For a long moment, Lorna said nothing. She genuinely liked Curley, but the girl still wore no shirt, and seemed not the least embarrassed. Nor did Cal, Lorna thought. Finally, as kindly as she could, she spoke.
“Cal’s right,” Lorna said. “You came with us from Texas, and you’ve always carried your weight with Mr. Story’s outfit. We won’t stand for you being put out in the cold. Come on to the chuck wagon and let’s find you another shirt.”
Nothing disturbed the silence of the night, but unseen eyes were watching, as Lorna and Curley started toward the chuck wagon. Silently, Quickenpaugh retreated. Reaching his picketed horse, he mounted and began circling the horse herd.
The following morning, breakfast was a quiet affair. When it was over and the wagon made ready to move out, Curley climbed to the box beside Jasmine. Without the cattle, the horse herd seemed anxious to be on the way. When the lead riders reached the place the horse herd had split away from the cattle, they continued following the broad trail the stampeding cows had left.
“Here’s where the stampede started coming apart,” Tom Allen said, when they were almost five miles along the trail.
“I can’t imagine them running this far,” said Cal, “unless there were riders behind them running them hard.”
“Might have been them Crow Indians,” Quanah Taylor said. “Maybe they thought we’d go after the cows first, buying them enough time to escape with the horses.”
It seemed logical, and they continued following the tracks. After the stampede had begun to break up, it became obvious the herd had started drifting south.
“What’n thunder’s leadin’ “em south?” Arch Rainey wondered.
“Who knows?” said Hitch Gould.
“They knows where the good grass is,” Oscar Fentress said. “Somethin’ in their cow minds is tellin’ ’em where to go.”
On the wagon box, Jasmine and Curley had said little. Finally, Jasmine spoke.
“Lorna was terribly quiet during breakfast.”
Curley laughed. “That’s my fault. Cal was so kind to me, I started bawling and Lorna caught me with my arms around him.”
“You weren’t wearing a shirt, until you and Lorna came back to the chuck wagon,” said Jasmine, “and with moon-and starlight, old Cal must have seen plenty.”
“It’s not just Cal,” Curley said. “Remember, when we left Texas, all of you thought I was a man. Then after I was shot, I was stripped before everybody in the outfit.”*
“You certainly got everybody’s attention,” said Jasmine. “It’s not often the riders are treated to the sight of a naked female on a cattle drive. You’re stronger than I am. If I’d been in your position, bare as a plucked chicken, I’d never have been able to face any of them again.”
“Oh, it wasn’t all that bad, except for having been shot,” Curley said. “None of the outfit ever tried to take advantage of me, except Bud.”
“I suppose it’s time to tell you I’m sorry for anything I might have said or done that encouraged you to marry him,” said Jasmine. “I really thought it would settle him down.”
“I thought so too,” Curley said. “Before the preacher read from the Book, nobody was nicer than Bud. Then when it was legal for him to . . . you know . . .”
Jasmine laughed. “I don’t know, but I’m pretty sure. He became jealous of everything you said or did. He’s been watching you when you spoke to Quickenpaugh.”
“Yes,” said Curley bitterly. “I promised Cal I wouldn’t spend as much time with Quickenpaugh while we’re on the trail. Cal thinks Bud might shoot Quickenpaugh in the back.”
“Dear God,” Jasmine said, “I hope not. Quickenpaugh stands tall in the outfit, and such a fool stunt would finish Bud. He’d be hanged from the highest tree, and Cal would be the first to go after him with a rope.”
“I wish I knew what will happen once we reach Deadwood,” said Curley. “Cal swears he’ll give Bud his money for his share of the herd and then kick him out. There’s sure to be a fight, because Bud won’t go unless I go with him.”
“And you don’t plan on going with him,” Jasmine said.
“No,” said Curley. “I don’t know what I’ll do, but I do know it won’t be with him.”
“He may change before we reach Deadwood,” Jasmine said.
“Sorry, I won’t fall for that again,” said Curley. “He puts on his best face until he gets what he wants, and then he goes back to bein’ the ornery, two-legged coyote he’s always been. He thinks he owns me, body and soul.”
