Captain Fanning detailed four privates to escort the army ambulance to Doan’s Crossing, where steamboats docked to unload military supplies. The soldiers were to wait there until Daimler’s boat arrived. Chris and Lou had remained at the fort, having promised to wait until Marty and Wes came for them. Priscilla had said little. The post doctor had given Ten a bottle of laudanum, should there be pain. There was no pain, and while Ten was thankful for that, he feared it was the result of the lack of feeling in her legs and feet. The doctor had thoroughly cleansed the wound, had used all the antiseptics he had, and it didn’t seem infected. They had to wait a night and most of another day at the Red before Jake Daimler’s little steamboat arrived. Ten thanked the ambulance driver and the soldier escort. Daimler got his packet tied up at the dock and, taking one end of the blankets on which Priscilla lay, helped Ten take her aboard. Jake asked no questions. They placed Priscilla on a small bunk in the captain’s quarters. There were cracks in the floor, and Ten could see a muscular Negro in the boiler room below. Few steamboats traveled the Red, except government packets, hauling supplies for frontier outposts, and Ten wondered what Jake planned to do about fuel. He soon found out. Just before sundown, Jake tied up his little stern-wheeler at a crude dock, and with the help of his Negro fireman, took on wood from what obviously was the government supply. Jake caught Ten watching.
“Guv’mint’s got time t’ cut wood,” said Jake. “We ain’t.”
From the talk Ten had heard, the Red was treacherous during dry years, dropping the water level and raising sandbars that made river travel all but impossible. Ten blessed the rainy December. He examined Priscilla’s wound often, praying he wouldn’t see the dread discoloration that might indicate gangrene. The night before they reached New Orleans, Priscilla’s fever began to rise. Long before they tied up, Ten paid old Jake his money, lest any time be lost at the dock. Leaving Priscilla on board, Ten hailed a hack and sent it on the run to fetch an ambulance. It arrived with a driver and an attendant, and they carried Priscilla to the ambulance on a stretcher. Ten climbed into the back with her, and for the first time she seemed afraid.
“Ten, what are they going to do? What can they do?”
“First, they’ll have to remove the bullet.”
“Suppose I still—can’t move? Suppose I’m crippled for the rest of my life? For your sake, that bullet should have killed me.”
“Don’t you ever say that again,” he all but shouted.
Startled, the driver and his attendant looked around. Ashamed of his outburst, Ten took Priscilla’s hand and spoke more gently.
“You’re going to beat this,” he said. “We’re going to the high country, and when we do, you’ll be riding beside me. Remember that night I had to leave you, when I promised I’d return for you?”
“I’ll never forget,” she said, almost in a whisper.
“Just as surely as I kept that promise,” he said, “I’ll keep this one. Whatever it takes, regardless of how long it takes, I’ll see you through this. I’ll be with you every step of the way.”
“I believe you,” she said, and for the first time since the shooting, she smiled.
31
When it was light enough to see, Marty, Wes, Charlie Two Hats, and the Cherokee riders went looking for their stampeded horse remuda. Fortunately, the same darkness that had protected the Comanches had prevented them from rounding up the stampeded herd. Many of the horses, once the screeching and shooting had stopped, had begun drifting back toward camp. The riders quickly found thirty of the horses and the three pack mules.
“The bastards still got more’n half our remuda,” said Wes.
“Maybe not,” said Marty. “Just ’cause we ain’t got ’em don’t mean they have. When a herd stampedes—hosses, mules, or cows—some of ’em will run lots farther than others. Injuns reckon we’ll gather the closest ones first, and while we’re doin’ that, they can make off with the others. They can’t see in the dark any better’n we can, but they know they got some time once it’s light.”
“They ain’t too worried about us,” said Wes. “With all that rain last night, they left tracks an old granny could follow, without her spectacles.”
“It’s them tracks they’re countin’ on,” said Marty. “They outnumber us maybe four to one, and they look for that to scare hell out of us, keep us off their trail.”
“Since they ain’t expectin’ us,” said Wes, “that’ll cut down the odds some. Let’s give ’em a taste of what it’s like on the receivin’ end of a middle-of-the-night ambush.”
