“No,” said Trinity. “We’ll pull our own weight. Go on back and tell your men there’ll be hot biscuits and coffee for breakfast.”
Mac found the lot of them waiting for him, grins on their faces. He said nothing, but when the women had harnessed the teams and the lone wagon joined theirs, his men looked upon Mac Tunstall with approval.
The following morning, when the teams were being harnessed, Mac sent Red back to Dodge for a supply of coffee.
“Get us thirty pounds of beans, and a coffee grinder,” Mac said.
“Yeah,” said Haze Sanderson. “If we run out of anything, don’t let it be coffee.”
Red returned from Dodge and caught up to the wagons well before noon. In addition to the coffee, he had brought six dozen eggs.
“I reckoned these would be good with hot biscuits,” he said, passing the eggs up to Hattie Sutton, on the wagon box.
For the second day, the train was forced into dry camp, relying on the pair of twenty-gallon kegs mounted on the side of each wagon.
“Time we make coffee in the morning and give these mules a swig of water, we’ll all be thirsty,” said Mac, as they gathered around the supper fire. “From the map at the railroad depot in Dodge, it’s at least fifty miles to the Cimarron River. We’re doing well to make ten miles a day.”
“We’re in trouble, then,” Buck said. “Even if we could last three more days without water, these horses and mules can’t.”
“We have plenty of empty barrels,” said Red. “If all our wagons weren’t loaded to the bows, we could take a wagonload of barrels to the Cimarron, fill them with water, and then rattle our hocks back here.”
“Too risky,” Mac said, “even if we had an empty wagon. We couldn’t spare more than two men, and it could mean sending them to their deaths. We’re not that far from Indian Territory, and against a gang of renegades, two men wouldn’t have a chance.”
“But we must have water,” said Buck. “You got any better ideas?”
“No,” Mac admitted.
“You could use our wagon,” said Trinity, “if the journey wasn’t so dangerous.”
“Dangerous or not,” Buck replied, “we must have water, even if we have to return to Dodge. In either case, I’ll go.”
“That wouldn’t make any sense,” said Red. “We got to be at least halfway to the Cimarron. If you ladies are serious about the use of the wagon, I’ll volunteer to go on to the Cimarron, startin’ right now.”
“Trinity spoke for us all,” Hattie Sutton said. “We must have water, and so must our teams. If you men are willing to take the risk, the least we can do is offer the wagon. Our belongings are a few changes of clothing. That and the supplies might be distributed among your wagons until you return with the water.”
“I still say it’s too risky,” said Mac, “but I’ll agree we must have water. Buck, if you and Red are willing, then we’ll accept the use of the wagon. Ladies, if you’ll remove your belongings and your supplies, we’ll manage to fit them into the other wagons. Risky as this may be, we don’t want that wagon bearing any more weight than it has to. Buck, you and Red take a horse with you. You can take turns driving the wagon, leaving one of you with a horse, to keep watch ahead and behind.”
“We’ll take some jerked beef with us,” Buck said, “and by resting the teams, we’ll get to the Cimarron sometime early tomorrow.”
“We should cover another ten miles tomorrow,” said Haze. “That’ll shorten the return trip to maybe twenty miles. We’ll then be two days from the Cimarron, and the barrels of water should see us through.”
“It’s a courageous thing to do,” Hattie said, her eyes on Red. “We never expected anything like this.”
“We certainly didn’t,” said Rachel, “and we won’t forget.”
Just for a second her eyes met those of Buck Prinz, and his heart beat faster, for he saw some interest there.
“Hitch up the teams, load the barrels, and get going,” Mac said. “Travel as far as you can tonight. We’ll roll at first light tomorrow, taking as many miles from your return as we can.”
Quickly, the women removed their belongings from the wagon, while Mac and Haze removed the supplies and one sack of grain. Buck and Red then began harnessing the teams while Port Guthrie and the teamsters loaded empty barrels into the wagon. Within minutes, Buck was on the wagon box and was headed south. Red loped his horse alongside.
“Oh, I hope nothing happens to them,” said Elizabeth Graves.
