“You’re under arrest. You and I are riding nice and easy back to Eureka. Tell your man here to stay with the herd till dawn. After all we’ve done to help, it would be a damned shame if those cattle stampeded. We’ll work this out. Like the gentlemen we are. I’ve sent one of my men back to your camp to get our guns. I’ve told my men to ride out slowly. We don’t want any trouble. We just want none of our cattle to die of Texas fever.” Whatever he held in his hand, he waved.
“You brought a gun anyway,” Story said.
“It’s a four-shot derringer.”
“You pull the trigger and that herd’s running.”
“And if I pull the trigger, you’re dead. Last time I shot this hideaway gun, all four barrels discharged at once. Fellow I hit looked like he’d taken a blast of buckshot. Let’s ride. Tell your man to go easy.”
“You heard him, Hannah,” Story said, and eased his horse in front of the sheriff’s. “Which way?”
“North.”
“You could’ve been struck by lightning,” Story said.
“I aim to be reelected,” the sheriff said.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
John Catlin had not shaved in weeks. Now he knew why practically every man in the West—at least those traveling on the Overland Trail—sprouted whiskers. It kept the wind and sun from scalding your face. The trees they came to, almost always along creek beds or in canyons, leaned in one direction, and Catlin figured that if any damned fool tried to homestead in this country, he would find himself tilted. Probably his kids would be born bent by the wind.
“We were too damned cocky,” Steve Grover said. On this day, the train’s boy extra had nothing to do, so he walked alongside Catlin.
“How’s that?” That was another thing about this country. A man had to shout to carry on a conversation with a fellow no more than five yards away.
“I said we were overconfident.”
He made no response. All these years together, Catlin knew he didn’t have to say much of anything to keep a conversation going with his friend.
“Cocky. Too sure of ourselves. Hell, we had whipped the rebs. Saved the Union and freed the slaves by ourselves. Then we up and join some bullwhackers.” Grover turned and spit. The wind carried his tobacco juice like a missile, luckily for the freighters behind Catlin’s wagon, in a southeasterly direction.
The oxen moved . . . better than the mules Catlin had owned back in Indiana. The sun, sinking low, made Catlin tug the brim of his hat down. He noticed the teamsters ahead of him looking at something on the side of the trail, sometimes craning as they kept the pace. Steve Grover kept talking. One of the men, a foul-mouthed German, removed his hat. Catlin looked ahead across the rolling plains, west and south. He sighed.
“What is it?” Grover asked.
Catlin pointed. They walked, the wheels turning, the hooves digging into the earth, the wind blowing. Ten minutes later, they saw the grave. A fresh one . . . only . . .
“God almighty,” Grover said.
“Just keep walking,” Catlin said.
“Wolves?” Grover asked.
Catlin tried to find a way to get water into his mouth, just enough so he could spit out the bile. Wolves? No. Wolves wouldn’t have done that to a corpse. He wondered how the man had died. An accident? Killed by Indians? Disease? Then buried along the side of what Catlin now figured had to be the longest graveyard in the United States and her territories. He could picture the poor bastard, buried, maybe a psalm or some scripture read over him, planted with respect. Perhaps even a marker of some kind, even just a stick with a bandanna tied to it. Ready to wait out eternity till Judgment Day. Only to have some Indian come by and dig up the grave just to mutilate the body. Confederates didn’t do that. No one would do that. But then, Catlin remembered what Major Coushatta John Noah had said the white men had done to a peaceful Indian camp in Colorado.
“What . . . ?” Grover fell silent. He saw the dust, and Catlin heard the commands of the men ahead of him.
“Whoa,” he said, and watched the oxen slow and stop.
The major rode a blood bay this evening, and he did not slow his lope till he yanked hard on the reins beside Catlin’s wagon.
“Get your long guns,” the wagon boss ordered. “Both of you.” Over the weeks, Noah had learned that Grover could shoot better than most men. Sometimes, Catlin figured his friend would hit his mark more than Catlin could. Hell, Grover had gotten more practice during the rebellion—especially after Catlin’s promotions.