“There’s some of the cattle,” Jasmine cried.
But there were only a few, and Cal didn’t bother with them. He led the horse herd on to the south, and not until they reached a spring with decent runoff did they begin seeing a substantial number of the stampeded herd.
“We’ll make camp here,” Cal shouted.
The outfit headed the horses below the spring, where they could drink from the runoff. Cal trotted his horse over to the chuck wagon.
“Curley,” said Cal, “I want you, Lorna and Quickenpaugh to stay with the wagon. We might be able to gather the herd today, with enough riders.”
“Jasmine’s going to be here, in any case,” Curley said. “Why don’t you leave Quickenpaugh here with her and the wagon? Lorna and me can help with the gather.”
“Because Quickenpaugh can’t handle the horse herd by himself,” said Cal, “and anybody remaining here is just as much needed as those who will be gathering the herd.”
“Then let the Indian help gather the herd, and I’ll stay here,” Bud McDaniels said.
“No way,” said Cal. “Now let’s ride.”
Curley climbed down from the wagon and began unharnessing the teams. Lorna still circled the horse herd, remaining there until Curley saddled a horse and joined her. At the far side of the herd, Quickenpaugh sat his horse, watching them.
“Cal might have been wrong, leaving Quickenpaugh here,” Lorna said.
“No more wrong than he’d have been had he left Bud here instead,” said Curley. “I’m not the least bit fearful of Quickenpaugh, but with everybody else gone, Bud might drag me off my horse and have his way with me right here on the ground.”
Lorna laughed nervously. “Surely not with Jasmine watching.”
“Why not?” Curley said. “Jasmine’s been wiping his nose all his life. I doubt he’s ever done anything she hasn’t seen at least once.”
Unlike in the lowlands, the runoff from the spring did not disappear in thirsty ground, but became a sizable stream as it flowed south. While the graze wasn’t abundant, there was some, with the promise of more. There were numerous cow tracks where the cattle had gone to and from the stream.
“This stream looks like it may run on for miles,” Tom Allen said.
“I hope it does,” said Cal. “If there was no water, and every cow went a different direction, we’d never find the varmints.”
For a change—since he had been responsible for the stampede—Bud McDaniels said nothing. The graze began to improve as they rode farther south, and before the sun was noon-high, the outfit had made real progress toward gathering their scattered herd.
“Another day like this one,” Tom Allen said, “and we’ll have the rest of them.”
“When we find the others,” said Cal, “I’m thinking we’ll have to move all of them—and the horse herd as well—a little farther south, in the hope of better graze.”
“If we can find enough,” Bill Petty said, “we’d better hold ’em there a spell. We got no idea what the graze is like around Deadwood, or even if there is any. Ours may not be the only herd, and we can’t afford to trail ’em in there with their every bone showing.”
“If there’s enough grass, we’ll graze them for a week,” said Cal.
“Graze them when they get to Dakota Territory,” Bud McDaniels said. “You’re wasting time, Snider.”
“Your opinion, McDaniels,” said Cal. “While we’re waiting, we’re going to scout far ahead—maybe
as much as a hundred miles—to be sure we aren’t about to be caught up in a war with the Sioux.”
“That be smart,” Oscar Fentress said. “I get enough of the Sioux when we come up the Bozeman Trail from Texas.”*
“My God, yes,” said Smokey Ellison. “I got me a feeling that when the Sioux strike, they’ll really put the hurt on any whites gettin’ in their way.”
SOUTH-CENTRAL MONTANA TERRITORY.
MAY 8, 1876
“It’s time for a tally,” Cal said, in the early afternoon.
“Forgive me if I don’t take part,” said McDaniels. “You never consider my tally.”
“Suit yourself,” Cal replied. “Your count’s never even close.”
“Bud can’t count to twenty without takin’ his boots off,” said Quanah Taylor.
“He can count as high as twenty-one, if he takes down his britches,” Arch Rainey said.
“I got a score to settle with some of you, once we reach Deadwood,” said McDaniels.
“That’s enough, all of you,” Cal said. “Let’s get on with the tally.”
