“Russ, I can’t abide just settin’ here doin’ nothin’, while some of you hombres nurse a few bullet holes. I been thinkin’.”
“Don’t do too much thinkin’, Bilbo,” said Russ sourly. “You ain’t equipped for it.”
“Was I you, Bilbo,” Wilkerson said, “I wouldn’t get too snotty with them that’s been wounded. The time may come when you got some bullet holes in you that need healin’.”
“I been thinkin’ we ought to do something,” said Bilbo, as though he hadn’t heard the criticism. “Why can’t some of us ride over to that wagon camp, throw some lead in there, an’ stampede them mules to hell an’ gone?”
“Bilbo,” Russ said wearily, “use your damn head for somethin’ besides holdin’ your ears apart. When we finally take them wagons, how do you reckon to move that cargo? In your saddlebags? We’ll need them mules, and they won’t be no good to us, scattered all over Indian Territory.”
Some of the men laughed, and Bilbo’s hand dropped to the butt of his Colt.
“Go ahead,” Russ growled. “There’s plenty of room for another grave.”
The leader of the bunch was on his feet, his left arm bandaged, but his right wasn’t injured, and his hand was near the butt of his own weapon. Bilbo dropped his hand to his side, away from his Colt.
“We’ll ride when I say,” said Russ, his hard eyes on Bilbo. “Them of us that’s been wounded gets time to heal. Any of the rest of you that ain’t satisfied with that, you got to answer to me.”
“You’re the boss, Russ, and I ain’t leadin’ up to gun play, but sometimes you do all the wrong things,” McCarty said.
“I reckon you aim to point some of ’em out,” said Russ.
“Just one particular thing that rankles my hide,” McCarty replied. “When you drug in them four naked females, why didn’t you let us have our way with ’em? When we was done with ’em, they sure as hell wouldn’t of had the ambition to set our cabin afire.”
“I done what I thought was best, McCarty,” said Russ. “I ain’t always right, but I can see farther than pleasurin’ myself with the first available female. Now back off. I ain’t in a mood for any more damn complaints.”
The Cimarron River, Indian Territory. October 5, 1873.
“I reckon the sun’s sucked up enough water,” Port Guthrie allowed. “Mud shouldn’t be a problem. I figure the wagons can take the trail anytime.”
“We’ll move out in the morning at first light,” said Mac. “Red, how do you feel?”
“I could say I ain’t doin’ well,” Red replied, “and that I need to lay here at least for another week, with Hattie fussin’ over me. But you wouldn’t believe that, would you?”
“No,” said Mac, “I wouldn’t. I think she’s been feeding you about six times a day. If we leave tomorrow, we may run out of grub before we reach Austin.”
“That’s not fair,” Hattie protested. “I’ve been feeding him from our supplies.”
“Then you may run out of grub before we reach Austin,” said Mac.
“You’re forgetting something,” Hattie said. “We’re only going as far as Fort Griffin.”
“I haven’t forgotten,” said Mac.
Nobody said anything. All eyes were on Mac Tunstall, and he just walked away.
When the wagons again took the trail, the event didn’t go unnoticed. Russ had sent Stewart and Pryor to observe and report any movement.
“I reckon Russ will have to do somethin’ besides set on his hunkers,” Stewart said, as they watched the wagons turn south and disappear in the distance.
“Yeah,” said Pryor. “Let’s mosey on back and break the news.”
“We’ll follow ’em a ways,” Russ said, when Stewart and Pryor had reported. “They’ll likely be expecting a visit from us. We won’t make our move until they’ve decided we ain’t comin’ after ’em. They’ll reach the North Canadian today and the Canadian tomorrow. We’ll strike near dawn, before they leave the Canadian.”
