The Bozeman Trail

by Ralph Compton

  “Let’s get them back!” James shouted to Billy, indicating they should go after the running cows.

  “What about the rest of the herd?”

  “Bob and the others will keep the herd here,” James said, spurring his horse into a gallop toward the fleeing cows.

  Billy urged his own horse into a gallop, and within a minute he and James were riding alongside the lumbering animals.

  “We’ve got to get to the front!” James called.

  The cows were running as fast as they could, which was about three quarters of the speed of the horses. But what the cattle lacked in speed, they made up for with their momentum. With lowered heads, wild eyes, and flopping tongues, the cattle ran as if there were no tomorrow.

  Finally, James and Billy reached the head of the column, rode to the front and were able to turn them. Once the cows were turned, they lost their forward momentum, slowed their running to a trot, and finally to a walk. When that happened, James and Billy were able to turn them around and start them back.

  Fifteen minutes later they brought the small herd back. Bob, Duke, and the Scattergoods, including Revelation, had been able to keep the main herd calm. When the one hundred would-be rustled cows were returned to the others, everything settled down once more.

  “Who was that?” James asked, getting down from his horse. “Who tried to rustle cows from us? It wasn’t Indians, was it?”

  Bob shook his head. “It was soldiers,” he said.

  “Soldiers?”

  “At least the two we killed were soldiers.”

  “Damn, I hate that,” James said. “That’s bound to cause trouble with the army.”

  “I don’t know why it should cause trouble,” Bob said. “After all, they were the ones who were doing the stealing.”

  James, Billy, and Duke went over to look down at the two dead soldiers. One of them was unmarked, except for a bullet hole in his forehead, just above the right eye. The other soldier was so badly mangled, bruised, and practically dismembered by the hooves of the cattle that the body was barely recognizable as that of a human being.

  “James, do you recognize this fella?” Duke asked then. He had been looking at the less damaged of the two bodies.

  “Yeah,” James said. “Yeah, I do recognize him. He’s one of the ones we saw in the bar.”

  “Yes, his name was Murphy, I think.”

  “Yankee bastard, serves him right,” John said.

  “What do we do now?” Bob asked.

  “Now we break camp,” James said. “I don’t think the soldiers we ran into are going to be in any hurry to report to their superiors what just happened here.” He pointed to the two bodies. “But they are going to have to account for these two men soon. So I suggest we get going.”

  “What do you mean, get going?” Matthew complained. “Me ’n Mark didn’t even get a chance to go into town.”

  “The way things are right now, if you go into town you are likely to stay there,” James said. “Either in jail, or shot down by some other soldiers.”

  “Yeah, well, this ain’t no way right,” Matthew complained. “I mean, some folks getting to go into town and some folks not.”

  “What are going to do about them two?” Bob asked, nodding toward the two dead soldiers. “Think we should bury them?”

  James shook his head. “No. Once the army realizes they are missing, they’ll come looking for them. If we bury them, it’ll make it hard for them to find them.”

  “Once they do find them, they’re goin’ to know what happened to them, then they’ll come looking for us,” Matthew Scattergood said.

  “That’s true,” James said. “That’s why I want to get out of here now.”

  “All right, you heard the man,” Bob said. “Let’s get going.”

  “What about breakfast?” Matthew asked.

  “What about it?” James replied.

  “Well, we ain’t et yet, that’s what about it,” Matthew said, complaining bitterly.

  “We’ll eat in the saddle, jerky and water,” James said. “Come on, let’s go. I want to be five miles away from here by the time the sun comes up.”

  Fort Benton on the Missouri, Friday, August 1, 1862:

  Fort Benton was established by the American Fur Company as a trading post in 1845. Named after Senator Thomas Hart Benton of Missouri, it was at the absolute head of steam navigation on the Missouri River, and the fastest way into the Northwest territories. During the gold rush of 1862, it became an exceptionally busy port.

