The Green River Trail

by Ralph Compton

  “Them Mormons has had four years to settle out here since we talked to Bridger,” Dirk said. “There must be thousands of ’em by now. I kinda like that idea of ridin’ north from here, and then taking the Oregon Trail to Bridger’s.”

  “One thing wrong with that,” Kirby said. “We’ll have to cross South Pass.”

  “That won’t be a problem,” said Lonnie, “since we have no wagons. Horses and mules can make it, even if we have to dismount and lead them. If we settle along the Green, I’ll gamble that we’ll be in trouble with the Mormons soon enough. I think we’d do well to go north from here until we reach the Oregon Trail. Even with crossing South Pass, we can still make it in about six days.”

  “I like that,” Dallas said. “Nothing but a fool fights, if he can avoid it.”

  “I’ll go along,” said Dirk. “We’ll likely have all the Mormon trouble we can handle after we bring that trail drive from Texas.”

  “Count me in,” Kirby said. “We got to claim the land, get us a herd of cows and some prime horses. Then will be soon enough to fight with anybody that don’t like us.”

  They had reached an agreement, and there seemed little else to do except roll in their blankets and get some sleep.

  Southeastern Idaho Territory. June 6, 1853.

  It had been ten years since Oregon Territory had been settled, and deep wagon ruts marked the trail. There was also a litter of horse and mule bones, attesting to the devilish terrain.

  “I’ve always heard it said that nothin’ breakable ever got across South Pass without bein’ broke,” said Kirby Lowe. “Look at all the glass.”

  “I think we ought to dismount and lead all the horses across,” Lonnie said. “We’ll get there sometime tomorrow.”

  “How far you reckon it is from here to Bridger’s trading post?” Dirk asked.

  “Maybe two hundred and fifty miles,” said Lonnie. “It’ll take us a mite longer than the six days we was countin’ on, but I think there’ll be less risk. I want to talk to Bridger before we get too involved in the troubles of the territory.”

  Southwestern Wyoming. June 10, 1853.

  The sun was two hours high when the four Texans approached the log building that was Jim Bridger’s trading post. Suddenly there was the sound of a shot, and lead thunked into a pine just ahead of the four horsemen.

  “Rein up and identify yourselves,” a voice commanded.

  “We’re Texans, on our way home from California,” Lonnie shouted.

  “Dismount and come on,” said the voice, “and don’t make no funny moves.”

  The four dismounted and, leading their horses and the pack mule, reached the front of the trading post. The door opened, and Louis Vasquez stepped out, a Hawken rifle under his arm. Lonnie spoke.

  “You’re Louis Vasquez, and four years ago, on our way to California, we spent two days and nights here. I’m Lonnie Kilgore, and my amigos are Dallas Weaver, Dirk McNelly, and Kirby Lowe.”

  “I remember them, Louis,” said Bridger from the gloom of the trading post. “Put your horses in the corral and come in.”

  Bridger had lighted a coal oil lamp to dispel the gloom within the building. There were surprisingly few goods remaining in the trading post.

  “You must have been doing a landslide business,” Lonnie Kilgore said, looking at the small stock that remained.

  “No,” said Bridger. “I’m abandoning the post. It’s just a matter of days before it’ll be overrun with Mormons. I have an Indian friend keeping me posted as to their progress. Wovoka?”

  The Indian seemed to materialize out of the shadows, a Hawken rifle under his arm.

  Bridger spoke. “This is Wovoka Shatiki, a Shoshone. Wovoka, this is Dallas Weaver, Lonnie Kilgore, Dirk McNelly, and Kirby Lowe. They’re returning from California on their way to Texas.”

  Without hesitation, Dallas extended his hand and the Indian took it. The procedure continued, with Lonnie, Dirk, and Kirby taking the Shoshone’s hand.

  “I reckon the Mormon situation has worsened since we were last here,” Lonnie Kilgore said.

  “It has,” said Bridger. “Wovoka’s been watching them, and time’s running out.”

  “They come,” Wovoka said. “Ten suns, mebbe.”

  “If it’s any of my business,” said Lonnie, “where do you aim to go from here?”