Mac scouted half a dozen miles ahead without seeing any living thing. He had no idea how far they were from the North Canadian River. He rode on, knowing he must decide whether or not they could reach the river before dark. The level Kansas plain had been somewhat predictable, while the terrain of Indian Territory was constantly changing. He had no illusions about continuing after dark, for there were obstacles that would be hazardous and unavoidable. There were stone-studded hills and sudden dropoffs that could snap an axle or splinter a wheel, either of which could cost them a day far from water and decent graze. Mac rode on, with a growing awareness that they weren’t going to reach the North Canadian before dark. The distance was too great for the heavily loaded wagons. He reached the river, and by his estimation, he had ridden fifteen miles or more. He watered his horse and began the ride back to meet the wagons. What he must report to them—dry camp—were two of the most dreaded words on the Western frontier. However, he had the satisfaction of knowing they were prepared. Amid some grumbling, he had seen to it that each of the two water kegs aboard each of the wagons had been filled before leaving the Cimarron. There would be water for the horses and mules and water for cooking, until they reached the North Canadian, sometime the following day. However, he soon found that things hadn’t gone well in his absence. When he came within sight of the wagons, his first thought was that they had stopped to rest the teams. But drawing closer, he could see that wasn’t the case. They were all gathered around Gourd Snively’s wagon, and not for conversation. The rear of the wagon box sagged precariously close to the ground, for the left rear wheel was missing. The hub was there, but the wooden spokes and shattered rim lay on the ground. A huge stone had split it in half. Mac reined up, and Snively spoke, almost apologetically.
“When she rolled across the rock, it split. The wheel dropped. Wasn’t no help for it.”
“I can see that,” Mac said, “but why is nobody working to replace it?”
“It ain’t happened more’n ten minutes ago,” said Snively. “We’d have to half unload this wagon to git at the spare wheel an’ the wagon jack. Port’s checkin’ the other wagons, thinkin’ he might find a wheel an’ wagon jack easier to git to.”
“We don’t have a hell of a lot of time to devote to changing this wheel,” Mac said. “As it is, we’re facing a dry camp tonight.”
Before Mac could go in search of Guthrie, the teamster returned.
“The damn army ordnance people don’t know doodly about loadin’ wagons,” said Port. “Ever’ wagon’s loaded the same. Have to move half the load, just gettin’ at the jack and the spare wheel.”
“Use the extra wheel from our wagon, if it will fit,” Trinity suggested.
“We’d be obliged, ma’am,” said Guthrie. “Gourd, you and Emmett have a look at it.”
“We’re a good fifteen miles from the North Canadian,” Mac said, “and this busted wheel won’t help. We’ll be until noon tomorrow, getting there.”
Gourd Snively and Emmett Budd returned, bearing a wagon wheel and wagon jack.
“Trinity,” said Mac, “when we reach Fort Griffin, we’ll unload one of these wagons and return your wheel.”
Replacing the wheel required less than an hour, and the wagons moved on. Sundown found them half a dozen miles shy of the North Canadian River.
“We don’t have enough wagons for a circle,” Mac said, “but we can half-moon them with the arch to the north. If we’re attacked, I expect it to come from there. Just one fire, for the sake of hot coffee during the watch.”
After supper, that first night after leaving the Cimarron, Mac called the outfit around the fire for a permanent change in sentry duty.
“Starting tonight, Port, I want you and your men to take the first and second watch, three men at a time. Buck, Haze, Red, and me will take the third watch. If there’s trouble, I look for it in the small hours.”
“So do I,” Guthrie said. “The third watch is the most dangerous. If that’s how you aim to work it, then we’ll keep our Winc
hesters close, and won’t shuck nothin’ but our hats.”
“I’m obliged,” said Mac. “That’s how we did it on the trail drives. While we did have some surprises and a few stampedes, every man had a gun in his hands within seconds of an attack. We always held our own, and gave ’em more hell than they gave us.”
“Bueno,” Guthrie replied. “That’s how a man lives to the ripe old age of thirty-five on the frontier.”
Despite the revelation that might lie ahead at Fort Griffin, each of the women continued a late-night rendezvous with one of the four Texans. While none of the men spoke of these meetings, they were hardly secret, and whatever Port Guthrie and his teamsters may have thought of the arrangement, they kept it to themselves. Conversation was subdued, and after leaving the security of the arroyo near the Cimarron, each of the women came armed with a Winchester. Mac had chosen a clearing for their camp, allowing them to see in all directions the approach of a potential enemy. He and Trinity sat in the shadow of a wagon, and it was she who spoke.
