“You’ve seen about all of Dodge there is to see,” Masterson said. “Maybe you’d better be going back. My brother and I have business at the fort, so we’ll ride with you.”
“Yes, sir,” Denny said. They were young, but they had their pride, and it was Masterson’s way of offering his help without seeming to. The big man with the whip might circle around and confront the four as they rode out. On the frontier, few would fault him for whipping the Indian, however trivial the reason. There was little talk until they were within sight of the huge grazing herd.
“Come meet our outfit,” Denny said, “and stay for supper. You can tell us about Dodge.”
They all rode in, Dan welcomed them, and, introductions in order, Denny told of the incident in which Masterson had taken their side.
“We’re obliged,” Dan said. “I know the man with the whip, and I have a score to settle with him. Unless you hombres have something more important to do, why don’t you spend the afternoon with us and have supper?”
“I think I’d enjoy that,” Ed said. “What about you, Bill?”
“So would I,” the younger Masterson said.
The Mastersons had never been to Texas, and listened eagerly as Dan and his companions told them of buffalo hunting and of the daring attacks of the Comanches, led by Quanah Parker. Then the Mastersons spoke of the railroad. Having lived in Wichita, they were familiar with its progress, and to the surprise of the Texans, the Mastersons were to take part in the completion of the line.
“We’ve taken a grading contract with the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe,” Ed said, “and we’re having a look at the terrain.”
“We have a powerful interest in the railroad,” Dan said. “We have twenty thousand head of Texas long-horns, and we may be stuck with them until the railroad comes. We’ve heard all kinds of rumors, most of them bad. Do you gents have any honest ideas as to how far away the rails are?”
“They’ve given us eighteen months to complete our section of the right-of-way,” Ed replied, “and we’ll be working west, toward Dodge. If the Indian trouble continues, I don’t look for the rails to reach Dodge until sometime next fall, if then.”
“The army’s been sending troops from Fort Leavenworth,” Bill said, “but they’re too few and stretched too thin. Indians have ambushed so many supply trains, graders and track layers have been on starvation rations. They’re refusing to work if they can’t eat.”
“You can’t fault a man for that,” Wolf Bowdre said. “I reckon we’ll be here awhile. How’s the range east of here?”
“Not suitable for ranching,” Ed said. “Nothing wrong with the land, but the sodbusters will come like a grasshopper plague once the rails are down.”
liiere was no denying the truth in that. The Master-sons stayed for supper, riding back to Dodge before dark.
“So far,” Dan said, “I’ve been too busy to ride into town. Tomorrow, I aim to.”
“You’re lookin’ for the big bastard with the whip,” Denny said. “I wanta go with you.”
“I aim to talk to some speculators about maybe buyin’ the herd,” Dan said, “and if there’s trouble, I don’t want to have to look out for anybody’s hide but my own. You’ll stay here.”
Dan rode in right after breakfast and found both the tent saloons open for business. He found both full of bull whackers, and from listening to the talk, learned they had arrived late the day before. Part of their load had included an enormous tent which was to serve as a mercantile until the owners could erect a suitable building. The rest of the wagons contained an initial shipment of trade goods. Dan went to the hotel and inquired about some of the men who reportedly had an interest in the new town. He climbed the stairs to the hotel’s second floor, to the room where he’d been told he would find Joseph McCoy.
“I reckon you’re McCoy,” he said when his knock was answered.
“I reckon I am,” said the thin man with a receding chin and graying hair. “What do you want of me?”
“I have twenty thousand head of Texas longhorns,” Dan said. “I hear that you bought cattle ahead of the rails in Abilene, and I thought you might be interested in doin’ it here.”
“I’m here to buy lots in the new town,” McCoy replied, “but I’d consider an investment in cattle, if the price is right.”
“Thirty-five,” Dan said. “Twelve hundred pounds and up. Nothing under two years old.”
“With the railroad a year and a half away,” McCoy said, “I’d balk at twenty. So will everybody else.”
“Thanks,” Dan said, “and good luck with your investments in Dodge.” He stepped out the door and closed it behind him.
