The Dodge City Trail

by Ralph Compton

  “Go ahead and put up your canvas shelters,” Dan told them. “I look for the rain to continue today and maybe tonight, and with a cold wind from the north, it’ll be near impossible drivin’ the herd into it.”

  “Keeno,” Cash Connolly said, “and we’ll be damn lucky if it don’t turn to snow.”

  “With that in mind,” Dan said, “I think we’d all better go in search of anything that’ll burn. Nothing much in this valley. Split up into pairs and ride north. Nobody rides alone.”

  They were fortunate to find cedar and oak, some windblown and some that had been struck by lightning. These were snaked back across the ridge, and with an ax from each of the wagons, men began reducing the trees to firewood. Wagons had been positioned back to back or side by side, with canvas stretched between them, providing shelter for the cook fires. Cold wind still whipped into the valley, but the mesquited ridge broke the force of it. Water already had begun to flow down the normally dry valley floor, so there would be ample water for the horses and longhorns. While the animals had spread out down the valley, it was to take advantage of the graze. The rain continued, becoming harder at times, then slacking off to no more than a drizzle.

  “If it goes on into the night,” Silas predicted, “she’ll change to snow, sure as hell.”

  Nobody doubted that. The temperature always seemed to drop at night, even if the sun had been out during the day. The day wore on, and there was hot coffee. The women began supper early, allowing the families to serve their plates and eat within their canvas shelters before dark. The rain continued into the night, but a little more than two hours after supper, it ceased.

  “That could be the end of it,” Silas said. “It’s a good sign.”

  To everybody’s surprise and relief, the clouds parted and a single timid star winked silver against the purple sky. Soon there were more stars, all seemingly scattered by a careless hand across a velvet plateau.

  “We can’t be more than eight or nine miles from the Pease River,” Dan said, “and we’ll be starting tomorrow with the herd well-grazed and watered. We’ll drive them hard, and if we can reach the Pease early enough in the day, then I think we’ll move on to the Red.”

  “You’re saying tomorrow night might be a dry camp, then,” Aubin Chambers said. “I don’t like that.”

  “Me neither,” Rux Carper added. “We got trouble enough with these varmints as it is.”

  “You’re jumping to conclusions,” Dan said. “From the information we have, once we reach the Pease River, we’re a good twenty miles south of the Red. If we reach the Pease tomorrow at midday, we can be five or six miles closer to the Red tomorrow night. Once the herd’s drunk their fill at the Pease, they won’t be hurtin’ for water again tomorrow night.”

  “Why, hell no, they won’t,” Silas said. “They’ll be a mite thirsty before we get to the Red, but we’ll be maybe thirteen or fourteen miles away, ‘stead of twenty.”

  “I can’t see coddlin’ ourselves and the herd with a six or seven mile drive tomorrow, only to have hell all the next day, with a twenty mile run to the Red,” Wolf Bow-dre said. “If any of you hombres hanker to be trail boss, then we’ll take a vote, but Dan Ember gets mine.”

  “And mine,” shouted a dozen other men.

  The men on the first watch mounted and rode out. The sky had cleared, and although the night wind had a chill to it, the riders were in good spirits. There had been enough rain for the temporary streams to have water, and even with the sun at its worst, the herd and horse remuda would by no means be dry when they reached the Pease River. Chambers and Carper were on the first watch with Dan, but they had nothing to say. When Dan left his watch at midnight, he found Adeline awake and waiting for him.

  “Did Aubin Chambers and Rux Carper have anything to say to you?” she asked.

  “No,” Dan said. “Why?”

  “Whether, you realize it or not, the women on this trail drive have all the confidence in the world in you, and they’re pretty well fed up with Chambers and Carper always trying to cut you down.”

  “I appreciate their confidence,” Dan said, “but I think enough’s been said.”

  “Odessa Chambers and Ellie Carper don’t feel that way,” Adeline said. “I think Mr. Chambers and Mr. Carper are catching hell just about now.”

  “That won’t accomplish anything,” Dan said, “except unite the two of them in some future devilment. I just want to be done with this drive.”

  “My God, yes,” Adeline agreed. “Just to have some privacy.”

