“I’m glad it’s Lorna’s turn on the box,” Curley said. “After all the work that’s been done on that wheel, I’d hate to be the one to bust it again.”
“So you want me to bust it,” said Lorna. “Fine friend you are.”
“Enough,” Cal said. “It’s something that could happen to any of us at the reins. Lorna, you and Curley just go on doing your best. We start eastward again today, and the land may level out some.”
The Montana sky was clear and blue, and after breakfast, Cal spoke to Quickenpaugh.
“Quickenpaugh,” said Cal, pointing to the east, “I want you to scout ahead. If you see Crows, Sioux or soldiers, don’t let them see you.”
Quickenpaugh nodded, mounted his horse and rode away. The cattle were bunched, the horse herd and remuda behind them, and before the column, Cal waved his hat high.
“Move ’em out.”
With Arch, Hitch and Mac keeping the horses on the heels of the drag, Lorna swung the chuck wagon teams into line. Worriedly, she kept her eyes on the newly repaired front wheel, but it held. The ground seemed firm enough, and she breathed a sigh of relief. She looked forward to the coming of the night, when she could talk to Curley. But prior to that, she intended to talk to Cal again. The entire outfit was aware of Quickenpaugh’s new standing with Curley, but she hadn’t breathed a word about it to any of them.
“You’re mighty quiet,” said Jasmine, on the seat beside her.
“I’m just thinking about Curley and Quickenpaugh,” Lorna replied. “Why won’t she talk to us about them?”
Jasmine laughed. “Tom says that’s hers and Quickenpaugh’s business. Does it bother you that he’s Comanche?”
“I . . . I’m not sure,” said Lorna. “That’s no reflection on him as a man, but I can’t help wondering how well he’ll fit in, if Curley takes up ranching. Quickenpaugh hasn’t cut one stick of firewood since he’s been with us, and he’d let a cow set in a bog hole till Judgment day before he’d build a loop and drag the varmint out.”
Jasmine laughed. “I see what you mean, but unless Curley asks our advice, there’s not a damn thing we can say or do. Comanche or not, Quickenpaugh’s a good man, and even if his head’s still full of the old ways, he deserves better than being regarded as a heathen. I believe if he gives in a little, and Curley gives in a little, they’ll find common ground.”
“I hope so,” said Lorna, “but I still aim to talk to Curley tonight. Then if she tells me to shut up and mind my own business, I will.”
Quickenpaugh was gone most of the day. When he returned, the supper fires were lit, and although Cal hadn’t said anything, he had begun to worry. He waited until the Indian had removed the bridle from his horse, allowing the animal to roll. The rest of the outfit—those not watching the bedded-down herds—gathered to hear what Quickenpaugh had to report.
“Find Crow sign,” said Quickenpaugh.
He hunkered down and, using a stick, drew a long line.
“Río Yellowstone?” Cal asked.
“Si,” said Quickenpaugh.
He drew three lines at regular intervals, all of which crossed the line representing the Yellowstone. Obviously, he didn’t know their names. Pointing to the crossing farthest to the east, moving his finger north along the line, he spoke again.
“Much horses. Some Crow.”
“Crows, driving a herd of shod horses, taking ’em north,” Tom Allen said.
“Si,” said Quickenpaugh.
“Gracias, Quickenpaugh,” said Cal. “I’d say some of the soldiers coming after the Sioux are now afoot.”
“It be hell gettin’ Mr. Story’s hoss herd through, if all them blue bellies is hoofin’ it,” Oscar said.
“You may have something, Oscar,” said Cal. “In wartime, the military can confiscate anything it needs, from a horse or mule down to the last chicken a man owns.”
“It’ll be somethin’ if we end up fightin’ the army,” Quanah Taylor said. “The Sioux can just set tight and stomp hell out of whoever’s left.”
But as Cal and his outfit would eventually learn, the Crows had not taken the horses from the military.
13
EASTERN WYOMING TERRITORY.
MAY 22, 1876
EVEN AFTER THE HEAVY rain of the night before, the Lone Star trail drive moved on, and with Rebecca at the reins, the chuck wagon kept to high ground. The sun had risen in a cloudless blue sky, and when Goose returned from scouting ahead, he had nothing out of the ordinary to report.
