The Santa Fe Trail

by Ralph Compton

  Woody galloped away, his five companions following. The firing ahead diminished and then increased in intensity.

  “They’re likely surrounded,” Woody shouted. “Fan out. Maybe we can catch ’em in a cross-fire.”

  When Woody and his outfit came within sight of the wagons, they counted more than a dozen Indians galloping their horses around the desperate defenders. The attack had taken place out in the open, and the canvas of the three wagons bristled with arrows. The almost continuous roar of rifles was evidence enough that the men with the wagons were armed with Winchesters, but their firing had little effect. The Indians clung to the sides of their ponies, presenting virtually no target. Loosing their arrows, they darted out of range, as other braves galloped in to continue the fight.

  “Gun ’em down!” Woody shouted.

  The cowboys formed a circle of their own, and the startled Indians clinging to the off-sides of their horses suddenly found themselves prime targets. Six horses galloped away riderless, and as the rest of the attackers broke away and rode for their lives, two more were shot from their horses. The firing from the wagons ceased, and the six defenders came out into the open. None of them spoke until Woody and his companions reined up.

  “I’m Levi Stubbs,” said the spokesman. “These is my sons Wiley and Whit. My three daughters is Bonita, Jania, and Laketa. We’re obliged to you.”

  “Glad we was close enough to help,” Woody replied. “I’m Woodrow Miles. From my left, these other gents are Rusty Pryor, his brother, Ash, Gavin McCord, Vic Brodie, and Nip Kelly. We’re the Pitkin outfit, and we have a herd of Texas longhorns up the trail a ways.”

  “I’m wonderin’ if it wouldn’t be safer if we all was to throw in together,” said Stubbs. “We got trade goods bound fer Santa Fe.”

  “I’d have to speak to Gladstone Pitkin,” Woody replied. “We’ve seen your tracks, and it appears your wagons are loaded almighty heavy. Breakdowns cause delays, and I reckon Mr. Pitkin will want to consider that.”

  “Nobody tells me how to load or not load my wagons,” said Stubbs resentfully. “We’ll pitch camp at the next good water. If this Pitkin’s willin’ fer us to trail with your outfit, I reckon you can let us know when you git there.”

  It was an obvious, unfriendly dismissal. Woody and his companions wheeled their horses and rode back the way they had come.

  “If it wasn’t for the women,” Vic said, “I’d favor lettin’ the Indians have the whole damn lot. I’ve never seen three uglier, unfriendlier varmints than Stubbs and them sons of his.”

  “The girls was as pretty as Stubbs and his sons was ugly,” said Rusty. “I’d say they must have took after their mama.”

  “Yeah,” Ash said, “and they should thank God for that, every day.”

  “Them overloaded wagons is definitely somethin’ to be considered,” said Nip Kelly. “I reckon the worst part of the trail’s ahead of us, and a busted wheel or axle—even if they got spares—could lose a whole day.”

  “I am considerin’ that,” Woody replied, “and I aim to mention it to Pit. I reckon we’ll have to keep the women in mind, but I don’t aim to spend the rest of the summer waitin’ for Stubbs to patch up his overloaded wagons.”

  5

  “You are trail boss, Woody,” Pitkin said, “and I shall abide by your decision. Even my limited experience tells me it is foolish for so few people to embark upon a journey so dangerous as this. Especially when half of them are female.”

  “In all fairness,” said Woody, “I’d have to say that the three females conducted themselves well. They seemed almighty handy with a Winchester.”

  “Very well,” Pitkin said. “Take that into consideration when you make your decision.”

  “I am,” said Woody. “I’m going to grant them permission to trail with us as far as Fort Dodge, and then only if they can keep up with the herd. If they fall behind, for any reason—and that includes breakdowns—we won’t wait for them.”

  “Suppose they keep up with us as far as Fort Dodge,” Pitkin said. “What becomes of them then?”

  “If they make it to Fort Dodge without delays, without being a problem to us, then I will consider allowing them to accompany us the rest of the way,” said Woody.

  “Don’t forget the Jornada—the fifty miles of desert—beyond Fort Dodge,” Gavin said. “We’ve made provisions for carrying enough water for ourselves and our teams, but I doubt the Stubbs party has. If their overloaded wagons are a problem now, it’ll purely be hell on their teams, crossin’ that desert.”

