The Dodge City Trail

by Ralph Compton

  “Straight ahead,” he shouted to Silas. “When you reach the creek, turn west. There’s a deep canyon.”

  Dan rode on, knowing the herd would be fighting every effort to drive them into the growing storm. It was even worse than he’d expected, with the flank and swing riders galloping after bunch quitters, only to have more break away in the wake of the last bunch. Dan reached the drag and found the source of most of the trouble ahead. Cows were breaking away, galloping down the back trail, and as the female riders tried to head them, the rest of the herd had begun to lag. The resulting slack was allowing the longhorns to break away the entire length of the column in impossible numbers. Dan uncoiled his lariat as Adeline DeVoe threw up her hands in helpless frustration. Her companions weren’t doing much better, torn between bunching the tag end of the herd and going after the brutes that trotted down the back trail.

  “Forget the bunch quitters,” Dan shouted. “I’ll go after them. Move in close to the drag and keep the rest of the herd moving. There’s a canyon just ahead of us.”

  He dared not tell them how far it was. He rode on, swinging wide to get ahead of the several dozen long-horns loping along the back trail. When he was ahead of them, the brutes began dodging left and right, determined they were not going to face the fury of the storm again. Dan needed at least another rider on a good horse, but had to make do. By the time he and his valiant horse had the stubborn longhorns headed north, the drag riders and the tag end of the herd were completely obscured by the swirling snow. Dan and his horse were exhausted, and he thought he was seeing things when a horse and rider emerged from the wall of white ahead of him.

  “I thought you might need some help,” Adeline shouted above the shriek of the wind.

  “I never needed it more,” Dan shouted in reply.

  The two of them managed to keep the longhorns moving until at last they caught up with the drag. When the last of the herd finally turned west at the creek, Dan slumped in his saddle. Soon they were within the welcome confines of the canyon, with only flurries of snow coming in over the north rim. The longhorns and horses were strung out along the creek, and some of the riders had a fire going under the shelter of the canyon rim.

  “Come on,” Adeline shouted. “We’ll have hot coffee in a few minutes.”

  *The fight between Texas Rangers and Comanches took place on December 18, 1860, near the present-day town of Margaret, Texas, about nine miles northeast of Crowell.

  *The Brazos is 840 miles long, the longest river in Texas. Sixty-five Texas counties are located in the watershed of the Brazos.

  13

  The riders dragged down enough dead cedar from the upper end of the canyon to keep the fires burning, and the camp was comfortable. Although it wasn’t even midday, the low-hanging clouds and swirling snow made it seem as night. The wind screamed through the upper reaches of the canyon, and some of the horse remuda drifted closer to the circle of light from the fires. For once, the young horse wranglers moved within the shelter of the camp, content to watch their charges from a distance.

  “We’ll keep watch tonight,” Dan said, “but I see no point in riding from one end of this canyon to the other. We’ll need to keep the fires going, and with the horse remuda at this end of the canyon, I think we can protect them from shelter. I can’t imagine anybody trying to grab the herd during such a storm as this. Indians might come after the horses if they know we’re here, but we’ve seen no sign, and there’s been no warning from Chato.”

  “We got grub, a warm fire, and weapons,” Duncan Kilgore said. “Why don’t we keep the coffee hot, keep our guns handy, and rest our bones? That storm ain’t gonna quit till she’s ready, and by then there’s likely to be plenty of snow. Horses, mules, cows, and wagons ain’t goin’ nowhere for a while.”

  “That makes sense to me,” Sloan Kuykendall said. “This ain’t home, but it’s the best we’re likely to have for a while.”

  Dan was reminded of something he had been intending to do, and now the young horse wranglers were in camp. Upon Dan’s suggestion, Silas went to the wagon, returning with the three extra Winchesters and a supply of shells. Dan spread a blanket and divided the shells into three equal piles. Then he called for Pablo Elfego, Gus Wilder, and Gid Kilgore. When the trio stood before him, he handed each of them a Winchester.