  Landing a riverboat in the shallow waters at Fort Benton required a great deal of teamwork between the captain, leadsman, engine room, and deckhands. The boat had to be maneuvered around sand shoals and over sunken obstacles, all the while maintaining enough power to overcome the powerful current. With the relief valve booming like cannonfire, and the wheel working the water into a muddy frenzy, the River Queen made ready to land.

  Angus, Chance, and Percy Butrum stood on the hurricane deck, watching the activity as the boat put in at Fort Benton. It landed by ramming its bow into the bank, then maintained that position by tying a hawser around a tree.

  “Ain’t much of a town,” Percy said, looking at the low-lying, gray, rip-sawed buildings scattered along the bank of the river.

  “What did you expect? St. Louis?” Angus asked. “We ain’t plannin’ on settlin’ here. All we want is to settle up with Mr. Duke Faglier, then get our hands on some of that gold we’ve been hearin’ about. Once we do that, we can take a boat back East and live high and fine.”

  “Don’t forget, there’s still a war goin’ on back East,” Chance said.

  “Won’t make no never mind to us, we ain’t goin’ to be a-fightin’ it. And iff’en a body is smart, he can make a lot of money durin’ a war. But you got to have money to make money and that’s why we come out here.”

  When the boat crew lowered a gangplank down from the bow to the riverbank, the Butrum brothers were the first passengers off the boat.

  “Where do we go now?” Percy asked, scratching his crotch as he stood at the top of the riverbank, looking around at the small gray town.

  “What about findin’ us some women?” Chance suggested.

  “You see any women here?” Percy asked.

  Although the main street of the little town was crowded with people, there was not one woman to be seen.

  “I’ll be damned,” Chance said, as if noticing that fact for the first time. “You’re right. There ain’t a woman nowhere.”

  “Well, while you two is discussin’ somethin’ that you can’t do nothin’ about, I plan to look into somethin’ I can do somethin’ about,” Angus said. “I’m goin’ to have a drink.”

  “Where you reckon a saloon is?” Percy asked.

  “Hell, it ought not to be hard to find one. Just follow your nose,” Angus replied.

  Finding something to drink wasn’t all that difficult. Every other building, it seemed, was a saloon. With no predetermined purpose in mind, other than to find drink, the Butrums headed toward one of them. A crudely painted sign out front identified the establishment as the “North Star.”

  Although it was early afternoon, the saloon was crowded with noisy customers. A piano sat in the back of the saloon, with a sign that read, THIS PIANO WAS BROUGHT UPRIVER FROM ST. LOUIS ABOARD THE RIVERBOAT, MISSOURI MIST. IT IS THE ONLY PIANO IN THE ENTIRE TERRITORY. PLEASE TREAT IT WITH CARE.

  Despite the printed plea, the instrument was marked with half a dozen cigar burns and glass-rings, and punctured with three bullet holes.

  “Bartender, give me a bottle!” one of the customers said, shouting to be heard above the din. The bartender pulled a bottle from a shelf behind the bar, handed it to the customer, then accepted as payment a pinch of gold dust. Percy watched the operation, then excitedly punched his brother.

  “Angus! Did you see how that fella paid for his whiskey?”

  “No.”

  “With a pinch of gold dust from a bag he’s carryin’,�
� Percy said.

  After Percy’s disclosure, the three brothers began paying more attention to the business going on around them. To their amazement, more than half of all purchases were being made with gold dust.

  “Damn!” Angus said. “What they said about findin’ gold up here must be true!”

  “Look at that fella over there,” Angus said, pointing to a man at the other end of the bar. His pouch of gold dust was bulging, but that wasn’t the only thing of interest about him. He was also very drunk.

  The Butrum brothers watched the drunk until he started outside. They exited the saloon just behind him.

  As the drunk staggered down the boardwalk, Angus and Chance followed close behind. In the meantime, Percy ran across the street, then hurried to get ahead of the drunk. Recrossing the street, he started back toward the drunk so that their mark was now between Percy and his two brothers.

  “Hey, friend,” Percy said, accosting the drunk as they came together, “could you tell me where the nearest saloon is?”

