“Move ’em out,” Cal shouted.
Again the herd took the trail. The horse wranglers—Arch, Hitch, Mac and Quickenpaugh—kept the horses bunched and were right at the heels of the drag riders. As before, Bud kept pace with the chuck wagon. The drive continued without difficulty, and with the sun an hour high, they reached the west bank of a fast-flowing stream. There Cal signaled the flank and swing riders. Together, they headed the lead steers, milling the herd. It was here they would spend the night.
“This has to be Boulder River,” said Cal. “I think we’d better cross the cattle and the horses before dark. Come tomorrow morning, they’d have the rising sun in their eyes and would likely balk. We’ll take the cattle and horses across first, and then the chuck wagon.”
The river wasn’t as wide or deep as the Yellowstone, allowing the riders to cross the cattle and horses quickly. While Cal didn’t have a lot of confidence in Bud McDaniels, he did manage to get the chuck wagon across before sundown.
EASTERN MONTANA TERRITORY.
APRIL 10, 1876
George A. Custer’s regiment had been detailed to the column under the commanding general, Alfred H. Terry. Custer, ever impatient, entered the tent of Commanding General Terry and saluted. Terry returned Custer’s salute, and then he spoke.
“Now, Mr. Custer, what is it?”
“Sir,” said Custer, “this is an unusually slow march. We’re scarcely averaging ten miles a day. I could take some of my men and, going ahead, locate the enemy.”
“Perhaps you could,” Terry said, “but you aren’t going to. At least not yet. I have my orders. We’re not to attack the Sioux while there’s still a possibility of heavy snow. As you should be aware, the Big Horn Mountains were once part of the Sioux hunting ground. They know those mountains, where we do not. Let them dig in there—especially before or after a heavy snow—and the entire United States Army couldn’t root them out. We are to follow the Yellowstone until we reach the mouth of the Rosebud, sometime in late May or early June. That’s all you need to know at this time. Dismissed.”
Custer saluted and left the tent, satisfied he had learned a little more about the forthcoming campaign against the Sioux. It had been a calculated risk, questioning Terry, and he might well have been reprimanded for appearing to usurp his superior officer’s authority. While he had always been brash and unpredictable, he had been a good soldier, and he had counted on Terry taking that into account.
DEADWOOD, DAKOTA TERRITORY.
APRIL 10, 1876
Milo Reems had a history of lying, cheating and killing. Employing whatever scheming and skullduggery might be necessary, he lived by the sweat of other men’s brows. The law had been after him in Missouri, New Mexico and Kansas, so he had wasted no time getting to lawless Deadwood. There he began looking for a way of making his fortune without resorting to a pick and shovel. He had spent much time in the saloons, listening to miners complain about the primitive town, the high prices and the hardships.
“By God,” growled one bearded man, “I’d give fifty dollars for a good, thick steak.”
His comrades agreed, shouting and stomping their feet. As more miners arrived, and prices went steadily higher, there were more demonstrations, with men demanding beef. After one such demonstration, Reems pounded on the bar with an empty bottle, getting the attention of every man in the saloon.
“I’m a speculator,” Reems said. “Whatever you want, I can deliver, if the price is right and the money’s on the table. What can I expect if I bring a substantial number of beef cattle to Deadwood?”
“Fifty dollars a head,” a miner shouted.
“Sixty,” another countered.
“Quiet,” Reems shouted. “There’ll be enough for everybody. I’ve contracted with two ranchers—one in Wyoming, the other in Montana—for eight thousand head of prime beef on the hoof. I have telegrams from them, provin’ what I say.”
“When are they comin’?” a miner shouted.
“They’re on the way now,” said Reems. “They should be here sometime in June. If I let ’em go at sixty dollars a head and write you a receipt, who wants to buy in advance? By the time the herds arrive, there’ll be even more miners, and the price may go up.”
The men pushed and shoved, each trying to be first. The owner of a local cafe bought a hundred head, the owner of the newly established livery bought twice that number, in addition to those sold to individual miners. Milo Reems left the saloon with almost sixty thousand dollars either pledged or collected. After allowing time for the word to spread, he repeated his success in other saloons.
