V. No persons will be permitted to enter the Indian country unless they comply with the provisions of this order; and commanding officers of the military posts, as far west as Washington Territory, the State of Nevada, and the Territory of Arizona, will arrest and hold all persons attempting to cross the plains in any other manner than that herein specified.
VI. Whenever a military escort is thought necessary, the commanding officer of the military post beyond which such escort may be required will notify the captains of trains of the fact, and will furnish a sufficient escort in addition to the force with the train to protect it to the next military post, when, if necessary, another escort will be furnished; and these escorts will be supplied from one post to another in this manner until the point of danger is passed.
VII. Whenever an attack is made by Indians upon any train pursuing the overland routes, or travelling elsewhere on the plains, the commanding officer of the nearest military post will furnish prompt assistance, and will immediately report the facts in the case to these headquarters, specifying particularly whether the party attacked had complied with these rules, and had made as good defence as could be expected.
VIII. These regulations will be enforced in like manner upon all returning trains, which will be organized in conformity thereto at the military post nearest to their points of departure from the settlements.
IX. All commanding officers of military posts on the plains are charged with and will be held responsible for the faithful execution of this order; and on no pretext should they fail carefully to inspect every train or party of travellers which passes through or within reach of the posts under their command. While every assistance at their command will be furnished by the commanders of military posts which may facilitate or render secure the transit of emigrants or supply trains across the great plains, these officers are also charged with the responsibility of exacting from these parties a strict observance of all proper precautions against Indians, and of requiring that such parties be prepared to protect themselves as far as may be in their power.
X. It is not practicable, with the military forces within this department, to render every foot of the overland routes entirely secure against Indian hostilities; and, whilst the military forces will be disposed and used in the manner which seems best adapted to protect parties of travellers, such parties must, between the military posts, rely much upon their own organization and means of defence. As the government provides such protection for emigrants and trains as it is practicable to do without ruinous expense, and as the military forces are held largely responsible for any misfortunes which may befall such parties from Indian attacks, they claim and will exercise the right to lay down rules for such journeys, made within the Indian country and the jurisdiction of the military authorities, as may be considered necessary to provide against danger, and at the same time not be oppressive or embarrassing to emigration or travel.
The above regulations are thought reasonable and easy to observe, and, if complied with, are considered sufficient, with the presence and aid of the troops at important points, to render travel across the plains reasonably secure. They are therefore published for the information of all concerned, and will be strictly enforced.
By command of Major General Pope:
J. P. Sherburne,
Assistant Adjutant General.
CHAPTER FIFTY
After a full minute of blistering profanity that sent some of Leavenworth’s residents crossing to the other side of the street, Story crumpled the edict and jammed it in his pocket. He cursed some more before looking at Hannah.
“You said thirty rifles?” Story asked.
“Yeah.”
“I guess that’s exactly what we need.” He spit, kicked the water trough with his boot, and turned to the clerk who had left the store to see what had provoked Story’s outrage.
“We’ll leave the wagons here for another day, maybe two,” Story said. It wasn’t a request. Then back at Hannah, Story barked, “Let’s get to camp and see how many replacements we’ll need.”
“You can cut your losses,” Hannah said, “and sell the herd in Kansas City.”
“The hell I will.”
* * *
They watched Ernesto Martinez, Luis Avala, Cesar Lopez, Jody Barley, and Sam Ireland ride off. Story figured he knew why the Mexicans quit. Montana was a long way from Texas and their families, and there weren’t that many Mexicans in the Montana gold country. Sam Ireland was a disappointment, having changed his mind perhaps after hearing General Order No. 27 and how serious the army thought about the danger of traveling through Indian country this year. Ireland claimed he would have stuck, but not with his bum hand after the fracas with the trail thieves. Fabian Peña remained—Story hadn’t expected that, especially after the other Mexicans drew their time, though José Pablo Tsoyio also agreed to ride north. So had Kelvin Melean, and Story thought for certain he would have quit. Jody Barley? Well, riding drag for five more months, and perhaps even longer, wasn’t appetizing to a young rider, although Ryan Ward decided that he, like Dalton Combs, Jordan Stubbings, and Peña would like to see that elephant.
