“That’s generous of you,” said McCoy, “but there’s still the problem of money. I’d need time to raise it.”
“There’ll be a telegraph key at end-of-track,” said Ten. “Telegraph your brothers and have them raise it. They can send it to you by train. I expect it’ll take some time, but not as long as it’ll take for the rails to reach here.”
This time McCoy didn’t laugh. He was thinking, tugging his goatee. “Suppose I was interested, contingent on your delivering the herd to end-of-track? How much?”
“Twenty-six.”
“My God, no!”
“You know what prices are in Chicago and Kansas City,” said Ten, “and I don’t. You know what you can sell for, what your freight costs are. Make me an offer.”
“Sixteen,” said McCoy.
“I can sell them to the military outposts for that,” said Ten. “Twenty-five, delivered.”
“Seventeen.”
“Twenty-four,” Ten countered.
“Eighteen.”
“Twenty-three fifty,” said Ten.
“Oh, confound it,” said McCoy, “this is absurd. Twenty is my limit.”
“Twenty-one,” said Ten.
“Split the difference? Twenty dollars and fifty cents?”
“Sold,” said Ten. “When can we start the drive?”
“Tomorrow,” said McCoy. “These teamsters have to unload, and I owe them a night’s rest before they start back. I must warn you, it may take several days to get the money. Will my check be acceptable, once it’s covered?”
“No,” said Ten, “we’re goin’ to Texas for another herd, and Texans won’t take anything less than gold.”
“Gold it is, then,” said McCoy, “and I trust delivery includes loading into railroad cars?”
“It does,” said Ten. “How long will it take the railroad to get the cars to end-of-track?”
“I really don’t know,” said McCoy. “We haven’t gotten into that. I’ve just now gotten them to agree to a freight charge I can live with. I’ll do all I can to get the cars quickly.”
McCoy returned to his crew and began conferring with Venters. Ten mounted, kicked his horse into a lope, and the others followed.
“That was a good dicker,” said Marty. “That extra fifty cents a head will cover us takin’ the herd an extra hundred miles.”
“We still don’t know what he’ll sell them for in Chicago,” said Lou.
“Twenty-five or better,” said Ten. “He was cold at twenty-six, but when we dropped below twenty-four, he started to sweat. He’ll make enough off of this herd that those brothers of his will kiss his feet. If they don’t, they ought to. We may be a week gettin’ to end-of-track, and have to wait when we get there, but it won’t be like waitin’ for the railroad to reach Abilene. We’ll have St. Louis behind us, and be back on the Canadian by the middle of November.”
28
October 4, 1866, they moved the herd out behind the three big freight wagons, heading east. The longhorns were trailwise, and easily kept up to the wagons. Rather than riding one of the wagons, Joe McCoy took a horse, riding with the herd. He seemed to be studying the longhorns he’d bought. Ten thought of something he should have considered sooner. Just as he was about to say what was on his mind, McCoy spoke to him.
“Longhorns is the proper name for them. I’ve never seen such horns. Are they all like this?”
“Mostly,” said Ten, “and that reminds me of somethin’ I should have asked before now. How many of the critters will a railroad car take?”
“With their horn spans,” said McCoy, “I’d say thirty-five. Forty at the most.”
“Even if we pack forty of ’em in there, we’ll need twenty-five railroad cars to move a thousand head. How long is it goin’ to take to get enough railroad cars to take them all?”
“Like I told you,” said McCoy, “that’s something I have yet to discuss with the railroad. I’ve suggested they make available two hundred specially-equipped, slat-sided cars for hauling cattle. I doubt they’ve taken my advice, at least not so soon. They’re still several months away from Abilene, and they don’t know if there’ll be cattle waiting for them or not.”
“I know I promised we’d load the cattle for you,” said Ten, “but I purely don’t aim to hang around end-of-track until the railroad builds the cattle cars. What are you goin’ to do with all these cows?”
“I’ll telegraph the Kansas City stockyards. Perhaps we can take them there, and the railroad can freight them out as the cattle cars become available.”
