The Virginia City Trail

by Ralph Compton

  “You been straight with us, Mr. Story,” said Gus Odell, “and we’re obliged. It shames me to say it, but amongst us, we ain’t got the price of a cup of coffee.”

  “You’re part of my outfit,” Story said. “Besides, I’m going to owe you a pile of money for those fifteen hundred cows at ten dollars a head.”

  “You ain’t got the cows yet,” said Virg Wooler. “This Raney Huffmeyer reckons he owns ’em legal, and he’s a real sonofabitch.”

  “We’ll get the herd,” Story said. “I’ll reason with Mr. Huffmeyer in a way that he can understand.”

  “Hell,” said Cal, “there’ll be ten of them and seven of us. I reckon that makes it about equal.”

  When the horses had been led to the livery, Story led the group back to the River Bend Hotel, where he paid for another three rooms for the night. From there they returned to the cafe next to the Brazos Saloon.

  “I recommend the fried chicken,” Story said. “I reckon Cal and me can use some more coffee.”

  Story ordered double portions for the five men, and they ate as only cowboys can. By the time they were finished, darkness had fallen, seeming all the more intense because the wind was whipping gray sheets of rain against the cafe’s windows. They could barely see the dim glow of a lamp in the hotel’s window, just across the street.

  Unmindful of the rain, Sheriff Dub Byler left his office for the day. Mounting his horse, he rode eastward, his motivation being the fifteen hundred dollars that he had no intention of returning. It would be far simpler for Raney Huffmeyer to kill this troublesome bastard, Nelson Story. . . .

  Hitch Gould and Bill Petty reached Comanche, took a room for the night, and had supper. The weather was such that there were few patrons in the saloons, and they learned nothing that was of any use to them.

  “Tomorrow,” said Petty, “we’ll visit the courthouse and the county sheriffs office.”

  “I hope the others are havin’ better luck than we are,” Hitch said, “or we’ll never have enough cows for a drive.”

  When the courthouse opened at eight the following morning, Hitch and Petty were waiting. As yet there had been no Federally appointed lawman, and the sheriff was a gray-haired old fellow in his fifties, Eli Stearn.

  “I reckon you could ride the whole of Comanche County,” said Stearn, “and not buy ten cows. Ike Hagerman’s takin’ a drive north, an’ he’s struck some kind of deal with other ranchers. He’ll add their cows to his herd, and split the money.”

  “Beats selling for ten dollars a head, I reckon,” Hitch said.

  “For a fact,” said the sheriff. “Some of the outfits that took drives up the trail last fall sold for thirty-five dollars a head. Some of the early ones for more’n that.”

  Discouraged, Hitch and Petty left the sheriffs office.

  “We don’t know how far this Hagerman hombre’s reachin’ out,” Hitch said. “We could ride another fifty miles and still not buy a single cow. Already we’re more’n a day’s ride from camp. Do we ride on, or ride back?”

  “From what Sheriff Stearn’s told us,” said Petty, “I think we’ll ride back the way we came. Given the same information, that’s what Story would do. I’d kind of like to ride back by the Wells place.”

  “I hope this Curly Wells is good on a horse and quick with a rope and gun,” Hitch said. “He don’t impress me much otherwise, and he’s kind of scrawny to be a cow wrassler.”

  “He’s young,” said Petty, “and with his pa dying, it was a poor time for us to ride in. This Manuel Cardenas is a bueno hombre, and I reckon he can talk some sense into the kid.”

  When they rode up to the squalid cabin, Cardenas again met them at the door. He wasted no words.

  “The Senor Wells sleeps by the creek. The hijo does not take it well.”

  “I didn’t reckon he would,” Petty said. “Have you spoken to him about the two of you joining our trail drive?”

  “Si,” said Cardenas, “but he does not hear.”

  “We’re not quite a day’s ride from camp,” Petty said. “We’ll leave you the rest of our grub, and you’ll have until that runs out to convince the boy of the need to move on. I’ll tell Mr. Story about you, and if you decide to throw in with us, just follow the Brazos north and look for our camp under the west rim.”

  “Si,” said Cardenas. “Muchos gracias.”

  Cardenas watched them ride away. With a sigh he turned back into the cabin, where young Curly Wells sat slumped in a chair.