Without McDaniels participating, the riders began individual tallies.
“Fifty-four hundred and seventy-five,” Tom Allen announced.
Every count varied a few head. The lowest talley belonged to Oscar Fentress.
“Fifty-four hundred and twenty-five,” said Oscar.
“That’s within seventy-five head of what we started with,” Cal said. “We’ll go with that and consider the gather finished. Since we’ll be here a few days, we may yet pick up some of the missing ones.”
SOUTHEASTERN WYOMING TERRITORY.
MAY 8, 1876
“This ain’t more than a creek,” Brazos said, as he and Will unharnessed the mules from the chuck wagon. “Wonder what it’s called.”
“Don’t matter,” said Will. “There’s plenty of water, and there’s no reason to believe we won’t find our cows somewhere along it.”
McCaleb and the rest of the outfit had driven several hundred cows from the creek’s headwaters and were bunching them downstream from the chuck wagon.
“It’s a little early for supper,” Rosalie said.
“This may be Sioux territory,” said Rebecca. “We’d better get the cooking done, so we can put out the fires before dark.”
“You’ve had a hard day with the chuck wagon, Rebecca,” Susannah said. “Why don’t you let Rosalie and me get supper? Maybe we can get Penelope to help us.”
“Penelope’s been in the saddle all day,” said Rebecca, “and when either of you have the wagon, you always help with supper. So there.”
Penelope chose to help with supper, and the four of them soon had it ready. Little was said until everybody had eaten. It was still more than an hour before the first watch would saddle up, and most of the riders took the opportunity to enjoy second and third cups of coffee. Even Goose had developed a liking for the potent brew, filling his cup a second time.
“I figure we’re a good thirty miles farther south than we should be,” Brazos said. “The graze is some better, but we’ll be forced to move the herd downriver every day, looking for new grass. When we’re finally ready to go on to Deadwood, we may have to make up as much as seventy miles.”
“Another week,” said McCaleb, “but when we get there, we’ll have decent-looking stock instead of walking skeletons.”
Nearing sunset, the wind had died, and suddenly there came the distinctive rattle of a wagon approaching from the south. McCaleb, Brazos and Will got to their feet, waiting. The wagon came on, the big man at the reins halting his teams while the wagon was a few yards distant. Dressed like a miner, he looked to be in his fifties, with thinning hair. But he received scant attention, for he had two women with him. Both were young, blonde, in their twenties and looking remarkably alike.
“Step down,” McCaleb invited. “We can rustle you folks some supper, if you like.”
The big man looped the reins about the brake handle and, stepping down, helped both the girls from the wagon. Only then did he speak.
“I’m Roscoe Yates. These are my daughters, Connie and Kate.”
“I’m Benton McCaleb, trail boss for the Lone Star outfit,” said McCaleb. “I reckon you know this territory is what was once Sioux hunting grounds?”
“I was warned about that in Cheyenne,” Yates said, “but I was told this is also the best and shortest way to the Black Hills, where the gold is.”
“When you’ve eaten,” said McCaleb, “I’d be obliged for any news from Cheyenne that has to do with the gold strike.”
“Yeah,” Brazos said. “If every hombre on the High Plains that’s raisin’ cattle decides to take a herd to the miners, we’ll likely get lost in the crowd.”
“There are notices all around Cheyenne asking cattlemen to bring their herds to the mining camps,” said Yates.
“There’s still plenty of coffee, and the grub will be ready soon,” McCaleb said. “All of you make yourselves comfortable, and I’ll introduce the rest of us.”
Quickly, McCaleb did. Pen Rhodes, Jed and Stoney Vandiver, and Monte Nance eyed the Yates girls with considerable interest, and their interest was boldly returned. One of them—McCaleb wasn’t sure which—winked at Monte Nance.
“Heavens,” said Rebecca, seeking to be friendly to the girls, “you’re so much alike, we won’t know which of you is which.”
“I’m Kate,” one of the duo said, “and I have a mole right below my navel.”
