Stewart’s companion hadn’t moved from his position at the bar. Shanghai stood up, facing the man.
“Friend,” said Shanghai, “are you buyin’ chips in this game?”
“No way,” the stranger said hastily. “It ain’t my fight.”
“He’s likely drunk,” the bartender said as Stewart began to stir.
“His problem,” Petty said. “I’ve shot troublesome drunks when they insisted on it.”
Stewart rolled over and sat up, eyeing Petty with all the hate he could muster.
“You can get up and get out of here,” said Petty, “and that’ll be the end of it. The choice is yours.”
“Nobody does that to me and lives to talk about it,” Stewart hissed. “Nobody. If you’re man enough to meet me in the street, I’ll kill you.” There was a strange look in his eyes that bordered on insanity.
“I’m man enough,” said Petty. “I’ll meet you outside.”
Stewart got unsteadily to his feet, backing toward the door. Reaching it, he stepped outside, his eyes still on Petty.
“Except for watching my back,” Petty said, “the rest of you stay out of it. You heard what he said, and I’m taking him at his word.”
Everybody, including the bartender and Stewart’s unnamed companion, followed Bill Petty outside. Stewart stood in the middle of the dirt street, a hundred yards away. It was early enough in the day that nobody else was in sight. Petty stepped into the street, waiting. There was intimidation in the act itself, forcing Stewart to come to him. But Stewart did, walking slowly, his hand near the butt of his Colt. Petty waited, his thumbs hooked in his pistol belt. His very nonchalance was intended to unnerve Stewart, for a nervous gunman was tempted to rely more on speed than accuracy. Such was the case with Paschal Stewart. Compared to Stewart’s, Bill Petty’s draw seemed painfully slow. Stewart got off two shots, both of them over Petty’s head. Bill Petty fired once, and Stewart took a step backward. Then his knees buckled and he fell on his back, unmoving. But the shots had aroused the town, and before Petty had holstered his Colt, men came on the run. One of them was Sheriff Webb Hankins. He took just one look at Bill Petty and his cowboy companions and broke out his string of profanity.
“I might of knowed it,” he said bitterly. “You varmints has got to be the rest of that damn Story outfit. Has anybody got anything t’ say, ’fore I chunk the lot of you in jail?”
“He drew on me, and I defended myself,” said Petty. “Does a man go to jail in Kansas for that?”
“He’s right, Sheriff,” the bartender said. “This gent comes in lookin’ for a fight. He was give a chance to back off, but he wouldn’t have it. I was asked to be a witness, which I was. This hombre ain’t done nothin’ he wasn’t forced to do.”
Clearly that didn’t go according to what the sheriff wished to believe, but half the town had heard the bartender’s speech. It was too convincing to be ignored, so Sheriff Hankins did the sensible thing. He backed down.
“Self-defense is legal,” he said grudgingly, “but nothin’ else is, damn it, an’ don’t none o’ you fergit that.”
He turned and walked away, leaving Stewart’s body where it lay. Let somebody else plant the varmint.
“I think I’ll ride back to the herd,” said Petty. “I’ve had enough of town for a while.”
“I be goin’ with you,” Oscar said.
Nobody wanted to stay, so they all rode out. They rode in silence, but to a man they were proud of Bill Petty. Not only was Nelson Story a man with the bark on, his friends were of the same measure.
Story’s outfit had all had their time in town, and had time on their hands. Story had spent all day Saturday and Sunday away from camp, and when he didn’t return at all Sunday night, they began to wonder. He had told them only that they would likely be taking the trail west on Tuesday, the twenty-seventh. They knew only that he intended to buy wagons and trade goods, and that he would be hiring drivers. He had purposely said nothing about the Remingtons, choosing to wait until Fort Leavenworth was far behind. One word falling on the wrong ears could ruin his friend at the fort, and destroy his friend’s chances of replacing the rifles he had sold to Story. And Story knew his drivers would need those rifles in the months to come, as Red Cloud and Crazy Horse began their rampage along the Bozeman.
