“Charlie, where’d you get the horses?”
Charlie took off his hat and ran his fingers through his shoulder-length hair.
“Swap mulo,” he said. “Him malo bastardo.”
It was suppertime, so Ten returned to the house. He found Chisholm at the table, with a cup of coffee.
“Jess, Two Hats and his boys brought back some extra horses. When I asked Charlie where he got ’em, he said he traded the mule. That’s some kind of trade, seven horses for one cantankerous, bitin’ mule. Where you reckon they got the horses?”
“I don’t know,” said Chisholm, “and don’t want to know. You figure it out.” He grinned. “They’re your riders.”
It was more than a month until Christmas, and they used it in different ways. Taking a trio of riders with him, Jesse Chisholm rode to his ranch on the Arkansas. Priscilla allowed him to go, only upon his assurance that he would return in time for Christmas. Ten, Marty, and Wes went hunting for deer and wild turkey. Priscilla, Chris, and Lou found a suitable fir, took it to the dining room, and covered it with the decorations they’d bought in St. Louis.
“That’s done,” said Lou. “Now what’re we goin’ to do until Christmas?”
“There’s something you can do for me,” said Priscilla, “if you will.”
“Of course we will,” said Chris. “What is it?”
“Teach me to use a rope, to rope cows.”
“Why don’t you have Ten teach you?” Lou asked.
“He says we have riders enough without me, that I’d end up with hands and arms like a brush-popping cowboy.”
“Like us,” said Chris. “But that doesn’t seem to bother Marty and Wes.”
“I don’t care,” said Priscilla. “If I’m going to be part of this, I want to live it. What else is there to do?”
“You could get Ten to build you a fancy house, with a highfalutin cookstove and china globe lamps,” said Lou with a wicked laugh. “Then you could stay home and have young’uns.”
“Is that what you aim to do,” Priscilla asked, “after we settle in the high country?”
“My God, no!” said Lou. “I ain’t havin’ young’uns until I’m too old for anything else. I’ll wait till I’m thirty, an old woman.”
“Priscilla,” said Chris, “me and the old woman, here, will show you all we know about building and throwing a loop. And we won’t say anything to Ten.”
After the trip to Texas and the trail drive to Kansas City, Priscilla rode as though born to the saddle. The three girls took to riding every day, getting far enough from the trading post for Priscilla’s early efforts at roping to go unobserved.
“You’re gettin’ the hang of it,” said Lou after the first few days. “You’re goin’ to purely surprise old Ten somethin’ terrible.”
Christmas was an event none of them would ever forget. Chris, Lou, and Priscilla had managed to buy a gift for everybody. Even the Indians, from the youngest child to the oldest adult, had been remembered. For Christmas dinner there was fried chicken, ham, fish, roast wild turkey, and venison. There were dried apple cakes, dried apple pies, rice pudding, and bear sign.*
“Lord,” said Jesse Chisholm, surveying the loaded tables, “we could have invited the whole Cherokee nation.”
The day after Christmas, the weather changed from mild and dry to chill and wet. For three straight days there was a drizzle, not a sign of the sun, and a cold wind out of the northwest.
“Let’s give it another day or two,” said Ten, “and maybe it’ll change.”
On January 2, 1867, Ten and the outfit rode out, heading south. The rain had ceased, but the northwesterly wind was still with them, and still cold. Ten and Priscilla took the lead, followed by Marty and Chris, then Wes and Lou. Charlie Two Hats and his riders brought up the rear, three of the Cherokees leading pack mules. Again they followed Chisholm’s road, already being referred to as the “Chisholm Trail.” Nobody noticed Priscilla now carried a coiled lariat on her saddle. They traveled at a steady trot, and Ten estimated they made fifty miles the first day. They saw nobody, and crossed no trails of shod or unshod horses.
“We goin’ all the way to San Antone this time,” Marty asked, “or do you aim to look for some cows a mite closer?”
“We’ll put out the word,” said Ten, “soon as we cross the Red, but I got a feelin’ we’ll have to ride south a ways. The brakes get deeper and wilder, Jess says, the farther south we go. I reckon that accounts for there bein’ more wild longhorns in South Texas. I just hope somebody’s been catchin’ some of ’em and is willin’ to sell.”
