The Chisholm Trail

by Ralph Compton

  Having finished his route, the milkman was half asleep, depending on the horse to find its way to the barn. The wagon was a box affair, like a hearse, with a flat roof and hinged doors at the rear. The front of its wooden roof overhung the seat, with the interior in back of it open. Marty was on the wagon’s seat before the sleepy driver was aware of him. Marty snatched the reins, giving the startled milkman a shove. He lay in the street and watched his wagon careening away, cans clanking and bottles rattling. Reaching the street he’d just left under fire, Marty sent the milk wagon clattering down it. If that bunch of buzardos didn’t shoot the horse, if Ten somehow escaped that old mission, and if neither of them came down with lead poisoning, they had a chance.

  Ten grabbed the rope, and the bell let go with an awesome clamor, seeming to grow in volume with every stroke of the clapper. Since the tower was open to the elements, he expected the rope to snap under his weight, but it held. If they got him, he thought grimly, there’d be plenty of witnesses. The clanging of that fool bell could be heard for miles. Slowly, painfully, he hoisted himself toward the roof. Reaching the upper third of the tower, where the sides were open, he stopped to suck air into his starved lungs. He struggled on. No sooner had he dragged himself out onto the balcony than the riflemen discovered him. Slugs began whanging off the iron railing, and he went belly-down, returning their fire. He had the satisfaction of seeing two of his antagonists leap for the safety of an open door. A third lay motionless in the street.

  “Heeeeeeyah,” bawled Marty. “Heeeeeeyah!”

  He was hunched over the wagon seat, the reins in his left hand, his Colt in his right. Yet another gunman stepped around the corner of a building, and Marty fired, sending him diving for cover. Ten stepped over the balcony railing, clinging to it, as Marty and the clattering milk wagon drew closer. Timing the speed of the wagon, Ten dropped onto the flat roof. Two rifles cut loose, and there was the breaking of glass within the wagon, as lead tore through its thin wooden sides. There was a low iron railing around the edge of the wagon’s roof. His boots against the front railing, Ten lay flat, facing the rear. He returned fire from the roof of the jouncing wagon as long as he was in range. Finally he holstered his Colt, grasped the railing at the front of the wagon’s roof, and swung down to the seat beside Marty.

  “Bad news,” said Ten. “John Mathewson’s dead.”

  “No deader than we’re goin’ to be,” said Marty grimly, “if we don’t get the hell out of this crazy town.”

  10

  Marty slowed the horse to a trot and kept to the side streets. In their situation, a galloping horse hitched to a milk wagon could only attract unwelcome attention.

  “Much as I hate bein’ afoot,” said Ten, “we have to rid ourselves of this wagon. Head for the river; that’s likely what they’ll expect.”

  Marty pulled the wagon in behind a boarded-up warehouse, and they found themselves in a weed-infested lot shaded by a fair stand of young field pines.

  “There’s a coil of rope under the seat,” said Marty. “Bring it along. We might fall down a well, the kind of day we’ve had so far.”

  They stepped down from the wagon box, and the bay horse looked around at them reproachfully. He wasn’t used to galloping wildly through the streets at the end of his route.

  “With or without the wagon,” said Marty, “he’ll make tracks for the barn. Let’s unhitch him, and they may not find this wagon for a week. With the horse loose, by the time somebody allows it was him pullin’ our wagon, they won’t know for sure which way we went.”

  “Once they decide we didn’t take to the river,” said Ten, “there’s only two ways we can go: north or west. East or south, and we’re in the Gulf.”

  They ducked from one building to the next, traveling east along the river. Once they were far enough from the wagon, they stopped to rest.

  Marty groaned. “I know we had to leave the wagon, but I’m startin’ to think we should of kept the horse. My feet are killin’ me already. Bein’ Injun, you’d ought to have at least a pair of moccasins handy.”

  “If I did, I’d be wearin’ ’em myself.”

  “With nothin’ but the Gulf ahead of us, how far do you aim to follow the river?”

  “Until we reach the edge of town,” said Ten. “Then we’ll turn north.”