  The drunk chuckled. “Are you blind, mister?” he asked. He made an unsteady wave with his hand. “They are all around here, on both sides of the stre—” That was as far as he got. Angus hit him just behind the ear with the butt of his pistol. The drunk would have fallen, had Chance not caught him. Quickly, the three dragged their victim to a small open space in between the nearest two buildings. Once they had him off the street, Angus reached down to relieve him of his pouch of gold dust.

  “I got it!” Angus said, triumphantly.

  “How much is there?” Percy asked.

  “Enough to buy about anything we want,” Angus replied.

  “About the only thing that’s going to buy you boys is some time in jail,” another voice said.

  Gasping in surprise at being caught, the three brothers stood up from their victim, and found themselves looking into the barrel of a pistol.

  “Sheriff Plummer is going to be real pleased to see you boys,” the man holding the gun said. “I’m his deputy.”

  “George, is that you? George Ives?” Angus asked, studying the man who was holding the gun.

  The deputy blinked in surprise. “Do you know me, mister?”

  “If you’re the George Ives from Missouri, I know you. You used to be good friends with our brother, Mingus Butrum. I’m Angus, these here are my two brothers, Chance and Percy.”

  “I’ll be damned,” Ives said. He laughed. “Yes, Mingus and I drank from the same bottle many times before I left Missouri. How’s that old mule doing?”

  The smile left Angus’s face. “He was killed by a no ’count polecat by the name of Duke Faglier.”

  Ives shook his head. “Faglier? I don’t think I know him.”

  “Didn’t none of us know him. He was a farm boy from Clay County. The son of a bitch killed two of my brothers, not only Mingus, but Frank, too.”

  “I hope you took care of him,” Ives said.

  “We ain’t yet, but we aim to,” Angus said. “That’s why we come out here.”

  “He’s out here?”

  “He’s comin’ here,” Percy said.

  “Yeah, bringin’ a herd of cows,” Chance added. “You ever heard of anything so dumb?”

  “I don’t know,” Ives said. “Maybe it’s not so dumb. There could be a lot of money in something like that.”

  “Are you really a deputy sheriff?” Angus asked.

  Ives laughed. “Yeah,” he said. “Well, sort of. Oh, where are my manners?” He put his gun away, then stuck his hand out to shake hands with Angus.

  “What do you mean, sort of?” Angus asked. “Either you are a deputy or you ain’t.”

  “Well, I’m deputing for a man named Henry Plummer, who ain’t really a sheriff yet but intends to be one sometime soon.* In the meantime, he’s formed something he calls the Bannack Mining District Vigilance Committee. And he’s appointed himself sheriff. Say, maybe you’d like to join us. I’ll put in a good word with Sheriff Plummer, if you’d like.”

  Angus shook his head. “No thanks. I wasn’t cut out to be no deputy sheriff.”

  “Don’t be so quick to turn it down. It ain’t like you think,” Ives said. “For example, this pouch of gold you boys just took? Well, now, half of it will go to Henry Plummer, him bein’ the sheriff and all. He’ll call it a fine against that *Henry Plummer wasn’t elected sheriff of the Bannack Mining District Vigilance Committee until May of 1863 fella for bein’ drunk. But I get to keep the other half as a reward for findin’ it. Only, if you’d like to join up with us, why, I’ll let you boys have it. Believe me, there’s plenty more where this came from.”

  “Wait a minute,” Percy said. “What do you mean, you will let us keep half of it? It ain’t up to you to give us nothin’. Hell, we the ones that took it in the first place. It’s all ours.”

  “Do you think so?” Ives asked.

  “Don’t pay no attention to Percy, George,” Angus said quickly. He glared at his brother. “I’ll take care of him. We’ll be glad to join up with you.”

  “You’ll join up with us iff’n I can talk Sheriff Plummer into agreein’ to take you,” Ives said, glaring at Percy. “And with that kind of attitude, I don’t know as he will.”

  “You take care of the sheriff, I’ll take care of my brother,” Angus promised.

