The Dodge City Trail

by Ralph Compton

  “By God,” Silas Hamby shouted, “we done-it. This has got to be the biggest damn gather anywhere, anytime.”

  “We can’t afford to crow too loud,” Dan said. “We still have to get to Dodge. Are there any questions before we call it a night?”

  “Yeah,” Walt Crump said. “Somethin’ we ain’t talked about much. Since we don’t know when the railroad’s comin’ to Dodge, what are we supposed to do with ourselves and this herd if we get there first?”

  “We’ll wait,” Dan said, “even if we have to hold the herd fifty miles out of Dodge. Here’s something all of you might want to consider. Some of us are planning to sell off maybe half our cows, and with the rest and a pair of bulls, file on some land and start ranching. Remember, you won’t have any reason to return to Texas. There’s still plenty of good range and grass to the north and west.”

  “From what I hear, there’s still plenty of hell-raisin’ Indians too,” Aubin Chambers said.

  “I reckon they can’t be no worse than the Coman-ches,” Ward McNelly said, “and God knows, Texas has more’n its share of them.”

  “Go where there’s no Indians,” Dan said, “and you’ll find yourself neck deep in farmers and tax collectors like Burton Ledoux.”

  “By God, that’s right,” Cash Connolly said, “and I’ll take the Indians. Even the Comanche.”

  Uvalde, Texas. Wednesday, August 31, 1870.

  Santos Miguel Montoya dismounted before the cabin Burton Ledoux used for his headquarters. All that remained of Ledoux’s gang—Black Bill and Loe Hager-man—waited on the porch, their hands near the butts of their Colts. They relaxed only when Ledoux spoke to Montoya. The Mexican eyed the gunmen suspiciously, and they stepped aside, allowing Montoya to follow Ledoux into the cabin. The excluded pair looked at the closed door, and Black Bill spoke.

  “I hate Mejicanos.”

  “Hell,” Hagerman said, “you hate everybody. Even me.

  “Even you,” Black Bill said, shifting the deadly whip coiled about his massive left arm. He turned cold, hard eyes on Hagerman, and the gunman shuddered.

  Inside the cabin Montoya ignored the chair Ledoux offered. The Mexican wasted no time, careful not to turn his back to the door where Ledoux’s men waited.

  “The caballos—the Tejano remuda—crossed the river just before dawn, senor. The drive begins today, I think. They follow the Rio Grande west.”

  “We’re ready,” Ledoux said, “and we’ll ride back with you.” He opened the door. “One of you saddle my horse,” he said.

  “You heard him,” Black Bill said when Ledoux had closed the door, “go saddle his horse,”

  “Why not you?”

  “I ain’t no damn pelado,” Black Bill said, fondling the heavy butt of the whip.

  Hagerman stepped off the porch and trudged toward the barn. Black Bill laughed. It had been a while since he had killed a man with the whip. His hard eyes on Hagerman’s back, he relished the thought.

  *Mexican Indians, devils of the night

  *Son or brother

  *The Nueces River is 350 miles in length, flowing through or touching eleven counties before reaching Nueces Bay and the Gulf.

  8

  Eagle Pass, Texas. Wednesday, August 31, 1870.

  Just as Chato had promised, the horse remuda—a hundred strong—was brought across the river before dawn. At first light Dan and some of the outfit rode out to look at the herd.

  “I’ll give the varmints credit,” Sloan Kuykendall said. “They damn well know their horses.”

  “From what I can see,” Wolf Bowdre said, “there ain’t a one of ‘em got a brand. By God, that’s what I call luck.”

  “Luck’s got nothin’ to do with it,” Dan said. “Chato’s no fool. We’ll be at Fort Dodge, right under the noses of the military. Without brands, we can sell these animals for top prices, and nobody can question ownership. Now let’s get back to camp, pick some horse wranglers, and take the long trail to Dodge.”

  Most of the outfit had been ready since the night before. Spence Wilder, Duncan Kilgore, and Palo Elfego all had sons as old or older than Denny DeVoe, and Dan had chosen the three of them and young Denny for horse wranglers. He still hadn’t made the announcement, and when he finally got everybody quieted down, he spoke.

