“Close,” Story said, “and they’re regrouping. They’re not done with us.”
“Maybe more than they think,” said Bud McDaniels. “They ain’t even got close enough for their arrows.”
“Here they come again,” said Smokey Ellison.
“Let ’em come,” shouted Sandy Bill from beneath his wagon. “We got the guns an’ we got the outfit.”
Again the Sioux galloped as close as they dared, and again they were cut down by merciless fire from the long-range Remingtons. Three more times the attackers swept through, and each time the hail of lead took a devastating toll. Out of range, the remaining Sioux paused, as though uncertain. Then they simply rode away. Their loss had been too great.
22
Following the fight with the Sioux near the butte, Story had again taken the trail north. Riding ahead, he looked for Indian sign, but found none. The weather remained cold, especially at night, but the icy clutches of winter spared the high plains. Story located water, and although defense wasn’t as good as that near the butte, it would have to do. The riders were jubilant following their early morning victory. Even Sandy Bill seemed to walk straighter. Nelson Story was no less elated, for his judgment had been vindicated, and except for Coon Tails, he hadn’t lost a man.
“I’m starting to think that someday we’re going to reach Virginia City,” Lorna said. “How much farther, Mr. Story?”
“About four hundred miles,” said Story. “Wouldn’t you say so, Waddy?”
“No more’n that,” said the teamster as he hunkered down with his supper.
“Six more weeks,” Story said, “if we can average ten miles a day. We’ll continue nighthawking as we’ve been doing, the rest of the way to Virginia City. We’ll soon be in Crow country. They’re friendly, but good horses can sometimes pose greater temptation than they can overcome.”
The rain that had plagued them in the early months of the drive hadn’t created any problems on the high plains. The Tongue River was low in places, and they forded it without difficulty. Three days later they crossed the Big Horn River, and since it was late afternoon, Story decided to bed down the herd there. Sandy Bill barely had supper started when nine Indians rode in, making the peace sign. One of them rode forward and spoke.
“Crow,” he said. “Amigos. Me Buffalo Tail. Want eat.”
Story nodded. He pointed to the Indian, then to the ground. He had been invited to dismount. He did so, followed by his companions. Sandy Bill eyed the bunch without any enthusiasm. He had seen Indians devour an entire deer at one setting. When supper was ready, the Crows didn’t even look at the beans, but they devoured every biscuit in sight, and nearly all the fried steak. Story’s riders glared malevolently at the feasting Indians, and Sandy Bill cursed them as he set about frying more steak.
The first watch was saddling up when one of the Crows wandered over to Russ Shadley’s horse. He reached for the walnut stock of Shadley’s Remington, lifting the weapon from the saddle boot. Seeing the action, Shadley drew his Colt and smashed it against the back of the Indian’s head. The Crow slumped to the ground, and Shadley was about to kick him when Cal Snider intervened. He caught Shadley by the collar of his coat, and fisting his right hand, he slammed it into Shadley’s jaw. Shadley went down, but he wasn’t out. He had dropped the Colt, and now he scrambled for it, but Cal kicked it away.
The fallen Crow’s companions no longer looked friendly. Two of them, including Buffalo Tail, had drawn knives. Obviously, all that had held them at bay had been Cal restraining Shadley. Nelson Story helped the fallen Crow to his feet and then led the Indian to Sandy Bill’s wagon. From it Story took one of the Winchesters and a tin of ammunition. These he gave to the Crow, who quickly forgot his pain, as his grim visage broke into a grin. His companions gathered around to admire the weapon, but he refused to let them handle it. Story was relieved when the nine of them mounted and rode away. He found Shadley mounted, ready to begin the first watch.
“Shadley,” said Story, “I’m going to pay you ten months’ wages, which is more than you deserve. Then I want you to ride out, and keep riding.”
“It’s gittin’ dark,” Shadley said sullenly. “Wher’ am I s’posed to go?”
“You can ride on to Virginia City, back to Texas, or go to hell,” said Story. “I don’t care. Just ride, and keep riding.”
“Sorry I had to be the one to slug him,” Cal said. “He’s had a mad-on all the way from Texas.”
“If anybody’s sorry, it’s me,” said Story. “He was overdue for that.”
November 28, 1866. The Yellowstone.
