The Santa Fe Trail

by Ralph Compton

  “I don’t like to question your experience on the trail,” said Pitkin, “but I must remind you that the Arkansas will be to the northwest of us. As you have so often pointed out, the mere hint of water on the night wind can drive a thirsty herd crazy.”

  “I’m considering that,” Woody said. “It’s a calculated risk.”

  “Going by way of Bent’s old fort and across Raton Pass is almost five hundred miles,” said Pitkin, “but we would avoid the desert. Suppose we considered the mountain trail through southern Colorado?”

  “I would consider the mountain trail if we had pack mules,” Woody said, “But there are the wagons. A stampede, with cattle taking to mountain draws, and we’d be there until snow flies. Even with a desert to cross, it’s the shortest way.”

  Woody stuck to his guns, and Pitkin said no more, something he would later regret.

  “Tomorrow,” said Woody, after they had bedded down the herd for the night, “we’ll reach Cimarron Crossing. I want every container—every barrel—filled with water. We’ll see that the herd gets all the water they can drink. Then we’ll drive them all night and all the next day. That should take us halfway across the Jornada.”

  “Then we’ll have a thirsty herd in a dry camp,” Nip Kelly said, “with two more dry days and nights ahead of them. You’re asking for it, amigo.”

  “Maybe,” said Woody grimly, “but it’s my decision. If it’s a bad one, then I’ll take the blame.”

  Cimarron Crossing. July 13, 1869.

  They drove the herd into the Arkansas, within sight of the formidable desert.

  “Drive ’em in,” Woody shouted. “Make them drink.”

  Pitkin’s wagon followed the chuck wagon, as Gonzales drove upriver away from the herd.

  “After supper,” said Gonzales, “we fill the water barrels.”

  Supper was a hurried affair, for they knew they must take full advantage of the night hours. Time was their enemy, bringing with the dawn a vicious sun that would suck the moisture out of man and beast. After supper, Woody, Gavin, Rusty, and Nip began filling the barrels in Pitkin’s wagon. Wiley and Whit filled their newly acquired barrels, and then helped Gonzales fill the barrels on either side of the chuck wagon.

  “Head ’em up, move ’em out,” Woody shouted.

  It was time to rest, to graze, and the longhorns resisted all efforts to drive them into the desert. It required the efforts of every rider, and almost an hour to get the herd moving. Even as they took the trail, the longhorns bawled their displeasure, and the drag riders had their hands full heading the animals that broke ranks and headed down the backtrail. The herd was tired, and they made their displeasure evident by raking their companions with their razorsharp long horns.

  “Keep ’em bunched,” Woody shouted. “Let every cow see nothing but another cow’s behind.”

  They fought the herd every step of the way. When they finally settled down, it was at a gait of their own choosing. The riders used their lariats to pop the behinds of the longhorns, but all to no avail. After three hours, the riders had to change their mounts, lest the animals become exhausted. Come the dawn, they milled the herd, while Gonzales got breakfast. The cattle bawled mournfully. The cowboys had to eat two at a time, while their companions strove mightily to keep the herd bunched. Time after time, steers broke ranks and lit out down the backtrail.

  “Head ’em up, move ’em out,” Woody shouted.

  It was all they could do, keeping the herd headed in the same direction. The sun rose with a vengeance, and soon every rider’s shirt was dark with sweat.

  “My God,” said Nell, at drag, “we’ll never get them across this desert.”

  “We got no choice,” Rusty said. “You and Naomi watch that left flank, and I’ll try to cover the rest.”

  But they simply didn’t have enough drag riders. Bonita waved her hat, getting Vic’s attention. He dropped back beside Whit’s wagon.

  “You need more drag riders,” said Bonita. “If Woody will allow you to saddle horses for Jania, Laketa, and me, we’ll help out at drag.”

  “Bless you all,” Vic said. “I’ll talk to Woody.”

  It wasn’t easy, for Woody was everywhere. When Vic was finally able to talk to Woody, he found the trail boss willing to try anything.

  “Saddle them some mounts,” said Woody.

  Vic made haste to catch up three of the horses they had taken from the outlaw gang who had tried to claim part of the herd. There were extra saddles in Pitkin’s wagon.

  “What are you attempting to do?” Pitkin asked.

