“I doubt that he will be,” Cal replied. “He wasn’t with that bunch that took our horses before. We’ve been fortunate so far in that we’ve only had to deal with a few of them at a time. This bunch knows damn well we’ll be coming after them, and I’m inclined to believe we’ll be riding into a Crow village.”
“I’ve heard they aren’t all that hostile,” said Tom.
“So have I,” Cal replied, “but that could change when we go to take that two hundred head of horses they’ve stolen.”
Eventually, Quickenpaugh reined up, raising his hand. The rest of the outfit reined up their horses, waiting for the Indian to speak.
“Crow,” said Quickenpaugh. “I go see.”
Without waiting for a response, Quickenpaugh rode away in the direction the outfit had been riding.
“Snider,” Bud McDaniels said, “you put an almighty lot of confidence in that hombre.”
“Quickenpaugh’s dead on center most of the time,” said Cal quietly, “and he’s never hurt us with his decisions. He’s doing the sensible thing, as opposed to having the lot of us blunder into a Crow village.”
“Damn right he is,” said Bill Petty. “If that is a Crow village, they’ll be expecting us to continue following the tracks of the horses, riding in from the south. This way, we’ll ride in from the east, maybe avoiding an ambush.”
“Whatever it takes, Quickenpaugh will get them horses,” Arch Rainey said. “He treats the critters like they was his own.”
“He’s doing exactly what Nelson Story asked him to,” said Cal, “and I’m personally glad he’s riding with us.”
Quickenpaugh returned in less than an hour. He dismounted so that he might rest his horse while he spoke.
“Crow village,” Quickenpaugh said. “Much teepees, horses.”
“No ambush, then,” said Cal.
Quickenpaugh shook his head. It was time for Cal to make a decision, and he did.
“We’ll ride in and demand our horses,” Cal said. “If there’s trouble, let them start it. Leave your Winchester in the boot, and don’t pull iron unless forced to. I reckon they have only bows and arrows, but we may be outnumbered, and a well-placed arrow can kill as quickly as a hunk of lead. Quickenpaugh, when we ride in, maybe you shouldn’t take the lead.”
But Quickenpaugh had learned some of the Crow language, and he had other ideas. The outfit rode out, and the Indian took the lead.
“If there was cause,” said Bill Petty, “I think Quickenpaugh would tackle hell with a bucket of water.”
“Bueno hombre” Oscar Fentress said. “I’ll take a bucket and go with him.”
Quickenpaugh reined up on a ridge. Below, along a stream, were two dozen teepees. To the west of the village were Nelson Story’s horses, while on the other side of the camp were more than a hundred Indian ponies.
“Hell, I ain’t ridin’ down there,” said Bud. “There’s ten of them to one of us.”
“Not much worse than the odds at the Alamo,” Tom Allen said.
“We’re ridin’ in as an outfit,” said Cal. “If you don’t have the sand to ride in with us, McDaniels, I’ll see that you get your money in Deadwood, and you can ride your own trail wherever you please.”
None of the other riders had anything to say, but Bud McDaniels could see disgust in their weathered faces. When the outfit started down the slope, with Quickenpaugh leading, Bud rode with them. Shouts from below told them they had been seen, and well before they reached the village, the braves gave way to an old Indian wearing buffalo horns. He stood with his arms crossed over his chest, unarmed except for a knife. Quickenpaugh rode forward, while the rest of the outfit reined up, waiting. Without dismounting, Quickenpaugh spoke a greeting in Crow. The conversation was brief, and when Quickenpaugh rode back to join his companions, he had no good news.
“Old Buffalo,” Quickenpaugh said. “Him chief. He say they catch horses running free. They keep.”
“Those horses were stampeded from our camp,” said Cal, “and he damn well knows it Tell him we’re not leaving without them, and if they choose to fight, many Crow will die.”
“Si” Quickenpaugh said, and rode back to speak to Old Buffalo.
“Now’s the time to shuck out your Winchesters,” said Cal, “but I want them seen, not fired. If there’s shooting to be done, nobody fires a shot until I’ve opened the ball.”
None of them could have understood the conversation had they been able to hear, but they had little difficulty understanding Old Buffalo’s actions. Removing a Bowie knife from his waistband, he made stabbing motions toward Quickenpaugh. He then pointed toward the horse herd, which a number of Indians had circled.
