The Chisholm Trail

by Ralph Compton

  “Marty, you and Wes take them away from here. Tell them I’m all right but for some hide off my ribs. See if there’s any digging tools out there in the barn. We still have to bury Brady Ward.”

  “Then we got all this bunch,” said Wes.

  “No,” said Ten, “I have other plans for them. Go head off the girls, and I’ll be with you in a few minutes.”

  Marty and Wes were digging a grave for Brady Ward when they saw Ten riding toward them. Chris and Lou looked mournfully at the blanket-shrouded body of their father. Above the old cabin where the slaughter had taken place there was a thin tendril of smoke. When it had grown to a cloud, the roof of the shack erupted in flames. Ten dismounted and they watched as the inferno grew, diminished, and finally died. They laid Brady Ward to rest on a knoll overlooking the Trinity. Wes read a text from the Bible, and they rode away, none of them looking back.

  Jesse Chisholm found the long steamboat rides to and from New Orleans tiresome, but he looked forward to this trip. When he had reached Fort Smith with his trade goods, there had been a hurried letter from Harvey Roberts. Once before boarding the boat for New Orleans, and a dozen times afterward, Chisholm had read Roberts’s letter. It had given him his first real look at Priscilla LeBeau, the girl who had so smitten young Tenatse. She had so impressed Roberts that he had promised her a meeting with Chisholm, and from what Roberts had told him, Chisholm found himself anxious to meet Priscilla. She was beginning to emerge, not as a silly, infatuated young girl, but as a woman with character and courage. It said quite a lot for Tenatse Chisholm’s judgment. Somehow, he no longer fitted Chisholm’s recollection of a rebellious seventeen-year-old, kicked out of school for hell-raising and disobedience.

  André LeBeau left Jason Brawn’s office, his mind a maelstrom of anger, fear, revulsion, and desperation. His anger at Brawn was equaled only by his fear of the man. Brawn didn’t make idle threats. Priscilla had called him a “lecherous old pig.” LeBeau conceded he was that, and worse. The girl was more particular than he was, he admitted. He even admired her courage, but then, she didn’t owe Jason Brawn a fortune in gambling debts. Going full circle, it brought him back to his own desperate situation. There was nothing left for him but to face the facts. Priscilla was not going to sacrifice herself to save him, and in all honesty, he didn’t blame her. He was aware that she had done some investigating on her own, regarding Tenatse Chisholm, but so had he. Young Chisholm had escaped, and LeBeau didn’t doubt he would be returning to New Orleans. For Priscilla? Slowly an idea began to grow in the fertility of LeBeau’s desperation. He knew something of Jesse Chisholm, of his success as a government scout, and of his more than thirty years as an Indian trader. The man was wealthy. With that in mind, wouldn’t it be worth something to young Tenatse, if he were able to take Priscilla with her father’s blessing? Granted, when she was eighteen he’d probably take her anyway. Since she would be getting what she wanted, and Tenatse Chisholm would be getting what he wanted, why should LeBeau not get something in return?

  LeBeau found Priscilla at the house, and she greeted him as usual, pretending he didn’t exist. She mustn’t suspect that this apparent change in him was the result of anything more than his own repentance. She must be convinced to the extent that she would arrange for him to meet with Tenatse Chisholm, so that he might bargain with the young fool in private.

  “Priscilla,” he began, “I need to talk to you.”

  “If it has anything to do with Jason Brawn, you can save your breath.”

  “It has nothing to do with Brawn,” said LeBeau. “I’m through with him.”

  “Then what have we to talk about?” inquired Priscilla suspiciously.

  “Do you know when Tenatse Chisholm is coming back to New Orleans?”

  “No,” said Priscilla, “and if I did, I wouldn’t tell you. Why? Are you planning another ambush?”

  LeBeau ignored the insult, fighting back his anger. He managed to calm himself before he spoke.

  “I’ve had second thoughts about young Chisholm. He’s part Indian, and so is his father, but Jesse Chisholm is one of the most respected men in the nation. When I was opposed to the boy, I didn’t realize just who he was. I was wrong, and now I must admit I’m impressed with him. When he returns, I’d like to meet him.”

  He sounded so convincing, so sincere, Priscilla wanted to believe him. But she still had her doubts.

  “I’d like to believe you,” she said, “but how do I know this isn’t just another scheme of Jason Brawn’s?”

