The Virginia City Trail

by Ralph Compton

  “No,” he said, “and I . . .”

  When he dared look at her, he could see the merriment in her eyes, and when she laughed, he laughed with her. Mostly in relief.

  “I’ve never had anybody interested in me before,” said Curly. “Not a cowboy, anyway. What am I supposed to do with you?”

  “Be patient with me. Hell, Curly, I growed up on the plains of East Texas, and I spent my time with men. There wasn’t any girls around except Jasmine, and she cussed me and walloped hell out of me till I was sixteen.”

  “All without cause, I reckon.”

  “Well, there was a few things,” Bud said sheepishly, “like the time I sneaked down to the creek and watched her takin’ a bath. . . .”

  Again Curly laughed, and he felt more at ease with her, but they were coming to the drag, and the interlude ended.

  Nelson Story rode on until he found what he was seeking. The canyon was deep, with ample graze for the herd and a fast-flowing creek. While it would take them a little out of their way, it might well be worth the detour. Story rode back to meet the oncoming herd, and when he reached the wagon, he turned his horse, riding next to Sandy Bill.

  “Where’s Curly?” Story asked.

  “Ridin’ her hoss,” said Sandy Bill.

  “There’s a canyon six or seven miles ahead,” Story said, “and that’s where we’ll bed down the herd. By the time we get close, I’ll be back to guide you in. It’s a little out of our way.”

  Story rode back to drag, not surprised to find Curly Wells there. He seldom reprimanded anybody, but there was something about him that got to those who had disobeyed an order. Curly kept her head down, but when Story spoke to her, there was no condemnation in his voice.

  “Curly, I reckon you’re feeling better.”

  “Yes, sir,” Curly said. “I just had all I could take of that wagon.”

  Story rode on around the herd and back toward the point. He would reveal his plans for the night when the outfit came together in the canyon.

  A dozen miles north, Paschal Stewart and his fifteen followers were making plans for their return visit to Story’s outfit.

  “Rest of you stay here till I git back,” Stewart said. “When I see where they’re beddin’ down, I’ll ride back an’ we’ll figger when an’ how to go after ’em.”

  Stewart rode out, and when he judged he’d ridden half a dozen miles, he reined up on a ridge. There was only clumps of sage and stunted oak, so he was able to see the next rise, almost a mile distant. Beyond the far rise was a deep canyon, with water and graze. It had some overhang that would provide shelter for cowboys, if there was rain, and a hasty look at the gray sky assured him there would be. He rode on toward the next ridge, and reaching it, reined up in a thicket. Stewart knew that if the herd bypassed the canyon, he and his men would have no trouble keeping ahead of them, and he had no doubt the herd would travel at least this far before bedding down for the night. Eventually he saw the wagon coming, a lead rider ahead of it, and he sighed with anticipation. The horseman turned into the canyon and the wagon followed. That was all Paschal Stewart needed to see. Wheeling his horse, he rode back the way he’d come.

  Story rode down the canyon a mile, and when the herd got within sight of him, he had no trouble heading them. The graze was abundant and there was water. Story rode through the grazing longhorns. It was time to tell the outfit of the reception he had planned for Paschal Stewart’s bunch, if they were foolish enough to return.

  “I look for us to have visitors sometime tonight,” Story said, “and I chose this canyon for a reason. The walls are high enough that they can’t pick us off from the rim, so whatever they aim to do, they’ll have to ride into the canyon. Since we don’t know which end of the canyon they’ll try to enter, we’ll stake out both ends. Shanghai, you’ll take half the outfit and cover the east end. I’ll take the others, and we’ll cover the west end. We’ll take our positions well before dark, although they may not arrive until past midnight, or even in the small hours of the morning.”

  “We’re shootin’ to kill, I reckon,” said Shanghai.

  “After a call to surrender,” Story said, “but these men aren’t the kind to surrender, because they’d only end up facing a rope. I look for them to answer our challenge with their guns. When they do, cut them down.”

  “Who’s goin’ to decide who takes which end of the canyon?” Shanghai wanted to know.

  “You’ll cover the east end,” said Story, “and you’ll take the riders who ride the first watch. I’ll cover the west end, taking with me the riders who stand the second watch. Comprender?”