Rebecca was embarrassed, and Monte Nance added to her discomfort by laughing long and loud. Roscoe Yates seemed not to have heard. Susannah had brought three extra tin cups from the chuck wagon, offering one to each of the newcomers. They filled their cups from one of the big coffeepots. Rebecca, Rosalie, Susannah and Penelope were preparing supper for the trio, and Penelope was furious.
“Penelope,” said Rosalie, “you’ve been standing there holding that same frying pan for five minutes.”
“I don’t aim to fry anything except maybe somebody’s goose,” Penelope snapped.
“Young lady,” said Rosalie, “you’re not too old for me to skin down your Levi’s and take a strap to you. You will be nice to these people, keeping a civil tongue. I won’t have them thinking I’ve jerked you up by the hair of your head, without manners.”
Penelope dared not talk back, but she was seething inside. She had always been the only single woman around, taking secret delight in the awkward advances of the cowboys. Monte Nance had taken to openly watching her, and to her shame, she had been far more excited than angry when he had spied on her in the wagon. Now every single cowboy in the outfit had somehow been drawn to Connie and Kate Yates. Of them all, Monte Nance was the boldest.
“Let me see that mole, so I’ll know which of you is which,” Monte said.
“My God,” said Rebecca quietly. “The nerve of him.”
“But he didn’t start it,” Penelope said. “They did.”
“It’s just talk,” said Susannah. “It’ll pass.”
But it didn’t pass. Connie and Kate Yates were dressed in men’s woolen shirts, boots and Levi’s without belts. One of the girls unfastened the top button, rolling her waistband dangerously low. Monte Nance roared, and some of the other cowboys got into the spirit of the thing. Mildly amused, Roscoe Yates continued sipping his coffee. Having had hard words with Rosalie, Penelope turned to Brazos for comfort, but found little.
“They’re as brazen as a pair of whores,” Penelope hissed.
“Whoa,” said Brazos. “Could you be just a mite jealous?”
“Jealous, hell,” Penelope snapped. “I could have had all of them gathered around me, if I pulled my britches down.”
“Well, just don’t go getting any ideas,” said Brazos ominously. “I heard Rosalie’s talk of taking a strap to your bare behind. If there’s a need for it, I’ll take over when her arm gets tired.”
“I have a mole too,” Penelope said, undaunted, “and it’s lower down than hers.”<
br />
Brazos Gifford was in over his head, and he quickly distanced himself from Penelope.
*The Virginia City Trail (Trail Drive #7)
*The Virginia City Trail (Trail Drive #7)
10
SOUTH CENTRAL MONTANA TERRITORY.
MAY 17, 1876
“I’M SICK AND TIRED of this damn camp,” Bud McDaniels snarled.
The rest of the outfit had long since begun ignoring his outbursts, and nobody said anything. The drive had been delayed a week so that the cattle and horse herd might take advantage of some better graze. Quickenpaugh had been gone three days, scouting along the southernmost part of the territory through which the trail drive must go.
“I hope nothing’s happened to Quickenpaugh,” said Lorna worriedly.
“Damn Indian probably just kept goin’,” Bud McDaniels said.
“Quickenpaugh will return sometime today or tonight,” said Cal, “and when he does, I think we’ll better understand the situation involving the Sioux.”
“This has been a hard wait,” Smokey Ellison said, “but it’s been worth it. Spring’s here and there’ll be green grass to the north and east of us.”
“No snow comin’,” said Oscar Fentress. “Sun be warm.”
“When Quickenpaugh returns, we’ll know more about what we’re going to do,” Cal said. “Maybe we can move out tomorrow.”
There had been no more trouble between Bud and Curley, for she had apparently taken Cal’s advice and had spent less time with the Indian. But she had spent no time at all with Bud, and he had complained bitterly. Jasmine still had both legs splinted, and since wearing Levi’s was impossible, she had taken to wrapping her lower body in a blanket. She sat with her back to a wagon wheel, and it was she who finally had enough of Bud’s whining about the many things that irritated him.
“It’s a crying shame you couldn’t have had two broken legs instead of me,” Jasmine said. “Then we could lean you up against a tree, far enough away so that the rest of us couldn’t hear you.”
The Deadwood Trail Page 15