Story slept poorly in his hotel bed, and was up before first light on the morning of the twenty-sixth. He had breakfast with Jubal Holden and Handy Lemburg, and spent the rest of the day impatiently awaiting the arrival of his friends, Levi Puckett and Waddy Summers. When they rolled in, part of a six-wagon train, it was almost dark. When they had howdied, Story wasted no time.
“Supper’s on me, amigos. Then I have a proposition for you.”
“Excuse me if I don’t git too excited,” Waddy Summers said. “Ever’time I fall for one o’ your porpositions, I end up bein’ shot at, or with some bastard wantin’ to cut my throat.”
“I was just thinkin’ the same thing,” said Levi Puckett, “but you said it lots better.”
Story laughed, and then took them to the Plains Hotel dining room, where they joined Jubal Holden and Handy Lemburg.
“Whatever he’s got in mind,” Waddy said, “I can see he’s already roped and branded these gullible old varmints.”
When the waiter had taken their order and they waited for their steaks, Story told them of his plans and what he wished of them.
“Nels,” said Levi, “before the year’s done, you’re goin’ to see the Bozeman runnin’ red with blood. White man’s blood. Them damn forts the army’s got strung out acrost Wyomin’ an’ Montana is a two-edged sword. Fer starters, compared t’ Red Cloud an’ Crazy Horse, they ain’t got enough fightin’ men t’sneeze at. Second, not only is the forts not helpin’, the damn things is hurtin’ the cause, bein’ a violation of the treaties with the Sioux.”
“You don’t have to convince me,” Story said. “I agree with your every word. Not only are the forts likely a violation of the government’s treaty with the Sioux, they’re only a temporary solution. They’re for protection of whites on the Bozeman Trail until the Union Pacific finally completes the transcontinental railroad. That’s supposed to eliminate the need for the Bozeman, but there have been setbacks for the railroad, such as graft, corruption, and under-the-table deals in Washington. The rails won’t be reaching Wyoming until God knows when. Predictions are for 1868.”*
“Hell,” said Waddy, “that’s two more years of Sioux hell-raisin’ along the Bozeman.”
“You’re dead right,” Story said, “and that gets us back to my proposal. Everytime you roll out of here, you’re taking your life in your hands. I have an outfit of twenty-five riders, and every one will be armed with the new Remington rolling-block rifles and a Colt revolver. Besides, there’ll be the four of you, with the same arms. How many times have you driven the Bozeman with that kind of defense?”
“I reckon the answer t’that’s obvious,” said Levi. “By God, I knowed he’d rope us in. When are you aimin’ t’move out?”
“Just as soon as the two of you are willing,” Story said. “Tomorrow?”
“Hell, no,” said Waddy. “Wednesday maybe. We been out there near six months, an’ there ain’t been a night I didn’t hear them war whoops in my nightmares. Now I aim to have a couple nights without ’em, just so’s I don’t ferget what it’s like.”
“Wednesday, then,” said Story. “I’ll meet you at first light, at the wagon yard. I’ll have the wagons loaded tomorrow.”
March 28, 1866. The Oregon Trail.
Story was already at the wagon yard when his four bull whackers arrived. First they went to the livery, where each man had awaiting him a team of oxen on lead ropes.
“Waddy,” Story said, “you hitch up and lead out. There’s room in your wagon for some freight you’ll be picking up at the fort. When you’re done there, just follow the Smokey Hill west until you see the herd.”
Not all the freight Waddy was to pick up would be l
egitimate. Included would be the wooden crates containing thirty Remington rolling-block rifles, with an ample supply of .50 caliber shells.
When the four loaded wagons rolled into the valley where the herd had been gathered, Story introduced his riders to the bull whackers, and the drive took the trail. A dozen new calves had been dropped during the week near Fort Leavenworth. That, plus the four loaded wagons, slowed the drive, and they covered less than ten miles.
“We’ll be traveling more slowly the rest of the way,” Story said that night around the supper fire, “but the danger won’t be any greater. Jubal, Handy, Levi, and Waddy will be on watch with the rest of us. Besides that, I’ve evened the odds some. Waddy, you and Levi break out those gun crates.”
The two teamsters unloaded the heavy crates from Waddy’s wagon, and with a crowbar Waddy began breaking them open. Quickly Story explained the new Remingtons, and the riders gathered around as he demonstrated their features.
