“I think,” Wolf Bowdre said, when Dan paused for a word with him, “this Cheyenne will make a fair to mid-dlin’ cowboy. After all the slick dealing his people have suffered at the hands of whites, he’s got sand. If I was Indian and had seen my people shot down by whites, I’m not sure I could forget or forgive.”
“I think that’s all that separates a man from a lobo,” Dan said, “and the color of his skin has nothing to do with it. My parents were murdered by the Comanches, and it would be easy for me to hate all Indians. But when I’m tempted, my mind force-marches me through centuries of brutality by the white man. Killers come in all colors, but so do men with compassion and guts.”
While Dan and Wolf had no way of knowing Eagle’s thoughts, the Cheyenne had reached some conclusions of his own, remarkably close to Dan’s. While he had seen his people murdered by whites, and while he had been left for dead, he could not bring himself to condemn them all. These men and their squaws who drove the vacas had saved his life, fed him and had shown him kindness, even when he had returned that kindness with hostility. His people had been starved out of West Texas by the white buffalo hunters, and if they had killed all the buffalo on this range, had they not done so elsewhere? While Eagle did not understand where the cattle drive was going and why, it seemed to have some purpose, something his life lacked. Perhaps, now that he had no other, he could make a place for himself among these whites. They, like his people had been, were on the move, but they had some destination in mind. For the first time in his life there was food without days of fruitless hunting, and the eventual possibility that he might prove himself to the extent that he could own one of the white man’s weapons. That in itself was reason enough to become part of the white man’s world, but suddenly there came to him a new revelation that swept everything else aside.
Now that he had been accepted by the whites with whom he rode, would he not be permitted to move freely among the white man’s villages? Despite the ordeal he had endured, the faces of four men had been burned into his brain as though with a hot iron. Somewhere the men who had murdered his people had to be walking free, and when he found them, he would not need the white man’s deadly thunder stick. Eagle—the Cheyenne—would need only the cover of darkness and a well-honed cuchillo … *
*Fight soldiers yesterday. All soldiers dead.
*White dog
*Knife
15
The Washita River, Indian Territory. Sunday, November 20, 1870.
The herd and the horse remuda had been bedded down on the south bank of the Washita; about sixty-five miles south of Camp Supply, on the North Canadian, according to Dan’s calculation. The soldiers—a lieutenant, a sergeant, and nine privates—rode in from the north just before sundown. Dan rode out to meet them.
“Ride in and rest your saddles,” he invited. “You’re welcome to join us for supper, and there’s hot coffee ready now. I’m Daniel Ember.”
“We’re obliged,” the officer said. “I’m Lieutenant Strait, and this is Sergeant Collins. I’ll tell you a secret. Soldiers don’t eat all that well on post, and off it the food becomes infinitely worse. We gladly accept the invitation to supper.”
The men dismounted, unsaddled, and gratefully accepted tin cups of hot coffee. They canted their heads like hunting wolves toward the Dutch ovens where sourdough biscuits were baking. They dug into supper as though they were half starved, taking seconds of ham, beans, hot biscuits, and dried apple pie. They emptied two pots of coffee while two more were boiling. Finally, over fourth and fifth cups of coffee, the lieutenant got around to what Dan had been expecting.
“Two weeks ago,” Strait said, “an eleven man patrol left Camp Supply, and haven’t returned. To say we suspect foul play would sound foolish. They’re dead and we know it, but what we don’t know is how they have disappeared without a trace. There’s been rain since, of course, and whatever trail there was is gone. Have you seen any sign that might be helpful to us, such as old tracks or ashes from old fires?”
“Nothing,” Dan said truthfully. “The only camp we’ve seen is an Indian camp right after we crossed the Red. Seven Indians had been gunned down. We reckoned it was done by buffalo hunters, from shod horse tracks and the wagon tracks comin’ out of the west.”
“Likely you’re right,” Lieutenant Strait said.
“How far are we from Camp Supply?” Wolf Bowdre asked.
“A little more than sixty miles,” Lieutenant Strait replied. “You should be there in four days, but don’t expect a lot. We’ve been promised a fort, a permanent installation, but for the time being just about everything is in short supply. You’ll find no weapons or ammunition for civilian use.”