  “I only want to talk to the Chisholm boy, to satisfy myself about some things. I don’t blame you for having your doubts. To prove to you nothing is being planned, that no harm will come to him, let him decide where we’ll meet. Make it some public place, like the lobby of the St. Charles Hotel. Wouldn’t you rather go with him in peace, with my blessing?”

  “You know I would,” said Priscilla, “but I’m not sure you’re being truthful with me.”

  “Leave it up to Chisholm, then,” said LeBeau. “Let him decide whether or not he’ll meet with me. When you hear from him, tell him what I’ve told you. Nobody is to know of our meeting. Make no mention of it, not even to your mother. I’m promising you he’ll be safe with me, but I can’t speak for Jason Brawn. He believes the boy is all that’s standing between you and him. It was Brawn who set up the ambush and lured young Chisholm into it. Now, will you at least ask him if he’ll meet with me?”

  Priscilla was struck by the disturbing realization that she didn’t know this man who was her father, and had never known him. Even now, when he seemed so sincere, she didn’t trust him. Finally she answered him.

  “Yes, I’ll tell him what you’ve said, but it will be his decision as to whether or not he meets with you. Whatever he decides, just keep this in mind: in another six months, I’ll be eighteen, and when he comes for me, I’m going with him. With or without your approval.”

  Priscilla still eyed him with well-founded suspicion. The expression on his florid face could only be described as one of relief.

  18

  Priscilla LeBeau paced the floor nervously. In Harvey Roberts’s private office she awaited the arrival of Jesse Chisholm. When the door opened, she froze. She found it hard to believe the man who had stepped into the room was Ten’s father. Except for the eyes, she saw little resemblance. Chisholm’s once-sandy hair was mostly gray, as was his shaggy moustache. He wore a wrinkled suit, no tie, and beaded moccasins. His craggy face was burned brown as an old saddle, and his countenance seemed grim, until he smiled.

  “You look a lot like Ten when you smile,” she said.

  It was the first thing that came to her mind, and she felt like a fool for having said it. But it was an honesty that Chisholm appreciated, and he laughed. It seemed to put him at ease. He studied her before he spoke, and when he did, there was a twinkle in his eyes.

  “Now I understand why young Tenatse was bound to return to New Orleans.”

  She blushed, accepting the compliment, but her eyes never left his. “I begged him not to come,” she said. “He was tricked into it.”

  “So Roberts told me. Have you any idea what all this is about? Who’s after him? And why?”

  Priscilla told him what she knew and what she suspected, including the possibility that her own father was involved. He listened gravely. She concluded with André LeBeau’s request to meet with Ten, stressing her doubts.

  “Perhaps he’s being honest with you,” said Chisholm.

  “Oh, dear God, how I wish I could believe that! But I—I’m afraid.”

  “So was I,” said Chisholm. “To be honest with you, I had my doubts about Tenatse, but after what’s happened, I’ve changed my mind. He’s young, but I’m convinced he can take care of himself. He has an agile mind, and he’s lightning quick with knife and pistol. I once saw Ben Thompson draw, and Ten’s faster than Thompson. Ten has a sense of responsibility that surprised me. Except for a borrowed stake, he refused help from me. Instead, he rode
to every fort in Indian Territory and sold the herd he’s gathering in Texas.”

  “He had to leave for Texas,” said Priscilla, “not knowing where I was or what might have happened to me.”

  “I know that must have hurt,” said Chisholm, “but like I told you, he’s more of a man than I gave him credit for being. A man keeps his word, whatever it costs him, however painful it may be. Legally, his hands were tied. There was little he could do here, until you were eighteen. How do you feel, Priscilla? When Ten returns, may I ask what your plans are?”

  “I’m going away with him,” she said simply. “When I’m eighteen I will go wherever he wants me to go, whether my father likes it or not.”

  Chisholm liked the resolute set of her mouth, the color in her cheeks, and the fire in her gray eyes. She was the kind of woman the western frontier needed. Neither of them had bothered to sit, and he surprised her. He turned to her and took both her hands in his.

  “Priscilla,” he said, “in fairness to your father, I’m going to ask Ten to meet with him. Once Ten has finished this trail drive, he’ll be coming here. Before he leaves Fort Smith, I’ll have him telegraph Harvey Roberts. Once he’s here, you can meet with him privately, here in Harvey’s office. Ten should finish this trail drive in mid-April. By the week following, Harvey should have a telegram from him. Thank you, Miss Priscilla LeBeau, for seeing me. The West is going to be proud of you. And so will I.”