“It’ll be a mite crowded in our saddle boots,” Coon Tails said. “We still got them Winchesters.”
“There’s room for them in Waddy’s wagon,” said Story. “I want all of you armed with these new Remingtons. When you have the time for it, practice ejecting the spent shell and reloading. This weapon has a range of a good thousand yards. Learn to use it, and Indian arrows can’t even come close.”
While the trail drive was slowed to accommodate the loaded wagons, there were benefits. The calves were able to keep up with the herd, and the longhorns began to put on weight. The animals had become trailwise, and with the slower pace, there were no bunch quitters. During their first days on the trail there was almost constant rain. Now the situation seemed to have reversed itself, and there was no rain. The drag riders wore their bandannas over their faces to avoid some of the dust. Time dragged, and one night during the first watch, Lorna trotted her horse alongside Cal’s.
“You know what day this is?” she asked.
“No,” said Cal. “They kind of run together. Friday?”
“It’s April fifth,” she said, irritated. “It’s my birthday. Today I’m eighteen.”
They were stirrup to stirrup, and he leaned over, kissing her hard. “Happy birthday,” he said. “Now you’re a woman.”
“I’ve been a woman for a long time,” she said. “I thought you discovered that back in Fort Worth, in the hotel.”
“I did,” said Cal, “but it didn’t do me no good. I was all trussed up and couldn’t move.”
“Cal, when we get to Virginia City, what are we going to do . . . first?”
“Find us some bunks where they ain’t a damn cow nowhere in sight, and sleep for a month.” There was a long, painful silence. Awkwardly, Cal spoke again, and only made it worse. “Well,” he said, “I reckon we won’t spend all our time sleepin’.”
“Calvin Snider,” she cried, “you’re a damn crude, ignorant, unromantic cowboy, without the slightest notion of how to treat a woman.”
She rode away, leaving him pondering his ignorance, wondering how to get back on the good side of her. He didn’t know Bud McDaniels was anywhere near until Bud spoke.
“Shake, brother,” Bud said sympathetically. “I’ve had the same brand slapped on me, except she left out unromantic.”
“I ain’t wantin’ to talk about it,” said Cal sullenly.
“Then let’s talk about me and Curly,” Bud said. “She swears at me, and Jasmine laughs at me. What’n hell does a woman expect of a man anyhow?”
“Maybe she just wants to be left alone,” said Cal.
“Hell of a lot of help you are,” Bud said. “I could of got that out of Curly. She’s acted like a man for so long, she can’t get out of the habit, I reckon.”
He rode on, leaving Cal to his own thoughts. He wondered how Tom Allen got along so well with the fiery Jasmine. The girl swore like a bull whacker when she was angry, and had a temper like a sore-tailed bobcat. Yet she shared all her meals with Tom, and they rode together during their nightly watch. When Jasmine had a siege of temper, Tom usually said something perfectly foolish, and the two of them ended up laughing together. But when he himself tried a similar tactic, Cal thought, Lorna rode off and sulked. He wished the girl could be more like Jasmine, and wondered what in tarnation he was going to do with her once they reached Montana Territory.
Again Story took to riding ahead of the drive, often seeking water. He consulted with the bull whackers he had hired, for they were now more familiar with this route than he was, having driven it for the many years since Story had given it up. While other landmarks had grown dim in his memory, he still remembered the rivers and where they would eventually parallel the trail. Once they crossed into Nebraska, the drive could follow the Deshler River almost until they reached the Platte. It flowed west from Omaha, running nearly parallel with the old Oregon Trail the last two-thirds of the way to Fort Laramie. It was a sure source of water. Each day, usually at the supper fire, Story added their day’s travel to his previous total. His “calendar” was a yard-long strip of rawhide, with a knot for each day and a double knot for Sunday. When one strip was used up, he’d start another. Shanghai watched him tie the first knot in a new thong.
“First day of the month,” said Shanghai. “Which month?”
“May,” Story said.
“How many miles we come since leavin’ Fort Leavenworth?” Shanghai asked.
