A Trail Too Far

by Robert Peecher

  Mickey backed down his temper a bit.

  Pawnee Bill watched Mickey close, curious how the man would deal with the young guide. Pawnee Bill half hoped Mickey would gut shoot him right there in the camp and then the four men could make a charge against the pioneers down at the wagon train. He was eager to get at them women.

  "I guess it's good of you to tell us," Mickey said.

  "I find it's always helpful to learn from folks who have done a thing before," Rab said. "For instance, I'm sure you boys have experience that I ain't familiar with, and there's probably a thing or two you could teach me. What line of work y'all been in?"

  Mickey looked casually back at the others and laughed.

  "Pawnee Bill, what's your line?"

  "Killing abolitionists, mostly," Pawnee Bill said. "You ever heard of the raid on Lawrence, boy?"

  "I have," Rab said.

  "Well, I was in that raid. A fair few others, too. And I've killed some free-staters."

  "See," Rab Sinclair said with a smile. "That's exactly what I'm talking about. I've never once killed a free-stater or burned a town to the ground. So right there is something you could probably teach me all about."

  "You ever taken an Injun's scalp?" Pawnee Bill asked. "Cause I done that, too. Injun scalps pay better than beaver pelts."

  "I can't say that I've done that either," Rab said, and he puffed some on his pipe. "Don't it worry you to be toting Injun scalps?"

  "I don't have any now," Bill said.

  "But I mean, after you take 'em," Rab said. "Before you sell 'em. I reckon you're riding some distance with them on your person. A party of Cheyenne Dog Warriors comes up on you and you've got black hairs hanging from your saddle, I would reckon them Cheyenne would get a might upset about such a thing."

  Pawnee Bill laughed. "I'd take their scalps, too. I ain't scared o' no Injun. Best thing to do with Injuns is shoot 'em before they get close enough to see what you've got hanging on your saddle."

  "I reckon that's true," Rab said. "What about you, Mr. Hogg? What line were you in before you took to the Trail?"

  "Gambling and drinking, mostly," Mickey Hogg said, laughing. "Never did find work to be too appealing."

  Rab glanced down at the campsite and saw that Amos Cummings was in the process of moving one of the wagons. He puffed on his pipe, allowing a moment for the conversation with Mickey Hogg and the others to fall silent. Now he listened hard. He thought he could just barely make out sounds of the wagon moving, but not really. He could see one of the young Bancroft boys banging together two cooking pans, but he could not hear any noise from it.

  "I'm sorry," Rab said, looking at Chess Bowman. "I guess I've forgotten your name."

  "Chester," Chess said. "Folks call me Chess."

  "What about you, Chess?" Rab asked. "Did you work before you hit the Trail?"

  "Some of this and some of that," Chess said.

  "I was mostly a horse thief," Dick Derugy said. "Me and Chess was pretty good at stealing horses."

  Rab puffed his pipe, not troubled at all by the admission.

  "We've all got to be good at something," Rab said with an easy grin.

  "You ain't bothered that we was horse thieves?" Dick asked. Dick offered the information as a test. He wanted to get a reaction out of the young guide. He was disappointed.

  "Not at all. That's how everyone gets along. Some men are good at ranching or sod busting, for instance. And those men who are good at those jobs, well, they need hawsses. And that's a good thing, because some men, such as yourselves, are good at stealing hawsses. And because some men have 'em, you can go and take 'em. And some men are good at bein' deputies and sheriff's and marshals and whatnot. And since y'all are off takin' other people's hawsses, those lawmen get to be good at what they do. My pa used to always say that folks is different, but that's good on account of it takes all kinds."

  Dick Derugy didn't know what to think of the talk about lawmen. He wasn't sure if it was a veiled threat at turning him in to the law.

  "What kind of rifle is that in your scabbard there?" Mickey Hogg asked.

  "That's a Hawken," Rab said proudly. "Made in St. Louis, Missouri."

  "Fifty caliber?" Mickey asked.

  "That's right," Rab said.

