The Virginia City Trail

by Ralph Compton

  The rain held off, and by suppertime the riders had dried out. Sandy Bill had a cowboy’s intuition, and knowing that everybody’s enthusiasm was at a low ebb, made dried apple pies for supper. By the time the riders for the first watch were mounting up, the clouds had parted to reveal a few timid stars.

  “Thank God,” said Jasmine. “I don’t ever remember being as cold, wet, and hungry as I was last night.”

  After the dinner in the Plains Hotel, when Curly was almost pleasant, Bud McDaniels had left her pretty much alone. It didn’t seem to matter to Curly, but it did to some of the other riders. Bud had seen Arch Rainey, Mac Withers, and Dutch Mayfield talking to the girl, and Curly responded to them more civilly than she ever had to Bud. He decided to find out where he stood with her, or if he had any standing at all. The best time to approach her was while they were nighthawking, and he caught up, walking his horse beside hers.

  “Curly.”

  “Leave me alone,” she said, “or I’ll swear at you.”

  “I don’t care,” said Bud. “That’s better than having you ignore me.”

  “What do you want of me?”

  “I just want you to be my friend,” Bud said, “if you’re never anything more.”

  “I like you, Bud,” Curly said, more kindly than she’d ever spoken to him. “It’s just . . . too soon for me to think of you as . . . as a woman would think of you. I’m still a cowboy in my mind, and I don’t know how long before I can be anything else. Or if I ever can. If you can be . . . my friend, without pushing me, I . . . I think I’d like that.”

  They rode and talked until it was almost time for their watch to end, and it was the most pleasant time they’d ever had together. There hadn’t been a harsh word, and Bud McDaniels silently vowed not to lose the advantage he believed he had gained.

  Meanwhile, in the days following her last blow-up, Lorna Flagg had been decidedly cool to Cal Snider. As undesirable as her home life had been, she had left a measure of security for she knew not what, hitching her dreams to those of Cal Snider. But what were those dreams? Would he bed her like a squaw or saloon woman, leaving on a whim, returning if and when he wished? She had no reason to believe he would, but she had burned her bridges, and desperately needed some assurance as to what lay ahead. Suddenly she heard voices, and Curly’s laugh. Lorna turned her horse, riding back the way she had come. She’d been feeling sorry for Bud McDaniels in his less than satisfactory relationship with Curly, and it now seemed that the two might yet reconcile their differences. Encouraged, she rode until she found Cal. He sat his saddle with his right leg hooked around the horn, hat tipped over his eyes, apparently dozing. But he had heard her coming. He tipped back his hat, waiting for her to speak, if she intended to.

  “Cal,” she said uncertainly, “I . . . I feel just awful. I . . .”

  “You’ve had enough of the trail, I reckon.”

  “I can take anything the trail throws at me,” said Lorna. “What I can’t take is this feeling that . . . that you don’t really care about me, that you brought me with you because . . . damn it, because you couldn’t sneak off and leave me behind.”

  He reached for her, but as he caught her arm, her horse sidestepped. Off balance, he slid out of the saddle, taking her with him. They fell in an ignominous tangle of arms and legs as their horses danced nervously away. Lorna was torn between anger and laughter, and laughter won. She laughed, and Cal joined her.

  “Tell me again what we’re going to do when we get to Virginia City,” Lorna said.

  “First,” said Cal, “I reckon we’ll find you some fancy duds. A dress. In all the years I’ve knowed you, I’ve never seen you wear nothin’ but Levi’s pants. What are you hidin’ from me?”

  “You’ll find out, when the time comes.” She laughed, and then she became serious again. “A dress will be nice, Cal, but that . . . that’s not what I wanted to hear.”

  “A woman should have a new dress on her marryin’ day,” Cal said.

  “That’s what I wanted to hear, you damn ignorant cowboy.” Her actions took the sting from her words, and Cal Snider no longer had any doubts as to what he would do with her when they reached Virginia City. . . .

  Story and his riders spent all the next day seeking the scattered herd. Despite the lack of trees on the Kansas plain, there were arroyos and thickets in which the longhorns were adept at hiding, and it wasn’t all that easy, flushing them out. Especially from the thickets.