  “You reckon they’ll ride in and talk to Mr. Story?” Hitch asked.

  “They’ll come. Curly’s young and grieving, but Cardenas is a practical man, and he’ll be a credit to our outfit. Curly will have to prove himself.”

  “Ma’am,” Tom Allen began, “I—”

  “Damn it,” the girl interrupted, “stop talking to me like I’m your mother. My name’s Jasmine.”

  “Jasmine,” said Allen, regaining his composure, “I’m not sure Nelson Story would ever agree to you joining the trail drive.”

  “And why not?” she flared. “I can shoot, rope, and ride as well as any man, and better than some.”

  “It ain’t us you got to convince,” said Arch, coming to Allen’s defense. “Why don’t you ride up and tell Mr. Story what you’ve told us?”

  “I’ll do that,” she said, her anger diminishing, “but not until tomorrow. Bud will need a day to sober up.”

  “He’s had a nasty whack on the head too,” Arch said slyly.

  “No more than he deserved. I’ve had enough of his drunken foolishness.”

  “We should ride on, I reckon,” said Allen. “Do you know of others who might have cows to sell?”

  “No,” she said. “Last fall, just about everybody gathered their cows into a common herd and drove them north, and they’re gathering now for a second drive this fall. We couldn’t go last time, because Daddy was sick.”

  “But you aim to go next time,” Allen said.

  “Yes,” she said, “unless your Mr. Story can overlook the fact I’m not a man. I realize our herd will be worth four times as much in Sedalia or St. Louis, but I’m not greedy. I just want to move on, and not just to Sedalia or St. Louis. Frankly, we don’t have riders or money for our own outfit.”

  “I hope you’ll talk to Nelson Story,” said Allen. “He’s straight.”

  “I’ll talk to him tomorrow,” said Jasmine, “and I’ll take Bud with me. Since you’re not going to find any more cows around here, what’s the sense in riding farther? The rain’s only going to get worse. You’re welcome to stay the night. You can sleep in Daddy’s room.”

  Arch said nothing, looking at Tom.

  “I think we’ll accept that offer,” said Allen. “If we’re able to buy your herd, we’ll have accomplished what we set out to do, and if there’s no more cows to be had, once we leave here, all we’re likely to get is wet.”

  “Good,” said Jasmine, and she bestowed a smile on Allen that sent a herd of chills stampeding up his spine. “Take your horses to the barn and fork them down some hay.”

  They waited until the rain slacked a little, then headed for the barn, Arch leading the pack mule. They found some old saddle blankets and rubbed their animals down. Arch climbed to the loft and forked down some hay. When he climbed down, he was grinning.

  “What’n hell’s got into you?” Allen asked.

  “Just thinkin’,” said Arch cheerfully. “Ever since you spanked that gal’s behind, she’s been lookin’ at you like a lost calf that’s just discovered its mama.”

  The rain had gotten harder, but Tom Allen plunged into it, heading for the house. Arch Rainey slapped his thighs and roared with laughter.

  February 7, 1866. Waco, Texas.

  Story and his riders arose at first light, thankful to find that the rain had slacked to a drizzle. Again they crossed the muddy street to the cafe, where Story ordered platters of ham, eggs, and fried potatoes. Before they were finished, the cook had to boil a second pot of coffee. From
there they went to the livery, saddled their horses, and Cal loaded the pack mule. They rode east, Story’s five new riders leading the way. Stopping once to rest the horses, within an hour they were seeing cattle, many of them with Circle 5 brands.

  “They’ll be lookin’ for us,” said Quanah Taylor, “and we ain’t got rifles.”

  “Rein up short of rifle range,” Story said, “and hail the house. Cal and me have rifles, if that’s how they aim to greet us. If there’s killing, we’ll let them open the ball, but we won’t fight unless we have to. Invite Huffmeyer out to parley.”

  “Cut him down to size,” said Dutch Mayfield, “and the rest of ’em will light out like scared coyotes.”

  The ranch house was long and low, surrounded by oaks, and more imposing than any Story had seen since arriving in Texas. It was built of logs, and men armed with rifles could stand off an army or a tribe of Comanches. They reined up far enough from the house that they were in no danger from anything less than a buffalo gun.