  “I could take a walk,” Lenore said from the darkness.

  “The time may come when we’ll have you do just that,” Dan said, “but not tonight.”

  The dawn broke clear and cold, with ice in standing pools of water. The wagons took the trail, followed by the horse remuda, and finally the longhorns.

  “Keep them bunched and moving,” Dan shouted as he made his way back to the drag. No such order was necessary for his drag riders. They knew what was expected of them, and they were right on the heels of the herd. Dan had some friendly words for every one, while Odessa Chambers and Ellie Carper made it a point to speak to him. Boyce Trevino, Palo Elfego, Chad Grimes, Garret Haddock, and Cash Connolly all had daughters near Lenore’s age, and the girl had taken to riding with them. Dan trotted his horse alongside Adeline’s. Hattie Kuykendall rode to Adeline’s left, and Amy Wilder to Dan’s right.

  “This has to be the biggest bunch of drag riders for a single herd in the history of the world,” Dan said.

  “Why not?” Amy said. “Who’s ever had a bigger herd?”

  “We might not be the best,” Hattie Kuykçndall said, “but there’s enough of us to make up the difference.”

  “I couldn’t ask for a better drag,” Dan said. “The flank and swing riders are important, but certainly no more important than any of you. Without you drag riders keeping the ranks closed, a hundred flank and swing riders would not be able to keep the column from breaking up.”

  The longhorns didn’t like the faster gait, but they were forced to accept it, bawling their protests as they went. The sun soon began to make its presence felt, and the excess water that had collected on the prairie disappeared slowly but surely. The sun wasn’t even noon high when the wagons and horse remuda reached the Pease River. The horse wranglers had wisely driven the remuda east far enough that they weren’t in the way of the advancing herd. The longhorns were thirsty enough to trot, once they became aware of the water, and the river’s bank was low enough not to be a danger. The lead steers broke for the water and the riders pulled back, letting them go. They had to cross the river anyway, and with the size of the herd, later arrivals would horn the earlier ones on across. Silas sat on the wagon box watching the steers and cows horn one another aside as they made their way to water.

  “Water’s not as deep as I’d reckoned,” Dan said. “We might find a low enough bank and shallow enough water to just drive the wagons on across.”

  “I’m reckonin’ the same thing,” Silas said. “We know we’ll have to float ‘em across the Red, but maybe this once we won’t have to.”

  Some of the cattle had given up reaching the water, and not being all that thirsty, had begun to graze. Some of the riders had ridden into the water, swinging their doubled lariats and shouting, seeking to drive some of the cattle on across and out on the opposite bank. Once their efforts began to succeed and the early arrivals were driven out, Dan and the rest of the riders began driving the grazing cattle on toward the water. The longer it took the herd to drink, the more time they would lose on their drive to the Red. The horse wranglers had found a suitable crossing and had driven the horse remuda to the opposite bank. Thinking it might be possible to cross the wagons there, Silas had headed his team upriver, the other wagons following. So large was the herd, many of the cattle had been forced into deeper water and were unable to linger in the river. Dan allowed the animals time to drink and then they were driven on across. “Head ‘em up!”
he shouted. “We’re moving out!”

  There were seven of the Cheyenne—three braves, three squaws, and a boy still in his teens—and they had made their camp a hundred yards from the Red, near a popular crossing.* Finishing their supper well before dark, the supper fire was extinguished. The buffalo were gone, winter was nigh, and the seven were part of an exodus from the plains where the white buffalo hunter had encroached upon Indian hunting grounds. Circumstances beyond their control had torn their roots from the soil of their past and there seemed little or no future awaiting them. But the little party of Cheyenne were not alone, and the first hint of danger came at dawn, with the rattle of a wagon. East along the river it came, driven by a white man and followed by three others on horseback. They were former buffalo hunters, but their wagon was empty and their mules gaunt.

  “Smoke,” the lead rider said. The three drew their Sharps buffalo guns and rode on.

