“You could have saved us considerable trouble and worry by just speaking up,” Brazos said. “Why didn’t you?”
“Because it was more my fault than his,” the girl cried. “Would you have felt better if I’d told the truth and let you beat me with a doubled lariat?”
“I reckon not,” Brazos said. “To me, you’re still the little girl with one shoe and without a coat, I found lying half-frozen and near dead on the bank of the Sweetwater.”*
There was no condemnation, and his words got to her like nothing else had. She threw her arms around Brazos and wept until she could weep no more. Wisely, he said nothing. Not until later that night did Rosalie have a chance to talk to Brazos, and he told her little that she didn’t already know.
As was his custom, McCaleb had sent Goose to scout ahead. This time, when he rode in, the Indian had some interesting news.
“Many horse track,” said Goose, pointing northwest.
“Sioux?” McCaleb asked.
“Ugh,” said Goose. “No horseshoe.”
“You’re sure they went on, then,” McCaleb said.
“Ugh,” said Goose, again pointing northwest.
“They’re ridin’ out of Dakota Territory,” Will Elliot said. “Why all the talk of trouble in Dakota, when the Sioux are leaving?”
“Good thinking on their part,” said Pen Rhodes. “They’re choosing the place for the coming fight They’re bound for their old hunting grounds.”
“I think you’re dead right, Pen,” Brazos said. “That being the case, we’re too far south for trouble with the Sioux.”
“I hope you’re right,” said McCaleb. “If this fight takes place somewhere to the north of us, we may escape it entirely. But we can’t count on that. We’ll just have to depend on Goose scouting ahead of the drive each day.”
On the days Rosalie drove the chuck wagon, Monte Nance took full advantage of her absence, talking to Penelope most of the day. The rest of the drag riders—Rebecca, Pen Rhodes and Susannah—didn’t seem to bother him. Confined to the chuck wagon, Rosalie could only grind her teeth in frustration. Occasionally she looked back and could see the dust stirred up by Roscoe Yates’s teams. Secretly she yearned for the days when Monte had spent all his time with the two brazen women.
“What are those Yates women really like?” Penelope asked.
Monte laughed. “You don’t want to know.”
“I do so,” said Penelope. “I’m grown up.”
“I can’t argue with that,” Monte said. “Not after that day in the wagon. But after you had it all fixed up, why did you yelp like a scared coyote and give me away?”
“I . . . I don’t know,” said Penelope. “At least I didn’t tell anybody it was you.”
“I’m obliged for that,” Monte said. “McCaleb or Brazos would have killed me. When it warms up some more, and there’s no chance of us bein’ caught, will you go swimming with me?”
“I don’t know,” said Penelope. “Like the Yates girls did?”
“Yeah,” Monte said, winking at her. “Is it any worse, me seein’ you jaybird naked in the water, than in the chuck wagon?”
“You’ll never let me forget that, will you?”
“No,” said Monte, “I won’t. Offer a man a taste of a pie, and he just naturally hankers for a bigger slice.”
“Then you’d better just enjoy the taste for as long as you can,” Penelope said. “This pie’s not ready to cut, and when it is, you may not be doing the cutting.”
“You can be a nasty little witch, when you want to,” said Monte.
Penelope laughed. “I can be even nastier. Remember, it was Rebecca and me who had to patch you up, after the Yates girls had clawed the hell out of you. I saw you naked as a skint coyote, and you didn’t impress me.”
“Oh, yeah?” Monte said angrily. “Who you got to compare me to?”
Penelope laughed. “Any man in the outfit, including Goose.”
“You . . . you’re lying,” said Monte. “You wouldn’t—”
“Wouldn’t I?” Penelope said. “A fool girl who’d strip for you would do anything.”
“Then don’t go lookin’ down your nose at me,” said Monte. “You’re no better than the Yates women. At least they’re honest enough to deliver what they promise.”
“Then you’d better go back to them,” Penelope said, “and before you go, take a good look at me. This is as much as you’re likely to see for a long time. Maybe ever.”
MILES CITY, MONTANA TERRITORY.
JUNE 10, 1876
“By God,” said Commanding General Alfred H. Terry, “civilians have been specifically forbidden to ride south or west into what might well become a battlefield. Who the hell is in charge of this expedition, and how long have they been gone?”