“They know the risk,” Mac said. “There may be even greater risks for us all, before we reach our destination.”
“In our haste,” Trinity said, “we overlooked something. With our wagon gone, all of us are afoot.”
“Not quite,” said Mac. “I reckon Port and three of his teamsters will be glad to have you share a wagon seat, until Red and Buck return with your wagon.”
“You’re all more than welcome,” Guthrie replied. “We need water, too, and it’s comin’, thanks to you offerin’ your wagon.”
“Port,” said Mac, “we’re far enough south to concern ourselves with renegades. We’ll stand watch in pairs. Haze and me will take the first three hours. Can we count on the rest of you to take the next three watches?”
“You got it,” Guthrie replied.
In anticipation of tomorrow’s early start, the party took to its bedrolls. Haze took his position at the north side of the camp, while Mac kept his eyes to the south. Between the two sentries were the wagons and the grazing horses and mules. There was no moon, and the silver pools which were the stars seemed far away. The sound, when it came, was more sensed than heard. In an instant, Mac’s Colt was in his hand, cocked and ready.
“Please,” came a whisper, “it’s me. Trinity.”
“Damn it,” Mac gritted, “I could have shot you. Don’t ever come up on me like that.”
“I’m sorry,” she replied. “I . . . I couldn’t sleep.”
Mac said nothing, and uninvited, she sat down, her back against a wagon wheel. Mac hunkered down, facing her. He could see only the white oval of her face in the darkness, and had no way of reading the expression in her eyes. But she was as handicapped as he, and they faced one another uneasily, dependent on words. Finally she spoke.
“At first, I thought you were opposed to us traveling to Texas because you believed we are weak—and probably helpless—females. But after this . . . situation . . . lack of water . . . I can see there are dangers such as we never imagined. You really don’t believe the men we are seeking are alive, do you?”
“No,” said Mac, “and it’s more than just my opinion. A soldier’s pay is less than half that of a teamster, yet he may be called upon to spend months in the field, wet, cold, and hungry, risking his life for a cause some politicians in Washington thought was a noble idea at the time. When soldiers die, the army must put the best face on the situation that it can. It’s the diplomatic thing to do, announcing that a man is missing. It’s less harmful to the army’s image, and a little easier on the feelings of the folks back home.”
“Even when it is known for a fact that the man is dead?”
“Even then,” Mac replied. “The Comanche isn’t known for his compassion, and when a soldier isn’t slaughtered and scalped immediately, it’s generally because they have plans for him later on.”
“What kind of plans?”
“You don’t want to know,” said Mac.
“Yes,” she said, “I do want to know.”
“Torture,” said Mac. “A captive may be burned at the stake, or spread-eagled naked, on the ground, and a fire built in his crotch. Or he may be turned over to the squaws for torture, to be killed when they tire of him.”
She caught her breath and choked back a sob.
“Sorry,” Mac said. “There’s no easy way of answering your question.”
“I wanted to know. Thank you for telling me. In the end, knowing—and accepting—the worst isn’t as terrible as never knowing, never being sure.”
“T
hat’s the way I feel,” Mac replied.
“Then you don’t believe we’re wasting our time, undertaking this perilous journey for nothing?”
“No,” said Mac, “if it takes that to ease your mind, it’s something you must do.”
“Thank you,” she said softly.
CHAPTER 3
After a while, Buck took to the saddle, swapping places with Red. There were a dozen empty water kegs within the wagon, and two more outside, one mounted on either side of the wagon box. The Texans kept the teams moving as fast as they dared, stopping hourly to rest the faithful mules.
“We’re makin’ good time,” Buck said, during a rest stop. “There’s a chance we might reach the Cimarron by first light.”
“We might not do so bad on the return trip,” Red replied. “I don’t think this wagon will have near the load as one of them piled to the bows with them boxed Winchesters and canisters of shells.”
But when first light came, there was only the endless plain stretching before them. On the eastern horizon, tendrils of gold crept across the gray of the heavens. Without water, even the late-September sun could be unmerciful. The mules might last another two hours. But the terrain grew progressively rougher, which was a promising sign. Finally, far ahead of them, was what appeared to be a ridge stretching from east to west.