  “I reckon Vasquez and me will ride north and spend some time with Wovoka’s people, the Wind River Shoshones. When this territory opens up—and it will—the government will need scouts. Me and Louis aim to be ready.”

  “That’s mainly the reason we came back this way,” Lonnie Kilgore said. “We wanted to discuss with you the possibility of buying title to maybe eight sections of land along Green River, to the east of here. We would return to Texas and bring a herd of longhorns. But we’re a mite skittish about buyin’ into a range war.”

  “I doubt it’ll come to that,” Bridger said. “Utah’s been declared a territory of the United States, and it’ll be just a matter of time until the Federals in Washington have to put a stop to all the hell-raising.”*

  “In Texas,” said Dallas Weaver, “we ain’t above some hell-raising ourselves, if there’s no other way. This Green River range is soundin’ better to me all the time.”

  “If you can buy title to the land and hire enough riders to defend it, I don’t believe you’ll be sorry,” Bridger said. “I reckon a man’s religious beliefs is his business, but it ain’t wrote down nowhere that a bunch like these Mormons can take over a whole territory and drive everybody else out.”

  “That’s about the way we feel,” said Lonnie Kilgore. “That is, if nobody’s claimed the Green River range.”

  “Nobody has,” Bridger said. “The Mormons are mostly settled east of there, around the Great Salt Lake, but that ain’t stopped them from laying claim to the whole territory.”

  “Well, I’ll challenge any man who tries to run me off land after I’ve bought and paid for it,” said Dallas Weaver. “How do the rest of you feel?”

  “I’m with you until hell freezes,” Lonnie Kilgore said.

  “Count me in,” said Dirk McNelly and Kirby Lowe in a single voice.

  “Ugh,” said Wovoka Shatiki, obviously pleased.

  “Wovoka wants to stay and fight,” Louis Vasquez said.

  “Kill,” said Wovoka.

  “Wovoka,” Bridger said, “maybe you ought to join these hombres, if they settle along the Green. I think there’ll be some fighting before this thing is over.”

  “No drive cow,” said Wovoka. “Not be squaw.”

  The men resisted the urge to laugh. Lonnie Kilgore spoke to the Indian.

  “You won’t be driving cows, amigo. We’re goin’ to need a scout while we’re trailing a herd from Texas. Our next drive will be from California. We’ll be bringing in a herd of horses. How do you feel about them?”

  “Bueno,” Wovoka said. “Horse good.”

  “Wovoka can gentle any horse alive,” said Bridger. “If he does nothing else, you’ll do well to include him in your outfit. He don’t like the idea of going with Louis and me to the Shoshone village until the government decides to hire us as scouts.”

  “I think I can speak for us all,” Lonnie Kilgore said, “as long as Wovoka joining our outfit won’t leave you at a disadvantage.”

  “It won’t,” said Bridger. “Louis and me have many friends among the Wind River Shoshones.”

  “If we aim to buy Green River land, where do we start?” Kirby Lowe asked.

  “The nearest government outpost is Fort Laramie,” said Bridger. “Captain Stoddard is the post commander there, and I know him well. Tell him what you want and that you’re there on my recommendation.”

  “We’re obliged,” Lonnie said. “Since you’re giving up the post, why don’t you and Louis take up a couple of sections alongside ours?”

  Bridger laughed. “Louis and me are wanderers. We been here thirty years, and since we started this trading post, it’s the longest we�
�ve been in one place. Once we leave here, we aim to ride to Fort Laramie and have Captain Stoddard pass along the word that the United States government has got itself a pair of scouts.”

  “He’s right,” said Louis Vasquez. “I’ll never stay this long in one place again, unless I’m buried there.”

  Come the dawn, the four Texans decided not to delay their departure. They would ride on to Fort Laramie.

  “A good idea,” said Bridger. “Get your titles to that Green River graze as soon as you can. When you get dug in, Louis and me will ride down there for some of that good Texas beef. On the trail to Texas and on the way back with the herd, let Wovoka scout ahead. He can track a lizard across solid rock, and he’s a dead shot with a Hawken or Colt.”

  In a silent farewell, Bridger and Vasquez extended their hands, and Wovoka Shatiki took them. He then followed the four Texans out to the corral, waiting for them to saddle their horses.