“Pardner,” said Marty, with a grim laugh, “you done spent so much time in Texas, it’s startin’ to rub off on you. We’ll find out where that bunch of war whoops aims to spend the night, and we’ll pay ’em a visit.”
“Kill Comanche dead lak hell,” said Charlie Two Hats.
“That’s the idea,” said Marty, “but after dark, without them knowing we’re comin’. Charlie, send two of your best scouts after these Comanches, find out where they bed down for the night, and we’ll want our Injuns to lead us there after dark. Comprender?”
“Comprender,” said Two Hats, and went galloping off.
The surgeon’s name was Bannister, and he made no promises, except that he would perform the surgery. Beyond that, they’d simply have to wait and see. The doctor, one of the nurses told Ten, had seen service with the Union army. Ten heard that with mixed emotions. From what Marty and Wes had told him, most battlefield “surgery” had consisted of cutting off arms and legs before gangrene set in. Ten had gone virtually without sleep the four days and nights he’d spent on the deck of Jake Daimler’s boat. Concerned as he was for Priscilla, he was dozing when Dr. Bannister came looking for him.
“She’s asleep,” said Bannister. “I can only tell you that, although the slug had come in contact with the spine, there was no visible damage. I had a few words with her before the surgery, before the laudanum took her out. She has no feeling in her feet and legs, and she doesn’t believe she’ll ever walk again. That’s not a good sign.”
“You mean if she doesn’t believe…?”
“If she doesn’t believe she can,” said Bannister, “I seriously doubt she will. When the mind surrenders, the body follows suit. There’s a cure for this kind of thing, but it takes determination and will. It may take weeks, or even months.”
“I don’t care how long it takes,” said Ten, “or what it takes. She’s goin’ to walk again. You tell me what I can do to help her, and I’ll do it.”
For the first time, Bannister smiled.
“That’s what I wanted to hear,” he said. “Given time, she has a chance.”
Charlie Two Hats chose himself as one of the scouts, and, taking Sashavado with him, they rode out. The trail led south, toward the headwaters of the Trinity. Marty and Wes joined the remaining riders in rounding up as many of the scattered horses as they could find. Just when Marty had begun to wonder if the pair would return before dark, they rode in. Two Hats was brief.
“Much hoss, much gun, much Comanche.”
“Find ’em in the dark?” Marty asked. He then held up one finger, then two, and finally three.
Two Hats nodded. Yes, he could find the camp in the dark. He held up both hands, fingers spread. He dropped his hands, raising only the right one. He extended one, two, three, and finally four fingers.
“Only fourteen Comanches?” Wes asked.
“Fifty,” said Marty. “He’s sayin’ ten, plus four times again that many.”
“Coulee,” said Sashavado, speaking for the first time. “Ambush lak hell.”
It was a good plan. The two scouts had tracked the Comanches more than twenty-five miles. Believing there was safety in their greater number, they had driven their stolen horses into a shallow coulee through which ran a creek. The Cherokees were in their glory, and Marty wisely allowed Two Hats and Sashavado to split the outfit into two attacking forces. Sashavado took eight men, including Marty and Wes, while Charlie Two H
ats took the remaining seven. They had ridden out at midnight, and picketing their horses far from the Comanche camp, had advanced on foot. Charlie Two Hats had taken his men in a wide circle, coming on the coulee from the east. Sashavado and his force moved in from the west. Each man carried a rifle cocked and ready. Sashavado and Two Hats would take the lead, the signal for the others to begin firing. No other signal was needed. They had allowed themselves enough time to get into position. There was no order given. Marty and Wes were amazed at the Indian sense of timing. Two Hats and Sashavado opened fire at exactly the same instant, the others joining in. Their targets were blanket-wrapped blobs in the pale moonlight, and it was slaughter. Those who escaped were able to only by clinging to one of the stampeding horses. The thunder of rifles sent the horses galloping madly from both ends of the coulee. Within seconds it was over. Lacking targets, the attackers ceased firing. They waited for so long, Marty was about to speak, when Sashavado made a move. He raised his hand, palm out, a command to stay. Rifle in hand, he advanced toward the rim of the coulee, and they lost sight of him until he descended the wall. Beyond the creek, down the farthest wall, came a shadowy Charlie Two Hats. As silently as he had departed, Sashavado returned, and at his silent command, they followed. When they reached their picketed horses, Two Hats and his men were waiting. Marty held up one hand, fingers extended. Two Hats held up both hands, all fingers extended. He lowered his hands and repeated the gesture, lowered them again, then raised two fingers. Twenty-two dead. Come daylight, they’d go looking for the rest of their horses.