  “We just picked up three more drag riders,” said Vic. “The Stubbs girls are goin’ to fill in at drag.”

  Pitkin said nothing, but Vic thought he saw approval in the Englishman’s eyes. As it turned out, the Stubbs girls rode well, and began to make a difference. Ahead, beyond the sand hills, was a barren plain without wood or water. There wasn’t a single landmark, and Pitkin constantly consulted his compass. The first few miles through the sand hills was heavy pulling, and the wagons fell behind. By the time the mules reached the level plain beyond, they were already hot, tired, and thirsty. By noon of the first day there was distant thunder, accompanied by lightning.

  “Could it be about to rain?” Pitkin wondered.

  They soon had their answer, and it was the last thing any of them expected. Egg-sized hailstones began pelting them, raising painful lumps. This assault from the sky was too much for the weary, thirsty, cantankerous longhorns, and they stampeded. Horses reared and mules balked as the merciless barrage continued. Riders hung onto their hats, trying to protect their heads, while arms, shoulders, and thighs took a beating. It lasted not more than a few minutes, but seemed much longer. By some miracle, the horse remuda had not run with the herd.

  “Gavin,” Woody shouted, “you and Rusty stay with the remuda. The rest of you riders come with me. We have to catch up to the herd.”

  Because the hail stones had struck them from behind, the longhorns had run virtually in the same direction they were being driven. Woody was gratified to find his five female riders had followed. He would need all the help he could get. They had ridden more than five miles before they began seeing small clusters of longhorns. Having no graze and no water, they stood there bawling their misery, like a chorus of lost souls.

  “We’ll drive this bunch until we can combine it with the next one,” Woody said.

  “The only damn thing in our favor,” said Nip Kelly, “is that they managed to run the way we wanted ’em to go.”

  Looking back, Woody could see the horse remuda and the wagons following. After ten miles, half the herd was still missing.

  “What I was afraid of,” Vic said. “The varmints didn’t all run straight. Some of ’em fanned out. We’ll have to circle.”

  “We’ll wait for the wagons,” said Woody. “We’re likely to be a while, and for safety’s sake, we may have to make camp right here.”

  Pitkin reined up his teams and Woody explained the situation.

  “Very well,” Pitkin said, through thinly-veiled exasperation, “I suppose there is no help for it.”

  The riders fanned out in a half-circle, but with only a small measure of success. They would have to ride back to near the start of the stampede and swing farther out. Leading the way, Woody bypassed Pitkin’s wagon. He didn’t feel like explaining their need for riding back the way they had come. But there were others who didn’t understand.

  “Vic,” Bonita said, “why are we riding back the way we’ve just come?”

  “Because all the herd didn’t run straight,” said Vic. “Some of them broke ranks, slewing off to one side or the other. Riding a straight line, we’ve missed them.”

  It proved to be the case, and slowly they brought the herd together. Sundown was an hour away when a final tally satisfied Woody. He called the outfit together, and they all listened glumly as he told them what they didn’t want to hear.

  “We move out after supper. A small ration of
water for the horses and mules.”

  “At the risk of seeming to question your judgment,” said Pitkin, “do you really think these cattle are physically able to stand another night on the trail?”

  “We’re about to find out,” Woody said. “They mustered up enough strength to scatter themselves over twenty miles of desert.”

  The first stars were flowering silver in a purple sky when they again took the trail. The mournful lowing of the cattle had become a dirge, and the riders were grimly silent. If they had doubts about Woody, they remained silent, for he was trail boss. The showdown came at dawn, when Gavin rode forward from drag.

  “Woody, some cows are down and can’t get up.”

  “We’ll rest the herd for a couple of hours, while we have breakfast,” Woody said. “If there’s some that can’t get up when we’re ready to move out, shoot them.”

  Nell Pitkin had followed Gavin, and she listened unbelievingly to Woody’s order.

  “Woodrow Miles,” she said, “you are a heartless, unfeeling brute.”

  “I reckon,” said Woody, “but I’m also the trail boss.”

  But all Woody’s plans changed in an instant. The outfit was having breakfast when the Kiowa struck. There were two dozen of them, and they seemed literally to rise out of the desert sand.

