“Hell, we didn’t steal ‘em. We bought ‘em fair and square from Hurricane Bill Martin.”
“And where did Hurricane Bill get ‘em? I’m tellin’ you this is not the time to be goin’ past the dead line.”
Bat Masterson lifted his eyebrows. “See, he didn’t say anything at all about Bear Shield. These horses belonged to Little Robe.”
The next morning, there were thirty wagons that stretched along Front Street from the Dodge House to Fringer’s Apothecary, three of which belonged to Harrison and McCall. Cade and Jacob were both mounted, and after riding up and down the length of the train, they returned to their wagons, which were the last three in the line.
Nearly everyone in town was turned out to watch the departure, almost as if it were a parade. Jeter, Magnolia, and the other employees of the Red House were standing on the front porch. When the Olds wagon headed out, Magnolia ran into the street, causing the wagons that were behind to come to a complete stop, while Sybil Olds jumped down to embrace her friend.
“I’m going to miss you, my friend,” Magnolia said as tears welled in her eyes.
“No, don’t cry,” Sybil said as her own tears rolled down her cheeks. “When we get our restaurant set up, I want you to hitch a ride with Cade and come down to visit us. You can make some beignets for the men.”
“Get back on that wagon, or else stay here,” James Hanrahan said as he rode up to see what was holding up the train.
Ike and Shorty Shadler were at the head of the train, driving a double wagon pulled by six yokes of oxen. Buster, a big, brown Newfoundland dog, was sitting patiently on the ground by the front wheel of the first wagon. Fred Leonard, Charlie Myers’ new partner, was checking the contents of the wagons. If they forgot anything, they would have to do without. The most necessary items for the hunters were ammunition and weapons, but they also would need various sundries such as coffee, bacon, flour, canned tomatoes, canned peaches, dried apples, and syrup. Axle grease and wolf poison were also kept on hand, as well as corn and grain for the animals.
James Hanrahan had five wagons loaded with beer and whiskey, enough to open his saloon. He hired the Shepherd and Billy Ogg to stay with the wagons at all times. No one knew Shepherd’s full name, but James had never seen either him or Ogg take a drink, and both could handle a gun. With his wagons secure, James took charge of the train and was the self-appointed wagon master. He rode to the head of the train, stood in the stirrups and lifted his wide-brimmed white Stetson hat high so that every driver could see him.
“All right, boys, let’s get ‘em moving!” He brought his hat down sharply.
“Heayah!” Ike Shadler shouted, his call augmented with the loud pop of his whip. The oxen strained against their yokes and the wagons started forward. The other wagons waited their turn until the wagon just ahead started moving. Then, all the wagons were rolling, with at least a dozen men mounted and riding along side. The Shadlers’ dog Buster, as well as a few others, was bounding along, barking happily, while the extra saddle horses, many of them the spotted ponies stolen from the Indians, were herded behind the train.
“Hurrah, boys, hurrah!” someone cheered from the crowd that had gathered to watch the wagons get underway, and there were many more shouts and cheers as the train rumbled down First Street, then across the bridge that spanned the Arkansas River.
Because the wagons were so heavily loaded, the train moved slowly across the monotonous terrain, with only the rhythmic sound of the fall of hoof beats and the rolling wheels to interrupt the quiet. It was quite easy to see how this treeless land was once home to millions of buffalo, gone now, many at the hands of these same men who were on this trek in search of still more buffalo. And that slaughter was evidenced by bleached bones as far as the eye could see, the only thing to break up the monotony of the sea of grass.
The train made Crooked Creek the first night.
“We’ll hold up here, men,” James Hanrahan said, still enjoying his self-appointed role as wagon master.
“Are you’ns gonna break open a keg?” one of the men asked as he came toward one of Hanrahan’s wagons.
He was met by Ogg with a rifle pointed toward him.
“Not tonight, Bermuda,” Hanrahan said. “They’ll be plenty of time for booze when we get to where we’re going. All we need is for half you galoots to be passed out drunker ‘n a skunk when old Gray Beard comes riding in here with his tomahawk a’ wavin’, ‘n his guns a’ blazin’.”