“Bad news,” Mac Withers said. “He wants one of us to fight one of them. Who’s that gonna be?”
“I’m pretty good with a big blade,” said Oscar Fentress, “but I never kilt nobody.”
“We’ll wait and see what Quickenpaugh has to say,” Cal replied.
“Old Buffalo say if all fight, many die,” said Quickenpaugh. “I fight Young Buffalo with cuchillo.”
“Quickenpaugh, that’s not fair,” Cal said. “You’ll be taking all the risk.”
“If not Quickenpaugh, who else?” asked the Indian, coming as close as he ever did to a smile.
“He’s got us by the short hairs,” Tom Allen said. “Who else but another Indian can hold his own with a Bowie?”
Cal had little choice. Quickenpaugh was watching him, for if he denied the challenge, he would be considered a coward. Not just in the eyes of the Crows, but in his own eyes.
“Go ahead, Quickenpaugh,” said Cal, “but it’s going to be fair. Tell Old Buffalo that we’ll all be standing by with our Winchesters. We’ll shoot any Crow getting into the fight, except Young Buffalo.”
“Si,” Quickenpaugh said. He rode back to relay the message to Old Buffalo.
“Tarnation,” Quanah Taylor said, “this is one of them fights where we lose, even if we win. Young Buffalo’s got to be Old Buffalo’s son. If Quickenpaugh kills Young Buffalo, I can’t imagine the old man allowing us to ride out alive, with or without the horse herd.”
“I can,” said Cal. “I’ve never known an Indian to lie, even if the truth cost him his life. It’s the white man who talks out of both sides of his mouth, and that’s why the Sioux are preparing for war.”
Quickenpaugh had dismounted, and after speaking briefly to Old Buffalo, the Indian faced his outfit and raised his right hand. Old Buffalo shouted something in his own tongue, and all the inhabitants of the Crow village formed a half circle behind him.
“Come on,” Cal said. “The other side of that circle’s for us.”
They dismounted and, leading their horses, formed their own half circle at the scene of the coming conflict. A young Crow emerged from the gathering, the haft of a Bowie knife visible above his waistband. He was dressed in buckskin leggings and moccasins only, and he might have been near Quickenpaugh’s age. But he was more heavily muscled, and on his face was what could be described as joy. Old Buffalo spoke to him, and he nodded, taking the big Bowie knife in his right hand. Quickenpaugh drew his own Bowie and stood waiting. The rest of the village—even the women—began taunting Quickenpaugh, seeking to goad him into making the first thrust. But Quickenpaugh didn’t move. Exasperated, the Crow lunged at him with a sweeping thrust that would have cut him in half, had it been successful. But Quickenpaugh stepped away from it, and using the flat of his blade like a club, he brought it down hard on Young Buffalo’s right wrist. While Young Buffalo bit his tongue and didn’t cry out, his hand went numb and the big Bowie fell to the ground.
“You got the bastard now,” Bud McDaniels shouted. “Cut his gizzard out.”
But Quickenpaugh did not take advantage. Instead, he pointed toward his opponent’s fallen Bowie. Unbelieving, Young Buffalo inched toward the knife, but Quickenpaugh made no move until he had the weapon in his left hand. Meanwhile, Young Buffalo’s tribesmen were taunting and ridiculing him.
<
br /> “Quickenpaugh had an edge, and he should have taken advantage of it,” said Bill Petty. “The rest of ’em are giving Young Buffalo hell because he’s been dishonored. The only way he can reclaim his honor is to kill Quickenpaugh.”
“I don’t believe he can do it,” Cal said. “Quickenpaugh knew the risk when he allowed Young Buffalo to take up his knife again. Indians have a code of honor that would put most white men to shame. There’s more honor in counting coup than in killing.”
Quickenpaugh proceeded to justify Cal’s faith. While several savage slashes of Young Buffalo’s Bowie ripped through Quickenpaugh’s flannel shirt, none were close enough to draw blood. On the other hand, a lightning-quick lunge by Quickenpaugh raked the tip of his big Bowie from one side of Young Buffalo’s chest to the other. While it wasn’t deep, and by no means fatal, it bled profusely. It had no effect, except to infuriate Young Buffalo, leading him to take chances. Rather than going for fatal thrusts to the gut, it seemed Quickenpaugh was purposely using only the point of the weapon. He evaded a frantic thrust by Young Buffalo, while scoring a coup of his own. The tip of the Bowie left a bloody trench just above Young Buffalo’s eyes, and he wiped away the blood with his bare right arm.