  "That's a big gun for a little boy. Can you hit anything with it?"

  Rab smiled at the insult. Men like this, he knew, liked to provoke others by riling them up. It would take a heap more than an insult to rile Rab Sinclair.

  "I've hit some whitetails. Dropped a couple of buffalo. But you ain't lyin' about it being a big gun. You learn in a hurry not to miss because you don't want to add to the bruise the first shot puts on your shoulder."

  Mickey Hogg laughed. He liked an opponent who was tough. It made the game more fun. "What about in your holster there, what is that?"

  "It's a Colt Dragoon six-shooter," Rab said. "It's a big gun to try to manage with just the one hand."

  "Have a hard time with it?" Mickey asked, at last finding a place where he could get at Rab Sinclair.

  "I've found it to be troublesome to heft it and get a good aim on anything that ain't right in front of me," Rab said.

  Mickey reached down to his thigh, and in a swift motion he jerked up the double-barrel scattergun, cocking back both hammers.

  "I ain't one of them six-shooters, so I rigged up this scatter gun to use in a jiffy."

  Rab looked at the cocked hammers of the shotgun.

  "That's handy," he said. "I imagine there wouldn't be much beating that. Unless, of course, you were the third man."

  "The third man?" Mickey Hogg said.

  "You've got a barrel for the first man. He's done for. You've got a barrel for the second man. He's done for. So I guess the trick is making sure you're the third man."

  Mickey Hogg laughed at that and let down the hammers on the scattergun.

  "By golly, you're right about that, ain't you, boy? You are right about that. I guess my trick is to never pick a fight with a group no bigger than two."

  Rab smiled pleasantly at Mickey Hogg. He'd learned what he came to learn.

  "I should be getting back," Rab said. "Who knows what them greenhorns will get up to when I'm not there to keep 'em straight? It would appear that in my absence they have decided to move one of the wagons out of the circle. How are we supposed to keep the livestock corralled when they open up the corral?"

  All four of the drifters jerked their heads and looked to see what Rab was talking about. He was not the only one who had not heard the wagon move.

  He hopped back into the saddle and raised an arm up in farewell.

  "Obliged for your hospitality, gentlemen," Rab called as he rode the blue back down toward the camp.

  ***

  "Did you learn anything useful?" Amos Cummings asked when Rab dismounted back at camp.

  "They are camped so far back that they cannot hear our wagons move," Rab Sinclair answered. "That is useful to know."

  The women were cooking supper. The boys were reaping grass and bringing it in bundles to the animals in the makeshift corral. Amos, Stuart, and Graham were standing with Rab at the center of the camp.

  "I'll also mention to you, just so you understand what sorts of men are following us, without any fear of a hangman's rope, two of them admitted to me that they are hawss thieves. One of them told me he'd been involved in the burning of Lawrence. The other has a shotgun rigged on his belt for a fast draw. These men are cutthroat killers."

  Rab walked over to the campfire and took a thin, burning stick and used it to light his pipe. He lingered a moment while Amos, Stuart, and Graham talked about the information Rab brought back with him. He wanted the Ohioans to begin to grasp the nature of the men following them.

  "I'm going through my matches too fast," he said to Martha Cummings. "Not many places out here to replace them if I run out."

  He did not speak to nor even acknowledge Rachel Cummings. Rab Sinclair wasn't sure what to make of her, and he wasn't su
re what to make of his feelings towards her. She was uncommonly beautiful, and because of that he found himself drawn to her. She also had an adventurous spirit that appealed to him. But she was rude and cruel. Rab knew among these people the ability to read and write was prized more highly than an ability to track a deer, shoot it, skin it, and make use of almost every bit of the thing. The one served as a means of learning and the other as a means of survival, and though Rab knew that the Ohioans were closer to needing the knowledge of survival than they realized, he also knew that book learning was still more important to them.