“Gent name of Connor was leadin’ ’em,” said an old-timer, “and they been gone nigh two weeks, I reckon. Damn Crows stole ever’ hoss they could git their hands on, an’ here on the frontier, a man ain’t about to stand for that. Not for the army, not for nobody.”
Word of the outraged expedition having gone in search of the thieving Crows soon got back to the rank and file, and the soldiers were privately amused at their commander’s frustration and anger. Two of the officers in Custer’s regiment—Major Marcus Reno and Captain Frederick Benteen—had just taken it upon themselves to call on Custer. Entering his tent, they saluted.
“At ease,” said Custer, casually returning the salute. “What do you want of me?”
“General Terry’s breathing fire and brimstone over a bunch of ranchers who are tracking a herd of horses stolen by Crows,” Benteen said. “Do you suppose this will affect our campaign against the Sioux?”
“I don’t see how it could,” said Custer. “Since we aren’t sure where we’ll encounter the Sioux, I have it on good authority that General Terry intends to divide his command. At some point to the west of here, General Terry intends to march part of his command for a rendezvous with General Gibbon.”*
“Oh?” Major Reno said. “And where’s he sending the rest of the regiment?”
“They’ll march south,” said Custer. “I’m prepared to take command, if it is offered.”
ROSEBUD CREEK, MONTANA TERRITORY.
JUNE 17, 1876
“I think we’re maybe forty miles south of the Yellowstone,” Cal said. “We’ll take a day of rest here. Tomorrow, Quickenpaugh and me will ride to the Yellowstone. I want to see if there’s any truth in what we were told about the coming of the soldiers.”
“Suppose you find them,” said Tom Allen. “Then what?”
“We’ll avoid them,” Cal said. “If it’s true they’re marching west along the Yellowstone, there’s no way we’ll encounter them this far south.”
“Not bein’ a military man, I don’t know how they think,” said Bill Petty, “but at some point, those soldiers will have to march south. This may be the Sioux nation’s last stand, and I’d bet everything I own it’ll happen close to their old hunting grounds.”
“Bill’s right,” Tom Allen said. “The soldiers won’t find the Sioux by marching along the Yellowstone.”
“They may already be gone,” said Cal. “If they are, then Quickenpaugh and me should find some evidence of their passing. If that’s the case, we’ll go on with our drive without any interference from them.”
“It’s possible they haven’t yet come this far,” Tom said. “If you get the chance, do you aim to warn ’em about the Sioux dug in along the Little Big Horn?”
“I’ll have to,” said Cal. “I’d be a poor excuse for a man if I let them walk into a trap, just to keep them from knowing about us. This drive’s bound for Deadwood, and nobody’s stopping it. Not even the army. Tomorrow, Quickenpaugh and me will warn them.”
But the following morning, Commanding General Alfred H. Terry and his command had reached the mouth of Rosebud creek, along the Yellowstone. Terry had given the order to dismount.
“Have General Custer report to me,” he
ordered an aide.
“Reporting as ordered, sir,” said Custer saluting.
“At ease,” Terry said. “As you are no doubt aware, I’m marching on to join the column under General John Gibbon. I want you to take four hundred and eighty men and ride south. This mission is to seek out the enemy, not engage them in battle. Understand?”
“Yes, sir,” said Custer. “I request permission for Major Marcus Reno and Captain Frederick Benteen to accompany me as my seconds in command.”
“Permission granted,” General Terry replied.
Custer saluted smartly and turned to go.
“Now, don’t be greedy, Custer,” said General Terry. “There are Indians enough for all of us.”
Riding north, Cal Snider and Quickenpaugh had reined up to rest their horses.
“Cuidado,” Quickenpaugh said, pointing north. “Soldados.”
Cal could see no evidence of soldiers, but he had never known the Indian to be wrong. Leading their horses, he and Quickenpaugh took cover in a thicket of scrub willows. The soldiers eventually appeared, riding in columns of fours.
“Damn it,” said Cal, “they’re headed straight down the Rosebud. They may not see us, but they can’t miss five thousand head of cattle and two hundred horses. I’ll have to talk to them.”
His Winchester in his hand, Cal stepped out of the brush into a clearing. The officer in charge gave the order to halt, and the column reined up.