“That must have hurt like hell when Quickenpaugh clubbed his wrist, forcing him to drop the knife,” Tom said. “I think that might have cost him whatever advantage he could have had, because he seems clumsy using his left hand.”
“I reckon that’s the dark side of the Indian code of honor,” said Cal. “There’s never room for compromise. Unless Quickenpaugh kills Young Buffalo, he’ll have made an enemy for life.”
“Whatever Quickenpaugh does, he won’t kill Young Buffalo,” Hitch Gould predicted. “He’s had chances enough to do that already.”
“I hope Quickenpaugh can get out of this without a killing,” said Cal. “We only want to recover our horses.”
“If the Indian does or don’t kill Young Buffalo, they won’t give up the horses,” Bud McDaniels said. “We’ll have a fight on our hands either way.”
Nobody said anything, their eyes on the deadly drama unfolding before them. Finally, with a need born of desperation, Young Buffalo shifted the Bowie to his right hand and went after Quickenpaugh, but the Comanche was just out of reach. Then Quickenpaugh topped his earlier performance, when he again brought the flat of his blade down hard on Young Buffalo’s right wrist. The Bowie went flying, and Young Buffalo stood as though frozen, unable to believe he had again been disarmed. Quickenpaugh took the fallen Bowie by its blade and, turning his back on his adversary, walked toward Old Buffalo. Haft first, he presented the old man with the knife. At first it seemed Old Buffalo was about to refuse, for Young Buffalo was shouting at him. For a moment, Old Buffalo looked at his son, bloody to the waist and with blood dripping off his chin. The old one then faced Quickenpaugh and accepted the knife. Quickenpaugh pointed toward the herd of grazing horses, and Old Buffalo spoke to the braves who had witnessed the fight. He then said something to Quickenpaugh. The Indian turned to face Cal and the rest of the outfit, again pointing toward the horse herd.
“Mount up and let’s ride,” Cal said. “Let’s get the horses away from here before he changes his mind.”
“By God, I ain’t believin’ this,” said Bud McDaniels. “They’ll wait till we’re gathering the horse herd, and then cut down on us.”
“Put that Winchester back in the boot,” Cal said grimly, “or I’ll take it away from you. Make any hostile move, and it may damn well be the last you’ll ever make.”
The rest of the outfit had already booted their Winchesters, and without a word, Bud followed their example. The Crow braves watched in silence as the riders quickly gathered the horses and headed them south. There was no trouble, but not until they were well out of sight of the Crow village did Cal and the outfit breathe easy.
“Quickenpaugh,” said Tom Allen, “you’re one bueno hombre.”
“I can only agree,” Cal said. “I’ll see that Mr. Story hears about this, Quickenpaugh.”
Quickenpaugh said nothing, nor did his expression change. Having promised Story he would take responsibility for the horses, he had done no more than keep his word.
“Now all we got to do is find them damn cows,” said Mac Withers.
“We’re not going to have time to do it today,” Cal replied. “They shouldn’t have run very far, without a storm at their backs. We’ll go after them at first light tomorrow.”
“They may have drifted, huntin’ better graze,” said Smokey Ellison.
“There’ll be tracks,” Cal said, “and there’s always a chance they’ll drift back toward camp looking for water.”
They came within sight of the chuck wagon two hours before sundown. Jasmine sat on the wagon box. Lorna and Curley had been in the shade, their backs to wagon wheels, each with a Winchester rifle.
“Here they come,” Jasmine cried, “and they have the horses.”
“Now if we just had all those blessed cows rounded up,” said Curley.
“We’ll find them,” Lorna said. “For right now, I think we’d better be thankful they’ve found the horses and made it back alive.”
“Amen to that,” said Jasmine. “They’ve been gone so long, they’re bound to have had trouble of some kind. God, I hope none of them are tied over their saddles.”
The riders moved the horse herd along the Powder, as near camp as they could. None of the outfit had anything to say, and it was late in the day before Cal had a chance to talk to Lorna alone. He then told her of Quickenpaugh’s dangerous ordeal to recover the horses.
