Ride for Your Life
Gavin began firing his Colt, and the rest of the riders joined in. Gonzales shouted his teams into a gallop, and on the very heels of the drag, began firing his Winchester. The herd, already cantankerous and testy from being driven hard and fast, lurched into a run.
Gladstone Pitkin reined up his teams and sat there swearing, watching the galloping longhorns disappear in a cloud of dust. Nell and Naomi, while not understanding the underlying purpose of the stampede, fell into the spirit of it. They rode hell-for-leather after the herd, shouting for all they were worth.
“Glory to God,” Woody shouted, when he heard the thunder of hooves and saw the advancing dust cloud.
Woody rode for his life….
Contents
Author’s Foreword
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Author’s Foreword
Santa Fe, New Mexico, founded by the Spanish in 1609 on the site of an old Indian ruin, is the oldest capital city in the United States. Isolated trapping parties had reached Santa Fe while it was still under Spanish rule, and they were not welcomed. All trade was forbidden until November 1821, when Mexico won its freedom from Spain.
A trader, William Becknell, brought the news that Mexico was free and that Santa Fe welcomed trade. Becknell himself took the first wagons over the route that was to become the famed Santa Fe Trail. In 1850 a monthly stage line was established between Santa Fe and Independence, Missouri. By 1855, an annual flow of more than five million dollars—in trade goods, horses, mules, oxen, and cattle—moved along the Santa Fe Trail. The coming of the Civil War closed all trails, including the Santa Fe, but following the war, there was an even greater migration, as a nation moved west.
The Civil War slowed or halted progress on most of the nation’s railroads, and not until 1880 did the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe reach the capital city. Until the coming of the railroad, the Santa Fe Trail was virtually the only means of bringing settlers to the territory with their horses, mules, cattle, and sheep.
New Mexico entered the Union in 1912 as the forty-seventh state, almost three-quarters of a century after becoming a U.S. territory.
After more than a hundred years, the wagon ruts that mark the old Santa Fe Trail are still visible, for the wagons often traveled four or five abreast. From the air, the old trail is nothing less than awesome, as it seems to wind its way across the plains forever. It is truly a classic in the history of the American West, and I can only describe it as majestic.
Ralph Compton
Prologue
Baxter Springs, Missouri. May 15, 1869.
Gavin McCord’s range clothes, run-over boots and old hat had seen better days. Only the Colt tied down on his right hip looked new. He was twenty-six, stood about six-four, with hazel eyes and hair as black as a crow’s wing. He rode slowly south, dreading to face his four companions, for he bore bad news. In his mind he relived those dark days after they had returned from the war with only the clothes on their backs. Starting with nothing and working like slaves in the hot Texas sun, they had dragged thirty-five hundred wild longhorns from the brakes. Broke, short on grub and horses, they had driven their hard-won herd north, bound for Sedalia or St. Louis. Now there would be no triumphant drive to either railhead, and even if they reached the railroad, a flooded market would render their herd worthless. McCord sighed, for he could hear the restless bawling of the herd. Suppertime was near, and his companions already had a fire going. They waited expectantly until he dismounted.
There were the Pryor brothers, Rusty and Ash. Rusty, with red hair and green eyes, had his Colt thonged down on his left hip, for a cross-hand draw. He was twenty-four, a year younger than his brother Ash, who had the same red hair and green eyes. His Colt was tied down on his right hip. Vic Brodie, twenty-three, had sandy hair, blue eyes, and carried his Colt for a right-hand draw. Woodrow Miles—who had never been called anything but Woody—was twenty-four, with brown hair and deep brown eyes. His Colt rode low on his right hip. All were dressed in typical range clothes. The Pryor brothers were the most temperamental, and Rusty didn’t wait for McCord to speak.
“You look downright grim, amigo. The trail ahead can’t be that bad, can it? Wasn’t you able to find any water?”
“There’s plenty of water,” said McCord, “but there’s no graze.”
“No graze?” the four shouted in a single voice.
