The Virginia City Trail

by Ralph Compton

  “You’re hired,” Story said, “on one condition. Leave your old grudges behind. I’ll tolerate no differences among the riders that can’t be settled with fists. Save the gunplay for Indian attacks. Don’t you ever pull a gun on one of my riders unless you’re ready to draw against me, and if it ever comes to that, you’d better be fast. Almighty fast. Comprender?”

  “Yeah,” said Shadley. While he refused to look at Story, he eyed Cal Snider with anything but tolerance, and Cal glared back. They backed away with all the wariness of a pair of hounds temporarily separated, each as determined as the other that this conflict would resume at some better time and place.

  Hitch Gould and Bill Petty rode south, Hitch leading the way. As they rode, Hitch talked and Petty listened.

  “The old gent we’re goin’ to see is Shanghai Wolfington,” Hitch said. “Tough old bird. He went to sea when he wasn’t more’n a kid. Shanghaied the first time, went back twice more on his own. Missin’ his left eye, and he’s got scars all over him, mostly from knife and saber. I reckon he’s at least fifty now, and tough as whang leather, but the Federals have done what the sea, the Comanches, and the rustlers couldn’t do. They’ve broke him. Come the first of March, they’re takin’ old Shanghai’s ranch. For taxes, they say. I’m takin’ you to see him so’s he can sell off his stock and come out with somethin’. He’s spent thirty years buildin’ his Anchor brand, and he’s killin’ mad.”

  “Maybe he can sell enough stock to pay the taxes,” said Petty.

  “No way,” Hitch said. “He ain’t got more’n five hundred cows and four or five bulls. Sell off all his breedin’ stock to satisfy this year’s taxes, and what’s he gonna do next year? I tell you, them Yanks is smart. There’s already talk that next year’s taxes will be even higher, so’s the banks can foreclose on them that’s managed to hang on.”

  “By God,” said Petty angrily, “I never heard of such. Why don’t he just leave Texas and drive his stock to Colorado, Wyoming, or Montana territories?”

  “He can’t,” Hitch said. “Texans can’t leave the state without permission of the Federals. They’d just grab his herd to satisfy the taxes.”

  “I reckon you’re right,” said Petty. “All he can do is sell off the stock. That’ll be better than seein’ thirty years shot to hell. But when that bunch takes his spread for taxes, won’t they be expectin’ some cows?”

  “I reckon,” Hitch said, “but what can they do? I’m thinkin’ old Shanghai and his riders might throw in with the trail drive and just get the hell out of Texas for good.”

  “They’re bound to have some good cow horses,” said Petty. “How many riders?”

  “Two,” Hitch said. “Smokey Ellison and Oscar Fentress. Smokey was just a boy when Comanches kilt his folks. Shanghai took him in, and he’s been there ever’ since. Oscar Fentress is a black man—a Negro—and he’s been with Shanghai more’n twenty years. Now he’s bein’ told he’s free, that he’s got to go off on his own. Hell, Oscar ain’t wantin’ to leave Anchor. It’s the only home he’s ever had.”

  Shanghai Wolfington had only a little fringe of gray hair above his ears. He was at least fifty or more, and his old hat with its uncreased crown made him seem taller than he was. His Levi’s, flannel shirt, and boots were well worn. He was unarmed. Bill Petty found Shanghai to be all that Hitch had claimed, and more. Hitch introduced Petty, explaining the purpose of their visit.

  “Last tally,” Shanghai said, “we had five hundred an’ ten head, four of ’em bulls. There’s a hundred or so two-year-old steers, an’ the rest is cows. Gonna be a good calf crop too, not that it’ll make any difference to me. I reckon you’ve heard the Federals is takin’ the place for taxes.”

  “Yeah,” said Petty, “Hitch told me. My stake in this trail drive ain’t all that big, and I’d like for you to talk to Nelson Story. I kind of feel like we’re taking advantage of your misfortune. Besides, Story’s hiring riders for the drive north, and I think he’ll be very interested in talking to you and your men about joining the drive.”

  Two men left the barn and approached the house. From the description Hitch had provided, Petty recognized them as Smokey Ellison and Oscar Fentress. Wolfington introduced the riders and told them that Hitch and Petty were interested in buying cows.

  “Lawd,” said Oscar, “Ah hates to see them cows go. This was goin’ t’be the best calvin’ we ever had. Why them damn Yankees have t’come an’ take ever’thing we worked for?”

