The Winchester Run

by Ralph Compton

  “The more I learn about the West,” Trinity said, “the more foolish I feel about the four of us coming here to face these dangers alone.”

  “Nothing to feel foolish about,” said Mac. “You must come to terms with this country if you aim to understand it, and you understand it by learning its habits, good and bad. I take that as a favorable sign, you wanting to learn.”

  “I do want to learn,” Trinity said, “and so do Hattie, Rachel, and Elizabeth. If we’ve been told the truth by the army—if our journey west is fruitless—we want to stay here. Is there a place for women on the frontier, besides—”

  “Whorehouses and saloons?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “A few,” said Mac. “As the West becomes more settled, there’ll be a need for nurses, teachers—”

  “And for those of us not so inclined?”

  “Wives,” Mac said. “Women are scarce on the frontier. A good woman is practically worth her weight in gold.”

  She laughed softly, with just a hint of bitterness. When she finally spoke, her voice was soft.

  “I came west looking for a man whose hero was George Armstrong Custer, a seeker of glory on the field of battle. A man who, I am told, lies dead at the hand of hostile Indians. My future—if I have one—lies with the possibility of my becoming the wife of yet another man as unpromising and as unfortunate as the first.”

  “The long shots are always the ones that pay,” Mac replied. “If you want a life without risk and a man who’s home every night, then why in tarnation are you planning to stay on the frontier?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” she said, exasperated. “I could have remained in Indiana, married again, and been secure, I suppose. I could be cooking, scrubbing, and having children until I’m old and used up, with nothing to look forward to except the grave. For those of us who fear living, it’s the security for which we’ve labored all our lives.”

  “But you didn’t remain in Indiana,” said Mac, “and you don’t fear living. If you did, you wouldn’t be here. You and your three friends have had a taste of security, and that’s been enough. You’ve learned what many a man or woman never learns. A comfortable rut and a grave are very much alike. The only real difference is the dimensions.”

  “I’ve never thought of it that way,” she replied, “and I can’t deny that it makes a lot of sense. But it still gets back to the inescapable fact that a woman on the frontier is as much a drudge as ever, dependent on a man.”

  “Not necessarily,” said Mac. “Once, when I was in New Orleans, my nose led me to a little shop operated by a pair of ladies old enough to have been my grandmother. They had freshly baked cakes, pies, bread, sandwiches, and coffee. They had a few tables with benches and chairs, and I never seen so many hungry men in my life. I had to stand to eat my pie and drink my coffee. I don’t see why a little bake shop like that couldn’t work just as well or better in any Western town. Dodge City, for instance.”

  “But Dodge City has restaurants.”

  “So does New Orleans,” Mac said, “but they never have fresh-baked goods like that little shop on the corner.”

  “It’s something to consider,” said Trinity, “and thank you for telling me. But we have questions that need answers, before we begin looking for a new direction for our lives.”

  Their conversation ended on a melancholy note, and when she departed, Mac hated to see her go. She was an attractive woman, and he found himself thinking of her more and more often.

  “Tunstall,” he said under his breath, “you are a damned fool.”

  “I reckon we can forget about the rain and jump right into worryin’ about snow,” said Port Guthrie, as the men hunkered around the breakfast fire. “I never seen wind this cold that didn’t have sleet and snow pretty close on its heels.”

  The wind from the north-west whipped the fire into a frenzy of smoke and sparks, and looming closer on the western horizon were banks of dirty gray clouds.

  “We ain’t got enough wood fer another good cook fire,” said Lafe Beard, “unless the other wagons has some. My wagon’s possum belly is plumb empty.”*

  The rest of the teamsters nodded their heads in gloomy assent, and as every man of them knew, when a blue norther swept across the plains, there was need for considerably more than a cook fire.

  “Hitch up the teams,” Mac said. “Our only hope is to reach the river, and even then, we’ll need some time to find shelter and gather wood.”