  “Huffmeyer,” Taylor shouted, “come out. We need to parley with you.”

  “Git off my spread,” came a voice from the cabin. “We got nothin’ to parley about.”

  “The rest of you stay where you are,” said Story. “I’ll get his attention and we’ll take it from there.”

  Story trotted his horse fifty yards closer, until he was well within rifle range. He dismounted, and taking his Henry rifle from the boot, fired four rapid shots toward the cabin. The distant tinkle of breaking glass was testimony to his accuracy. He mounted his horse and rode back to join his riders. He didn’t wait for a response from the house, but shouted a challenge of his own.

  “Huffmeyer, this is Nelson Story. Quanah Taylor and his friends work for me, and the cattle you’re claiming belong to me. With or without your approval, I’m taking the herd, unless you think you’re man enough to stop me.”

  “I’m plenty man enough, bucko,” came the voice from inside the house, “but I don’t trust that bunch you got sidin’ you. Come closer to the house and I’ll meet you. By God, we’ll see who’s a man an’ who ain’t.”

  “You talk like a fool and a yellow coyote, Huffmeyer,” Story shouted. “Your men have rifles, and they’ll be shooting from cover. Only one of my men has a rifle, and he’s going to be covering the house, in case some of your companeros try to sneak out with mischief on their minds. Now if you’ve got the guts, amigo, you come out that door alone, and it’ll be my gun against yours.”

  “Hell, he ain’t got the guts,” said Jules Dyer.

  “Maybe not,” Story said, “but he’s got pride, and that’s been the death of better men. He’ll be coming.”

  It was a prophecy that was quickly fulfilled. The door opened and Huffmeyer stepped out. Slowly he crossed the porch, descended the steps, and began a slow walk. Story went to meet him, coat unbuttoned, his hands near the butts of his Colts.

  “God,” said Quanah Taylor in awe, “I’ve heard of this kind of thing, but I never seen it. This Nelson Story’s some kind of man.”

  Nobody else spoke. Cal Snider stood aside from the others, his eyes on the distant house, the Winchester cocked and ready. Huffmeyer walked slowly forward, and as Story approached him, the gap closed. Huffmeyer wore a brace of tied-down pistols, and it was he who drew first. He drew both guns, and in the rain-washed stillness there was a single shot. Huffmeyer’s pistols began to sag, and he fired two shots into the muddy ground. Nelson Story holstered his right-hand Colt as Huffmeyer toppled backward, splashing into the water and mud.

  “Lord God,” said Gus Odell, “he done it with one shot, and Huffmeyer drawed first. Did anybody see Story make his move?”

  “I didn’t,” said Virg Wooler, “and I was lookin’ right at him.”

  “Gents,” said Quanah Taylor, “we just throwed in with a man that’s nine feet tall and a yard wide. I’d of give up my share of the herd ’fore I’d of missed this.”

  Cal Snider had moved forward with his Winchester, lest the Huffmeyer outfit had cut loose with rifles, but there was no activity at the house. Story waited until Cal reached him. Then he again challenged the men in the house.

  “We’re taking the herd,” Story shouted. “If you men in the house want to pick up the fight where Huffmeyer left off, now’s the time to do it. If any of you come coyotin’ around while we’re gathering the herd, we’ll take it you’re up to no good and gun you down. Comprender?”

  “It ain’t our fight,” shouted one of the men from the house.

  “Come on, Cal,” Story said. “Let’s round up those cows and head them upriver. I have a feeling Sheriff Dud Byler’s not going to like this.”

  The cattle had been out of the brakes long enough that they weren’t completely wild, and before dark Story and his riders had the herd gathered. There was more rain, and there was no way they could begin the drive north until the following day.

  “Without a stick of dry wood and no shelter, I think we’ll pass on grub tonight,” said Story. “I’d hoped we could get off this range and on our way upriver before dark. Now we’ll have to make the best of it. I want every man in the saddle. We’ll move out at first light and get as far from here as we can. Tomorrow we’ll keep our eyes open for shelter and a place that’s dry enough to cook some grub.”

  Hitch Gould and Bill Petty were the first to return to camp, with nothing to show for their search.

  “I ain’t surprised,” said Shanghai Wolfington. “Them few outfits that was able t’git a herd t’market last fall got a taste of success, an’ this year the others is aimin’ t’go. There may be some real trouble findin’ enough cows fer this drive.”