  “There’s a supply of shells for each of you,” he said. “Learn to use those weapons, keep them clean, and respect them.”

  “Yes, sir,” the three shouted in a single voice.

  Denny DeVoe refused to look at the grinning trio, turning reproachful eyes on Dan. But Dan seemed not to notice, and Adeline winked at him without Denny knowing. Looking up to Dan, Denny felt he had been betrayed, and before the entire outfit. His pride forbade him speaking to Dan, but he confronted Adeline after she and Lenore had taken their bedrolls and sought some privacy.

  “I thought Dan liked me,” Denny whined. “I liked him.”

  “And you don’t anymore?” Adeline asked.

  “Why should I? Everybody got a rifle except me.”

  “You have the Maynard carbine your father bought for you, and you have ammunition,” Adeline said. “The other wranglers had no weapons at all.”

  “Now they got repeaters,” Denny said bitterly, “and all I got is a damn old single-shot.”

  “You’re used to it and you can hit what you’re shooting at. I’d have been disappointed in Dan if he’d denied one of the others a rifle and given it to you. It’s time you learned some tolerance and unselfishness, Denny DeVoe. If you so much as mention this to Dan, I’ll take your britches down and switch your naked behind before God and everybody. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” Denny growled.

  “Yes, what?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Denny retreated to the shadows, getting as far from Adeline as he could. She lay awake, watching him, watching Dan. After a decent interval, Dan sought her out.

  “You must have been a mite hard on him,” Dan said. “He looks like he just fell off the top of the world and had it roll over on him.”

  “You’ve just taught him. a valuable lesson, but I fear he’s still too young to appreciate it.”

  “I would have gotten him a rifle if he hadn’t had one,” Dan said.

  “I know you would have,” Adeline replied, “and he knows it too.”

  Santos Miguel Montoya and his Mejicanos had wisely remained at the Brazos, and had taken refuge along the river beneath overhanging banks. Three hundred yards downriver, Ledoux and his two companions shared a similar shelter. But none of them enjoyed as comfortable a camp as the Tejanos, half a dozen miles ahead. The wind-driven snow constantly found its way into their blankets, and they were half frozen from constantly stumbling through knee-deep drifts, seeking wood for their fires. There were especially vile words around Ledoux’s fire, because he refused to join his disgruntled companions in the constant quest for firewood.

  “I don’ hire on wi’ you to dig through the snow with my hands, seeking firewood,” Black Bill said.

  “Whatever needs doing,” Ledoux said, “you’ll do it. I got enough on you to have you hung six times, anywhere in Texas. Now get your mangy carcass out there and help Hagerman.”

  There was snow blowing into the canyon at dawn the next morning, but the worst of the storm seemed to have passed. The sky was still a dirty gray, and while it was well past sunrise, there was no evidence the sun would shine that day.

  “It ain’t over,” Silas predicted. “She’s slowed up to take another start, and she’ll be blowin’ again ‘fore dark.”

  As unwelcome as the prediction was, there was no denying the look of the sky and the bone-chilling cold. Time hung heavy on everybody’s hands, and nobody complained about the frequent forays upcanyon for more firewood. It was something to do. Within less than two hours, Silas’s prediction became all too evident. Above the canyon rim, against the gray of the sky, the wind-driven snow looked like swirling smoke.

 
“We’d best take the horses and snake down every fallen log we can find,” Dan said. “We’re in for a blizzard, and we could be stuck here a week.”

  “You’re almighty right,” Silas agreed. “Thank God we sold them cows and loaded up on grub. In all this, if a body can eat decent and keep warm, that’s enough.”

  The trail north. Tuesday, November 8, 1870.

  After three days and nights the storm blew itself out, and a long absent sun emerged. The wind lost its bite, and the temperature rose as dramatically as it had fallen in the forefront of the storm.