“Have a drink on me, Reems,” a miner invited.
“I’m buyin’ supper,” said another.
Milo Reems rarely paid for food and drink, and he grew more popular by the day, as more and more miners invested in his scheme.
“How many’s left, Milo?” somebody asked.
“A little over four thousand,” said Reems. “Buy some extra. When my herds are sold, you can double your money.”
Many miners did buy more, for the territory was growing by leaps and bounds, and men had to eat. One newly arrived miner had brought a newspaper from Cheyenne, and it was passed around for all to read.
“Anything interesting in there?” Reems asked a bartender who had just finished with it.
“Yeah,” said the barkeep. “Wild Bill Hickok’s gettin’ together an expedition and comin’ to Deadwood. He was the law at Abilene and Wichita, and there’s talk he might be drafted here. God knows, we need somebody.”
Milo Reems said nothing. The very last thing he needed or wanted was a lawman of Hickok’s caliber walking the streets of Deadwood. He redoubled his efforts to sell the rest of the eight thousand head before somebody took a close look at his past.
SOUTHERN MONTANA TERRITORY.
APRIL 15, 1876
To the relief of the entire outfit, Bud McDaniels had healed to the extent that he could again straddle a horse. Jasmine, Lorna and Curley again took turns at the reins of the chuck wagon. Two days after leaving Boulder River, gray clouds began gathering along the western horizon.
“Somethin’ comin’,” Tom Allen predicted. “Warm as it is, can’t be anything but rain.”
“Maybe we can find some high ground and rig some shelter with the canvas that we have,” said Cal. “We’ll go on for as long as we can. If there’s enough mud, the chuck wagon won’t be goin’ anywhere for a while.”
But the storm blew in sooner than expected, and while there was no rain, there was an abundance of thunder and lightning. The riders fought to keep the herd bunched, to keep them moving. Even Story’s horses became skittish, and the four wranglers rode like madmen to head them. The chuck wagon rattled over the uneven terrain, as Jasmine strove to keep up with the drive. The remains of a tall pine, standing gray and dead, became victim to a bolt of lightning, and the trunk exploded in a ball of fire. The cattle and horses had already passed beyond it, but the mules pulling the chuck wagon went crazy. They wheeled, almost overturning the wagon, as they lit out back the way they had come. Quickenpaugh, one of the horse wranglers, looked back. Wheeling his horse, the Indian galloped after the chuck wagon with its stampeding mules. Jasmine fought the reins, but the mules had been terrified. They thundered on, the wagon listing dangerously to one side and then the other. Quickenpaugh leaned low on the horse’s neck, speaking to the animal. A few more minutes, and he would catch the runaway teams. But time ran out. The right front wagon wheel slammed into an upthrust of stone. The wagon went over on its left side, and then onto its top. It was more of a burden than the frightened mules could handle, and they stood there in harness, shaking with fear. Quickenpaugh saw no sign of Jasmine, and, deciding she was beneath the wagon, he dismounted and threw all his strength against one of the rear wheels. But the wagon didn’t move, and Quickenpaugh looped one end of his lariat around a rear wheel. There was a frantic cry from beneath the wagon, and the Indian had second thoughts. If he dragged the wagon and Jasmin
e was beneath it, wouldn’t it kill the girl? Again she cried out. Quickenpaugh leaped off his horse and went to the smashed front of the wagon. The wagon box had survived intact, and behind it he could see the toe of Jasmine’s boot. The wagon’s load had shifted, and while Jasmine had not been pitched out of it, much of its contents had fallen on her. Quickenpaugh began moving the goods that had trapped Jasmine, until finally he could see her bloody face.
“Quickenpaugh,” Jasmine cried. “Thank God.”
The rest of the outfit finally headed the cattle and horse herd, allowing Tom Allen and Cal to come on the run. Lorna and Curley were already there, uncertain as to how they might help. But Quickenpaugh had done much toward freeing Jasmine, and with a mighty heave, he shoved a large flour barrel away from her, allowing her to move.