“I don’t rightly know what it is,” Brazos said, when the herd had been bedded down for the night, “but this ain’t like any trail drive I can recollect. It’s too peaceful.”
“I know what you mean,” said Will. “It would all seem more natural if a screeching bunch of Comanches come galloping over the ridge.”
“Being right in the midst of the Sioux hunting grounds,” McCaleb said, “we’re subject to attack at any time. I think the rendezvous they have in mind is somewhere to the east of us, in Dakota Territory. Custer and the Seventh Cavalry are already there, but Washington had better be sending more soldiers.”
In a show of arrogance, Monte Nance had continued spending his time with the Yateses, taking his meals with them. There were times when he regretted having left Lone Star, but his fierce pride wouldn’t allow him to go crawling back. He was still much enthralled with Kate and Connie, but some of the luster wore off after three days with them. Neither of the women could cook, and they seemed to have no desire to learn. Roscoe’s bad back troubled him most, it seemed, when there was anything to be done that remotely resembled work. So Monte, to avoid going hungry, began doing the cooking.
“You’re a passable good cook, Monte,” Yates said one night after supper.
“I didn’t throw in with you to be your damn cook,” said Monte. “I want to know what you have planned for Deadwood and where I’ll fit in.”
Yates laughed, an irritating cackle that sent chills up Monte’s spine.
“I aim for it to be a surprise, so you’ll just have to wait till we get to Deadwood,” Yates said. “We’ll be richer than any of them fools hoisting picks and shovels.”
“I’m too old for Santa Claus, and I don’t like surprises,” said Monte. “I don’t like pig-in-a-poke deals. Hell, I might as well stay with Lone Star.”
“You should,” Yates said. “Now they may figure some way to beat you out of your share when the herd’s sold.”
“I ain’t worried about that,” said Monte. “I don’t like McCaleb, but he’s fair. He’s the kind that squares a debt if it takes everything he owns, including the shirt off his back.”
Yates laughed. “You’re only fooling yourself, Monte Nance. You admire the man. He’s all you’re not, and that’s what you hate.”
“That’s a damn lie!” Monte shouted. “I hate everything about him.”
Again Yates laughed in his infuriating manner, but there was no humor in it. Monte had been weighed in the balance and found wanting, even in the eyes of this old scalawag whose venture in Deadwood obviously couldn’t stand the light of day. Yates kept the front and rear canvas of the wagon tied, so it was virtually impossible to see into the interior. For reasons Monte didn’t understand, Yates and the women slept well away from the wagon. If Yates wouldn’t talk, Monte made up his mind to see why he was so secretive about the wagon. He waited for a night when there was no moon, when, except for Roscoe Yates’s snoring, there wasn’t a sound. Silently he made his way to the distant wagon, his heart beating fast. He opened the rear canvas pucker just enough to get his head and upper body inside. He was digging in his pocket for a match when he felt something cold on the back of his neck.
“This here’s a sawed-off scattergun,” Yates said. “Tie that pucker back the way it was and then back away. Do it slow. This thing’s got a hair trigger, and I’m always just a mite nervous when somebody I’ve trusted crosses me.”
“Trust, hell,” said Monte. “You don’t know the meaning of the
word.”
Monte drew the rawhide thong as tight as he could, tying the canvas pucker tight. Only then did Yates move the muzzle of the shotgun, allowing Monte to back away.
Angrily Monte made his way back to where he had spread his blankets, between the two Yates girls. He stretched out and, needing reassurance, rolled over against the nearest of the two. An elbow was driven into his ribs, and when he persisted, a fist was driven hard into his face. Violently angry, he caught her wrist as she was about to hit him again. She reared up and sank her teeth into the back of his hand, and with a wild swing, Monte smashed her on the chin. But Monte’s troubles were only beginning. The other girl had awakened and threw herself into the fight, cursing, scratching, clawing and kicking. A knee was rammed into Monte’s groin, and before the wave of nausea passed, the knee slammed into him again. His shirt had been torn off, and they were raking his upper body with their nails. He finally struggled to his knees, and one of them leaped on him as though he were a calf ready for branding. She had him belly-down, and with a firm grip on his hair, was beating his face into the ground. The other had his Levi’s down, and he could feel her nails raking fiery paths across his backside. Finally, Roscoe Yates spoke.