“Well,” said Priscilla, “if we can’t find enough cows to buy a herd, why don’t we just catch them ourselves?”
Ten, Marty, and Wes laughed. Priscilla colored, but her response wasn’t quick enough. Lou spoke up.
“She’s right. Why don’t we catch them ourselves? There’s nineteen of us. On our first drive, six of us caught 1450 longhorns. So what if it takes longer? We could work the brakes till June and still have the herd to Abilene by September. Just because we’ve got money, are we too good to work?”
This time, nobody laughed.
“I don’t often agree with her,” said Chris, “but this time I’ll have to. Ten, you wanted to get this trail drive done in time to make another one this year. Why don’t we let this one drive be it, as far as Abilene’s concerned? If you meant what you said, about going to Colorado, Wyoming or Montana, why not take one more drive to Abilene, and let our next trail drive be to the high country?”
Ten looked at Marty, then at Wes. He saw no disagreement.
“Let me think on it some,” he said. “Goin’ at it like that does take some of the hurry out of it. One thing we can’t afford to forget, though, if we go into the brakes to rope our own cows. The Comanches are likely to be there with bells on. We got off easy last time. I believe in luck at the poker table, but not when it comes to Comanches.”
“There’s enough of us to put up a good fight,” said Marty. “Wasn’t but six of us there on the Trinity, if you don’t count Tomlin and his gang.”
“Let’s see how things look when we get there,” said Ten.
They crossed the Red and rode into Texas. Three or four miles south of the river, they came up on a macabre scene that told a grim story. There was the charred remains of an army wagon, the unburned parts of its box bristling with the shafts of Comanche arrows. There was the rotted carcass of a mule, and six grassed-over mounds that could only be graves. But that wasn’t all. There were the splintered dregs of what had once been weapons and ammunition cases. Enough of the wood was intact for them to read the famous name of Winchester, which had been burned into the flat lid of every case.
“My God,” said Marty, “it’s plain enough for a New York tenderfoot to figure out. Somewhere on these plains there’s ten dozen Comanches armed with seventeen shot-repeatin’ rifles, and likely enough shells to wipe out every white man in Texas.”
“It’s bad news,” said Ten. “We’ll stop at the fort and let Captain Fanning fill in the details.”
Fanning supplied the details, and they were grim.
“Ten cases of new Winchester rifles,” he said, “with ammunition. These were arms intended for the soldiers in North Texas. I’m afraid it’s going to be hell with the lid off until we either whip this bunch or finally sign a treaty with them.”
“You can’t count on either,” said Ten. “How many in the party?”
“Fifty or more,” said Fanning. “They split seven ways from Sunday, and trailing them was impossible. Washington’s ready to declare war.”
“It’s likely to take one,” said Ten. “We’re goin’ to South Texas for another herd. If we can’t buy them, we’ll rope them ourselves.”
“Charles Goodnight’s outfit’s been working the brakes along the Brazos,” said Fanning. “Last spring, just south of old Fort Belknap, the Comanches stampeded his gather, and they never did get ’em back. Goodnight started over, built another herd
, and I hear he’s blazing a new trail. He’s headed for the Pecos, planning to drive through eastern New Mexico, to Colorado.”*
“I wish him luck,” said Ten. “Any other herds bein’ gathered, that you know of?”
“No,” said Fanning, “but since you were last through here, there was a rider who brought word that Texas herds are welcome at Abilene, Kansas. He said the railroad was coming.”
“It is,” said Ten. “That’s where we’ll be taking our herd.”
“That’s a fine-looking horse remuda,” said Fanning. “If I were you, I’d double my guard.”
They spent one night at the fort, riding out the following morning under heavy gray clouds. The wind grew chill and shifted to the northwest, a bad sign. By noon they’d donned their slickers and had tied down their hats with leather thongs against the rising wind. The storm grew intensity, and by early afternoon they rode through gathering darkness.
“Soon as we find enough shelter for a fire,” said Ten, “we’ll make camp.”