  “With Nels and Cal to the south, and Hitch and Tom to the east,” Bill Petty said, “we still have a chance.”

  February 8, 1866. Malakoff, Texas.

  Bud McDaniels awoke with a wretched hangover, a thundering headache, and absolutely no intention of getting out of bed. When Jasmine confronted him with her plan for the two of them to join Nelson Story’s trail drive, Bud looked at her incredulously for a moment before he exploded.

  “By God,” he bawled, “you’ve lost your mind, whatever little you had. I ain’t goin’ on no trail drive, and neither are you. Half them cows is mine, and they ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

  “Good,” Jasmine snapped. “You’ll need them for company, because I’ll be taking my half of the herd north. You’re all the family I have, but I don’t aim to wet-nurse you all the way to Montana Territory.”

  McDaniels began cursing the girl in a manner that would have shocked a bull whacker. Arch and Tom left the kitchen and, reaching the doorway, stepped into the bedroom.

  “Jasmine,” said Tom, “go on back to the kitchen.”

  Surprisingly, the girl obeyed, and Allen closed the door behind her.

  “Who’n hell are you?” McDaniels demanded.

  “I’m Tom Allen and this is Arch Rainey. We brought you home last night.”

  “Thanks for nothin’,” said McDaniels sullenly.

  “I’ve seen some poor excuses for men in my time,” said Allen, “but by God, you’re the lowest of the lot. No man cusses a woman like you just did. If I thought it’d do any good, I’d haul you out of there and stomp hell out of you.”

  “Well, damn my eyes, it’s Sir Galahad hisself,” McDaniels sneered. “So it’s you that’s lurin’ her off on this fool trail drive. Why’n hell don’t you mind your own business?”

  He had dark eyes and dark hair, like the girl, but the whiskey had already begun to ravage his face. Allen tried a new approach.

  “Look, we’re part of an outfit that’s buying cows for a trail drive to Montana Territory. We’re interested in buying your herd, but your sister has refused to sell unless she can go north with the drive. It’s her idea, not ours, and it’s her idea to take you along. Personally, I don’t think you’ve got the sand, and I don’t want you on the drive. Have you ever forked a hoss like a man, or do you do all your ridin’ belly down, dog drunk?”
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  The taunt had the desired effect. McDaniels came out of the bed fighting, but Allen was ready for him. He ducked the blow, caught McDaniels’s arm and flung him back on the bed.

  “If you’re of a mind to go with us,” Allen said, “get up, and if I ever hear you cuss your sister like you just did, I’ll beat your ears down to your boot tops.”

  “I’ll get up when I’m damn good and ready,” McDaniels snarled, “and I ain’t ready. Now get the hell out of here.”

  Arch and Tom went out, closing the door behind them. Jasmine was waiting in the kitchen.

  “The only reason I hate to leave him here,” she said, “is that by the time I get back, he’ll likely be piled up in jail, drunk again.”

  “Nelson Story won’t put up with that,” said Tom, “and I don’t blame him. This is going to be one hell of a drive, and we’ll need every rider. Besides, there won’t be any whiskey along the way. What do you aim to do about him?”

  “Exactly what I told him I’d do,” said Jasmine. “If he can’t or won’t be a man, then I’ll go without him. If you’ll saddle the horses, I’ll start breakfast.”

  Arch and Tom had saddled their own horses, one for Jasmine, and had loaded the pack mule by the time the girl had breakfast ready. Bud McDaniels made good his threat not to get up until he was ready, and when the three had finished breakfast, Jasmine made good her threat to leave without Bud. They rode west, Arch leading the mule.

  “How far are we from your camp?” Jasmine asked.

  “About seventy-five miles,” said Tom. “We’ll ride due west, through Corsicana, and ride north when we reach the Brazos. We can be there before dark, but I don’t know if Story will be back by then. He’s somewhere near Waco.”

  “I hope he is,” Jasmine said. “I need to get back to our place as soon as I can. Bud’s worse than a child. God knows what he’s likely to do, just to spite me.”

  Dawn broke, after a night of chill wind and drizzle, as Story and his riders got the herd moving north.

  “They’re trailing well,” Story said.