  “I’m aware of that,” said Woody, “and it’s one of the things to be considered before we leave Fort Dodge.”

  Gladstone Pitkin had nothing more to say, and that concluded the conversation. The herd again took the trail, Woody riding point, the wagons trailing. When they were within sight of the three Stubbs wagons, Woody rode ahead. Stubbs’ daughters waited, on the boxes of each of the three wagons. Levi Stubbs and his two sons came to meet Woody. He reined up, and without any formalities, told Stubbs essentially what he had told Gladstone Pitkin.

  “We generally make camp an hour before sundown,” Woody said. “If you fall behind, that’ll give you some time to catch up before dark.”

  Stubbs nodded, saying nothing. Woody waited until the moving herd caught up, and resumed his position at point. Nip Kelly was again riding drag with Nell and Naomi, but the other riders—Vic Brodie, Rusty, and Ash Pryor—had their eyes on the Stubbs girls. When the herd had passed, the three Stubbs wagons fell in behind the chuck wagon driven by Gonzales and the supply wagon Pitkin was driving. Woody looked back occasionally, but was unable to see beyond the dust raised by the herd. West of Diamond Springs some fifteen miles was the far less inviting Lost Springs. It had gained its name by going dry during the hottest part of the summer. Half a mile away, the herd smelled or sensed the water ahead, and broke into a shambling, bawling lope. There was nothing the riders could do, except get out of the way. Woody rode back to meet the wagons, and while the Stubbs outfit was lagging behind, they were doing better than Woody had expected. He rode past his two wagons, wheeled his horse, and rode along between them.

  “The spring’s down a mite, Gonzales,” Woody said, “and you’ll have to delay supper for a while. When the herd’s had time to drink, we’ll have to drive the varmints away, so the water can settle.”

  “There’s the horses and mules,” Pitkin said. “Do we water them before supper?”

  “Yes,” said Woody, “but lead them there and allow them to drink without muddying the water. Then picket them until after supper.”

  Stubbs and his sons reined up their teams a good distance from the spring. Unharnessing the mules, they waited until the longhorns had been driven away from the water. When the Pitkin outfit’s horses and mules had been watered, Stubbs and his sons led their mules to drink. The Stubbs daughters started their cookfire, and without their bonnets, the cowboys noted they all had curly brown hair to their shoulders.

  “Them Stubbs men all look like they was weaned on sour pickles,” Vic Brodie said, “but that can’t be said for the daughters. I aim to get better acquainted with them.”

  “Don’t be such a damn hog,” said Rusty. “Choose one of ’em.”

  “Yeah,” Ash agreed. “There’s other deservin’ hombres in this outfit besides you. Ain’t that right, Nip?”

  Kelly laughed. “All your choosin’ may be for nothin’, gents. Old man Stubbs looks as agreeable as a rattler durin’ sheddin’ season, and them sons of his ain’t more’n one jump behind him.”

  Nell and Naomi Pitkin listened to their banter with interest, covertly eying Woody and Gavin, wondering what their thoughts might be. Neither of the Pitkin girls had spent any time with Woody and Gavin since that day along the river, in Council Grove. While these Stubbs women were distant, it seemed unlikely they would remain so. Nell’s eyes met Naomi’s in silent understanding. It was time for them to press their advantage with Woody and Gavin, before the Stubbs girls
came any closer.

  “Pit,” Woody said, “it’s time we had another look at that trail map. I’d say we’re a good hundred miles from the Big Bend of the Arkansas River, and if the water between here and there ain’t more plentiful than at this Lost Springs, we’re in for it.”

  “Perhaps you’re right,” said Pitkin, “but Honicker, at Council Grove, said the maps do not indicate anything less than a major stream. Rivers, most notably. So there may well be numerous streams or springs on which we can rely.”

  “That means scouting ahead,” Woody replied. “It’s risky, leavin’ one camp, unless you know where the next sure water is.”

  In the Stubbs camp, Levi was laying down the law to his sons and daughters.

  “I don’t want none of you messin’ around that Pitkin outfit,” Stubbs said. “They been complainin’ about our wagons already. Give ’em a little encouragement, and some of ’em will have their noses where they don’t belong.”

