“Well, I’m damn tired of this inactivity,” Ledoux said peevishly.
“Senor,” Montoya said, “the Tejano herd is scattered, and gathering the vaca per’ap take days. We wait, senor, or you and your companeros may ride on alone.” With that, he turned and walked away.
“Mouthy Mex bastard,” Black Bill said, fondling the leather butt of his lethal whip. “I could cut that shirt off’n his back.”
“I have a use for that bunch,” Ledoux said. “Pick a fight with them, and if they don’t gut-shoot you, I will.”
Black Bill said nothing, but his pig eyes were on Burton Ledoux’s back, and he continued fondling the butt of the deadly whip.
South Llano River. Saturday, September 17, 1870.
Slowly, the scattered herd again came together. Clay Allison became a source of amusement, his sense of humor never failing him. He had forsaken his white shirt and tie, donning an old flannel shirt from his saddlebag, and had replaced his fine gray Stetson with an old black flop hat that had seen better days. He proved adept at handling cattle.
“I’ll hire you for the rest of the drive,” Dan said, “if you can make it without pay until we get to Dodge.”
“No thanks,” Allison replied, “and the pay’s got nothing to do with it. I run out of patience with cows, and by the time we reach Fort Griffin, then I reckon I’ll have had my fill.”
While the scattered longhorns came to the river to drink, some of them had found graze a considerable distance away, and after a three-day gather, more than two thousand were still missing.
“We’ll have to find them,” Dan said. “We’ve branded them and driven them this far, and that’s more than we can afford to lose.”
“I have a suggestion,” Allison said. “Why not ride ten miles west and form a skirmish line that crosses the river, stretching a mile on either side? We should then be able to comb the river from west to east and flush them out, wherever they are.”
“Good suggestion,” Dan said, “except that we won’t have enough riders for a mile-long line on each side of the river. We’ll have to reduce it to half a mile. Let’s ride.”
Allison’s plan proved effective, and after a day’s riding, the outfit had gathered more than half the missing longhorns.
“By God,” Sloan Kuykendall said, “one more day like this, and we’ll have them all.”
The following day, again using the skirmish line, they swept the river far to the east. Come sundown, Dan was convinced they weren’t going to find any more cattle. He turned to Wolf Bowdre.
“Wolf, take three men and run a quick tally. I think this is going to be the end of the gather.”
Bowdre chose Boyce Trevino, Palo Elfego, Chad Grimes, and Cash Connolly. The rest of the outfit gathered in camp, awaiting supper. It was almost dark when Bowdre and his companions returned.
“We differed some,” Bowdre said, “but there wasn’t time for a recount before dark. Comparing our tallies, we reckon that we’re missing maybe fifty head, but no more than seventy-five.”
“We can stand that,” Dan said. “Tomorrow we’ll move on. Allison, do you have any idea how far we are from Fort Griffin?”
“At least two hundred miles,” Allison replied. “It’s on the Clear Fork of the Brazos, a hundred and twenty miles west of Fort Worth.”
“It’s safe to say you’ve been there, I reckon,” Dan said.
“Yes,” Allison said, “I have business there occasionally. But I haven’t been there in almost a year.”
Dan wondered what that business was. Allison had ridden in from the west, which suggested he might have come through El Paso. By his own words, Allison had a place near Cimarron, but Dan had no idea where that was. It was a mystery why a man would ride so far, delaying his journey to ride with a trail drive. Allison had given Dan something to think about, insofar as the Indians were concerned. Since they were stopping at Fort Griffin anyway, why not seek the advice of the military as to the whereabouts of the hostiles?
On the trail north. Sunday, September 18, 1870.
At dawn, well-watered and -grazed, the herd again took the trail. Clay Allison chose to ride drag, to the delight of most of the women. Dan led the drive northeast, along the Llano River. Palo Elfego had conferred with Chato sometime during the night and was told they could follow the Llano twenty-five miles. There they must drive due north, and the next river was at least thirty-five miles. In between, the best they could expect were shallow creeks. As the herd fell in behind the horse remuda, Dan rode ahead, catching up to the lead wagon.
