A Thousand Texas Longhorns

by Johnny D. Boggs

  Too late. A shadow crossed Boone’s face, and he looked into the wrath of God.

  Nelson Story, hat gone, a cut over his forehead, clothes covered with dirt, bug guts, and flecks of grass and leaves, swore vilely. “A woman?” he roared. “A damned woman?”

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  One wagon lost, though the contents, at least what could be salvaged, had been loaded into some of the freight wagons and the cook’s Studebaker. Eighteen head of cattle dead, or missing. One mule dead. Nine horses gone.

  Story stood by the campfire, listening to the reports from Connor Lehman and Jameson Hannah. When both men had finished, Story had not moved.

  “Where’s your hat?” Lehman asked, just to fill the silence.

  Shrugging, Story looked at the men—and the woman—all dazed, exhausted—while the Mexican cook kept checking the coffeepot, waiting for it to boil.

  “There are a few you bought to sell in Virginia City,” Lehman said. “Maybe one will fit you.” Getting no response, the wagon boss explained, “Hats, I mean.”

  “Those are to be sold in Virginia City.” Story thought, but did not say: And I might need the profits to pay off you bastards.

  Someone—Story couldn’t recognize the voice, for rasping locusts echoed in his ears—yelled at the cook, “What’s for supper?”

  “Grasshopper,” José Pablo Tsoyio answered.

  “You serve bugs, Mex,” one of Lehman’s teamsters said, “I’ll gut you like a fish.”

  “In parts of my country, it is considered a delicacy,” the cook said.

  “Hey.” Ryan Ward rode into camp, pulling a roped calf behind him. “We can eat this for supper.”

  He did not recall moving, but Story found himself walking past Ward and the buckskin, to the brown calf with the white face, and then he dropped to his knees, working on the noose, saying, “You’re not eating this calf.” He flung the end of the lariat away from the bawling calf.

  “Boss,” the young cowboy pleaded, “his ma is dead. There—”

  Story’s glare silenced the kid. The calf bolted, stopped, cried. Story rose, saw Boone walk to the calf, drop a loop over its head, tighten the noose, and pull the bawling orphan toward a wagon.

  A moment later, the woman, Cory Bennett, or whatever her real name was, stepped out of the line of Lehman’s bullwhackers and came to the calf, kneeling beside it, calming it. “I’ll take care of him,” she said.

  “Just like a good mama.” Jameson Hannah laughed.

  She wore George Dow’s trousers and Luke Beckner’s plaid shirt.

  “What do we do with her?” Lehman asked.

  “Leave her at Laramie,” Story answered.

  “You might think that over,” Lehman said. “Beck’s dead. Without her, we don’t have the number of men we need to keep heading north. And she can drive a wagon.”

  “Like the one she wrecked?” Story kept staring at the calf.

  “Well, you know what a stickler them bluebellies are for numbers,” Hannah said. “Besides, she might come in handy.”

  “That’s enough.” Story moved toward the coffeepot, never taking his eyes off the woman, who, with Boone’s assistance, led the bawling, orphaned calf to the wagon Mickey McDonald drove.

  Then Kelvin Melean rose, pointed at the river, and yelled. “I know what we can eat.” He laughed. “Fish. Fish.”

  The cook rose from the coffeepot, looking toward the river.

  “Yeah,” another bullwhacker said. “Those sumbitches are fattening up on bugs but . . .”

  The boys stampeded toward the North Platte.

  * * *

  Five days later, they reached Scotts Bluff and let the livestock graze on grass that had not be shaved by thousands of locusts.

  Young Ryan Ward hurried to the wagon, carrying a beer bottle in his hand. Constance laughed when he tripped over a rock, but he kept from falling, and slid on his knees in front of her. “Here.” He jutted the bottle toward her. “It’s . . . milk.” He spoke so fast, she could barely make him out. “There’s another mama cow with a baby. Actually, golly, ma’am, must be six or seven that’ve dropped on this drive. I milked him myself, ma’am.”

  “Him?” Constance grinned.

  He stared dully before a wide grin stretched across his young, dirty face. “Oh. Right. We drew lots. I got the short one, but not really. I broke it off in my hand. Didn’t want Luke Beckner to . . .” His face turned crimson. “Well. It’s for . . . what are you calling him?”

