The Green River Trail

by Ralph Compton

  “I’d be obliged,” Dallas said. “Will you, Justin?”

  “I’ll do it,” said Justin. “Becky, fetch me a pot of that boiling water.”

  There was only one way to remove a barbed arrow, and that was to drive the shaft on through the flesh. Dallas began working over Mindy. Breaking off the feathered end of the shaft, he unloaded his Colt and began using the butt of it to drive the shaft on through. Even though unconscious, Mindy cried out in pain. From a distance, Laura and April were watching fearfully. As Justin began the same tedious procedure on Lonnie, Becky hovered near, wringing her hands.

  “Becky,” Justin said patiently, “go over yonder and wait with April and Laura.”

  Becky seemed not to have heard.

  “Damn it, Becky,” Justin shouted, “this is hard enough. Get away from here.”

  Laura took Becky’s arm, leading her away. Justin and Dallas continued their gruesome task, their shirts wringing wet with sweat. They wiped their sweaty faces on their already sodden shirtsleeves. Dallas finished first, dousing Mindy’s wound with disinfectant. Then he turned to the three frightened women.

  “I need one of you to bandage her wound while I support her.”

  Without a word, Becky went to help him. Justin still labored over Lonnie, fearful that the arrow might puncture a lung. If it did, Lonnie Kilgore was a dead man. Gus already had bound Waco’s wound when Justin finally drove the shaft of the arrow through.

  “Gus,” said Justin, “I’ll need some help. We’ll have to pack this wound tight, front and back, to stop the bleeding.”

  With Gus holding the thick cloth pad in place on Lonnie’s back, Justin turned him over and applied a similar cloth pad to the exit wound. Lonnie’s face was pale, his eyes squinted in pain, but there was no bloody froth on his lips.

  “Thank God,” Justin said. “The arrow missed his lung.”

  “It’s going to hurt,” said Gus, “but we got to raise him up, pour disinfectant into the pads, and bind them in place.”

  Justin nodded, readying the bottle of disinfectant. Elliot came forward to hold the pad over the wound in Lonnie’s back, when Gus raised him up. Quickly, Justin soaked both the pads with disinfectant and then bound them tightly in place with muslin wrapped around Lonnie’s torso. Dallas had covered Mindy with a blanket, and brought another, with which he covered Lonnie. Justin was still on his knees, too weak to rise. He felt a hand on his shoulder.

  “Thank you,” said Becky in a small voice.

  It was a trying time, with two of their comrades so seriously wounded, but someone had to make the decision to go on, and Dallas did.

  “We’ll have to make room for Lonnie and Mindy in the wagon. Dirk, Kirby, Benjamin, and Sandy, get started clearing space. When you’re tired, some of the rest of us will take your place.”

  The four men labored for nearly an hour before climbing wearily down.

  “There’s just too damn much stuff in the wagon,” said Sandy Orr.

  “Then we’ll just have to remove some of it,” Dallas said. “We still have those canvas squares and plenty of rope. We’ll make packs of some of the things that can go on a packhorse. Wovoka, choose four or five of the gentlest horses that will carry packs.”

  Wovoka nodded and went for the horses. Dallas climbed into the wagon, handing down anything that might safely travel on a packhorse. The cowboys were more asccustomed to packhorses and pack mules than wagons, and they quickly assembled five packs for those horses Wovoka believed would safely carry them. When the packs were loaded on the five horses, blankets were spread on the portion of the floor that had been cleared in the rear of the wagon. Lonnie and Mindy were carefully placed upon the blankets.

  “We’ll need you on the wagon, Becky,” Dallas said. “Are you up to it?”

  “Yes,” said Becky. “I’m sorry I haven’t been much help.”

  “Nothing to be sorry about,” Dallas said. “I know how you feel. Mindy’s in there, too.”

  But before they could move out, there was a cry of pain from the wagon. Mindy was conscious.

  “Becky,” said Dallas, “give her a big dose of laudanum. Grive Lonnie some, too. Maybe they can sleep through the next few hours.”

  He didn’t have to remind them they were still many miles from the next water, and that there was little or no graze for the herd and the horses. Dallas and Wovoka rode to the point position.

