The Deadwood Trail

by Ralph Compton

  “He’s a handsome young man,” Rosalie observed, obviously pleased.

  Rebecca only nodded, for her mind was drifting back ten years, to the time she had first seen Benton McCaleb. He’d had sandy hair, eyes that were sky-blue, a fast gun and a drawl that was pure Texas. Now this young man—Quanah Taylor—reminded her of a young Benton McCaleb. Taylor said something and Penelope laughed, her hand on his arm. The eyes of Monte Nance had clouded with hatred, and his right hand rested on the butt of one of his Colts. He turned away only when he felt Rebecca’s eyes on him.

  LITTLE MISSOURI RIVER, DAKOTA TERRITORY.

  JUNE 29, 1876

  With the exception of Goose and Quickenpaugh, the two outfits became friends, joining in a common cause. McCaleb having spoken to Goose, and Cal to Quickenpaugh, the two antagonists virtually ignored one another. Each day, before the start of the gather, Cal and McCaleb brought both outfits together.

  “I think,” said McCaleb, “we can decide whose animals are which when we’ve finally got a decent gather. Let’s just round them up without regard to brands.”

  “Bueno,” Cal agreed. “Maybe we can just drive ’em on to Deadwood as a single herd and avoid any heavy dickering over the price.”

  “That’s good thinking,” said Brazos.

  There was shouted agreement from everybody except Monte Nance. His eyes were on Quanah Taylor, and he had a look on his face like soured milk.

  “Horse,” Quickenpaugh said. “No find.”

  “By God, he’s right,” said Tom Allen. “We haven’t come up on a single one of Story’s horse herd.”

  “He’s wise to be worried,” Bill Petty said. “Story more or less put him in charge of the herd.”

  “Quickenpaugh,” said Cal, “I want you to track down those horses. Choose a rider to go with you and take some grub.”

  “Si,” Quickenpaugh said, pointing to Curley.

  “They’re an unusual pair,” said McCaleb, when the two had ridden away.

  “More unusual than you’d ever believe,” Cal said. “How many Indians do you know with the ambition of owning a horse ranch?”

  “At least one,” said McCaleb. “Goose has the most prosperous horse ranch anywhere in Wyoming Territory. We brought him with us because of possible trouble with the Sioux.”

  The gather went slowly, for many of the cattle had crossed the Little Missouri and had drifted well beyond it. The outfits were just settling down to supper when there came the sound of a running horse. The rider—a soldier—reined up the heaving animal and all but fell from the saddle. Oscar Fentress and Smokey Ellison helped to ease him down with his back to a wagon wheel. Rebecca brought him a tin cup of steaming coffee. Nobody spoke, allowing him time to catch his wind and sip some of the coffee. Finally he spoke.

  “General Custer and two hundred and fifteen of his men has been kilt by the Sioux.”

  “Great God,” said McCaleb, “what happened to the others?”

  “Major Reno had a hundred and forty, while Captain Benteen had a hundred and twenty-five. I was with Major Reno. General Custer took his men one way, while the rest of us went another. General Custer and his bunch attacked the Sioux along the Little Big Horn, and Lord God, there must of been three or four thousand of the varmints. Time the rest of us got there, it was all over. I’m takin’ the news to the outpost at Bismarck.”

  “Not if you ride your horse to death and exhaust yourself,” Cal said. “Another day’s not going to make that much difference. You and your horse can rest tonight, you can fill up on grub and hot coffee and be on your way tomorrow.”

  “I reckon you’re right,” said the soldier. “I’m about used up.”

  “When did this fight take place?” Tom Allen asked.

  “Last Sunday, June 25,” said the soldier. “Major Reno and Captain Benteen are there, supervising burial details. God, it was awful. Most all the wounded had been run through with lances while they was still alive.”

  Word of the disaster had a sobering effect on the outfits, and no more questions were asked of the weary soldier. After breakfast he thanked his hosts and rode out, taking with him the news that would shock the nation and mark the beginning of the end of the Sioux.

  Three days after Quickenpaugh and Curley had ridden south, they returned, driving the two hundred missing horses. In addition, they had driven five hundred head of the missing cattle, a mix of the two herds.

  “Tarnation,” said McCaleb, “we should have gone with them.”