“Maybe two days on the Llano, Silas. See that all the water kegs are full, especially after tomorrow night’s camp.”
“I’ll see to it,” Silas said.
“One other thing,” Dan said. “It’s been a dry spring and summer, and we’ve had no troublesome river crossings. But before we reach Dodge, we’ll be crossing rivers that are fed from the high plains. They’ll be deeper and wider, and these wagons will have to be floated across. If they’re not watertight, we’ll have to spend some time on them or abandon them. I’m thinking Fort Griffin would be a good place to decide what must be done. What do you think?”
“I think there wasn’t none of ‘em built for fordin’ deep rivers,” Silas said, “but with enough pitch and patience, they can all be made to float. Us with no gold, you reckon we can talk them Yankees at the fort out of a bucket of pitch?”
“We can try,” Dan said, “if there’s any to be had. I’d purely hate to have to leave even one of the wagons. I also dislike having to spend too much time at the fort, but that can’t be helped. We have to stop there and talk to the post commander anyway.”
One hundred seventy-five miles south of Fort Griffin, Texas. Tuesday, September 20, 1870.
“When we take the trail tomorrow,” Dan said, “We’re thirty-five miles from the next river. Between here and there we’ll have to depend on shallow creeks, both of which are about halfway. That means for the next two days we’ll be looking at seventeen-mile drives if we’re to reach water.”
Nobody spoke, but the expressions on their faces said they were only too well aware of the impending trouble with a cantankerous, thirsty herd. But the dry spring and summer was behind them, and during the night there was lightning far to the west. At dawn the sky was overcast, and when the sun rose, it was but a pale yellow glow. The west wind had a chill to it, and the riders hunkered closer to the fire to eat their breakfast.
“We ain’t got to worry about gettin’ to the water,” Silas said. “It’s comin’ to us.”
“I don’t remember it ever rainin’ this early in the fall,” Duncan Kilgore said. “Maybe it’s got somethin’ to do with the dry spring and summer.”
“I reckon Texas can use the water,” Garret Haddock said, “but we got some mighty big rivers to cross. That’s all we need, for the fall rains to come early and raise the rivers another foot or two.”
The rain began in the early afternoon. Strangely, there was no thunder and no lightning. Just torrents of water. The land was broken by hill ranges, with mes-quite thickets in the draws. There was live oak, Spanish oak, and pecan, and after two hours of steady rain, wet weather streams abounded. Arroyos, normally dry, quickly filled with water, and low lands rapidly became quagmires in which the wagons sank to the axles. Mules had to be unhitched from one wagon and sent to the aid of another. Wagon after wagon bogged down, and the herd was forced to a standstill while the entire outfit, women included, went to the aid of the wagons. When they had finally been freed, everybody was exhausted.
“Damn it,” Dan said, “I’ve had enough. Let’s find some high ground and make camp.”
They finally found some shelter among a stand of oaks on the lee side of a ridge. There was plentiful graze in the valley below, and a fast flowing creek whose bed had been dry the day before. Two wagons were lined up back to back and a canvas stretched between them to create a shelter for a cook fire. Silas had thoughtfully stretched a cowhide beneath each wagon box as
a means of carrying dry firewood. The rain finally slacked sometime after midnight. Clay Allison was riding the second watch, trotting his horse beside Dan’s, when Palo Elfego caught up to them.
“Indios campamento,” he said. “Muchos Indios. Comanch.”*
“Where?” Dan asked.
“Norte, fi’ milla.”
“Fight?” Dan asked.
“No fight,” Palo said. “Muchos, muchos Indios.”
It was a message from Chato, warning them of a Comanche camp, of odds that were insurmountable.
“Thanks, Palo,” Dan said. He rode on, saying nothing, his mind in a turmoil. They could expect no help from Chato and his men, for the Indian had sent him word the odds were impossibly high. It had nothing to do with courage or the lack of it. Only a fool fought when he stood to accomplish nothing but his own death.
“Sounds like Quanah Parker and his bunch,” Clay Allison said. “I hear he can command seven hundred Comanche braves.”
“A tenth that number would be the death of us,” Dan said. “This trail drive could end right here.”