  “Wovoka,” Lonnie said, “you’re welcome to ride any of these four horses on lead ropes, if you choose to. They belonged to some gents that tried to bushwhack us, and they won’t be needin’ them no more.”

  The grin never reached the Indian’s lips, but it was in his eyes. It was a kind of justice he appreciated, and he nodded. The five men mounted and rode eastward. Fort Laramie was two hundred miles distant.

  Fort Laramie, Wyoming. June 13, 1853.

  “Bridger’s right about that,” Captain Stoddard said, when the Texans met with him. “The army’s ready to hire scouts, and they prefer mountain men.”

  “Bueno,” said Lonnie. “Bridger said him and Louis Vasquez will be ridin’ over to see you within the next few days. Now let’s get down to our reason for being here.”

  “Go ahead,” Captain Stoddard said.

  “We aim to settle along the Green River in northeastern Utah,” Lonnie said. “We’re on our way to Texas for a herd of cattle and reckoned we’d better secure the land first.”

  “I suppose Bridger made you aware of the … ah … unrest in Utah Territory,” Stoddard said.

  “He did,” said Lonnie, “and that’s why we want title to our spread. If it’s ours legally, we’ll be within our rights shootin’ any varmints trying to take it from us.”

  “That’s exactly right,” Captain Stoddard said, “and the government will welcome your settling there. I can mark off your holdings on a land map, give you a receipt for your money, and lock it in my office safe until it can be taken to the nearest U.S. land office. I believe the range you have in mind can be had for a dollar an acre. Generally, whites are reluctant to settle anywhere in Utah Territory because of the constant trouble there.”

  “We want a total of eight sections,” said Lonnie, “with four on each side of the Green, adjoining. That’s twelve hundred and eighty dollars each, and we’re prepared to pay right now.”

  The four Texans had brought in their saddlebags, and each proceeded to count out the correct amount on Captain Stoddard’s desk. Stoddard then wrote each of them a receipt.

  “By the time you return from Texas,” Captain Stoddard said, “I should have the deeds for you. One of you can ride up here and get them. Good luck.”

  “We’re obliged,” said Dallas Weaver. “Now we need to visit your sutler’s store.”

  “Go ahead, and welcome,” Captain Stoddard said.

  Wovoka Shatiki had waited for them, remaining with the horses, outside the sutler’s. As the Texans approached, there were half a dozen whites gathered there, and Wovoka had his back to the wall and a Colt in his hand.

  “That’s enough,” said Lonnie quietly. “You men back off.”

  “You bastard,” said one of the threatening whites, “is this your damn Indian?”

  “He’s nobody’s Indian,” Lonnie said coldly. “He’s a man in his own right, and he’s part of my outfit. Move in on him, and the four of us are right behind you.”

  In the silence that followed, there were distinctive snicks as the four Texans drew and cocked their Colts. Without a word, keeping their hands away from their weapons, all the whites backed away. Wovoka holstered his Colt. His dark eyes met those of the four men he had chosen to ride with. They had sided with him, claimed him as one of their outfit, and Wovoka Shatiki would not forget.

  *Near the present-day town of Twin Falls, Idaho.

  *The government sent soldiers in 1857. The confrontation ended peacefully.

  1

  The four Texans and their Indian companion rode out of Fort Laramie, heading south.

  “One thing we ain’t settled,” Dallas Weaver said. “Where are we going to start buying cows once we reach Texas?”

  “I’m figuring San Antonio,” said Lonnie. “Most of us have kin around there. They’ve had four years of natural increase since we’ve been gone. They may have cows for sale.”

  “Somethin’ else we ain’t considered,” Dirk McNelly said. “We’ll be a while just buying the herd, and we’re gonna be needing some riders. Snow will be flying in the high country by the time we’re ready to start the drive.”

  “It may be,” said Lonnie. “If it is, we may not be able to begin our drive until spring of next year.”

  “I wouldn’t mind that,” Dallas said. “There’s a little gal in Uvalde that cried when I left four years ago. If I play my cards right, she might be going to Utah with me.”

  Kirby Lowe laughed. “She’s got a ring through some hornbre’s nose, and maybe three younguns by now. Where do you fit in?”