  “It looks that way,” Cal said, “but who would have expected them to drift that far?”

  “Beautiful graze down there,” said Curley. “I believe the rest of the herd’s there.”

  “How far?” McCaleb asked.

  “Near twenty miles,” said Curley.

  Arch Rainey, Hitch Gould and Mac Withers had joined Quickenpaugh, and the four of them had settled the recovered horse herd along the river.

  “I’ve never seen a finer bunch of horses in my life,” McCaleb said. “Indian-gentled?”

  “Every one,” said Cal. “Quickenpaugh’s doing.”

  “Bent,” Rebecca said, “there goes Goose. There may be trouble.”

  “Maybe not,” said McCaleb. “He’s interested in the horses.”

  Quickenpaugh didn’t move, as Goose walked among the horses. He spoke softly, relying on the meaningless “horse talk” that he employed in gentling his own animals. Ruffling the ears and manes of many of the horses, he left them nickering after him when he withdrew from them. Both outfits watched in awe as these warriors whose tribes were ages-old enemies came face-to-face. Arch, Hitch and Mac had backed away, leaving Quickenpaugh near where Goose emerged from the herd.

  “We’re about to see a miracle, or all hell will bust loose,” said Will Elliot.

  Goose came on, and when he was within a few feet of Quickenpaugh, he halted. The Comanche and the Lipan Apache regarded each other in silence, and while there was no change in the expression of either, something passed between them. Goose went on to the supper fire, and Rebecca passed him a tin cup of steaming coffee. Quickenpaugh hunkered down beside Curley.

  “They’ve discovered something stronger than their hatred for each other,” Lorna said. “If God can do that with them, then there’s hope for the rest of us.”

  LITTLE MISSOURI RIVER, DAKOTA TERRITORY.

  JULY 3, 1876

  As the outfits prepared to ride out, McCaleb ordered Rebecca, Rosalie, Susannah and Penelope to remain with the chuck wagon. Goose would be with them.

  “I’m riding with the outfit,” said Penelope.

  The fire in her eyes said she was prepared for battle, but McCaleb only grinned at her. He had seen Quanah Taylor saddling her horse.

  “Curley,” Cal said, “I want you and Quickenpaugh to stay here with Lorna and Jasmine in case there’s any trouble. If these animals are a long way off, we may be late comin’ in. Don’t start any supper fires until we return.”

  The remainder of the two outfits rode out, heading downriver.

  “I’m surprised at Cal leaving Quickenpaugh here,” said Jasmine.

  “I’m not,” Lorna said. “Quickenpaugh’s found his horses. He won’t be worth a damn on a cattle gather.”

  “That’s about the way it is with Goose,” said Rebecca. “He has no use for cows, but he would go out in a blizzard looking for just one strayed horse.”

  “I’m glad Cal left Curley here,” Jasmine said. “I think she’ll have a calming influence on Quickenpaugh, if him and Goose give in to old hatreds and decide to fight.”

  “They’re serious?” Susannah asked.

  “As serious as any male and female ever gets,” said Jasmine. “They’ve done everything except stand before a preacher, and we doubt that Quickenpaugh ever will.”

  “Goose never did,” Rebecca said. “He’s been with his Crow woman almost ten years.”

  “I’m surprised she didn’t insist on coming with him,” said Susannah. “Indian women all seem to follo
w their men.”

  “Belleza, Goose’s woman, had her reasons,” Rebecca said. “I think she’ll be having her first child before the snow comes again.”

  “Damn,” said Rosalie, “Brazos will take that hard. He thinks something’s wrong with him.”

  The women continued comparing their lives on the frontier. Among the riders headed downstream for the gather, Penelope and Quanah Taylor brought up the rear.

  “What do you aim to do when your herd’s been sold?” Taylor asked.

  “Ride back to the Sweetwater Valley in Wyoming, I suppose,” said Penelope. “What will you do?”

  “With a little encouragement, I might follow you there,” the cowboy said. “If I do, will I be welcome?”

  “It depends on what kind of encouragement you have in mind,” said Penelope. “I don’t aim to strip down for a roll in the hay with you.”