  “It’ll be another two or three days ‘fore enough of this snow’s melted for us to get out of here,” Silas said.

  “That may be the case with the wagons,” Dan said, “but these longhorn cows will have to be out of here in the morning, and that’s pushing things to the limit The graze is gone.”

  “The drifts at the mouth of the canyon won’t be the only problem,” Skull Kimbrough said. “When the thaw begins, it’ll be the equal of a three-day rain, and anybody that thinks them wagons was mired down before ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”

  “I’m not playing down the need for the wagons,” Dan said. “God knows, we’ve put enough into them, but they don’t have to eat. The cows do, and if it takes a week to move the wagons, so be it. But we’ll have to break a trail out of here and find some decent graze for the herd. We’ll leave our camp where it is until we can take the wagons out.”

  A second day of sun made a difference, and the long-horns were driven out of the canyon the way they had come in. The open plain with only occasional mesquite was their salvation, for it was here that the sun was most effective in melting the snow. It would linger longest in the arroyos and low-lying areas where the sun’s rays visited for only a few hours each day.

  “Trouble with cows,” Hiram Beard said, “is that they’re so confounded dumb they can’t kick through a little snow cover, gettin’ at the grass below. If they ain’t standin’ belly deep in grass, they don’t know it’s there.”

  The herd and the horse remuda found graze a mile or two north of the canyon from which they had been driven. Every draw became a temporary stream and every depression a water hole, as the deep snowdrifts began to feel the heat of the sun and the effects of a rising temperature.

  “Plenty of water now, with the melting snow,” Kirby Wilkerson said, “but with the sun hot enough to melt the snow, it’ll suck up all the water pronto.”

  “That won’t hurt us,” Dan said. “Remember, we weren’t more than five or six miles from the south fork of the Wichita when the storm struck. If we have to, we’ll drive the herd and the horse remuda on to the river, and come back for the wagons.”

  “I reckon we’d as well plan on doin’ it like that,” Silas said. “Then, if we have to, we can use every mule we got, bringin’ one wagon at a time.”

  “We’ve got the herd and the horse remuda on good grass,” Dan said. “Let’s hold off moving the wagons for another day.”

  “I’ll go along with that,” Ward McNelly said, “and for more than just a possibility that wagons will bog down. The drifts have smoothed out the gullies and holes so’s we can’t see ‘em. Drop a wheel in there sudden, and you got a broken wheel or a busted axle. I say we leave the wagons where they are for now, and move the herd on to the south fork of the Wichita.”

  Nobody argued with the logic of that. The longhorns and horse remuda were driven on to the river and loosed along its banks, and after another day of sun, the wagons were brought out of the canyon. By keeping to the ridges where the sun had cleared away the snow and the terrain was solid, all the wagons were taken to the south fork of the Wichita. While the temperature had risen, nights turned cold when the sun went down, and there was ice in the eddies along the riverbank. The fourth day after leaving the canyon where they had weathered the storm, Dan and the outfit were ready to cross the south fork of the Wichita.

  “Water’s a mite high,” Wolf Bowdre said. “We got the snow to thank for that.”

  “I’m not concerned with it bein’ high as I am with it bein’ cold,” Dan said. “I aim to ride across and back. If it’s too cold, the horses and cows can’t cross.”

  Dan rode across the river and returned. The horse shuddered, but the animal was game, and Dan judged the river safe for crossing.

  “Wolf, Tobe, and Palo,” Dan said, “I’ll want you here with me when the leaders hit the water. The water’s not that cold, but cold enough that they might try to turn back. It’ll be up to us to see that they don’t break to left or right. We get them off to a running start, and you drag riders hit them hard from behind. Once they’re on the run, it’ll be up to you flank and swing riders to see that none of them break away before they reach the water. We’ll do the easy part first. Let’s take the wagons across.”