“Gray Beard? Ain’t he an old man? If I’m gonna be kilt, I want it to be Stone Calf or Bull Bear, or even Spotted Wolf. No sirree, no old man’s gonna take me out,” Bermuda Carlisle said.
No sooner than he had spoken the words, Old Sam Smith rose to his feet and without fanfare, swung his fist at Bermuda, knocking the much younger man to the ground.
“What the hell?” Bermuda called out, sitting on the ground, rubbing his chin. “Why for did you go ‘n do that, Sam?”
“I wanted you to know, you’re just as dead iffin the bullet comes from an old man as a young’n.”
“Now you know why there won’t be any imbibing on this run. If Old Sam here had a mind to, why Bermuda could’ve had a knife stuck through his gizzard,” Hanrahan said. “Now let’s circle our wagons and get the fires goin’.”
When the meal was over, a few of the men took out their banjos, fiddles and mouth harps, and soon the sound of music floated over the open prairie. Every song they could think of was sung, without regard to whether it was a Yankee or a Rebel song. Many of the hunters had fought for the Confederacy. When they had returned home, in most cases, there was no home to go back to, and those that had returned had no way to make a living.
Listening to the music made Cade melancholy. When he got out of Camp Douglas prison, he had thought his Melinda would be waiting for him. But when he got back to Clarksville, Tennessee, he learned that she had been told he was dead. In his stead, she had married his brother, Adam.
In his mind, he saw Adam and Melinda with a passel of kids all growing up on the family farm—the family farm that he had secured for them by robbing a dispatch from a carpetbagger’s bank.
Someday, he would like to go back, but now wasn’t the time.
The musicians had put away their instruments, but no one was leaving the camp fire. These men, who spent so much of their lives isolated and alone, were anxious to connect with others.
The stories began. Many of them were tales they had heard before, but each time a story was repeated it was embellished, and the men listened as if the event had just happened. It was expected that everyone would contribute something to the evening’s entertainment.
There were stories about Indian skirmishes, rustlers stealing stock and leaving men stranded miles from civilization, getting caught in a blizzard, or a flood, or a tornado, setting up a buffalo stand and killing so many animals that the gun barrel melted, as well as war stories from the War for Texas Independence, or the Mexican-American War, or from the recent War of Aggression without regard as to whether that “aggression” was Northern or Southern.
Bat Masterson’s stories always seemed to be the best with each one having a twist that no one saw coming. Most folks knew he was telling tall tales, but no one minded. They just enjoyed them. He had just finished yet another story, when he looked around.
“It seems to me like we’ve heard something from everybody around this camp fire except for two men,” Bat said. “And I know for a fact, they’ve got tales to tell. Do we want to hear from Billy Dixon and Cade McCall?”
There was a rousing cheer clamoring for Billy and Cade to talk.
At last Billy stood up.
“Well gents, I’m afraid I don’t have much to tell. I’m a long way from West Virginia where I was born,” Billy said. “I’ve been a wood chopper and a bullwhacker, and I had a little stint at bustin’ shave tails just before I became a scout.”
“Bustin’ shave tails? You mean like second lieutenants?” one of the others asked.
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Old Sam Smith laughed. “Nah, they just call second lieutenants shave tails ‘cause they’re as new to the army as them mules that gets their tails shaved when they first come in.”
“And as dumb, too, has been my notice,” Billy said. “But none of it compares to what I’m doin’ now. There’s nothin’ better than hearing a herd of wooly buffalos when they’re on the move and they’re coming your way. The excitement is something I can’t describe, but every one of you knows the feeling. I’m a buffalo hunter, and that’s all I want to be.” When he was finished, he sat down.
“Folks, Billy’s being a little too modest,” Bat said. “I skinned for Billy a couple of years ago, and he’s the best shot I’ve ever seen. He can hit a buffalo a mile away.”
“A mile, huh? Billy might be a crack shot, but that’s a little too tall for any of us to believe, even coming from you, Bat,” Fred Leonard said.
“He can do it. I know he can,” Bat said.
“He can do it, doesn’t mean he has,” Fred continued.