  “Hobo,” she said.

  “Huh.” His head bobbed. “Yeah. He sort of looks like a hobo. Where’d you come up with that name?”

  “I didn’t.” She took the bottle. “Mr. Story named him.”

  Ryan’s face reminded her of a boy from the school—though his name escaped her—and the look he would have, utterly lost, completely overwhelmed, whenever the schoolmaster began arithmetic. “Thank you, Ryan.” Constance’s smile seemed all the payment Ward needed, or perhaps the mention of Nelson Story’s name frightened him. Springing to his feet, the cowboy tipped his hat and raced across the campground.

  * * *

  “There’s a dress,” Story said, “in one of the wagons. Might be short, but I’ll have it brought to you.” He stood, still hatless, his face burned by the sun where the beard offered no protection.

  Constance looked at him as she let Hobo drain another bottle of milk. This one had been brought by Dalton Combs. Yesterday, one of Lehman’s bullwhacker’s, David McKay, managed to milk a cow, and apparently had a black eye to go with the novelty.

  “And how much will that cost me, Mr. Story? Fort Laramie prices?”

  The ears reddened to match his sun-blistered forehead and cheeks. “What is your name?” he demanded after about half a minute.

  “Constance Beckett,” she answered without hesitation, “Mr. Story.”

  “You may call me Nelson.”

  “I think not.”

  “Then just plain Story. This mister gets damned annoying.”

  She focused on letting the calf suckle.

  “We shall leave you at Fort Laramie,” he told her.

  Which she had expected. “No, you won’t.”

  “I am sure I can hire men to replace you and . . .” He left Gordon Beck’s name unsaid.

  “You won’t be able to replace all of us.” Good old Molly McDonald, still dressed in men’s duds, still chewing tobacco, and always as uncouth as a Tennessean from the hills, strode into camp with a plate of supper for Constance. “Cory and me been pards too long for me to break in some other dumb bastard.”

  She squatted, put the plate at Constance’s side, and scratched Hobo like one might do a dog.

  “You had to know she was a . . . woman,” Story told Molly’s back.

  Molly looked into Constance’s eyes, and sighed.

  “Was she your . . . ?”

  “Don’t go there, mister.” Apparently, Molly had been eavesdropping on the conversation before storming in with supper. “She’s my pard. You’re just the sumbitch that pays us, and I skin mules for bosses till I grow sick of them.” She turned. “And I’ve gotten me a bellyful of you.”

  “I can replace you, too, McDonald.”

  Molly rose, laughed, spit, and walked right past him. “Fort Laramie’s a big post, mister. How many you reckon you’ll have to replace? Couple of your cowboys is moonstruck. So is some of Lehman’s boys. Besides, you lose Cory yonder, who’s gonna be nursemaidin’ your little baby?” She kept walking, and did not look back.

  Story looked at the calf, then at Constance. His face remained burned but unreadable. Finally, he nodded at her. “Ma’am,” he said as he turned, “you’re doing a fine job with that calf.” He started back toward the main camp.

  The compliment stunned her. She had to try twice before she called out to his ramrod back, “Nelson.”

  He stopped, but did not turn around.

  “Who was Hobo?” Constance asked.

  “A dog I had when I was a kid.” Sto
ry resumed that intense, strong stride. “Pa made me bury him. After he shot him.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  On the far side of the Laramie River, Fort Laramie sprawled across the flats before them: tents and teepees, soldiers and civilians and Indians, wagons and cannon and livestock. Beyond the post, trees lined the bank of the bending river and a canal on the southern edge of the military post, and a handful of wolfberry trees rose like sentinels on the rolling plains of wheatgrass. Past that, hills, barren mesas, sandstone outcroppings, the occasional stand of soapweed yucca, and in the distance, the bluish-gray outline of mountains, including towering Laramie Peak—looking so close, even though the mountains lay some forty miles west.

  After weeks of endless prairie, seeing the Rocky Mountains brought a semblance of life back into the party. So did the sight of people and civilization: civilian wagons—mostly freight rigs, a few farm wagons, even a couple of Conestogas—were parked outside the open compound near a trading post, where smoke rose from a chimney. A makeshift corral held dozens of oxen, mules, and horses. Tombstones and crosses filled a small graveyard next to scaffolds holding the Indian dead.