“Jasmine,” Tom cried, “are you all right?”
“No,” said Jasmine. “I think my right leg’s broken.”
“We’d better take her out through the rear of the wagon, if we can,” Cal said. “Looks like her legs are under the wagon seat.”
“They are,” said Jasmine, “and they just feel . . . dead.”
Cal, Tom and Quickenpaugh began unloading the wagon from the rear. There still had not been any rain, and the thunder was only an occasional rumble. Lightning had ceased, except for occasional golden fingers that touched the gray clouds. When Jasmine was freed, there were several serious cuts on her head, accounting for the blood on her face. Quickly, Tom removed her boots, trying not to bend her legs.
“Which leg is broken?” Tom asked anxiously.
“My right one, I think,” said Jasmine, “but both are hurting, so I’m not sure.”
Quickenpaugh ran his hands along one leg and then the other.
“Which is it, Quickenpaugh?” Tom asked.
Quickenpaugh held up two fingers.
“Both?” Jasmine cried. “Oh, God, I might as well be dead.”
“Hush,” said Tom. “You’re alive, and nobody’s ever died from broken bones.”
“Stay with her, Tom,” Cal said. “Lorna, you and Curley get a fire going and heat some water. The rest of us will head the horse herd and the cattle this way.”
*Women gained the right to vote in Wyoming Territory in 1869.
7
ALONG THE POWDER RIVER, WYOMING TERRITORY.
APRIL 15, 1876
“I RECKON YOU WERE right, Bent,” said Will Elliot, after they had ridden almost forty miles. “The herd must have turned north or south. Even with wind and rain at their backs, I can’t imagine them drifting this far in a straight line.”
“There’s not much use in our going any farther,” McCaleb said. “We’ll ride south a mile or two, and then west, back toward the Powder. Our only other possibility lies to the north.”
“You’re runnin’ out of possibilities, McCaleb,” said Monte. “What do you aim to do if we don’t find ’em north or south?”
“We’ll find them north or south,” McCaleb said grimly. “That is, unless you reckon somebody’s picked up fifteen hundred cows and put ’em in his pocket.”
There was no more discussion, and McCaleb led the search to the south. Every water hole and stream had abundant water, and as they rode farther south, it seemed the grass improved.
“One thing we can be sure of,” said Brazos, “the grass is greening considerably faster to the south. It’s something even a cow can understand.”
The outfit had ridden only a few miles, when they came upon the first of the grazing cattle. Three cows raised their heads for a moment. Then, ignoring the riders, they again began nipping at the new grass.
“We’ll start with these,” McCaleb said, “and hope we find the rest of them somewhere before we reach the Powder.”
It soon became evident that the herd had moved to the south, apparently seeking better graze. Within two hours, McCaleb and the outfit had gathered an estimated nine hundred.
“Six hundred more, somewhere between here and the Powder,” said Will. “Maybe we’ll be able to gather them in time to take the trail tomorrow.”
Penelope laughed. “You’re forgetting about the mud.”
“Oh, hell,” said Will. “We got at least three days to gather the rest of the herd. I’ve about changed my mind about takin’ a chuck wagon through unfamiliar territory. I’m just not sure it’s worth all the hassle.”
“It’s worth the hassle, and then some,” Brazos said. “It’s the difference between decent grub and livin’ on jerked beef and river water.”
Conversation lagged, and they rode on.
“There’s more cows ahead,” said Penelope, pointing.
“Your eyes are better than mine,” McCaleb said.
As they rode closer, the dark blur that McCaleb had seen became grazing cattle.
“There’s near two hundred of ’em,” said Brazos.
Quickly the newly discovered cattle became part of the gather, and the outfit rode on. Soon they were able to see other cattle, grazing in the distance.
“You were right, Bent,” Will shouted. “There’s the rest of ’em.”
McCaleb looked at Monte Nance and grinned. Monte had nothing to say.
“Now,” said McCaleb, when the newly discovered cattle had been added to the rapidly growing gather, “We’ll run a quick tally, takin’ the lowest count.”
