The Dodge City Trail

by Ralph Compton

  “Rux Carper, the only reason I’ve come this far with you is because it seemed like we had a chance at some-thin’ better, because we was part of an outfit that cared if we lived or died. Folks has done the best they could, and all you’ve done is complain like a stove-up old granny. You pull out, and I promise you, you’ll go without me.”

  Most of the men looked away, embarrassed. Carper stood there, teeth clenched, hands fisted at his sides, his face a mask of fury. Dan believed he would have struck the woman if he could have gotten away with it, but the rest of the women in the outfit had fixed their eyes on him in a manner that shocked him more than Elanora’s outburst.

  “I ain’t backin’ out,” he said, his head down. “It’s … I … I just don’t always like the way things is done. ...”

  The moment passed and the men drifted away, uneasily aware that they had witnessed a thing that seemed contrary to nature. A man—if he was a man—didn’t allow himself to be dressed down by a woman. While not a man in the outfit blamed Elanora, each felt as though he had lost something for having observed Rux Carper’s degradation.

  “Gracias, torpe,” Eagle said as Lenore placed two dried apple pies on his plate.

  She smiled at him, content that he was speaking to her, even if he did continue to refer to her as “clumsy.” She sensed some feeling in him, some affection, yet he remained aloof. Nakita Elfego, damn her, had broken her word. Now everybody knew Lenore had been learning Spanish so that she could talk to Eagle, and the men grinned openly at him. The Cheyenne had his pride, and it bothered him when the whites laughed at him, whatever their reason. Lenore believed Eagle would be different once they had a ranch of their own, but suppose the Cheyenne chose not to remain with them? Indians being nomadic, it was one thing to be on the trail, forever on the move, and something else to settle down on a ranch. But they still had another week before reaching Dodge, and from what Dan had said, it would be many months before the railroad came.

  Camp Supply, Indian Territory. Wednesday, December 28, 1870.

  Without knowing the reason for it, Dan obeyed Chato’s order. At first light the Bowdre wagon led out, followed by the horse remuda.

  “Move ‘em out,” Dan shouted. The longhorns took the trail, following the North Canadian northwest. Half a dozen miles later they reached the shallow, sandy-bottomed crossing Dan had scouted earlier. Here they drove the wagons across, followed by the horse remuda and the longhorns. Catching up to the lead wagon, Dan spoke to Fanny Bowdre.

  “Stay with the river, Fanny. Tomorrow we’ll head due north, toward the Cimarron.”

  For the last time they bedded down the longhorns along the North Canadian River. Once they reached the Cimarron, they would have but to cross the river and their herd would be on Kansas grass. The night passed quietly, and none of the Texans were aware that one of Chato’s men observed them. Delgadito had tied his horse a mile upriver, coming close enough on foot to be sure that the camp belonged to the Tejanos. Satisfied that it did, he returned to his horse, mounted, and returned to the hidden camp where Chato and the band waited.

  “Tejano come,” Delgadito said. “Leave soldado fort like you say.”

  “Si,” Chato said. “Venir el alba, venir el perras, venir muerte.”*

  The canyon Chato had chosen for the ambush had served its purpose. The Mejicano, Montoya, had scouted it exactly as Chato had wished him to. Now Chato expected the Mejicanos to approach the canyon before dawn, an ambush of their own in mind. But they would never reach the canyon.

  “Tiempo,” Chato said as the rest of his men approached, leading their horses. Chato mounted and rode south, the others following. Half a dozen miles south of the fatal canyon where Montoya would expect to spring his ambush, Chato reined up. It was a flat stretch of prairie devoid of any cover except occasional mesquite. His men scattered into two groups, three hundred yards apart, leaving a broad expanse through which Montoya and his Mejicanos could ride. With their rifles, Chato and his Mejicano Indios settled down to wait for Senor Santos Miguel Montoya and his men to ride into a deadly cross fire… .

  Two hours before first light, Montoya and his followers rode north, bound for the canyon in which Chato and his men had spent the last two nights. “It is considerate of the Indios perras to choose so

  beautiful a place for the ambush,” Juan Panduro said. “It be so simple a thing to kill them all from the rim.”

  “Per’ap you do not talk so much,” Montoya hissed. “You do not count the dead until the shooting is finish.”

