A Trail Too Far

by Robert Peecher

  "You don't think I'm the kind of man who likes to be supplied, too?" Pawnee Bill asked. His tone carried a note of harshness, a note of challenge. The smile was gone.

  "I don't mean to insult," Ted Gibson said, and he held up his hands in a gesture of surrender.

  Pawnee Bill reached across and grabbed the farmer by the wrist and in a swift motion lifted Ted Gibson's arm up over his head. With his other hand, the one holding the knife, Pawnee Bill swung and plunged the knife into Ted's exposed armpit.

  Ted Gibson screamed and tried to wrench his wrist from Pawnee Bill's hand, but the wound under his arm had stolen all the strength. Bill twisted the knife as he jerked it free, and then he swung it a second time, driving it into Ted Gibson's side, under his ribcage.

  When Pawnee Bill jerked the knife clear again, Ted Gibson collapsed to his knees in pain.

  Now Pawnee Bill's face broke into a genuine smile, and he laughed heartily at the struggling farmer.

  "Now let's see what you've got in here that's worth trading for."

  He cut more ropes from the oilcloth and pushed it farther away, exposing more of the contents of the wagon.

  The farmer struggled to get his breath and hugged his wounded arm and side.

  "There's nothing in there," Ted Gibson said.

  Pawnee Bill ignored him, picking through the sacks and boxes. "Why, there's a tent, and flour, and lamp oil. I ain't got a lamp, but I might find one. There's lots of things in here a man might use."

  Pawnee Bill lifted the flap on his holster and slid out his Colt Army.

  "I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll trade you everything inside this wagon – and the wagon and mules, too – for one of the lead balls in this gun."

  He drew back the hammer, pointed the gun at Ted Gibson's back, and pulled the trigger.

  The explosion made the mules dance, but they didn't try to run.

  "Bring up them wagons," Bill called. "We're going to take this wagon. There's supplies enough in here to last us for months. There's even powder and balls. I've got an idea."

  Dick and Chess collected the horses and walked them up the hill of the hollow. Dick stuck the toe of his boot against the farmer and kicked him over onto his back. "I think you've killed him," Dick Derugy said.

  "Well, I hope so," Pawnee Bill answered. "I stabbed him twice and shot him. He'd better be dead."

  Chess was almost afraid to ask. He'd grown wary of Pawnee Bill's ideas. "What's your idea, Bill?"

  Pawnee Bill smiled at them, but it just made him look meaner. "Why don't we ride down the Santa Fe Trail to New Mexico Territory? I've had enough of Kansas."

  5

  Amos Cummings led Albert Huntsdale away from the camp to speak to him privately. They left the young guide standing beside one of Cummings' wagons.

  "Mr. Huntsdale, I appreciate that you've found a guide so quickly who can take us along the Santa Fe Trail, but I have to question whether or not this man is fit to serve. He is no older than my own son, and that is not an age that I would trust to see to the safety of my entire family."

  "It's like this, Mr. Cummings," Huntsdale said. "I ain't got guides or wagon masters that work for me who will take you down the Santa Fe Trail. They's others leave out of Independence, and maybe you can find one who will take you, but you'll have to pay them without getting a return on your payment from me. If that's what you choose to do, then farewell and good luck to you. But because you've paid me up front, and even though you were late and it weren't no fault o' mine, I did what I could for you. I've told Rabbie Sinclair that I'll pay him to guide you to Santa Fe, and he's agreed to help you see about a guide to get you on to Californy.

  "He's young," Albert Huntsdale continued. "I'll grant ye that. But if I was going to make a journey west, by any trail with any destination in mind, Rabbie Sinclair is the first guide I would look to if I wanted to get there in safety. But it's your choice."

  "It very much seems to me that your business practices would come under suspicion of the law if we were back east," Amos Cummings said. "Though I certainly acknowledge that I signed a contract, I cannot help but feel that I have been the victim of a swindle. And now you offer me a boy as a poor substitute for the wagon train I should have been on."

  Albert Huntsdale deliberately spit between Amos Cummings' feet, leaving a black spot of tobacco juice in the dirt road.