  Nobody disagreed. Shanghai’s defenders consisted of Cal, Jasmine, Lorna, Curly, Manuel, Tom, Bill, Oscar, Smokey, Mac, and Bud. With Story were Hitch, Arch, Slim, Greener, Quickenpaugh, Quanah, Gus, Virg, Dutch, Jules, Coon Tails, and Shadley.

  “Remember,” said Story as they split up, “you don’t have to answer to anybody. There’s not enough of them to divide their forces, so they’ll be coming in one end of the canyon or the other. Shanghai, if they enter at your end, it’s all up to you and the eleven riders with you. Forget about us, because we’ll be at the far end with the herd between us. Likewise, if they enter at our end, there’ll be nothing you can do except hold fast where you are. Don’t, under any circumstances, come charging down the canyon, because we’ll be shooting at anything that moves. We can come out of this without a scratch, but only if everybody obeys orders. Are there any questions?”

  “No questions,” Cal said, “but a suggestion. If they hit us first, let us give you an all-clear before any of you head down our way. If they hit you instead of us, we’ll wait for your all-clear. Otherwise, some of ’em could be layin’ there playin’ possum, waitin’ to gun some of us down.”

  “Good thinking, Cal,” said Story. “The rest of you, consider what Cal suggested as being added to our procedure. No smoking, no talking, and no moving about. Remember, sound carries at night. Be listening for the sound of a hoof against stone, or even for the creak of a saddle. Anything to alert us that they’re coming. Make every shot count, because you won’t get that many chances. Once the command has been given for them to drop their guns, allow them a few seconds to react, because you won’t have a target. Force them to shoot first, if you can, and then fire at their muzzle flashes.”

  Time dragged. There was adequate cover at both ends of the canyon, and despite the low-hanging gray clouds, the rain held off. Although Story had forbade talking, Bud had settled down next to Curly and they whiled away the hours in quiet conversation. At the upper end of the canyon, Story had his riders positioned on both sides of the entrance. Quickenpaugh, his Winchester ready, had settled down near Story. While Quickenpaugh’s attitude toward the rest of the outfit was mostly irreverent, he seemed to have genuine respect for Story. Story had begun by developing a tolerace for Quickenpaugh’s unconventional ways, and had begun liking the young Comanche. It was almost midnight, and Story hadn’t heard a sound.

  “Them come,” said Quickenpaugh quietly, getting to his knees.

  There was no way Story could warn the rest of his men, for they were scattered on both sides of the canyon mouth. He would have to depend on them being alert and following his lead. It was important that nobody fired too soon, allowing the renegades to gallop away. Eventually Story could hear the creak of saddle leather and the clop-clop-clop of hooves. Finally, even in the darkness he could see the dim shapes of the riders. It was time.

  “You’re covered,” Story shouted. “Drop your guns!”

  The response was what he had expected. While the renegades had no targets, they had nothing to lose, and they began firing at the sound of Story’s voice. But Story was belly down, his Henry roaring, the thunder of other rifles seeming like an echo. Horses reared, screaming, and there were anguished cries from men who had been hit. It lasted but a few seconds, the silence that followed seeming all the more intense. The horses had fled into the canyon to escape the conflict. Story wai
ted a few minutes before his first cautious inquiry. He remained belly down, lest some of the renegades be alive, awaiting a target.

  “This is Story. Lay low for a little longer.”

  His words drew no fire. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and a chill wind brought the unmistakable feel of more rain. Convinced the renegades were dead, Story got to his feet, the Henry in the crook of his arm.

  “They’re finished,” Story said. “Let’s move into the canyon ahead of the rain. We can use the overhang for shelter. We’ll have a look at these varmints at first light. Shanghai,” he shouted, “the rest of you come on in.”

  Suddenly, from the lower end of the canyon, there was a single shot. Story and his men waited, but there was only silence until there was a shout from Shanghai.

  “Caught one of the coyotes at this end,” the old rancher bawled. “He was gut-shot, an’ we put him outta his misery. We’re comin’ in.”