  In her own society back home, Rachel Cummings would have cut Rab Sinclair to the bone with her taunts about reading, and he knew that was her intent. Out here on the plains, where Rab Sinclair cared nothing for the admiration of these travelers, her taunts bore little sting. Except that he was attracted to her. He liked the free way that she laughed, so free that her mother sometimes chided her. He liked the color of her eyes and the softness of her lips. He liked the sound of her voice. It had a musical quality to it. He liked those traits in her that reminded him of her mother. Martha Cummings was a special woman. Rab could see that. She had a courage within her that her husband lacked. She had passed that courage on to her children, too.

  Rebekah Bancroft yelped and jerked her hand away from the fire.

  "I've set the coffee pot too close to the fire," she said.

  Rab wrapped his bandanna into a ball and used it to grab hold to the handle of the pot and lift it away from the fire.

  "Always turn that handle away from the flames," he said.

  "Yes, I wasn't paying attention," Rebekah said. And then in a low tone she said, "Mr. Sinclair, are those men behind us on the trail a danger to us?"

  "I believe they are, ma'am," Rab said.

  Rebekah and Martha exchanged a look.

  "Are you talking to our husbands about this matter?" Martha asked.

  "I am, yes," Rab said.

  "Do you have any objection to us joining the conversation?"

  "No, ma'am, Mrs. Cummings. I think it would be a fine idea for you to join the conversation."

  With the two women in tow, Rab walked back over to the men.

  Stuart Bancroft turned his attention to Rab. "Do you believe these men will attack us?"

  Rab nodded thoughtfully, holding his pipe to his mouth. "I do, Mr. Bancroft."

  He glanced at the two women who had followed him over from the campfire.

  "I'll tell it to you plain, because you need to understand what you're facing. I think them men over there will try to sneak into the camp after dark. I think they'll cut your throat, and Mr. Cummings' and Mr. Devalt's. I think they'll kill your children. And I think they'll violate your women. That's what I think they're intending to do."

  The men all bristled at the rough talk.

  "You do not need to use such language," Graham Devalt chided.

  "I think I do," Rab said. "Y'all packed up your wagons and made certain sure to include among your belongings your sophistication and your civilization. But you came out here to a place where them things ain't real. What's real out here is that every moment you're standing right next to disaster. Whether it's a flood or a fire or a rattlesnake or sickness or Dog Soldiers on a rampage or low-life scoundrels hunting up easy pickings – death and disaster live out here and thrive. From the plains to the deserts, stronger men better equipped than you have starved to death or died of thirst. You've come into a rough land, looking to smooth it over with genteel ways. But ain't nobody out here living by your genteel ways. And those men yonder, they take whatever they see that they want. And there are things in this camp that they want."

  "I do not know why you are so determined, Mr. Sinclair, to shake me from my principles," Amos Cummings said. "I abhor violence, and I'll not use it against another man."

  "That's fine, Mr. Cummings," Rab said. "I'll not shake you from that. But those men there, they don't abhor violence. They love it. And they love using it. It don't matter whether or not you believe in killing. What matters is that they believe in killing. But I don't propose to teach you no different."

  "What do you propose to do?" Martha Cummings asked. "You did not stop us in the early afternoon without having some thing in mind."

  Matthew Cummings, the middle son, came nearby with an armload of grass for the horses, and he was also listening to the conversation. Matthew, above all others in the group, had taken a liking to Rab. He often followed Rab around, helping with chores, or sought advice on tending to the animals. Matthew had almost entirely taken over the work of driving the livestock, and in this duty frequently rode alongside Rab and peppered him with questions about living on the plains and among the tribes.

  "It ain't for me to decide what to do," Rab said. "I was paid to guide you to Santa Fe. Mr. Cummings here, he's in charge of this wagon train."

  Amos Cummings sighed heavily as everyone turned to him.

  "Perhaps I should go up there and talk to those men myself," he said. "Mr. Sinclair has given me his opinion of them, but it might be best if I formed my own opinion."

  "I wouldn't go up there alone if I were you," Rab said.

  "You went up there alone," Amos shot back angrily.

  "I ain't you," Rab said.