  “Most of you know what you’re going to be doing on this drive, but for four of you, I have a special assignment. Gus Wilder, Gid Kilgore, Pablo Elfego, and Denny DeVoe, come on over here beside me.”

  Unprepared, the four came forward, curious, self-conscious, and scared. Nobody knew what Dan was about to say except the three fathers and Adeline DeVoe.

  “We now have a horse remuda,” Dan said, “and we need horse wranglers. I’m asking the four of you to take on that responsibility from here to Dodge City, Kansas. You’ll be expected to keep the remuda in line while we’re on the trail, help unsaddle tired horses and saddle fresh ones, and you’ll be spreading your blankets with the remuda every night, so they don’t become spooked. But if you’d rather not do this, speak up. You can always ride drag.”

  The four stared at him big-eyed, eager, and in total silence. Some of the men laughed.

  “All right,” Dan said, “mount up, wranglers, and take your place with the remuda. Silas, ready your wagons, move out, and take the lead. All you wranglers trail the remuda behind the last wagon. Flank and swing riders take your positions, and those of you at drag get ready to swat some behinds.”

  Silas Hamby led out with the first wagon, the other six falling in behind. The newly appointed horse wranglers had no trouble swinging the remuda in behind the last wagon.

  “Move ‘em out,” Dan shouted, waving his hat. Slowly, the massive herd fell into line, and those breaking away were headed and driven back to join their companions. It had been too long since the last rain, and dust quickly rose in clouds, hanging like smoke against the blue of the Texas sky. Despite the fact that most of the cows had been in the gather for a while, they seemed to revert to their wild ways once they were on the trail. The very size of the herd made it all but impossible to keep them bunched, and every cow that saw daylight took it as an invitation to run for the thickets. Dan rode from one end of the herd to the other and back again, looking for potential trouble. There were gaps within the ranks, and without their companions prodding them from behind, the leaders slowed and tried to graze. Dan. galloped back to the drag, only to find the ranks closed. The trouble was deep within the moving column, making it difficult to reach the troublesome longhorns. The swing riders were nearest the trouble spot, and Dan caught up to Rux Carper and Tobe Barnfield.

  “Some of these varmints are dragging their feet,” Dan said, “and it’s slowing the leaders. We’re going to have to fight our way through the outer ranks and get these troublemakers bunched. Careful you don’t get yourself or your horse gored.”

  It was tricky business, with the horses having to force their way into the moving column, matching their gait to that of the herd. From there, the horses advanced a little at a time, until they were behind the slow-moving cattle. It being a mixed herd, the cows were the problem, their stride being shorter than that of a steer. Slowly Dan and his companions worked their way into the herd until they reached the lagging cows. The riders doubled their lariats and began raining blows on dusty behinds. With startled bellows the cows lurched ahead, driving heads and horns into their equally startled companions. It created a gap, allowing Dan, Carper, and Barnfield to begin working their way out of the herd. The big steers behind quickly closed the gap, and with continued pressure from the drag riders, the ranks were closed tightly enough to keep the herd moving. Dan rode to the point and found the previously slow-footed leaders moving at an acceptable gait. He was more thankful than ever for Chato and his riders, for they were somewhere ahead, scouting for potential trouble.

  Dan had warned them to avoid any confrontation with the military. He doubted so many Texans with so large a herd would ever be allowed to depart Texas without fully just
ifying the journey. He only hoped that when the time came, he and his companions would be equal to the task.

  “God,” Hiram Beard said when the troublesome herd had finally been bedded down for the night, “I never been so give out in my life.”

  “Is just first day,” Palo Elfego said with a grin.

  “Don’t look for tomorrow or the next day to be any better,” Wolf Bowdre said. “Them brutes ain’t a damn bit more civilized than when we roped ‘em out of the breaks.”

  “If the bastards stampede, I hope they run north,” Skull Kimbrough said. “I ain’t sure none of us will live long enough to round ‘em up again.”

  “Hell, we’ll be three more days just gettin’ out of Maverick County,” Kirby Wilkerson said. “I figure we come maybe seven miles.”

  “Yeah,” Boyce Trevino said, “where there’s no water except Las Moras and Indio creeks, and they only run in the rainy season. Ain’t that some kind of a bad sign, when you spend your first night on the trail in dry camp?”