Story and his outfit crossed the Yellowstone just ahead of another winter storm. There was more freezing rain, and with the wind whipping it out of the northwest, it was a fight just keeping the longhorns moving. This time there was no canyon and they were forced to take shelter in a stand of pinion pine. The wagons were semicircled, with canvas sheets thonged between them. That, and the heavy boughs of the pinion pines, offered some shelter. With their lariats looped around saddle horns, the riders snaked in logs, limbs, anything that would burn. There was no source of water except that which the wind flung at them, and Sandy Bill relied on the water barrel to make coffee. The storm had struck two hours before dark, but with the overcast sky and the driving rain, the riders had already circled the herd.
“Longhandles aren’t very warm when they’re wet,” Lorna said.
Curly laughed. “You was worryin’ about gettin’ wet crossing the Yellowstone. We get across the river almost without wettin’ our boots, and here we are soaked to the hide, with it lookin’ like it might rain forever.”
“There’s good news,” said Jasmine. “Mr. Story says we’re only about fifty miles out of Virginia City.”
“Good place to get snowed in for the winter,” said Bud, who had ridden up behind them.
But the rain continued, and miserable as they were, nobody complained much. Wet and cold was one thing, snowbound was another. Dawn broke, and while the rain had slacked, sleet clattered off the wagon canvas and stung their faces as it rode a chill wind out of the northwest.
“It’s going to be hell driving the herd into the wind, with ice slapping them in their faces,” Story said, “but we can’t stay here. God only knows why the snow’s held off as long as it has, and it won’t much longer. Double your lariats and keep them moving. If we travel only three or four miles today, we’ll be that much closer to Virginia City. I’ll be riding ahead, looking for a better shelter for tonight.”
Slowly, doggedly, they pushed on, heading the longhorns who continually broke ranks seeking to get their backs to the storm. Just when it seemed their circumstances could get no worse, they did. The freezing rain started again, and the hides of the longhorns and the rumps of the horses became coated with ice. The longhorns bawled their misery and frustration, and intensified their efforts to get these hated elements at their backs. Story, riding ahead of the herd, knew they must have shelter, and soon. He had hoped, with only the wind and the sleet, they could control the herd. But the wind had risen, and the sleet was now mixed with freezing rain. Story’s horse shook its head, and ice shattered like fine glass. Somewhere ahead, even with the shriek of the wind, Story could hear rushing water.
He topped a ridge and found himself looking down into a valley that seemed to widen near the northern end. While the stream was not of the magnitude of the Yellowstone, it was a fast-flowing river, and by the time he reached it, the air already felt warmer. The west wall of the valley grew steeper, and eventually it became a blind canyon. Water cascaded off a rock shelf sixty feet above Story’s head, forming a large pool, and then went racing down the valley. Most of the trees lining the river and those on the farthest slope were coniferous. There were pinion pines, some ponderosa, with some quaking aspen. It would provide a haven for the cattle and horses, while the uppermost end of the canyon would shelter the riders and their cook fires.
Story rode back the way he had come, and when he re
ached the crest of the ridge, it seemed the storm had grown in its fury. While the struggling herd was no more than three or four miles on the back trail, it seemed much farther, for the freezing rain had changed to snow. Already the ground was covered and there were few recognizable landmarks. Story’s back was to the storm and he could hear nothing but the shriek of the wind. Convinced he’d lost his way, he reined up, and then heard the distant bawling of the cattle. Reaching the herd, he found the rebellious longhorns virtually out of control. Snow-encrusted cowboys rode after bunch quitters, only to have another bunch break away before the first bunch could be headed. A dozen steers broke loose and headed for the back trail, Story hard on their heels. Finally he got ahead of them, drew his Colt, and fired in the snowy air over their heads. The bunch galloped on as though they hadn’t heard. Story holstered the Colt, doubled his lariat, and rode headlong into the fleeing longhorns. Swinging the lariat like a club, he slashed the brutes across their tender muzzles. This furious madman who inflicted pain was more fearsome than the storm, and the longhorns suddenly decided they wanted to rejoin the rest of the herd.
Slowly the riders regained control of the herd. Smokey Ellison and Arch Rainey, wranglers for the day, slowed the horse remuda. With the horses ahead of them, the longhorns more willingly faced the storm, and the drive went on. Finally they were over the ridge and the serenity of the valley below seemed like paradise. The horse remuda broke and ran, the longhorns following. Story guided the wagons across the river and to the upper end of the canyon.
