“We got ’em all,” said Shanghai, “an’ three extry. Three of ’em is branded D-H Connected.”
“Part of Dillard McLean’s stampeded herd,” Story said. “We’ll take them with us. I invited him to ride back, in case we found any of his cows.”
Sandy Bill saw the herd coming and prepared to hitch up the mules. But first he went to the rear of the wagon and fumbled around inside until he found the tin cup, the plate, and the eating tools. He grinned to himself, for the cup and the plate were empty. At least the cantankerous little varmint had been hungry, and that was a good sign.
“If we don’t accomplish anything else today,” Story said, “at least we can cross the Arkansas.”
“If what I think means anything,” said Cal, “I think we ought to take the herd across all at once.”
“We already soaked to de hide,” Oscar said, “an’ I think we oughts to keep our britches an’ boots on. I be goin’ to.”
“We’ll cross the herd all at the same time, then,” said Story, “and come back for the wagon.”
It seemed they were going to cross the herd without difficulty, but as the drag steers were about to enter the river, disaster struck. Tom Allen, Oscar Fentress, Hitch Gould, Jasmine and Lorna were riding drag. The last few longhorns were some of the wildest, and for some reason—or no reason—they spooked. Bawling in confusion, they turned on the riders, determined to hit the back trail. The drag riders scrambled to get out of the way, but a steer flung its massive head and a horn raked Jasmine’s horse. The animal screamed, began to pitch, and the girl was thrown headfirst from the saddle. The horse broke into a fast gallop down the back trail, dragging its unconscious rider, her left boot caught in the stirrup.
“Jasmine!” Lorna cried.
With doubled lariat, Tom Allen fought his way through the plunging steers and kicked his horse into a fast gallop. The fleeing horse had a good lead and Tom gritted his teeth as Jasmine was dragged through brush and bare red earth as hard as stone. Jasmine’s horse slowed, allowing Tom to ride alongside it. He seized the bridle, forcing the trembling animal to a halt. In an instant he was out of the saddle, freeing Jasmine’s boot from the stirrup. She lay face down, and he held his breath as he turned her on her back. Her breath came in gasps. Her shirt was in tatters, her face a mass of scrapes and cuts, and a livid bruise above her eyes. Oscar Fentress rode up, dismounted, and knelt beside Tom.
“You mount up,” said Oscar, “and I lift her up to you.”
Tom leaned from the saddle, taking the girl in his arms. She was a dead weight, unconscious. She might have broken bones or internal hurts, but there was no choice except to get her across the river. Story and some of the other riders had come back across the river and were taking the wagon across. They were waiting on the farthest bank to greet Tom when he crossed bearing Jasmine. Oscar followed, leading Jasmine’s horse. Story himself took the girl from Tom, placing her on a blanket. Before anybody could make a move, Tom was out of the saddle, kneeling beside Jasmine. Suddenly she opened her eyes and the first face she saw was that of a concerned Tom Allen.
“Thank you, Tom,” she said. She spoke so softly that Tom doubted anybody had heard her except himself, and something in her eyes told him that was her intention.
“Get her to the wagon,” Story said. “We’ll stay where we are for the night.”
The rain had become more intense, and the sky had become so dark, it seemed that night was approaching. There was no shelter for Jasmine except the canvas that Sandy Bill had stretched behind the wagon. She lay partially under the wagon, her head on a saddle. While it seemed no bones had been broken, she hurt all over, and there was little that could be done for her. Lorna had folded muslin into pads, dipping them into a pot of cold water, continually applying them to the terrible bruise above Jasmine’s eyes. Tom Allen stood anxiously by, and the entire camp was in a somber mood. When it was time for the first watch, Story spoke to Lorna.
“Stay here with her,” he said. “She may have a concussion.”
It was to Sandy Bill’s credit that he was able to keep enough dry wood for a fire. On miserable, rainy nights, when nobody slept except in the saddle, the old cook kept the coffee hot. This night was no exception, and each time Tom Allen rode in for coffee, he spent a few minutes with Jasmine McDaniels. As her pain lessened, Lorna discontinued the cloths dipped in cold water, and when Tom came off the first watch at midnight, Jasmine was able to talk.
