The Virginia City Trail

by Ralph Compton

  “He knew,” Lorna cried. “He knew . . .”

  It was just the diversion the devilish Sioux had been waiting for. Somehow they had driven some buffaloes into a nearby draw, and whooping like demons, sent the animals charging into the grazing longhorns, horses, and oxen. The horse bearing Coon Tails’s body was already skittish, and Story had a time holding the animal. He swung out of the saddle just long enough to lower the body of the old scout to the ground. He then mounted, and kicking his horse into a fast gallop, joined his outfit in pursuit of the Sioux. It was the first time since reaching Fort Phil Kearny that Story’s riders had been able to fire at the elusive Sioux. The Sioux, expecting the limited range of the army rifles and the time it took to reload, didn’t seem concerned. But that changed quickly as Story’s riders cut loose with the Remingtons. They got off three volleys before the Sioux got out of range, and they had to abandon the stolen cattle to do so.

  “Cal, Hitch, Arch, Smokey, and Bud, come with me,” Story said. “We’ll go after these cows. The rest of you hightail it back and start gathering the others.”

  The charging buffaloes had taken a wedge of about fifty longhorns, but the rest of the herd had soon settled down to graze. The horses and oxen had not been near enough to become spooked by the intruding buffaloes. Story and his riders had some difficulty separating the buffaloes from the longhorns.

  “Double your lariats and swat the buffaloes,” Story shouted.

  There were fewer buffaloes than cows, and they finally managed to separate the beasts from the longhorns. When Story and the riders returned to camp, Tom Allen and Bill Petty were digging a grave for Coon Tails. He would be laid to rest beside Clear Creek. Story’s camp was far enough from the fort that the burial went unnoticed, only Story and his riders present. Story took a Bible from his saddlebag and read over the blanket-wrapped body of the old mountain man, and he was soon just another mound of earth that would grass over and become lost in the wilds of Wyoming Territory.

  Since Bill Petty hadn’t accompanied Alicia Blackburn to her cabin, he had no idea where she lived. The officers’ cabins were no more than shotgun shanties built of logs, with an outhouse and a tiny yard in back. Most of the cabins had rain barrels beneath the eaves, and he found her there with a wooden bucket, dipping a bucket of water. She didn’t seem surprised to see him. She set the filled bucket on the wooden stoop and waited for him to speak. Now that he had found her, he was more ill at ease than she.

  “Alicia . . . Alice . . . I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am. I wanted to speak to you at the . . . service, but I reckoned it wouldn’t be proper. . . .”

  “Thank you,” she said. “You’re very kind.”

  “Well, I . . . I’d better be going. It wouldn’t be right for me to be seen here so soon after—”

  “I know,” she said. “Back east, I’d be in mourning for a year. But Mr. Petty . . .”

  “Bill.”

  “Bill . . . it . . . everything . . . is so different on the frontier. It’s been less than a week, and already the men . . . the single men . . . are looking at me, and the officers’ wives are talking . . . wondering how long . . .”

  “All it’ll take, then,” Petty said, “is for somebody to see me standin’ here talking to you.”

  “But that’s what I need,” she cried. “Someone to talk to me.”

  “The officers’ wives . . .”

  “The officers’ wives are avoiding me like the plague,” she said bitterly.

  “Alice,” he said, encouraged, “if you tell me it’s none of my business, then I’ll say no more and I’ll leave. But what do you aim to do? I know the military must have some policy. . . .”

  “They do,” she said. “Eventually I’ll be sent back to Virginia, but not until there’s some kind of peace with the Sioux. There’s simply no way for me to get safely away from here. Perhaps when the railroad reaches Cheyenne . . .”

  “Alice, that’s two years away, maybe longer,” said Petty.

  “I know,” she said miserably.

  A back door opened and a woman came out on the stoop of an adjoining cabin. Whatever she intended to do was quickly forgotten when she saw Bill Petty, and she vanished into the cabin.

  “Damn it,” Petty said, “I’d better go.”