  “We’re not more’n seven mile from the Rio Grande,” Monte Walsh said. “How’d you like to drive ‘em back there?”

  “How’d you like to be gut-shot?” Rux Carper inquired darkly. “Don’t even suggest such a fool thing. One breath of wind from the south, and this whole Godawful day has been for nothin’.”

  “Not to mention the next two weeks,” Cash Connolly said. “It’d take us that long to round ‘em up again, and that’s if we was almighty lucky.”

  “Well, by God,” Wolf Bowdre said, “there don’t none of us own a patch of ground big enough for a decent grave. We purely got to ride this damn herd down, if it takes a day, ten days, or a month.”

  “That’s how it is,” Dan said. “The first week will be the worst. Once the herd settles down, about the worst we’ll have to contend with will be stampedes and Indians.”

  The second day was no better than the first, and in some respects it was more difficult. The day seemed longer, the sun seemed hotter, and tempers were definitely shorter. Again the drive progressed only about eight miles, and the runoff from the spring where they bedded down for the night was just adequate to slake the thirst of the massive herd. For some reason none of the riders understood, some of the longhorns were uneasy, bawling occasionally throughout the night.

  The Nueces River. Wednesday, September 7, 1870.

  “I’d say we’ve come forty-five miles,” Wolf Bowdre said, “but the herd’s settlin’ down, becomin’ trailwise.”

  “More important,” Dan said, “we have water. This has to 6e the Nueces; How far north can we follow it?”

  “A good fifty mile,” Silas Hamby said, “takin’ the east fork. Then it’s maybe twenty mile till we reach the South Llano. We can foller it another twenty-five mile, I reckon. Beyond that, I can’t say.”

  “Chato and his riders will be scouting ahead,” Dan said. “If there’s any doubt about water, they can guide us.”

  Their ninth day on the trail, Dan estimated they traveled twelve miles. Ready access to the river seemed to make a difference, and when the herd was bedded down for the night, the mood of the outfit had markedly improved. Just before sundown, near suppertime, the soldiers rode in. There was a lieutenant, a sergeant, and ten privates, and they came from the west. Dan met them and spoke.

  “I’m Daniel Ember, trail boss. Step down and rest your saddles. We’re about to have supper, and you’re welcome to join us if you like beans and beef. There’s plenty.”

  “We’re obliged,” the officer said. “Anything would be an improvement over field rations.” He nodded to his companions, and when he dismounted, they followed suit.

  “Unsaddle your horses,” Dan said, “and our wranglers will loose them with our remuda.”

  “Thank you,” the officer said. “I’m Lieutenant Winters, and this is Sergeant Foster.” He didn’t bother introducing the privates.

  The soldiers seemed overwhelmed with the magnitude of the trail drive, and more than a little appreciative of Lenore and the younger women who served their supper. The Texans ate in silence, for there was tension in the air, the result of a confrontation that seemed imminent. Dan wondered how the lieutenant would lead up to the questions that must be foremost on the officer’s mind. But Winters was tactful, at least at the beginning.

  “You should know,” he said, “that Quanah Parker and his Comanches are on a rampage. They’re holed up somewhere on the Llano Estacado, and have hit most of the forts in West Texas.”

  “He didn’t accept the Medicine Lodge Treaty, * then,” Dan said.

  “No,” Lieutenant Winters said, “and if you’re heading north, then you’re taking your lives into your hands.”

  “We’re bound for Dodge City,” Dan said, “and this is the shortest way.”

  “I don’t advise it,” Winters said. “We’re already spread too thin, and being short-handed, we can’t offer you any protection.”

  “We’re not expecting it,” Dan said. “We know the risks.”

  “You should have reported to the commanding officer at San Antonio,” Winter said. “He should have been told that you’re leaving the state.”

  “We saw no need for that,” Dan said. “The state’s our reason for going. We have taxes to pay, and we have to get our cows to market. Is there a law against our doing that?”

  “No,” Winters said, “but under the Reconstruction Act, occupational forces—the military—must be made aware that you’re leaving the state. One more thing. Those of you who fought with the Confederacy are not to bear arms, except on a conditional basis.”

  “I was with the Confederacy,” Dan said, “so I reckon you’d better tell me what those conditions are. You wouldn’t expect a man to go unarmed into Quanah Parker’s territory, would you?”