“A little over two hundred,” said Story. “We’re about four hundred miles from Fort Laramie.”
The drive was more than a month west of Leavenworth before there was rain, and it rode in on a screaming, vicious wind that threatened to rip the canvas from the wagons. Mud and water was hub deep, and the efforts of the oxen were in vain. The heavy wagons wouldn’t budge.
“Unhitch them,” Story said. “We’ll have to wait this out.”
It was all but impossible to drive a herd into a storm. The longhorns wanted only to turn their tails to the fearsome wind and drift back the way they had come. The best the riders could do was to start them milling and hold them in a bunch. But the rain and high wind proved to be the least of their problems. The thunder rumbled closer, and behind it came the lightning. Long, jagged streaks that danced like demons across the heavens. A cow bawled and others joined in, like a demented chorus, the herd just waiting for something to start them running. It began when lightning flared from one horizon to the other and when a bolt struck somewhere near. The earth shook, and before the shock died, a second bolt struck. The terrified longhorns stampeded to the east, back the way they had come, the oxen that had drawn the wagons running with them. Pursuit of the stampeding herd was impossible, as riders tried to calm their buck-jumping horses and remain in the saddle. When the storm finally blew itself out, darkness had fallen. Story and his riders were chilled to the bone, discouraged, and hungry. But there would be no supper, no sleep, probably no breakfast, and a gather facing them that might take days. . . .
* Gamble
* Trail Drive Series No. 2, The Western Trail
17
Somehow Story and his riders survived the long, miserable night, and Sandy Bill had enough dry firewood for a breakfast fire. The day dawned gray and cold, with low-hanging gray clouds harbingers of rain yet to come. Leaving the four teamsters there to guard their wagons, Story and the outfit set out to gather the stampeded herd. Before they had ridden two miles, they discovered the mangled bodies of three calves trampled in the stampede, and a little farther, the bodies of two of the oxen Story had bought to draw the wagons.
“Lightnin’ got ’em,” Coon Tails said. “They may be more.”
While they found no more dead animals, the live ones proved troublesome enough. This stampede was different from earlier ones, in that the longhorns hadn’t regrouped. Many of them grazed alone, or at best, in groups of two or three.
“I dunno what got into the varmints,” said Shanghai. “The stampede split an’ they just fanned out from hell t’breakfast.”
The extra horses
and Sandy Bill’s mules were found first, and after that, the rest of the oxen. Gathering the scattered longhorns was a slow, painful endeavor, with many of the brutes becoming rebellious. Early in the afternoon there was more rain, and while there was no thunder or lightning, there was an excess of mud and water. Horses slipped and fell, and riders were thrown, saved from injury by the very mire that had spilled them. Cal Snider and Quanah Taylor ran a tally, and the results were disappointing.
“We don’t have even half of ’em,” Cal said.
They rode on, finding two or three longhorns at a time, driving them back to a slowly growing herd. The low-hanging clouds promised early darkness, and it became apparent to Story that they couldn’t finish the gather until the next day.
“We’ll take what we have,” said Story, “and drive them back to where the wagons are. Tomorrow we’ll look for the rest of them.”
“I found somethin’ we can use back yonder,” Mac Withers said. “I’m goin’ after it.” He galloped away toward a distant brushy draw, and when he caught up, he had hitched his lariat to what was left of a pine log. There was a large, resinous heart studded with pine knots, and it would burn readily.
“I reckon Kansas be a dog’s idee of hell,” said Oscar. “They be no trees.”
“Oscar,” Story said, “if there’s some of that cowhide left, I want you to make a pair of simple calf halters.”
“They be some hide left,” said Oscar. “It be in Sandy Bill’s wagon.”
“Good,” Story said. “We’re going to replace the two dead oxen with a pair of longhorn cows. Bulls are out of the question. The cows will likely be trouble enough, and that’s why I want the calf halters. We’ll harness one cow with each team of oxen, and we’ll use the cows that have just dropped calves. We’ll tie one end of a lead rope to the calf halter and the other end to the cow’s harness. I’m hopin’, with the calf walking beside the cow, the brute won’t fight the harness and make it hard on the oxen.”
The Virginia City Trail Page 23