  But time and their luck ran out. The ominous clouds drifted ever closer, pushing before an increasingly chill wind, and before the sun was noon-high, it was swallowed up in a roiling gray mass of clouds. Sleet rattled off wagon canvas like buckshot, and the only thing favoring them was the wind at their backs. The mules needed no urging, voluntarily picking up their gait, while braying their discomfort. Mac waved his hat, beckoning Buck, Haze, and Red to him. He had to shout to be heard above the rising wind.

  “Red, come with me. We’ll ride on to the river and begin looking for shelter and firewood. Haze, you and Buck tell the others where we’re going, and keep them moving.”

  Even as Mac and Red rode away at a gallop, snow began mixing with the sleet. Their situation was worsening by the minute.

  “Ain’t more than two more miles,” Red shouted, veering his horse to the left.

  “I hope you’re right,” Mac shouted in reply, “but how can you be sure?”

  “We just circled a buffalo wallow,” Red answered. “Buck and me run into it on the way to the river, in the dark.”

  Mac understood. It was a huge depression in the earth, often thirty feet and more across. It could prove dangerous if a heavily loaded wagon lurched into it unexpectedly. Mac could only hope that Buck would remember, and would guide the wagons around it.

  “There’s the river,” Red shouted.

  Mac allowed Red to take the lead, and he sought the low bank where he and Buck had filled the water kegs. He rode down to the water, Mac following. As they followed the river westward, the banks gradually became steeper, until they were out of the wind, with its sleet and snow.

  “Not enough overhang,” said Mac, “even if we could get the wagons down here. We’ll have to ride back the other way.”

  They followed the Cimarron eastward for as long as they dared, without finding overhang suitable for a camp.

  “We’d best give up on the river,” Red said, “and look for somethin’ beyond. Maybe a stand of pine, or an arroyo.”

  “No sense in that,” said Mac, “until we find a place shallow enough, with the banks low enough to cross the wagons.”

  “Well, hell,” Red growled, “unless we push on to Fort Elliott, in north Texas, we got no choice but to find shelter here.”

  “Fort Elliott’s out of the question,” said Mac. “It’s a good thirty miles ahead, somewhere to the southwest. Yeager figured the most direct route from Dodge, and that takes us through western Indian Territory.”

  “Damned considerate of him,” Red replied, “since there’s owl hoots holed up in there with looting and killing on their minds.”

  “You’re right about one thing,” said Mac. “Yeager was considerate. While there may be some danger from outlaws, there’s some cover, too. If nothing else, we must find a stand of trees thick enough to offer some protection from that norther.”

  “I’ll buy that,” Red replied. “Where there’s trees, there’ll be some fallen ones we can use for wood.”

  Eventually Mac and Red found the river crossing they were seeking. The river flowed over rock, and the sandy banks had eroded and caved in.

  “We won’t find any better than this,” said Mac. “Now let’s find some shelter.”

  They rode across the Cimarron, following it eastward until it dipped sharply toward the south. The undergrowth became more dense, and beyond the riverbank, a stand of pines had grown to a substantial height.

  “Not bad,” Red suggested.

  “No,” said Mac, “except that where trees are
dense enough to offer shelter, there’s no way to get the wagons into them. Let’s ride on a ways and see if there’s a break where we can get the wagons through.”

  The south bank of the Cimarron was clear enough for the wagons and teams, and they would have little choice except to follow the river until there was a break in the trees. But their desperate search yielded something better. They came up on a canyon that angled off to the south, obviously a runoff from the Cimarron in times of high water. Reining up on the rim, they sought a way down.

  “It’s an answer to a prayer,” said Mac, “if we can find a way to get the wagons down there. Let’s follow it a ways. It’ll have to shallow down.”

  The arroyo’s rims soon began to slope as they followed it away from the Cimarron. A stream meandered down the sandy bed of the arroyo.

  “Not much of a runoff,” Red observed, “but it’ll do. There’s still some trees in the way of us gettin’ the wagons down here.”

  “Hiram Yeager didn’t overlook anything,” said Mac. “In every wagon there’s an axe. We’ll ride back for a pair of them, and clear some of the trees off this arroyo rim.”