  She choked on the words she wanted to say, and she watched him out the door with a mist in her eyes.

  On February 19, 1866, Ten began the drive with 1455 head, and they discovered that captivity had taught the brutes nothing. Most of them had been roped downriver, and it was to these brakes they wanted to return. That first incredible, hard-riding day, they had no point rider and needed none. It was all they could do just to keep the unruly longhorns moving in the same general direction. Marty and Wes rode flank positions, fighting the bunch-quitters constantly breaking away. Ten, Chris, and Lou were at drag, swinging their doubled lariats at dusty flanks, keeping them bunched. They covered less than ten miles that first day, finally getting the herd bedded down only because the longhorns were exhausted. But so were the riders. They all but fell out of their saddles.

  “I’m starved to death,” said Marty, groaning, “but so give out, I ain’t got the strength to move my jaws.”

  “It’s just as well,” sighed Chris. “Who feels like cooking?”

  “This is how it’s goin’ to be,” said Ten, “until this bunch settles down. We’ll have to drive ’em until they’re ready to drop, and then sing ’em to sleep every night. Skittish as they are, and with only five of us, the night-hawking will be unhandy. Two of us will take it to midnight, and the other three until dawn. If there’s goin’ to be trouble, I look for it after midnight, but it could come any time. When you sleep, don’t shuck anything but your hats. If somethin’ spooks this bunch of longhorned jacks, they could be drinkin’ out of the Gulf while you’re lookin’ for your boots in the dark.”

  “I’ll ride either watch,” said Chris. “I can’t think of anything that could happen, including a Comanche attack, that would be much worse than the terrible day we’ve just had.”

  “That goes just as strong for me,” said Lou.

  Ten took the girls at their word, waking them at midnight. They would join him in circling the herd the rest of the night. Mercifully, the longhorns were as exhausted as the riders, and except for an occasional restless lowing, the herd was quiet. For the first time Ten found himself alone with both the Ward girls. As the night wore on, and boredom set in, they became talkative. And curious.

  “When we finish this drive to Indian Territory,” said Chris, “Marty says you’re going to New Orleans, to get married.”

  “Sometimes,” said Teh, “Marty talks too much.”

  “I know it’s none of my business, but in a way, it is. Perhaps a way you don’t realize. Marty’s going with you. To ‘watch your back,’ as he puts it.”

  “And you’re going with Marty.”

  “If he’ll have me,” said Chris bluntly.

  Ten chuckled. “You know better than that. You couldn’t run him off with a double-barrel shotgun. Yes, I aim to go back to New Orleans.”

  “For Priscilla?”

  “Who’s Priscilla?” asked Lou, joining the discussion.

  “The girl I aim to marry,” said Ten, irked. “I’m surprised nobody’s told you.”

  “Well, hell’s bells,” snapped Lou, “I didn’t know it was a secret. Chris knows, Marty knows, and you’re all gettin’ ready to run off to New Orleans. What do you aim to do with me and Wes—drop us down a bog hole?”

  Ten laughed in spite of himself. “Lou,” he said, “Marty helped me shoot my way out of an ambush, and I don’t feel like he owes me anything. I owe him, and I don’t feel it’s fair, leadin’ him into what might well be another ambush.”

  “But we’re an outfit,” said Chris. “Marty went with you into the house, after Bodie Tomlin and his gang. So did Wes.”

  “I haven’t forgotten that,” said Ten, “and I won’t. But this trouble—whatever I’m facing in New Orleans—is my personal problem. I have no right to expect the rest of you to side me.”

  “Tenatse Chisholm,” said Lou, “you have every right. You took us in, knowing what our daddy was, knowing you’d have to fight Bodie Tomlin and his gang. You made us part of this outfit, and now you’re stuck with us.”

  “I see it that way too,” said Chris. “You’re just going there for Priscilla, aren’t you? You don’t plan to live in New Orleans, do you?”

  “My God, no!” said Ten. “I aim to take her far away from there.”

  “I know it’s beating our tails into the ground,” said Chris, “but this isn’t a very big herd. Marty thinks we ought to come back to Texas and trail a much larger herd after you’ve rescued Priscilla. I know we’d need more riders, but why not begin with what we have?”