The best they found was a windblown cottonwood, its mass of roots a small bulwark against the storm. Using a tarp from one of the pack mules, they extended the shelter until there was room to cook and eat.
“Three-hour watches,” said Ten, “four riders at a time. If we crowd it some, that’ll make room for us all to sleep dry.”
“Comanches would have to want hosses mighty bad,” said Marty, “to be out in this. Hell of it is, this is just the kind of night they’d choose.”
Since they had enough men for all the watches, Ten suggested the three women remain in the shelter. They refused, taking the last watch with Ten, Wes, Marty, and Charlie Two Hats.
“You can’t have too many riders on the last watch,” said Lou. “If they come after us, it’ll likely be just an hour or two before dawn.”
They hadn’t bothered picketing the remuda. Picket pins or not, a band of shrieking Comanches would send the horses rattling their hocks for parts unknown. If the Comanches struck, it would all depend on the defenders and the horses they rode. Despite their precautions, the attack caught them by surprise. There was only the moan of the wind and the slap of rain against their slickers, when a second later all hell broke loose. There were shrieks that drowned out the storm, and a thunder of rifles. It was too dark for accurate shooting, but the slugs had an effect. Ten snatched his Henry from the boot, but before he could cock it, lead stung his horse and the animal tore off into the night. The rest of the outfit rolled out of their blankets to find most of the horse remuda off and running. A horse screamed and fell. A rider was shot from the saddle and lay still.
Ten calmed his terrified horse and rode back to camp. As far as the stampeded horses were concerned, there was nothing they could do in darkness. But he was concerned about his riders. He hadn’t expected the Comanches to cut down on them with rifles. The rain had begun to slack, and clouds had parted, revealing a pale quarter moon. Ten swung out of his saddle, his heart in his throat. At first he thought it was only the whimpering of the dying horse, but it was more than that. Lou was on her knees, sobbing over the girl who lay facedown. Her hat had been torn away, and he could see only her dark hair. Was it Chris? He fell on his knees beside her, and Lou threw her arms around him.
“It’s Priscilla,” she cried. “Priscilla’s dead!”
Ten had to tear himself loose. Gently as he could, he rolled Priscilla over. Lou’s frantic words ringing in his ears, he took Priscilla’s wrist, seeking a pulse. It was weak, but it was there. She was alive! He took hold of her shoulders, and Charlie Two Hats took her feet. They carried her back to the shelter and built up the fire.
“She’s alive,” said Ten, “but not by much. Lou, while I hold her up, take off her slicker.”
Out of respect for Priscilla, they all backed away, except for Chris and Lou. Ten unbuttoned Priscilla’s shirt and Levi’s pants, confirming what he had feared. She had been shot in the back, and there was no exit wound. Slowly, he rolled her on her stomach. There was hardly any bleeding, but the wound was low down, dangerous. The slug was still in there, near her spine.
“I’m taking her back to the fort,” said Ten, “and I need a pair of poles to make a travois. Some of you fire a pine knot, whatever you can burn to make some light.”
They made enough light to cut the poles he needed, and he set about making a crude travois. Using Priscilla’s slicker and some blankets, he made a narrow bed. With rawhide thongs, he bound each side of it to one of the poles. The long ends of the poles, one lashed to each side of the saddle, would create a “drag” behind the horse. But the horse had never pulled such a rig before, and kept nervously turning his head to look at the unfamiliar thing behind him. Marty steadied the animal, while Ten and Wes carefully lifted Priscilla onto the narrow bed suspended between the slender poles.
“Marty,” said Ten, “you’re in charge while I’m gone. I don’t know when I’ll be back. Soon as it’s light enough to see, take the horses that didn’t run and find as many of the others as you can.”
“I aim to find ’em all,” said Marty. “Me and the rest of the outfit is goin’ huntin’, and it ain’t got nothin’ to do with longhorn cows.”
“Ten,” said Wes, “maybe Lou and Chris ought to go with you. We’ll all want to know if she—how she is.”
It could have been Lou instead of Priscilla, and Marty intended to go after that band of Comanches. It was bad enough Priscilla had been hurt. Why not keep Chris and Lou out of it?