Everyone laughed as they turned their attention to Cade.
“All right, McCall. Can you top that? Can you take out a buffalo at a mile and a half?”
Cade felt an instant affinity for Billy Dixon. Even though he had not known him before this trek, he knew he was going to like him.
“My story isn’t much different from Billy’s. I’m just not as good a shot,” Cade said. “I’m afraid I don’t have a story.”
“What do you mean, you don’t have a story? I worked on the railroad with you, and you told my brother and me you jumped ship in South America. Was that a lie?” Bat asked
“Well, no, that did happen,” Cade said.
“Then tell us about it,” Hanrahan said.
“You were a sailor?” Gus Zordel asked.
Cade paused for a moment. “I was, but not by choice.”
“What do you mean, not by choice? How in the hell do you get to be a sailor without sayin’ you want to be one?” Bermuda Carlisle asked.
“It’s what happens when you’re shanghaied,” Cade said. “Usually, somebody knocks you out, then drags you to a ship, and when you wake up you’re out to sea and there’s nothing you can do about it. You’re a sailor.”
“Did that happen to you? I mean did somebody knock you out?”
Cade smiled.
“Why are you a smilin’? This shanghaiing—it don’t seem like somethin’ to laugh about.”
“I was shanghaied, because a very beautiful young woman coaxed me into her web. And while I was with her, she gave me something to drink that knocked me out.”
“Damn! That’s why I stay away from women,” Mike Welch said.
“You stay away from women, cause you’re not only a buffalo skinner, you’re a buffalo stinker,” Hanrahan said.
“Maybe so,” Welch said, “but Cade go on with your story. Did you find the women that done that to you? I would’ve strung her up from a tall tree if she’d done somethin’ like that to me.”
“He found her all right,” Jacob said, a big smile crossing his face.
“And what did he do to her?”
“He married her.”
“What? That can’t be true,” Fred Leonard said.
“It’s true,” Cade said. “I married her, and all things considered, it was the best thing that ever happened to me.”
“Then what are you doing out here in the middle of nowhere? Why aren’t you with your woman?”
Cade looked at the fire without answering the question.
“Because things happen,” Bat said. “Cade’s wife died.”
“Killed by some Indian, I bet,” Bermuda said.
“No, it was a buffalo hunter,” Cade said. He stood abruptly and walked outside the circle of men.
4
Cade walked down to the creek and sat on the bank for a long time. His emotions had run the gamut this evening. First all the war stories had put him back at Franklin and then at Camp Douglas where he had been taken after he was captured.
And then there was Melinda. He thought his heart would never heal when he lost her, but he had been able to walk away from her. When he had fallen in love with Arabella, he hadn’t even thought about Melinda.
Where was he now? Tonight, he had spoken openly about Arabella without feeling a sense of anger, bitterness, or even the self-condemnation he had felt since she had died. The woman he had loved, and the woman he had married, was also the beautiful woman who had set him up to be shanghaied. And tonight, he had been able to smile when he told of the situation.
It was a good feeling to be able to think of her again without falling into depression. It was time to move on. Maybe he would find another woman to love. A woman to help him raise Chantal.
But no. That wasn’t right. He had promised Arabella he would take care of Chantal, but right now she was better off where she was. Magnolia and Jeter were her parents and Bella was her sister. If he took her away it would be devastating to the child.
When he got back to Dodge City he would arrange for Jeter and Magnolia to have legal guardianship for Chantal. Because he was Arabella’s husband, he was legally her father, and he would always be, but he would not pull her away from the only family she had ever known. At least, not now.
Cade made his way back to where his bedroll was laid out. The embers of the fire were dying down and the only person he saw was Ogg, keeping watch over the whiskey.
As he crawled under the buffalo robe, Cade made a decision. From listening to some of the hunters, especially Billy Dixon, he was convinced that the main herd of buffalo was to the south. He would sell Jacob his part in the freight company and go out onto the plains and hunt buffalo. Whatever he made, he would arrange for the money to be given to Chantal.