  They froze at the sound of horses’ hoofs. Peering from behind what had once been a cotton warehouse, they saw three mounted policemen riding down the river toward them.

  “The law’s huntin’ us,” said Marty, “when it was us them ambushin’ coyotes was out to kill. All we done was return the favor to some of ’em.”

  “That won’t be the story the law and the newspapers are told,” said Ten. “Priscilla says Brawn controls the law, and I reckon this is proof enough.”

  “Brawn knows there’s nothin’ but water east and south, and he’s got to know we’re from the West. Why are the lawmen ridin’ east?”

  “He’s not sure we won’t travel east,” said Ten, “in the hope of boarding a sailing ship bound for Texas ports by way of the Gulf.”

  “Might save our hides, if we could do that.”

  “We dare not,” said Ten. “With the blockade down, ships will be docking at New Orleans. The law can search any ship or steamboat.”

  “Well, if we got to walk, we’d ought to be walkin’ west.”

  “They’ll expect that,” said Ten. “If there’s three mounted lawmen looking for us here, there may be a hundred of ’em west of town.”

  “So we’re goin’ north.”

  “Far as we have to,” said Ten, “to get out of Louisiana. We ought to be safe in Mississippi, if we can dodge the law. We’ll keep to small towns, so they can’t send word ahead by telegraph. Once we’re able to buy some horses, we’ll ride cross-country through northern Louisiana to Texas.”

  “My God,” groaned Marty, “my feet are already cryin’ surrender. Without hosses, we’ll never make it.”

  “We’ll have horses, and soon. Those lawmen won’t ride far. Once they head back this way, we’re goin’ to appeal to their better natures and ask to borrow their horses for a while.”

  Marty looked at him pityingly for a moment before he spoke.

  “I reckon you got enough Injun in you so’s it don’t bother you, grabbin’ somebody’s hoss, but my God, man, not from the very law that’s already after your scalp! You—We—are purely goin’ to wind up on the business end of a rope, with the other end slung over a limb. I’d as soon face a charge of murder as hoss stealin’. If we’re goin’ to steal mounts, then let’s grab ’em somewhere else, not from the law!”

  “Sorry,” said Ten, “but we don’t have time to be particular. You just lay back out of sight. It’s me they want, and if I’m caught, they can’t hang me but once. Besides, when we’re beyond Brawn’s reach, we’ll free the horses. Come on. I want to find a place with some cover, before those hombres give up and head back to town.”

  They waited in a wooded bend of the river. Marty was silent, mulling over his misgivings. Ten looked at the sun and judged it wasn’t much after ten o’clock. He felt like it had been days since his escape from Mathewson’s office. Bothering him most was the more than seven hours before nightfall. They must somehow elude their pursuers until darkness gave them an edge. Then they must ride all night across streams, through unfamiliar woods and bayous. Ten hadn’t needed Marty to remind him of the penalty for horse stealing. He suffered pangs of guilt as he wondered what Jesse Chisholm would think of his decision. Did the end really justify the means, even when your life was at stake?

  “Here they come,” said Marty. “Sorry ’bout what I said. I worry like an ol’ granny. I’ll side you.”

  “No,” said Ten, “keep out of sight. I’d as soon they don’t know how many of us there are. I’ll get the drop and disarm them. When they’re dismounted and belly down, you can tie their hands and feet. Whack that rope into the right lengths and tie ’em tight. That’s all the edge we’ll have, just un
til they manage to get loose.”

  The three mounted policemen rode clumsily, as though it was something they did only when absolutely necessary. When they were barely past, Ten stepped out from behind a tree.

  “Rein up,” he said. “You’re covered.”

  The command, deliberately accentuated by the ominous cocking of the Henry, shocked them into instant obedience.

  “Now,” said Ten, “with thumb and forefinger, lift your pistols and drop them to the ground. Do it slow.”

  In silence they obeyed.

  “Now,” said Ten, “step down easy, and you won’t be hurt.”

  “You won’t live till sundown,” snarled one of the lawmen.

  “My problem,” said Ten. “Move!” They dismounted.

  “Belly down,” said Ten, “hands behind your backs.”