“Who are you, and what are you doing here?” Custer demanded.
“I’m Cal Snider, trail boss for Nelson Story’s Virginia City outfit. We’re bound for Deadwood, Dakota Territory, trailing a herd of some five thousand cattle and a herd of some two hundred horses, to be delivered to the military.”
“You are in violation of a government order,” said Custer stiffly. “No civilians are to be in this area, pending a possible attack by the Sioux. I am empowered to place you and all that you employ under military arrest.”
“You have no such authority,” Cal replied. “The order from Washington stated that no civilians were to travel south of the Yellowstone or to the west. Our herd is headed east, toward Dakota Territory.”
“Ah,” said Custer, “you know of the order and choose to disobey it.”
“Put it like that, if you like,” Cal said. “We were two hundred miles on our way to Dakota Territory when we got word of your order from Washington. Whether you like it or not, we’re going on. Our camp is maybe twenty miles south of here, on the Rosebud.”
“Lead out, and we will follow,” said Custer.
“Quickenpaugh,” Cal said, “bring the horses.”
The moment Quickenpaugh appeared, every trooper in the first several ranks reached for his weapon. But Cal was ready for that. His Colt was cocked and steady, and his voice was cold.
“This is Quickenpaugh, part of the Story outfit and our advance scout. I’ll kill any one of you that pulls a gun.”
“At ease, men,” Custer ordered. “Since you and your herd have advanced thus far, Mr. Snider, I’ll offer no objection if you continue your journey.”
“We’re obliged,” said Cal. “Now I’m going to give you some information that may be helpful. A large band of Sioux hostiles are dug in along the Little Big Horn, to the south of here.”
“Oh?” Custer said. “And what made you aware of their presence?”
“Quickenpaugh discovered them while scouting ahead,” said Cal. “We brought our herd forty miles north, to avoid them.”
“The one sensible thing you’ve done so far,” Custer said. “While I am indebted to you for the information, I regret that I cannot take a heathen Indian’s word. My superiors will expect a firsthand report, and I shall live up to those expectations.”
It was a pompous, prejudiced response, and there was a coldness in Quickenpaugh’s dark eyes that suggested he had understood every word Custer had said. He kicked his horse into a lope, leaving the soldiers behind. Cal urged his mount into a slow gallop and soon caught up to Quickenpaugh.
“Him fool,” said Quickenpaugh. “Him die.”
“We tried, Quickenpaugh,” Cal said. “Let him make his own mistakes.”
Cal and Quickenpaugh reached camp well ahead of the soldiers and prepared the rest of the outfit for their arrival.
“So Custer didn’t believe Quickenpaugh,” Bill Petty said. “He was commissioned a general on the battlefield when he was twenty-three. I’ve heard he has a considerable ego.”
“That he has,” said Cal. “He wants to discover the Sioux without sharing credit with anybody.”
When the soldiers arrived, Custer gave the order to dismount and stack arms. He then spoke to Cal.
“We will establish our camp down the creek. Tomorrow we will march south.”
“We would invite you to supper,” Cal said, “but we’ve had some delays, and our grub is running low.”
“Our provisions are adequate for our needs,” said Custer.
During the rest of the day and night, there was no further contact with the soldiers, and at dawn they broke camp and marched south, along the Rosebud. The following Sunday afternoon, near the Little Big Horn, George A. Custer had a date with destiny . . .
EASTERN WYOMING TERRITORY.
JUNE 20, 1876
It was Rebecca’s turn on the box of the chuck wagon, and danger struck swiftly, when a skunk trotted out in front of the mules. Some of the animals had experienced skunk before, and the teams lit out toward the south, over rough terrain. Stoney Vandiver, riding drag, tried unsuccessfully to catch up to the runaway team. They halted, heaving and dripping sweat, only when the wagon’s left front wheel struck an upthrust of rock and broke. Rebecca climbed shakily down to survey the damage. The other drag riders had signaled McCaleb, and the outfit was heading the herd. Reaching the disabled chuck wagon, McCaleb dismounted. Rebecca looked pale and shaken, and he spoke as calmly as he could.
“Are you hurt?”
“No, but the wagon is,” said Rebecca. “A skunk wandered out in front of the mules, and they just went crazy. I couldn’t hold them.”