  They rode single file, their rifles at the ready. Moon-set wasn’t far off, and the stars had already begun their retreat into the majestic purple heavens that always swallowed them just before the dawn.

  • Two miles behind Montoya’s band rode Burton Ledoux, Black Bill, and Loe Hagerman. A rear shoe of Black Bill’s horse nicked a stone, and in the quiet of the night the sound seemed inordinately loud.

  “Quiet, damn it,” Burton Ledoux growled.

  “It ain’t my fault this cayuse can’t see in the dark,” Black Bill replied. “Why the hell we got to be right on the heels of this Mex bunch, anyhow? In two hours it’ll be daylight.”

  “Come daylight,” Ledoux said, “you’d better hope we’re far from here, on our way to Dodge. The wind’s from the north, and when the shooting begins, the sound will carry for miles. Knowing that trail drive is headed this way, the soldiers will come to investigate. When they do, I want nobody in these parts but the Texans and those dead Mejicano Indians. Comprender?”

  “Comprender, hell.” Hagerman laughed. “He wouldn’t know which way was north if he wasn’t follerin’ you.”

  “Once we git to Dodge,” Black Bill said ominously, “I aim to let some of the wind out of you.”

  “You do anything in Dodge to draw attention to us,” Ledoux said, “and you could become more valuable to me dead than alive. You left Louisiana one jump ahead of the law, and there’s a price on your head. Keep that in mind. That and the fact there’s a United States Marshal at Dodge.”

  Loe Hagerman laughed, but it trailed off uneasily. The Cajun said not a word, but his hate was so strong, an involuntary chill crept up Burton Ledoux’s spine… .

  Montoya and his band were downwind from the canyon where they expected to ambush Chato, yet there was no sound except the sigh of the wind in the mesquite and sage. For a certainty Chato would have lookouts posted, and it was inconceivable to Montoya that a man could remain so immobile there was not so much a hint that he existed. Yet these cursed Indios were capable of exactly that. They were nearing the canyon. Soon it would be time to leave the horses and creep to the canyon rim on foot. Montoya rode uneasily on, and when the surprise attack came, he was aware only of the first shot. He was flung from the saddle, dying as he fell. None of Montoyas men got off a shot. They were gunned down to the last man, nineteen of them dying in the deadly cross fire. Chato and his band had fired only twenty-one rounds, and so brief had been the encounter, an unsuspecting man might have believed his ears were playing tricks on him. But far to the south, on the banks of the North Canadian, Wolf Bowdre and his second watch companions heard the brief thunder of rifles and understood.

  “Chato,” Bowdre said.

  Less than two miles south of the killing ground, Le-doux and his wary companions reined up, uncomfortable in the devastating silence. Suddenly, the plain ahead erupted in gunfire. The first shot snatched Ledoux’s hat from his head while a second dropped his horse. A third shot burned Black Bill’s horse, sending the animal galloping south. Ledoux sprang from the saddle of his dying mount and was given a hand up by Loe Hagerman. Hagerman kicked his horse into a gallop, and carrying double, the animal headed south. There was only one more shot, and the lead ripped through Ledoux’s upper left arm, shattering the bone. Black Bill’s horse couldn’t maintain a fast gallop for long, and even with Hagerman’s mount carrying double, they caught up to the Cajun. It was light enough for Black Bill to eye Ledoux’s bloody coat sleeve and useless
left arm with some relish.

  “I think,” the Cajun said, “somet’ing go wrong.”

  “Don’t do too much thinking,” Hagerman said. “You ain’t equipped for it.”

  “Shut up,” Ledoux shouted. “We have to find a place to hole up, and quick. I’m hurt.”

  “I ain’t,” Black Bill said, “and with both of you coyotes on just one hoss, you’ll slow me down. Find your own place to hole up.”

  “Damn you,” Ledoux said, earing back the hammer of his Colt, “you even look like you aim to run out on me, and I’ll kill you. Now lead out, and we’ll be right behind you.”

  Chato and his riders had reined up, looking south.

  “Seguir?”* Sugato asked.

  Chato shook his head. “Soldados come.” He wheeled his horse, riding north, and wordlessly his companions followed.

  Distant shooting never went unnoticed on the frontier, and every man in the Texas outfit had heard the gunfire.

