“Here’s Abilene,” said Chisholm, pointing to a tiny penciled dot, “and to the east of it, not more than a hundred fifty miles, is Kansas City. The Missouri River passes through Kansas City on its way to a confluence with the Mississippi, at St. Louis. Does that suggest anything to you?”
“It does,” said Ten sheepishly. “A couple of things. First, I should have had a look at these maps before now. Second, when we get to Abilene, we’re maybe three hundred miles from St. Louis, and from Kansas City we can make the rest of the trip by steamboat.”
“Exactly,” said Chisholm, a twinkle in his eyes. “Once you’ve sold the herd, it’s no more than a three-day ride to Kansas City. Take Two Hats and his riders with you, because they’ll be needin’ grub to last them back to here. They’ll bring your mounts, your horse remuda, and the pack mules with them, and you’re free to take a steamboat on to St. Louis. Any questions?”
“No, sir,” said Ten. “I was just thinkin’ that before we head for Texas again, maybe you could figure out the best way there and back. You ought to be leadin’ these trail drives instead of me.”
The others laughed, but Chisholm only smiled. It was done humorously, but it was a concession. Tenatse Chisholm seemed more the son and less the hostile stranger Chisholm had met in St. Louis just a few months before.
“Now,” said Chisholm, “I reckon you’re planning another trip to Texas, when you return from St. Louis?”
“Yes, sir,” said Ten. “Abilene ought to be wide open by then. I’d like to bring another drive or two up the Chisholm Trail before it gets crowded. Sooner or later those Texans will manage some drives of their own. More herds on the trail means lower prices, and less graze along the way. I aim for us to be in Texas the week after Christmas. Will I still have an Injun outfit?”
“You’ll have them,” said Chisholm. “They came back from Texas loaded like a Gypsy caravan. While you were gone to New Orleans, all they’ve done is sell or trade horses, saddles, and guns. I reckon you’ve spoiled them for any decent work.”
“He’s right,” said Marty. “I ain’t sure if that bunch of Injuns is goin’ back to Texas to drive longhorns or to look for well-heeled outlaws.”
André LeBeau was desperate. His stake had dwindled to five thousand dollars. He must win, and win big. If he lost again, he’d be broke. The bank had already served notice. He had ten days to vacate the house. He could take only his clothes. Even the furniture was to be sold at auction. There was a gambling house on Toulouse, in the Vieux Carré, where he wasn’t well-known. He would take what money he had and go there. It was a long shot, but only the long shots paid. His was a do or die situation, and he didn’t see how things could possibly get any worse. But they could and would. He didn’t know the New Orleans papers had received word of Priscilla’s marriage, and that the story would appear on the front page of the newspaper to be delivered that very afternoon.
The first of the month, Chisholm always sent a rider to Fort Smith for the mail and the newspapers. On September 7, two days before Ten and the outfit would depart for Abilene, the rider returned with the mail and the last three weekly editions of a New Orleans newspaper. The latest was dated August 31, and on the front page was news of Priscilla’s marriage. Not only had they printed every last word, but in newspaper fashion, had printed related stories about the LeBeaus. The latest and most shocking, of course, was a rehashing of Sneed’s death and the possible implication of LeBeau. Using information from the story of Sneed’s death, Priscilla made the connection.
“I just knew he’d send a killer after you,” said Priscilla. “He did, didn’t he?”
“No,” said Ten, “he didn’t. I left New Orleans without him knowing I’d been there, until Harvey Roberts sent him a message.”
“But the newspaper says the law tracked Sneed’s killer with dogs, and that they lost the trail at the river. They’re saying whoever did the killing probably escaped by boat.”
“Almighty smart of them,” said Ten, “since the trail ended at the water. There’s lots of boats on the river.”
She said no more, but she knew.
André LeBeau was jubilant, convinced that his luck had finally changed. He now had $7500, and while it was a far cry from what he needed, it was a start. It was close to three A.M. when he left the gambling house on Toulouse. He walked along the river to Bienville, three blocks west, where he knew of a cheap rooming house. There he took a room. He would sleep most of the day, which was Saturday, and return to the gambling house sometime in the afternoon. The truth was, the empty house on St. Charles was getting to him. Priscilla was gone, Emily was gone, and Sunday would be Joseph the butler’s last day. While all these realities clamored for his attention, LeBeau forced them from his mind, trying to prolong the excitement of his win. Finally he slept.
