be terrible,” said Lorna, “with us both barren as a pair of maverick cows. What could we have done that we haven’t done?”
“I don’t know,” Jasmine said. “Maybe we could borrow Quickenpaugh, when he’s not busy with Curley. Why don’t you ask her?”
“I am totally mortified that you would suggest such a thing,” said Lorna stiffly.
She put on the act for as long as she could, and when they both erupted into fits of laughter, Quickenpaugh reined up his horse and looked back.
Monte reached the chuck wagon where Rebecca and Goose waited. First, he passed on McCaleb’s instructions. Then he told them of Cal Snider and the outfit from Virginia City.
“I don’t like the sound of that,” Rebecca said. “If they have nearly twice as many cows as we do, and the herds are mixed, God knows how long this gather will take.”
“That may not be the biggest problem,” said Monte. “Their big herd may cut hell out of the prices, if there ain’t as much a market as we expect.”
Rebecca took her time with the chuck wagon, and sundown was less than an hour away when she finally reached the west bank of the Little Missouri. Downstream a ways was a second chuck wagon, and two women were unharnessing the teams. Flicking the mules with the reins, she started toward the other wagon, thankful there were some women in the other outfit. Goose followed. Quickenpaugh had been behind Lorna’s chuck wagon, and as Rebecca, Monte and Goose approached, Quickenpaugh dropped the reins of his horse and stepped out. But he had no interest in the newly arrived chuck wagon, the strange woman on the box or Monte Nance. Quickenpaugh’s eyes were on Goose. In an instant, Goose had dismounted and the two faced one another like hostile hounds. Far from their native Texas, two mortal enemies had come face-to-face. Goose, the Lipan Apache, drew his long Bowie knife, while Quickenpaugh, the Comanche, drew his own formidable weapon.
“Comanch’ bastardo,” Goose hissed, advancing.
“Apach’ perro,” charged Quickenpaugh, taking a step forward.
“Goose, no!” shouted Rebecca, scrambling down from the wagon box.
Seeing the potential danger, Jasmine and Lorna were running toward Quickenpaugh, but his hard eyes were still on Goose. He advanced another step, but Rebecca reached Goose before he could go any closer.
“Goose,” Rebecca pleaded, “he’s a friend, an amigo.”
She took hold of his left arm, and he border-shifted the Bowie to his right. But Lorna and Jasmine had reached Quickenpaugh, and he yielded to their pleas, sheathing his Bowie. Almost reluctantly, Goose slipped his own Bowie beneath his waistband. The two glared at each other in a manner that suggested hostilities might resume at some better time and place.
“Dear God,” said Rebecca, “I wasn’t ready for that.”
“Neither were we,” Lorna said shakily. “I’m Lorna Snider, and this is Jasmine Allen. That’s Quickenpaugh with the knife.”
“I’m Rebecca McCaleb, that’s my brother, Monte Nance, on the horse. The other hell-raiser with the knife is a Lipan Apache, Goose. He’s civilized, most of the time.”
Lorna laughed. “So is Quickenpaugh. I suppose we’ll have to watch the two of them until they become friends.”
“That won’t ever happen,” said Monte. “Damn Indians only know how to kill.”
Goose and Quickenpaugh seemed to have set aside their hatred for each other and had turned their attention to Monte Nance.
“Monte,” Rebecca said, “why don’t you join the rest of the outfit, and tell McCaleb we managed to get the wagon here?”
Without argument, Monte kicked his horse into a lope, heading downriver.
Rebecca sighed. “I hope I live long enough to see him grow up.”
“I had the same hope, once,” said Jasmine, “but he didn’t live long enough to grow up. He got a mad on and rode out, back in southern Montana Territory. We’re pretty sure the Sioux got him.”
“S
orry to hear that,” Rebecca said. “Indian trouble is about the only problem we didn’t have, but we’ve made up for it with thunder, lightning and broken wagon wheels.”
“It’s getting late,” said Lorna. “There’s not enough time today to even think about a gather. Is there any reason we can’t bring our chuck wagons together and share a camp?”
“No reason that I know of,” Rebecca said. “I don’t think my outfit will object.”
“Nor will ours,” said Jasmine. “We’ll want to meet the rest of your womenfolk.”
“They’ll be happy to meet you,” Rebecca said. “Life on a trail drive gets pretty rough, and it’s a comfort to know we’re not the only females to have taken leave of our senses.”
The riders from both outfits soon returned from downriver. Rebecca, Monte and Goose were introduced to the Story outfit, While McCaleb’s outfit was introduced to Lorna, Jasmine and Quickenpaugh. The two Indians still regarded each other with hostility, a situation that immediately got McCaleb’s attention.
“Snider,” said McCaleb, “I reckon I’ll have a talk with Goose. Reckon you can reason with your man?”
“I can try,” Cal said.
“Bent,” said Rebecca, “we’re going to share a camp, unless somebody objects.”
“No objection here,” McCaleb said.
“None here,” said Cal. “I reckon we’ll all be pretty well acquainted before we’re finally done with this gather.”
Susannah and Rosalie had been introduced to Lorna, Jasmine and Curley.
“I’m sorry my daughter, Penelope, hasn’t joined us,” Rosalie said.
“I think she’s discovered somebody more interesting than a bunch of females,” said Susannah.
Quanah Taylor was unsaddling Penelope’s horse, something she had steadfastly insisted on doing herself, until now.
The Deadwood Trail Page 24