“Even with just the starlight, nobody could take us by surprise. You’re expecting that bunch of renegades to follow us, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” Mac said. “If they don’t, we’ll be pleasantly surprised, and if they do, we’ll be ready. Besides, we can’t overlook the possibility of a fight with Quanah Parker and his band of Comanches.”
“I remember reading somewhere that Indians don’t attack at night,” said Trinity.
“Whoever wrote that wasn’t familiar with Comanches,” Mac replied. “Some tribes do believe that if they die in battle at night, their spirits will wander forever in darkness. But Comanches either don’t believe that, or they’re willing to take the risk. They’re not called horse Indians for nothing. A Comanche will trail a man for days, and they generally don’t take prisoners, unless it’s for torture.”
“Dear God,” said Trinity, “how can the army expect men to face that kind of brutality just for food and virtually no pay?”
“Most career men—jack leather army—are in it for the glory,” Mac said. “I believe they’re yearning for the days of King Arthur and the knights of old, and the army’s about as close as they can get.”
“It’s strange you should say that,” said Trinity. “That’s almost exactly what my . . . the man I married . . . once said about General Custer. He perceived Custer as noble, the kind of man, had he been English, who would have been knighted by the queen.”
“I don’t know a lot about knighthood and the queen,” Mac replied, “but I know a hell of a lot about Custer. Him and his U.S. Seventh Cavalry murdered Black Kettle, a chief of the Cheyenne, and the best friend the white man ever had.”
“That’s terrible,” said Trinity. “Why?”
“Glory,” Mac said. “It happened on the Washita River, somewhere north of where we are now. Custer gave the order, and they attacked a sleeping camp, killing every man, woman, and child.”*
“May God have mercy on the soul of a man so heartless and cruel,” Trinity said. “If that’s how the whites have treated the Indians, I’d not blame them for anything they do or have done in retaliation.”
“They’re guilty of that, and worse,” said Mac, “and somebody’s going to pay. Before the Indians are beaten, they’ll be flying Custer’s scalp from the point of a lance.”
“As uncivilized as it sounds,” Trinity said, “I think he deserves the very worst they can do to him.”
“So do I,” said Mac. “Trouble is, other soldiers—decent men—will die for the few, like Custer, who are building reputations on the bodies of the dead.”
“Red,” said Hattie, “what will you do after you reach Austin, and these wagons are no longer your responsibility?”
“A month ago,” Red replied, “I could have answered that. With money in my pocket, I’d have rode the grub line, hoping I could sign on with another trail drive in the spring. Now, I just don’t know. I reckon it’ll depend on what you learn at Fort Griffin.”
“Oh, God,” said Hattie, “you make me feel so . . . so . . . oh, I don’t know what I mean.”
“Frustrated?”
“I suppose that will do,” Hattie said. “I’d give up this foolish search at Fort Griffin, but I fear that I’d always feel guilty, not knowing the truth.”
“The truth will set you free,” said Red.
“Or enslave me forever.”
“I don’t think so,” Red replied. “I believe the army’s tellin’ you the straight of it. I’d say that if they’ve given you their official verdict, they’ll stick to it. Being the selfish varmint that I am, I hope they do.”
“If you’re selfish, then so am I,” said Hattie. “I want to leave that part of my life in the past, where it belongs. I want to be with you, but not with a cloud of guilt hanging over my head. Does that make sense?”
“It does to me. You’re an honest, decent woman, and I respect you for it.”
“Even if you lose me?” Hattie asked softly.
“Even then. When you’re buildin’ something to last, you don’t build on the sand.”