  “Paw,” said Wiley, “we got to pass Fort Dodge. You reckon the army won’t have to know what we’re haulin’?”

  “I don’t aim to stop at the fort,” Stubbs said. “We’ll move on, and Pitkin’s drive will catch up to us in a day or two.”

  “Paw,” said Bonita, “if it wasn’t for those cowboys, the Indians would have murdered us all. I ain’t favorin’ us goin’ on by ourselves.”

  “It ain’t your decision to make, girl,” Stubbs said. “It’s mine; and I say we’re goin’ on past Fort Dodge, even if it means we do it alone.”

  “Haw, haw,” said Whit, “she’s got her eye on one of them cow nurses.”

  “At least they’re honest in what they’re doing,” Bonita snapped. “They ain’t haulin’ illegal goods that’s got to be hid from the government!”

  Levi Stubbs struck the girl without warning, and she fell in a patch of briars. Blood dripped from her nose, but she didn’t cry out. There was fire in her eyes, and when she fixed them on her father, Stubbs looked away. Bonita got to her knees and her sisters helped her to her feet. Without a word, the three of them walked away, leaving Stubbs and his sons to prepare their supper as best they could.

  “Don’t do no good to talk to him, Bonita,” said Jania, when she was sure Stubbs was unable to hear.

  “Just wait till we get to Santa Fe,” Laketa said, “and then we’ll leave.”

  “I’m afraid we’ll never get there alive,” said Bonita. “I hope the people at Fort Dodge won’t allow us to pass without an inspection.”

  “We could all go to prison,” Jania said.

  “Better that than lyin’ dead on the prairie, full of Indian arrows,” said Bonita.

  Bonita said no more, but in her mind she began considering some means of forcing the wagons to stop at Fort Dodge. She had been profoundly impressed by the self-assured cowboys who had driven away the attacking Indians. Somehow, without her father knowing, she had to talk to some of the Pitkin riders. Perhaps they would help her…

  “Pit,” said Woody during breakfast, “once the herd’s movin’, I aim to ride ahead to the next water. I can also look for Indian sign. I’ll be back as soon as I can. I want every one of you to keep your eyes open and your Winchesters handy.”

  Woody rode over level prairie deep in tall, rank grass. There were curious, zig-zag strips where the grass grew thicker and taller than the rest, bringing to mind stories some of the old-timers had told about lightning striking the plains. As a result, they said, the soil was greatly enriched. Woody had ridden not more than five miles when he reached a depression that at first appeared to be a stream, but the vegetation proved deceptive. The stream bed was nothing but mud, and the banks were steep. Someone had rawhided a flat piece of wood to an oak sapling. “Mud Creek” had been painted in crude black letters, and beneath that, some wag had added “The Devil’s Hind Quarters.”

  Woody rode along the muddy streambed until he reached a place where the banks were low enough that the wagons might cross. The Pitkin wagons. He seriously doubted the overloaded wagons belonging to Levi Stubbs would be so fortunate. He urged his horse into a slow gallop, for he must find water and return to the drive in time to warn the wagons of the Mud Creek crossing. Having ridden what he believed was twelve miles, Woody reached a stream which was far from dry. Yet another piece of weathered wood thonged to a cottonwood had a poorly-lettered message: “Cottonwood Creek.”

  “Damn,” said Woody, as he observed the high banks.

  Finding a place where the bank wasn’t quite as steep, Woody dismounted. He tied one end of his lariat to the saddle horn and secured the other end under his arms. Holding on to the rope, he “walked” down the bank. His boots slipped, and but for the lariat, he would have fallen into the creek. The water, when he reached it, came well above his knees and his feet became mired deep in mud. He tugged on the rope and his horse advanced enough for him to climb out. He rode more than a mile downstream, and while the banks leveled off some, he was still unable to see the bottom. The muddy bed might go on for miles. Still he didn’t give up. He rode on, following deep rats left by previous wagons, until he came to what evidently was the accepted crossing. At best, prospects looked dismal, for there was mute evidence of previous failures. Silt and mud had backed up against what was left of a smashed wagon, and there were the scattered bones of mules and oxen. The more he looked, the more sinister it became, for on the opposite bank was a pair of grassed-over mounds that undoubtedly were graves. If there had been a better cross, somebody would have found it. He rode back the way he had come, taking the unwelcome news to the rest of the outfit. Coming within sight of the herd, he waved his hat. Time was important, but he must tell them what lay ahead. Such information would be doubly important to Stubbs, with his heavily loaded wagons.