“They ride for the brand,” Jameson Hannah said. “Although I never figured Ireland for a quitter.”
Story started to comment, but Tom Allen walked over, and Story knew from his face what his colleague would tell him.
“Nelson . . .” He sighed.
“You knew we were going to Montana before we even rode south to Texas,” Story reminded him.
“Yeah, I know. And I thought I was up for the adventure and all. But being here, home, and seeing . . .” He shrugged. “I guess I’m not as brave as I thought. You understand?”
“No.”
The response shocked Allen, but he straightened, hardened, and said, “I’ll gather my gear, walk into town.”
“You can ride in the wagon with me,” Boone said.
“No.” Allen already turned and walked back to the bedrolls. “I wouldn’t want to inconvenience anybody.”
Story watched him go. His mouth opened once, but no words, no apology, no reconsideration came out. Instead he emptied his coffee cup and looked at Hannah. “Well,” he said.
“Combs will move up to point with Peña,” Hannah said. “Stubbings and Melean can ride swing. Your friend’s quitting means you’ll need a scout.”
“I’ll scout,” Story said. “I know the country from here on out.”
“Then you need a wagon driver. Boone here . . .”
“Like I said, Boone’s a horse man. He’s yours.”
Hannah glanced at the Texan. “Swing. Don’t botch the job.” He shifted the tobacco to the other cheek and said, “Melean stays on flank. I don’t think Ward’s up for anything but drag. That means we’ll need three drag riders and a good hand for flank. And a wrangler.”
“That gives us fifteen men,” Story said. “We’ll need fifteen more.” Cursing, he shook his head.
Bill Petty would drive one wagon. The Mexican cook drove the other. They had two wagons waiting at the store in town.
“Sixteen more wagons then,” Hannah said. “Or we don’t get past Fort Kearny. There might be an outfit that’ll be short of men needed to continue thanks to this bluebelly horseshit.”
“No.” Story pitched his cup into the wreck pan.
“You gonna try to get past the army? They’ll be over you before some Cheyennes lift all our hair.”
“I pick the men who ride with me. We’ll load up some wagons with grain. That way we’ll have food for horses, mules, oxen, maybe even some cattle if we get an early snow. And I’ll buy more supplies to sell in Virginia City. Groceries. Saddles. Tack. Hell, maybe some china and silver candlesticks.”
“You might go broke,” Hannah said.
“And we might all get killed. But if we make it, what I can sell in the Fourteen Mile City will more than pay for what I’m about to shell out. You hire the cowboys, Hannah. Boone and I will find the wagons and men to drive them.”
>
* * *
Connor Lehman was an Israelite. Nelson Story didn’t hold that against him. But Lehman was about as puny as a lunger, and that gave Story pause.
“You don’t think I’m up to it?” Lehman grinned underneath his thick black mustache and beard.
“You’re the first freighter I’ve talked to,” Story said. “I’ll wind up hiring the best man—”
“Which will be me.”
Story lifted the whiskey, nursing it, and reconsidered the man.
“I have four wagons,” Story repeated. “I need three drivers.” He ran through the figures again in his head. Ten men to herd the cattle—four drag, two each at swing, flank and point. Petty and Tsoyio driving the wagons for the herd. A wrangler for the remuda. Plus Hannah and Story. Two more drivers for the wagons Story had purchased and loaded with supplies—including Remington breechloaders and ammunition. Seventeen men. He needed thirty. But sixteen more wagons.
Again, he explained all that to Lehman, and again cursed General Order No. 27.