“No graze from Baxter Springs to Sedalia or St. Louis,” said McCord. “My God, just the few miles I rode, there must’ve been twenty thousand cows, with more beyond. I was told there’s speculators buyin’ herds for two dollars a head.”
“Damn it,” Vic Brodie shouted, “we can’t sell for that. We’ll be ruined.”
“Oh, we don’t have to sell,” said McCord, “but our only other choices are as bad or worse. We can drive ’em back to Texas or let ’em starve.”
Woodrow Miles, the quiet one, hadn’t spoken, and he suddenly found all four of his companions looking at him.
“Don’t look at me,” Woody said. “I have the same poor choices as the rest of you.”
“Yes,” said McCord, “but you’ve been known to dig a mite deeper than the rest of us when we was down to neck meat or nothin’.”
“Watch it, McCord,” Ash Pryor said. “He made it through the sixth grade, and he’s already a mite big-headed.”
Woodrow was silent until they thought he wasn’t going to speak. Finally he did, and he raised a question.
“When we started this drive, we were hell-bent on Sedalia or St. Louis. Why?”
“Hell,” said Rusty Pryor, “the nearest railheads are there. Are you about to suggest we tote these longhorn varmints to Chicago or New York one at a time?”
“I’d do that before I’d sell out for two dollars a head,” Woodrow said quietly.
They all looked at him for some trace of humor, but he didn’t smile. Finally they all laughed, slapping him on the back. When they became serious again, Woodrow spoke.
“Since we face a glutted market and no graze, and we don’t aim to drive ’em back to Texas, we’ll have to drive ’em somewhere else. Why not Independence?”
“There’s no railroad there,” Vic Brodie said. “Who’s goin’ to buy a herd of cows?”
“Back around ’forty-four and ’forty-five,” said Woody, “folks was movin’ west along the Oregon Trail, and some of ’em bought herds for seed stock, once they got to Oregon or California.”
“I reckon you ain’t heard of the Union Pacific Railroad,” Vic Brodie said.
“Oh, I wasn’t suggestin’ our herd might follow the Oregon Trail,” said Woody. “What I’m thinkin’ is that we might sell our herd to some gent travelin’ down the Santa Fe Trail into New Mexico. Some hombre wantin’ a ranch.”
“That’s a long shot, Woody,” Ash Pryor said.
“Maybe,” said Woody, “but it’s the long shots that pay.”
Gavin McCord laughed. “I’ve seen him bet his roll and draw to an inside straight.”
“Yeah,” Vic Brodie said, “but how often does he fill it?”
“Once,” said Woody, “but the varmint across the table from me had a royal flush.”
Their laughter died quickly, for the dilemma th
ey faced was all too real.
“It’s a gamble,” McCord said, “and a big one, but we’ve been gambling since the day we rode into the brakes and started ropin’ these longhorn varmints with the idea of drivin’ ’em north to the railroad. Come first light, I say let’s head ’em out for Independence. Hell, if we have to sell ’em to butcher shops one at a time, we’ll do better than two dollars a head.”
“Let’s take ’em to Independence,” said Rusty Pryor. “I’ll go. Who else?”
The verdict was unanimous, and with that settled, they went about preparing a meager supper. Their supplies were dwindling rapidly.
“One thing for sure,” Gavin McCord said, “we’ll have to do something when we reach Independence. Two more days and we’ll be out of flour, bacon, beans, and coffee.”
“That’s the bad news,” said Woodrow Miles. “The good news is, we got a nearly unlimited supply of beef.”
Independence, Missouri. May 28, 1869.
“My God,” Rusty Pryor said, “I’d swap ten cows for one good bite of town grub and a pot of scalding black coffee.”
“Then we ain’t sendin’ you into town to sell the herd,” said Vic Brodie.
“There’s plenty of graze around here,” Woodrow Miles said. “I reckon we ought not be in a big hurry to sell.”
“Don’t forget,” said Ash Pryor, “we been out of grub for near two weeks, and I don’t graze worth a damn, even when the grass is high.”