“That’s enough, girls.”
Without a word, they left him. He sat there, his shirt ripped off, bleeding, still sick from that last kick in the groin. Yates spoke again, this time more coldly than ever.
“Cross me, Mr. Nance, and the girls don’t like it. I’m all the kin they got, you know.”
Monte Nance said nothing. Both women had taken their blankets and had moved a considerable distance away. Wearily, Monte gathered his own blankets and lay down. When he believed Yates and the hell-raising girls were asleep, he crawled away, being as quiet as he could. Finally he stumbled to his feet and started toward the distant Lone Star camp. The rider in charge of the first watch was Brazos Gifford, and it was he who first heard the sound of Monte’s coming.
“You’re covered,” Brazos warned. “Don’t come any closer without identifying yourself.”
“Monte,” said a weary voice. “Monte Nance.”
“Come on,” Brazos said.
The rest of the outfit had heard the challenge and Monte’s answer. Rebecca had stirred up the coals, and the fire was blazing when Monte stumbled into the circle of light. None of them said anything, for he was a fearful mess. His shirt gone, he stood there swaying like an oak in a high wind, holding up his Levi’s with one hand.
“McCaleb,” he mumbled, “I’m a damned fool.”
“I won’t argue with that,” said McCaleb. “What do you want of us?”
“I want to be part of Lone Star,” Monte said.
“I’m trail boss,” said McCaleb, “and I give the orders for the good of the outfit. You always seem to have a problem with that.”
“No more,” Monte said. “I’ll ride drag from here on to Deadwood.”
“What about your friends?” McCaleb asked.
“They’re not my friends,” said Monte.
“I’ve put up with your damn mood changes ever since we left Texas,” McCaleb said, “and I’m almighty tired of them. Everybody in this outfit knows why you’ve been hanging around the Yates wagon, and we don’t know you won’t go back there, when the urge hits you. This time, I don’t aim to decide what becomes of you. The rest of the outfit’s goin’ to decide whether or not they’re willing to tolerate you. I’ll go along with the majority. Is there any of you willing to give him another chance?”
There was a long silence, for all of them had, at one time or another, been on the outs with Monte Nance. When it seemed that nobody would speak in his favor, someone did.
“Let him come back,” said Penelope.
Slowly—almost reluctantly—the others agreed.
“I’m obliged,” Monte said, with more humility than anybody knew he possessed. “My horse, saddle and blankets are still there.”
“We’ll claim them at first light,” said McCaieb. “I’ll tell all of you now what I aim to tell Yates in the morning. While I can’t stop him from following us, he is no longer part of this drive. If his wagon breaks down, it’s strictly his problem. Now those of you not on watch, take to your blankets.”
The riders all turned away, and Monte stood there as though undecided what he should do. Only Rebecca remained, and finally she spoke.
“If you’ll stretch out on a blanket, I’ll put some salve on your wounds.”
“God knows, I don’t deserve it,” said Monte.
“No,” Rebecca said, “you don’t. I’m not offering because you deserve it, but because there’s a need for it. Now take off your boots and Levi’s, while I fetch a blanket.”
“I have a blanket,” said a voice from the darkness.
“Penelope,” Rebecca said, “I doubt Brazos or Rosalie want you here.”
“They don’t,” said Penelope, “but I’m old enough to follow my own mind. I’ll help.”
Monte Nance stretched out on his back, and by the poor light from a flickering fire, Rebecca and Penelope applied sulfur salve to his many wounds. Unable to face them, he kept his eyes closed.
“Turn over,” Rebecca ordered. “There’s the backside.”
When Rebecca and Penelope had finished, neither spoke. Rebecca took a second blanket and covered her errant brother, fervently hoping the promises he had made had not been in vain. The two of them then returned to their own blankets.
Come the dawn, McCaleb wasted no time. Before breakfast, he stalked toward the Yates wagon. When he was near enough, he spoke.
“Yates, I want the horse, saddle and blankets belonging to Monte Nance.”
“Take them,” said Yates. “I want no hard feelings.”