  "I will go with you," Graham Devalt said.

  "I will also go," Stuart Bancroft said.

  The three men saddled three horses and rode back down the trail to the camp off in the distance behind them.

  Rab and the two women and Matthew Cummings all stood by and watched them.

  "Will those men try anything against our husbands?" Rebekah Bancroft asked.

  "I can't answer that," Rab said. "They ought to have taken their rifles, even if they don't intend to use them."

  Martha Cummings studied Rab Sinclair's face as he watched the three men ride off.

  "You're glad to let us make our own mistakes," she said.

  "It ain't for me to intervene," Rab said. "Your husband has a strong will and is determined to do things his own way. I'll offer what advice I can, but he makes the decisions for your group."

  "I said to you before that you did not stop so early in the afternoon without some thought of what to do," Martha said. "Will you tell me what you have in mind?"

  "We've got about three hours of daylight left," Rab said, looking up at the sun's position in the sky. "Maybe a little more if you include dusk before the sky is full dark. But come full dark, we should leave this camp."

  "And travel by night?" Rebekah Bancroft asked.

  "Yes, ma'am," Rab said.

  "But there is almost no moon tonight. It will be almost completely black out."

  "Yes, ma'am. And with it being so dark, them men up yonder won't see us leave."

  Matthew Cummings, listening to the conversation, caught on right away.

  "That's why you went up there," Matthew said. "And why you had us move the wagon. You wanted to see if they would hear us moving the wagons after dark."

  Rab nodded and smiled at Matthew. "That was part of the reason. I also wanted to see if there was any chance they'd be moving on. And I wanted to talk to them for a bit, satisfy myself that my first impression of them was right."

  "And you are satisfied?" Martha Cummings asked.

  "I am, ma'am. Those men are dangerous. They as much as confessed to me the dirty dealing they've done. Boasted of it."

  "Do you think we can break camp and sneak out of here without them knowing?" Martha Cummings asked.

  "I reckon we can, ma'am," Rab said. "We'll have to be smart about it. The livestock should be separated before dark – those that will be harnessed to wagons and those that are to walk free. We'll have to tether the livestock that ain't harnessed. If we drive them, they'll wander too far. But tethered, Matthew and Paul can set out with them first. Once they've gone down the trail, we'll send the wagons out one at a time."

  "I do not like the idea of sending my sons alone with the animals," Martha Cummings said.
r />   "Even in the dark they'll be able to follow the trail well enough," Rab said. "Ain't no danger in it. The wagons will catch them up fast enough. But if we get them going they'll be out of the way, and it'll be easier on us to get the wagons moving. We should start making arrangements. Pack up the things we can pack up without making it look like we're packing. Matthew, get your brothers to help you separate out the animals. Only mules should be harnessed to the wagons tonight, if you can help it, and you boys lead the oxen. You'll not be able to harness animals yet, but you can get them separated out in the corral."

  "What will you propose to do if my husband returns and believes those men pose no threat to us?" Martha Cummings asked.

  "Ma'am, if your husband comes down after meeting them men and declares they ain't a threat, then you would do well to saddle a hawss and ride on out of here with me, because that man will get you killed."

  Martha Cummings blushed. "I will stay with my husband, Mr. Sinclair."

  "Then you'd better hope he comes away from his meeting with them fellows with a proper sense of how dangerous they are," Rab said. "At some point tonight those men are going to leave their camp and come down to our camp here. They're coming with the intention of doing bad things. If they come too soon after dark, they'll hear the wagons moving out, and that could turn sour for us. My guess is that they'll come in the early morning. Maybe around three or four o'clock. If we want to see the sunrise, we should plan to do it far down this trail from here."

  15

  Mickey Hogg was dozing in the grass when Pawnee Bill jabbed him in the ribs with the toe of his boot.

  "Got company coming to the camp," Pawnee Bill said.

  "It that boy again?" Hogg asked, not stirring from the grass. His hat was over his face to block out the sun while he tried to sleep.