“Line them up along the canyon wall, under the overhang,” Story told them. “Unharness your teams and take them to the river with the longhorns. The rest of us are going to drag in limbs, logs, and anything that will burn.”
The storm raged for the rest of the day, all night, and most of the next day. When it had subsided, Story saddled up and rode down the canyon until the west wall leveled down enough to accommodate the wagons. Riding up the rise, there was little accumulation, but that quickly changed. Once over the ridge, it was hard going, for the snow had drifted deep. Story rode back the way he had come, his hands numb with cold, even with gloves. This was Story’s country, and his riders waited expectantly, trusting his judgment.
“We’re going to be here awhile,” he told them. “The drifts are deep, and God knows how long it’ll be with us.”
The rest of the day and the night that followed was bitter cold. The riders had three fires going, and it took all the wood they could gather. Clouds moved in during the night, and by dawn the sky was an ominous gray.
“Damn it,” said Tom Allen, “more snow.”
“Maybe not,” Story said.
His optimism was justified. By nightfall the wind had lost its bite, and during the night it began to rain.
“Cold rain,” said Manuel Cardenas, “but it is not freezing. It will melt the snow.”
“I ain’t gittin’ too excited,” Levi Puckett said. “We’ll be swappin’ three feet of snow for three feet of mud.”
And that’s about the way it turned out. When the rain quit, the land was a virtual quagmire. There were bogs where oxen from one wagon had to be unhitched to assist another team whose wagon had sunk down to the axle. It became a three-day nightmare that ended only when they reached the destination Story had in mind. Gallatin Valley was a few miles east of Virginia City. It was a land rimmed by blue, snow-patched ridges, and their first sight of it was a time none of them would ever forget.
“God Almighty,” said Shanghai Wolfington, “I feel like Moses lookin’ at the Promised Land.”
Story laughed. “With one difference. You’re going in.”
They rode into the picturesque valley where grand processions of snow-topped mountains marched south to the continental divide, and loosed their horses, longhorns, and oxen along the Madison River.
“I can’t wait t’git t’ the land office an’ grab me one of these valleys,” said Shanghai. “Now that we brung a herd from Texas, they’ll be more.”
“Not until there’s peace with the Sioux,” Story said. “We’ll give the herd time to settle down and graze for a few days. Then we’ll have four herds to separate. Yours, Bill Petty’s, Tom Allen’s, and mine. We lost some, but at last tally we had gained almost a hundred calves. We’ll each take some of the loss, and divide the calves in a way that’s fair to everybody.”
“You know these plains,” said Shanghai. “Do we start buildin’ cabins now, er wait fer spring?”
“Suit yourself,” Story said. “This is shaping up like a mild winter. Soon as I’ve secured my land, I aim to start building some kind of shelter. I aim to hire twelve riders, and I’ll gut-shoot anybody that tries to take Sandy Bill away from me.”
John Catlin and Steve Grover wasted no time in riding on to Virginia City, for they hoped to find work in the mines. With the drive finished, the outfit would be breaking up. Story arranged to meet privately with Bud McDaniels, Bill Petty, and Tom Allen.
“We’re at the end of the trail,” Story said, “and I don’t want to leave any of our outfit to drift. Sandy Bill’s staying with me, and I’ve hired Hitch, Arch, Mac, Manuel, Quickenpaugh, Quanah, Gus, Virg, Dutch, and Jules. Cal will become my segundo, so there’ll be a home for Lorna. Bill, you and Tom have cows of your own, and you’ll be building spreads. I reckon we’ve been amigos long enough for me to get personal. Unless I’m barking up the wrong tree, Bill, I expect you’ll be putting a roof over Alicia Blackburn’s head.”
“You figure right,” said Petty. “I know it’s proper to wait a year, her bein’ a widow, but this is the frontier.”
“That’s how I see it,” Story said. “Now Tom, since I bought their herd, Jasmine and Bud aren’t poor. They won’t lack for a roof over their heads, but I don’t want anybody feeling slighted. What concerns me is Curly Wells, and Bud, that brings me to you. Curly’s too young to drift from pillar to post, even if she had been a man. Is there any hope that you and Curly will make a go of it?”