January 15, 1867, Marty and Wes rode to the fort. Not only had they recovered their horse remuda, but Two Hats and his riders had gleefully captured more than a dozen Comanche broncs. Reaching Fort Worth, Marty and Wes were escorted by Captain Fanning’s first sergeant to the little room that had been assigned to Chris and Lou. The girls were relieved to see them alive and well.
“We got the horses back, with interest,” said Marty. “Any word from Ten about Priscilla?”
“Only that the lead was removed,” said Chris, “and that she can’t walk. Ten’s not sure how long they’ll be in New Orleans. We can telegraph in care of Harvey Roberts, if you want to get a message to him.”
“Before we leave, I’ll send one,” said Marty. “Me and Wes has decided we’re goin’ ahead with this trail drive. We’re goin’ to buy or gather that big herd, and take it up the Chisholm Trail for him, and for Priscilla.”
“I’m glad!” cried Lou. “Where do we start?”
“We’re ridin’ to San Antone,” said Marty. “We won’t waste any time tryin’ to buy cows between here and there. We’re ridin’ back to that Lipan village. Somehow, maybe with the help of Two Hats, I’m goin’ to make them Lipans an offer. If they’ve caught any more longhorns, we’ll buy ’em. If they don’t have any, then we’ll buy as many as they can catch. There’s just fifteen of us, but there must be two hundred of them that can rope and ride. I want every one that can set a saddle and swing a loop workin’ for us.”
“We’ll be getting more than just their help hunting longhorns,” said Chris. “With that many Comanche-hating Lipans in the brakes with us, we’ll be safer than if we had the Union army.”
“It’s a slick move,” said Wes with a laugh. “If we wasn’t imposing on the government telegraph, I’d like to tell ol’ Ten about it. He’d really be in high cotton, knowin’ we’re going ahead with the gather and the trail drive.”
“Let’s save that for a better time,” said Lou. “If Priscilla never walks again, he won’t care if we’ve hog-tied and branded every longhorn in Texas.”
It was a sobering thought. Marty made the telegram brief, telling Ten only that they were going ahead with the gather. When Marty, Wes, Chris, and Lou reached their camp, Marty had Two Hats and the Cherokee riders round up the horses and ready the pack mules. Soon they were riding south, toward San Antone.
Ten read Priscilla the telegram from Marty, and she showed no feeling one way or the other. It seemed to hold no excitement for her, as though she was no longer a part of it. Two weeks following her surgery, the wound had virtually healed, but there was no evidence that any life had returned, or would ever return, to her feet and legs. She had no real enthusiasm for anything, except leaving the hospital, and it was the one thing Ten refused her. The only hope was the therapy the doctor had in mind, but without her cooperation, it was impossible. Day after day he sat beside her bed while she lay silent, her face to the wall. Harvey Roberts came to see her a time or two, but she received him with a wan smile and had nothing to say. She ate only a little, and without supervision, nothing. There were dark circles around her eyes, and in their gray depths, a misery that brought a lump to Ten’s throat. His meetings with Dr. Bannister accomplished nothing.
“She’s willing herself to die,” said Bannister. “I’ve seen it happen before. The mind kills the body. She needs a jolt, a challenge, something to live for. Otherwise, she’ll be dead in three months.”
Ten walked along the river, his mind in a turmoil. He needed help, but from whom? Praying hadn’t helped; maybe God had given up on him. Without knowing why, he ended up at the telegraph office. He went in, took a sheet of paper and began to write. Finished, he had the message sent to Louisville.