“She done a grand job of tryin’,” Stoney said. “I was doin’ my best to get ahead of them jug-headed mules when the wagon slammed into a rock.”
“It’s impossible to avoid such as this in rough country,” said McCaleb. “Since we’re lacking a spare wheel, I reckon we’ll have to piece the old one back together. Stoney, you and Jed fixed a wheel on the Yates wagon. Think you can do it again?”
“We can try,” Stoney said.
“This one ain’t no worse than the one we fixed for Yates,” said Jed, “but we’ll need the time to soak it overnight, to swell the wood.”
“We’ll take the time,” McCaleb said.
Well beyond the herd, Roscoe Yates had reined up his teams, waiting.
“Somebody ought to tell him he’s welcome to go on without us,” said Brazos.
“I’m not telling him anything,” McCaleb said. “If he wants to set there until tomorrow, until our wheel’s been fixed, let him. We can’t stop him from following us, but we’re not his guide.”
The rest of the outfit returned to the herd, leaving Jed and Stoney to try and repair the damaged wheel. First they loosened the hub nut, and then, with the jack beneath the axle, they raised the sagging corner of the wagon and removed the wheel.
“Good thing we brought plenty of wire,” said Jed.
“There won’t be plenty when we get done with this wheel,” Stoney said. “Anybody else needin’ a wheel patched up will be out of luck.”
“If this happens again while I’m at the reins, I’ll feel like I’m bad luck,” said Rebecca.
“It could of happened to anybody,” Stoney replied. “Who knows what’s goin’ on in a mule’s skull? The varmints don’t even need a reason to run.”
To Rebecca’s surprise, the Yates girls had left their own wagon and were approaching. They halted a few feet away, their eyes on the cowboys seeking to repair the damaged front wheel. Reb
ecca eyed them in a manner that was anything but friendly, but it seemed to have no effect on them.
“We admire a man who can fix things,” said one.
“All kinds of things,” the second added.
“Some things need fixing more often than others,” Rebecca said ominously.
“Some things are so old and used up, they’re not worth fixing,” said one of the devilish duo.
“There’s more truth to that than you realize,” Rebecca said calmly. “I haven’t seen any young bucks grazing near either of you, lately.”
Jed and Stoney continued repairing the broken wheel, since the argument hadn’t turned violent. But then Connie Yates took a handful of dirt and flung it into Rebecca’s face. The two of them then seized Rebecca and began ripping off her clothes. Jed and Stoney ran to her aid, but galloping her horse, Penelope got there ahead of them.
“Penelope, no!” Rosalie shouted.
But if Penelope heard, she paid no attention. The Yates women had already ripped off Rebecca’s shirt when Penelope arrived. Leaving her saddle in a flying leap, she plunged into the midst of the fight. Immediately one of the unruly women seized a handful of her hair, and Penelope retaliated with a right to the jaw, slamming her antagonist to the hard ground.
“Damn you,” said the other Yates girl, “you’ve hurt Kate.”
Kate was down, but she wasn’t out. She got to her knees and then to her feet. From one of her boots, she brought forth a dagger, its thin blade glinting in the sun.
“Drop the knife,” Rebecca ordered, coming between Penelope and Kate.
But Connie threw herself at Rebecca, and the two of them went down in a tangle of arms and legs. Penelope faced the vindictive girl with the dagger.
“Come on,” Brazos shouted, mounting his horse. “This ain’t a hair-pullin’ anymore. She’s got a knife.”
McCaleb swung into the saddle, but he was behind Rosalie, as the three of them rode to the scene of battle. But with Connie occupied with Rebecca, the fight had become one-on-one. Kate lunged with the dagger, and, snake-sudden, Penelope seized her wrist. Using her own momentum, Penelope slammed Kate to the ground, belly-down. Kate released the knife, and, seizing it, Penelope went to work on the unfortunate Kate. Taking her collar in one hand, Penelope slit the shirt into two pieces. She then slashed Kate’s Levi’s to ribbons. Brazos, McCaleb and Rosalie had arrived, but not soon enough to save Connie and Kate from total disgrace. With the exception of their boots, both women had been stripped. Her shirt ripped off, Rebecca was a dirty mess. Only Penelope was unscathed.
The Deadwood Trail Page 22