  “Bunch of shootin’ up there to the north of us last night,” Chad Grimes said. “Somebody purely raised hell and kicked a chunk under it.”

  “Must of been Chato and his bunch,” Duncan Kilgore said. “Do we scout ahead and see what happened, or is it better if we don’t know?”

  “I think it’s better if we don’t know,” Dan said. “I didn’t tell any of you this before, because I didn’t know what it meant, if anything, but Chato sent word for us to spend just one night at Camp Supply before moving on. I think he pulled off one hell of an ambush last night, and I think where we were had something to do with it. That kind of shooting won’t have gone unnoticed at Camp Supply, and I reckon we’ll be seeing some soldiers pronto.”

  “Captain Chanute will think we’ve been hit by renegades or the Kiowa,” Wolf said, “and when his detachment learns otherwise, it’s unlikely the soldiers will ride any farther. I reckon it’ll suit Chato’s purpose if the military never learns what really happened.”

  “Nor us,” Dan said. “He’s removed some hombres who stood between us and Dodge, and that had something to do with his being so far ahead of us when the rustlers struck.”

  The detachment of soldiers was small. There were only seven men, one of them Lieutenant Schorp, who was in charge. The enlisted men consisted of a sergeant and five privates. One of the drag riders brought word of their coming, and Dan rode back to meet them.

  “Captain Chanute was concerned,” Lieutenant Schorp said. “He feared you had been ambushed by renegades or Kiowa. Have you scouted ahead to determine what might have happened?”

  “No,” Dan said. “Since we’re headin’ that way, we’ll look around some. I’ve found it best not to mix into somebody else’s fight when you can avoid it.”

  “That’s a philosophy a man can live with,” Schorp said. “Captain Chanute was concerned with your safety, and he said nothing about us riding any farther, so I’d like to ask a favor of you. If you find where last night’s shooting took place, if there seems to be anything of interest to the military, will you report it to the post commander at Fort Dodge?”

  “I will,” Dan said.

  ”Then I see no point in us riding any farther afield,” Schorp said, “since our post is already undermanned. I’ll tell Captain Chanute. Good luck.”

  Dan watched them ride back the way they had come. He then rode ahead, talking to the swing and flank riders as he went.

  Black Bill trotted his horse up a shallow draw, following a trickle of water that eventually led to a spring. Behind him, on a heaving horse, came Loe Hagerman and the wounded Burton Ledoux. Ledoux’s cruel face was twisted with pain, but he still held the cocked Colt. Black Bill dismounted, drawing his Colt as he did so. Using the horse for a shield, he dropped behind the animal, firing under its belly. The slug slammed into the surprised Hagerman’s chest, the force of it driving the dying gunman into Burton Ledoux. Ledoux went over the horse’s rump, crying out in pain as he struck the ground on his wounded arm. Hagerman reeled out of the saddle and his horse trotted away. Ledoux tried to recover, but he was slow. Black Bill fired a second time, and the lead shattered Ledoux’s right arm at the elbow. He bit his lips until they bled, and when he finally spoke, it was through painful, wracking sobs.

  “You dirty … double-crossing … son of a bitch. I should have … gut-shot you … when … I … had … the … chance… .”

  “But you didn’t,” Black Bill gloated, “ ‘cause you’re a damn fool. You liked torturin’ me, holdin’ that rap in Louisiana over my head. Now, Mr. Big, I got a s’prise for you.”

  The big Cajun turned to his horse, removing the cruel blacksnake whip from his saddle. He uncoiled it lovingly, his cruel eyes feasting on the horrified expression on Ledoux’s pain-wracked face.

  “You … couldn’t … be so … cruel,” Ledoux panted. He tried to rise to his knees, an impossible feat with two shattered arms.

  “Hell,” Black Bill said, with an insane cackle, “I ain’t human. You said so yourself. Now, by God, you’re goin’ to find out just how cruel I can be.”

  The whip took its first bite out of Ledoux’s crotch, and his scream drew a fiendish laugh from Black Bill. He went after Ledoux’s ears, cutting away at them until they were just bloody stumps. He then returned to Ledoux’s crotch, shredding the trousers to the knees. From there he concentrated on Ledoux’s shirt, ripping it from his body.