  “It’s that much like Texas,” said Gus Odell. “There’s aways a thicket so dense a man can’t swing a rope, and that’s where the cows are.”

  Story laughed. “We’ll cut the cards, and the low man gets to crawl into the thicket and punch them out with a sharp stick.”

  They all laughed at the cowboy humor, but it wasn’t far from the truth. When the end of the day was near and they were forced to end the gather, a tally revealed they were still missing sixteen head.

  “That’s it,” said Story. “We can’t devote another day to hunting them.”

  When the herd took the trail the following morning, Jubal Holden and Waddy Summers each had an unwilling longhorn cow replacing one of the dead oxen. Trotting beside each cow, secured by the halters Oscar had fashioned, was the cow’s newly dropped calf.

  “I never would of believed that if I wasn’t seein’ it,” Shanghai said. “We’re just almighty lucky all them calves wasn’t trampled in the stampede.”

  As unlikely as it seemed, after three or four days with the longhorns in harness they were making as many miles as they’d been making with only oxen pulling the wagons.

  Handy Lemburg laughed. “That’s why Nelson Story was such a good teamster. He’d git a wagon through, no matter what. Give him a chance, and he’d of roped the devil, harnessed the varmint, an’ had him drawin’ a wagon.”

  The drive reached the Deshler River, and it would answer their need for water until they were within two or three days’ drive of the Platte. One morning as they were about to take the trail, there was a rumble that sounded like distant thunder. The wind was from the northwest, and the sound rose and faded with the wind. Coon Tails put his ear to the ground, listened, and sat up.

  “Buffalo comin’,” said the old mountain man. “One hell of a bunch of ’em. We’d best stay where we are, so’s we don’t git caught up in that.”

  “You’re right,” Story said. “Bunch the herd.”

  “Mr. Story,” said Cal, “some of us would like to try these new Remingtons. When we know where the herd’s running, do you care if we shoot some buffalo?”

  “Go ahead,” Story said, “but not more than two or three. We can use some meat, but I don’t believe in killing for sport.”

  “It’s likely one of the last great herds,” Coon Tails said. “Bill Cody, Drago Herndon, an’ some others is killin’ ’em by the thousands t’feed track layers that’s buildin’ the Union Pacific, out there west of Omaha.”*

  The thunder grew louder. The horses grew skittish with the vibration of the earth, and the riders circled the herd, lest the unaccustomed sound frighten the longhorns. After a while they could see the ragged edge of the herd as it thundered almost due south.

  “God knows how wide a swath they’re cuttin’,” Shanghai said. “Damn good thing the herd didn’t git caught in that.”

  Cal Snider, Tom Allen, and Quickenpaugh rode out with their new rolling-block Remingtons, reining up at what they considered a thousand yards from the lumbering herd. Cal fired first, bracing the Remington across his saddle. A buffalo staggered, fell, and lay still. Tom Allen fired, and with the same results. Quickenpaugh repeated their feats, grinning his appreciation of the powerful weapon.

  “Bueno,” said Quickenpaugh. “Mucho poder.”*

  The trio managed to get close enough to the passing herd to retrieve the three animals they had shot, dragging them near the camp for the skinning. They dared not go too near, lest the smell of blood spook the longhorns. Quickenpaugh viewed the buffalo he had shot wit
h some distaste.

  “Bueno hunt,” said the Indian. “No squaw. Malo.”

  Tom Allen laughed. “Sorry, Quickenpaugh. You skin your own kill. It’s the white man’s way.”

  “Some way bueno,” said Quickenpaugh, “some malo. This malo.”

  With little else to do, some of the other riders helped skin the buffaloes, and they took the hump and the tongue.

  “If we get to it,” Tom said, “we’ll have time to peg and scrape the hides.”

  “This herd may be a day in passing,” said Story, “which is just as well. Oscar and Manuel says we’re about to gain some new calves, and they’ll need time to get on their feet.”

  June 10, 1866. The Platte River.

  By the time Story’s outfit reached the Platte, some of the dangers of the trail had become all too evident. There were the remains of burned wagons and the bleached bones of horses, mules, and oxen. More sinister were the inevitable grassed-over graves of those whose dreams of the frontier had met with bitter reality.

  “But all we’ve been hearing is the Bozeman Trail,” Jasmine said, “and we still have a long way to go before we get there.”