“I thought you were a goner,” he said, hunkering down beside her.
“So did I,” Jasmine replied. “It all happened so fast. I thought I’d had everything done to me a cow could do. I reckon I was wrong.”
“It was somethin’ that could have happened to any of us. Who’d have expected those unruly varmints to turn on us and try to go back the way they’d just come?”
“What happened to them?” Jasmine asked. “Did we lose them?”
“No. They’re grazing along the other side of the river. Nelson said we’ll round them up in the morning. When we do, I think they’ll all be going to the head of the drive. I own a couple hundred of those brutes, and I’m tempted to claim those troublesome varmints across the river. Then, come daylight, just ride over there and shoot the whole damn ornery bunch.”
She laughed. “I’m flattered, Tom, but I wouldn’t want that. I think Mr. Story had his doubts about me, and I don’t want any partial treatment because I’m a woman. I feel guilty already, lying here under shelter while the rest of you were out there riding in the rain.”
The pleasant interlude with Tom ended as the rest of the riders from the first watch came by for a final cup of coffee.
“Jasmine,” Bud said, “Tom’s sweet on you, and I think you done that a purpose, just so’s he could tote you back across the river.”
“That’s exactly what I had in mind,” said Jasmine. “Just be glad it wasn’t you that got throwed and dragged, little brother. Is there anybody in this outfit that’s sweet enough on you to save your hide and tote you across the river?”
It was a perfectly foolish conversation, but they all laughed, including Bud. It had been an absolutely wretched day, and they needed to laugh. Mercifully, the rain had let up, and the riders from the first watch began seeking high ground to spread their bedrolls. Lorna remained with Jasmine, and when they were alone, they went to the rear of the wagon to find out how Curly was.
“Curly, are you feeling better?” Jasmine asked.
“Yes,” said Curly, “and I’m sick of this damn wagon.”
“We’ve neglected you,” Jasmine said. “I suppose you’re starved.”
“No,” said Curly. “I had breakfast, and there was water in here, but God, I’m a mess, and these blankets are ruined. I’ve got to get out of here and clean myself, but I’m jaybird naked. Where are my clothes?”
“In there somewhere,” Jasmine said, “but if you’re that much of a mess, just wrap, yourself in one of the blankets until you’ve washed. We’ll need to dress your wound again. If I let down the wagon’s tailgate, can you get out here so that we can help you?”
“I think so,” said Curly. “I’m awful sore and weak.”
On her back, Curly slid onto the tailgate and managed to sit up. “See if you can find my boots,” she said.
Fumbling around in the dark, Lorna found the boots, and it was a real struggle getting them on, for Curly hadn’t the strength to help. The fire had burned down to a bed of coals. Curly was even weaker than they had expected, and it took both Lorna and Jasmine to keep the girl on her feet. They kept losing the blanket in which Curly had wrapped herself, and finally Jasmine flung it aside.
“Nobody’s going to see you,” Jasmine said. “It’s dark as the inside of a cow’s gullet. Once we get you to the river, Lorna can fetch some cloth for you to wash, some clean blankets, and your clothes.”
“That river water’s going to be awful cold,” said Lorna.
“I don’t care,” Curly said. “I stink, and I just want to
be clean again.”
The backwater from the Arkansas had reached a mass of upthrust stone, and they eased Curly down on the edge of a huge flat rock near the water.
“That will be rough and cold on your bare backside,” said Lorna, “until I can get some blankets.”
“I don’t aim to mess up any more blankets,” Curly said. “I can wash right here.”
When Lorna had gone after the cloth for washing and for dry blankets, there was a long silence. Finally Curly spoke, and the words didn’t come easy.
“I . . . heard all that went on after you were hurt, and after that you still thought of me. I’m truly sorry for the way I talked to you before. I was an asno, an ungrateful perra.”
“You were,” Jasmine agreed, “but you were hurt and scared, and that puts the best of us on the defensive. Somewhere beyond that, I believed there was someone I could like. I still do.”