  “If we had guns and grub,” Smokey Ellison said, “I’d say we take the herd and head north, Yankees be damned.”

  Ellison and Fentress wore range clothes similar to Wolfington’s, and even though they were unarmed, Petty admired their defiance. It was to his faithful riders that Shanghai spoke.

  “Oscar, you an’ Smokey might as well run another tally. I’m ridin’ t’meet Story, the gent that’s buyin’ cows. He’s hirin’ riders for the drive north, an’ if I like him and the looks of the outfit, maybe I’ll hire on. With the stock gone, they ain’t nothin’ keepin’ me here.”

  The trio had been together for so many years, Oscar and Smokey understood what Shanghai was proposing. He was offering to take them wherever his trail led, but he could not—would not—commit them without their approval.

  “If this outfit suit you,” said Oscar, “see if they hire this old black man what ain’t got no home.”

  “If it’s good enough for you and Oscar,” Smokey said, “put in a word for me. I don’t care where we’re goin’, long as it ain’t neck deep in blue bellies and scalawags.”

  Hitch rode out, Bill Petty and Shanghai Wolfington following.

  Arch Rainey and Tom Allen rode south along the Trinity until the country grew wilder and the brakes along the river became thicker.

  “This is some wild territory for ranching,” Allen observed.

  “We ain’t headin’ for a ranch,” said Arch. “It’s a cow camp, and you’re about to meet four of the wildest young hellions that ever forked a hoss. I doubt there’s a one older than fifteen. The leader of the bunch is Wes Hardin, and he’s quick as forked lightning with a pistol. There’s his pard, a quiet hombre called Slim. Greener—and that’s all the name I ever heard—carries a sawed-off shotgun. Then there’s a hoss-crazy Injun, a tame Comanche called Quickenpaugh.”

  “A tame Comanche?”

  “Tame as a Comanche ever gets.” Arch grinned. “Wild as Texas jacks, the four of ’em. They’re the kind who’ll die at the business end of a rope, unless somebody shoots ’em first.”

  “They purely don’t sound like the kind who’d rope wild cows out of the brakes at ten dollars a head,” said Allen.

  “They’re doin’ it mostly to gain favor with the Federals,” Arch said. “They sell beef to the Unionists, maybe fifty head at a time. Fast as the Federals can buy cows, they git rustled. There’s rumors that these four cow wrasslers we’re goin’ to see is rustlin’ them cows, drivin’ ’em to another Federal camp, and sellin’ ’em all over again.”

  Allen laughed. “No proof, I reckon.”

  “No proof,” Arch agreed. “The cows are right out of the brakes, and all unbranded. Texans is broke. It’ll be almighty important for Mr. Story to get a signed bill of sale and to take the time for trail brandin’ before we start the drive. But it ain’t my place to go tellin’ him how to run the outfit. Maybe you can mention it to him.”

  “Thanks,” said Allen. “Maybe I will.”

  They found the camp when Arch’s horse nickered and a distant horse answered.

  “Hello the camp,” Arch shouted. “This is Arch Rainey and a friend, and we’re lookin’ to buy cows.”

  There was no response, and they rode cautiously on. They came upon four horses grazing along a bend in the river where the grass grew high and the willows hung low. The only evidence of a camp was a burned-out campfire.

  “We’ll shuck our saddles, give our horses a rest, and wait,” said Arch. “They rope longhorns, riders workin’ in pair
s, and they’ll have a holding pen somewhere downriver. Ropin’ longhorns is hell on horses, and they’ll likely be ridin’ in to change mounts at noon.”

  When the four brush poppers rode in, Arch and Allen were in plain sight, getting to their feet as the riders dismounted. They nodded a greeting to Arch, but eyed Tom Allen with suspicion. They relaxed a little as Arch explained the purpose of their visit. He then introduced the four riders to Tom Allen.