  And the smells: coffee, broiling meat, beans, bacon being cooked at campfires, and in the fort’s kitchens.

  Molly McDonald hadn’t seen a stranger in so many weeks, she had joked that the world had ended when those grasshoppers came by—Nelson Story’s party just hadn’t realized it, yet. Maybe Fort Laramie even revived any remaining humanity in Story’s soul, Molly thought, for he rode up alongside the wagon Molly shared with Constance Beckett.

  “How’s Hobo?” he asked.

  Constance tilted her head toward the wagon’s tailgate. “See for yourself.”

  The calf was tied up behind the wagon, though if he got tired, they would stop and Molly—not Constance—would have to lift up the smelly bovine and put him inside.

  “Well, keep your hat pulled down and your voice low,” Story said. “You’re Cory Bennett.”

  Molly and Constance stared at that stiff-backed, hard-rock tyrant.

  “I’ve lost a wagon, cattle, horses, one man, supplies, and time,” Story said. “No need to hire more men and waste time teaching them what I demand from men I pay.” He started to turn the horse back to the herd, but stopped and pointed his finger at Constance. “But, by thunder, when we reach Virginia City, you’re dressing like a woman. Or I’ll run you out of town as a pervert or have you burned at the stake as a witch.”

  He loped away, and Molly spit tobacco juice. “Girl,” Molly said, “watch yourself around that man.”

  “He’s married,” Constance told her.

  Molly flicked the lines and muttered a stream of indelicate words.

  “Every man here wants me, Molly,” Constance said. “Even that cute wrangler and sweet Ryan Ward. I can handle myself.”

  Molly started to say something like Major Warner Balsam could attest to that, but dropped the subject when Constance patted her thigh, and said, “But thanks for looking after me, pard.”

  * * *

  James Van Voast ran his fingers through his receding, prematurely graying hair. Although the major probably hadn’t reached his fortieth birthday, wrinkles creasing his face and rheumy eyes made him look closer to sixty. Massaging his temples with elbows on his desktop, he shook his head and sighed.

  “My advice to you, Mr. Story,” he said, “is to find another destination.”

  “My destination, Major, is Virginia City.”

  Van Voast released his head and looked into Story’s eyes. “You might reach your grave before your destination, Mr. Story.” He pointed at the window, though the shades were drawn tightly, allowing not one ray of sunshine into the office. “Red Cloud stormed out of here earlier this summer, refusing to agree to any peace terms the commissioners put before him.”

  “I have a wife and child in Montana,” Story said.

  “But you are aware of the restrictions placed on travelers on the Bozeman Trail.” Van Voast raised a paper from his cluttered desk. “Mr. Michener reports that you are short one man and one wagon.”

  “Your lieutenant is a good counter.”

  The major’s head shook. “Then you know I have no recourse but to deny you permission to continue north.”

  “I figure I can get another wagon and another man here.” He raised the black hat he held in his left hand. “Already replaced the hat I lost.” He did not grin.

  Nor did Van Voast. “Mr. Michener also says you have more than two dozen Remington rifles, supplies, ammunition, grain, and . . . hundreds of longhorned cattle?”

  “All bound for Virginia City, Major.”

  “The Sioux would love to get their hands on that,” Van Voast said.

  “They’ll have a devil of a time getting it, sir.”

  Their eyes locked, and Van Voast almost grinned. “You are a stubborn man.”

  “Major, I just want to get home.”

  “Once you have your extra wagon and your extra man, you may pass, Mr. Story. All I can do is advise you of the risks involved, but . . . well, sir . . . we have had no fresh meat, no beef, I mean, in more than a month. Would you be willing to sell steers here?”

  “What’s your price?”

  “The army commissary has . . .”

  “Army prices? No thank you, Major. I’ll sell them in Virginia City, keep some for myself.”

  The major’s face darkened. “Good day, Mr. Story.”

  Story nodded, put his hat on, and turned toward the door.

  “Story.” Van Voast dropped the mister.

  “Yes, Major?” He looked back at the tired commander.

