The Bozeman Trail

by Ralph Compton

  “Don’t be worrying about Bob Ferguson,” Billy said reassuringly. “He is the best horseman I’ve ever known. He can get more out of a burro than most men can from a quarter horse.”

  James listened to the conversation of the others, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to pay attention. The initial shock of his wound had long since worn off, and now waves of pain were washing over him. The bullet was going to have to come out.

  It wasn’t something he was looking forward to, but he knew he couldn’t put it off any longer.

  He limped over to Billy.

  “How are you doing?” Billy asked.

  “I want you to cut this bullet out of my thigh,” he said.

  Billy looked at the ugly, jagged wound. “I don’t know, James, I’m not very good at that sort of thing,” he said. “That wound is awfully close to a main artery. If the knife slipped and I cut it—you could bleed to death.”

  “I’d rather bleed to death than die of gangrene,” James said. “Which is exactly what I’m going to do if I don’t get that bullet out. Besides, I’ve always heard you were good with a knife. Now’s my chance to find out.”

  Billy sighed. “All right, I’ll take the bullet out for you.” He looked around at the others. “Carl, there’s a bottle of tequila in the saddlebag of Bob’s horse. Bring it to me.”

  “Bob was carrying tequila?”

  “No, I was. I switched it when I gave Bob my horse.”

  Carl brought the bottle back to Billy. By the time he returned, Billy had cut open James’s pants so he could get to the wound. With his teeth, he pulled the cork from the bottle and poured tequila over the wound. It stung, but the effect was to wash away the blood and expose the ugly black hole where the bullet had entered the flesh. After that, he poured tequila over the knife. He looked at James and smiled.

  “It’s a good thing I like you,” he said. “I wouldn’t waste good tequila like this on just anyone.”

  James managed a pained laugh.

  “Are you ready?” Billy asked.

  “Wait,” James said. He picked up a stick, put it in his mouth, then nodded.

  “A couple of you boys hold open the wound,” Billy said, showing what he wanted them to do.

  The two men put their hands on each side of the wound then began stretching it open. One of the others held a burning brand aloft so Billy could see what he was doing and, carefully, he dug into the flesh until he located the bullet. Then, using the blade as a wedge, he got beneath the spent missile and pried it out.

  “Uhn,” James grunted as he spit out the stick. “That wasn’t all that bad.”

  “It isn’t over. We’re going to have to cauterize it,” Billy said.

  “Yeah, I know,” James said. He picked the stick up again. “All right, let’s do it.”

  Billy tore open a couple of the paper cartridges, and poured a little pile of gunpowder over the wound, then ignited it. It made a big flash and James cried out, then he bit the cry off. There was the smell of burned powder and seared flesh.

  “Are you all right?” Billy asked.

  “Yeah,” James replied in a strained voice. “Thanks, Billy.”

  Billy nodded, then walked over to sit under a tree. Taking out his pipe he filled it with tobacco, then lit it up and was puffing contentedly when James came over to join him.

  “Are you going to make it?” Billy asked.

  “It hurts like hell,” James said. “But I’ll be able to hold up my end when they come back. If they come back,” he added.

  “What do you mean, if they come back?”

  “I’m not sure, but what I may have killed their leader.” He described the man he shot.

  “You say he was wearing a red serape?” he asked.

  “Yes. You didn’t see him?”

  “No,” Billy answered. “But there’s a fella named Garza, Ramos Garza, who is one of those revolutionary generals I was telling you about. He wears a red serape.”

  “You think this was him?”

  “It could just be someone else copying him,” Billy said. “Although with a group this large, I’d say the chances might be pretty good that it was Garza you shot.”

  “Will that stop them?”

  “I don’t know,” Billy said. “But it will sure slow them down until they decide who their new leader is going to be.”

  “Maybe that’s all we need,” James said. “Just a little more time until Bob gets back.”

  Billy was silent for a moment before he replied. “Have you considered the possibility that Bob might not come back?” he asked. “Maybe something happened to him. Seems to me like he’s had plenty of time to ride to the ranch and back by now.”