  “Head ’em up and move ’em out,” Dallas shouted, waving his hat.

  There was no supper, for their one water barrel was dry by suppertime. The horse remuda became unruly and the longhorns cantankerous as the sun slid below the western horizon. It was the day’s end, a time to graze, a time to rest. But the weary riders pushed on, keeping the horses and longhorns bunched, until they became so exhausted they no longer attempted to quit the herd. Three hours after dark, there came a light breeze out of the west, bringing with it the smell of water. The longhorns forgot their exhaustion, and in a horn-clacking, bawling frenzy, stampeded west. There was no stopping them, and all the horses—even the five packhorses—followed at a fast gallop. The riders could only get out of the way.

  “Damn,” said Justin Irwin, “I don’t believe a lightning bolt could have stopped them this time.”

  “We’ll have a gather on our hands,” Dallas said, “but there’s water, and if there’s any graze, they won’t scatter to hell and gone.”

  “Yeah,” said Benjamin Raines, “and while we’re there, it’ll allow Lonnie and Mindy a rest from jolting around in the wagon.”

  Almost two hours later, they reached Canon Largo, a tributary to the San Juan. There was plenty of water, and more graze than they had expected. In the starlight, the riders could see the dark shapes of grazing horses and cattle.

  “What next?” Kirby Lowe asked.

  “We’re going to have our fill of hot coffee and grub,” said Dallas. “Then we’ll divide what’s left of the night into two watches. Tomorrow, we’ll start our gather.”

  “Lonnie and Mindy’s still sleeping,” Becky said.

  “We’ll let them sleep until they have fever,” said Dallas. “Then we’ll have to pour some whiskey down them.”

  Cañon Largo. August 22, 1853.

  Each of the riders managed to get a little sleep during the night. Near dawn, Lonnie and Mindy were feverish and had to be dosed with whiskey. Immediately after breakfast, Wovoka mounted his horse and rode out.

  “Where’s he going?” Elliot Graves wondered.

  “I haven’t sent him anywhere,” said Dallas, “but I reckon he’s looking for Indian sign.”

  “He’s as natural a scout as I’ve ever seen,” Justin said. “He knows what needs doing, and he’s three jumps ahead, doing it. On the frontier, an outfit can’t have a better edge than that.”

  When the outfit began their gather, it was much as Dallas had predicted. The hungry, thirsty herd was pretty well bunched, since there was water and graze. Wovoka was gone most of the day. When he returned, his explanation was simple.

  “Paiute no follow,” he said, pointing to the back trail.

  “Sign?” Dallas asked, pointing toward the northwest.

  Wovoka shook his head.

  “Thank God,” said Becky.

  By suppertime, their fever diminished, Lonnie and Mindy were awake. Dallas was leaning over the wagon’s tailgate, grinning at them.

  “Where are we?” Lonnie asked.

  “Cañon Largo,” said Dallas. “The herd smelled the water last night and stampeded, but they didn’t scatter. We gathered the whole bunch—horses included—today. Becky, April, and Laura will have supper ready pretty soon. Is anybody hungry?”

  “No,” said Lonnie, “but if I don’t eat, this hangover’s likely to kill me.”

  “That’s about the way I feel,” Mindy said.

  “What happened to all those Paiutes?” Lonnie asked. “I reckon they didn’t just get so tired they left?”

  “After you and Mindy were hit and the rest of the outfit
left the herd, you wouldn’t believe what happened,” said Dallas. “Wovoka grabbed three Colts from the wagon and lit out after about two dozen Paiutes. Gus and most of the others followed, and after they shot down seventeen, the others just seemed to lose interest.”

  Dallas stepped aside when Becky and Laura showed up with tin plates of food for Mindy and Lonnie.

  “Why is there so much room in the wagon?” Mindy asked. “You didn’t leave anything behind, did you?”

  “No,” said Becky. “Dallas had Wovoka choose five horses to carry packs. That’s where the rest of it is. Dallas did everything that needed doing. I’m afraid I wasn’t much help.”

  The Animas River. August 28, 1853.

  The outfit rested six days, allowing the herd ample opportunity to graze and water. The drive then headed north, toward southern Colorado Territory. Dallas kept the herd and the horse remuda at a steady gait, and Becky followed with the wagon. While the outfit waited for supper, Dallas took out the big map they had been following, and some of the riders gathered around.