  He kept his eyes straight ahead, saying nothing. Penelope sneaked a sidelong look at him, and was immediately ashamed of her hard words. Quanah Taylor was profoundly embarrassed, his face flaming red all the way to his hairline. Penelope rode close enough to place her hand on his arm. When he finally looked at her, there was unmistakable anger in his eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” Penelope said. “I shouldn’t have said that. I . . . I had someone else in mind, and I spoke before I thought. Will you forgive me?”

  “Yes,” he replied, his features softening. “I think I know who you had in mind. Does he have any hold on you? Have you promised him . . . anything?”

  “Monte Nance? My God, no,” Penelope cried.

  “I wanted to be sure,” Taylor said. “He keeps lookin’ at you like you’re hog-tied and branded, and at me like he wants to cut me down at the business end of a Colt.”

  “To be honest,” said Penelope, “I . . . did pay some attention to him for a while, until he left our camp to lay about with a pair of whores.”

  “Whores? Here on the plains?”

  “Yes,” Penelope said. “They were on their way to Deadwood.”

  She went on to tell him of Roscoe Yates, his troublesome wagon and the outrageous conduct of his so-called daughters, Connie and Kate.

  “They must have seen a long delay, making this gather,” said Taylor. “They could have crossed the Little Missouri far enough up- or downriver for us not to be aware of their going.”

  “Please, let’s don’t talk about them,” Penelope said. “Did you mean it, when you talked about . . . following me to Wyoming?”

  “Never more serious in my life,” said Quanah, tipping back his hat and grinning at her. “I’ve been taking cattle for my wages for nigh ten years. Five hundred head of the Story herd belongs to me, and I’ve got another five hundred in Montana Territory, most of ’em prime breeding stock.”

  “Then you’re not just a forty-and-found cowboy,” Penelope said. “I want Brazos to talk to you.”

  “Your daddy?”

  “All the daddy I ever had,” said Penelope. “He found Mama and me beaten and starving and adopted me when I was little.”

  “He sounds like my kind of man,” Taylor said. “Maybe I can talk to him tonight, after we round up the rest of the cattle.”

  Even with a larger number of cattle to gather, the herd grew rapidly, for there were more riders.

  “Let’s try to bunch the rest of ’em today,” said McCaleb. “Even if we trail them on to Deadwood as a single herd, we’ll still have to run separate tallies to be sure we have them all.”

  Both herds had become trail wise, and bunching them wasn’t so difficult. But they all were widely scattered, and bringing them together tried the patience of every rider. When the sun was but an hour high, the riders could see grazing cattle dotting the distant hills.

  “Well,” said McCaleb wearily, “we didn’t make it. There’s still more of ’em out there than any of us can afford to lose. So it’s back again tomorrow, and maybe a day or two beyond that.”

  “This is takin’ a hell of a lot of time,” Brazos said, “and I’ve been thinking of how we aim to sell these critters, once they’re rounded up. Suppose some of us rode on in to Deadwood and rounded up this speculator, Milo Reems. He’s got to come up with a pile of money.”

  “Reems?” said Cal. “That’s the hombre that quoted us fifty dollars a head.”

  “Same thing he quoted us,” McCaleb said. “Since the Union Pacific’s come through, I’ve heard there’s some ranchers settlin’ in Nebraska, not too far from the tracks. Damn it, we may be competing with them.”

  “That’s exactly what’s rubbin’ my fur the wrong way,” said Brazos. “In a beef-hungry town, the first two or three herds will bring top dollar. After that, prices may fall through the floor. McCaleb, you’re trail boss for Lone Star, while Cal’s trail boss for the Story outfit. The two of you could ride in, find Reems and have him ride out here to look at the herds. We’ll have the rest of ’em gathered by then. Maybe we can strike a deal without having to drive them right into town.”

  “That makes sense to me,” Tom Allen said. “If we’re the first herds to show up, those beef-hungry miners could take our cattle just by shootin’ ’em down. Last we heard, there was no law in Deadwood, except maybe the military. Now, after the killing of Custer and his men, it’s likely that every bluecoat west of the Mississippi’s goin’ after the Sioux.”

  “Those are pretty strong arguments,” said McCaleb. “I think, while the rest of you are finishing this gather, Cal and me had better ride in and test the water, instead of showing up cold, with eight thousand cows.”

  There was enthusiastic agreement from everybody except Monte Nance. His hard eyes were on McCaleb when he spoke.