“Treeline,” Buck shouted. “That has to be it.”
Red eased up on the reins, allowing the teams to slow to a trot. As it was, the rattle of the wagon could be heard for a great distance in the early morning air.
“I’ll ride on ahead,” said Buck. “We’ll need to back the wagon down as close to the water as we can. It’ll be a job, loadin’ them full kegs.”
There was more to it than that, however, and Red reached under the seat, where he had placed his Winchester. If their luck played out and they attracted the attention of some Comanches or white renegades, the best they could hope for was to die fighting. Red kept his eyes on Buck, and saw nothing to alarm him. Reaching the river, Buck rode west, trying to find a bank that had a gradual slope down to the water. When Buck reined up and waved his hat, Red flicked the reins. Their first duty was to water the thirsty mules, when they were ready to drink.
“They’re stubborn varmints,” said Buck, “but they’re smart enough not to drink until they’ve cooled off enough not to founder. A damn shame horses don’t have that kind of smarts.”
“Yeah,” Red replied. “You’d better tie that jug-head of mine to a wagon bow, or he’ll slide down that riverbank and commit suicide. By the time we get the teams unharnessed, they should be ready to drink.”
Swiftly they unharnessed the mules, and by the time the animals had drunk their fill, Red’s horse had rested enough to drink safely.
“Now,” said Buck, “let’s hitch up the mules, back this wagon as near the water as we can, and fill those water kegs.”
They were soon sweating, wrestling the filled kegs into the wagon. Finally, there were only the empty kegs mounted on either side of the wagon box.
“This water we’re loadin’ is almighty muddy,” Red observed, “but there’s no help for it. You purely can’t wade into water that’s deep enough to fill a keg, without muddyin’ it.”
“It’ll settle, the mud goin’ to the bottom,” said Buck. “Time we meet our wagons, I’d bet we could haul a dead skunk out of every keg, and the water would still be drinkable.”
Red laughed. “Some of the best water I ever tasted come out of a buffalo wallow, and that was after it had fermented over buffalo droppings for a while.”
They had spent less than an hour at the river, and both men breathed sighs of relief as they headed north, Buck at the reins. Red rode behind, his eyes constantly on the back-trail. Despite it being late September, the sun was hot, and they were forced to rest the teams more often.
“I believe we’ll meet our outfit before sundown,” Buck said.
“Maybe,” said Red, “but if we don’t, we’ll have to keep goin’ until we do, because they’ll be hurtin’ for water.”
Slowly the sun slipped toward the western horizon, and when it was but an echo of dusty rose, Red and Buck again stopped to rest the teams. Quickly the earth cooled, as a breeze crept in from the north-west, caressing their sweaty faces. They listened, for the wind could also bring the welcome rattle of approaching wagons. But they heard nothing. Wearily they resumed their journey, as the first twinkling stars became distant points of silver in the purple vastness of the heavens.
The six wagons rumbled to a halt, and the sweating mules stood there in harness, too exhausted to move. Their sweating hides trembled. Port Guthrie got down from the wagon box, his eyes on the western sky. There would be only a few more minutes of daylight. Mac Tunstall reined up his tired horse and dismounted.
“Mac, the teams can’t go on. They’re ready to drop. We got to have water.”
“We’ll stay here for the night,” Mac said. “Have the men unhitch the teams and turn them out to graze. There’ll be a little dew, maybe, and that’ll help some.”
Mac released Buck’s horse, which had trailed Guthrie’s wagon on a lead rope. There was but one choice, and that was to spare the mules until Red and Buck returned with the water. Trinity, Hattie, Rachel, and Elizabeth climbed down from the wagon boxes, and it was Trinity who spoke.
“Mac, since there’s no water, should we try to cook supper?”
“No,” said Mac. “I reckon we’re all so dry, we’d choke. Let’s wait a while. Maybe Red and Buck will make it.”