“Thank you,” said Curly. “I’ve never had a friend, except for Manuel, and he didn’t know . . . about me, because I was thirteen when he came to us. Mama died when I was seven, and I think Daddy wanted a boy, and all he got was me.”
“So you tried to become the boy he wanted,” Jasmine said.
“I tried, but I was small, and I didn’t have the strength.”
Lorna returned with several blankets, some yard-long pieces of muslin, and a large bar of Sapolio soap.
“Sandy Bill sent the soap,” Lorna said.
“Good,” said Jasmine. “We’ll need it.”
“He brought me breakfast yesterday morning,” Curly said, “and give me hell for the way I talked to you. I felt rotten all day.”
Curly’s teeth were chattering by the time they were finished with her.
“Here,” said Lorna, “wrap yourself in this blanket until we get back to the wagon. Sandy’s built up the fire so we can see to tend to your wound and bandage it again. Then you can get back into your clothes.”
When they reached the wagon, it took only a few minutes for Jasmine to disinfect Curly’s wound and apply a clean bandage. She got dressed without help and was able to stand. Sandy Bill had discreetly stayed out of the way, but suddenly he appeared with a tin plate of food, eating tools, and a tin cup. He spoke to Curly.
“You ain’t et but once in three days, kid. Just so’s nobody gits the wrong drift, I don’t feed between meals. This was left from supper. Some cold ham, beans, an’ biscuits. Fresh coffee on the fire.”
“Thank you,” Curly said, “and thank you for the breakfast yesterday. I was awful hungry. I’m trying to take your advice too.”
“It’s becomin’,” said Sandy Bill gruffly, “an’ yer welcome.”
14
March 12, 1866. Indian Territory
Under leaden skies the herd again took the trail north. Despite Curly’s protests, Story wouldn’t allow her to ride for another day or two, but at least she was able to sit upright on the wagon box with Sandy Bill. Story again rode out ahead of the herd, anxious to know what lay ahead, hoping to avoid any unpleasant surprises. He had ridden half a dozen miles when he topped a ridge and saw the horsemen crossing the valley below. He counted seventeen riders, and they were heading due south. On the frontier it was seldom that men rode in so large a number, unless they were soldiers. Or renegades up to no good. While these seventeen were well-mounted, they were definitely not soldiers. Story whirled his horse and galloped back to meet the drive. At least they wouldn’t be taken by surprise. When he was within sight of the herd, he removed his hat, held it high, and brought it down. He repeated the signal two more times. Cal and Shanghai headed the leaders, halting the drive. Story reined up when he reached the wagon.
“Turn around, Sandy Bill, and get back to the herd,” Story said. “We’ve got company comin’, and I don’t like the looks of them.”
By the time Story reached the milling herd, the riders were all there, wondering what had caused the delay. Story waited until Sandy Bill arrived with the wagon, and then he spoke.
“Seventeen riders coming,” said Story, “and I don’t think they’re cowboys returning from a drive. If I’m wrong and they’re friendly, then there’s no harm done. But if they’re what I suspect they are, we’ll need the show of force. Keep your weapons handy.”
“Yonder they come,” Coon Tails said, “an’ all they got is the hosses they’re ridin’. If’n they was cowboys, they’d have a pack mule er hoss.”
As the seventeen drew near they fanned out, with a single rider taking center. Story stepped forward, his Henry in the crook of his right arm, his thumb hooked in his pistol belt near the butt of his left-hand Colt. While a man didn’t question another’s business on the frontier, this was probably the one exception where it was permitted. Story and his riders were in hostile territory, and so large a number of unfamiliar horsemen were open to suspicion. Observing this unwritten law, the leader spoke.
“I’m Cap’n Paschal Stewart, recently of the Union army, an’ these are some of the men from my outfit.”
“All right,” Story said mildly, “but what does that have to do with us?”
“Jist wanted you to know we wasn’t no riffraff, that we fought fer Mr. Lincoln. We’ve went into business fer ourselves, an’ we’re here to offer you our services. Fer a dollar a head, we’ll git you an’ your herd clean through to Sedalia without no trouble.”
“We’re not going to Sedalia,” said Story.