  By the time they all reached the wagon, Sandy Bill had a fire going. He had the wagon beneath the canyon’s overhang, a welcome shelter from the rain, which had gotten harder.

  “Anybody hurt?” Story asked.

  Nobody was. They hadn’t lost a rider, and Story sighed with relief.

  “Unless they got away at this end,” Tom Allen said, “we picked us up some horses. This bunch won’t be needin’ ’em.”

  “We can use them,” said Story, “but I think some of them may have been hit. We’ll have to wait until first light to find out. We might as well take advantage of this bit of shelter. Shanghai, you and your riders take three hours for sleep, while the rest of us stand watch. Then you can relieve us and we’ll sleep three hours. Come first light, I want us out of this canyon. This bunch we gunned down may or may not have fought for the Union. I don’t care to argue the point when they’re discovered.”

  Come first light, Story discovered the ambush hadn’t been as complete as he’d thought. They had accounted for only fifteen of the renegades. The leader, Paschal Stewart, was not among the dead.

  “The biggest buzzard of the bunch flew away,” said Bud McDaniels. “I’d not be surprised if he shows up somewhere along the trail.”

  “He does,” Quanah Taylor said, “and we’ll pluck the bastard.”

  Tom Allen, Bill Petty, and Cal Snider had ridden down the canyon to look for the horses ridden by the renegades. They returned with some good news.

  “Fifteen of them,” said Allen, “but four have some bad lead burns. Doctored with sulfur salve, and they’ll heal.”

  “Get the salve from Sandy Bill,” Story said, “and take care of their wounds. Are they branded?”

  “Some of them,” said Allen. “No brands I’ve ever seen, though.”

  “We’ll gamble on them,” Story said.

  After breakfast the riders were forced to drag the dead renegades away from the canyon, lest the smell of death spook the longhorns.

  “We have enough horses to require a pair of wranglers,” said Story. “Arch, you and Quickenpaugh bunch the horses, keeping them between the herd leaders and Sandy Bill’s wagon.”

  They took the trail, traveling north, the wind-driven rain still dogging them. Story rode ahead, more wary than ever, following their experience with Paschal Stewart and his renegades. He believed they were not more than three days’ drive south of Baxter Springs, Kansas. Finding no Indian sign and nothing else to arouse his suspicion, Story rode back to meet the herd. But before they bedded down the herd for the night, they met yet another group of disconsolate Texans who had sold their herd for a pittance and were on their way back to Texas. It was disturbing news, despite Story’s decision to drive on to Fort Leavenworth, and from there to Montana Territory. Mercifully, the rain ceased before dark, and by the time the first watch began circling the herd, the riders were in dry clothes.

  Lorna was riding with Cal, Curly with Bud, and Jasmine McDaniels found herself riding alone. But not for long.

  “You seem to be alone,” said Tom Allen. “Is it all right if I ride with you?”

  “Ah reckon,” she said.

  “I don’t stir up a hell of a lot of excitement, do I?”

  “I just had an awful wallop on the head,” Jasmine said. “Who are you?”

  His stirrup was touching hers. Suddenly he leaned over and kissed her hard, on the mouth. When she didn’t resist, he did it again.

  “Am I the first cowboy you ever kissed?” he asked softly.

  “You could be,” she said. “You do look a mite familiar.”

  They laughed, comfortable with one another, enjoying the foolish banter.

  “What do you aim to do when you reach Montana Territory?” Tom asked.

  “I don’t know,” Jasmine replied. “Mr. Story owes us for the sale of our herd, and when we add our wages to that, Bud and me will have some money. What will you do?”

  “I’ll follow Nelson’s example, grab me some Montana graze and start me a ranch. I can’t do it on his level, of course, because I’ll have only two hundred cows, but I figure four or five years of natural increase will set me up pretty decent.”

  “You’re from Montana Territory,” she said wistfully, “and you’re going home. I wish I was.”

  “You could be,” he said, leaning close. “What’s the use of me becomin’ a rich cattlemen if I don’t have a beautiful woman to spend the money on?”

  “I don’t know, Tom. I just don’t know. I’ve got a temper like a stomped-on rattler, and I could unleash more fire and brimstone in a day than you’ve seen in your whole life.”

