The Dodge City Trail

by Ralph Compton

  “What about a bill of sale?”

  “If one is needed,” Chato replied, “you will write it.”

  “We need to talk,” Dan said. “Give us a few minutes.”

  Chato nodded, stepped through the door and was gone.

  “By God,” Tobe Barnfield shouted, “four months on the trail, with a bonus, that’s five hundred dollars a man.”

  “Split twenty-one ways, that’s about twenty-four dollars a month for each of us,” Dan said. “That’s not much for fighting pay.”

  “It could be,” Skull Kimbrough said. “How many riders has he got?”

  “Fifteen,” said a voice from outside the door.

  Most of the men looked surprised, Palo Elfego was embarrassed, and Dan would have laughed if the situation hadn’t been so perilous. He spoke quickly to prevent someone else cursing or saying something that might jeopardize the shaky alliance with Chato.

  “Sixteen men at five hundred each comes to eight thousand dollars,” Dan said. “It’ll cost each of us about three hundred and eighty dollars at the end of the drive. Is there any one of you who thinks that’s too much?”

  “I think it is,” Sloan Kuykendall said, “if they ain’t gonna help us with the herd.”

  “We can manage the herd,” Wolf Bowdre said, “even if we have to make riders of our women and kids. As I understand it, we’re hirin’ Chato and his men to help us reach Dodge City alive. If they can do that, we can handle the rest.”

  “Amen to that,” Rux Carper said.

  “I’m willing to pay,” said Spence Wilder. “When we get the herd sold, we can afford to.”

  “Let’s decide, one way or the other,” said Dan. “Any one of you who’s unwilling to accept Chato’s offer, speak up.”

  Nobody said anything, and all eyes shifted to the uncomfortable Sloan Kuykendall.

  “Well, hell,” Kuykendall said, “three hundred and eighty dollars is a pile of money when you’re broke. But Spence is right. When we’ve sold the herd, we’ll have money. Let’s hire them fightin’ hombres and get this drive on the trail.”

  “Now that brings us to the horses,” Dan said. “Are there any objections to Chato’s offer?”

  “I reckon that depends on who has to sign that bill of sale when the horses are sold at Dodge City,” Ward McNelly replied.

  That drew some grim laughter, for every man in the room knew what he meant. The horses were almost sure to be stolen, perhaps some of them in South Texas.

  “I’ll sign the bill of sale,” Dan said. “Is there any more discussion?”

  Nobody said anything, and Dan nodded to Palo Elfego. He went to the door and spoke to Chato, who stepped back into the room.

  “We’re accepting your offer, Chato,” Dan said. “We won’t need the horses until we’re ready to begin the drive. We will get word to you through Palo.”

  Chato nodded, stepped out the door, and there was a patter of hoofs as he rode away.

  “One thing we ain’t talked about,” Silas Hamby said. “When are we aimin’ to start this drive? I reckon every man in this room has been told his taxes is due July first, and if I was a bettin’ man, I’d bet ever’ last one of you is as unable to pay as I am. Now where are we gonna stand July first, besides out in the yard?”

  Nobody laughed. Dan picked up the slack in the conversation, aware of where it was headed.

  “We’ll have to move out before July first,” he said. “I want every one of us in a single outfit, an armed camp.”

  “I can see the need for that,” Aubin Chambers said, “but we got to set a time to finish this gather.”

  “The last day of August,” Kirby Wilkerson said, “and we can start the drive September first.”

  “Hell’s fire,” Rufe Keeler said, “some of us may not be ready by then. I ain’t got even one man—or woman, for that matter—to ride backup.”

  “Damn it,” Silas said, “this is gettin’ us nowhere. Dan, what do you think?”

  “I don’t think we need a hard and fast date to finish the gather,” Dan said, “and I don’t think we should all remain separated until July first, when we’re to be evicted. I believe we should throw all the outfits together now, as much for our own protection as for getting every man’s gather done. We can take the gather one ranch at a time, every available rider roping and branding stock until that ranch has its thousand head ready for the trail. Then we move on to the next range, and when the last gather has been done, we’re ready for the trail.”