“Don’t make a damn where yer goin’,” the arrogant leader said. “You flat gonna have trouble gettin’ there without protection.”
“There’s no graze from Baxter Springs to Sedalia,” Story said. “Will you take care of that too?”
“Haw haw,” said Stewart, “this peckerwood’s got a sense o’ humor. All we’re offerin’ is protection against yer herd bein’ stole or stampeded. The graze is yer problem.”
“We can protect ourselves,” Story said. His left-hand Colt spoke, and Stewart’s hat went flying. The man to Stewart’s right had his Colt half out of the holster when Cal Snider shot him out of the saddle.
“Now the rest of you ride,” Story said, “and if you bother us again, it’ll be you needing protection.”
One of them caught the dead man’s horse and they rode out, leaving their comrade where he had fallen.
“A couple of you rope that carcass and drag it far enough away so the smell of it won’t spook the herd,” said Story.
“Get the herd moving again,” Story said when the renegades had ridden away. “I’m riding ahead to find us a secure camp for the night.”
Story offered no explanation, nor did he need to. He fully expected the remaining men to return, to at least stampede the herd, and he aimed to be ready for them.
“Good shootin’, son,” said Shanghai as he trotted his horse alongside Cal’s. “You’d best keep your iron handy, ’cause that bunch will be back.”
Before returning to his swing position, Bud McDaniels rode over to the wagon to see Curly.
“You’re lookin’ better and lots prettier,” Bud said.
“Thank you,” said Curly. She blushed, unaccustomed to being spoken to as a female, and not used to compliments. “I’d feel better if I was riding my horse.”
“If you’re feeling up to it,” Bud said, “I’ll get him for you.”
Sandy Bill scowled at Bud, and Curly looked undecided. But only for a moment. “Get him for me,” she said.
Bud rode back to drag. Lorna, Jasmine, Bill Petty, Quanah Taylor, and Mac Withers were the drag riders.
“I need one of you to cover for me at swing,” said Bud. “I got somethin’ important to do.”
“We saw you riding toward the wagon,” Jasmine said. “Would that ’something important’ involve Curly?”
“It would,” said Bud. “She wants her horse, and I’m takin’ it to her.”
“Mr. Story didn’t think she was ready for the saddle again,” said Jasmine.
“Curly don’t feel that way,” Bud said. “Is one of you gonna cover for
me or not?”
“I’ll do it,” said Quanah Taylor.
“I wish Bud hadn’t done that,” Jasmine said after Bud and Quanah had ridden away.
“Curly’s daddy can rest in peace, and Manuel Cardenas can sleep nights,” said Lorna. “Curly’s got somebody to look after her.”
Curly’s saddle had been stored beneath the wagon bed with Sandy Bill’s supply of dry firewood, while her horse had been running with the longhorns. Bud caught the animal, and Sandy Bill stopped the wagon long enough for him to retrieve Curly’s saddle. Bud saddled the horse and led it alongside the wagon. When Curly got to her feet, Bud lifted her bodily off the wagon and into the saddle. Suddenly he felt her stiffen, and as she settled into the saddle, her face was pale.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” Bud asked anxiously.
“I . . . I’m all right,” she said. “I will be.”
“You’d better ride with the drag,” Bud said. “I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.”
“You never even looked at me,” said Curly, “until I’d been shot.”
“That was before . . .”
“Before you knew I was a girl,” Curly interrupted.
“Well, hell,” said Bud, “I ain’t the kind to ride around givin’ cowboys the eye. But it was me helped tote you to the wagon after you’d been shot.”
“When did you discover I wasn’t just another cowboy?”
“Well, uh . . . when . . .”
“When they took my clothes off?”
“Well . . . yeah, I reckon.” He looked away, embarrassed.
“So when you saw me stripped, even with a bloody hole in my gut, you decided you liked my looks,” Curly said, enjoying his discomfort.
“Yeah . . . no . . . I . . . damn it, Curly, we wasn’t tryin’ to take advantage of you. We was tryin’ to see to your wounds, and it wasn’t our fault . . .”
“That I was a girl,” Curly finished.
The Virginia City Trail Page 19