The Virginia City Trail

by Ralph Compton

  “Run,” Jasmine whispered. “They haven’t seen us yet.”

  But the backwater was far beyond the river’s natural banks, and there was little vegetation for cover. Jasmine and Lorna were still far from the herd when the Indians discovered them. There was no shouting or screeching, just the patter of hoofs drawing closer.

  “Damn it,” Jasmine panted, “they’re after us. We’ll never make it.”

  There was a windblown pine whose entire top was submerged in backwater. It was the only cover in sight, and once it was between them and the pursuing Indians, Jasmine pulled Lorna down behind the trunk. To their surprise, only two Indians rode after them, uncoiling lariats.

  “The bastards aim to take us alive,” said Jasmine, “while the rest of them attack our riders.”

  “I have my pistol,” Lorna said, “but I’ve never shot anybody before.”

  “Neither have I,” said Jasmine, “but it’s us or them, and our shots will warn our riders. If they’re taken by surprise, some of them could die.”

  And one of those who died might be Cal. Lorna drew the Colt, cocked it, and steadied the weapon with both hands. Jasmine had done the same, and she turned to Lorna with a final word.

  “Don’t let them see the gun until they’re within range. You take the one to your left, and I’ll try for the other one.”

  Jasmine held her breath, fearful that they’d hear the sounds of attack before their shots could warn the rest of the outfit. On the Indians came, and the roar of Lorna’s Colt startled Jasmine. But it had a devastating effect on the Indian. Lorna’s aim had been true, and he was thrown backward over the rump of the horse. Jasmine fired, but she hadn’t been swift enough. The surviving Indian kicked his horse into a fast gallop, clinging to the offside, using the animal to shield himself. Jasmine fired again, but only hoping to warn the rest of the riders. To her satisfaction, rifles began to roar until it sounded like a war in progress.

  “Somebody got surprised,” Lorna said, “but I don’t think it was our riders.”

  “We warned them in time,” said Jasmine. “Good shooting.”

  Lorna still gripped the Colt with both hands, and they began to tremble. Her face went white and she sat down on the trunk of the fallen pine.

  “My God,” she said in a whisper, “I . . . I killed a man.”

  “Lorna,” Jasmine said, “this is the frontier. It’s shoot or be shot, and that’s the way you have to look at it.” She sat down beside Lorna and they listened as the gunfire diminished. When they next heard the sound of hooves, it was from the direction of the herd. The riders were Tom Allen and Cal Snider. They dismounted.

  “You had us worried,” said Tom, “because we didn’t know how many of them might be after you.”

  “Just two,” Jasmine said, “and Lorna shot one of them. I wasn’t fast enough to get the other one.”

  “No matter,” said Cal. “The shots warned us, and we got ten of them, without a one of us gettin’ a scratch. By God, with them seventeen-shot Winchesters, our outfit could fight a war.”

  “Come on,” Tom said, “and let’s get back to the outfit. That bunch was Comanche, and we picked up some pretty decent horses. I’d like to have a look at ’em.”

  When Story’s riders gathered the ten scattered horses, they were in for a surprise. Four of the animals were bays and were branded with a Boxed H.

  “It’s the same bunch that murdered the Hanby family,” said Story. “The Comanches took nine horses, and it looks like we’ve recovered four of them.”

  “We could take a day and go after them,” Bud McDaniels said, “and likely get the rest of those horses.”

  “We could ride into a Comanche ambush,” said Coon Tails, “an’ git our ears shot off. It cost ’em eleven braves, but them varmints is learnt somethin’. They know we got some God-awful firepower, an’ if they fight us agin, it’ll be from ambush.”

  “Coon Tails is right,” Story said. “It’s one thing to defend ourselves, and something else to split our outfit and go off Indian hunting. Even if they didn’t ambush us, they could double back and attack the riders who were left with the herd.”

  “They know we’re headin’ north,” said Shanghai. “Comanches is vengeful bastards, an’ they might be somewheres ahead of us, layin’ in wait.”

  “That’s something we have to consider,” Story said, “and even if we don’t run into this bunch again, there may be others ahead of us. Cal, I want you and Shanghai to swap out on the point riding. Starting today, I aim to scout ahead. We have the guns and ammunition to hold our own in a fight, but not if we’re taken by surprise. I aim to see that doesn’t happen.”

  “Comanch’ kill en obscuro,” said Quickenpaugh.