  “I’d have to agree with Marty,” said Ten, “and with you. To be honest, I haven’t been thinking any further than Priscilla’s next birthday and just getting her away from there. But I reckon it’s time to think beyond that. Within a year the rails will reach eastern Kansas, and there’ll be a real market for Texas longhorns. I’m having to split this herd among six forts, but the railroad can take four times this many longhorns. In the eastern markets, our prices will double. When we sell this herd, I’ll owe the two of you twenty-four hundred dollars for your hundred and fifty cows. You’ll each have six months’ wages comin’, for a total of four hundred and eighty dollars more. Suppose we came back to Texas, put all our money in the same pot, and bought as many longhorns as we could?”

  “Lord,” said Chris, “with Texans broke and half starved, we could buy thousands of longhorns. It would be so much quicker than having to rope them one at a time.”

  “There’s Marty and Wes,” said Lou. “What about them?”

  “I reckon,” said Ten, with a chuckle, “we could hire them easy, forty and found. Once we reach Indian Territory, I’ll owe them two hundred and eighty dollars apiece in wages. Now, if they added that to what you girls will have, that would be almost thirty-five hundred dollars.”

  “It would,” said Lou, “but then we’d be stuck with them forever. You reckon a pair of fiddle-foot cowboys with ragged drawers and holey socks is worth it?”

  “I doubt it,” said Ten.

  They all laughed. A cow bawled, and another answered. The riders split up, circling the herd, as the night wore on.

  Their second and third days on the trail were little better than the first. One old longhorn bull had been a constant source of trouble. Finally, Ten shot the brute, after it almost gored his horse. They were near the end of the third day, and within a mile, or two of the little town of Crockett.

  “We’ll bed ’em down here,” said Ten.

  There was another hour of daylight, but they were exhausted. With the river an ever-present source of water,
they need only look for good graze. While it was still light enough to see, Ten studied the rough map Jesse Chisholm had given him. Marty looked over his shoulder.

  “If we didn’t have to go to Fort Towson,” said Marty, “we could follow the Trinity to Coffee’s Post, on the Red. Once we was over the Red, Fort Washita and Fort Arbuckle would be right alongside that Chisholm Trail.”

  “We’ll have to pick up Jess’s wagon road after we go to Fort Towson,” said Ten. “We’ll go there first, so we’ll have to leave the Trinity and drive northeast a ways. We’ll cross the Red at Towson. When we’ve cut out their two hundred head, we’ll follow the Red west to the Washita. From there, Fort Washita, Fort Arbuckle, and Fort Cobb will be almost due north. When we’re ready to leave for New Orleans, we’ll take four hundred head with us. We’ll leave half of them at Fort Gibson and follow the Arkansas on to Fort Smith. They’ll get the last two hundred head, and from there we’ll take a steamboat to New Orleans.”

  “Mighty slick plannin’,” said Marty, “but that’s only twelve hundred cows. Unless there’s a stampede, or rustlers, we’ll have better’n fourteen hundred longhorns when we get to Indian Territory.”

  “Whatever’s left over,” said Ten, “I aim for them to be cows. We’ll just leave ’em to graze along the Canadian until we’re ready for ’em. They’ll be safe enough. Jess has half the Cherokee nation gathered around him.”

  They’d just finished supper when they saw the rider jogging toward them. He rode in from Crockett, but there was a dusty, trail-weary look about him that said he was a drifter. He forked a dun horse, and his old double-rigged saddle looked older than he was.

  “Stopped at the store,” he said, reining up. “Old woman said there was an outfit down here gatherin’ cows. I reckon that’d be you.”

  “It would,” said Ten. “Step down and have some coffee.”

  The stranger dismounted, and he proved to be a gangling youth, over six feet, his gauntness attesting to meals he’d missed. He wore rough-out, mule-ear boots, dirty Levi’s, denim shirt, and a dusty, flat-crowned black hat. He carried a Colt on his right hip, thong-tied just above the knee. He had pale blue eyes, black hair, and a mouth that wasn’t made for smiling. The fuzz on his upper lip said he hadn’t begun to shave. He looked like what Ten suspected he was: a kid who had been too young to go to war, had found the aftereffects of it not to his liking, and was escaping the only way he could.