He closed his eyes, and the howling of the wolves and the yelping of the coyotes soon put him to sleep. But not for long. He sat up having been awakened by a nightmare. It was not seeing Arabella as she lay dying, or him lying under a pile of dead bodies at Franklin, or escaping from General Lopez in Paraguay, all frequent visions in his nightmares. Tonight, a band of Indians were chasing him as he ran through a herd of buffalo.
Several miles south of the wagon train Mean To His Horses and nine warriors were on a war party.
“Mean To His Horses, do you not wonder why Quanah Parker did not come with us?” Wild Horse asked. “He is the greatest of all Comanche warriors. With him we would find the white men who stole our horses.”
“If you do not wish to ride with me, you may go back to the women and the children of the village,” Mean To His Horses said, stung by Wild Horse’s suggestion that Quanah Parker was the greatest of all Comanche fighters.
“No, I will ride with you,” Wild Horse said. “It is good that I can ride with a warrior as great as Mean To His Horses.”
They had been riding for three days without finding anyone to make war against, but on this, the morning of the fourth day, they smelled smoke and cooking meat. Mean To His Horses smiled, and held up his hand.
“Soon, I think, our knives will spill the blood of the white enemy. And we will eat their food,” Mean To His Horses said rubbing his stomach in anticipation.
“They ain’t hardly nothin’ what tastes no better’n fried strips of buffalo,” Gentry Potter said. Potter was the hunter, and he had two skinners with him. The wagon, sitting behind them, had about 50 hides, the result of their activities for the last several days. The paucity of hides was because the main herd had not yet come this far north.
“Yeah,” Al Kinder said. “If you ask me, it’s a shame we have to leave all them carcasses out there to just rot away, when they’s near a thousand pounds o’ food with each one of ‘em.”
“It ain’t the food we’re after,” Felix Werth said. “It’s the hides. So far, we ain’t got but close to 50 hides, on account of we ain’t found the main herd yet, just little bands here ‘n there. But we’ll find ‘em soon, ‘n when we do, ‘n get the hides back to Dodge, they’ll b
ring in $2.00 apiece.”
“It might be that we won’t have to take ‘em all the way back to Dodge,” Potter said.
“What are you talkin’ about? If we don’t take ‘em to Dodge City, where will we take ‘em? You ain’t talkin’ about Lee, are you? ‘Cause from all I hear, Lee, he don’t take hides from nobody but the Injuns.”
“No, I ain’t talkin’ about Lee. But I’ve heard tell that some of them Dodge City traders are think’n about buildin’ a place down on the Canadian where we can take the hides.”
“Maybe so, but they ain’t done it yet,” Werth said.
“Maybe not yet, but soon. ‘N when they do get it built, ‘n we won’t have to be wastin’ time takin’ the hides back, why, I wouldn’t be surprised if we didn’t take out a thousand of ‘em. ‘N that’ll be at least $2,000,” Potter said. “Two thousand dollars’ worth of hides, ‘n you’re a’ worryin’ about the meat?”
“No, I was just commentin’ is all. It do seem a shame.”
“It ain’t exactly like we’re a’ wastin’ it,” Potter said. “I mean, we been eatin’ buffalo ever since we come out, ain’t we?”
“Yeah,” Kinder said. “I reckon we have. But just a little bit of it. Most of it, we’ve been a’ leavin’ behind ‘n when we do that, why there ain’t nothin’ it can do but rot.”
“So, what if it does rot? It don’t mean nothin’ to me,” Potter said. “Not as long as we get them hides offen’ ‘em.”
“What’s that?” Kinder asked.
“What’s what? What are you talkin’ about?”
“I he’erd somethin’ sounded like horses.”
“Maybe another hunter,” Potter suggested. “If it is, he might know where the main herd is. We ain’t seen nothin’ but . . .”
“Injuns!” Kinder shouted.
Potter grabbed his Sharps .50, the buffalo gun he used when hunting, but realized almost as soon as he reached for it, that he hadn’t loaded it yet. Not one of the skinners was armed, and all three men stood there in terror as the Indians charged, their lances lowered and pointed right at them.
The Western Adventures of Cade McCall Box Set Page 63