“We may be up against a problem we ain’t considered,” Vic Brodie said. “With all the herds goin’ to Sedalia and St. Louis, where do we look for a buyer in Independence?”
“We’ll start with the saloons,” said Woodrow, “and go from there to the wagon yards and liveries. We’ll spread the word that we’re lookin’ for a buyer to take a herd down the Santa Fe.”
“I nominate you to ride into town and scout out a buyer,” Vic Brodie said.
“No,” said Woodrow. “I’m not takin’ all that responsibility by myself.”
“Hell,” Brodie said, “somebody’s got to do it. Pick somebody to go with you.”
“If Gavin will side me, I’ll do it,” said Woodrow.
“I’ll go with you on one condition,” McCord said, “that bein’ that we make no deals on our own. If we find something that looks good, then we all got to pass judgment on it.”
“I like that,” said Woodrow. “I’ll go only if the rest of you agree to what Gavin has suggested.”
“I’ll buy that,” Rusty Pryor said.
“So will I,” said Ash.
“Suits me,” Vic Brodie said.
“Bein’ as how we got no coffee and are on the ragged edge of starvation,” said Gavin McCord, “I think we ought to ride in today. It’s late, but that’s the best time to make the rounds of the saloons. We can check out the wagon yards and liveries tomorrow.”
“Then let’s saddle up and have at it,” Woodrow said. “If we put it off too long, some of those other herds from Baxter Springs may show up here.”
Gavin and Woodrow reached town in the early afternoon. Neither had ever been to a town of the magnitude of Independence, and there were so many saloons, they were at a loss as to where to begin.
“Let’s try those along the river first,” Woodrow suggested. “They look like the kind where a gent’s likely to have to step over dead bodies after dark.”
“Suits me,” said Gavin, “but I can’t imagine an hombre with the dinero and ambition to ride the Santa Fe Trail hangin’ around in slaughterhouses such as these.”
Seven saloons later, the pair had gained nothing but hard looks from barkeeps, as they left without buying drinks. The eighth saloon—a place called Trail’s End—seemed a little more respectable. A poker game was in progress, and in addition to the five men at the table, half a dozen others looked on.
Gavin and Woodrow joined the onlookers. One of the men sat with his back to the wall, a satisfied grin on his swarthy face, and most of the money on the table before him. His hair—black as midnight—curled down to the collar of his boiled shirt. His eyes were of such a dark brown, they at first seemed fully as black as his hair. His hat was a flat-crowned black Stetson, and when he shifted in his chair, the butts of two guns were visible. Briefly his dark eyes met those of Gavin and Woodrow, as he took their measure. But the trouble he obviously expected came from one of his companions at the table.
“Black hat,” said the bearded man across the table, “that last card you drawed had better not be a queen.”
The black-hatted gambler who had been challenged never had a chance to respond. One of the bystanders slammed a Colt against his head, but the hat partially cushioned the blow, and he came out of the chair fighting. But he didn’t have a chance. All the men who had been observing the game piled on the hapless gambler, pounding his head against the floor, clubbing him with drawn revolvers. It was shamefully unfair, prompting Woodrow and Gavin to draw their Colts.
“Back off, all of you,” Woodrow said.
One of the attackers, who had been using his Colt for a club, already had it cocked when Woodrow shot him him in the shoulder. The thunder of the Colt got the attention of the others, and they hastily backed away from the fallen man they had been beating. When the barkeep appeared with a sawed-off shotgun, the weapon was pointed at Woodrow and Gavin.
“We don’t allow no shootin’ in here,” the barkeep growled.
“But you don’t mind a pack of coyotes gangin’ up on a man and beatin’ him to death, I reckon,” Gavin said.
Gavin and Woodrow stood there with cocked Colts, their cold eyes as unwavering as their weapons. The barkeep swallowed hard, lowered the shotgun, and spoke.
“If you’re friends of this cardsharp, gather up the varmint and git out.”