  “I know. I’ve thought about it and I would be lying to you if I said I wasn’t a little worried. But I’m not ready to give up on him yet.”

  “Still, you’d think he’d be—”

  “James, Billy, they’re comin’ back again!” Carl called.

  “We’d better get ready,” James said, straining to get to his feet.

  As they were getting into position, they heard shots being fired, but the shots weren’t being fired at them.

  “It’s Pa!” James said, happily. “Bob got through! I told you he would!”

  Flashes lit up the night as gunfire erupted between the banditos still encamped around the island and the large group of Texas ranchers who had ridden in with Garrison Cason. The fight was furious and brief as the little bandito army scattered, leaving their rustled herd behind them.

  The Texans rode across the Atacosa at a full gallop.

  “James!” Garrison called. “James, where are you?”

  “Here, Pa,” James said, standing up from his place of cover. Riding alongside Garrison Cason was Bob Ferguson and Bob’s father, Dusty. Billy’s uncle, Loomis Swan, was also part of the posse, as were several other ranchers and cowboys. Cason had put together an army of his own.

  Laughing, Bob swung down from his horse and hurried over to shake hands with James, Billy, and the others. “Had you boys given up on me?” he asked.

  “No, but I must confess to being some worried,” James admitted. “You changed horses, I see.”

  “I had no choice. The Mexicans killed Diablo,” Bob said. He looked over at Billy. “Sorry about your horse, Billy. He was a good horse. You might say he saved my life. Even with a bullet in him, he carried me a mile or more, far enough to get away. That’s where he keeled over. I had to run the rest of the way on foot.”

  “You ran all the way to the ranch? That’s more than ten miles,” James said.

  “I know,” Bob said. “Believe me, I know.”

  “Hey,” one of the men shouted from the water’s edge. “This here is Ramos Garza! You boys killed Garza!”

  “Are you sure?” Garrison Cason asked.

  “Yeah, I’m sure. I’ve seen him two or three times.”

  “Who shot him?” Garrison asked. “Because whoever did, it’s worth fifty dollars, far as I’m concerned.”

  “Then you’d better pay James,” Billy said. “He’s the one that shot him.”

  James waved his hand in protest. “Tell you what, Pa. Why don’t you give the fifty to Bob? Seems to me like we all owe our lives to him.”

  “Consider it done,” Garrison Cason said. He smiled broadly, his teeth shining brightly in the moonlight.

  “Well, thanks,” Bob said.

  “Don’t get too attached to that money, Bob,” Billy said. “You’re going to spend every penny of it buyin’ us drinks in the Oasis.”

  “Yeah!” one of the other cowboys said.

  “It’s a deal,” Bob agreed, happily.

  Chapter Two

  Clay County, Missouri

  Friday, June 21, 1861:

  The little building stood alone on a country road, ten miles from the nearest town. It had started out as a general store, but because it was the only establishment of trade in this part of the county, its business grew.

  As business im
proved, the building began to expand. One section was added to accommodate a blacksmith shop, the saloon occupied another extension, while a second-story addition provided a hotel. The finished project reflected its hodgepodge origins, the construction spreading out in erratic styles of architecture, mismatched types of wood, and varying shades of paint.

  Duke Faglier would have ridden on without giving the place a second notice had he not seen the little splash of color hanging from the saddle of one of the horses standing out front. Duke stopped, tied his horse to the hitching rail, then walked over for a closer look. There was a little strip of cloth tied to the saddle horn and he took it in his hand, examining it closely.

  “Oh, it is so beautiful, Duke,” Alice had exclaimed as she put the scarf on her head and tied it beneath her chin. “It has so many colors, just like Joseph’s coat in the Bible.” She pirouetted proudly as she showed off her scarf of many colors.

  “It’s the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen,” Duke agreed.

  The strip of cloth Duke was holding in his fingers at this moment was that same scarf. He had no doubt about it because he had given that scarf to his little sister on her fifteenth birthday.