  Quickenpaugh, the Comanche, wore moccasins and buckskin pants, and nothing more. Near his left hand the haft of a knife protruded above the waist of his buckskins, while on the right there was the butt of a Colt. His torso, arms, and face were burned almost as black as his hair. He acknowledged the visitors with an almost imperceptible nod and no change of expression. The other three men responded as had the Indian, with nods. They were dressed in well-worn range clothes, run-over boots, and hats that had seen more than their share of rain and Texas sun. Tom Allen noted that they went considerably beyond being well-armed. Quickenpaugh, Slim, and Hardin each carried a saddle gun, while Greener had an ugly sawed-off shotgun behind his saddle, thonged to his bedroll. Greener and Slim each wore a tied-down Colt, while Wes Hardin sported two, in a buscadera rig. They looked more like a band of outlaws or killers than cowboys, Tom Allen thought. Wes Hardin had a horse face, uneven teeth, and pale eyes as cold as blue ice. It was he who finally spoke, not to Tom Allen, but to Arch Rainey.

  “Forty head,” said Hardin. “No brands. We’ll have ’em to your camp at daylight tomorrow.”

  “Fifteen mile upriver,” Arch said. “Camp’s under the west rim overhang.”

  Nothing more was said. The four watched in silence as Arch Rainey and Tom Allen saddled their horses. Only when they were well away from the camp did Tom Allen speak.

  “The Federals stripped the rest of you of guns, while them four’s got enough weapons to put down an Indian uprising.”

  “Yeah,” said Arch. “There ain’t nothin’ fair about this Reconstruction. Them four ain’t in violation by keepin’ their guns, because they didn’t fight against the Union. ’Cept for the Comanche, they’d have joined the Rebs if they’d been old enough. Me and Hitch ain’t armed ’cause every damn gun in Texas went to war, and the Yanks have went to some pains to see that we don’t get our hands on any new ones. Not that we could afford ’em.”

  “Nelson Story’s going to arm the outfit before we take the trail,” Allen said. “Do you reckon those cows Hardin and his amigos will be bringin’ have been sold to the Federals, rustled back, and are bein’ resold to us?”

  “I dunno,” Arch grinned, “and it’d be a damn unhealthy question to bring up. When a Texan sells you cows and you get a bill of sale, it ain’t polite to ask if the brutes have been rustled.”

  Allen laughed, appreciating the droll cowboy humor. “I reckon not. A bill of sale will cover us, and Nelson Story won’t deal without one.”

  “You forgot to mention to them four that Story’s hiring riders for the drive,” said Arch.

  “I didn’t forget,” Allen said. “It’s up to Nelson, if he wants to gamble on that bunch. I doubt we’d ever get them out of Texas, anyhow. They look like the kind who’d get their enjoys out of selling cows to the Union army, rustling them, and selling them back to the Federals.”

  “All the more reason the Unionists might welcome the chance to be rid of them,” said Arch. “Except for the Indian, all of them lost family or friends during the war. Since this Reconstruction started in Texas, there’s been carpetbaggers, scalawags, and some soldiers killed. Some gunned down, some strung up. Wes and his companeros have been suspected, but there’s been no proof. Even the Union army can’t convict a man on suspicion.”

  “Compared to that,” Allen said, “selling cows to the military and then rustling them back is child’s play. I think we’d better warn Story. I know he wants men with the bark on, hombres who’d tackle hell with a bucket of water, but he might draw the line at renegades, thieves, and killers.”

  “I wisht you’d leave me out of it,” said Arch. “I reckon I done talked too much, sayin’ things that can’t be proved. You’ve knowed him longer than I have, but Mr. Story strikes me as bein’ the kind of hombre, if he’s wantin’ advice, he’ll ask for it.”

  “I think we’d both better keep our silence,” Allen said, “and let Story reach his own conclusions.”

  “You trust his judgment, then.”

  “As much or more than I’d trust my own,” said Allen. “If the world was afire, Nelson handed me the loose end of a rope and said it was the only way out, I’d start climbing.”

  3

  Story and Cal were the first to return to camp, followed by Shadley and Withers, driving their thirty cows. Once the cows were grazing along the river, Story introduced the two new riders to Coon Tails and Sandy Bill.

  “We gonna be a while buildin’ a herd,” Coon Tails said, eyeing the few grazing longhorns.

  “I figure a month,” said Story. “Maybe longer.”

  “Shadley and me hired on for a trail drive,” Wither said. “Until then, you got any objections to us ropin’ more cows?”

  “No,” said Story. “I’ll pay you for the thirty you just drove in, and I’ll buy as many more as you can gather. Consider yourselves part of the outfit, starting today.”

  “That’s mighty generous,” Withers said. “We’ll drive in our gather ever’ Saturday, and you’ll need a holdin’ pen. Them critters we just drove in has been penned awhile, but this new bunch will be fresh out of the brakes an’ wild as hell.”