  “It won’t matter now,” she said. “Please see me again, before you—”

  “I will,” said Petty. “Colonel Carrington has ordered us to remain here until he says we can go, but—”

  “Oh, damn him,” she cried. “I . . . I hate that man. It’s because of him . . .”

  “Alice,” said Petty, “I can’t get into the stockade at night. Besides, I’m needed at camp, so I’ll have to see you in the daytime, whenever I can.”

  “I’ll be here,” she said. “I have nowhere else to go. Please come back.”

  She held out her hands to him, and he almost took them, but he suspected curious eyes were watching, perhaps from more than one window. He turned quickly away, the fear and desperation in her eyes going with him. . . .

  With the start of his third week at Fort Phil Kearny, Nelson Story’s patience ran out. He called his outfit together and wasted no words.

  “We’ve been hunkered here two weeks, with the Sioux picking at us night and day. We’ve lost Coon Tails, and I have to take responsibility for that, for allowing him to ride out alone. Sunday night, after taps, we’re moving out. The Sioux will come after us, but we have the firepower. For the next few days we’ll go about our business, and not a word of this must reach Carrington. Despite his threats, once we’re away from here, I can’t believe he’ll come after us.”

  In Bill Petty’s mind a plan was taking shape, and at first it seemed as impossible as it was audacious. But there were no alternatives. Anyhow, it all depended on Alicia Blackburn and her trust in him. When he called on her again, he went boldly to the front door. In another week it wouldn’t matter. She seemed glad to see him, and invited him in.

  “Let’s go to the kitchen,” she said, “and I’ll make coffee.”

  Petty dragged out a ladder-back chair and sat down at the table. He was at a loss as to how to tell her what was on his mind. In cowboy fashion, he threw caution to the winds and waded in.

  “Alice,” he said, “if I can get you away from here, take you to Virginia City, will you go?”

  She dropped the lid to the coffeepot, and when she turned to him, there were tears on her cheeks.

  “I’ll go,” she said simply. “If there’s a way, I’ll go.”

  “We’re pulling out Sunday night,” Petty said, “defying Carrington’s orders. There’s no way of getting you out of the fort at night, so we’ll have to do it in the daytime.”

  “Bill, I simply can’t let you attempt this. If you’re caught, Carrington will have you before a firing squad.”

  “I don’t aim to be caught,” Petty said. “I’ll see you again on Friday, and I’ll tell you what we’re going to do. I just want you to be sure this is what you want. For a certainty we’ll have to fight the Sioux.”

  “I don’t care,” she said. “Carrington is scared to death of them, and I live in fear the Indians will overrun the fort and kill us all. Get me a gun, and I can shoot. But what will your friends say . . . about you taking me?”

  “That’s the least of our worries,” said Petty. “There are already three women with the drive, earning their way as riders. I’ll get you a horse, or you can ride in one of the freight wagons. I’ll see that the outfit knows that we . . . I . . . have no strings on you. There’s a hotel in Virginia City, and I’ll see that you reach there safely. I’m not askin’ anything of you, but I . . . when you’ve had time to . . . to think on it . . . I’d like to call on you. If . . . if you think . . .”

  “I think I’d like that, Bill. I can’t promise when—or if—I’ll have feelings for another man, but when I do, if I should, I’d . . . want you to be there. . . .”

  His elation soaring, Bill Petty rode back to camp feeling that h
e could slay dragons with a cottonwood limb. But common sense prevailed. He would have to talk to Nelson Story, because if anything went wrong, it would bring Carrington down on them like the wrath of God. While Carrington wouldn’t care a damn for Alicia Blackburn, sneaking her out of the fort would be a violation of military regulations. Nelson Story was the kind of man who saw nothing as impossible. It usually just took a little longer. Story listened as Petty explained Alicia’s problem, and finally how Petty proposed to solve it.

  “Great God, Bill,” Story sighed. “Why couldn’t you have come up with a simple thing, such as converting lead into gold double eagles? Since you’re involving me in this, there’s something else I need to know. Is this Alicia Blackburn’s idea, or yours?”

  “Mine,” said Petty, “from start to finish. She tried to talk me out of it.”