“You don’t need sixteen drivers,” Lehman said. “Eight will do.” He lifted his hand to silence Story’s argument before it even began. “I’ve read the army’s edict, Mr. Story. Wagons. Twenty wagons. We’ll double-hitch them. One driver. Six oxen. We can make ten miles a day. That’s about as far as your cattle will go, I do believe. And I know my arithmetic, sir. You’re still five men short of thirty. We’ll put an extra rider on every other wagon. We will be riding through hostile Indian country, so that’ll give us an armed presence. Add me. You’ve got your thirty armed men. Twenty wagons. All we have to do is elect our commander, and I believe that is you, sir.”
“Can you get these men?” Story asked.
“I can.” Now he put his right elbow on the table, spreading out the fingers on his hand. “Now can you put my hand down on this table, Mr. Story? Arm wrestling? I’m not big, sir, but I am one tough Jew bastard.”
Story set the shot glass, practically untouched, on the rough table and slid it away from him.
“Sixteen wagons,” he said. “Eight should be filled with grain, another two with some hay. Two wagons I want to be filled with supplies. Wooden axles and . . .” He stopped, for Lehman was shaking his head.
“Iron axles,” the wagon boss said. “Less likely to break. And tallow. Not tar. For greasing. For wood, you’ll want bois d’arc. It’s hard, and it lasts. I’m guessing you’ve already outfitted most of your boys with guns.”
“Breech-loading Remingtons,” Story said.
“Caliber?”
“Spencer .56-50.”
“I think we might be able to agree to terms, Mr. Story,” Lehman said. “You need me to hire drivers for your three wagons?”
“I got one of my men on that,” Story said. “The other wagons will be filled with supplies to sell in Montana. Or food we can eat.”
“Whiskey?”
“No.”
“You’ll need some,” Lehman said. “Medicinal purposes only.”
“All right.”
“When would you like to leave?”
“How long will it take you to double-hitch those wagons?”
Grinning, Lehman reached over and took Story’s shot glass. He lifted it in toast, smiled, and killed the rye. “Mr. Story, let’s finalize this contract.”
* * *
At camp, Story looked over the men Jameson Hannah had hired. The wrangler, José Sibrian, looked just like Cesar Lopez. Story wondered if every wrangler was a Mexican. Drag riders Jess Williams and Sam McWilliams—with those names, and similar faces, Story would never keep those two straight—and George Dow seemed young and sturdy enough to swallow dust with Ryan Ward. Luke Beckner, missing his right ear, would ride flank opposite Melean.
“You boys know where we’re going?” Story asked.
“Montana,” either Williams or McWilliams answered. Everybody else nodded.
“Any of you have any idea where Montana is?”
“North,” Dow said.
“Twelve hundred miles north. Northwest. I want you boys to understand that. Pay’s forty a month. But you get paid when we get the herd to Virginia City. You quit, you’ll get no money from me, but I’ll make damned sure you get a flogging.”
“What happens if you lose the herd?” the other Williams/McWilliams asked.
“That’s not going to happen,” Story said. “I won’t allow that to happen.”
José Pablo Tsoyio said something in Spanish. Story caught only the Spanish word for God, and he saw the new wrangler, Sibrian, grinning, so Story took a chance. “That’s right, boys. On this drive I am God.”
“Don’t be sacrilegious,” Luke Beckner said.
“You a preacher, Beckner?” Story asked. At least he would remember this cowboy’s name.
“I know the Good Book, sir.”
“Good. That’ll come in handy. You keep your relations with your God, son, and pray all you want. But you remember what I say is the law. From here on out. Anybody want to quit now, this is your only chance.”
No one moved. “Get some chow,” Story said, and walked toward the dust. Mason Boone was riding in. Two men trailed him. One of the riders led a string of mules.
Story spit in the grass and cursed. He had sent Boone to hire three drivers, and the stupid Texas son of a bitch had come back with only two.
Boone reined in. Story glared, and looked at the first rider.
“This is Tommy Thompson,” Boone said. “He’ll take Allen’s place.”
“Where you from?” Story asked.
“New York State.” Thompson certainly sounded like he wasn’t from Kansas or Texas.
“All right. We need some more Yankees in this outfit.”
Story looked at the other rider, young, yellow-haired, sunburned, thin, wearing clothes far too big for him.