“What is it?” asked Shultz, leading the wagon right behind Catlin’s.
Noah did not answer. Catlin found his rifled musket and his haversack. “Horses?” he asked.
The boss’s head shook. “That would just make them bucks braver. Scalps aren’t worth that much in the long run. But a horse is like whiskey or a willing tit to a Dog Soldier.”
* * *
They walked on either side of Coushatta John Noah, across one arroyo, past a buffalo wallow, and through windblown grass.
“Your bluecoat buddies have been putting up some forts,” Noah said. “On the Montana trail. To protect us entrepreneurs. Problem is, the Indians don’t like having forts put up in their country.”
“This isn’t their country, is it?” Grover asked.
“Hell, boy, it was all their country before we stepped into it. Cheyennes and Sioux get along. And if you haven’t noticed all them boys grading track for that railroad Mr. Lincoln thought was a good idea to build, well . . .” He reined up, withdrew his revolver, and checked the percussion caps on the nipples. “The one in the headdress is Talking Bull. Good name. Short for Talking Bullshit.”
After shoving the pistol into his waistband, he breathed in deeply, slowly exhaled, pulled his hat down tighter, and looked down at Catlin.
Only then did Catlin realize about six or seven Indians were mounted on horses at the top of what passed for a knoll in this country. He could just make out the feathers.
“They want to parley,” Noah said. “Probably will demand some toll I’ll have to pay to pass through their country. We’ll do some bartering. If it’s like olden times, we’ll pass through here and tell us all kinds of damned windies tonight. But the way things are, well, boys, once again . . . that’s how come I hired you idiots.”
He pushed the gelding ahead about a rod or two. Then looked back. “One thing I want you two to remember. They don’t attack my train because they think I have powerful medicine. If I’m dead, they’ll think they can swoop down upon the wagons and you boys’ll reap the whirlwind.” After turning back, he kicked the horse into a slow, deliberate walk. “So if you boys want to keep your topknots, you better make damned sure I stay alive.”
* * *
Catlin and Grover stood, long guns in their hands, bracing against the wind, and watched. The knoll had to be about a half mile away. Once, Catlin knelt, scooped up a handful of dead grass, rose, and released the debris into the wind, making a mental note of the direction the grass blew.
After a lengthy talk with the Indians, Major Noah turned his gelding around and trotted across the prairie.
“Well . . .” Grover began.
The Indians, mounted, watched from the knoll, not riding away. Catlin thought he heard singing, though could not be certain. He watched his boss, who slowed the blood bay into a walk, disappeared into a depression, came up. Noah kept his back straight. His head high. Never did he look back.
“Oh . . . hell . . .”
Hearing Grover’s loud whisper, Catlin looked at the Cheyennes. One of the warriors, in a headdress, kicked his pony and charged after Noah.
Catlin stepped forward, uncertain. During the rebellion, orders were orders, and orders were clear. As a private, you did what the sergeant told you to do. As a sergeant, you did what the lieutenant, or the captain, or what any officer told you to do. But Major Noah had issued no direct orders, just general suggestions. Was this a test? A challenge? Breach of etiquette or act of war? Catlin cursed.
<
br /> Noah looked back, kicked the gelding into a hard lope. Again, the prairie swallowed both Noah and Talking Bull, or whoever the pursuing warrior was. The well-mounted Indian lifted a lance. No. Smoke blossomed, though Catlin never heard the musket’s report. The gelding went down, hurtling Major Noah into the tall grass. He came up, crumpled, righted himself. And ran.
“Son of a . . .” Grover never finished. He lifted his weapon.
But Catlin reacted quicker. He drew in a breath, let it out, tried to guess the windage, the elevation, and saw that the running Noah and hard-riding Talking Bull lined up almost directly in single file.
“I don’t have a clear shot,” Grover said.
I don’t, either, thought Catlin as he touched the trigger.
* * *
“You should have seen the son of a bitch,” Major Coushatta John Noah said at camp that evening. “In fact, I wish to hell I had. Talking Bull goes catapulting off his pony’s back. I keep running my sorry ass off, not looking back, fearing I’d find I had been dreaming, and that that Cheyenne brave was about to count coup and then do me in.”