  Chapter Thirteen

  With the Golden Calf Cattle Company, mile 752

  Friday, August 8, 1862:

  From the moment they left Long Shadow, the possibility of a stampede was always in the back of everyone’s mind. The problem was, nobody could predict when a stampede might occur. Sometimes they would be so stable that not even a close-strike lightning bolt could set them off. At other times they could be startled by the snap of a twig.

  The most effective way to stop a stampede was to have the flank rider on each side gradually turn the cows in front until they were moving in a wide circle. If a rider on one side saw the herd turning his way, then he would fall back and let the man on the other side tighten the turn of the leaders until he, too, was in position to help. Once the cows were running in a circle, they would run themselves down.

  On this day, there had been no water since early in the morning, and they had pushed the herd hard to get them through a long dry passage. The cows were hot, tired, and thirsty. They began to get a little restless, and James and the others who were working around the perimeters were kept busy keeping them moving.

  Then, at about three o’clock in the afternoon, Matthew Scattergood saw a rattlesnake.

  “Rattler!” he shouted, as he pulled his pistol.

  “No, Matthew, don’t!” Bob called to him.

  Despite James’s warning, Matthew fired at the rattlesnake and, missing it, fired again and again, until the pistol was empty. Frightened, the cows jumped, then began to run. The terror spread throughout the herd and, like a wild prairie fire before the wind, the herd ran out of control.

  “Stampede! Stampede!”

  The warning was first issued by Bob, then picked up by the others, though as the herd was now in full gallop, there was no longer any need to issue the call.

  “Stampede!”

  Although there was terror in the cry, there was grim determination, too, for every man who issued the cry moved quickly to do what he could do to stop it.

  James was riding in the right flank position when the herd started. Fortunately for him, the herd started to the left, a living tidal wave of thundering hoofbeats, millions of pounds of muscle and bone, horn and hair, red eyes and running noses. Over three thousand animals welded together as one, gigantic, raging beast.

  A cloud of dust rose up from the herd and billowed high into the air. The air was so thick with it that within moments James could see nothing. It was as if he were caught in the thickest fog one could imagine, but this fog was brown and it burned the eyes and clogged the nostrils and stung the face with its fury.

  James managed to overtake the herd, then seeing that the front had veered to th
e left, proceeded to tighten the turn, attempting to force them into a great churning circle. The cowboys were shouting and whistling and waving their hats and ropes at the herd, trying to get them to respond. That was when James caught, just out of the corner of his eye, Mark Scattergood falling from his horse. The stampeding cows altered their rush just enough to come toward the hapless cowboy and he stood up and tried to outrun them, though it was clear that he was going to lose the race.

  James tried to get to him but it was too late. The herd rolled over him and Mark went down. If Mark screamed, his cry was drowned out by clacking horns and thundering hooves that shook the ground. James had time for only a passing thought as to Mark’s fate, before he turned back to the business at hand.

  Finally, under the relentless pressure of the cowboys, the herd was twisted into a giant circle. They continued to run in the circle until, finally, they tired and slowed from a mad dash to a brisk trot, then from a trot to a walk. The stampede had at last run itself out, brought under control by the courage and will of a few determined men. An aggregate total of less than fifteen hundred pounds of men were once more in control of nearly two million pounds of cattle.

  They buried Mark Scattergood’s mangled body under a small scrub tree, not too far from where he fell. Even as they were walking away from his grave, Luke and John were in an argument over his clothes.

  “That there red-and-blue shirt of his’n is mine,” Luke insisted.

  “What do you mean it’s yours?” John asked.

  “ ’Cause Mark hisself told me,” Luke said. “He said, Luke, if’n anythin’ ever happens to me, I want you to have my red-and-blue shirt.”

  “You’re a lyin’ son of a bitch. He never said such a thing.”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “Well, it don’t matter none, anyhow. You can have the shirt. I want his boots.”

  “I want his pocketknife.”

  “Listen to you two,” Revelation said, scolding them. “Mark isn’t cold in his grave yet, and you two are fighting over his things. Can’t you feel a moment of sorrow over his death?”