  When they rode out of the protection of the trees and crossed the river, the storm struck them with all its fury. They faced the storm-bred wind with their hats pulled low, yearning for their coats which were stashed in one of the wagons. By the time they met the lead wagon, Mac had to shout to be heard above the wind. All the wagons drew up abreast of one another.

  “An arroyo leads off to the south of the Cimarron,” Mac shouted. “Maybe three more miles. Follow the river east to the first shallows. Cross there, keeping to the south bank until you reach the arroyo. Follow it south. We’re goin’ to fell a few trees to make way for the wagons.”

  Two of the teamsters reached under their wagon boxes and brought out axes, which they passed to Mac and Red. Wheeling their horses, they again rode south toward the Cimarron. Behind them, they could hear the rattle of the wagons and the shouts of the teamsters, as they pushed on with renewed hope. So heavily had the snow begun to fall, Mac and Red could no longer see their tracks that had led back to meet the wagons. Their horses increased their gait to a slow gallop, the driving wind and snow at their backs being all the motivation they needed to seek the shelter that lay ahead. Mac and Red crossed the Cimarron, rode to the arroyo’s rim and dismounted. They looped the reins of their horses to low-hanging limbs, so the animals wouldn’t stray. Then each man attacked one of the trees that stood in the way of the wagons. Fortunately, the trees hadn’t reached their full growth, and Mac and Red had the way clear almost to the shallow end of the arroyo by the time the wagons crossed the Cimarron. There were shouts from the teamsters as the wagons rattled along the arroyo’s rim. When the wagons could go no farther, Buck and Haze seized axes and attacked the remaining trees. When the way was clear, the teamsters guided the wagons to the arroyo’s low end, toward the protection of the high rims. The last wagon to enter was driven by Trinity McCoy.

  “Come on,” Mac shouted to his three companions.

  Red, Haze, and Buck needed no urging. The four of them rode in among the pines in search of windblown or lightning-struck trees. They must have wood to see them through the storm. Providence was with them, as they quickly found a multitude of fallen trees, a few of which had rotted away to leave hearts of resinous pine. With their lariats they began dragging the dead wood into the arroyo. The wagons had been drawn in close to the banks and the teams unhitched. Port Guthrie and his teamsters seized axes and began cutting the logs into firewood lengths, and splitting the resinous pine into splinters. The four Texans immediately rode out for more wood. When they returned, there were two roaring fires, and the women were filling the coffeepots with water. For almost two hours, the four riders worked frantically, snaking wood into the arroyo. When they finally dismounted and unsaddled their weary horses, they were half-frozen. Gratefully they accepted tin cups of scalding black coffee, and gathered around the fires. The high rim of the arroyo effectively shut out the howling wind and swirling snow.

  “Thank God you found this arroyo,” Port Guthrie said. “It’ll save our bacon. I’ve seen these northers blow for three days and nights.”

  Mac’s eyes met those of Trinity McCoy. She said nothing, but Mac believed her mind was strong on what she had told him of her increasing awareness of the dangers on the Western frontier. Despite the independent spirit and determination of the four women, their lives would have been in real peril had they faced the raging storm on their own. Darkness seemed to fall early, and after supper there was little to do except keep the fires burning.

  “Normal watch tonight,” said Mac. “The two of you on watch will keep the fires going and the coffee hot.”

  The storm became more intense and the temperature continued to drop. The horses and mules gathered as close to the fires as they could. Red and Buck took over the watch at midnight. The wagons were strung out along the arroyo as near the west rim as they could be driven. Red stood watch near the head of the arroyo, while Buck remained at the lower end. They met occasionally, replenishing the wood when the fires burned low, filling their tin cups from the two-gallon coffeepot that hung over the fire. While Red poured his coffee, Hattie Sutton approached the fire with her own cup. She spoke.

  “I’m tired of lying there listening to the wind. May I get some coffee and join you for a while?”

  “Come on,” Red replied.

  They sat down on a wagon tongue, their backs to the arroyo wall.