“What happened?” the Swede asked.
“I’m alive, ain’t I?” Noah pointed at Catlin. “This son of a bitch killed Talking Bull dead. Deader than dirt.” He took another slug of forty-rod. “I kept running, mind you, till I got to these two soldiers. Turn around. Grover’s lifting his magical gun, but I tell him to hold it, let them boys carry off their warrior. Talking Bull was full of shit, but he was a brave son of a bitch. And we just stand there, watch the warriors gather poor Talking Bull, carry him off.”
Noah tossed the jug to Catlin, who let it fall in the grass by his boots.
“Catlin,” Noah said, “you just earned yourself a partnership in my company. I’m not sure how much of a partnership, but it’s something. I’d be dead and scalped and hacked to pieces if you hadn’t done what you done. And don’t you try to talk yourself out of it. Ask anybody on these trails, and they’ll tell you. Major Coushatta John Noah is a man of his word.” He let out a hurrah. “But how the hell did you make that shot, bubba?”
Catlin did not like being here, in the camp, every damned eye staring at him.
He shrugged. “I was aiming at the brave’s horse,” he said.
Noah let out a belly laugh of approval. Even Steve Grover slapped Catlin’s shoulder, chuckling and nodding. But Catlin had not been joking.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
He dreamed again. The same damned dream. He’s a boy back in Ohio, digging a grave. It’s night, but he’s sweating. Clouds hide the stars this time, and he looks up from the grave and sees the dog. But he can’t tell which dog it is, which one he’s burying. So he digs. Until he woke up.
Boots sounded on the stone floor, metal jangled, and the sound of the heavy iron key in the lock grinded as Nelson Story lifted his hat off his face and pushed himself into a seated position on the thin, straw mattress. Sheriff R. R. Turner pulled open the door. Two townsmen from the posse stood on either side of the lawman, each holding a shotgun, one a single-shot, the other a double-barrel.
“How dangerous do you think I am?” Story said.
“Dangerous enough to have gotten a herd of beef from Texas to this far in Kansas,” Turner said. “In this weather. And with herd thieves all around Baxter Springs.”
He wondered if what had happened along the Neosho had caused lawmen to send word out across the state.
“Judge is in my office.” Turner stepped back, scraping the door on the stones.
Story pushed himself to his feet, brushed off straw and dust, pulled on his hat, and left the cell, giving both guards a good morning nod. Sunlight beamed through the open door as he walked down the hall and into the light.
“My office is down the street. Next block.”
He walked, stiffly, all night in a saddle after all day in a saddle, and then the rest of the night with only a thin layer of ticking and straw between his body and hard, cold rocks left him feeling like an old man. He looked across the street at this monstrosity of a building, part fort, part redoubt, amazed at the singing going on from inside.
“That’s our school,” Turner said.
One of the guards muttered, “Wish to hell she’d teach them young’uns something other than singing songs. That’s all my boy wants to do when he gets home, and, God, that kid can’t carry a tune.”
The streets were muddy. It must have rained in Eureka, while the prairie had gotten just a few hard, cold drops last night. He crossed over and stopped at the first building, a frame structure painted blue. The citizens expected great things from Eureka—if they were hauling in wood to build businesses.
Turner stepped around Story to open the door. “You all go in,” he told his guards. “Tell the judge I’ll be in in a moment. I want to have a word in private with Mr. Story.” When the guards frowned, Turner told them, “I’ll be fine.” The men lowered the hammers on their shotguns and disappeared inside the small office. Turner closed the door and stared at Story.
As if planned, the singing stopped.
“One thing I hope you’ll remember, Story, is that we helped you keep that herd from running last night.”
“What I remember,” Story said, “is you pulling a hideaway gun on me. In front of my men.”
“That’s right. To keep you, your men, my men, from doing something stupid.”
Story waited.
“Where are you taking your herd?”
“Most of my men hired on to get this herd to Kansas City.”