  “Sensible woman,” Story said. “I’d be on the right trail, then, if I said your interest in Alicia Blackburn goes deeper than just wanting to help an unfortunate woman out of a bad situation.”

  “You would,” Petty said. “She’s made no promises, and I’ve asked just one. All I’ve asked is, once she’s safely in Virginia City, that I have the chance to call on her, and I’ve been welcomed.”

  “That’s a good sign,” said Story. “When we move out, we’ll be disobeying Carrington’s order. I doubt we can do anything that will get us in any deeper than that. Go ahead and make your plans with Alicia, but she isn’t to leave the fort until late Sunday afternoon, just before the gates close.”

  Petty chose a pair of his own well-worn Levi’s pants and an equally worn flannel shirt. From his bedroll he took an old black flop hat that had seen more than its share of sun, wind, and rain. These he placed in a large brown gunnysack.

  After Petty had gone, Alicia Blackburn walked into the small bedroom and sat on the edge of the sagging bed. The single window looked out upon the parade ground and the weathered log wall of the stockade beyond. Alicia shuddered. “Oh, God, Bill,” she sighed, “please, please take me away. . . .”

  The Sioux continued to be a problem for Story and his riders. While they didn’t dare attack in force, they were a constant source of irritation. Braves galloped their horses as near as they dared, clinging to the offside, firing their arrows.

  “The varmints don’t give you nothin’ to shoot at,” Shanghai grumbled.

  Only Quickenpaugh managed to strike a blow at the elusive Sioux. The next brave who galloped near had the surprise of his life. No sooner had he loosed the arrow than Quickenpaugh was after him, Bowie knife in hand.

  “Ride him down, Quickenpaugh,” Quanah Taylor shouted.

  Quickenpaugh intended doing exactly that, but he and the pursued were nearing a stand of jackpines from whence most of the Sioux attacks had come. Quickenpaugh kicked free of his stirrups, springing like a cougar upon the Sioux, dragging him from his horse.

  “Get your rifles ready,” Story said, “and watch those jackpines. Some of the others may buy into this.”

  The Sioux brave had a Bowie, and five hundred yards away he and Quickenpaugh circled one another like wary lobos. Just as Story had suspected, there were other Sioux among the jackpine, and four of them emerged, galloping their horses toward the conflict. Story and his riders cocked their rolling-block Remingtons. Jasmine and Curly were among those who fired first, and the four Indian ponies galloped away riderless.

  “I got one,” Jasmine cried. “That one’s for you, Coon Tails.”

  “We ought to go help Quickenpaugh,” said Lorna.

  “We’re givin’ him the only help he needs or wants,” said Cal, “keepin’ the varmints off his back. He can take care of himself. Just watch.”

  If there were other Sioux in the jackpines, they remained there, and the brave who fought Quickenpaugh was on his own. The pair circled, each seeking an opening. They parried, and there was a clang as blade struck blade. Quickenpaugh thrust, withdrew, and thrust again. He stood for just a moment over the fallen Sioux before driving the blade of his Bowie into the dirt. He then trotted back to join his comrades.

  “What a grand, glorious thing to have done,” Lorna said.

  “All of that,” said Tom Allen, “but dangerous as hell. If any of the rest of us had done that, Nels would be chewin’ on us into the middle of next week.”

  “I would,” Story laughed, “but I’ll have to give credit where credit is due. He killed his opponent, and in so doing, lured four more of the devils out of the brush.”

  “I’ve always heard Indians take scalps,” said John Catlin.

  “Not always,” Story said. “They didn’t scalp or mutilate Coon Tails, because they considered him a brave man. Quickenpaugh showed them the same courtesy.”

  20

  During the next several days, Bill Petty visited the sutler’s store, emerging each time with his purchases in a large brown gunnysack. Those who were interested in his coming and going would, he hoped, not consider it unusual when he again left the fort with the large brown gunnysack on Friday. He found himself eager to see Alicia, to tell her that his plan was acceptable to Story, chafing at the delay as he waited for Friday. He entered the fort as casually as he could, hoping nobody would notice that he had somehow acquired the large brown gunnysack without going to the sutler’s. Alicia let him in, closed the door, and then impulsively threw her arms around him. Finally she drew away, blushing furiously.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I . . . I shouldn’t have done that. But I’m so happy to see you, and I was so afraid something would happen, that I couldn’t go.”