  “By the time you get the new gather here, I’ll have a place for them,” said Story.

  “That’ll keep them busy,” Cal said when Shadley and Withers had ridden away, “but what about Arch, Hitch, and me?”

  “The three of you will continue riding with Bill Petty, Tom Allen, and me,” said Story. “I think we’ll wait for Bill, Hitch, Arch, and Tom to return. I want to see how successful they’ve been. Maybe then we’ll have some idea as to how long we’ll be here.”

  “More rain comin’,” Coon Tails predicted. “This keeps up, water’ll be belly deep all the way acrost Injun Territory.”

  Thunder rumbled down the canyon and new torrents of rain began pounding the already sodden earth. Bill Petty, Hitch Gould, and Shanghai Wolfington rode in at the height of the storm. While Sandy Bill didn’t feed between meals, he kept a pot of coffee on the fire. The three riders left their horses grazing by the river, and shouldering their saddles, made their way up the steep trail to the sheltered camp.

  “Gather ’round the fire and have some hot coffee,” Story invited.

  Hitch introduced Shanghai, inviting the old rancher to tell Story as much or as little as he wished. Shanghai began with his need to sell cows, but found Story sympathetic to his predicament. Three cups of coffee later, the big man from the high plains slammed his tin cup down on a rock shelf and got to his feet.

  “Legalized robbery,” said Story angrily, “and this is just the start. Meet their demands now, and next year they’ll raise the ante.”

  “That’s it,” Shanghai said gloomily. “Good range, and the finest breedin’ stock a man ever had, gone.”

  “How many steers?” Story asked.

  “Hundred and some,” said Shanghai. “Four bulls an’ four hundred cows, at least half of ’em calvin’.”

  “Shanghai,” Story said, “that’s exactly what I’m looking for. I aim to sell some stock, but what I’m most interested in is breeding stock. There’s range in Montana Territory that’ll make your mouth water.”

  “God, what I wouldn’t give t’be goin’ there with cows of my own,” said Shanghai.

  “Then why don’t you? I’ll buy a hundred steers and a hundred cows. That’ll leave you with three hundred cows and a two thousand dollar stake.”

  “Story,” Shanghai said, “you’re the whitest man I ever met, but I’m up agin’ a stacked deck. I can’t leave Texas with nothin’ but the clothes on my bac
k. The Federals would just take my cows for taxes, an’ likely chunk me in the calabozo for tryin’ t’sneak out with ’em.”

  “When you leave Texas,” said Story, “you’ll be taking nothing with you. Far as the Federals are concerned, I’m buying your entire herd. Then when we reach Montana Territory, I’ll make you a bill of sale for all or as many of those three hundred cows that survive the journey. I’ll hire you and your riders at forty and found, with a hundred dollar bonus as the end of the drive.”

  For a while the old Texan said nothing. Head bowed, he seemed intently interested in his half-empty coffee cup. He swallowed hard a couple of times before he finally spoke.

  “Story, I . . . great God, man! It’s like I’m bein’ strung up, an’ you cut the rope. I’m acceptin’ your offer and thankin’ God for the opportunity. You just hired three grateful Texas cowboys, an’ we’ll side you till hell freezes.”

  “Once you get the herd here,” Story said, “I’ll draw up a bill of sale from your tally. I’d suggest you not waste any time rounding them up and driving them here.”

  “You’re almighty right,” said Shanghai. “Closer it gits t’that tax deadline, the more likely that some scalawag will come sniffin’ around. It looks like we’ll have rain at least through t’morrow, and that’ll cover a lot of tracks. You want us t’ hide the herd in some canyon till you’re ready for the drive?”

  “They’re branded, aren’t they?”

  “Anchor on the left flank,” Shanghai said.

  “Bring them here,” said Story, “and we’ll graze them along the river. I don’t hide and I don’t run.”

  “That Anchor could be a problem,” Cal said when Shanghai had ridden away. “When them tax people discover all they’re gettin’ is a shack, a barn, and a few acres of mesquite and sage, the blue bellies might come lookin’ for cows with the Anchor brand.”

  “Maybe,” said Story, “but I never stomp a snake till he tries to bite me.”

  When Arch Rainey and Tom Allen returned, Allen told Story of young Wes Hardin and his questionable companions.