The riders spread out among the herd, counting. Penelope was the first to finish.
“Well?” Monte said. “What’s your count?”
“I’m not telling until everybody’s ready,” said Penelope. “Besides, I wouldn’t want to get in the way of your education.”
“Ladies first,” McCaleb said, when the tally had been finished. “Penelope?”
“Fifteen hundred and three,” said Penelope.
“Brazos?” McCaleb said.
“Fifteen hundred and five,” Brazos said.
“Will?” said McCaleb.
“Fifteen hundred and seven,” Will said.
The rest of the riders called out their tallies, but Penelope’s count remained the lowest of the lot.
“McCaleb, I can’t believe you’re taking her count,” said Monte, with a put-on look of horror.
“Hers is the lowest tally,” McCaleb said. “It’s the way we’ve always done it, and I see no reason for giving it up now.”
Triumphantly, the Lone Star outfit drove the newly gathered herd back to the Powder, where the entire drive was again joined together.
“That’s all of them?” Rebecca asked.
“Fifteen hundred and three, by Penelope’s count,” said McCaleb. “There’s considerably more graze to the south. We may have trouble with them wanting to return to it. Maybe we can manage with four riders during the day and four at night, until they settle down. Stoney, Jed and Pen, will you join me for a while?”
McCaleb and his three companions began circling the herd, and slowly it started to settle down.
“We may have one hell of a time holdin’ ’em here, with so little graze,” said Stoney.
“I know,” McCaleb said. “After our watch is done, Goose and me will ride upriver. If we have to move the herd to greener grass to hold them, we will, even if it means leavin’ the chuck wagon where it is.”
“That’ll mean splittin’ the outfit,” said Pen Rhodes.
“Maybe no more than it would be split anyhow,” McCaleb said. “With half of us on watch, the others can remain near the wagon. If it’s too far to better graze, we might try moving the chuck wagon, keeping it to higher ground.”
After McCaleb and his companions had circled the herd for four hours, Brazos, Will, Monte and Penelope took over. Goose sat on the wagon tongue, cleaning his Winchester.
“Goose,” said McCaleb, “when you’re done with that, I’d like for you to ride with me up the river a ways.”
Goose nodded. Finished with the rifle, he saddled his horse. McCaleb had saddled a fresh horse, and the two of them galloped to the north, along the Powder. Having ridden almost three
miles, Goose shook his head. The graze was going to become less, the farther north they rode.
“We might as well head back,” said McCaleb. “We’re wasting our time.”
Before riding on to the wagon, McCaleb and Goose paused at the herd. Brazos, Will, Monte and Penelope trotted their horses, coming to hear what McCaleb had to say.
“Goose and me rode north maybe three miles,” McCaleb said, “and the graze became less and less, the farther we rode.”
“We won’t be going much farther north,” Brazos said. “When we reach that bend in the Powder where it forks, we’ll be headed more to the northeast. Maybe the graze will improve.”
“And maybe it won’t,” said Monte. “It’s all your fault, McCaleb. You started this drive too damn early. There won’t be decent grass for another month.”
“I’ve heard about enough of that,” McCaleb said. “We started this drive, and we’ll see it to the end.”
“Everybody’s not perfect like you, Monte Nance,” said Penelope.
McCaleb and Goose rode on to the chuck wagon, and McCaleb relayed the unwelcome news to the rest of the outfit.
“We got to move on,” Stoney Vandiver said. “These cows can’t take many more days of no grass.”
“We’re takin’ the trail tomorrow, mud or not,” said McCaleb. “If the chuck wagon bogs down, we’ll hitch extra horses to it and drag it out. Does that suit all of you?”
“It suits me,” Rebecca said.
“And me,” Rosalie and Susannah said, in a single voice.
Pen Rhodes, and Jed and Stoney Vandiver quickly echoed the same sentiment. Goose only nodded.
“I think we’ll have to reach the fork in the river within another two days,” McCaleb said, “and then just pray the grass is greening faster toward the east.”
The Deadwood Trail Page 11