  “I’m part of this outfit, McCaleb, and I have as much right to ride in as you. Some of these cattle are mine, and I aim to dicker for a higher price.”

  “You do,” said McCaleb, “and you’re no longer part of Lone Star. We’ll cut out your part of the herd, and if you’re of a mind to, you can drive ’em off a rimrock.”

  Her heart in her throat, Rebecca saw Monte’s jaw harden. Benton McCaleb was all that Monte Nance had never been and could not be, and as a result, he hated McCaleb. Rebecca sighed in resignation, and then spoke.

  “Bent, unless you think I’m needed here, I’d like to ride to Deadwood with you.”

  “Anybody object to that?” McCaleb asked.

  Nobody objected, and Jasmine had a suggestion.

  “Cal, why don’t you take Lorna with you? Even if Deadwood’s a hard town, won’t the men be less troublesome if you have your women along?”

  “That’s entirely possible,” Cal said. “Lorna, do you want to go?”

  “Yes,” said Lorna. “Something about this whole thing bothers me. I’m taking my pistol and a bag of shells.”

  “So am I,” Rebecca said.

  That drew some applause from all the others, for it was a precaution each of them well understood. The following morning, Cal, Lorna, McCaleb and Rebecca rode out, bound for Deadwood. Brazos Gifford was in charge of the Lone Star outfit, while Tom Allen had taken responsibility for the Story riders.

  “There’s enough of us that a couple of the ladies could stay in camp and cook for both outfits,” said Brazos. “What about it, Tom?”

  “Suits me,” Tom said. “Why don’t we choose two from each outfit? Jasmine, that’ll be you and Curley.”

  “Rosalie,” said Brazos, “it’ll be you and Susannah. We can’t spare Penelope.”

  Some of them looked at Penelope in amusement, and she did a rare thing. She blushed.

  McCaleb, Cal, Lorna and Rebecca rode four abreast, and by early afternoon of the first day, they could see the dust of the the Yates wagon far ahead.

  “We ought to travel wide and avoid them,” Rebecca said.

  “Damned if I will,” said McCaleb. “That would be considerably out of our way, and I’m not aiming for them to reach Deadwood ahead of us. It would be just like that no-account old coyote to announce that our cattle are scattered
all to hell and gone. Since there’s no law, the miners might consider our cows fair game and start gunnin’ ’em down.”

  “Yates sounds like trouble,” Lorna said. “Why did you allow him to travel with you?”

  “Ah, hell,” said McCaleb, “I reckon I felt sorry for them. There’s him and the two girls he claims are his daughters, and they didn’t show up until we were more than a hundred miles from home.”

  “Monte said they have a roulette wheel in the wagon,” Rebecca said.

  “I don’t want to hear Monte’s name mentioned, or his opinion on anything,” said McCaleb shortly. “He’s alive only because he’s your brother, and I don’t know how much longer I can let that stand in my way.”

  Lorna could see the hurt in Rebecca’s eyes, and as though by mutual agreement, the two of them dropped back, trotting their horses side by side.

  “Sorry,” Lorna said softly. “Jasmine lost her brother Bud just a few weeks ago. Ever since we left Texas, he’s been a constant worry. We thought, after he married Curley, he would settle down, but he didn’t. He just made her life hell. He got a mad on and rode out for Deadwood. Quickenpaugh learned the Sioux had dug in along the Little Big Horn, and when he tried to warn Bud, Bud shot him. As far as we know, he rode headlong into some of the waiting Sioux.”

  “My God,” said Rebecca. “I almost know Monte’s headed for a bad end. I just don’t know when or where it will come.”

  “Sometimes a good woman can change a man,” Lorna said. “Would you believe Curley and Quickenpaugh the Comanche have been . . . sharing their blankets?”

  “After all we’ve been through with Monte,” said Rebecca, “I’d believe anything. Are the Indian’s intentions good?”

  “As good as an Indian’s intentions ever get,” Lorna said. “Quickenpaugh’s thinking of a horse ranch. He don’t care a damn for all the cows in the world.”

  “That sounds like Goose,” said Rebecca. “God, can he gentle horses. He likes them, and for some reason nobody understands, they like him.”

  “I noticed that,” Lorna said, “when he walked through our horse herd. You know, it’s only their common love for horses that prevented a fight to the death between the two of them.”