  “Please,” Ledoux shrieked, “in God’s name … spare me. ...”

  But there was no mercy in Black Bill. When his right arm and shoulder grew tired, he swapped hands with the deadly whip. Finally Ledoux lapsed into unconsciousness, and it spared him the worst of a horrible ordeal. The terrible lash tore into his face, and his nose disappeared in a shower of blood. Black Bill laughed. That left only the eyes. ...

  Dan reined up, listening. There had been two more shots, maybe a minute apart, and then silence. Wolf Bowdre reined up beside him.

  “Shots from a Colt,” Wolf said. “Long after the fight at dawn, but I’m bettin’ it’s got somethin’ to do with it.”

  “I reckon that would be a safe bet,” Dan said. “Like I told the soldiers, we’ll be goin’ that way, and we’ll look around some, but there’ll be things we’ll never know. And I reckon that’s best.”

  Before leaving the grisly scene of death, Black Bill went through the pockets of Hagerman and Ledoux. He grinned in satisfaction when he found a little more than three hundred dollars in greenbacks on Ledoux. Hagerman had little of value, except his Colt, pistol belt, and holster. And of course, his horse. Black Bill mounted his own animal and, leading Hagerman’s, rode out. While he had no idea who had gunned down Montoya and his men, Black Bill took no chances. He rode far to the west before again riding north. He would ride to the Arkansas River and approach Dodge City from the west. As he rode away, he studied the sky to the north. After the slaughter that had taken place, the sky should be black with buzzards, but there were none. It was more than he could comprehend, and shaking his head, he rode on.

  The Cimarron. Thursday, December 29, 1870.

  “By my figurin’, we’re a little more than sixty miles south of Dodge,” Dan said.

  “We still ain’t come up on where all that shootin’ took place,” Ward McNelly said. “Kind of strange we ain’t seen no buzzards.”

  “Maybe not,” Wolf Bowdre said. “Chato and his boys is pretty handy at disposin’ of the evidence. They’ve played it so’s the army wouldn’t have anything to get its teeth into, even if it was of a mind to try.”

  “It all happened somewhere north of the Cimarron,” Dan said, “and I don’t aim to go out of my way to look for any evidence. I can’t see that there’s anything to concern the military, unless Chato and his boys have gunned down a tribe of Kiowa.”

  “Somehow I don’t think so,” Bowdre said. “This is something that’s been in the making since before we reached the North Canadian, and it took Chato a while to pull it off.”

  “There’s the buzzards,” Denny DeVoe shouted as he and
the wranglers rode in for breakfast the next morning.

  “Not that far ahead of us,” Kirby Wilkerson said.

  “We’ll have to ride ahead and have a look,” Dan said. “I promised the lieutenant. Besides, we’ll have to take the herd on a wide swing around it. Take these brutes anywhere near the smell of death, and we’ll have another stampede to contend with. We’ll hold them here at the river until we see what’s up ahead. Palo, you and Wolf will ride with me.”

  The coyotes and buzzards had been at the bodies, and several buzzards flapped sluggishly away as Dan and his companions approached. They reined up a few yards away.

  “My God,” Bowdre said, “I’ve never seen the like.”

  “I think,” Dan said, “you’re looking at the handiwork of the bastard who thought he had whipped me to death, and the last time I saw those fancy Mex boots, Burton Ledoux was wearin’ them.”

  “He shot twice, other hombre shot once,” Palo said. “We hear two shots.”

  “I reckon the brute that done the whipping fired those two shots,” Dan said. “Ledoux likely took one of those slugs in the earlier fight.”

  “Then they holed up here,” Wolf said, “and had a fallin’ out of some kind. I’ll lay you odds the bastard with the whip will be in Dodge when we get there.”

  *Come the dawn, come the dogs, come death.

  *Follow

  20

  Dan led the herd well to the east of the fateful draw where the buzzards still spiraled down to a macabre feast. Upon his return to the drive, he told the rest of the outfit only that they had discovered a pair of dead men. When they bedded down the herd on a creek fifteen miles north of the Cimarron, Dan and Wolf recounted what they had seen, what they knew, and finally, what they suspected.

  “We found Burton Ledoux and one of his men dead,” Dan said. “There had been a shooting, and the third man had ridden away.”