“Woodrow,” said Gavin, “see can you get that hombre on his feet. I’ll keep the rest of these peckerwoods covered, in case they’re tempted to backslide.”
Woodrow managed to get the half-conscious gambler on his feet and walk him toward the door. Back-stepping, Gavin followed, covering the men in the saloon until he reached the door. But they refused to stay put. Cursing, several of them followed, swiftly changing their minds when Gavin put two slugs in the door frame. The outside air seemed to revive the injured man. He shook his head and spoke.
“I’m obliged, amigo. My horse…the bay…pack mule…mine.”
He managed to mount the bay, and McCord took the pack mule’s lead rope.
“Unless you have a better place in mind, pardner,” Woodrow said, “why don’t you go with us to our camp just south of here? You need time to catch your breath.”
The stranger nodded, following them as they rode out. Nothing was said until they reached the herd. Sundown was a few minutes away as they dismounted. The Pryors and Brodie said nothing, waiting for some explanation from Woodrow and Gavin. Gavin began and Woodrow finished. Afterward, all eyes turned to the stranger, and he spoke.
“I’m Nip Kelly, from Cape Girardeau, Missouri, and I wasn’t cheatin’.”
“I’m Woodrow Miles and this is Gavin McCord. Whether you was guilty or not, we reckoned the fight was a mite one-sided. These other gents, from left to right, is Rusty Pryor, his brother, Ash, and Vic Brodie. We’re all from Texas, and we just brought a herd of longhorns up the trail.”
“I’m pleased to make your acquaintance,” said Kelly, “and I regret that we couldn’t have met under different circumstances. I am mortally in need of some hot, black coffee.”
“We’d be glad to oblige,” Woodrow replied, “but we’ve been out of coffee for most of two weeks. Frankly, all we have is beef, but there’s a blessed plenty of that.”
“Then allow me to provide the grub for supper,” said Kelly. “There’s plenty of bacon, beans, flour, coffee, and sugar on the pack mule.”
“Mister,” Rusty said, “none of us would take a prize for our cookin’, but give me a chance, with some decent grub, and you’ll know you’ve been fed.”
“Then
unpack old Sam and get on with it,” said Kelly, “but if you don’t mind, fire us up some coffee first.”
“Amen to that,” Vic Brodie said.
They were camped near a creek, and Kelly removed his shirt and ducked his head in the water. From his saddlebag he took a clean white shirt. Soon there was the pleasant aroma of boiling coffee, and the men got their tin cups. The first cup Rusty filled went to Nip Kelly. There was no conversation until they had finished their first cups of coffee.
“Supper,” Rusty announced. “Bacon, more coffee, and plenty of steak.”
They all dug in, the Texans enjoying the first decent meal they’d had in two weeks.
“I didn’t realize I was so near starved to death,” said Ash Pryor, “until I got on the outside of some honest-to-God grub. Too bad we couldn’t’ve made your acquaintance, Mr. Kelly, without you takin’ a beating.”
Kelly laughed. “My friends, when I have any, call me Nip.”
“Woodrow,” said Brodie, “you never got around to tellin’ us whether or not you and Gavin drummed up any interest in the herd.”
“We didn’t,” Woody said. “We went through eight saloons, findin’ Nip in the last one, but nobody lookin’ prosperous enough to afford even one cow.”
“There’s a newspaper in my saddlebag,” Kelly said. “Get it. There’s an advertisement that might interest you.”
Woody brought the newspaper, published Wednesday and Saturday in Independence. It consisted of eight pages. Kelly folded it to page four and passed it back to Woodrow. Ash Pryor looked over his shoulder.
“My God,” said Ash, “it takes up half a page.”
“Damn it,” Vic Brodie said, “one of you read it to us, if you can.”
“Too many big words you wouldn’t understand,” said Woody. “I’ll just tell you. This gent is an Englishman, name of Gladstone Pitkin, and he’s bought a passel of land in New Mexico Territory. He aims to start a ranch there, and he’s out to hire a crew.”
The Santa Fe Trail Page 1