  “Hell,” said Dallas, “she wasn’t but thirteen when I rode west. Won’t cost me nothin’ to find out where I stand. She’ll be seventeen now, and at twenty she’ll be past her prime. How many cows are we aimin’ to buy, anyhow?”

  “I’m thinking of a thousand head for each of us,” Lonnie said, “depending on the cost. I doubt we’ll get any decent stock for less than three dollars a head, and it might be more than that. If we pay as much as three-fifty, that’s thirty-five hundred dollars for each of us. That, plus what we’ve paid for the land, will have taken almost half the gold we brought out of California. There’ll be wages for our riders we hope to hire in Texas, and God knows how much we’ll have to pay for a decent horse herd.”

  “Catch wild horse,” said Wovoka, who had been listening. “There be many wild horse in bastardo Crow country.” He pointed north.

  “Thanks, Wovoka,” Lonnie said. “That’s something we’ll have to consider. Have you hunted these wild ones to the north?”

  “Sí,” said Wovoka. “Hunt Crow. Take horse.”

  Dallas Weaver laughed. “If we go horse-hunting, I think we’d better catch the wild ones running loose and gentle them ourselves. We may be facing a showdown with the Mormons. We don’t want the Crows coming after us from the other direction.”

  “I think Wovoka is referring to Montana Territory, along the Yellowstone,” Lonnie said. “I’ve heard there are many wild horses there, and we have as much right to them as anybody else.”

  Wovoka nodded, pleased.

  “We won’t be gettin’ any of them high-stepping, Spanish-trained horses from California, then,” said Kirby Lowe.

  “No,” Lonnie said, “but we won’t be paying two or three hundred dollars apiece for them, either. As the frontier becomes settled, there’ll be a real need for a tough little horse that can turn on a nickel and give you some change. He’ll need the strength to hold a twelve-hundred-pound steer at the end of a rope. The army will be needing more and more horses as they build more forts and send more soldiers.”*

  “This all sounds like a dream to me,” said Dirk McNelly. “I reckon we’d better get the four thousand cows from Texas and put ’em to grazing along the Green River before we start horse-hunting. How many riders are we aimin’ to hire in Texas?”

  “At least five, maybe more, if we can find them,” Lonnie Kilgore said. “Wovoka will be scouting ahead, and with a point, two flank, and two swing riders, we’ll need three of the others riding drag.”

  “That’s eight,�
� said Kirby Lowe.

  “We must have more horses,” Lonnie said, “and with a decent remuda, that means at least two horse wranglers. We’ll need at least two more pack mules, and the wranglers will be responsible for them, too.”

  North Texas. June 19, 1853.

  The outfit had ridden across eastern Colorado and Indian Territory’s Panhandle.

  “I can tell we’re in Texas,” Kirby Lowe said. “It ain’t rained here since we left.”

  “It may have rained farther south, where we’re going,” said Dallas. “It’s closer to the Gulf of Mexico.”

  “I’m not wishing anybody bad luck,” Dirk McNelly said, “but if Texas has had two or three dry years, we won’t be payin’ near as much for cows. What good’s a cow when the sun’s burnt all the grass to a crisp and there ain’t no rain in sight?”

  “You’d better hope that hasn’t been the case here,” Lonnie said. “We’ll be here awhile buying our herd, and they’ll have to eat.”

  They crossed the Canadian River and rode south, which would take them directly to San Antonio. It had indeed been a dry year in Texas, and there was little greenery to be seen.

  San Antonio, Texas. June 26, 1853.

  It was nearly dark when the five weary riders reached San Antonio.

  “Let’s stay at a hotel tonight and meet with our kin tomorrow,” Lonnie suggested.

  “Good idea,” said Dallas. “I got to wash off the trail dust and get me some new duds.”

  Wovoka got only as far as the stable where they left the horses.

  “No like hotel,” Wovoka said. “No like town.”

  Lonnie talked the hostler into allowing the Indian to spend the night in the hayloft.

  “If he’s that skittish, he’ll get awful damn hungry before we get out of Texas,” said Kirby Lowe.

  “I reckon when we split up, he can go with me,” Lonnie said. “My folks have a barn with a hayloft. He can stay there.”