“I know,” said Hattie. “I tried. Mama died when I was young. Daddy never was the same, and after he took to drinking, everything just went to hell. We were sharecroppers and never had much more than our pride. Daddy died three days past my eighteenth birthday. Drunk, he fell off the wagon seat, and the front wheel broke his neck. Jack Sutton was the son of a preacher, and old man Sutton believed I was trash, because of what my daddy had been. Like a fool, I defied the Sutton family and married Jack. He was twenty-two, and couldn’t—or wouldn’t—stand up to his father. I don’t know whose idea it was that he join the army, but he did, and that’s the last I ever saw of him.”
“When you decided to come west to look for him, how did his family take it?”
“I didn’t bother asking them how they felt,” Hattie said, “but word got back to me that old man Sutton would rather have Jack dead than tied to me. I was tempted to get myself in the family way, and swear Jack had done it.”
Red laughed, despite himself. “That would have only hurt you, linking you forever to a family who didn’t want you.”
“I understood that,” Hattie replied, “and I wasn’t the trash the Suttons believed I was. Jack Sutton’s sin was that he was weak, and I couldn’t think of anything less appealing than having his child, even if I could have used it to destroy his high-handed old daddy. I could never hate anybody that much, and even if Jack’s alive, I’m not here to claim him.”
“Suppose you find that he is alive?”
“Then I’ll find some legal way to rid myself of him,” said Hattie. “I’ll be going on to Austin with you, and wherever you go beyond there, if you’ll have me.”
“It seems like we’ve been on the trail forever,” Elizabeth Graves said. “How far are we from Fort Griffin?”
“I don’t know,” said Haze. “Anyhow, I ain’t all that anxious to get there. I reckon I’m afraid you’ll find that bluecoat the army says is missing. I’m selfish, damn it.”
“Then so am I,” Elizabeth replied, “and you needn’t worry. I’m not hunting him for the reason you would expect.”
“Then why are you hunting him?”
“If he’s still alive,” said Elizabeth, “I want to be legally free of him.”
“Then why did you tie yourself to him?”
“He . . . wasn’t what I thought he was,” Elizabeth replied. “Oh, damn, I might as well be honest. I was a foolish girl, just seventeen, and Bud was six years older. He did things . . . daring things that were . . . well, dishonest. He quickly made a believer of me. He started seeing other women, and he didn’t care who knew it, me included. But that wasn’t why he joined the army. He was a thief, and when some of his friends were arrested for stealing mules, Bud ran for it. By the time his friends went to trial, Bud was gone, and not until a year later did I learn he was in the army. I got a letter from him, but I heard nothing more until the army notified me he was missing and
presumed dead.”
“So if he was all you claim, why are you looking for him?”
“Certainly not to live with him,” said Elizabeth. “What I’m about to tell you, none of the others know, not even Trinity.”
“Then maybe you’d better not tell me,” Haze said.
“But I want to. You’ll feel a lot better about me. The newspapers printed a story that told about Trinity, Rachel, and Hattie coming west to search for their missing men. Well, I had one missing, too, and I used that as an excuse to come with them.”
“You left your family to come west, with no good reason?”
Elizabeth laughed softly. “Oh, I had a reason. I wanted out of that godforsaken little village where I grew up. Nobody actually said anything, but they laughed at me for the fool I was. I was tied to a man who was a thief, who openly consorted with other women, and God only knows what else.”
“If they laughed at you then,” said Haze, “imagine how they must be laughing today, thinkin’ you’re out here looking for the no-account varmint.”
“But I know better, that I’m here to make a new life for myself,” Elizabeth said, “so what do I care what anybody thinks, that I left behind? I only care what you think. That’s why I’ve been honest with you. Now that you know I’m a conniving, hard-hearted, and mean-spirited woman, do you want me to go away and stop bothering you?”
“No,” said Haze. “I’m obliged to you for easing my mind. All I could think about was you gettin’ to Fort Griffin, findin’ this bastard, and me losing you.”
“It doesn’t matter to you that he had me first, that I’m used goods?”
“From what I’ve seen of you, there’s plenty left,” Haze said. “Just save the rest of you for me.”
“I plan to,” said Elizabeth. “Will you keep my secret? I’d as soon Trinity, Hattie, and Rachel didn’t know my real reason for coming west with them.”
The Winchester Run Page 10