He went down the stairs, disappointed. McCoy had been his best bet. He stepped out the door and collided with Black Bill. The big Cajun cursed and slammed a massive fist against Dan’s head. Dazed, Dan steadied himself against the hotel’s door and drove his right boot into Black Bill’s crotch. The big man humped over, gasping, and flopped down on his back. Teamsters about to enter the cafe had paused, watching as Black Bill rolled over, getting to hands and knees. When he eventually got to his feet, he stood there rocking to and fro, like an oak in a mighty wind.
“You sonofabitch,” he roared, “I’ve killed men for less’n that.”
“I know you have,” Dan said. “You’ve beaten them to death with a whip when they couldn’t fight back. When I’d been shot out of the saddle and was unable to move, you beat me half to death. Now let’s see how well you stand up to a man who can fight back. No whip, no fists. Draw, damn you.”
Black Bill hesitated. He was accustomed to an advantage, and he had none. He had never lost a fight, and it was inconceivable that he might lose this one. Men were watching, and it was draw or take water. He hated this cocky bastard who had put him in so humiliating a position. His fury took control and he went for his Colt, but he never cleared leather. Daniel Ember’s Colt roared four times, each slug slamming into Black Bill’s belly just above his belt buckle. He crumpled and fell, dead before he hit the ground.
*The Chisholm Trail. Book #3 in the Trail Drive Series.
*Honest Texans. Much gold.
*William B. “Bat” Masterson became sheriff of Dodge City in 1877.
21
Dan turned to the teamsters who had witnessed the fight. “You saw what happened,” he said. “If there are questions, will you testify for me?”
“Damn right,” said one of the bull whackers. “That big varmint’s been spoilin’ for a fight. Ain’t they no law here?”
“U. S. Marshal name of Deuce Yeager,” said the clerk who had stepped out of the hotel. “You’ll find him at Fort Dodge, and I’d take it kindly if one of you would fetch him. It’ll be bad for business, a dead body layin’ on the stoop. Especially this one.”
Other men had been drawn by the shooting, and those who had seen it were happily answering the questions of those who had not. Some of the men had been insulted by Black Bill in the saloons the night before, and they were of a single mind: the burly Cajun had gotten what he deserved. Some of them had gotten up the nerve to take a closer look, and were amazed at what they discovered.
“By God,” said one of the whackers who had seen Dan draw, “he waited for the big bastard to pull iron, then put four slugs in his belly. They went in so damn close, you can cover all four with a playin’ card.”
That prompted an examination by the rest of them, and by the time the marshal arrived, Dan felt like a dancing bear in a circus. It seemed that each of the bystanders—even those who hadn’t seen the event— wanted to be the first to describe it. Yeager proved to be a big man, wearing two guns, and he took his time with a cold appraisal of Dan. Finally he turned to the men who had gathered.
“How many of you,” he asked, “actually saw what happened? Step forward.”
Six men advanced.
“Now,” Yeager said, “one at a time, tell me what you saw.”
The six told their stories, clearly vindicating Dan’s act. W
hen they were finished, Yeager turned to Dan.
“This hombre seemed to have a mad on for somebody,” Yeager said. “You and him met before?”
“In South Texas,” Dan said, “but I don’t think he remembered me. He left me for dead.” He unbuttoned his shirt, peeled it off, and turned so that the marshal could see his whip-scarred back.
“I’d foller a man to hell for a beatin’ like that,” Yeager said. “You sure you didn’t come here lookin’ for him?”
“My bein here had nothing to do with him,” Dan said. “Have you seen the twenty thousand longhorn cows across the river from Fort Dodge? I’m trail boss, and I’ll be with the herd if you have further need of me.” Donning his shirt, he buttoned it, stuffing the tails in his Levi’s.
“I can’t see that I’ll be needin’ you,” Yeager said. “Go on about your business.”
Dan watched a crew of men fight a rising wind for possession of the big tent that would serve as a mercantile. A man in town clothes looked Dan over and finally spoke.
“I’ll be needin’ a guard at night. You lookin’ for work?”
“No,” Dan said. “I have all I can handle. Are you buying beef? I have twenty-thousand head.”
“Not today. See me a year from now.”
Dan mounted and rode back to camp. He said nothing about the shooting, mentioning only his difficulty in finding a buyer for the herd.