  The attack was a total surprise, and they galloped their horses near enough to loose a barrage of arrows before a shot could be fired. Gladstone Pitkin was the first to get off a shot, and the first to take an Indian arrow. Wiley and Whit had left their Winchesters under their wagon boxes, and before reaching their weapons, each took an arrow in the thigh. An arrow struck Woody in the back, high up, slamming him face-down in the sand.

  An Indian was about to drive a lance through Woody, when Bonita Stubbs shot the brave off his horse. There was a scream as Naomi Pitkin fell with an arrow in her side. But the defenders fought back, and the deadly Winchesters took their toll. More than half the attackers had been shot off their horses when the survivors gave up the fight and rode away.

  “My God,” Gavin said, kneeling beside the wounded Naomi.

  An arrow had struck Gladstone Pitkin below the collarbone, but he ignored it, instead concerning himself with those who were more seriously wounded. He looked questioningly at Gavin.

  “A flesh wound,” Gavin said, “but she’s losing blood.”

  “Woody’s wound appears to be much more serious,” said Pitkin. “Perhaps you’d better see to him.”

  Rusty and Vic had raised Woody to a sitting position, and Nell was kneeling beside him, weeping.

  “He took a bad one,” Vic said. “Drivin’ it on through could puncture a lung.”

  To their surprise, Woody grunted. He lifted his head, and they could see the pain and uncertainty in his eyes. Fixing them on Gavin, he spoke.

  “Gavin…you’re…trail boss. Good luck…amigo.”

  15

  The next several hours were a nightmare. Quickly, Gavin saw to Naomi’s wound. His first priority was to stop the bleeding. He appealed to Rusty, Vic, and Nip Kelly.

  “Some of you will have to help me drive these arrows on through. If any one of you believe you’re more qualified than I am, then you’re welcome to remove that arrow from Woody.”

  “My God, no,” said Rusty. “You and Woody’s been pards too long. He’d want you to drive that arrow out of him.”

  “Unless Pit has some objection,” Nip said, “I’ll take that barb out of him.”

  “Then I reckon Rusty and me can drive them arrows out of Wiley and Whit,” said Vic. “Rusty, are you game?”

  “I reckon,” Rusty replied, swallowing hard. “Gavin’s got the hardest task of all, so the least we can do is help where we can.”

  “I bring all the whiskey,” said Gonzales. “There is no more.”

  He produced four quart bottles.

  “Wiley and Whit’s got two wagonloads of the stuff,” Gavin said. “We’ll tap a keg of that, if we need to. Nip, Rusty, and Vic, take a bottle of this. See that Pitkin, Wiley, and Whit drink at least half of this, and give it time to knock them out.”

  With Nell standing fearfully by, Gavin examined Woody, studying the angle of the arrow. It hadn’t yet pierced a lung, or there would be bloody froth on Woody’s lips. The trick would be to drive it on through, missing any vital organs.

  “Is he…can you…save him?” Nell asked.

  “I don’t know,” said Gavin. “All I can do is try. The arrow must be driven through, and there’s always the danger of piercing a lung. It’s one of those devilish situations where his life can be saved only by risking it. While I support him, I’ll need you to get at least half this bottle of whiskey down him.”

  Woody being unconscious, it was difficult getting him to drink the whiskey, but Nell was determined.

  “He’ll need maybe half an hour for it to put him under,” Gavin said, “While we’re waiting for that, I’ll cleanse and disinfect Naomi’s wound. Gonzales should have water boiling by now.”

  Nell brought the hot water and a quantity of clean white muslin that Gonzales had thoughtfully purchased. Cows bawled mournfully, but lives hung in the balance, and there was no time to consider anything else. Nobody noticed the clouds gathering ahead of them until the distant lightning began dancing across the heavens. Thunder boomed.

  “Rain!” Nell shouted.

  “Somewhere ahead of us,” Gavin said, “but not close enough to save the herd.”

  But the turmoil in the heavens and the several hours’ rest did wonders for the cattle. Somewhere ahead there was the smell of water, and the longhorns responded. It started with a few cows in a shambling run, escalating into a full-blown stampede. The thundering herd was soon lost in the distance, the clouds of dust the only sign of their passing.

