Wheeler's Choice

by Jerry Buck

  I was black and blue from wrestling with the cattle. I had a number of scratches from the horns. I figured I’d be stove up in the morning. I had the two-to-four watch, and I hoped to grab some shut-eye as soon after dinner as possible.

  Angus estimated his loss during the river crossing at a half-dozen cows. But he gave Ginger permission to slaughter yet another for our supper. It was an extravagance to kill a cow on a drive, since most of the meat would spoil before it could be used.

  Ginger and Horse led the steer away from the herd so that the smell of blood would not frighten them.

  Ginger expertly cut the meat into thick slabs of steaks and roasts. He dredged the steaks in flour and cooked them in suet in the Dutch ovens. He roasted the onions and potatoes he’d gotten in trade with the farmers.

  Like all range cooks, Ginger threw everything into his son-of-a bitch stew but the horns and hooves. He chopped up lean beef, the heart, liver, testicles, tongue, sweetbreads, and marrow gut. He let it simmer for several hours in its own juices, then added onions and a pinch of chili powder.

  At supper the cowboys were in a good mood. The tension of the river crossing was behind them and none among them had been seriously hurt. They were also cheered by the feast Ginger had prepared.

  “Hey, Ginger,’’ Burkhardt said as he admired his steak, “that Old Stag you cookin’? Figgered after the way he didn’t taken the river Mr. Finlay might be glad to be shut of him.’’

  We ate the delicious repast, and our ravenous appetites sent us back for seconds. Ginger had boggy top for dessert, stewed fruit with a biscuit pastry topping. We ate our fill and drank gallons of coffee.

  When the cowboys pulled out sacks of tobacco to roll smokes, I was surprised to see Dusty with a sack in his hand.

  “Bought it at the store at Red River Station,” he explained. “Time I started smokin’ like ever’body else.”

  He fumbled with the bag and paper, spilling more tobacco onto the ground than he got to stay on the paper.

  He never would have gotten it right if Alamo hadn’t taken pity on him and instructed him in the art of one-hand rolling. The finer points still eluded him, but he got a decent enough quirley to put into his mouth.

  Dusty yanked it out immediately and spat out a few shreds of tobacco. A piece of white paper stuck to his lower lip.

  Alamo struck a match and held it for Dusty.

  He inhaled deeply and leaned back to enjoy his first smoke.

  Instead, he went into a coughing fit.

  He tried a few more puffs, but all they produced were more coughs.

  Alamo laughed. “Reminds me of the first time I tried it. Only I used com silk. My mouth didn’t taste right for a month.”

  Dusty slinked off to a spot near the fire. He pulled out one of his penny dreadfuls and started reading. I don’t recall seeing Dusty try another cigarette the rest of the drive.

  Chapter Twenty

  At the noon stop a week later Angus called Chago, Alamo, and me aside.

  “Boys,” he said, as he inspected the sandwiches of cold roast beef Ginger had prepared, “I want you to start riding flankers. I got a feelin’ the savages are mighty close. Like to fight shy of ’em, if we can.”

  Angus wasn’t a man to act on groundless fears. I asked, “That just a feeling, Angus, or you seen something?”

  “I was up to Walnut Creek, checking on our night camp,” he said. “I seen lotsa tracks in the soft ground. Unshod ponies. Some had rawhide shoes. Tracks led off to the east.”

  Alamo took a bite of sandwich, and with his mouth full said, “Sounds like a Comanche war party. Or maybe Kioway. Them tracks fresh?”

  “Not more’n two days at the most, I’d say.”

  “Coupla herds ahead of us,” I said. “Any sign they been hit?”

  “None I could see,” Angus said. “They’d take the hides, but warn’t no carcasses left for the coyotes. Saw plenty of cattle tracks, but none ’em goin’ off with the savages.”

  “Señor,” Chago suggested, “maybe they have gone to hunt some other place.”

  “Don’t seem likely,” Angus said. “They know the cattle trail as well as we do.”

  Alamo said, “Why go elsewhere when they got easy pickin’s?”

  “They’ll find no easy pickin’s here!” Angus said firmly. “The heathens’ll nae take my cattle without a fight! I want every man to carry his rifle from now on. And I want you three to ride scout. The savages are nearby—I want to know where!”