“Maybe not,” Allison said. “I met Quanah Parker once, on the Llano Estacado. I can’t promise anything, except that I don’t think he’ll shoot me on sight. We’ll ride up there in the morning and powwow with him. Offer him a few cows as a gift. With the white man slaughtering all the buffalo, Indians are always hungry.”
“Allison,” Dan said, “you’re a muy bueno hombre. You don’t owe us a thing. You could circle that Comanche camp and be on your way to Fort Griffin, yet you’d ride into the midst of hostile Comanches and dicker for our scalps. I need help, and I appreciate your offer, but you could end up shot full of Comanche arrows, along with the rest of us.”
“Luck of the draw,” Allison said. “Maybe you can save my neck sometime.”
While Dan didn’t wish to alarm the rest of the outfit, he and Allison couldn’t ride away without some explanation, so Dan told them the truth. He thought they regarded Allison with some doubt, but the big man was the only chance they had. Nobody said anything. He thought Adeline wanted to say something to him, but she bit her lip and remained silent. He and Allison saddled their horses and rode north, Allison taking the lead. Chato had given them correct information, for the ride took them less than half an hour. They saw and heard nothing, and suddenly they were surrounded by mounted Comanche warriors.
Allison spoke to them fluently in a tongue Dan didn’t understand. The braves looked at one another, uncertain. Finally one of them nodded to Allison, and he rode on, Dan following. Dan started breathing again. They might yet be shot dead, but at least Allison had apparently gotten them an audience with Quanah Parker. As they progressed, Dan began to appreciate the wisdom of Chato’s words, “no fight,” for Comanches seemed to appear from behind every bush and tree. They reached a clearing where the cook fire still smoldered, an early morning breeze fanning the embers. A young Indian stood before them, dressed in buckskin. He said nothing, and it was to him that Clay Allison spoke in what apparently was the Comanche tongue. Dan couldn’t believe the young chief was the notorious Quanah Parker. He seemed no more than a boy.*
With his hands, Allison made the buffalo sign, and then pointed to Dan. Allison then held up both hands, spreading all his fingers, and pointed to the Comanche. Quanah shook his head, raised both hands, spreading all his fingers, then repeated the gesture. He then spoke to Allison in that tongue Dan couldn’t understand. Allison replied, pointing again to Dan, and Quanah said nothing. Allison spoke to Dan.
“He says all white men deserve to die, just as Black Kettle and his people died under the guns of Long Hair and his soldiers. For a gift of twenty of the white man’s buffalo, he will allow you to go in peace, but you must not come this way again. He vows all the men in the soldier forts will die.”
“Tell him he’s welcome to twenty cows,” Dan said. “We’ll cut them out and bring them to him, or he can send some of his men back with us.”
Again Allison spoke to the Comanche in his own tongue, and Quanah gave an order. Four mounted braves rode forward. Without another word Allison rode out, Dan following, with the four Comanches behind him. It was an uneasy journey, Dan not daring to look back. They avoided the camp, going directly to the herd. The rest of the outfit could see the herd from their camp, but they wisely stayed away. Quickly, Allison and Dan cut out twenty steers, and the four Comanche drove them away.
“By God,” Dan said, sleeving the sweat from his brow, “I reckon that’s about the best swap a man ever made for twenty cows.”
Allison laughed. “I tried to get you off with ten, but he wouldn’t have it. Believe it or not, he has a grudging respect for you Tejanos who raise cattle. He knows you’re not responsible for slaughtering the buffalo.”
Dan and Allison rode back to camp and found breakfast was ready. Nobody had wanted to eat until the crisis was resolved, if it could be.
“Mr. Allison swapped them twenty cows for our scalps,” Dan said, “and for a promise we won’t ever come this way again.”
“That’s a promise I won’t have any trouble keepin’,” Rufe Keeler said.
“Me neither,” Monte Walsh said. “Let’s get these brutes on the trail and move out before they have second thoughts.”
“Silas,” Chad Grimes said, “keep them wagons to the high ground. I purely ain’t of a mind to spend the day haulin’ them damn wagons out of the mud, with a bunch of Comanches lookin’ over my shoulder.”