“You’re a long way from Kansas City. And you didn’t answer my question.”
Story smiled in spite of himself. He had to give Sheriff R. R. Turner credit. He was smart, a wily son of a bitch, and a peace officer. Peace officer. Not some hired killer with a gun and a badge.
“Montana,” Story said.
“Montana.” Turner stepped back.
“If I can get there. I figured to drop that plan on my men’s shoulders . . .” He let out a dry laugh. “I don’t know when. But the time’s getting sooner.”
“Think they’ll quit you?”
“Some will. Maybe all of them.”
“Don’t underestimate them. From what I saw last night.”
Story waited.
“I figure most of your men will come riding in soon. To get you out of jail. I don’t want this to turn ugly.” He pointed at the schoolhouse. “I hope you don’t want this to turn ugly.”
The sheriff opened the door and motioned for Story to step inside.
* * *
“Take a seat there.” Story sat. Turner pulled a newspaper off the desk, tossed it to Story, and moved to the stove, where a man wearing a black suit and somber countenance poured coffee into a crude cup. The deputies had placed themselves at the office’s corners, holding shotguns in one hand, coffee cups in the other. Story opened the paper and began to read. If he knew Jameson Hannah, the herd would be moving north by now. If he had figured Sheriff R. R. Turner right, some county men would be trailing that herd. At some point, Hannah would turn the herd toward Eureka. The thing was, Story didn’t know how far Jameson Hannah would go. Stampede the herd through town? Turn Eureka into another Lawrence? Nor did he know how far Turner’s watchdogs would go. Last night’s storm had passed, but things remained ticklish.
And these bastards had not offered Story a drop of coffee.
“Story.” Turner and the judge walked to a desk.
Story tucked the paper in his pocket, rose, and met the two men.
“Plead guilty,” the judge said.
“To what?”
The judge sighed. “Just plead guilty. So I can fine you seventy-five dollars and order you and your damned cattle out of Greenwood County.”
* * *
“You paid those thieving Yankees?” Jameson Hannah spit out coffee and disgust.
“It’s my money. And my cattle.” Story refilled the cup with some of José Pablo Tsoyio’s coffee, which, after drinking Eureka coffee
, revived him.
“I would’ve wiped that town off the face—”
“And my cattle would’ve been scattered all across the prairie, those that weren’t butchered, and you and I would be heading to Lansing for life, at best, or dangling from a cottonwood branch on some creek bed.”
Laughing, the Texan pitched his empty cup into the wreck pan.
“We’re heading toward Topeka,” Hannah said, changing the subject. “Then you’ve gotta make a choice.” He lowered his voice. “Either give up this folly about driving a herd to Montana and turn east and find a buyer in Kansas City or . . .” He shook his head. “See how many damned fools we have that’ll play out your hand.”
Story did not respond.
“You turn west at Topeka and these boys’ll mutiny.”
“We’re not turning west. We’re moving to Leavenworth.”
Hannah let out a sigh of relief. “Well, although I fancied seeing this Montana Territory, I will admit that . . .”
“I have supplies waiting for me in Leavenworth,” Story reminded him. “To take to Alder Gulch along with this beef. And there’s something else I want to get in Leavenworth.” From his pocket, Story pulled out a page torn out of the newspaper he had been given by the Eureka lawman. He had balled up most of the Burlington Patriot and tossed it in the garbage.
E. REMINGTON & SONS
Manufacturers of Revolvers, Rifles,
MUSKETS and CARBINES,
for the United States Service.
Also, Rifle Canes, Revolving Rifles,
Rifle Barrels,
Shotgun Barrels, and Gun Materials,
Sold by GUN DEALERS and TRADE
throughout the Country.
In these days of HOUSE BREAKING
and ROBBERY,
Every House, Store, Bank, and Office
should have one of Remington’s Revolvers.
Circulars containing CUTS and
DESCRIPTIONS of our Arms
will be furnished upon application.
E. REMINGTON & SONS, Ilion, N.Y.
Moore & Nichols, Agents
A Thousand Texas Longhorns Page 24