  “Come on back to the wagons,” Woody shouted to the riders. “Trouble ahead.”

  The Stubbs wagons were half a mile behind, and Woody rode near enough to speak to Stubbs, in the lead wagon.

  “Come on up behind our wagons. I’ve been scouting ahead, and there’s something you should know.”

  “Then tell us,” Stubbs shouted.

  “I’m only telling it once,” said Woody. “Come on and hear it, or count on some damn unwelcome surprises.”

  Woody rode on ahead until he reached the two wagons belonging to the Pitkin outfit. Pitkin and his riders waited impatiently for the Stubbs wagons, and Woody could see them advancing. Stubbs and his sons reined up their teams a hundred yards shy, walking the rest of the way. As soon as they were close enough to hear, Woody began speaking. He didn’t mince words, and when he spoke of the hazardous crossings, his eyes were on Levi Stubbs.

  “We’re going to have to make up some time,” Woody said, “because we’ll want to cross both these creeks today.”

  “Our teams will be give out, time we git there,” Stubbs argued. “Why can’t we cross the second creek t’morrow, when the teams is fresh?”

  “Because there’s a storm buildin’ back yonder in the west,” said Woody. “There’ll be rain sometime tonight, likely fillin’ Cottonwood Creek from bank to bank. We could end up settin’ there for a week or two, waitin’ for the water to go down.”

  Stubbs didn’t like it, but there was nothing he could say, for it was irrefutable logic. Woody rode back to his point position and the herd again took the trail. The three Stubbs wagons followed, lagging behind. Bonita rode the wagon box with her father, and he didn’t like the expression on her face.

  “What’s the matter with you?” he growled.

  “You’re purposely fallin’ behind,” said Bonita.

  “What if I am?” Stubbs snapped. “If we got trouble crossin’ them creeks, we’ll handle it ourselves. I don’t want no damn cow herders nosin’ about.”

  “There’s lots of things I don’t know, but I know the truth when I hear it,” said the girl. “There is a storm comin’, for I can see the clouds. What are we goin’ to do if the creeks flood before we can get across?”

  “Damnit, g
irl,” Stubbs roared, “that rain may be hundreds of miles away. Might not even git here. Now stop pawin’ the ground. You’re near as bad as your maw used to be.”

  “I wish to God my maw was still alive,” said Bonita bitterly. “Maybe she could have pounded some sense into you. We never should’ve left Missouri.”

  “We didn’t have nothin’ in Missouri, an’ you know it,” Stubbs said. “Nary a pot, nor a window to throw it out. Here, by God, we got us a stake, somethin’ we can turn into cash money.”

  Bonita looked at him pityingly, but said no more. His being so mule-stubborn took her a step further toward seeking help from the Pitkin outfit. Perhaps tonight, if Stubbs didn’t allow them to fall too far behind…

  Before reaching Mud Creek, Woody rode back to speak to Gladstone Pitkin.

  “Pit, the banks of this creek are steep, and there’s mud aplenty, but I think we got an advantage other outfits haven’t had. Hold both wagons back until we’ve crossed the herd. I believe after a hundred and forty thousand hooves have pounded down that bank and across to the other side, there’ll be a pretty decent wagon road. If it still looks a mite too dangerous, we’ll have to think of somethin’ else. But let’s see what the herd can do.”

  “Bueno,” said Gonzales, who had been listening. “I see this done in Texas. Wagons be across muy pronto.”

  Starting with the drag, Woody made sure all the riders knew of his plan to run the herd across Mud Creek. As the cowboys picked up the gait, the longhorns bawled in protest, but they were nearing the creek at a fast lope. The lead steers tried to balk, but the hundreds of lethal horns behind them changed their minds. The leaders plunged into the muddy gulch and fought their way up the opposite bank, and the remainder of the herd quickly became followers. The riders had gotten ahead of the longhorns, and once they had crossed, began to bunch them. Woody rode back to meet Pitkin and Gonzales, with the wagons.