“Kansas City! We only agreed to drive them to end-of-track.”
“I know,” said McCoy, “but when you reach end-of-track, you’ll be less than fifty miles west of Kansas City. If the stockyards can handle them, you can just drive them there. Unless, of course, you’d rather wait at end-of-track for the railroad to supply cattle cars.”
“Telegraph Kansas City,” said Ten, “and if the stockyards can take them, then we’ll drive them there.”
“Even if the cattle pens are available, it’s going to cost me for the use of them. Are you fair enough to make an adjustment in our agreed-upon price to defray some of the cost?”
“Maybe,” said Ten, “if it’s within reason.”
“I figure it’ll cost me at least a dollar a head,” said McCoy. “Can we split that?”
“I reckon,” sighed Ten. “Your price drops to twenty dollars a head. Just don’t hand me any more surprises.”
“We got nothin’ to complain about,” said Marty, “since we’re goin’ to Kansas City anyhow. It’s better’n sittin’ here on the prairie waitin’ for railroad cars. This McCoy’s run a sandy on us. Why, I’d bet a hoss and saddle this railroad ain’t got enough freight cars to load this big a herd.”
“You’d take the pot,” said Ten. “I had a good deal goin’, but I didn’t finish it. This waltzin’ around with cattle cars and payin’ for the use of the stockyards should have been figured into the price. He took me, and I let him.”
“So what?” said Chris. “We were counting on twenty dollars a head, and that’s what we’re getting. It’s worth fifty cents a head not to be stuck here on the prairie, waiting to load cows onto railroad cars that may not have been built.”
“That’s right,” said Wes. “We got here before anybody was ready for us, even the railroad, so we’re havin’ to pay for the extra arrangements. When we bring another herd, Abilene will have a railroad.”
“Then let’s get these brutes delivered,” said Marty, “collect our money, and rattle our hocks back to Indian Territory. Let’s buy another herd before the price goes up.”
“Whoa, mule,” said Lou. “Don’t forget our trip to St. Louis.”
“First we talked about New Orleans,” said Wes, “and then we talked about St. Louis. All of us was goin’ there, I reckon, to stand before a preacher. Well, we’ve done that. Why do we have to go anywhere, except back to Texas?”
“Because we want to spend this Christmas at the Chisholm trading post,” said Lou, “and we want a few days in St. Louis to buy some things.”
“It was my idea,” said Priscilla. “Marty, Wes, Chris, and Lou have no kin, and but for my grandmother, I have none I want to claim. Ten’s father is here, and I thought it would be wonderful if just this once we could all be together at Christmas, like a family.”
Tenatse Chisholm had never celebrated Christmas, but Priscilla’s words struck a chord within him, and he believed he understood her thinking. Jesse Chisholm was getting old. If they followed Ten’s dream and headed for the high country, this might be the first and last Christmas they’d spend with the old man.
“There’ll be time enough for going to Texas after Christmas,” said Ten. “First, we’ll go on to St. Louis, like we planned. Then, come Christmas, we’ll make it the biggest and best that any of us ever had.”
They came up on the grading crew first, about five miles west of end-of-track. Soon they heard the clang of steel on steel, as workme
n swung nine-pound sledges, driving spikes into green ties. Paralleling the main line was a side track on which stood five boxcars that had been converted into living quarters for the grading and track-laying crews. Everybody else seemed to be headquartered in a large tent, its dirty gray walls and top billowing in the eternal prairie wind. Ten had Charlie Two Hats turn the longhorns well away from the railroad camp, moving them eastward. He and the Cherokee riders would bed down the herd on the first decent grass, near water. McCoy dismounted and went into the tent. When Ten approached, he could hear the chatter of a telegraph key. Ten shouldered his way under the tent flap and went in. The telegrapher was taking down an incoming message. Joseph McCoy was seated at a table, writing on a long sheet of yellow paper. He looked up when Ten entered.
“I’ll settle the money end of it first,” said McCoy, “and when that’s done, I’ll check with the stockyards in Kansas City.”