  We set up a system of rotation so that all three of us wouldn’t be away from the herd at once. Alamo and I drew the first duty.

  “You got any preference, podnah?” he asked.

  “The Injuns rode east. I’ll ride east.”

  “That ain’t very neighborly,” Alamo said. “If you meet up with ’em, save some fer me.”

  We got our Winchesters from the wagon and rode out. I headed northeast so that I could be about two miles out from the herd and about the same distance ahead.

  It was a high, rolling, grassy plain broken by a few ridges. I could see for miles. There was nothing on the prairie from horizon to horizon except occasional groves of blackjack oak trees and a few grazing deer. The wind whipped the grass until it rolled like ocean surf.

  Still, the Indians could be hiding somewhere. There were enough dips in the prairie to hide a buffalo herd. I rode slowly up the slope of each rise so that I could see over the top without being easily spotted. I took off my hat each time, lest the high crown give me away.

  I rode that way for hours, pacing myself to the herd. Several times I caught sight of the long drive. But even when I couldn’t see them, clouds of dust told me where they were. That worried me. The Indians would see the dust, too.

  At sundown I rode into camp along the banks of Walnut Creek. We’d follow the stream for a while, and our next river crossing would be the South Canadian. Two days ago we’d forded the willow-lined Washita at Rock Crossing. The river had red clay banks, but the north bank had a rock bottom that eliminated any worries about quicksand. We lashed the wagon to stout cottonwood poles and ferried it across high and dry.

  We took extra care with that. Nobody wanted the food stores to spoil or to sleep in wet blankets.

  The herd was quiet and bedded down when I rode in.

  The aroma of supper was in the air, and it mingled with the smells of the herd, the prairie, and the trees along the creek’s edge.

  Something else was in the air—mosquitoes! Every man was swatting at the pesky critters. The cows wielded their tails like bullwhips to drive the mosquitoes away.

  “No sign of Injuns,” I reported to Angus. “Not hide nor hair, and no tracks, either.”

  Alamo had ridden in just ahead of me, and he hadn’t seen anything, either.

  “I suppose I should be grateful,” Angus said, “but it’s the waitin’ that wears you down.”

  “They’s round here som’eres, that’s fer sure,” said Alamo. “Mr. Finlay seen their sign. I took a look myself. Them’s Injun ponies, fer sure.”

  Angus said, “I’m sending Alamo and Chago on scout tomorrow. Ben, I want you to ride point with Crayler. He’ll take the senior position at the right. You take left. Pete’ll ride relief.”

  I heard a buzzing at one ear and quickly cupped a hand to it. I missed the mosquito.

  “Be a good idee, Mr. Finlay,” Alamo said, “iffen you’d tell the night watch to keep a sharp eye and nose to the wind. Be jes’ like them redskins to burn a coupla sacks a buffalo hair. Makes a fearsome stink an’ stampedes a herd ever’ time.”

  “Aye, but I’m thinkin’ if they hit in force it’ll be in broad daylight. Ain’t like a superstitious heathen to come at night. More likely at night they’d sneak into camp and pick us clean without wakin’ a man. I’m postin’ a guard for the camp.”

  Another mosquito hovered noisily by my head, then settled on my neck. I dispatched it handily. It was going to be an interesting night.

  In the morning we
wolfed down breakfast in record time and had the herd on the move before the sun was fully up.

  Alamo rode east this time, and he had no sooner disappeared over the horizon than he came tearing across the prairie like the devil was on his trail. We didn’t have to ask what was coming behind him.

  Angus rode just ahead of the herd. Alamo beat a dusty path for him and reined up sharply. Clods of dirt went flying from his horse’s hooves.

  “Kioway war party!” he cried breathlessly. “’Bout a mile back, and headin’ thisaway!”

  “How many?” Angus asked.

  “Twenny, I reckon!”

  Angus rode back to me. “Keep the herd movin’,” he said. “I’ll powwow with ’em, if they’ve a mind to palaver. But no matter what, keep the herd movin’. I want every man to have his rifle out an’ ready. It won’t hurt to show ’em we mean business.”

  Angus rode over to inform Crayler. I drew my Winchester out of its boot. I held the rifle high over my head and signaled with it to the left swing. He in turn passed the message on back.