  Marty had cut the rope into convenient lengths. Once they were facedown, he swiftly bound their wrists and ankles.

  “Now,” said Ten, “it’s into the brush and out of sight.”

  He took one of the lawmen by the ankles and began dragging him toward the woods that lined the river.

  “Hey!” bawled the captive.

  “Heap sorry,” said Ten. “Close your eyes and keep your head up.”

  Mounted on two of the horses, with Marty leading the third, they headed downriver at a fast lope. Once, hearing the whistle of an approaching steamboat, they paused in the brush until the boat had passed. Soon they were clear of the town.

  “Time for the big gamble,” said Ten. “We have to skirt the town to the east, and get into the open country to the north without being seen.”

  “I know a little about what’s north of here,” said Marty. “After Lee give up, I come through Mobile on my way back to Texas. North of New Orleans there’s a lake so big it looks like part of the gulf. Lake Ponchartrain. Just barely west of that, there’s a smaller one, Lake Maurepas, and there’s just a little strip of ground between ’em. Maybe enough for a wagon road. We got to get around both them lakes before we can turn north. We’re purely doin’ this the hard way, ridin’ around New Orleans to the east and then doublin’ back.”

  “I know,” said Ten, “I know. But I believe they’re layin’ for us to the west, so we have no choice. I ought to have my Injun license revoked for not gaggin’ them three jaybirds we left by the river. They’ll squawk their heads off every time a boat passes.”

  “We purely got to get around the town and north of them lakes before a posse takes our trail. Even then, losin’ ’em won’t be easy. They’ll be lookin’ for the tracks of three hosses. Should we let this third one go?”

  “No,” said Ten. “Set this one free, and he’ll light out for home. When they meet him, or backtrack him, they’ll know they’re on our trail. We’ll turn them all loose at the same time.”

  They paused only to rest and water the horses. More than once, what had appeared to be a floating log suddenly became an enormous reptile with protruding eyes, whose powerful jaws were studded with teeth. The horses shied away in fear, refusing to drink.

  “I flat don’t trust a place,” said Marty, “where the lizards grow this big and have teeth. Be mighty easy to stumble over one of them varmints in the dark.”

  “Come dark,” said Ten, “we’ll have to slow down some, but we have to keep moving. We got to stay far enough ahead, so that when we turn the horses loose, that posse can’t catch up and ride us down.”

  Soon they were riding along the south shore of Lake Ponchartrain. When its shoreline began to curve northward, they could see the shimmering waters of Lake Maurepas to the west.

  “If we were sure there was solid ground separating them all the way,” said Ten, “we could be away into the open country to the north that much quicker.”

  “I only seen ’em from the north side, and they looked from there about the same as they do from here. But I can’t help thinkin’ we’d get maybe halfway through and find open water ahead of us.”

  “And the posse behind us,” said Ten. “We’ll ride around this other lake, just to be safe. I’ve already drawn one busted flush today.”

  Rounding the smaller lake wasn’t as time-consuming. By three o’clock they were beyond the lake and into marshy, open country. Each time they stopped to rest and water the horses, Ten looked at the westering sun. He also listened. He had heard of southern lawmen using dogs on the trail, and he half expected to hear an ominous baying to the south of them. But there was no alien sound, just the cawing of a distant crow, and the chatter of birds in the cypress and live oak trees towering above them. The sun lost its battle with dusk and dipped below the western horizon, leaving only a crimson afterglow. There was the distant, distinctive cry of a whippoorwill.

  Spanish moss hung from the trees like ghostly silver wraiths in the shadowy world through which they rode. The gathering darkness seemed all the more intense because of the lush vegetation and moss-shrouded trees. Each time they forded a stream or crossed a marsh, Ten held his breath, fearful of those reptile jaws whose teeth could snap a horse’s foreleg like a twig. The moon finally rose, making the going easier, allowing them to pick up the pace. Moonset slowed them down again, and the sky was starting to gray with approaching dawn when they smelled wood smoke.

  “It’s ahead of us,” said Marty, “so it can’t be the posse. Do we ride in, or circle ’em and ride on?”