  “I like that,” Duncan Kilgore said. “When do we start?”

  “Monday morning,” Dan replied, “if everybody agrees. Nobody gets hurt, because the drive won’t begin until the last gather has been done. What it amounts to is, we’ll all be together in a moving camp. Ledoux’s killers can’t gun us down one or two at a time, and we’ll post guards at night so they can’t take us by surprise. Now who’s in favor of what I’ve just proposed?”

  “I am,” they shouted in almost a single voice.

  “Then I’ll put twenty-one numbers in my hat,” Dan said, “and we’ll draw lots. Your gather will be done according to the number you draw.”

  Dan took a sheet of paper and tore off twenty-one strips. Numbering them, he put them in his hat and invited each man to take a number. Quickly they did, and when there was only one left, Dan took it.

  “Twenty-one,” he said. “Faro. The luck of the draw.”

  “Whoa,” Silas said, “we forgot somebody. What about the DeVoes?”

  “I haven’t forgotten them,” Dan said. “I’m taking responsibility for their gather, and we’ll do it after we’ve finished mine. The DeVoes will be part of our moving outfit, and young Denny and me will work as a roping team. So where do we begin Monday morning?”

  “With me, I reckon,” Silas said. “I got number one.”

  “I’m going to make a permanent list of names and numbers, so there’ll be no disagreements or misunderstandings later,” Dan said. “Starting with two, sing out the number, and then your name.”

  One by one the men called out their numbers, beginning with Sloan Kuykendall and ending with Spence Wilder.

  “That’s the order of your gather,” Dan said when they were finished. “Those of you who have a good wagon, we can use as many as six, and we’ll have to depend on the women to drive them. You’ll be bringing only your clothing, grub, your weapons, tools for eating, and utensils for cooking. Those with extra wagon canvas, bring it. We’ll need it for shelter. Since the first gather will be here, I’d suggest that you get your outfits together and be here tomorrow night. Those of you who are too far away, we’ll look for you on Monday. Do you have any questions?”

  “Once we abandon our spreads,” Hiram Beard said, “there’s no way to keep Ledoux from gettin’ wise. Do you really believe he won’t try to stop us?”

  “He won’t care about you quitting your place,” Dan replied, “but I think he’ll purely raise hell when he learns we’re takin’ a thousand head of cows from it. Just one more reason why we’re pulling everybody together into one big outfit and ending each gather as quickly as we can. The best we can hope for is that Ledoux won’t learn we’re planning a drive until we’re almost ready for the trail.”

  “We can’t nowise count on that,” Wolf Bowdre said. “There was five gents that was asked to this meetin’ that didn’t show. I’d bet my saddle at least one of the five will spill his guts to Ledoux before Monday morning.”

  “It won’t hurt us that much,” Dan said. “Ledoux will still count on intimidating us one at a time, and we’ll all be together in a single outfit before he can make a move.”

  When the men had ridden out, Dan put on his hat, preparing to return to the DeVoe place.

  “I got just one question,” Silas Hamby said. “How’d you manage to draw the twenty-first gather for yourself?”

  “I didn’t drop twenty-one into the hat until the rest had drawn.”

  Uvalde, Texas. April 24, 1870.

  Two men s
at on the porch of the cabin that had once belonged to Daniel Ember. It was a lazy Sunday afternoon, and they passed a bottle back and forth. Suddenly, the silence was broken by the patter of hoofbeats, and both men got to their feet to greet the approaching rider. The pair had been among those who had ridden down Dan Ember, and they stepped off the porch as the horseman reined up. He had a thin, ferret face, and his anxious eyes were on the pair of Colts facing him. One of the gunmen spoke.

  “You’d better have business here, bucko. Have you?”

  “I … I’m Dud Willett,” the horseman stammered, “an’ I got a place over in Zavala. I need to talk to Ledoux … uh, Mr. Ledoux. It’s important.”

  “Mr. Ledoux ain’t here,” said the second man. He’s in San Antone, and won’t be back until sometime next week. Whatever you got to say, tell us and we’ll pass it on. Git down.”