“You know where Montana is?” Story asked.
“I know it’s on the other side of Indian country.” The voice didn’t fit, like it was a disguise.
Story waited.
“My name’s Bennett. Cory Bennett.” His shirt was green with big yellow horizontal stripes. The pants were tan wool with thin vertical green checks. The tan hat was a shabby slouch, and the scarf was also green.
“I hope you drive a wagon better than you dress,” Story said.
“I hope I do, too.” He slid out of the saddle, ducked underneath the lead rope, and walked toward the mules.
Story forgot about the teamster and turned to Boone. “Can you count?” Then he turned back to Cory Bennett, who had reached the first mule. That’s when he noticed that the package slung over the packsaddle wasn’t a tarp, but a man, a short man with unruly yellow hair. Bennett grabbed the back of the man’s buckskin collar and jerked him off the saddle. He landed with a thud, rolled over, and vomited.
“Son of a bitch, Const—”
Bennett’s boot caught the drunk in the stomach as he was lifting himself up. Groaning, he fell to his side, gasped, gagged, and coughed. “What the fu—”
“Shut up, Mickey, and sit up. Meet our new boss, you dumb bastard. We’ve got a job, Mick. We’re going to Montana.” Bennett turned back toward Story. “This is my pardner, Mickey McDonald. He can’t hold his liquor better than a sieve, but you won’t find a man with a better touch with a mule.”
Ignoring the newcomers, Story stepped toward Boone. “This is what you bring me?” he growled.
“Not many folks want to get scalped on the way to Montana.” Boone nodded at Bennett. “That one had to get the other one drunk to agree to terms.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
“My goodness, Seth,” Ellen Story said. “This looks fancier than a Brewster phaeton.”
Comparing the baby carriage to a fancy horse-drawn buggy from the New York carriage company pleased Dr. Seth Beckstead. Smiling, he held out his arms to take little Montana and lay the baby into the carriage, but Ellen insisted on doing that herself. The carriage was made of bent wrought iron, with four ten-spoked wooden w
heels, quite large, and sat on a complicated suspension system. Once Ellen had her baby cushioned on the blankets and pillows, and covered up, Beckstead adjusted the fringed sun canopy. The wooden part of the carriage was painted a rich burgundy, with gold stenciling.
“Where did you find this?” Ellen said. She walked around the carriage like most men would do a horse they wanted to buy.
“People are leaving Virginia City all the time,” Beckstead said. “This came from a patient. Her baby isn’t a baby anymore, walking and all, so I accepted this carriage as payment instead of gold.”
“How much do you want for it?”
Beckstead laughed. “It is a gift, Ellen. I have no need for a baby carriage.”
“You might one of these days, Seth.”
Stepping away, Beckstead pointed at the handle. “Let’s take little Montana for a ride.”
They crossed Wallace Street between the Pioneer Bar and the Stone Garden, and moved along the boardwalk past the Masonic Temple. Montana had fallen asleep.
“Have you been back to the theater?” Beckstead asked.
“Of course not.” Ellen nodded at the baby as if offering her excuse. “And you?”
“They did Hamlet two nights ago,” Beckstead said. “Of course, no one on the stage could match your performance.”
Ellen’s laugh sounded like a symphony. “I don’t think Montana or I would have been up for that play,” she said a long moment later.
“Well,” Beckstead said, “what about As You Like It?” He gazed at her. “That’s what they plan for tomorrow night.”
“My favorite of all of Shakespeare’s comedies,” Ellen said.
“Mine as well.” He slowed his pace and slipped in behind Ellen and the carriage to let pass a burly man carrying a box full of groceries and heading in the opposite direction. “I could see if I can get a similar arrangement, Ellen,” he said. “Ask Missus Martin if Grace would be willing to watch over Montana.”
“I could not impose and—”
“Colonel Langrishe’s troupe will be in town for just two more performances. They embark for Helena for two weeks, then return to Denver. It will be your last chance to see them.”
A Thousand Texas Longhorns Page 27