  “Camped among those ten or twelve stranded emigrants you’ll find a freight wagon and two men. They stayed behind after another wagon train changed its destination from Montana’s goldfields to Salt Lake City for safety. Union veterans, sir. Both of them. The kind of men you’d need, and with their wagon, you’d be able to continue north, at your earliest convenience.”

  Story stared for a moment, finally nodded, and thanked the major.

  “Your thanks are neither necessary nor desired,” Van Voast said as he opened a drawer and withdrew a bottle. “My wish is for you to reach your home, and, from what I hear, those two men would give you a better, if still slim, chance.” He uncorked the bottle and splashed three fingers of amber fluid into a tumbler. “Finding anyone willing to join your caravan might prove fruitless, which means that eventually you would sneak out on your own. That, in turn, would force me to order a detail after you. This has been an ugly summer, sir. Fall shall not cool down any hostilities. Already, too many dead men are on my conscience.” He raised the glass in a toast. “I would dislike very much to report losing any men I had to send after you.”

  The major had drained the whiskey by the time Story closed the office door.

  * * *

  Sitting in front of the fire, John Catlin sipped coffee from the tin mug as this fellow named Nelson Story made his offer, after which Catlin looked at Steve Grover.

  “You understand,” Catlin said after setting the cup on the ground, “that what is in our wagon belongs to Grover and me. We plan to sell it in one of the gold camps and use the money to . . .” He shrugged.

  Grover finished: “Do anything but grow wheat.”

  Catlin tried smiling, but Story’s face remained unreadable. “If we decided to sell our goods in Virginia City,” Catlin said, “we’d be competing with one another.”

  “It’s a free country,” Story said.

  “It’s also a dangerous country,” Grover said. “Around here.” He nodded at the cemetery.

  “I have twenty-nine breech-loading Remington rifles,” Story said.

  “Can your men shoot them?” Catlin asked.

  “They can. Can you shoot one?”

  Catlin shook his head. “Never owned a breechloader, Remington or otherwise.” He pointed at the rifle leaning against the wagon.

  “Muzzle-loader,” Story said.

&
nbsp; “That’s right,” Catlin said. “Enfield. English-made.”

  “Can you shoot those?”

  Steve Grover chuckled. “A passel of Johnny Rebs might say we could, if they weren’t six feet under.”

  Story’s head bobbed. “You might not want to mention that to the men trailing my cattle. They’re Texans, and still smarting after the war.”

  “And you?” Catlin asked.

  “Ohio by birth, Kansas for a few years, short while in Colorado, Virginia City since ’63.”

  “So,” Grover said, “you need a couple of Yankees for company . . . and protection.”

  “I’m no Yankee,” Story said. “I’m a businessman. And I protect myself. You’ll be protecting your wagon, your investment. I don’t pay you. Your pay’s in that wagon. You ride along because you need me to get to Montana. And I need you to get to Montana. That’s my offer.”

  “What’s the chow like?” Grover asked.

  Story held up the coffee Catlin had poured him and dumped it out. “Better than what you cook for yourselves.” He tossed the empty cup across the fire to Grover, who caught it and set it on the ground.

  “You’re a wee bit ornery,” Grover said with a smile.

  Story had no reaction. “If you don’t want to join me, I’ll bid you good evening. If you do, let me know. I need one man and one wagon, and I’ll be making my rounds. First man with grit, rifle, and wagon I find, I’m moving north.” He nodded. “Thanks for the coffee and time, gentlemen.”

  As Story strode away, Catlin looked quickly at Grover, who shrugged.

  “Story,” Catlin called out.

  The man stopped and turned.

  “We’ll move over to your camp first thing in the morning,” Catlin said. “Leave whenever you’re ready.”

  “I’ll be ready tomorrow morning.” Story walked into the evening.

  “That man’s meaner than any son-of-a-bitching officer we ever had in the 87th,” Grover said when Story was out of sight. “Present company excepted.”

  “No,” Catlin said, “he’s meaner than I ever was. But that son of a bitch, I warrant, gets things done.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  When Jameson Hannah swung out of the saddle and led his horse a few rods off the trail, Story spurred the black into a lope, reining up when he found Hannah kneeling beside a grave, probably two or three weeks old.