“I ain’t sure,” said Bud. “It’s up to Curly. I’m willing, but I won’t hog-tie her against her will. Now that we’re here, I aim to talk to Jasmine about us getting a spread of our own. Then when the Sioux settle down, we can go back to Texas for a herd of our own. Curly could stay with us until she decides what she wants to do.”
“Well, hell,” Tom said, “I’ve got cows, and if I can wrassle Jasmine into double harness, that would make Bud a third pardner. We could start with my cows, and like Bud suggested, go back to Texas for another herd. I reckon if Bud could sweet-talk Curly all the way to Texas and back, he could win her over.”
“You’ve been nuzzlin’ Jasmine all the way from Texas,” said Bud, “and I don’t see no ring through her nose.”
Story laughed. “I should have stayed out of this. When you’ve reached some conclusions, tell me. From now on, I promise to mind my own business.”
December 9, 1866. Virginia City, Montana Territory.
Three days after reaching the Gallatin, Story, Shanghai, Bill Petty, and Tom Allen rode into Virginia City. Story had been away for a year, and he had no idea what to expect as they rode up the mountain trail. What might his reception be? He couldn’t help wondering if there were others of Ken Tanner’s stripe who had escaped the noose at Alder Gulch, and if they might recognize him and come gunning for him.
“I’m glad you kept Quickenpaugh,” Bill Petty said, “but I can’t figure what you aim to do with him, unless you’re goin’ back down the Bozeman and fight the Sioux again.”
“Quickenpaugh has a weakness,” said Story, “and I took advantage of it. He likes horses, and so do I. The next thing I aim to do is establish a horse ranch, and who do you reckon will be gentling the horses?”
Story was astounded at the change in Virginia City. There was now a newspaper, two more hotels, an opera house, eateries, saloons beyond number, and a Masonic hall. The newspaper boasted there were ten thousand people in Virginia City, and more on the way. There was a sawmill and lumbe
r yard, too.
“We’ll go to the land office first,” said Story. “Then I aim to sell some longhorn cows.”
Story had left his outfit busy felling cedars for a cabin and bunkhouse. Cal Snider, the new segundo, swung an ax with the rest of them. When Sandy Bill got supper ready, Story and his companions still hadn’t returned from town. Although not part of Story’s new outfit, Alicia Blackburn, Curly Wells, Oscar Fentress, Smokey Ellison, Jasmine and Bud McDaniels, had been invited by Story to remain as long as they wished. After supper, Curly and Bud took a walk down the river without any explanation.
“Lorna,” said Cal, “why don’t you open that package Emma gave you before we left Fort Worth? She asked you to wait until we reached Montana, and we’re here.”
The parcel hadn’t left Lorna’s saddlebag. Part of its wrapping had included oilskin, so it had survived rain, sleet, snow, and river crossings. Carefully, Lorna opened the package to reveal a white satin dress. She held it up in front of her, and it swept the floor. There was exquisite lace at the throat and sleeves.
“I’ve never owned anything so beautiful,” Lorna said.
“There’s a letter that was in the parcel,” said Cal. As he read it, Lorna read along with him.
Dear Lorna:
This is your wedding dress, my dear. I cannot be there, but I will be with you in spirit. When you wear it, be happy, and don’t forget your friend.
Emma
23
A week after reaching the Gallatin Valley, Story, accompanied by Hitch, Arch, and Mac, drove two hundred head of longhorns into Virginia City. Story sold the animals for a hundred dollars a head, and the town rejoiced. There would be beef for Christmas. The arrival of the Texas cattle created a stir, and the editor of the newspaper cornered Story, insisting on an interview. There were those who remembered Story being captain of the vigilance committee that had hanged Sheriff Henry Plummer and his gang, and despite Story’s embarrassment, he was forced to elaborate on that. But there was more to come. With Red Cloud and Crazy Horse riding rampant on the Bozeman Trail, Virginia City was virtually isolated. The town wanted news of the trail, what it was like to meet the dread Sioux in battle, and in their midst was a man who could satisfy them on both counts. Before Story managed to escape, he had been roped into appearing at a public forum the Saturday before Christmas, where he would tell of his experiences on the Bozeman.
The Virginia City Trail Page 30