“Maybe you’re right, Wes,” said Ten. “Lou, why don’t you and Chris ride back to the fort with me? Marty and Wes can always meet you there and ride back with you.”
It was a slow ride back to Fort Worth. Once Priscilla had been placed on the travois, they had wrapped more blankets around her, tying them in place. Chris and Lou trotted their horses behind Ten, watchful lest some of the rawhide should tear loose. They stopped occasionally to rest the horses, especially Ten’s horse. Priscilla was wrapped in blankets, so he was unable to get to her wrists; instead, Ten checked the big artery at her throat. It was first light, and she opened her eyes. He was startled when she spoke.
“What…happened to me?”
“You were shot,” he said gently. “We’re taking you back to the fort, to the doctor. Are you hurting?”
“No,” she said, “I don’t feel…anything. My body seems…dead. Ten, I—I can’t feel my legs—my feet.”
A tear smudged the dirt on her cheek. Chris and Lou turned quickly away, so she couldn’t see their faces. Ten calmed Priscilla, and they rode on. It seemed forever before they saw the welcome log walls of Fort Worth. The post doctor was a young man, but seemed competent enough. Priscilla was made comfortable. Ten, Chris, and Lou waited impatiently while the doctor made his examination. When he returned, he looked grim, and for a moment he didn’t say anything. He sighed and spoke.
“She’s paralyzed from the waist down.”
But for swift intakes of breath, Chris and Lou were shocked into silence.
“There must be something you can do!” Ten almost shouted.
“I’m no surgeon. I can pull teeth, set broken bones, give you laudanum if you’re hurting, but I’m not trained beyond that. That slug needs to come out, but I’m not qualified to remove it.”
“If it’s removed, will she—”
“I don’t know,” said the doctor. “The damage may have been done, and if it has, removal of the bullet won’t change anything. We don’t know anything about the spine, except that it controls the nervous system. Given time, with the lead removed, the condition might heal itself, but we don’t know if it will, and if it does, why.”
“But there is a chance?”
“Yes, but you’d need to get her to a surgeon in New Orleans or St. Louis.”
“I’ll get her to New Orleans,” said Ten. “It’ll be closer.”
Ten went immediately to see Captain Fanning.
“You’re welcome to use the ambulance,” said Fanning, “and I’ll p
rovide a driver and an escort, if you’re sure you can get a steamboat as far as Doan’s Crossing, on the Red.”
“I can get a private packet out of New Orleans,” said Ten, “but I’ll need to use the telegraph.”
Granted the use of the telegraph, he quickly wrote a message to Harvey Roberts, in New Orleans. If he ever needed old Jake Daimler and his little packet, it was now. He breathed a silent prayer that Roberts wouldn’t be away, as he took occasional trips to Natchez or St. Louis.
“I’m torn between wanting to go with you and wanting to stay with the outfit,” said Lou. “I don’t think I could stand it in the brakes without knowing if—”
“I’ll send a telegram to you here,” said Ten, “as soon as I know anything. I’ll want to leave twenty thousand dollars with you, in case Marty and Wes want to go ahead with the trail drive. I’ll come back and be part of it, if I can, but if I can’t, and you decide to rope your own longhorns, maybe you can buy another five thousand for me. Remember to tell Marty and Wes that if you go ahead and buy or gather another herd, take them back to Indian Territory and wait for me. I’ll be there as soon as Priscilla can travel.”
Roberts answered Ten’s telegram, promising another as soon as he had rented a packet willing to navigate the Red. Captain Fanning shook his head.
“The Red’s a treacherous piece of water,” he said. “There’s been times when the water’s low, we’ve been without supplies for weeks. But maybe that won’t be a problem; there’s been a mighty lot of rain.”
Harvey Roberts’s telegram, when it came, said:
JAKE KNOWS RED AND ON HIS WAY STOP FEE IS THOUSAND DOLLARS.
“I don’t know when he’ll be here,” said Ten.
“I have a map with nautical miles,” said Fanning. “You can estimate it.”
The Chisholm Trail Page 32