  Ahead, the Cheyenne had put out their breakfast fire and the women were running toward a thicket where the horses had been concealed. The three Cheyenne

  braves stood their ground, buying a little time for their women. The boy refused to retreat with the women, remaining with the braves. As the white men drew near, the four Cheyenne gave the peace sign. But there was no peace. The buffalo guns roared and two of the braves fell, dead before they touched the ground. The third Cheyenne had seized his bow and an arrow, but they fell from his dead hands as heavy slugs from two of the Sharps ripped into his belly. The third Sharps cut down the Cheyenne boy.

  “Come on,” the man who had driven the wagon shouted. “Let’s git them squaws.”

  The Cheyenne women hadn’t moved fast enough and the buffalo hunters had seen them scatter into the thicket. The four men ran through underbrush. Leaving behind the heavy Sharps rifles, each man had drawn and cocked his Colt. They had taken Indian women before and bore scars as proof. Many a squaw had a knife and was adept in the use of it. But these Cheyenne squaws had only their hands and feet to defend themselves and the burly buffalo hunters used the muzzles of their Colts to knock the women unconscious. They each wore only a buckskin dress.

  “Squaws ain’t got but one damn thing goin’ fer ‘em,” said one of the men. “They ain’t all bound up in corsets an’ such.”

  His three brutal companions shared his sentiments, and the women were quickly stripped of the little that they wore. There were crude jokes among the four as they had their way with the helpless Cheyenne women. Finished, they stood back to admire their handiwork just as the unfortunate trio were coming to their senses.

  “Don’t ever leave no witnesses, Injun or otherwise,” one of the men said, drawing his Colt.

  There was a roar of guns and the four men turned away from the bloody, violated bodies of the Cheyenne women. Quickly they found the horses that had belonged to the Cheyennes.

  “Damn Injuns,” said one of the men. “Nothin’ worth the takin’, ‘cept fer the hosses, an’ they ain’t nothin’ to git excited about.”

  Three of the men mounted their horses and the fourth climbed to the wagon box. Leading the stolen horses, they departed the scene of their crime, not even looking back at the bodies of the fallen Cheyenne braves who had only wanted peace. When the rattle of the wagon and the clopping of horses’ hooves had faded, there was only silence, for when death came, even the birds fled the scene. When there finally was a sound, it came from the lips of the youngest Cheyenne. It was a groan of anguish that ended with a sigh, and the boy’s left hand moved just a little. Life remained, but little more than a spark ...

  *Just north of present-day Vernon, Texas. The first house was erected in 1874. It became known as Doan’s Crossing in 1879, when C. F. and Jonathan Doan built an adobe building and started a store.

  14

  The herd was trailing well, and Dan rode alongside the lead wagon, talking to Silas,

  “We ought to make the Red easy,” Silas said. “Give the herd and the hosses time to water, graze, and rest, and we can run ‘em across first thing tomorrow.”

  It had the promise of a perfect day. While the long-horns hadn’t been to water at the end of the previous day, they had watered at midday and hadn’t been bedded down dry. Today they would be thirsty before reaching the Red, but thanks to Dan Ember’s foresight, the drive wouldn’t be nearly as long as it might have been. It was early afternoon when they first sighted the circling buzzards somewhere ahead.

  “Something or somebody’s down,” Dan said. “Monte, pass the word along to take up the slack, keep the herd moving. I think Wolf and me will ride ahead, see what’s happened.”

  Dan and Wolf Bowdre kicked their horses into a slow gallop, and in less than an hour had reached the Red. There was a gradual slope to the water, and another on the north bank where they would leave the river.

  “I’ve heard a lot about the Red, and none of it’s been good,” Wolf said, “but this don’t look too bad. Of ourse, it could be over the head of a man on a tall orse.”

  “Come on,” Dan said. “We might as well find out.”

  Their horses readily took to the river and crossed without difficulty. As they neared the grisly scene, three uzzards flapped away, taking refuge in the upper ranches of an oak.

  “Shot down like dogs,” Bowdre said angrily. “Look at tiat.”

  Even in death, the stiffened fingers of one Indian still lade the peace sign.

  “Four men,” Dan said, “one of them driving a wagon. An empty wagon. I’d say it was buffalo hunters.”

  But that wasn’t the worst of it. When they found the hree Indian women, all had been shot in the back.