“You’d better think some on that,” Silas said irritably. “These wagons is carryin’ our grub, ammunition, and dry bedrolls.”
Silas led out with the wagons, followed by the horse remuda and then the longhorns. Silas kept to the ridges as much as he could, and there was no more trouble with the wagons miring down. Dan half considered taking the drive around the area where the Comanche camp had been, but changed his mind. Quanah Parker had known the drive would be coming, and when they reached the place where Allison had confronted the Indian, there was no sign of the camp. While the rain had ended during the night, the sky was still overcast, and the north wind was cold. Wet weather streams were still abundant, and would be until the sun appeared and sucked them dry. Dan rode ahead and caught up to the lead wagon.
“There’s plenty of water, Silas, but I think we’ll try to make it to the next river before dark.”*
“Good idee,” Silas said. “Sun comes out, these streams will be gone by mornin’, if not sooner.”
Since they had spent almost half the previous day dragging the wagons out of the mire, Dan doubted they had traveled more than ten miles. That meant the next river was twenty-five miles away, and the shallow creek Chato had reported would be another eight or nine miles. It posed a problem. If the drive stopped at the creek, they were assured of water, but it limited them to eight miles for the day. If they went on, and the sun dried up the excess water from the rain, they might be stuck in a dry camp a dozen miles south of the river. It seemed the other riders were having similar thoughts. Wolf Bowdre caught up to Dan, obviously something on his mind.
“The rain was a blessing,” Bowdre said, “but we can’t depend on these wet weather streams. Half a day of sun and they’ll be gone faster than forty rod whiskey in a buffalo camp. It’ll mean a short day, but I think we should accept our eight or nine miles for today, and save the drive on to the river for tomorrow.”
“I think we’ll save that decision until later in the day,” Dan said. “If the sky stays cloudy, the temporary streams and water holes will remain another day. If they do, then we can forget this creek Chato spoke of, and bed down the herd wherever darkness catches us.”
Bowdre started to speak, but thought better of it, dropping back to his position with the herd. Dan had wondered how long it was going to take before some of them began questioning his judgment, and he regretted it had to be Wolf Bowdre. He genuinely liked the man, and hoped it wouldn’t come down to a question of who was going to be trail boss.
*Now wes
tern Oklahoma
†The Goodnight Trail Book #1 in the Tirail Drive Series.
*Indian camp. Many Indians.
*Quanah Parker was born in 1852.
*The San Saba River
10
The drive reached the creek Chato had spoken of, and because of the rain, it was no longer shallow. The sky was still overcast, and thanks to the many wet weather streams, neither the horse remuda nor the herd was thirsty. Dan rode the length of the drive, speaking to the riders, saving Wolf Bowdre for last.
“We’re going on, Wolf,” Dan said. “There’s a good four hours of daylight, plenty of water, and by dark we’ll be within a day’s drive of the next river.”
Bowdre only nodded, and Dan rode on. The sky began to clear, but not until almost sundown. The wet weather streams would last until sometime into the next day, and the extra miles Dan had insisted upon would put them within reach of the next river. Dan was congratulated around the supper fire.
“Damn good thinkin’,” Spence Wilder said. “If we’d stayed at that other stream, with just eight miles for the day, we’d of been facin’ near twenty-five miles tomorrow, with the sun gobblin’ up all this temporary water from the rain.”
“Trail savvy,” Kirby Wilkerson said, “is lookin’ beyond water for today, and planning for tomorrow. We’d of been damn fools not to push the herd for as long as it was light enough to see, with plenty of water and the clouds keepin’ the sun off us.”
There were other favorable comments, but Dan shrugged them off. He half suspected they were for Wolf Bowdre’s benefit, because Bowdre had made no secret of his wish to shorten the day’s drive and stay with the sure water. Dan made it a point to speak to Bowdre, but the man seemed distant, as though he resented Dan’s obviously successful decision. Since Silas Hamby was on the first watch, he waited until then to speak to Dan. Since the first day on the trail, Silas had taken it upon himself to seek out difficulties before they became insurmountable.
The Dodge City Trail Page 13