  "Do as you please," Huntsdale said. "Rabbie Sinclair is riding off to Santa Fe in the morning. You can go with him or not. He'll lead the way so long as you keep up with him. Two days ago you come and find me at the saloon, all fired ready to head out for Californy. I told you I'd find you a guide, and that I've done. Today, you don't like the guide and you accuse me of cheating you when no man on this earth forced you to sign that contract. Do as you please. If you decide to winter here and go in the spring, you've paid your passage and I'll put you on with the first wagon train going west in the spring. Otherwise, I have no business more with you."

  With that, Albert Huntsdale waved to Rab Sinclair.

  "I hope to see you again one day, Rabbie. Good luck to you."

  Rab returned the wave.

  Amos Cummings watched Albert Huntsdale climb into the seat of a buggy and drive off back toward town.

  Rab Sinclair dug his pipe into his tobacco pouch. He struck a match and held it over the bowl to set the tobacco alight.

  "Mr. Cummings, I can see you're not pleased with me as a guide," Rab said. "I don't blame you none for that. I'll allow I'm a bit young. I ain't here to convince you. Mr. Huntsdale has paid me, whether you follow me or not. I'll camp over there across the way. That'll leave you and your people in peace tonight to speak free and decide what you want to do. I'll leave out at sunup. If you're coming with me, you should be ready to leave as soon as we see the sun. All these animals and wagons you've got, we won't get ten miles into Kansas tomorrow because you'll be all morning ferrying across the river. And ten miles into Kansas is a poor place to be these days."

  "Why is that?" Amos Cummings asked.

  "All along the border, here, you've got some bad sorts. A team of six wagons looks like easy prey to men like that. I don't know them to attack emigrants, so much, but I also don't know them to have any rules against attacking emigrants."

  The young man pulled his slouch hat with the dome crown down over his eyes and led the three horses away to a clear spot on the opposite side of the road. Amos Cummings watched him as he cleared out a spot for a fire, unpacked his gear, and began heating a pot for coffee. Then he turned to his family and traveling companions to seek their counsel.

  "I'll tell you straight away, I think he's too young and I don't like it," Graham Devalt said.

  Amos appreciated his young assistant and he valued him, but he did not know how much weight he gave the young man's opinion in this issue.

  "Tell me why you don't like it," Amos said.

  "He must be at least three or four years younger than I am. I'm a university graduate, and I wouldn't have any idea how to guide a wagon train to New Mexico Territory. I'm not sure I could even find it on a map."

  Stuart Bancroft, Amos's wife's brother, took a different view.

  "If we're going to make this journey successful, we need to be to Santa Clara before spring," Stuart said. "If my intention is to see to planting a farm, that's spring work. If we wait until spring to make the journey with another wagon train, that will put me off an entire year. And your position at the university could be in jeopardy."

  "I agree with you about that, Stuart," Amos said. "We have been besieged by delays from the very beginning, and further delay could be ruinous. But I am hesitant to put the lives of my family in the hands of a boy."

  Stuart nodded thoughtfully. "I understand, Amos. But their lives are still in our hands. He's just giving us directions. If you drove your wagon into a strange town and needed to find a hotel, but the only person who offered directions was the same age as your son, would you not follow those directions because he is too young?"


  "Finding a hotel in a town is not nearly the same thing as getting across the prairie and the mountains to find a territorial capital."

  Martha Cummings, Stuart's sister and Amos's wife, was listening to the conversation. She had been present when Albert Huntsdale introduced the guide, and she had listened to Huntsdale praise the boy's knowledge of the wilderness.

  "He has made the journey on the Santa Fe Trail already," Martha interrupted. "Is that not the case?"

  "That is the case," Amos Cummings said. "Insofar as we know, he has. Mr. Huntsdale said that he has, and the boy himself said he has."

  "He's not really a boy," Martha said. "He is young, certainly, but he is a man."

  "True. It is hard not to think of him as a boy, though."

  "I also think it suggests something about his abilities that was intending to make the journey by himself. He obviously has confidence in himself," Martha said.