  “No,” Winters said, “and if you’ll comply with the law, you shouldn’t have any trouble. Stop at Fort Griffin and tell the post commander you’ve talked to me and that you’re following my advice. Tell him where you’re taking your drive, and that you need your weapons.

  Those of you who are ex-Confederates will be allowed to sign papers stating that you won’t take up arms against the Union again. That allows you to legally carry your weapons.”

  “Thanks,” Dan said, relieved. “We’ll stop at Fort Griffin. We sure as hell don’t need any more problems. We have all we can say grace over, with this cantankerous bunch of longhorns.”

  The soldiers stayed the night, and after breakfast rode out toward the east.

  “God, I’m glad that’s behind us,” Rufe Keeler said.

  “It’s not behind us,” Dan said. “We still have to stop at Fort Griffin and talk to the post commander, but if Winters was tellin’ it straight, we’re gettin’ off mighty easy.”

  “I believe the man gave us better advice than he realized,” Wolf Bowdre said. “I still think Burton Ledoux may try to use the reconstruction law to get us in trouble with the military. Once we’ve cleared ourselves at Fort Griffin, we’ve pulled Ledoux’s fangs.”

  “I won’t consider Ledoux’s fangs pulled until the son-ofabitch is dead,” Aubin Chambers said.

  “That’s somethin’ you ain’t likely to see,” Rux Carper said. “Once we get out of Texas, we’re done with him, and I’ll settle for that.”

  The drive continued along the Nueces River, and the land became more mountainous. Huge cypress trees bordered the river. Five days took them as far as they could go along the east fork of the Nueces. Tomorrow they had to strike out for the South Llano River, the nearest sure water.

  “No way in hell we can make it in one day,” Wolf Bowdre said. “Silas, you sure of that distance?”

  “Twenty mile,” Silas said. “Maybe more.”

  “Palo,” Dan said, “did you talk to Chato about water between here and the South Llano River?”

  “Si,”Palo said. “Is only spring. Vaca too many, spring too small.”

  “Then we’ll have to move on to the South Llano,” Dan said. “We’ll take th
e trail at first light, and we’ll drive them hard.”

  “One whiff of that water,” Walt Crump said, “and we won’t have to drive ‘em at all. They’ll fog out like hell wouldn’t have it, and we’ll all be eatin’ their dust.”

  South of the Llano. Tuesday, September 13, 1870.

  Dan had the herd on the trail at first light. The horse remuda was already far ahead, traveling at the faster gait Dan had recommended. He joined the drag riders, swinging his doubled lariat against dusty flanks, forcing the unwilling cattle into a trot. Those ahead had no choice. It was move faster or have their rumps raked by the sharp horns of their companions. The herd was still lethargic from a night’s rest, and not yet thirsty, so they rebelled at the unaccustomed fast gait, by breaking away at the slightest opportunity. Flank and swing riders repeatedly chased bunch quitters back to the herd, only to be faced with another wave of them. Cows from the tag end of the herd wheeled, hooking at horses and riders. To escape the deadly horns, Dan’s horse reared. He leaned from the saddle, slamming his doubled lariat down on the angry cow’s tender muzzle, and the brute ran bawling to catch up to the herd. Dan heard somebody swearing, and when he grinned at Adeline DeVoe, she only glared back at him. He rode to the aid of Amy Wilder, whose horse had reared and thrown her. He then rode after a pair of longhorns that had broken through the drag and were galloping down the back trail.

  The sun rose higher, grew hotter, until every sweating horse and rider was yellow with dust. But the heat and the activity was taking its toll on the cattle. Fewer of them broke ranks, and they bawled their frustration as they surged ahead, but kept moving at the faster gait Dan Ember demanded. When the cattle at the tag end of the column were again responding to the efforts of the drag riders, Dan rode to the head of the herd, speaking to swing and flank riders as he went. He found the lead steers had closed the gap and were within a respectable distance of the horse remuda. Denny DeVoe waved his hat, and Dan waved back. He then rode down the other side of the moving column until he was again with the drag riders. Lenore smiled wearily at him through a mask of sweaty mud. He rode his horse alongside Adeline’s, but she looked straight ahead, ignoring him.