  That was two months ago. Four days ago Duke had returned home to find his mother and father murdered, and his sister dying. Alice lived just long enough to tell of the terrifying evening when a strange man burst into the house while they were eating supper, shot their mother and father, then brutally attacked her.

  “Who was he?” Duke had asked. “Who did this? What did he look like?”

  “His eye,” she gasped. “His eye.”

  “What about his eye?”

  “His eye,” she said again, as she drew her last breath.

  Duke took the scarf from the saddle, stuck it in his pocket, then went into the building. The inside of the building was dim, a study in light and shadow as bars of sunlight stabbed through the cracks between the boards, illuminating the thousands of dust motes that hung glistening in the air.

  Duke stood for a moment just inside the door, studying the layout. To his left was a bar. In front of him were four tables; to the right, a potbellied stove, sitting in a box of sand. Because it was summer the stove was cold, but the stale, acrid smell of last winter’s smoke still hung in the air.

  One man was behind the bar; a customer was in front. Two men were sitting at one of the tables. A woman was at the back of the room, standing by an upright harpsichord. Her heavily painted face advertised her trade, and she smiled provocatively at Duke as he entered, trying to interest him in the pleasures she had to offer.

  Duke stood for a long time without moving. That got everyone’s attention, which is exactly what he wanted to do.

  “You got somethin’ in your craw, mister?” the bartender asked.

  “The roan, with the right foreleg stocking,” Duke said with a jerk of his head toward the front. “Who’s riding him?”

  The barkeep, prostitute, and three customers looked at him blankly. No one answered.

  Duke pulled his pistol from its holster. “I asked, who is riding him?” When still no one answered, he pointed his pistol toward the barkeep and pulled the hammer back. There was a deadly double click as the sear engaged the cylinder.

  “I don’t know, mister,” the barkeep answered nervously. “I don’t pay no attention to what folks are ridin’ when they pass through here.”

  “You, standin’ at the bar,” Duke said to the customer. “Turn toward me so I can get a good look at you.”

  The customer looked toward Duke. He had a moon-shaped face and was clean-shaven. His eyes reflected his fright but were otherwise insignificant.

  “You two,” Duke said to the men at the table. “Look this way. I want to get a good look at your eyes.”

  “Who are you looking for?” one of the men asked.

  “I’ll know him when I see him,” Duke said. He studied the two men closely, but saw nothing remarkable in their eyes, either.

  “Mister, are you looking for a man with a bad eye?” the woman asked.

  “There ain’t nobody here like that,” the bartender said.

  “Sure there is, Frank. He’s—”

  “Marilou, shut your mouth,” the bartender ordered in sharp anger, cutting her off in midsentence.

  “Mister, I think you had better be the one who keeps quiet,” Duke said. “Go ahead, Marilou. What about a man with a bad eye?”

  Marilou looked nervously toward the bartender.

  “Don’t be looking at him, girl. I’m the one you have to satisfy right now,” Duke said. “Now, what about this fella with the bad eye?”

  “I don’t know if he has a bad eye or not, but he has the kind of eyes that never let you know which one of ’em is looking at you,” Marilou said.

  “Did he ride up here on the horse I asked about?”

  “I don’t know about that,” Marilou said. “But if that horse doesn’t belong to any of these gentlemen, then it must be his. He’s the only other one in here.”

  “In here?” Duke asked, sharply, looking around the room again to make certain he hadn’t overlooked anyone.

  “Marilou, I told you to shut your mouth. This here ain’t none of your business!” the bartender said with a growl.

  “Mister, I’ve had about enough out of you,” Duke said to the bartender. “Go on, girl. Where is he?”

  “Upstairs,” Marilou said. “He went upstairs with Kate.”

  “Thanks.”

  With his pistol still cocked, and holding it in his crooked arm, muzzle pointing up, Duke started climbing the stairs. He had just reached the top step, when the bartender shouted a warning.

  “Frank! Look out! There’s someone comin’ up for you!”