Jason Brawn was a vindictive man, but he had found it a waste of time to get mad. He got even. He was the kind who carried a grudge, allowing a sore to fester until there was no healing unless it had been lanced. Brawn had his suspicions about Sneed’s death, believing it had resulted from the failure of some misguided scheme of LeBeau’s, but having no proof. Now, as he read the newspaper account of Priscilla LeBeau’s marriage, he made a decision. He allowed himself a grim smile at the irony of it. Tomorrow, the second of September, would be a year to the day since John Mathewson had been ambushed.
Priscilla had carefully clipped from the newspaper the story of their marriage so that she could save it. Ten had admitted adding a letter of his own to hers, and she was touched, finding that he had given not only his own background, but that of Jesse Chisholm. She had noted pride in Chisholm’s eyes when he had read the story. All the rivalry and animosity between father and son had been Ten’s doing. Now he had laid it to rest.
26
Just after three o’clock Saturday afternoon, André LeBeau returned to the gambling house on Toulouse. He felt a certain camaraderie for even the house gamblers. They bought him drinks, laughed at most everything he said, and allowed him to win a few small pots. From there they encouraged him to raise his bets, and when he did, he lost. The more he lost, the more he bet, until there was no more. Five hours after his arrival, jubilant and hopeful, LeBeau was broke. The patrons and house gamblers no longer laughed with him, but at him. He begged for a loan of two hundred, one hundred, and finally, fifty dollars. But they knew him, knew his kind, and laughed all the more. Finally, when the drinks got to him and he was reduced to self-pitying sobs, they turned away in disgust. Then he became angry and belligerent, accusing the house of cheating, and was hustled to the door and thrown out. He lay there until he was able to struggle painfully, wearily, to his feet, and then limped away into the darkness.
September 9, 1866, Ten and the outfit moved the herd out at first light, heading them north. Rested and fat, the longhorns needed little urging. Charlie Two Hats and his riders were in high good humor. Two Hats led at point, while Ten ranged far ahead, scouting for graze and water. It had been an unusually dry year, and dust hung like smoke in the September sky. Chris, Lou, and Priscilla were riding drag.
“This bandanna over my mouth and nose is better than nothing,” complained Priscilla, “but it’s not enough. There’s dust in my eyes, in my hair, in my ears, in my boots, and places I can’t even talk about.”
Her companions laughed delightedly.
“Just pray for a river that’s deep enough and brushy enough that you can strip and jump in,” said Lou.
“Wait’ll we get to St. Louis,” said Chris. “In one of the St. Louis papers Ten brought back, there was a piece about a hotel with bathtubs big enough for two people at the same time.”
“Don’t look at me,” said Lou. “I can’t think of any good reason for gettin’ in a bathtub with you.”
“I wasn’t thinking of invitin’ you,” said Chris. “All you could do is scrub my back.”
“That’s all anybody could do in a tub of water,” said Priscilla. “What I’d like to see is this two-stor
y hotel in Virginia City, Montana, that’s got a two-story outhouse. People on the second floor can go to the outhouse without going downstairs.”
“If we ever go there,” said Lou, “whichever floor I’m on, I’ll still go to the upstairs outhouse. There’s some things I won’t put up with when there’s somebody sittin’ right over me.”
André LeBeau walked along the river until he came to the trio of docks near where Sneed had died. LeBeau stood on the rough planks of the first dock, staring into the dark water of the river. Finally he backed away, shuddering. He knew what he ought to do, but he lacked the courage. But he had failed at everything else, he thought bitterly. Why not this as well? His hands, knees, and elbows were a mass of bruises, and he bled from numerous cuts, a result of having been thrown into the graveled yard of the gambling house. He put his hand in his pocket and brought out a single gold eagle, all the money he had in the world. He considered buying a bottle, but changed his mind. He would need food. Besides, there was most of a bottle of bourbon at the house. Anyway, he had to sleep somewhere, and with that and the bottle in mind, he started back to the house on St. Charles.