  “You’re going,” said Petty. “Story says we’re in so deep already that taking you from under Carrington’s nose won’t matter. He can’t have us shot but once. Now here’s what we’re going to do. In the sack there’s an old hat, one of my flannel shirts, and a pair of my Levi’s. You’ll have to work on the shirt and the Levi’s, so’s they’ll fit, but leave the shirt loose in the front so—”

  “So I can pass for a man.” She laughed.

  “At least until we get you safely away from here,” Petty said. “Now I want you to think of the things you’re going to take with you. Limit them to what you can get into this sack, because I’ll be taking it with me. When you leave here, it has to be near dark, and you have to look enough like a cowboy to get you through the gate. Sunday evening, a few minutes before the gates close, light your lamp, so’s it can be seen easy. Slip out the back door wearin’ these clothes of mine, and pull the hat low over your eyes. I’ll meet your at the sutler’s store, and I’ll have a horse for you. We have to get past the sentry at the gate. How long do you think it’ll be until you’re missed?”

  “I don’t know,” said Alicia. “Nobody comes around, but they watch me. I suppose, if they don’t see me in several days, somebody will come knocking on the door.”

  “Carrington will know we’re gone long before that,” Petty said. “I’ll wait while you gather your clothes. I’ll hide them for you in one of the wagons.”

  Petty found it necessary to take Arch Rainey into his confidence. He had to get a horse into the fort for Alicia, and he dared not simply ride in, leading the animal. Somebody had to ride it into the sutler’s store, so that hopefully no questions would be raised when Alicia rode it away.

  “Let me get this straight,” said Arch. “You want me to tie my horse at the sutler’s store so’s this lady can escape, leavin’ me afoot.”

  “Damn it,” Petty said, “you won’t be afoot. We’ll leave your horse in that pine thicket just north of the fort. You and me will ride in before three o’clock, because that’s when they change sentries at the gate. When I ride out with Alicia, it won’t be long until the gates will be closed. There’ll be a new sentry, and he won’t remember you. Just walk out the gate, go get the horse we’ll be leavin’ for you, and ride back to camp.”

  “You don’t think the sentry’s gonna wonder why a cowboy ain’t got a horse?”

  “Let him wonder,” said Petty. “He’ll b
e new on the post, and he won’t know you didn’t come in afoot. If he says anything, tell him your horse got loose, or somebody turned it loose and you’re havin’ to hoof it back to camp. We’ll be in Montana before that bunch figures out what happened, if they ever do.”

  September 30, 1866. The trail north.

  “God, I’ll be glad when we git on the trail again,” Shanghai said. “It ain’t near as hard keepin’ them Injuns off’n yer back when you ain’t at the same place all the time.”

  Most of the trees in the foothills surrounding the Big Horns were bare, their dry brown leaves blowing into arroyos and canyons as the chill winds from the mountains swept across the high plains. Sandy Bill broke ice in Clear Creek for water to boil breakfast coffee, and the riders who had just come off watch wore their heavy coats and gloves.

  “We owe Mr. Story for having us get those wool longhandles,” said Lorna. “I’m going to wear mine until next summer, at least.”

  “Pore Cal,” Hitch Gould said, laughing.

  “Summers are short in Montana,” said Tom Allen. “There’s spring in July, summer in August, fall in September, and the rest is winter.”

  There was speculation among the outfit when, a few minutes before three o’clock, Bill Petty and Arch Rainey rode out toward the fort, Arch leading an extra saddled horse.

  “Can’t be a pack hoss,” Mac Withers said. “No packsaddle.”

  “It’s got somethin’ to do with us movin’ out tonight,” said Tom Allen. “I’ve spent a lot of years with Bill Petty, and I’ve never seen him act as damn strange as he has this past week. What’s bitin’ him, Nels?”