  “We’ll follow the Animas a hundred and forty miles, until we reach the Gunnison,” said Dallas. “From there, it looks like we can follow the Gunnison west, all the way to the Utah Territory line. Then we’ll have to cross the Rio Colorado, and I reckon that’s goin’ to be a hell of a job, from what I’ve heard. Thank God Lonnie will be healed enough to take over as trail boss by then.”

  Becky laughed. “He says you’ve done so well, he’s going to let you trail-boss the outfit the rest of the way to the Green River range.”

  “Like hell,” said Dallas. “I’m going to get him out of that wagon and in his saddle.”

  “With that much river ahead of us,” Waco said, “we ought to average a good twenty miles a day. Maybe more.”

  The leaves were turning red and gold, and there was a chill in the air at night, but the sun rose hot in the morning sky. The weather remained favorable, and the average Waco had predicted was not only met, but improved upon. On the first day of September, they were seventy miles along the Animas River and well into southern Colorado Territory.

  It was a celebrated occasion in more than one respect, for Lonnie and Mindy were able to gather around the supper fire. Tomorrow, Mindy would again take over the wagon, and Lonnie would return to the head of the drive. The cattle had actually begun to gain some weight, for graze in the high county—especially along the river—was good. Wovoka had been scouting ahead daily, but found nothing to alarm him.

  “After supper,” Dallas said, “we can unload the packhorses and put all those goods in the wagon again. We owe your Pa, Lonnie, for suggesting we bring a wagon instead of a bunch of pack mules, which we didn’t have anyhow.”

  “It would have been hard on Lonnie and me, wounded, to ride draped over a couple of pack mules,” said Mindy. “The rest of you would have had to go on without us, or wait a week for us to heal.”

  “That would have been something for both of you to tell your grandchildren,” Dallas said. “How you traveled to Utah Territory, shot through with Paiute arrows, drunk and bellydown over a mule.”

  Utah Territory. September 2, 1853.

  Eight Mormon leaders had gathered to discuss the eight sections of land that had been sold and titled along the Green River. The senior member of the group—Adolph—spoke.

  “We have begun our empire with occupation of land in this territory, and we must not allow the Gentiles to gain a foothold. Therefore, we must occupy these sections of land by building on them. Bertram, Cyrus, Eli, and myself will each occupy one of the four grants along the eastern bank of the Green River. Gabriel, Zachary, Joab, and Ichabod, each of you will occupy one of the four sections along the west bank. Each of you are to employ as many members of our colony as may be necessary to construct a dwelling, well before a party of Gentiles arrive.”

  “It has been almost three months since they have filed,” said Ichabod. “Perhaps they do not intend to settle here after all.”

  “Do not question my authority,” Adolph said. “They will be coming. I command each of you to construct a log dwelling before the first snow.”

  The seven men left Adolph’s cabin, and with mixed emotions set about recruiting the friends and family members needed for the construction. They had their doubts about the legality of what Adolph had proposed, for their occupation of Jim Bridger’s trading post had accomplished nothing except to arouse the ire of government officials in Washington.

  The Gunnison River. September 8, 1853.

  “We can’t be more than fifty miles from the Rio Colorado,” Lonnie said, “and then we should be within maybe thirty miles of Utah Territory.”

  “If this good weather will just stay with us two more weeks,” said Dallas, “we’ll make it. That is, if we can get the wagon and the herd across the Colorado.”

  “If, hell,” Lonnie said. “The Colorado’s been crossed before.”

  “Maybe not with a wagon,” said Becky.

  “Well, it’s going to be crossed by one this time,” Lonnie said, “if we have to build a damn bridge from one bank to the other. We didn’t come this far to let that stop us.”

  “You’ve purely got to admire his determination,” said Gus.

  “He generally don’t want word of it gettin’ out,” Dallas said, “but his great-great-great-granddaddy on his pa’s side was a Missouri mule. Lonnie gets his stubborn naturally.”

  “All right, damn it,” said Lonnie, “but if we have to build that bridge, I know at least two hombres that’ll be cuttin’ logs for it.”