The soldiers stayed the night, and following a bountiful breakfast, rode south on their impossible mission. Dan and the outfit headed the herd and the horse remuda north, crossing the Washita.*
Lenore DeVoe took her old position riding drag, and appeared unchanged. She hadn’t been overly friendly to any of the other women, but she suddenly began riding close to Nakita Elfego. Nakita spoke English better than Palo or Tamara, and she was fluent in Spanish as well, and that was what interested Lenore. Nakita was near Lenore’s age, and being the only Mejicano in the outfit, was as friendless as Lenore. Finally, when Lenore worked up enough courage to ask a favor, Nakita was responsive but curious.
“You are Tejano, and speak the most wonderful English,” Nakita said, “while I work like the dog to master it. Why you wish me to teach you Espanol?”
“I can’t tell you,” Lenore said, “for two reasons. You would laugh at me, and you would tell, and I don’t want anyone else to know.”
“I would not laugh and I would not tell,” Nakita said. “I think I know why, even if you do not tell me. You wish to talk to the Indio, and he knows no English.”
“Damn you, Nakita,” Lenore said, “if you breathe a word, I swear I’ll kill you. Now you know my reason. Will you teach me?”
“Per’ap,” Nakita said, “if you help me with the English. You see this Indio desnudo. He bueno hombre, no?”
“Like the toro,”Lenore said devilishly. “Now, when can we start with the Spanish?”
Palo Elfego had taken to riding with Eagle, and the Indian slowly began to learn some English. Even Adeline had become comfortable with him, and he seemed to have some vague recollection of her treating his wound. Often when he caught her eye, he grinned at her for no reason, as though they shared some secret. He had unusual habits, for an Indian. He didn’t care how cold it got. Morning and evening he stripped off his shirt and washed himself. At some time in his life he seemed to have been around soldiers, for he walked and rode ramrod straight. He developed a habit of snapping Dan a military salute when they met, whether in camp or on the trail.
“Damned if I understand that Indian,” Dan said. “He’s had some civilizing somewhere along the trail. I’ll be glad when he learns some English.”
“Fanny says he already knows all the swear words,” Adeline said, “and he can say ‘Tejano.’ “
The Canadian River. Monday, November 21, 1870.
The Canadian was just fifteen miles north of the Washita crossing, and the trail drive had made it easily by sundown. Now it was dawn, and all the wagons had been floated across the Canadian.
“How far to the next water?” Sloan Kuykendall asked.
“I have no idea,” Dan said, “but we’re not more than forty miles from the North Canadian, and with it that close, there should be plenty of runoffs to the south. If there’s a water problem ahead, we usually get some warning from Chato, and I’ve heard nothing.”
But Chato and his band were not ahead of the drive. In fact, they were concealed in the breaks along the Canadian, less than ten miles east of the position where the trail drive was crossing. Chato didn’t know where the soldier fort was, and he had sent a man ahead to scout its location. While they waited, more soldiers had ridden south. The first group had stumbled on his camp, had attacked, and Chato and h
is men had been forced to kill them. Chato had considered ambushing the second group, but discarded the idea. If the soldier fort was near, he might bring down the wrath of the entire United States Army on himself and his men. Instead, he had sent a scout south, with orders to follow the soldiers. He had to be sure they didn’t march just beyond the trail drive and double back along the flank, with mischief in mind. His experience with soldiers along the Rio Grande had all been bad, and he trusted none of them.
Sugato, the scout Chato had sent to follow the soldiers, had crossed the Washita and seen no evidence the eleven soldiers intended to turn back. Sugato had watered his horse and was about to ride north when he heard something downriver. Quickly he concealed himself and the horse, with his hand over the animal’s muzzle. He watched in amazement as eighteen riders—all Mejicano—rode along the north bank of the river. He did not know them all, but he recognized the hated Santos Miguel Montoya as the leader. He waited until Montoya led his band north, the direction the trail drive had taken. Sugato waited, and before the Mejicano band was out of sight, three more riders appeared, following Montoya’s band. Sugato recognized only the lead rider, for he was the diablo americano who had taken the Tejano land and sought to prevent the trail drive. Sugato led his horse downriver almost a mile before mounting. He then rode almost five miles to the east before reining his horse to the north. He then urged the animal into a fast gallop. Chato must know of this unholy alliance between Burton Ledoux and Montoya’s killer Mejicanos. Even the uneducated Sugato realized that it was no longer just a case of Chato and his men protecting the Tejano outfit and their cows. Chato and his band of Mejicano Indios would be fighting for their lives.