  Surprised that the barkeep would shout a warning, Duke turned to look back downstairs. That was a fortuitous move, for at that very moment the bartender was standing at the bottom of the stairs with a double-barrel shotgun pointing up at him.

  “What are you doing, barkeep? This isn’t your fight!” Duke shouted.

  “Frank’s my brother!” the bartender replied, pulling the trigger even as he shouted the words.

  Duke managed to jump behind the corner at the top of the stairs just as the bartender fired. The load of buckshot tore a large hole in the door to a room just behind him. Duke stepped back around the corner, then fired at the bartender before he could get off a second shot. His bullet caught the bartender in the neck and he dropped the shotgun, then fell heavily to the floor.

  At almost the same moment, four shots sounded from inside one of the rooms. Dust and sawdust flew as four bullets punched holes through the door. Duke flattened himself against the wall, clear of the door. A second later, he heard the sound of crashing window glass.

  Without a second thought, Duke ran to the door, kicked it open then dashed into the room. A naked woman on the bed screamed as Duke rushed right by her to the broken window. He leaned through the shattered glass to look down to the ground below. If the man the bartender called Frank had jumped through the window, Duke should still be able to see him.

  But Frank had not jumped out. The broken window was a ruse, and Frank was waiting in the corner. With a smile of triumph, he started toward Duke. At that moment Duke sensed someone coming up behind him. He spun around just in time to see a man charging toward him, holding his gun as a club. The man had a ferocious expression on his face, but as the prostitute downstairs had said, it was impossible to tell which of the two glaring eyes was looking at him.

  Because Duke turned around in time, he was able to deflect some but not all of Frank’s blow. The gun butt missed his head, but it did hit him, with tremendous force, on the shoulder. The crushing blow sent jolts of pain into his neck, his shoulder, and down his arm to the tips of his fingers. The fingers grew numb and he lost his grip on his pistol. The gun slid out of his hand, and he heard it clatter to the floor.

  Frank had the advantage of surprise and the momentum of the first blow. Duke went down
under his onslaught. With Duke weaponless and flat on his back, Frank put his knee on Duke’s chest, then raised his pistol, intending to use it as a club for the killing blow.

  Duke’s right hand was still numb, but he felt around on the floor with his left hand, trying to find his pistol. Unable to find the pistol, he managed to wrap his fingers around a long shard of glass from the broken windowpane. Reacting quickly, he brought his left hand up, then across, in a slashing motion. The razor-sharp glass shard sliced open Frank’s abdomen, dis emboweling him. Duke felt Frank’s blood and intestines running across his hand. Frank dropped his pistol and put both hands across his belly, trying in vain to stem the flow of blood and spill of intestine.

  Duke pushed Frank off of him, then stood up and looked down at him.

  “Who are you?” the dying man gasped. “Why did you come after me?”

  “My name is Faglier. Does that mean anything to you?”

  “Never heard of you.”

  “What about True and Edna Faglier? What about Alice Faglier? Do you know who they are?”

  “No,” Frank replied in a strained voice.

  “You son of a bitch,” Duke said in a low, angry voice. “You murdered my mother, father, and sister, and you don’t even know their names.” He reached into his shirt and pulled out the scarf of many colors. “Do you remember this? I took it off your saddle.”

  “Oh yes, now I know who you are talking about,” Frank said. He forced a smile. “You know what I think? You won’t want to hear this, but that little girl was actually enjoying it. Yes, sir, it was probably a good thing I shot her. She might have grown up to be a whore. You wouldn’t have wanted that, would you? A whore for a sister?”

  Made angry by Frank’s taunting words, Duke picked his pistol up from the floor, pointed it at Frank’s head, then cocked it.

  “I’m about to close both those bulging bat-eyes of yours for good,” Duke said.

  “Yes,” Frank said. “Yes, shoot me, mister. Don’t let me lie here like this.”

  The barrel of the pistol began shaking as Duke had a battle with himself.

  “Shoot me! Shoot me, you bastard!” Frank gasped. “Or do you want to hear me tell you how it was with your sister? How she begged me for it?”