  There had been no further Indian sign, but Wovoka continued to scout ahead each day. Their second day on the Gunnison, the setting sun flamed crimson behind gray clouds that stretched from one horizon to the other.

  “Like it or not, we’re about to get some rain,” Benjamin said.

  “That’s all right,” said Lonnie, “as long as there’s no thunder or lightning, and not too much mud for the wagon.”

  Justin laughed. “You’re a mite old to still believe in Santa Claus.”

  They all laughed, but there was nothing humorous about the night that followed. There was no thunder or lightning, but having grown up in perpetually dry south Texas, there was rainfall such as the cowboys had never seen. Three hours into the first watch, heavy gray clouds swept in, almost touching the treetops. The rain, when it began, was so heavy the riders couldn’t see one another just a few feet away. There was no thunder and no lightning, but just enough wind to give the longhorns and horses a sense of direction. It was their nature to want to drift with the storm, and turning their backs on it, they did their best. The riders got ahead of the horse remuda, attempting to head the animals, but behind the horses, pushing and shoving with their deadly horns, came the cattle.

  “Separate the horses,” Lonnie shouted.

  He didn’t know if anyone heard him or not, but Wovoka seemed to know what needed doing. The Indian was seeking to drive the horses far enough ahead of the herd for the riders to get in between, where they might head the longhorns: The rain slacked a little, and the other riders joined Lonnie and Wovoka. Slowly but surely, the horses were driven away from the longhorns. With Wovoka and several riders seeking to control the horses, the others turned on the longhorns, swatting them with doubled lariats. While the brutes didn’t want to face the driving rain, neither did they like being struck on tender muzzles with whiplike lariats. To everybody’s dismay, the rain didn’t let up, but continued for the rest of the night. Everybody—including the women—was in the saddle. The horses were not so difficult to control, for there weren’t so many of them, but the longhorns seemed determined to turn their backs on the slashing rain and drift back along the Gunnison. The dawn broke gray and dreary, with no letup in sight. There was no breakfast, just as there had been no sleep, and with little prospect of either. The mud was unbelievable. When his horse slipped, Kirby was thrown face-down. When he got to his feet cursing, he was just unrecognizable. He managed to catch his ho
rse and mount, but in his muddy clothes, he slid out again. An old steer charged Becky’s horse, and she was thrown into the mud. On hands and knees, she was saying some very unladylike things to the steer, who just stood there looking at her. Lonnie leaned over, seized her by the waistband of her Levi’s, and carried her from the path of the herd. There he dropped her back into the mud and rode back to try and head the troublesome longhorns. Mercifully, the rain ceased. Finally the longhorns allowed themselves to be herded together and bunched. Wovoka had the horse remuda under control. The Gunnison River had overflowed its banks, and there was runoff everywhere. Every rider—even those not thrown into the mud—had been virtually covered with mud slung by the hooves of the horses and longhorns. Wovoka slid off his horse and simply lay down in one of the fast-flowing runoffs from the river. It seemed like the logical thing to do, and removing gunbelts, boots, and hats, the rest of the outfit followed his example. With the passing of the rain, the sky cleared rapidly, and the sun began to steam the sodden earth.

  “Tarnation,” said Lonnie, sitting on a rock trying to pull on his sodden boots, “I don’t know what I need most—a little sleep or a lot of grub.”

  “Eat,” Wovoka said.

  “I’m with him,” said Waco. “If I lay down, I’m so weak I might not be able to get up again.”

  “Somebody see if there’s any wood left in the possum belly,” Becky said, wringing the water out of her hair.

  Gus and Sandy went to the wagon and began rummaging through the possum belly beneath it. They dragged out what kindling and wood was left.

  “That’s all of it,” said Gus. “There won’t be any for supper tonight, or breakfast in the morning.”

  “We haven’t eaten since breakfast yesterday morning,” Lonnie said. “Get a fire going and let’s eat.”

  Wearily, Becky, Mindy, April, and Laura began preparing the meal. When the coffee was ready, everybody took time for a cup of the steaming brew. The sun had begun to dry their clothing, and their situation didn’t look quite so hopeless. The food did wonders, and when they had eaten, Lonnie spoke.