  "That confidence might be misplaced," Amos said.

  "It might be," Martha conceded. "But if he is as experienced as he has given us cause to believe, he would know if he was suited to make such a trip alone."

  "He does not inspire confidence in me," Graham Devalt interjected. "His is slovenly, his clothes are soiled, and that constant grin upon his face is cavalier to the point of being boorish. Is he even the sort of influence you want around Rachel and your sons?"

  Martha noted Graham Devalt's consideration for her daughter. She knew that Amos envisioned a time when Graham would be a son-in-law, but Martha's intuition made her suspicious if it was only Amos who viewed Graham as a suitable match for their daughter. She'd not yet seen evidence that Rachel felt the same way about it.

  "I will grant you that he is rude," Martha agreed. "The way he smokes that pipe and leans so casually against the wagon, his shoulders slumped forward in such a manner. But if he were the very picture of New England virtues and mannerisms, we might not wish to have him lead us across the prairie."

  "I must agree with my sister," Stuart said. "If his clothes are soiled, we might suspect that our own clothes will need washing before we have reached Santa Clara."

  Amos Cummings knew that it was on him to make the final decision. As the head of the household, the oldest, and the man who fronted nearly all the money for the journey, the decision was his alone to make.

  The sun was setting in the west now. It had already dropped below the trees so that everything was cast in shadow. But for the small fire burning across the road and the silhouettes of the three horses, he would not know the young guide was across the way.

  "It does us no good to stay here. We cannot afford to try to buy our way in to another wagon train bound for Southern Route, nor can we wait for spring. Everyone should be prepared to be up and ready to leave at sunup."

  Later that night, on bedrolls next to each other and near their wagon, Martha spoke to her husband in a soft whisper.

  "I have a good feeling about the guide," she said. "Something about him struck a good chord with me. I believe he is more competent than his youth would suggest."

  "I hope you are correct," Amos said. "I am not as assured as you are, but our options seem woefully limited."

  ***

  Rachel Cummings sat on the driver's bench of the wagon beside her mother. It was still morning on the fifth day out from Independence. That first morning had been a horror attempting to ferry across the Missouri River, but the road was good from Independence to Lawrence, and they made excellent time. They were beyond Lawrence and cutting along a well-worn trail, if not exactly a road.

  Rachel and her mother Martha drove the first of the wagons. Stuart's wife, Rebekah Bancroft, and daughter Faith, drove the second wagon. Amos and Stuart were currently on the horses pushing the cattle along.

  Ahead of them, pushing his pack horse and his spare mount, and riding the beautiful blue roan, Rab Sinclair sat dozing in his saddle.

  "Mr. Sinclair!" Rachel called ahead.

  Rab jerked his head up with a start and turned in his saddle. He checked the two horses ahead of them, and both were maintaining the trail, so he wheeled Cromwell and rode back toward the wagon.

  "Yes, ma'am?" he said.

  "I have heard that the prairie and plains do not support trees, and yet I see stands of trees off in every direction."

  Rab looked around, though he knew there were plenty of rows and stands of trees within sight.

  "Miss Rachel, we're not properly out on the prairie yet, exactly," Rab said. "When we get another two hundred miles or so west of here, you'll wonder where all the trees went. It's not exactly correct to say that there are none, but they are so few as to be worth very little beyond a shady spot to escape the afternoon sun. When we get farther to the west, we'll be in among the long grass, and that will be the prairie, proper. This here is just the prelude, you might say."

  "Do you prefer living on the plains, Mr. Sinclair?" Martha asked.

  Rab had grown accustomed to the questions from the women. Mrs. Cummings, the older woman, was gentle and kind. The girl seemed to always have a motive to tease when she went to asking questions, and Rab was all but certain Martha now asked about where he preferred living to divert the girl's questions.

  "It's a hard life on the plains," Rab admitted. "My preference is in a mountain valley, if you want to know the truth. I like the scenery better in the mountains, and I like having forests around. It's easier to hunt and survive in places where water and trees are more plentiful. But I enjoyed my time among the plains people. The Arapaho, in particular, are a colorful people and very skilled at riding hawsses. I learned a great deal about riding from them."