  “It’s some misleadin’,” said Coon Tails. “The Sioux is horse Injuns, an’ they ain’t limited. You hear more about the hell-raisin’ on the Bozeman, ’cause that’s Sioux stompin’ grounds, an’ that’s where the forts is that’s got Red Cloud an’ Crazy Horse in a fightin’ mood. But that don’t mean the red varmints can’t ride back along the Oregon, liftin’ hair an’ lootin’ wagon trains. I reckon the forts along the Bozeman is some little perfection, but they ain’t nothin’ along the Platte to git in the way.”

  It was grim news, and however quiet the surrounding darkness, the riders no longer dozed in their saddles. Nebraska didn’t seem all that different from Kansas, except that there was no shortage of water, for they would virtually follow the Platte River until it flowed south to Colorado, beyond Fort Laramie. But despite the macabre evidence of previous Indian attacks along the trail, Story’s drive continued unmolested. But Story wasn’t a man to push his luck. He always had the riders bunch the herd a good hour before dark, and when supper was done, Sandy Bill allowed the cook fire to remain no more than a bed of coals to keep the coffee hot. It was a pleasant time, when the outfit came together, and it was during one such interlude that Lorna asked Story about the high plains.

  “Well,” said Story, “it’s at a much higher altitude and it’s not all that hot in summer. In fact, the nights are cool, and you’ll need your blankets. There’s grass, belly high on a horse, as far as you can see. But the winters can be hard, with snow, and temperatures far below zero. I expect it will be late fall before we reach Virginia City, and it’ll be almighty cold. When we get to Fort Laramie, each of you will need to buy winter clothes. You’ll need a heavy coat, warm gloves, wool socks, a wool scarf to protect your ears, and wool longhandles.”

  “Longhandles for me?” Lorna asked with a straight face.

  “Longhandles for you, Jasmine, and Curly,” said Story with an equally straight face, “and I’d suggest you get at least two pair. There’ll be days when you’ll be wearing them both, and wishing you had a third pair.”

  July 25, 1866. Fort Laramie, Wyoming Territory.

  It was late afternoon when they sighted the fort. Leaving the herd half a mile away, along the Platte, Story rode in. He was shown into the office of Colonel Moonlight, the post commander. Story’s trail drive to Montana Territory had met with only hostility from the military, and that’s all he had expected at Fort Laramie, but Colonel Moonlight went beyond that.

  “What you are attempting, sir, is foolish in the extreme,” said Moonlight. “The best advice I can give you is this: sell your cattle to the commissary, and let this foolish endeavor end here. It is civilian activity such as you propose that prevents the army from doing its job.”

  “I am painfully aware that the army isn’t doing its job, Colonel,” Story said, “but I wasn’t sure why. Thanks for enlightening me. I aim to push on to Virginia City, with or without your blessing.”

  “You’ll go without it,” Moonlight snapped. “You’ll get no protection from this post.”

  “I don’t want it,” said Story. “Before I’d lick any part of your carcass, I’d fight the whole damn Sioux nation, just me and my cowboys.”

  His riders, when he delivered the colonel’s message, expressed opinions even stronger than Story’s, and in far more explosive language. Despite the hostility of the post commander, Story decided to spend several days there, allowing his riders to purchase clothing suited to high plains winters, and to learn what he could of the Indian menace ahead. The store, Bordeaux’s Trading House, would be their best source of information. Coon Tails was known there, and Story asked the old mountain man to accompany him. They were fortunate to find Black Bill Guthrie in the store. Black Bill, a friend of Coon Tails, also knew Jim Bridger. Black Bill was more than a little contemptuous of Colonel Moonlight, and was willing to talk.

  “The colonel’s one of them West Point wonders,” Black Bill said. “an’ you ain’t gonna believe what a godawful mess he’s made of things, just in the little time he’s been here. ’Fore you leave, walk up yonder an’ have a look at the bluff, north of the emigrant campground. You’ll find what’s left of Black Foot an’ Two Face, a pair of Red Cloud’s braves. Colonel Moonlight had ’em hung, so he claims, as a warning to all Indians. Turned out, by God, the Injuns wasn’t guilty of what he was chargin’ ’em with.”