32
On their previous trail drive, when Ten had bought longhorns from the Lipan Apaches, he hadn’t brought them in contact with Charlie Two Hats and the Cherokee riders. For sure, Ten had known the Lipans hated the Comanches, but he hadn’t been sure where they stood with other tribes. They might have accepted the Cherokees as friends, or there might have been war. Marty was faced with the same decision, and decided to take the risk. He needed the help of Charlie Two Hats in establishing communication with the Lipan chief. As it turned out, his decision was good and, mostly by sign, Two Hats was able to talk to the Lipans. They remembered Marty, Wes, Chris, and Lou from the last drive, and it wasn’t difficult to convince them Two Hats and his riders were part of the outfit. In a moment of inspiration, Two Hats gave the Lipan chief three of the horses taken from the Comanches. The animals still had their war paint, symbols applied by their Comanche owners. Two Hats, with hand signs and drawings in the dust, managed to tell the Lipans of the ambush. The chief slapped his buckskinned thigh and laughed. As it turned out, any foe of the Comanches was a friend to the Lipans. Marty’s respect for Charlie Two Hats rose considerably. Marty, Wes, Chris, Lou, and Charlie Two Hats followed the Lipan chief to the holding area Priscilla and Ten had been taken to before. While there weren’t as many longhorns this time, there was a substantial herd. Two Hats made sign with the Lipan chief, then turned to Marty.
“Two Hats stay,” he said. “Count cow.”
They’d made their own camp a mile or two north of the Lipan village, on the Medina River. They returned there, believing they had made a good move. Even if they had to gather most of the longhorns from the brakes, they had the enthusiastic cooperation of the Lipans.
“Marty,” said Wes, “if you don’t ever have another good idea in your life, this one will make up for it. With all them Injuns workin’ for us and with us, why can’t we maybe take Sundays off and ride into San Antone?”
“Why?” Marty asked. “You aim to go to church?”
“I like a town-cooked meal once in a while,” said Wes, “and a bath once a week. January ain’t a good time to go swimmin’.”
“Wait’ll Charlie takes a count on them longhorns,” said Marty. “If they got a bunch, and we’re gettin’ a pretty good start on this trail drive, then maybe we’ll take ourselves a day of rest.”
It was a decision they almost regretted. As valuable as Charlie Two Hats had been in gaining the trust and cooperation of the Lipan Apaches, and as great an asset the Cherokee riders were on the trail, their presence in town would prove disastrous.
So great was Tenatse Chisholm’s mental anguish following his and Priscilla’s arrival in New Orleans, he completely forgot to send a telegram to Jesse Chi
sholm. But Harvey Roberts remembered. Chisholm arrived on the twenty-fifth of January, and Roberts directed him to the private hospital. Priscilla had a private room, and Ten was paying extra for an adjoining room with a connecting door. Ten was surprised and pleased that Chisholm had come. Priscilla was asleep, or pretending to be, and Chisholm waited patiently.
“Priscilla,” said Ten, “you have company.”
Grasping the iron headboard, she rolled over to face them. There was only the ghost of her old smile, and Chisholm was shocked at how frail and wasted she had become. After the first few words of greeting, there wasn’t any conversation. Ten wrung his hands, and Chisholm ended the visit by giving Priscilla the gift he had brought her. She unwrapped the small parcel, and for a moment there was color in her cheeks. But when she removed the lid from the box, she dropped it as though it was hot. It contained a pair of fancy silver spurs. Priscilla covered her haggard face with her hands and wept. Wordlessly, Chisholm left the room, and Ten followed him into the hall.
“I’d hoped they might have a positive effect on her,” said Chisholm.
“Nothing helps,” said Ten. “She’s convinced she’ll never walk again, and the doc says she won’t, unless she changes her thinking. I’ve sent for Prudence Edgerton, her grandmother. She answered my telegram and promised to come. I’m expecting her tomorrow.”
Jesse Chisholm remained in New Orleans for several days, accompanying Ten to meet the steamboat on which Prudence Edgerton arrived. She surprised them both. While she was elderly, probably past sixty, she was far from feeble. She came ashore carrying her own bag. She was trim, smartly dressed, with silver-gray hair curling to her shoulders. Ten introduced himself and Chisholm, and took her bag.
“I reckon you’re tired,” said Ten. “I’ll find a hack and get you to a hotel.”
“Don’t bother with the hack, young man, unless you need one. I’m not that far gone. We’ll go see Priscilla first, and we’ll walk. That’ll give you time to tell me what’s happened.”
The Chisholm Trail Page 33