  “Well, by God,” Nip Kelly said, “I never seen the like. Don’t look like there’s ever been any rain on this cussed desert, and that means it’s somewhere beyond. Twenty-five miles, at least.”

  “They’ll run all the way to the Cimarron,” said Vic. “At least, when we’re able to go on, we’ll stand a chance of roundin’ ’em up. I ain’t puttin’ Woody down, but them cattle purely wouldn’t have made it without that storm.”

  Pitkin was under the influence of the whiskey and wouldn’t learn of the stampede for a while, and that suited Gavin. Woody’s life was in his hands, and the burden lay heavy on his mind. Finally he had put it off as long as he could, and it was time to drive the arrow on through. Nell had spread a blanket and Woody lay on it, facedown.

  “This won’t be pleasant,” Gavin said. “It’ll be hell on me, but you don’t have to watch it.”

  “I know,” said Nell, “but I want to stay. I can’t forget the last words I said to him. I called him a heartless brute.”

  The recollection reduced her to tears, and Gavin said nothing. He broke off the end of the shaft, getting rid of the feathers. He would need most of the arrow’s length to drive it through. He removed the shells from his Colt, and taking it by the muzzle, began pounding the shaft of the arrow. Despite the whiskey, Woody grunted with every blow, but there was now cause for hope. As long as there was life, it was unlikely the deadly arrow had penetrated a lung. Gavin’s shirt was soon soaked with sweat, and it dripped off the end of his nose. The muzzle of the Colt slipped in his sweaty hands, for the pressure was almost more than he could stand. He could tell when the barb of the arrow exited, and he drew a long breath of relief. Nell was pale as death, silent tears dripping off her chin.

  “Help me turn him over,” Gavin said. “The arrow’s out.”

  Gavin said a silent prayer that when they turned Woody over, there wouldn’t be that telltale red froth on his lips. There wasn’t, and Gavin wiped his sweating brow on the sleeve of his shirt.

  “Gavin,” said Nell. Overcome with emotion, she seemed about to put her arms about him.

  “While I lift him up,” Gavin said, “you remove his shirt.”

  Surprisingly, the wound hadn’t b
led much. Gavin poured disinfectant into the wound, and preparing two large pads from the muslin, placed one over the wound, front and back. He then used strips of muslin to bind the pads in place, soaking them with disinfectant.

  “I’ll need you to watch him,” said Gavin. “If he gets restless, he’ll lose both those pads. I’ve soaked both these pads in disinfectant, and they’ll need soaking again, as quickly as they dry out. Will you do that?”

  “Yes,” Nell said. “I’ll do it.”

  Lightning still blazed across the heavens, and the tantalizing smell of the distant rain made it seem imminent. But with the wind, thunder, and lightning, there was no rain as far as the eye could see. With Woody resting, Gavin made his way to the blanket on which Gladstone Pitkin had been stretched out. Nip Kelly raised the arrow triumphantly.

  “He’ll make it,” said Nip. “He’s such a tough old rooster, I had trouble drivin’ the arrow on through. Hardest part was gettin’ the whiskey down him. He ain’t much of a drinkin’ man, or he’s used to better whiskey.”

  Nip disinfected the wound, padded it front and back, and then soaked the pads with the disinfectant. Gavin moved on to see what progress Vic and Rusty had made with Wiley and Whit.

  “I reckon we must’ve done somethin’ right,” Vic said. “The arrows are out, and these two is still breathin’.”

  “Disinfect their wounds, bandage them, and let them sleep,” said Gavin. “I reckon we have enough barreled water to keep ourselves, the mules, and the horses alive. Without the herd, we can survive. This is a poor excuse for a camp, but with so many wounded, we’ll have to make do.”

  “We can’t be sure that bunch of Indians won’t come lookin’ for revenge,” Vic said.

  “No,” said Gavin, “but we won’t have to worry about them comin’ after us after dark. They were Kiowa.”

  “I’ve never seen weather like this, since the Liano Estacado,” Rusty said. “All we’ll get out of all that wind, thunder, and lightning is a little relief from the sun.”

  “Don’t knock it,” said Vic. “As long as that’s goin’ on, and there’s a smell of water, them longhorns will be runnin’ hell-bent-for-election toward it. Sure as hell, it’s saved the herd for us.”