McCoy waited until the railroad business had been transacted, and then handed the operator the sheet on which his message was written. When the message had been sent, McCoy and Ten left the tent.
“Nothing to do now,” said McCoy, “except wait. If they can raise the money, I’ll have it sent to Kansas City, since you’ll be going there anyway. Once we’re sure the cattle pens are available, I’ll take the work train in and make the necessary arrangements.”
Within an hour, McCoy had his answer.
He grinned. “We got a deal. Now, let’s just hope the stockyards can accommodate this many cows until the railroad comes up with some cattle cars.”
The response from the Kansas City stockyards was favorable. They could take the longhorns. Did McCoy wish to sell?
Joseph McCoy laughed. With that kind of interest in Kansas City, just wait till he got that herd to Chicago! In the late afternoon, when the work train left end-of-track heading east, McCoy was aboard.
October 9, 1866, Ten and the outfit left end-of-track, following the rails east, toward Kansas City.
“Three days,” said Ten, “if nothin’ goes wrong, and we’ll have this drive behind us.”
“If we make this drive again,” said Marty, “we could run up against the same problem. No railroad cars, or not enough. Did McCoy get around to tellin’ you how many cows his pens at Abilene will hold, when they’re done?”
“Close to fifteen thousand head,” said Ten, “and he’s bought enough land to build more pens if they’re needed.”
“But cows have to eat,” said Wes. “Penned cattle can’t graze.”
“Once the Texas trail drivers discover Abilene,” said Ten, “there won’t be any graze for miles. That’s why McCoy’s buildin’ that big barn. He’ll freight in feed for the cattle in the pens, until he can get them sold and shipped east.”
“So when we bring another herd,” said Chris, “we could end up buying feed from McCoy until the herd’s sold.”
“Not me,” said Ten. “Not when Jess has a ranch seventy-five miles south of Abilene. I’ll ride ahead, make a deal with somebody to buy the herd, and then we’ll deliver them. We’ll let the buyer fight with McCoy over the price of corn and hay. Injun learn from mistakes.”
They followed the newly laid rails eastward toward Kansas City, moving the herd well away from the tracks to avoid work trains bound for or departing from end-of-track. They took their time, reaching their destination by noon of the third day. Ten left the herd a few miles east of town, riding in to confirm McCoy’s arrangements for use of the cattle pens and to assure himself that the terms of sale would be met. It couldn’t have been more than a few weeks since the railroad had reached Kansas City, and already he could see the effects of it. Many of the buildings were new, warped green lumber a testimony to their hurried construction. There was a confectionery shop that sold ice cream, a crudely lettered sign proclaiming it the “only one in town.” The stockyards, with its cattle pens, were east of town, and he had only to follow the railroad. He reached the barn first, finding it a long structure, strung out along the tracks. A wooden dock ran the length of it, while at intervals ropes and pulleys were mounted on beams that overhung the eaves. Baled hay could be hoisted from flat cars directly into the huge loft. Beyond the barn was a pair of corrals in which horses and mules wandered about. Next to that were the offices, and beyond, the cattle pens. Ten stepped through the first door he came to and found the room deserted. He opened another door and came face-to-face with a bald little man who wore spectacles and a questioning look.
“I’m Chisholm,” said Ten, “and I got ninety-three hundred Texas longhorns. Joe McCoy should have made arrangements to bring ’em here. Has he?”
“Perhaps,” said the little man. “He’s at the Frontier House. You’re to meet him there.”
Ten rode back toward town, looking for the hotel. Despite Joseph McCoy’s assurances, something hadn’t worked out, moneywise.
Ten found McCoy stretched out on the bed, minus only his hat, newspapers, tablets, and pencils scattered about.
“I asked about leavin’ the herd at the pens,” said Ten, “and they said ‘perhaps.’ I hope you got a better answer.”
“I hope I have too,” said McCoy. “I promised to pay you in gold, but the truth is, I have only seventy-five thousand.”
“I hope,” said Ten, “you’re not about to ask for another cut in price.”
McCoy laughed. “No, you’ll get all I promised you, but it will involve some inconvenience, I’m afraid.