It was a long walk, and he was less than halfway there when he first heard the footsteps. Fearfully, he looked over his shoulder, but there were low-hanging magnolias and live oaks on both sides of the street, and he saw nothing. But the footsteps came on, relentlessly, maddeningly persistent. LeBeau stopped and turned, trembling, and did a very foolish thing.
“Stop following me!” he shouted. “I have no money.”
But robbery wasn’t what his pursuer had in mind. From across the street there was a roar and a muzzle flash, and the slug tore a burning gash along LeBeau’s left side. With a cry, he stumbled back into some tall weeds and fell. He lay there panting and sweating, having the good sense not to move. He eased his right hand to his left side and felt the blood. He had been shot! He listened for some sound, for the footsteps, but heard nothing. He lay there for what seemed hours. Finally he got to his skinned and bleeding knees, and then to his feet. He must get to the house, see to his hurts, and find that bottle. When he came within sight of the house, there was a lamp burning in one of the parlors and another in the dining room. Ignoring his cuts, bruises, and the bleeding path of the slug, LeBeau went straight to the cabinet for the bottle. Everything else could wait. Kicking back a chair, he slumped into it, pulling the cork from the bottle with his teeth. But that was as far as he got. The newspaper lay on the table before him, with most of the front page devoted to Priscilla’s marriage. Vividly, LeBeau recalled the haunting footsteps, the roar of the gun, the nearness of death, and he understood. He had drawn his last hand this night, in more ways than one, and his cards didn’t measure up. He was startled when Joseph came in. He had forgotten the butler was still there. This would be his last day, when he left at ten.
“Will you be wanting anything, sir?” the butler inquired.
“Yes,” said LeBeau, “I want you to mail a letter for me tomorrow, but I don’t have it ready. What time is it?”
“Almost nine, sir.”
“I’ll have it ready before ten,” said LeBeau, “and then you may leave.”
When Joseph had left the room, LeBeau corked the bourbon, got up and went into his study. From a rolltop desk he took a pencil, a tablet, and an envelope. Forgetting his hurts, he returned to the dining room, sat down and began to write.
In the early afternoon of their second day on the trail, Ten and the outfit took the herd across the North Canadian River.
“Good crossing,” said Marty. “I just hope we do as well crossin’ the Cimarron and the Arkansas.”
“No reason why we shouldn’t,” said Ten, “unless there’s a gulley washer somewhere west of here. I can’t imagine having trouble at a crossing, with the water this low.”
Only one problem had begun to emerge. Of their three pack mules, one of them was a big white brute called Diablo. He belonged to Charlie Two Hats, and while Charlie swore by him, everybody else swore at him. Diablo had a fondness for biting people, sinking his big yellow teeth into them when they least expected it, and usually in a place that made riding difficult. Diablo also balked occasionally, usually at the worst possible time and place, for little reason or no reason at all.
“Ten,” said Priscilla, “with all the pack mules we had to choose from, why did we have to bring him? That mule hates me.”
Gathered around the supper fire, they all laughed. The white mule had already nipped Priscilla, and she kept a wary eye on him.
“He belongs to Charlie,” said Ten. “Jump on him.”
“Him big,” said Two Hats. “Work lak hell.”
“Bite lak hell too,” said Priscilla. “I’ve still got his teeth marks on my behind.”
“It’s all still there,” said Chris. They laughed again, especially Charlie Two Hats.
“Yes,” snapped Priscilla, glaring at Two Hats, “and it’s all still sore.”
“Just don’t turn your back on him,” said Ten. “We can avoid his teeth; it’s his balking that could mean trouble.”
The fiery path the slug had burned across LeBeau’s ribs still hurt, but it wasn’t that serious. He hadn’t even bothered seeing to it, for soon it wouldn’t matter. He folded the lengthy letter, a dozen pages written on both sides, and sealed it in the envelope. On the face of it, he wrote: United States Customs Office, Washington, D. C.