  “God Almighty,” said Story. “No wonder things have gone to hell between Indians and whites. What were the charges?”

  “When the soldiers found Black Foot an’ Two Face,” said Black Bill, “the Injuns had a white woman an’ her baby with ’em. You know the gover’ment’s got a standin’ reward for the surrender of hostages, an’ this woman—a Missus Eubank—an’ her baby was bein’ brung to the fort fer the reward. This woman an’ her baby had been taken somewheres in Nebraska, an’ it wasn’t Black Foot an’ Two Face that stole ’em. They’d bought the captives from hostiles, an’ all they wanted was the reward. This Missus Eubank told the story, told it true. She begged fer mercy fer Black Foot an’ Two Face, but Colonel Moonlight didn’t pay no attention to her. He hung them pore bastards an’ then chained their carcasses to the face of that bluff, fer buzzards an’ magpies to pick their bones.”

  It was a gruesome tale. The next morning Story walked to the foot of the bluff north of the emigrant campground. He climbed to where the bodies of the unfortunate Oglala braves hung from a gibbet, dangling from chains. Magpies pecked at the rotting remains, and the stink was such that Story was forced to retreat. Later he learned that Coon Tails had told the tragic tale to others in the outfit, and they too viewed the remains of Black Foot and Two Face, who had received their reward for abiding by government regulations. The tragic event, the deaths of two men who had done no wrong, had a sobering effect on Story’s riders. They understood, perhaps for the first time, Indian hostility. Other whites would pay the price for Moonlight’s folly, and would not Red Cloud have this strong on his mind when it came time to extract vengeance?

  “I don’t agree with what the Sioux are doing,” Jasmine McDaniels said, “but I understand their reasons for doing it.”

  “They’s goin’ to be hell on the Bozeman,” Coon Tails predicted, “an’ it’ll come ’fore the end of this year.”

  “I’m hoping we’ll be in Virginia City before it comes,” said Story, “but if we have to fight, then so be it. We’ll be ready.”

  During Story’s second day at Fort Laramie, two young men approached his camp.

  “I’m John Catlin,” said one, “and this is Steve Grover. We’d decided we was goin’ to rot, settin’ here waitin’ for somebody goin’ to Virginia City. Somebody that stood a chance against the Sioux. We’d like to ride with you.”

  “I have no objection to that,” Story said, “if you don’t mind fighting.”

  “Mind it or no
t,” said Grover, “we got the experience. We just got done fightin’ a war.”

  “I see you have Colt revolvers,” Story said, “and I have extra rifles for you. Rifles such as you’ve never seen before. We move out in the morning at first light.”

  When Story’s outfit met around the supper fire, he took the opportunity to introduce Grover and Catlin. And he had some final advice for his riders.

  “You’ll find Virginia City a mite primitive in some ways. That’s why I’m packin’ in these wagons loaded with goods. With trouble coming on the Bozeman, some things may be in short supply for a while. The other forts along the trail are new, and with the Indian trouble, their stores—if there are any—will have only bare necessities. Anything you need now, or expect to need in Virginia City, go to Bordeaux’s and get it now. I’ll advance money to those of you needing it. One other thing. Having seen the military’s approach to peace with the Sioux, I think it’s only fair that I sweeten the pot some. At the end of the trail, every one of you will receive an extra fifty dollar bonus. It’s little enough for what lies ahead. The danger is even greater than I expected.”

  Most of the riders followed Story’s advice and spent the evening at the store. Already they had the winter clothing Story had suggested, and these final purchases would be personal items. Even with the danger that lay ahead, it was a happy occasion. Curly and Bud now seemed satisfied with one another’s company, there had never been any obvious disagreement between Tom and Jasmine, and Cal Snider resolved forever any doubts Lorna might have had. Fortified with a hundred dollar advance from Story, Cal bought Lorna the ring she would wear when they reached Virginia City. It became a night to remember, and even the garrulous old Coon Tails revealed a sentimental depth nobody had ever suspected. From around his neck he took a slender silver chain from which was suspended a tiny silver dragon. This he gave to Lorna.

  “Wear it, girl,” he said. “It was my mama’s, an’ it’ll look better on you than on some Sioux brave. I got a feelin’ this might be my last trail, er close to it.”