  The Kiowas came over the horizon and made for the front of the herd at a trot. They were armed with an assortment of rifles, lances, and war clubs. The cowboys eyed them nervously and kept the herd moving. Every man hefted his rifle.

  The Indians halted about a hundred yards out. Several of them engaged in a heated discussion, with a lot of hand gestures. Several times one of them pointed toward the cattle.

  At last one brave, apparently a leader, rode out about fifty yards and waited.

  Angus peeled off from the front of the drive and rode back to confer with the Indian. I couldn’t see them too well over the cattle or through the dust. But I guessed that Angus’s Gaelic stubbornness wouldn’t yield an inch.

  The powwow didn’t last long.

  Angus galloped back to the head of the drive. He didn’t give the Indians a backward glance, but he held himself stiff in the saddle.

  “It’s a fight they want, boys!” he called out. “And it’s a fight they’ll get!”

  Angus had no sooner reached Crayler and Alamo than the Kiowas charged the herd, firing wildly to stampede the cattle.

  The frightened longhorns bolted.

  We raced beside them, trying to hold them in line. We took potshots at the pursuing Indians, and when we weren’t firing, we waved our rifles at the cattle. Several times I sent my rifle butt crashing down on the head or rump of a longhorn that tried to swing away from the herd.

  In the melee and confusion, I could hardly see the Indians. But I heard their wild cries and the crack of their rifles.

  The rampaging herd swiftly bore down on the chuck wagon. Ginger stood up in front and whipped at Sorry and Sinful. He finally got the wagon out of the way before he was run down.

  Chago, drawn by the sound of rifle fire and the thunder of the stampede, was suddenly by my side.

  “Take over point!” I yelled. “I’m gonna help Zack with the remuda!” I don’t know if he heard me, but he understood my gestures.

  The horses were as much a target for the Indians as the cattle. Three braves had gotten ahead of the herd and had nearly caught up with Zack.

  Zack, running the horses ahead of the herd, threw lead at the Indians, but they kept gaining on him.

  I took after Zack and the remuda, firing my rifle at a gallop. That’s something I hadn’t done since I rode with Mosby. The art of it quickly came back to me. One brave toppled from his soft pad saddle of cow hide stuffed with buffalo hair.

  A second brave spun his mustang around and ran straight at me. He raised his war club over his head.

  Our horses collided with an impact that sent both of them down. I flew to the ground and the breath was knocked out of me. Gasping for air, I struggled to my knees and brought up my rifle to deflect a powerful blow delivered by the club.

  My fingers were numbed. I swung the stock up into the Indian’s belly. He tumbled backward. He was a stock brave with a handsome bronzed face. He was clad in a rawhide breechcloth and leggings. His coal-black hair was parted in the middle and was decorated with a plume of horsehair.

  Swinging his club again, he lunged at me.

  I threw myself to one side, rolled over, and brought my rifle up. He was on top of me before I could work the cocking lever. The club struck a glancing blow just above my right eye. My forehead went dead, but I could feel blood trickling down the side of my face.

  He drew the club back for the death blow. Before he could strike, I rammed a knee into his groin. At the same time I got the other foot under his stomach. With all my strength I lifted him off the ground and threw him backward.

  He fell beneath the hooves of the stampede.

  In the intensity of our private war, I had not noticed that we had been overtaken by the herd. The cattle thundered by within an arm’s reach.

  My horse had prudently gotten out of the way and was eating grass thirty yards away. I found my hat and remounted.

  Tom Kelly reined up beside me. “Chago seen you was in the way,” he said. “He damn near kilt himself gitttin’ them critters over.”

  I was still winded and said nothing.

  “You all right, Ben?” Kelly asked. “You’re bleedin’.”

  “Bunged up,” I finally managed to gasp. “I’m okay. Les get going.”

  As we spurred our horses, Kelly said, “I swear this here’s as loco as an Irish shivaree. I cain’t make heads ner tails who’s winnin’.”

  I said, “That makes two of us.”

  Once again I didn’t know where the Kiowa braves were. There were none on this side of the herd. The dust was an impenetrable curtain covering the running cattle.