Nobody said anything, but strong on their minds was the possibility that their companions had met with foul play and lay dead on the barren plains somewhere short of the Cimarron. Darkness had settled over the land, and the only sound was the crunch-crunch-crunch of the mules and horses cropping grass. There was no conversation, for as long as they didn’t speak their fears aloud, there was always hope that they wouldn’t become cold, hard reality. Suddenly one of the horses nickered, and even against the north-westerly wind, there was a distant answer.
“It’s them!” Hattie said, in a reverent whisper.
“Maybe,” said Mac, seizing his Winchester.
Haze was quick to follow his example, as were Port Guthrie and the other teamsters. But they relaxed when they heard the rumble of the approaching wagon.
“Listen,” Buck cried, reining up the teams. “I can’t see a damned thing, but my horse nickered and another answered. That’s got to be them.”
“I don’t hear any wagons,” said Red.
“The teams likely gave out,” Buck replied, “and they had to stop for the night. Ride on ahead of me, and hail the camp.”
“Hello the camp,” Red cried. “This is Red and Buck comin’ in.”
“Come on,” Mac answered.
Red dismounted, staggering with weariness. Buck almost fell off the wagon box.
“The water’s there,” said Red, “but you’ll have to unload it. We’re about used up.”
“We’ll take care of it,” Port Guthrie said.
“Do we risk a supper fire?” Haze asked.
“Yes,” said Mac, “whatever the risk. Port, while the rest of us get supper under way, you and your men spread a couple of kegs of water among the mules.”
“Don’t forget our horses,” Haze said.
“We’ll water them along with the mules,” said Guthrie.
Supper was prepared quickly and the fire doused.
“Red, you and Buck will take the last watch,” Mac said. “You’ve had a hard ride, and it’ll allow you a little more rest.”
The wagons took the trail shortly after first light. There was a light wind from the north-west, and Mac Tunstall didn’t like the feel of it. He slowed his horse, waiting until the lead wagon caught up to him. Port Guthrie looked at him questioningly.
“Port,” said Mac, “you’re more familiar with these plains than I am, but I feel a shift comin’, a change in the weather. What do you think?”
“It�
��s near October,” Guthrie said. “and there’s been snow in Colorado and Montana for more’n a month. We’re overdue for it to come skalleyhootin’ out of the mountains and across the plains. Might start as rain, but it’ll change to snow. We got to reach the river and find us some shelter. Some shelter and some wood.”
It was what Mac expected and feared. When they paused to rest the teams, he asked them all to gather around.
“We’ll stop before dark, cook supper and eat, then push on,” said Mac. “There’ll be a change in the weather soon, with snow blowin’ in from the mountains. We must get to the river, where there’s shelter and plenty of wood. Buck, you and Red took a wagon to the river after dark. With six wagons, loaded heavy, how far can we safely travel in darkness?”
“About as far as the teams can hold out,” Red replied.
“He’s right,” said Buck. “We could likely travel all night, but with these wagons full to the bows, we’d have to lay over tomorrow, just to rest the teams.”
“Port,” Mac said, “how do you feel?”
“We might push ’em an extra four or five miles,” said Guthrie, “but Buck and Red is right. The harder you push the teams tonight, the less you can expect of ’em tomorrow.”
“Then we’ll only drive them two hours past sundown,” Mac replied. “It’s still going to take the better part of two days.”
After supper, the teams were watered. There was no moon, and the extra two hours in darkness gained them little. Again, while Mac was on watch, Trinity McCoy joined him for a while. This time, she was careful to warn him of her approach.
“There’s been lightning far to the west,” she said. “What does that mean?”
“Rain, beyond the mountains,” said Mac. “By the time it reaches us—if it does—I’m lookin’ for snow.”
“How soon?”
“Likely by tomorrow night,” Mac replied.
“I can understand us finding more wood near the river, but what about shelter?”
“Sometimes,” said Mac, “if the water’s not too high, there’ll be an overhang beneath a riverbank. On the plains, it’s worth a lot just to have a windbreak. Even if we’re unable to find an overhang along the river, there’ll be some undergrowth. Maybe a thicket or a stand of trees. It’s goin’ to be almighty uncomfortable if we can’t get somethin’ between us and the wind.”
The Winchester Run Page 5