“Neither do I,” McCaleb replied. “You’re on your own, from here on to Deadwood.”
“I’ve done nothing to merit your displeasure,” shouted Yates. “My girls only defended their honor.”
“Your girls and their honor be damned,” said McCaleb.
He saddled Monte’s horse, flung the blankets over the saddle and led the animal back toward the Lone Star camp. Monte Nance had cleaned himself up as well as he could, but some of the scratches on his face and neck looked as though he’d been raked by a grizzly. The rest of the outfit was careful not to stare at him, and he gulped his breakfast quickly. Only Goose seemed unaffected, staring at the wreckage of Monte’s face with considerable amusement. A warrior would have slit the throat of a squaw daring to disfigure him in such a manner. When Monte went to saddle his horse, every bone in his body ached, and the scratches and cuts burned like fire, but he dared not complain.
“Brazos, I want you and Will flank riding,” McCaleb said. “Pen and Jed, you’re swing riders. Susannah, it’s your day for the chuck wagon. Rosalie, Penelope, Stoney, Monte and Rebecca, you’re at drag.”
The riders quickly bunched the herd and headed them toward the rising sun. Susannah fell in behind with the chuck wagon. Goose had ridden ahead of the herd, and after a few words with McCaleb, the Indian kicked his horse into a slow gallop.
“Penelope,” said Rosalie, when the drag riders had the tag end of the herd bunched, “I don’t want you spending any time with Monte Nance.”
“Why not?” Penelope demanded. “He’s sorry, and we’ve forgiven him.”
“You can forgive a man without crawling into his blankets with him,” said Rosalie.
Penelope laughed. “Ma’am, I’m obliged for your confidence,” she said, in what sounded almost exactly like a Brazos Gifford drawl.
The drag riders were mostly silent for the rest of the day. Rebecca bore a considerable burden, Monte being her brother. It hadn’t been easy for the outfit to overlook those days and nights with the Yates outfit. She understood, more than any of the others, Monte’s weakness for women. He was repentant now, but Roscoe Yates wouldn’t have any trouble keeping up with the trail drive, welcome or not. Should Monte be tempted to backslide, the Yates girls would be within walking d
istance.
The second day after McCaleb had cut the Yates party loose, the wagon suffered yet another broken wheel. When McCaleb waved his hat as a signal to head the drive, the Yates wagon wasn’t in sight. The herd had been settled for the night, and supper was well under way, when Yates arrived, riding one of the mules bareback.
“Why are you here, Yates?” McCaleb demanded.
“I trust the well of human kindness is not completely dry, Mr. McCaleb,” said Yates. “We are in the embarrassing position of having a damaged wagon wheel, and none to replace it. What do you think we should do?”
“Leave the wagon where it is and ride the mules,” McCaleb said. “I warned you this might happen. Now don’t look to us to solve your problems.”
“It isn’t that I don’t value your advice,” said Yates, “but there are certain . . . things in the wagon that will be essential when we reach Deadwood. I cannot leave the wagon, and I am willing to pay if the wheel can be repaired.”
“Yates, I’m pretty sure this broken wheel is nothing more than a result of your own carelessness,” McCaleb said. “The best that can be done for it is binding the broken parts together with heavy wire, and the first time that wheel goes hard off a stone or deep into a drop-off, that’ll be the end of the wheel. Sooner or later, you’re going to be riding your mules, so you might as well begin now.”
“I will not,” said Yates. “If there’s a man or men among you who can repair that rear wheel so that it will function, I will pay one hundred dollars, in gold.”
“Do you have the necessary wire?” McCaleb asked.
“No, unfortunately,” said Yates. “Whoever would have thought of that?”
“Anybody with savvy, crossing the High Plains in a wagon,” McCaleb said. “We have a few tools and plenty of heavy-gauge wire, but a wired-together wheel is a poor risk, at best. Like I’ve told you, damage that wheel again, and the wagon goes no farther. While I am willing to supply the necessary wire, that’s as far as I go. Patch up your own wheel.”
“I am not physically able,” said Yates. “That’s why I’m offering a hundred dollars to any man or men who can do what is necessary.”
The Deadwood Trail Page 20