“I think it’s time for some serious talking,” Wolf Bow-dre said. “We come here with the intention of selling half the herd and taking up ranching with the rest. We ain’t broke. We got money for supplies for at least another year. If all of us, includin’ wives, sons, and daughters, filed homestead claims, we’d have nearly eight thousand acres. Why don’t we have a look at that land office map and see what’s available to the west of here?”
“Because a hundred and sixty acres ain’t my idea of a ranch,” Skull said. “If I had a wife and son or daughter —which I ain’t—then I could get four hunnert and eighty acres. That ain’t my idea of a spread neither. Besides, there’s an hombre or two in this outfit I ain’t hankerin’ to have as neighbors.”
“I hate to throw cold water on you, Wolf,” Chad Grimes said, “but that’s pretty much how I feel.”
There was a chorus of approval, and some dark looks cast at Rux Carper and Aubin Chambers.
“Forget I mentioned it,” Bowdre said. “I’d have to agree that the acres a man can homestead don’t make for much of a ranch, but the days of free range are numbered. Remember what the Mastersons told you, because it’s gospel. As the rails move west, so will the farmers, and what you’re lookin’ at today as free range will be a mess of farms. If you want a decent spread, somethin’ beyond what you can homestead, then you got to buy and pay for it.”
“I can’t add a thing to that,” Dan said. “There’ll be free graze for a while, long enough for us to sell our cows. Then it’ll be up to each of you as to where you intend to settle. We’ll drive the herd upriver a few miles west of Dodge, setting up a permanent camp until we either sell to speculators or until the railroad comes. Does anybody object to that?”
“Nobody should,” Boyce Trevino said. “That’s what we decided to do, even before we started the drive. Like Wolf said, we got money for grub. Finally, when we sell half the herd and we’re ready to start ranchin’, it’ll be every man for himself. Me, I aim to take some of the money from the sale of the herd and buy me some land. I reckon a homestead will do for a start, but Skull’s right. It’d be a poor excuse for a ranch.”
“Tomorrow,” Dan said, “we’ll have to move the herd to better graze. Why don’t we just take them west along the Arkansas a few miles and establish a permanent camp?”
“If there’s an Indian problem, we’ll be giving up the protection of the fort,” Aubin Chambers said.
“There definitely is an Indian problem,” Dan said, “but with our twenty thousand head, we can’t stay within hollering distance of the fort. There’s not that much graze. As it is, we’ll have to move them often, and our camp along with them.”
“That’s right,” Monte Walsh said. “Hell, we may be in eastern Colorado by the time the rails get to Dodge.”
“Any one of you wantin’ to hunker here in the shadow of the fort,” Bowdre said, “cut your cows out and stay. But Dan’s talking sense, and I say we go ahead and take the herd to some decent graze. Now, if there’s any man of you that don’t like that, then you just tally out your herd and do whatever you damn well please. Speak up now.”
There was only silence, and after a decent interval, Dan spoke.
“Tomorrow, then, we’ll drive west, following the Arkansas.”
East of Fort Dodge the women had found a long stretch of river with a sandy bottom, and were washing clothes and blankets. With far fewer horses in the re-muda, Denny and Eagle had ridden along as lookouts. It was Eagle who first saw the riders and the wagon. He pointed, and far downriver Denny saw them coming. He wheeled his horse and rode for camp.
“Riders comin’!” Denny shouted. “Riders and a wagon.”
“Come on, Wolf,” Dan said. “Monte, Tobe, and Kirby too. Strangers ridin’ in, and I’d as soon they don’t get too close to our new remuda, with all those Mex brands.”
Dan led out, with Wolf, Monte, Tobe, Kirby, and Denny following. They rode on beyond where the women were washing and reined up, awaiting the approaching party. Eagle followed, reining up next to Denny. The trio of horsemen were in the lead, the wagon following. Uncertain as to their welcome, they reined up fifty yards away from the waiting Texans.
“We’re friendly,” the lead rider said. “We heard they’re buildin’ a town here, and we come from Wichita lookin’ for work.”