  “He be right,” Oscar Fentress said. “De Comanches rides through de dark like debils from hell. Dey kills you in de dark er in de daylight.”

  “There may be bands of renegades as well,” said Story. “I think we’ll eliminate the third watch and change at midnight. That’ll have half the outfit in the saddle from sundown to first light. The rest of you can decide whether you want the first watch or the second, but leave a place for me on the second. We’ll have to be prepared for trouble at any time, but if there are surprise attacks, I look for them between midnight and dawn.”

  Story rode out ahead of Sandy Bill’s wagon. He would scout as far ahead as he expected the herd to travel that day, seeking any sign of potential trouble. As much rain as there had been, he doubted they’d lack for water, and his optimism was justified as he found streams running bank-full. Many of them were strictly wet weather, and come July and August, they’d be bone dry, but for now there was water aplenty. He rode warily, his Henry across his saddle, the early morning Comanche attack still strong on his mind.

  Cal still rode drag, helping Lorna become accustomed to the herd. Jasmine McDaniels had taken to riding with Lorna, creating a friendship, for there was not that much difference in their ages. Riding drag wasn’t unpleasant, for with almost continuous rain, there was no dust, and the wildest of the longhorns were being kept more to the middle of the herd. Young Curly Wells rode flank, with Wes Hardin at swing, and it was from these positions that the most unruly longhorns were apt to quit the bunch. An old brindle cow broke away, with Curly in pursuit, Wes Hardin following. Hardin uncoiled his lariat, and when he cast the loop, it dropped over Curly’s head. Hardin’s horse slid to a halt, the rope went taut, and Curly was jerked out of the saddle. Hardin laughed as the young rider came down on his back in a pool of muddy water. Curly was on his knees, pulling his Colt, when Hardin back-stepped his horse. Curly went facedown in the mud, and Hardin laughed all the harder. Shanghai Wolfington hadn’t seen it all, but he’d seen Curly hit the ground. He rode up as Curly was again getting to his knees. Before Hardin could back-step the horse a second time, Shanghai spoke.

  “This is a cattle drive, Hardin. We got no time for games.”

  “Well, hell,” Hardin said, “I throwed a loop at the cow. Wells got in the way.” He grinned at Wolfington, knowing Shanghai knew it to be a lie, daring him to do anything about it.

  But the confrontation with Shanghai had allowed Curly Wells to get to his feet. Seizing the rope, he flung the muddy loop over Hardin’s head, dragging him from the saddle. Hardin came off facedown in the mud, his boot caught in the offside stirrup. Shanghai caught the reins of the startled horse before it could run, and had his hand on the butt of his Colt by the time the furious Wes Hardin got to his feet. But he ignored Shanghai, turning his killing look on Curly. But Curly held his Colt steady, its muzzle unwavering. When the young rider spoke, his voice trembled with anger.

  “Damn you, I ought to kill you.”

  “You’d best do it while you got the chance,” Hardin snarled.

  “This ain’t the time or the place t’settle differences,” said Shanghai. “Put the gun away, kid.”

  Slowly, reluctantly, Curly eased down the hammer of the Colt, returning it to the holster. Without a word, he went s
tomping off after his grazing horse.

  “Now,” said Shanghai, passing Hardin the reins, “git back to your position with the herd.”

  The errant brindle cow, galloping down the back trail, had been headed by the drag riders. Cal returned the animal to the fold, wondering why the flank and swing riders had allowed it to escape.

  Nelson Story rode what he estimated was twenty miles, and was about to turn back, when he struck a trail that bothered him more than all the Indians in the territory. It was a wide, well-defined cattle trail that came from the south, angling northeast. Story followed it a ways until he found where one of the herds had bedded down for the night. The cattle and horse droppings were days old. In a somber mood, Story rode back to meet the herd and around the supper fire he told the outfit what he had discovered.

  “There’s a crossin’ near Doan’s store,” Shanghai said, “mebbe forty mile east of where we crossed the Red. Most any herd bein’ drove from East Texas would of gone due north. Us goin’ northeast, our trail wouldn’t run into theirs until we was well across the Red. There must of been a hell of a lot of cows, leavin’ such a trail after all the rain we’ve had. I wouldn’t of believed there’d be so many herds goin’ north this early.”

  “There’s no way of knowing how many herds are ahead of us,” said Story, “but from the sign, I think there’ll be enough to make a difference in prices at Sedalia, Quincy, and maybe beyond.”