  "Did you always live among the savages?" Rachel asked.

  "Most of the time," Rab said. "My father fancied himself a bit of a missionary. I lived with the Ute around the mountains for the longest time. They are a good people, also."

  "Was it not difficult for you to be reared away from your own people?" Martha Cummings asked.

  "I never really saw it that away," Rab Sinclair said. "We went to towns often enough, but when we lived among the Indians, they were my people. I fished and hunted with the Indian boys and didn't think of them as anything other than my friends. I never considered them to be savages, as you say."

  "Are they dangerous?" Martha asked. "Should we be afraid of encountering them?"

  Rab scratched at his chin as he rode along.

  "Ma'am, that's hard to say," Rab said. "Are white men dangerous? Should you be afraid of encountering them?"

  "Some of them," Martha said. "Some of them live outside the law. I would hope, though, that when I encounter a white man, I could have an expectation that he would treat me as a friend."

  "Well, I'd give the same answer back to you, then. The Indians, some of them, are dangerous. But you can always hope when you encounter them that they'll treat you as a friend."

  Martha Cummings smiled at his answer, but her daughter was frustrated with it.

  "You just talk in circles sometimes, Mr. Sinclair," Rachel said.

  "I don't mean to, ma'am," Rab said.

  "Are there some tribes that are more dangerous than others?" Martha asked.

  Again Rab scratched at his chin. "I reckon I would not want to turn my back on an Apache or a Comanche," he said. "I did not live long among either of those tribes. Some tribes welcomed my father and his teachings, but other tribes made it clear that we were unwelcome. In particular, the Comanche and the Apache had little use for us. What I would say beyond that is that when we stopped being a curiosity to them, some of the people in the tribes – and it didn't matter which tribe – began to have less use for us."

  "What do you mean a curiosity?" Martha asked.

  "With him being a preacher, the tribes mostly respected my father's medicine. They'd allow him in and let them talk at them some. My father was a Scotchman, and so he never took up the languages of the people much. He couldn't get his mouth to pronounce anything that didn't sound like Scottish. But they'd liste
n to him and respect him and treat him decent just because he had big medicine. But when more white folks started showing up, digging up the land looking for gold or digging up the land to plant crops or killing everything that had fur and taking only its pelt, the people stopped being curious about us quite as much. They never had to go too far to find more white people. And so about a decade ago, when I was about ten years old, that's when we never stayed with one tribe for more than a few weeks."

  "It sounds like a very lonely way to grow up, Mr. Sinclair," Martha said.

  "It wasn't so bad," Rab said. "Maybe if I'd known some other way I might think different about it, but it was the way I knew."

  "What about your mother?" Rachel asked. "Did she object to moving about among the Indian tribes?"

  "I didn't have a mother, exactly," Rab said. "My father took up with a number of different squaws, and I suppose some of them was mothers to me. But they never objected to living among their own people that I recall."

  It was a scandalous statement, and even Martha Cummings, who seemed to have a kindness toward Rab Sinclair, was appalled at what he said.

  "Mr. Sinclair, I do not think that's an appropriate thing to say, either to me or to my daughter."

  Rab smiled at her in his easy way.

  "I didn't mean to give offense, ma'am," he said.

  He squeezed Cromwell's sides and urged the horse to run on ahead. The sorrel, carrying the pack, had stopped to munch some grass. Rab got up to the sorrel and gave it a tap on the rear.

  "Come on, you!" he called to the horse. "It ain't supper time yet."

  The sorrel started on its way, but Cromwell dropped his head into the grass and began to eat. Rab took the moment of still air to dig the bowl of his pipe into his tobacco pouch and light the pipe. Then he pushed Cromwell on ahead while he smoked the pipe. Like most men who spent hours of solitude in the saddle, Rab had a habit of talking to his horse.

  "How do you think about that, hawss?" Rab said to Cromwell. "Not appropriate to say the truth. That's white women for you. They ask you a question, and when you give it to them straight with a true answer, they chastise you over it. Remind me not to accept too many more questions in the future," he said.