“What a glorious thing to have done,” Lorna said. “May I tell Jasmine and Curley?”
“Tom will tell Jasmine,” said Cal. “Bud was there, and he could tell Curley, but I doubt that he will. He’d never do anything that would honor Quickenpaugh.”
“Then I’ll tell Curley,” Lorna said. “Quickenpaugh’s teaching her to speak Crow, and Curley thinks highly of him.”
Cal sighed. “Quickenpaugh’s interested in Curley, while she’s got a live, breathing, hell-raising husband. That’s all we need.”
“Cal Snider, Quickenpaugh’s a man who lives, thinks and acts like one,” said Lorna. “If you were comparing Bud McDaniels to Quickenpaugh, which one would interest you?”
“That’s an unfair question,” Cal replied. “I don’t aim to answer it, because once we get to Deadwood, Bud McDaniels is on his own. I take him into consideration now because he’s part of this trail drive and I have no choice. Remember, it was you and Jasmine that was hell-bent on Curley marryin’ the varmint, after we brought Story’s first herd north from Texas. Bud McDaniels is a two-legged coyote who will say what you want to hear, and that’s how he trapped Curley. Then, when he had her roped, tied and branded, he just went back to bein’ the same no-account bastard he’s always been.”
“He’s still Jasmine’s brother,” said Lorna, “and I’m every bit as sorry for her as I am for Curley. He’s turned sour toward her again, and she’s avoiding him.”
“It’s just as well,” Cal said, “because the time and place is all wrong. A trail drive’s no place for a male and female to wrestle around on a blanket spread on the ground.”
“I don’t necessarily agree with that,” said Lorna, “but I’ll give you credit. You practice what you preach.”
EASTERN WYOMING TERRITORY.
MAY 2, 1876
“There’s water ahead,” McCaleb announced, when Goose had returned from scouting. “I realize the mud’s hub-deep in some places, but we’re going to gamble that the wagon can avoid those places. We’re movin’ out.”
“Today’s my turn with the wagon,” said Rebecca. “I’ll keep it to high ground as best I can.”
“I think you’re doing the right thing, Bent,” Brazos said. “We might lose an hour or so, hauling the wagon out of the mud, but that’s not like losing a whole day.”
Some of the riders expected disagreement from Monte Nance, but
he said nothing. The moment breakfast was done, the women cleaned their utensils, tin plates and cups, loading them into the wagon.
“Move ’em out,” McCaleb shouted.
But the mud was every bit as troublesome as Monte had predicted. The drive had not progressed more than a mile or two when Penelope left her position at drag and, kicking her horse into a gallop, caught up to McCaleb.
“The chuck wagon’s stuck,” said Penelope. “Rebecca’s cussing the mules, but they can’t move it.”
The flank and swing riders had seen Penelope catch up to McCaleb, and they waited for a signal from him. McCaleb waved his hat three times, halting the drive.
“Chuck wagon’s stuck,” McCaleb told some of the riders, as he followed Penelope back to the tag end of the herd.
Rebecca still sat on the wagon box. Monte Nance was there, and he wasted no time in criticizing McCaleb.
“I told you, McCaleb,” said Monte, as McCaleb dismounted.
“Shut up, Monte,” Rebecca said.
McCaleb said nothing. Knowing what must be done, Penelope had already unsaddled her horse and had begun unsaddling Rosalie’s. McCaleb harnessed the two horses in ahead of the mule teams, shouted a command and still the wagon didn’t budge.
“Something’s wrong besides just bein’ stuck,” said Will Elliot. “I’ll get the shovel from the wagon and dig down a ways.”
Shoveling the mud was easy enough, until the blade of the shovel grated on solid rock.
“Damn it,” McCaleb said, “there’s a busted wheel.”
“We can’t be sure,” said Will. “I’ll shovel some more.”
“I’m sorry,” Rebecca said. “It looked like level ground.”
“No fault of yours,” said Will. “It’s some kind of dropoff, and the rain washed it full of dirt. The wheel sank in the mud and then slid off this rock onto another.”
Will continued shoveling dirt until he had uncovered the lower portion of the left rear wheel, and several of the spokes were hanging loose. The wooden parts of the wheel had been shattered.
The Deadwood Trail Page 13