  Willett almost fell from the saddle, relaxing a little when his hosts put away their guns. Quickly he told what he knew of the planned trail drive. Finished, he looked for some sign of approval from the pair of impassive gunmen. There was none. He turned to his horse and mounted, eager to be gone. But before he rode away, he had a final request for the pair of surly gunmen.

  “Please see that Mr. Ledoux gets my message. I … I hope he’ll take care of me.”

  “Oh, he will,” one of the men replied with a contemptuous half smile. “Believe me, bucko, when the time comes, he’ll take care of you.”

  “It’s going to be a little scary,” Adeline said, “leaving the cabin and moving out into the open. We’ll have no privacy.”

  “I can’t wait,” Denny said. “Who needs privacy?”

  “A woman does,” Lenore said.

  “You ain’t a woman,” said Denny. “You’re just an old persnickety girl.”

  She went after him, but he escaped out the door and leaped off the porch into the night.

  “You won’t be able to take anything except your clothes, whatever food you have, your eating tools, and cooking utensils,” Dan said. “I doubt your old wagon can be patched up enough for the drive. We can use the mules to carry packs. Silas loaned us two more horses, and they’re in the barn. I brought them back with me tonight.”

  “What about saddles?”

  “Saddles too,” Dan said. “They belonged to Silas’s two sons. Double-rigged Texas saddles. You and Lenore will be riding like men.”

  “We can,” Adeline said, “and we will. We have Levi’s pants and shirts.”

  Lenore had gone to bed, and Denny came in off the porch.

  “It’s time you were in bed,” Adeline said, “and it may be the last time you’ll see a bed for months. We’re leaving here tomorrow evening.”

  Sunday morning dawned clear, the sun warm, the grass green, and new leaves on the live oak and elm trees rustling in a gentle wind.

  “Before we go, I want to go to the shallows and take a bath,” Lenore said.

  “I wouldn’t mind that, myself,” Adeline agreed. “Dan, what about you and Denny?”

  “I don’t want no bath,” Denny said. “I ain’t takin’ my britches off with you and Lenore around.”

  “I think I’ll pass,” Dan said. “I wouldn’t feel comfortable without my gun. Where is this shallows?”

  “Downriver a few hundred yards,” Adeline said. “The water there’s not more than knee deep, and there’s a sandy bottom.”

  “I’d better go part of the way with you,” Dan said. “Things being the way they are, you shouldn’t be down there alone. You comin’, Denny?”

  “No, sir,” Denny said. “Last time, Lenore caught me and threw me in.”

  Dan followed Adeline and Lenore along the river until they were well away from the cabin.

  “There’s a bend in the river just beyond that stand of elms,” Adeline said, “and that’s where the shallows are.

  “I’ll wait this side of the elms,” Dan told her. “If you need me, sing out.”

  They went on, and Dan wondered at the look of relief on Lenore’s face. He knew she liked him, but she seemed wary, uncertain. He thought it might have something to do with the disgusting proposition Burton Ledoux had made. Even if everything else had been in order, he was old enough to be Lenore’s father. Dan stretched out, his back against an elm, his hat tipped over his eyes. He was half dozing when a scream snapped him instantly awake. He sprang to his feet, cocking his Colt as he ran. Dan found the two women standing in the knee-deep water. Lenore seemed frozen where she stood, and it was Adeline who spoke.

  “Lenore saw somebody, or thought she did,” Adeline said. “Over there in the brush, on the farthest bank.”

  Dan could see nothing through the brush. He would be a fool to charge a concealed foe. He ran along the river, seeking to cross, to flank or get behind his adversary. The patter of hoofbeats told him he was too late. He returned to the shallows, finding Adeline and Lenore dressed. Briefly, the girl’s eyes met his, and she turned away, blushing. Adeline had some trouble hiding her smile.

  “There was somebody over there,” Dan said, “but he got away before I was able to get across. He had a horse and was staked out here for some reason. He couldn’t have known you and Lenore were coming here. He was here for some other reason, and you just caught his attention. He’s gone now. You can still have your baths.”

  “I don’t think so,” Adeline said. “I’m out of the mood. What about you, Lenore?”

  The girl only shook her head, blushing all the more furiously.