  I’d been in cavalry battles like this. When you’re in the thick of the action, you have only a horseback view of what’s happening immediately around you. The overall picture of the battle is simply beyond your ken—and better left to the generals. I wondered if Angus had any better idea of what was going on than I did.

  Then it ended as suddenly as it had begun. The noise stopped, the Indians were either dead or gone, and the cattle abandoned the stampede. Better still, we had kept the herd together.

  We were nearly to the banks of the South Canadian. When I caught up with Angus, he was giving orders to bed the herd down and make camp.

  It wasn’t until we sat around the camp fire that night and traded stories that I got a clearer picture of what had happened. Or, at least, as each man thought it had happened.

  Daffern said, “I was on right swing. Them Kioway-Apaches come right fer me. All I could think of was I’d never seen the inside of the Saratoga again. I tell you, I could hear that orchestra playin’! Next thing I knew redskins was in front a me and redskins was ahind me. No need to aim, just shoot. Reckon I kilt three of ’em. Two fer sure.”

  Claymore’s left arm was in a sling. “I was seein’ to the herd an’ one a them Kioway snuck up behind me and fired afore I knew it. Blew my Winchester right outa my hand! Winged me a little bit. Ginger done patched it up. Hardly hurts none atall. I got the hostile what done it. Shot him twix the eyes with my forty-four.”

  As I listened to the stories, I bathed my wound. It was sore to touch, and I had a throbbing ache in my head. I wrapped a clean piece of cloth around my head and counted myself lucky.

  Dusty sat in the grass with his supper still uneaten in the plate in his lap. He said, “I never kilt a man before, Mr. Wheeler. Even if it was just an Injun. I was ridin’ drag, and one of ’em came back and tried to cut out some of the herd. I couldn’t let ’im steal none of Mr. Finlay’s cattle. He was dependin’ on me.”

  “You did the right thing, Dusty,” I said. “You behaved like a man.”

  Zack said, “Never was much wif a gun. Kep on a-shootin’ at that red man and kep on a-missin’. Lucky fer me he wam’t no better shot likewise. He got in ’mongst the horses and made off wif five. But I saved yore night mount, Mr. Wheeler.”

  We ate beans and biscuits and bacon that night, and we were gratef
ul for even that. If Ginger hadn’t gotten the wagon out of the way, our bellies’d be hugging our backbones before we got to Kansas. The stampede would have demolished the wagon—and surely killed Ginger and Horse.

  Over coffee, Angus said, “We’ll count the cattle in the morning before we cross the South Canadian. I figger the savages got away with thirty head. That an’ the horses.”

  “Been talking to the boys,” I said. “Sounds like we gave them Kiowas a licking.”

  Angus snorted. “I wouldn’t put much stock in camp fire talk. I questioned every man, and when I got through I counted more dead savages than they had in the whole war party. Nae, I think maybe we got five or six, and the rest got away with enough cattle to keep their bellies full for quite a spell.”

  I sipped my coffee and played with the thought that an Indian raid was just another part of life on a drive. Life still went on. At midnight I’d have to saddle up and ride guard. I was glad that Zack had saved my night mount. Finally I said, “I don’t think they’ll be back.”

  Angus said, “We’ve seen the last of ’em. But if they should be foolish enough to come back, we’ll fight ’em again. I stand up for what’s mine, and no man’s goin’ to take what’s mine without payin’ a price in blood.”

  He paused for a long time, then said, “I don’t have to ask if you feel the same. You been done a terrible wrong. There’s men down the trail who got a debt to pay to you.”

  I didn’t say anything. I studied the bottom of my coffee cup.

  Angus spread his hands and continued. “I know, I know,” he said. “I tried to talk you out of it. Not because I don’t think you have a right, but because I know what it does to a man’s soul when he seeks revenge. I’ve been down that road myself. I’ve never told you that. Fact is, I never told anyone. Only secret I kept from my wife, God rest her soul.”

  Angus looked me in the eye and said, “My father was a miller in the Highlands, in Strath Spey. You should see the Highlands, Ben. God himself had to create such beauty. But such beauty also held within its breast such sorrow. My father had fought in the wars, and he wouldn’t yield to any man. I come by that righteously. One day my father got into a fray with the laird over a debt, and the laird’s men killed him.