  The wagons were crossed without difficulty, followed by the horse remuda. The longhorns were started at a great enough distance from the river that by the time the leaders reached the water, they were running. But the shock of the cold water slowed them, and the first few ranks were of a single mind. Despite the best efforts of Dan and Palo, the leaders broke downstream with the intention of returning to the riverbank they had just departed. Dan’s horse knew what was expected of him, and the animal surged ahead of the rebellious long-horns. Dan drew his Colt and fired over their heads. Palo was right behind Dan, and with the two of them shooting and shouting, the lead steers gradually turned toward the north bank. The rest of the herd followed, and while they didn’t emerge in a straight-across pattern, they did reach the opposite bank. Dan and Palo were ahead of them, forcing the leaders along the river until the tag end of the herd was out of the water.

  “Head ‘em up,” Dan shouted, “and gather them near the horse remuda.”

  The fourth day after leaving the canyon where they had weathered the storm, Dan and the outfit crossed the north fork of the Wichita.

  “McCullough said we’d be about eighteen miles south of the Pease River, and from there, twenty miles from the Red,” Dan said. “That means a long drive tomorrow and another the day after, but the herd’s had good grass and water. We’ll move out tomorrow at first light and drive them hard. All of you know what that means. There’ll be bunch quitters galore. None of them will want to trail as fast as they’ll have to, if we’re to reach the Pease before dark tomorrow. It’ll be a hard day, with another right on the heels of it.”

  North to the Pease River. Sunday, November 13, 1870.

  It became a predictably bad day in more ways than they had anticipated. The warming weather brought another storm, and two hours into the day the temperature again dropped. There was no snow, but the cold rain came at them on the wings of a north wind. It took less than an hour to convince the herd they belonged on the back trail, the storm at their backs. The bunch quitting grew worse as the day progressed.

  “By God,” Wolf Bowdre said, “we haven’t traveled a mile in the past two hours. Our horses are ready to drop, and we don’t even have time to change mounts.”

  “Try to keep them bunched,” Dan said. “I’ll ride ahead and try to find a place where we can hold them until the storm lets up.”

  Dan rode on, dreading what might lie ahead. If the rain changed to snow, there might be another three-day blizzard. There had to be something—some kind of wind break—to hold the herd until the storm let up. Even then the brutes would try to get their backs to the wind and drift. The valley, when Dan came upon it, didn’t look all that promising. He topped a ridge upon which there was nothing but mesquite, catclaw, and an occasional stunted oak, and the opposite ridge offered little more. The valley was deep, however, and the ridge to the north was a barrier to the cold wind. It was nothing like their canyon beyond the Wichita, but it would have to do. Dan estimated the distance back to the herd was at least five miles and the rain seemed to be getting harder. Trailing the herd into the teeth of a storm for such a distance would be a cowboy’s idea of hell, but they had no choice. When
Dan reached the first wagon, he spoke to Silas.

  “Valley ahead, Silas. Take the wagons up the farthest ridge a ways. No creek through there, but there could be later, if the rain continues. Get the wagons over, just in case.”

  Dan then rode back to join the drag riders. There were twenty-two women in the outfit. The wives of Bow-dre, McNelly, Elfego, Grimes, Wilkerson, and Crump drove wagons. The rest—sixteen in all—rode drag, and while none of them had ever done anything of this magnitude, they had come together in a way that had amazed Dan Ember. They swung doubled lariats against bovine rumps, screeched like Comanches, and when things really went to hell, Dan heard some pretty salty language. He had a real affection for them all, and when the herd became the most unruly, he was always there to help them. And so it was today.

  “Valley up ahead,” he shouted. “We’ll hold them there until the storm lets up.”

  It was a fight, keeping the herd moving into the storm until finally they topped a ridge and moved into the valley below. The rain was still cold, but without the wind, it was not a driving force, encouraging the herd to drift before it. Silas led the wagons across the floor of the valley and partway up the opposite side, just in case the rain continued and the water rose in a wet weather stream. Once the cattle and the horse remuda had strung out to graze, the riders converged on the wagons.