  “Let’s get back to the cabin, then,” Dan said. “We should be getting ready to move out.”

  Denny was on the porch, cleaning his carbine. “I’m ready to go,” he said.

  “That’s what you think. You and me are goin’ to load the mules. Since we have no packsaddles, we’ll have to load everything in gunnysacks. And we’ll need a blanket for each mule’s back, so they don’t get rubbed raw.”

  “Do you want Lenore and me to begin filling the sacks,” Adeline asked, “or do you have your own way?”

  “I have my own way,” Dan replied. “Just bring everything out on the porch, and bring as many gunnysacks as you have. We can only put so much in each one, because we’ll have to load them in twos, with the necks tied together and slung across the mules’ back. If we don’t get a good balance, it’ll be hell on the mules.”

  An hour past noon they were ready. Dan led one mule and Denny led the other, and they moved out. Adeline and Lenore lagged behind, taking a last look at the cabin that had been their home for thirteen years. Barnabas DeVoe had come to South Texas from Alabama, bringing with him his young family and his dreams. Now they were leaving him on the banks of the Rio Grande, where his lonely grave would be lost to the ravages of time. She choked down the lump in her throat and kicked her horse into a lope, catching up to Dan and Denny. Lenore was still looking back at the old cabin, and continued to do so until it was lost to view in the live oak and mesquite.

  When Dan and the DeVoes reached Silas Hamby’s place, they found fourteen families already there. Of the twenty-one men, only four—Silas Hamby, Rufe Keeler, Skull Kimbrough, and Dan Ember—had no wives. Spence Wilder, Duncan Kilgore, and Palo Elfego had sons Denny’s age or a little older. Boyce Trevino, Palo Elfego, Aubin Chambers, Chad Grimes, Garret Haddock, and Cash Connolly all had daughters.

  “When the others arrive,” Dan said, “there’ll be fifty of us, every one able to ride.”

  “I’ve lived here thirteen years,” Adeline said, “and I know none of these people except Silas Hamby.”

  “A month ago I didn’t know any of them,” Dan said, “and I still don’t know their wives, sons, and daughters. Let’s put our horses and mules out to graze and go meet some of them. I reckon most of them will be strangers to one another. The trail drive is bringing us together.”

  Dan thought it strange that with so many families involved, there were only three sons, and then it hit him. These remaining sons had been five or six years old when the war had begun, so their olde
r brothers must have gone to war, and like Silas’s two sons, they had not returned. It was a sensitive subject and he put it out of his mind. Instead, he made the rounds, talking to the men about the roping teams. He learned the order had already been established. The men with sons already had their backup riders, while the rest had pretty well teamed up on their own. It was Wolf Bowdre who spoke to Dan about Silas.

  “We know Silas is willin’,” Bowdre said, “but he’s got some years on him. We done some figurin’, and we’re one man shy of thirteen ropin’ teams. That makes Silas the odd man, and … well, damn it, a man has his pride. How can we handle this without him feeling like he ain’t man enough to take part in this drive?”

  “I’ll think of something,” Dan said. “I see we already have five wagons, and Silas has one, and there may be another on the way. Why don’t we have Silas drive his own wagon and put him in charge of all the others? They’ll need wheels greased, teams hitched and unhitched, and those of us who don’t have wagons will need space for our clothing, bedrolls, and the little we’re taking with us. The wagons will have to be loaded carefully, so that we’re not unloading them every evening and reloading them the next morning. I reckon, except for Silas, we’ll be dependin’ on the womenfolk to drive the wagons, and it should make them feel better, havin’ a man as a kind of wagon boss.”

  “I like that,” Bowdre said, “and the others will too, if you can convince Silas. With five females at the reins, his might be the toughest job of all.”

  But Dan had no trouble convincing Silas of the importance of his duties. If the old-timer suspected they were trying to make it a little easier on him, he said nothing. Instead, he became acquainted with the lady drivers and made arrangements to grease their wagons and help to ready them for the trail. The wives and daughters reached some agreement regarding the cooking, and by suppertime a dozen cooks were at work, preparing a meal for the entire outfit. Silas approached Dan after supper.