  “This is unlike anything I ever expected,” said Hattie. “The four of us have been talking, and we’ve begun to realize the truth of what Mr. Tunstall said, before we left Dodge. The frontier is no place for a woman alone. God knows what would have become of us, if we hadn’t been with your outfit.”

  “Well,” Red replied, “for your sakes, I’m glad you’ve come to understand the dangers facing you. I reckon it’s none of my business, but I can’t help wonderin’ what the four of you will do, if you find the army’s been telling you the truth.”

  “Before we left Dodge,” said Hattie, “I’d have been the first to agree that our future is none of your business.”

  “But you’ve changed your mind,” Red guessed. “Why?”

  “Because Trinity changed hers,” said Hattie, “and she talked to the rest of us. It was Trinity’s idea that we come west, and we’ve . . . well . . . followed her lead. We were all angry at first, when Mr. Tunstall refused to let us travel with you. We believed he was being unfair to us because we were women. But then, when there was no water, when you and Buck had to travel ahead to the river, we began to see . . .”

  “I reckon the storm helped,” Red said.

  “It did,” said Hattie. “If we had been caught on the plains, we wouldn’t have known what to do. As it was, when we reached this shelter, we were half-frozen. Alone, we could have died out there. No, Mr. McLean, when you wonder what’s to become of us here on the frontier, we take your concern as a kindness, and I can’t tell you how indebted we are to all of you.”

  “One thing you can do for me,” Red replied, “is to stop referrin’ to me as mister. I’m just plain Red, to friend and foe.”

  Hattie laughed. “Red it is, if you’ll call me Hattie.”

  “It’s a deal, Hattie. Now, since you ain’t told me to mind my own business, what will you do, if it turns out the army’s telling you the truth?”

  “Trinity says you—all of you—care what happens to us. Do you?”

  “I care,” Red replied, “and I reckon the others do, too. Mac Tunstall’s tough as whang leather, and he talked hard to all of you, but that’s because he feared what might happen to you.”

  “We understand that now,” said Hattie, “and to answer your question, I have no idea what I—or any of us—will do if we confirm what the military has already told us. I’ll try to start a new life, I suppose.”

  “If it comes to that,” Red said, “will you consider somethin’ . . . I have to sa
y?”

  “I will,” said Hattie. “I truly will.”

  * A possum belly was a cowhide stretched beneath a wagon, for storing firewood.

  CHAPTER 4

  The Cimarron River, Indian Territory.

  September 30, 1873.

  After two days and nights, the storm blew itself out, but because of the depth of the snow, movement was impossible. The wind howled across the plains, and the temperature dropped even more. Keeping the fires going required enormous amounts of wood, making it necessary for Mac and his three companions to fight their way through drifted snow to still-standing dead pines.

  “Some of us can mount mules and help you,” Port Guthrie suggested.

  “No,” said Mac. “I want all of you to remain here and guard the camp.”

  “This weather ain’t fit fer man nor beast,” Gourd Snively said. “Won’t be nobody out to bother us.”

  “Maybe not,” said Mac, “but the six of you are responsible for those wagons, and I’ll feel better if you’re right here with your Winchesters.”

  Accustomed to cattle drives, to withstanding the worst the elements had to offer, the four Texans had heavy mackinaw coats and wool-lined leather gloves. Thonging down their hats against the fury of the wind, they rode down to the shallow end of the arroyo. Their horses fought the drifted snow, eventually reaching the thick stand of pines, where the tall trees had blunted the storm’s fury. While the snow had drifted, it wasn’t as deep, allowing the horses to move more freely. There were many standing dead pines whose bark had peeled off, leaving them gaunt and naked among their more fortunate companions. Quickly the Texans dismounted, and swinging their axes, felled a number of the dead pines. The wind tugged at their hats, blew its frigid breath beneath their coats, and numbed their hands and feet. Each man looped his lariat over the butt end of a fallen tree, dallied the loose end around his saddle horn, and lit out for camp. Within the shelter of the arroyo, they loosed their lariats from the logs and hurried to the fires. The women handed them tin cups of scalding coffee, which they accepted gratefully.