  “It won’t help the graze none either,” Quanah Taylor said. “I ain’t sure how it is to the north, but the grass don’t start to green in Texas till the first few days into April.”

  “That’s another thing I’ll have to watch for as I ride ahead,” said Story.

  Most of the riders sat cross-legged around the supper fire. Some of them had finished eating, and since it wasn’t yet time for the first watch to begin, they were enjoying a last cup of coffee. Wes Hardin tilted the blackened pot, suspended from an iron spider, filling his tin cup. When Hardin turned away, he stumbled, spilling the coffee. If Curly Wells hadn’t moved his head forward, the scalding brew would have caught him in the groin. As it was, it splashed onto the crown and brim of his hat. Snake-quick, Curly flung himself backward, driving hard into Hardin’s legs. Hardin fell across Curly, facedown into the hot ashes that surrounded the fire. Hardin came up squalling, probably more in anger than in pain, half blinded by the ashes. Riders scrambled out of the way as Hardin got to his knees. He went for his Colt, but lost all interest in that when Curly drove a boot heel into his groin. Hardin tottered, almost fell backward into the fire, and then went belly down. He lay there gagging and heaving. It had all taken place in a few furious seconds, and Curly was aiming a boot at Hardin’s head when Story intervened. He grabbed the collar of Curly’s shirt, turning the young rider around till they were facing.

  “You don’t kick a man when he’s down,” Story said. “Now what in tarnation is this all about?”

  Unrepentant, Curly looked Story in the eye and spoke not a word. Story turned to Hardin, who had again gotten as far as his knees. Story waited until he had staggered to his feet.

  “Well,” said Story, “do you have anything to say?”

  “This is pers’nal,” Hardin panted, “an’ you’d best say out of it.”

  “I aim to,” said Story, “to the extent that I can. Fight with your fists all you like, as long as you don’t get so stove up you can’t rope and ride. But the first time you or anybody else pulls a gun on one of my riders, you’ll run headlong into me. I’m not just picking on you and Wells. This is for the benefit of every one of you. I don’t have many rules, and I don’t spout them every day. I’ll warn you once, and then when you step over the line, I get mean. Patada asno bueno pronto.”

  It was time for the first watch to saddle up. It consisted of Cal Snider, Hitch Gould, Arch Rainey, Russ Shadley, Mac Withers, Shanghai Wolfington, Curly Wells, Manual Cardenas, Jasmine McDaniels, Lorna Flagg, and Tom Allen. Story had been pleased to discover that Cal Snider had the makings of a first-class segundo, while Shanghai Wolfington had the sand and the savvy to boss the drive, if need be. With Cal and Shanghai in charge of the first watch, and Story himself overseeing the second, security seemed more than adequate. Once the riders began circling the herd, Manuel Cardenas sought out Curly.

  “The Senor Hardin is a dangerous man,” Manuel said. “There is death in his eyes.”

  Curly rode on, saying nothing.

  “While the Senor Wells was yet alive,” said Manuel, “I promised him that I would take care of you. How am I to do that when you antagonize men who are willing and eager to kill you?”

  “Hell’s fire, Manuel,” Curly said bitterly, “I was minding my own business when Hardin started pickin’ at me on the trail. Tonight he deliberately doused me with hot coffee.”

  “You do not know that it was deliberate,” said Manuel. “Perhaps it was accidental.”

  “Accidental, hell,” Curly said. “You can think what you like, but I know better.”

  “You are no match for him,” said Manuel. “The Senor Story has forbidden the use of the pistola, and for that I am thankful, but neither are you equal with your fists. Your father, the Senor Wells, feared for you.”

  “And now he watches me from the grave, through you,” Curly said. “Damn it, Manuel, turn me loose. I either ride to the finish or I get throwed and stomped, but I got to do it myself. Stop cluckin’ around after me like an old hen with one chick. You want to be of some real help, keep one eye on Hardin, so’s the varmint don’t shoot me in the back. He’s heavier, and he may beat my ears down, but he’ll know he’s been in a fight.”

  Manuel Cardenas shrugged his shoulders and said no more. Privately he believed Wells had been overly protective of Curly, but it had been none of his business. Now, despite his misgivings, he suspected Curly might be made of stronger stuff than the father had thought. In the days to come, Manuel Cardenas would see revealed a new Curly, and would better understand the fears of the departed elder Wells.

  March 7, 1866. Indian Territory.