  “It’s too soon for word to have come this far. Sooner or later we’ll have to test our luck. Why not try it here? Keep your Colt handy.”

  They rode a little closer and reined up.

  “Hello the camp,” said Marty. “All right if we ride in?”

  “Depends,” said a voice. “Who are you?”

  “Friends,” said Ten. “Western frontier.”

  “Raise your hands an’ ride in. Slow.”

  Too late, Ten recalled Jesse Chisholm’s warning of renegades and deserters from both armies. This had all the earmarks of just such a gathering. There were five men, each dressed in the remnants of Confederate gray. Each had pieced together his outfit as best he could. One wore a gray shirt with trousers of Union blue. It was he who had issued the command. They were a grim lot. Several of them grinned. Like wolves, lips skinned back over yellowed teeth, anticipating a kill. Having made a bad play, Ten tried to bluff it out.

  “We’re low on grub; wonder if you could spare us some breakfast?”

  “Matter of fact, we can’t. We’re on short rations ourselves. You with th’ rifle, let it down slow, butt first. Then th’ both of you pull an’ drop yer pistols. Slow an’ easy. You with th’ extry hoss, drop th’ reins.”

  “Who are you,” demanded Ten, “to take our horses and guns?”

  “Captain Tremaine. We’re takin’ yer hosses an’ guns in th’ name of th’ Confed’racy. Fer th’ cause.”

  “The cause is lost,” said Marty. “I was with Lee when he surrendered at Appomattox.”

  “He surrendered. We ain’t. Drop th’ guns an’ dismount, or I’ll order you shot out’n th’ saddle.”

  Three of the five had their weapons drawn.

  “Do what you’re told,” said another of the band, speaking for the first time. “We need your guns and horses. Give ’em up, and you won’t be hurt.”

  It was a lie. Ten saw it in their eyes. With his left hand he took the Henry by its muzzle and slowly, butt first, lowered it to the ground. Every eye was on the weapon. The instant Ten let go of it, he rolled out of his saddle on the off side, palming his Colt as he fell. He thumbed two shots under the belly of the startled horse, and Tremaine died with his hand on the butt of his half-drawn pistol. Expecting the move, Marty had quit his saddle shooting, and a second man went down. The three with their guns drawn got off a shot apiece, and seeing their comrades down, vanished into the brush like frightened quail. Freed of their riders and spooked by the gunfire, the three horses had turned tail and lit out back the way they’d come. Any sound, any movement, might invite a bullet. Silent, unmoving, Ten and Marty lay
there until the sound of the running horses had faded to silence. Ten snaked his way over to the fallen Henry and cocked it. Only then did he break his Colt and replace the spent shells.

  “We can’t stay here,” said Marty. “I’d say they’re gone, since we cut down two of ’em. Why don’t I trot out a ways and look around?”

  “No,” said Ten, “we can’t waste any time. We’re afoot, and we’d best move out. They may yet double back and try to ambush us.”

  Warily and wearily they went on their way, resting only when exhaustion and their booted feet demanded it. By noon their shirts were soaked with sweat and their feet were a mass of blisters.

  “I purely hate losin’ the hosses,” said Marty, “and while my feet don’t agree, it’s likely the best thing that could of happened to us. I’m just a mite surprised them three didn’t circle and try to waylay us.”

  “We cut down two,” said Ten, “when they had the drop on us. Even poorly mounted, they must have had horses, and they had a chance to pick up three more. I’d say they weighed the odds and settled for the horses.”

  “Bad choice. I got me an idea that bunch was headed for New Orleans, and them that’s left is goin’ to run headlong into the posse that’s trailin’ us. That was almighty smart, us keepin’ that third hoss. That posse’s been trackin’ three men, and they can’t be far away from findin’ ’em.”

  The sun was two hours from the western horizon when they dropped beside a shaded creek to rest.

  Marty sighed. “I’d give my share of every cow in Texas if I could drag off these boots and soak my feet in that cold water for about three days. I’m so all-fired hungry, I could eat a saddle blanket, and my belly’s startin’ to cry louder than my feet.”