  “To a lesser degree,” Bowdre said, “it looks exactly ike what Clay Allison told us was done to Black Kettle nd his tribe.”

  “We’ll have to bury these people,” Dan said. “Ride ack, meet the wagons, and bring some spades. I’ll stay 1ere and keep the buzzards away.”

  When Bowdre had ridden away, Dan walked toward lie river where the men had fallen. Something about he scene bothered him. All four had been shot from he front, but the fourth lay facedown, and the exit round was high up, near the left shoulder. Dan took the limp left wrist and found no pulse. He reached or the big artery in the neck, pressing hard. So weak vas the pulse, he thought he was mistaken, but he tried again, and it was there. He rolled the Indian ever on his back, and for a heartbeat the obsidian yes met his own. The young Indian had been con-cious enough, with the strength to turn over on his relly, protecting his eyes from the waiting buzzards. Oan’s bedroll and blankets were in one of the wagons. He took his coat and covered the Indian, awaiting Bowdre’s return. When Bowdre rode in, Tobe Bamfield was with him.

  “The herd was behavin’ itself,” Bowdre said, “so I brought some help.”

  “We’ll need it,” Dan said, “but not to dig graves. You and me can do that. One of these Indians—the boy—is still alive, but not by much. Tobe, I want you to ride back and bring the medicine chest Silas has in his wagon. Have Adeline and one or two of the other women come with you, and have them bring some blankets. Rapido.”

  When Barnfield had ridden away, Dan and Wolf began digging.

  “I think we’ll just dig a common grave,” Dan said, “deep enough to keep the buzzards and coyotes from getting at them. We’d be here a week, digging individual graves.”

  When Tobe Barnfield returned, he rode across the river alone, but he had a roll of blankets.

  “I left the women across the river,” Tobe said. “I didn’t reckon they ought to see all the dead. We can hoist this Injun on some blankets betwixt two hosses, and take him over yonder where we’ll be makin’ our camp.”

  “Good thinkin’, Tobe,” Dan said. “You and Wolf take him on across, and I’ll finish filling this grave.”

  When Dan finished his task and crossed the river, he found Adeline, Lenore, and Fanny Bowdre working over the critically wounded Indian. Fanny had brought her wagon on ahead, and there was little the men could do. Adeline already had stripped away the
bloody old denim shirt and was cleansing the wound. From a bolt of muslin Silas had brought from his store, Lenore was folding a thick pad, while Fanny Bowdre prepared a second one. When the bandages were in place, the Indian was wrapped in blankets from his chin to his feet.

  “I’ve made room for him in the wagon,” Fanny said. He shouldn’t be out there on the damp ground.”

  “If there’s room for me, I’ll stay with him,” Lenore id.

  “He could be dangerous when he comes out of it,”

  an said. “He was shot by whites, and that makes us the enemy.”

  “Not if he knows we’re trying to help him,” Lenore aid. “I’m not afraid.”

  “Then go ahead,” Dan said jokingly. “It’s time you not yourself a man.”

  The girl blushed furiously, hiding her face in her ands. Dan, Wolf, Tobe, and Fanny laughed, but the me would come when Lenore’s affection for the young Indian would be no laughing matter.

  The herd reached the Red without difficulty, and the sst of the outfit was curious about the wounded Indian ι the Bowdre wagon.

  “We don’t know anything about him,” Dan told them, except that it’s not likely he’s Comanche. These Indians tried to meet the whites in peace, and that’s the last bring Comanches would have done.”

  “What are you aimin’ to do with him?” Chad Grimes sked.

  “I have no idea,” Dan said, “beyond gettin’ him well back on his feet.”

  Lenore sat in the Bowdre wagon listening to the ounded man’s ragged breathing. Had his mother and ather been among the Indians who had died? She decided they probably had, and that meant he was an or-han. He looked no older than she, and now he was lone in the world. Lenore didn’t want him to be alone, ut suppose Dan was right? Suppose, when he came to is senses and was strong enough, he repaid her kind-ess by simply strangling her? She forced that possibility

  om her mind, filling it with alternatives that would ave shocked Adeline DeVoe speechless.