“I was afraid of that too,” said Ten. “What kind of inconvenience, and how much?”
“We’re borrowing against the herd,” said McCoy, “and the bank is in St. Louis. You’ll have to go there.”
“Why St. Louis, when you do business in Chicago and New York?”
“Because we’ve been dealing with the bank in St. Louis for many years, and they were more willing to loan us the money. We began dealing with them before the war, buying herds in Sedalia before tick fever closed the Shawnee Trail.”
“I’m sure these folks in St. Louis think highly of you,” said Ten, “but do you expect me to go there on nothing but a promise?”
“Of course not,” said McCoy. “I told you this is a loan. I’ll have to sign the papers. I’ll be going with you, if you choose to go.”
“I’ve gone with you this far, McCoy, so I’ll play out the string. Make your deal with the stockyards, and I’ll go get the herd.”
Once the herd had been moved into the cattle pens, Ten and Charlie Two Hats took the three pack mules into town and bought supplies for the outfit’s return to the Canadian.
“Back to the trading post, Charlie,” said Ten. “Take our horses back to the Canadian. Defend yourselves if you must, but don’t look for trouble. We’ll all be goin’ back to Texas after Christmas. Hasta Luego.”
Ten waved his hat at the rest of his Cherokee riders as Two Hats rode back to join them.
“It’s a four-hundred-fifty mile ride,” said Marty. “You reckon they’ll go straight back to the Canadian, without fallin’ into some mischief of their own or into that of somebody else’s doing?”
“I doubt it,” said Ten, “but unless they do something completely foolish, like picking a fight with the Union army, they’ll be all right. They’re all rough around the edges, but tame a man too much in a wild land and you kill him.”
Ten took three rooms for them at the Frontier House. The hotel had its own dining room, and they joined Joseph McCoy there for supper.
“This trail drive is turning out a lot different than we planned,” said Priscilla. “Mr. McCoy, if we bring another herd from Texas next spring, do you think things will be, well—more ready for us?”
“I’m going to do my best to see that they are,” said McCoy. “Please be aware that all I’ve done and am trying to do at Abilene is based on nothing more than speculation. I didn’t expect any herds at all until after the first of the year, and even then I believed they’d be small herds. I doubted that most Texans could raise more than a thousand head, if that
many. You folks proved me wrong on both counts, by getting here three months early and by bringing a herd nine times bigger than I expected.”
“If anybody’s said for sure when the rails will reach Abilene,” said Lou, “I must not have been listening. When will they?”
“Nobody’s all that sure,” said McCoy. “Until a few days ago I believed the tracks would reach Abilene before Christmas. Now I’d say sometime in February, if the weather holds. There’s been some difficulty in getting rails. Production’s still down, as a result of the war, and as you may already know, the Union Pacific is building westward from Omaha. This transcontinental railroad was President Lincoln’s dream, and it’s being given priority over lesser roads.”
“I doubt we’ll be here with another herd before March or April of next year,” said Ten.
“We’ll be ready for you at Abilene by then,” said McCoy.
October 13, 1866, accompanied by McCoy, they took a steamboat to St. Louis. It was a first-time experience for Chris and Lou. It was a larger, more elegant boat than Ten had seen before, and compared to most of his journeys, it was short. By sundown, October 15, they were in St. Louis. It was late in the day, so their banking business would have to wait until tomorrow. They took rooms for the night, and the hotel they chose was a three-story brick structure. It was carpeted in burgundy, and every oval-topped window was graced with matching floor-to-ceiling drapes. The rooms, a trio of them, cost twelve dollars.
“They must think we’re rich,” said Marty. “That would of bought three Texas steers.”
“We’re lettin’ this finery get to us,” said Ten. “We could have brought our bedrolls and slept in the brush along the river.”
“He is hoorawin’ us, ain’t he?” said Lou. “Much as we sleep in the brush, I’d swap three cows for a bed anytime.”
The following morning, before they joined McCoy for breakfast, Ten gave each of them a hundred dollars.
The Chisholm Trail Page 30