Once the herd had crossed the Canadian and was headed north, it seemed nothing could go wrong. The sun had risen in a clear blue sky, and within two hours they crossed a clear running creek that angled in from the northwest. But far to the west, where the sun would bid the prairie good night, a dirty band of gray stretched from one horizon to the other. Somewhere—maybe over the Pacific—a storm was brewing, and for the time of the year, it could be rain, snow, or a combination of both. Dan was riding near the lead wagon, and Silas came up with one of his predictions.
“Ain’t cold enough for snow, but that could change. If the temperature don’t drop tonight, there’ll be a frog strangler by mornin’.”
“Given a choice,” Dan said, “I’d almost prefer the snow. “This time of year, there’s a real danger from ground lightning.”
On the prairie any kind of lightning was feared by cattlemen, but the ground lightning was the worst. It came to earth as huge balls of fire, and brought with it a multitude of dangers. Even if the perilous blue and green spheres didn’t strike a tree and explode, they had a way of terrifying horses and cattle. As the day wore on, the cloud bank grew, erasing the blue from the western horizon. The sun dipped lower and soon was gone, fanning out glorious shades of red and pink in memory of its passing. A chill wind rose out of the northwest, but there was no rain, no thunder, and no lightning. Near dawn there was a distant rumble of thunder, and breakfast was a hurried affair, with the expectation of rain. Even with the wind, the air seemed thick, oppressive. A cow bawled uneasily, and it seemed to have been a signal, as others joined in.
“Everybody in the saddle,” Dan shouted. “Circle the herd and try to calm them.” Dan could hear the horses nickering, and rode north west along the creek to the horse remuda. “It may be a bad one,” he told the wranglers. “Hold them if you can.”
Dan found Silas frantically harnessing his team to the wagon. Fanny Bowdre and the other women who drove wagons were attempting to harness their teams as well.
“We’re movin’ the wagons down the creek a ways,” Silas shouted. “If they run, it’ll likely be away from the storm and right through camp.”
It was true. Dan leaped from the saddle and set about helping Tamara Elfego with her team. There was a patter of rain and a roll of thunder as lightning flared from one horizon to the other.
“Here it comes,” a rider shouted, and he wasn’t referring to the rain, but the fearful lightning.
The glowing spheres dropped from the low-hanging gray clouds and went bounding across the plains like fiery tumbleweeds, some of them as big as wagon wheels. Silas was on the wagon box, flogging the mules, when a ball of fire broadsided the wagon. The wagon literally exploded, and there was a second blast the equal of the first as the keg of black powder from Silas’s store detonated. The ground lightning would have been bad enough, but for the horses and longhorns the double blast was a scenario straight from hell. Being to the south of the herd, it drove the terrified longhorns to the north, taking the horse remuda with them. With the storm blowing from the northwest, the riders had expected the herd, if it stampeded, to run to the east, away from the storm. Thus some of the riders were to the north of the herd, and were caught between the stampeding longhorns and the horse remuda.
Dan had ridden eastward, hoping to get ahead of the expected stampede, and could only watch in horror as his companions rode for their lives. One of them was Lenore. Suddenly her horse stumbled, throwing her to the prairie. The horse limped away as she got to her feet, and Dan could see her terrified face as the thundering herd came closer. Adeline DeVoe reined up beside Dan, the sound of her anguished screams lost in the rumble of the stampede. Then from the west galloped a big roan horse, straight into the path of the twenty thousand rampaging longhorns. Eagle rode the horse like he was part of it, as though unaware of eighty thousand deadly hooves pounding toward him. On he rode, and when it seemed there was not a chance of his reaching the girl in time, he did. Without a break in the roan’s stride, the Cheyenne caught Lenore up in his left arm and galloped on. But the danger wasn’t past, for the herd had fanned out for more than a mile, and the valiant horse might yet be run down before it was out of the path of the stampede.