He found Joseph seated in the front parlor, waiting. He handed the old butler the letter, along with his last ten dollars.
“Whatever you do,” said LeBeau, “don’t forget to mail this. When you’ve paid the postage, the money that’s left is yours.”
“Thank you,” said Joseph. Almost reluctantly he started down the hall, as though he hated to go.
“Joseph?”
The old man stopped, turned, waited.
“When you go out,” said LeBeau, “fix the door so it will lock behind you.”
Joseph knew what the neighbors were saying, and he knew the circumstances under which Emily had left. He had read the newspaper account of Priscilla’s marriage, and while he didn’t know why or when, he suspected the final chapter in LeBeau’s life was about to be written. He paused at the front door and looked back. LeBeau still stood at the end of the hall.
“Good-bye, sir,” said Joseph, “and good luck.”
His mind strong on other things, the old man closed the door without remembering to set the lock.
Once more LeBeau went to the desk in the study. This time, from a bottom drawer, he took a revolver. It was a Remington .30 caliber, holding five shells, and it was fully loaded. He returned to the dining room, took the bottle of bourbon and went on to the front parlor. While he couldn’t see directly down the hall, he could hear. They’d have to break in to get at him. He uncorked the bottle, took a long pull from it, then another. Vaguely, he remembered his hurts, but they no longer seemed to matter. He slept, awakening when the effects of the whiskey had worn off. The lamp had guttered out and the room was dark. The big grandfather clock struck three. Then, far down the darkened hall, came a sound that chilled him to the marrow of his bones. It was the slow, even cadence of footsteps.
When they reached the Cimarron, the water ran deeper and swifter than they’d expected. It was also muddy, proof of rain somewhere to the west.
“Been a while since anybody used this crossing,” said Ten. “Jess says these riverbeds shift and what was safe last week might be quicksand today. I reckon we’d better test for it.”
“How do you test for quicksand?” Priscilla asked.
“You ride in,” said Marty, “and if it swallows you and your hoss, you know it’s quicksand.”
“Oh, stop teasing me!” cried Priscilla.
“That’s mostly right,” said Lou, “only it won’t suck you under all that fast. A good cow horse knows quicksand, and he’ll back out. Cows ain’t that smart.”
The crossing proved free of quicksand, and with two hours of daylight left,
Ten gave the order to go ahead.
“If there’s rain west of us, holdin’ off till tomorrow won’t help. Let’s be done with it. Push ’em hard, keep ’em bunched, so’s they got nowhere to go but the north bank!”
Cherokee riders Cactus and Latigo led two of the pack mules, while the unpredictable Diablo was led by Charlie Two Hats himself. The first two mules crossed without difficulty, but Diablo clearly didn’t wish to cross the river. Two Hats was practically dragging the big mule, with the lead steers almost on his tail. Ten fought his way ahead of the herd. With his doubled lariat, he laid a stinging blow across Diablo’s flank. It was a tactic that had worked since time began, but a blow that would have sent a normal mule surging to the opposite bank had exactly the reverse effect on Diablo. He reared, his sudden, violent action causing Two Hats’s horse to stumble. Something went wrong, perhaps a bad dally around Two Hats’s saddle horn, and Diablo’s lead rope slipped loose. The big mule took that as an invitation to return the way he had come. He whirled and, undaunted by the oncoming herd, sunk his big teeth into the tender nose of one of the lead steers.
The steer let loose a bellow of pain and fury that spooked the other leaders. With the drag riders bunching the herd, there was no retreat for the leaders. They could go upriver, downriver, or straight ahead, but that crazy mule was out there ahead of them. Two Hats and Tejano had quickly dropped their loops over the head of the ornery Diablo, and he was being dragged to the farthest bank, where he should have gone in the first place. But it was too late to head the spooked lead steers. As one, they turned downriver. Marty, Wes, Buscadero, and Jingle Bob were on the downriver flank and rode for their lives, getting out of the way of the charging herd. The water, deep from the recent rain, was all that saved them. In places it was over the heads of the lead steers, and it slowed the stampede.
The Chisholm Trail Page 28