Suddenly, there was a piercing whistle, and the spokesman’s horse threw him. The animal nickered and galloped away, running straight toward Eagle. Deftly the Indian left the roan, straddling the dun. Palming his Bowie, he headed for the former rider, who was just getting to his feet.
“Eagle,” Dan said, “no.”
The Cheyenne reined up, and the four strangers froze, hands just above the butts of their Colts.
“I reckon you hombres have some talking to do,” Dan said. “Eagle and some of his people were gunned down near the Red a few weeks ago. Gunned down and left for dead by four men, one of them in a wagon. You, afoot, where did you get the horse?”
“Found him wanderin’ on the plains,” the stranger said. “You can’t prove nothin’ agin us.”
“Get in the wagon,” Dan said, “and the lot of you get out of here. And circle wide. I don’t want you goin’ even close to our camp.”
With wary eyes on Eagle, the man afoot climbed into the wagon and the four of them veered away to the south. Eagle trotted his dun after them.
“Eagle,” Dan said, “no.”
The Indian turned his horse and rode back to face Dan. “They kill,” the Cheyenne said. “Eagle kill.”
“Eagle,” Dan said, “you have no proof. It would be your word against theirs. The law would hang you.”
Eagle turned away, watching the departing wagon and the riders for as long as he could see them. The women had left their washing at the river and had reached the scene in time to see Eagle recover his horse and go after the recognized killers.
“Eagle!” Lenore cried. “Eagle!”
Slowly, the Indian turned back to face his companions, his obsidian eyes telling them nothing. The others soon forgot the incident, but Eagle did not. After supper, when the first watch had ridden out to circle the herd, the Indian crept away into the gathering darkness, afoot, leading his horse. Once he was well away from the camp, he mounted and rode west, the way the four strangers and the wagon had gone. Lenore was the first to miss Eagle when he wasn’t there for-breakfast.
“He’s gone after those men!” Lenore cried. “What are we going to do?”
“There’s nothing we can do,” Dan said. “He recognized them as the men who gunned him down and left him for dea
d. One of them had his horse. That was proof enough for me, but it won’t be for the law. Those men are likely dead by now, and if Eagle has any chance at all, he’ll have to keep riding.”
Eagle had no trouble finding his quarry. They made their meager camp not more than a mile west of Dodge, beside the Arkansas. Not having money to belly up to the bar, one of them rode in and bought two bottles of rotgut at one of the tent saloons. In the darkness, a few yards away, Eagle patiently waited for them to drink themselves senseless, and having had experience, it was a feat that took them only about two hours. One by one Eagle slit their throats, and their lives drained into the sandy bank of the Arkansas. The Cheyenne’s only emotion was regret. Regret that the four hadn’t been conscious of his act or of the vengeance that had prompted it. He mounted his horse and rode back along the Arkansas, toward Dodge. Finally he reined up, thinking of Daniel Ember’s words. Whatever the provocation, when white men died at Indian hands, there was trouble. He thought of the trail drive, of the good food, and of the white squaw. While these men had deserved the justice he had meted out to them, their deaths had cost him. He turned his horse and rode west along the Arkansas, unsure of his destination, knowing only that he could not return to the Tejano camp.
The outfit was just finishing breakfast when Marshal Deuce Yeager rode in. He dismounted, accepting a cup of hot coffee from Fanny Bowdre. Wasting no time, he turned to Dan.
“I fanned through some wanted posters,” he said, “and found one on that varmint with the whip. A Cajun, Black Bill Shatika. Killed a gent in New Orleans, and there’s a thousand dollars on his head. I’ll get in touch with the law there and collect it for you. Are you aimin’ to be around here for a while?”
“Until the railroad comes, I reckon,” Dan said, “but we’ll be movin’ west a ways. Takes lots of graze for twenty thousand longhorns.”
“Reckon I ought to warn you,” Yeager said. “Four men were killed almost within sight of Dodge, sometime last night. One of them rode in, bought a couple bottles of whiskey, and they all got drunk. Somebody slit their throats. I’m inclined to think it was Indian work, but it don’t add up. Their horses wasn’t taken, they still had their sidearms, and two of them had rifles on their saddles. That’s where most of our Indian trouble originates, to the south and west of here.”
The Dodge City Trail Page 29