Dan and Adeline galloped their horses along with the running longhorns, aware that the stampede was losing momentum. The rain continued, but the wind, lightning, and thunder had abated. When Dan and Adeline met Eagle, the Cheyenne was leading his lathered horse. When Lenore saw Adeline, she all but fell off the animal. Adeline was out of the saddle in an instant, and when they met, Dan and the Indian were forgotten. The Cheyenne said not a word, but walked on toward camp, leading the weary horse. Dan rode after him, dreading what awaited them.
There was nothing left of the wagon but the wheels. There was a sickening odor of burned flesh, for the mules had died a fiery death along with Silas. What remained of him was covered with a blanket. The women who had driven the other wagons were in shock, and Tamara Elfego wept. The men were ill at ease, as though unsure as to what should be done. Death was a visitor with whom none of them were comfortable.
“Wolf,” Dan said, “let’s you and me dig a grave for Silas beneath that big oak down yonder by the river. The rest of you hitch up the wagons and move the camp upriver a mile or two. I reckon we’ll be here awhile.”
They needed something to occupy their minds and their hands, and they set about following Dan’s orders as he and Wolf Bowdre took spades from the Bowdre wagon. The rain continued, but they hardly noticed. Finally, when they stopped, leaning on the handles of their spades, it was Bowdre who spoke.
“You know,” he said, “I’ll miss old Silas more than I’d miss any other man in this outfit. You got savvy, and you’re one hell of a trail boss, but without Silas, I ain’t sure you could have pulled all of us together.”
“Neither am I,” Dan said. “He gave it all he had, and damn it, I wish we could thank him with more than just a hole in the ground.”
“He wouldn’t expect more than that,” Bowdre said. “I don’t think he ever expected to see Kansas. What I regret most, and what I think is botherin’ some of the others, is he was more a friend to us than we were to him. All of us laid out of the war, while Silas lost both his sons, but he never held it against us.”
“What of his wife?”
> “I reckon the war took her too,” Bowdre said. “She died when she knew for sure her sons wouldn’t be comin’ home.”
“I almost believe Silas wanted to do one more worthy thing, something he could be proud of,” Dan said. “Thank God we’re close enough to the finish that he could see the success of it. What better way for an old Texan to cash in, than on the trail with a herd of Texas longhorns?”
Beneath a gnarled oak on the Canadian River, they laid Silas Hamby to rest. Dan read passages from Hattie Kuykendall’s Bible, and they all walked sorrowfully away, leaving Dan and Wolf to fill the grave.
Chato spoke not a word until Sugato had told the renegade leader all he had seen. “We kill?” Sugato asked.
“Si,” Chato said, “but when we are beyond the soldier fort. We have no fight with the army of the americanos if they do not attack us, and they do not attack us if they do not know we are here.”
There was some grumbling, but Chato ignored it. They dared not run afoul of the law until they were ready to retreat into the wilds of Old Mexico, and that meant delaying their showdown with Montoya’s bunch until they were much nearer Dodge City. Chato had every intention of collecting the money owed him for the trail drive and for the sale of the horse remuda.
The Canadian River. Wednesday, November 23, 1870.
“With rain all day yesterday and most of last night,” Dan said, “there’ll be plenty of standing water, so we’ll have to go after the varmints. They won’t have to come back to the river to drink.”
“Anyhow, they’re somewhere to the north of here,” Spence Wilder said, “and that’s where we’re aimin’ to take ‘em.”
“Yeah,” Hiram Beard said, “but there’s northwest, north, and northeast. They could be fanned out over thirty or forty miles.”
“Cows scare easy,” Dan said, “but they have short memories. I doubt they’d run more than four or five miles, unless the devil was on their heels snortin’ fire and brimstone. But they’ll drift some as they graze, so the sooner we start this gather, the less time it’ll take.”
The Dodge City Trail Page 21