  “You don’t have any good qualities, then, aside from being beautiful?”

  “I’d question even that,” said Jasmine, laughing. “Please don’t give up on me. We’ll talk again.”

  On the other side of the herd, Bud McDaniels and Curly Wells had been having a similar conversation, with far less satisfactory results.

  “That don’t make sense,” Bud said. “You must have some idea as to what you aim to do with the rest of your life.”

  “Damn it, Bud, I said I don’t know,” Curly snapped. “I won’t even be sixteen until September, this is the first time in my life I’ve been out of Texas, and I don’t know how I feel about you or any man. How can you go from thinking I was a cowboy to knowing I’m a girl, all just in a few days? For ten years I’ve tried to think and act like a man. I just purely ain’t used to a man . . . messing around with me. Hell, before I have to plan the rest of my life, give me time to get used to bein’ a woman.”

  “You could start,” said Bud, “by not swearin’ every time you open your mouth.”

  “I don’t aim to become so much a woman that I can’t swear when there’s somethin’ or somebody that needs swearin’ at,” Curly said.

  “I just ain’t comfortable with a woman that swears like a bull whacker.”

  “Well,” Curly said, “if your hoss ain’t growed roots where he’s standin’, ride on. Ever’ since you saw me with my shirt unbuttoned and my Levi’s down, you been followin’ me like I was the last female west of the Mississippi.”

  “Well, by God,” said Bud, “with you actin’ like a damn ignorant cowboy, I wouldn’t have you if you was the last female west of the Mississippi.”

  He reached for her, but she was too quick and caught his wrist. His horse, startled, sidestepped, leaving Bud off balance. He slid out of the saddle on the offside, and the skittish horse trotted away, Bud’s right foot caught in the stirrup. Curly caught the reins, halting Bud’s horse.

  “You’re lucky there was a damn ignorant cowboy handy to catch your hoss,” Curly said. “You’d have had a sore backside in the morning.”

  March 16, 1866. Baxter Springs, Kansas.

  “Git,” said the farmer with the shotgun. “You ain’t wanted in Kansas. You Texans an’ yer damn tick-infested cows has done enough damage.”

  Story led the herd slightly to the northeast, veering back again once they were past the human blockade.

  “We in Kansas er Missouri?” Shanghai
wondered.

  “I’m not sure,” Story said. “We’ll stay as much on the line as we can, gambling that we don’t hit a blockade on the Kansas side and the Missouri side at the same time. As we travel farther north, away from the Sedalia trail, the less opposition we should meet. If there are no more delays, I figure we’re five days out of Fort Leavenworth.”

  “When we get to Fort Leavenworth,” said Cal, “then how far will we be from Virginia City?”

  “The way we’ll be going, about twenty-two hundred miles,” said Story. “When I came West in ’fifty-four, I took a job bull whacking, west out of Fort Leavenworth. I have some business there, and we’ll be laying over a few days.”

  “I need clothes,” Lorna said. “I brought almost nothing with me, and I’ll be in rags before we reach Montana Territory.”

  “I think we can arrange for everybody to have a day in town,” said Story “Just about everybody’s needin’ his ears lowered, if nothing else.”

  Story seemed more at ease with Jasmine, Lorna, and Curly at drag, and that’s where they remained. The men alternated, two at a time, to keep five riders at drag, so at no time were the three women there alone. When Bud was there, he had little to say to Curly, and their lack of communication didn’t go long unnoticed by Lorna and Jasmine.

  “Curly,” said Jasmine, “you and Bud are avoiding one another. Has he done anything . . . improper?”

  “Not what you’re thinkin’,” Curly said. “He said I’m more of a damn ignorant cowboy than a woman.”

  “Why, damn him,” said Jasmine, “what does he expect? You’ve been a cowboy all your life, and you’ve had just a few days of being a woman. Just let me get hold of him—”

  “No,” Curly said, “I don’t want you forcing him to do anything. If his feelings toward me change, let it be because he wants them changed. I’m just . . . well, new to these feelings, and after trying to be a man most of my life, I’m not comfortable havin’ a man followin’ me around. Bud is . . . can be . . . nice, but I reckon I’m not ready for him.”