  Story estimated they were thirty miles into Indian Territory when the drive reached the beaten trail Story had discovered the day before.

  “We might as well just foller their trail,” Shanghai said, “unless the grass plays out.”

  “I think so,” said Story, “but I still aim to scout ahead. These tracks are several weeks old, at best. Circumstances may have changed up ahead since then.”

  Story rode out, wary as ever, but there were things on his mind. One of them was the unexpected brawl between Wes Hardin and young Curly Wells. Curly had proven adequate on the trail, and while the young rider had little to do with the rest of the outfit, that certainly wasn’t a fault. Story suspected the spilling of the coffee was no accident, but what had Curly Wells done to provoke Hardin? Curly was on the first watch and Hardin on the second, so it was unlikely there would be conflict as the riders circled the drowsing herd.

  Nelson Story was the kind to look ahead, seeking out potential trouble before riding headlong into it. For the past several nights, during the second watch, Story had noted a growing friendship between Wes Hardin and Russ Shadley. It seemed all the more unusual because neither man had ever been overly friendly to anybody. Quickenpaugh, Greener, and Slim said little or nothing to Hardin, although they had hunted wild cows together. A similar alliance had existed between Russ Shadley and Mac Withers. But that too had changed, and Withers seemed to be avoiding Shadley, spending his time with Hitch Gould and Arch Rainey. Story had only his suspicions, but he saw no good coming of the growing friendship between Shadley and Hardin. Collectively or individually, they were potential trouble. More than once Story had caught Shadley looking at Cal Snider with what could only be described as hatred. Once that hatred had festered to a certain point, violence would erupt.

  “There’s another hour of daylight,” Story said, “but we might not have a good, clear-running creek as handy as this. We’ll bed down here for the night.”


  Thunderheads were again moving in from the west, painted crimson and pink as the sun crept toward the horizon. After supper, despite disapproving frowns from Jasmine, Bud McDaniels broke out a deck of cards. Bud folded a blanket for the stakes, and soon there was a poker game under way. There was Bud McDaniels, Cal Snider, Wes Hardin, Russ Shadley, and Quickenpaugh. Twice Shadley shuffled and dealt, and twice he won. After Shadley had taken a third pot, Quickenpaugh said what the rest of them were thinking.

  “Him cheat,” said the Indian, looking Shadley in the eye.

  Shadley went for his Colt, but Cal’s hand was quicker. His right fist exploded on Shadley’s chin, and he went over backward. Everybody scrambled out of the way as Shadley got to his knees. Cal was already on his feet. Story stepped up behind Shadley and took his Colt.

  “Cal,” Story said, “shuck your Colt. I reckon this has been brewing long enough. Go ahead and settle it.”

  Cal removed his rig, passing it to Bud McDaniels. Lorna said nothing, biting her lower lip, dreading what lay ahead. Shadley was on his feet, and came charging at Cal like a bull. It was a crude attack, and Cal stepped aside, burying a fist in Shadley’s belly. Shadley stumbled back, the wind going out of him. He outweighed Cal, and he stood there clenching and unclenching his big fists, but Cal didn’t wait for him to catch his breath. But Shadley blocked the blow, caught Cal’s arm and flung him facedown on the ground. Shadley aimed a kick at Cal’s head, but Cal caught the foot and threw Shadley on his back. In an instant Cal was on him, driving his fists into Shadley’s beefy face. But Shadley humped Cal off, got astraddle him and began slamming Cal’s head against the ground. Shadley’s big hands were around Cal’s throat, thumbs crushing his windpipe, and Cal’s vision had begun to dim. With the very last of his failing strength, he smashed Shadley’s nose with a driving right. The pain was enough to loose Shadley’s grip on Cal’s throat, and Cal heaved the heavier man off. Cal got to his knees and staggered to his feet, only to find Shadley lumbering toward him with all the determination and fury of a grizzly. Shadley was flexing his big hands, again coming for Cal’s throat. His starved lungs were still sucking in air, and he dared not allow Shadley another opportunity at his aching throat. Cal stood there unmoving, and so intent was Shadley on getting his big hands on Cal’s throat, he forgot everything else. When he was near enough, Cal drove his right boot into Shadley’s groin. It was a blow no man could have survived, and when Shadley’s head came down, Cal was ready. Holding both his fists together, he brought them down on the back of Shadley’s head like a club. Shadley went down and lay there groaning, but made no attempt to rise.