“So have we,” said Tom Allen. “We’re considering the gather finished.”
“Now all we need do is deliver them and collect our money,” Jasmine said. “I thought our folks would be back before now.”
“I reckon it’s too late now,” said Brazos, “but I’ve never trusted speculators. If this Reems hombre’s payin’ us fifty dollars a head, it means he’s got to soak the miners for at least eighty dollars a head. Hell, I’d live on jackrabbit stew before I’d pay that for beef.”
It was near suppertime, and most of the others had heard Brazos’s grim words. There was little conversation until Goose spoke.
“Horses come.” He pointed eastward.
After a few minutes, the rest of them could see the four approaching riders.
Wearily, the four dismounted. McCaleb and Cal each had an eye that had changed to angry purple, and a variety of cuts and bruises on their faces. But Lorna and Rebecca seemed to have taken the worst of it. Nothing remained of their shirts except the cuffs and collars, and even their Levi’s had been ripped until they were barely decent.
“My God,” said Jasmine, “what happened?”
“We had to fight our way out of town,” McCaleb said.
“We sure as hell did,” said Cal, “and there may be worse to come.”
Cal and McCaleb took turns relating what had happened, and there were groans from every rider as the grim tale unfolded. Lorna and Rebecca had gone to the chuck wagon to replace their mutilated shirts.
“I have just one more shirt,” Lorna said. “If it gets ripped off, for any reason, I think I’ll just stay naked from the waist up.”
“You’re in better shape than I am,” said Rebecca. “My Levi’s are split from the back of my waistband all the way to the front. I don’t dare sit down.”
McCaleb waited until after supper before trying to answer the question that was on the minds of them all: Who would ride to Cheyenne, find Milo Reems and get their money?
“We have a decision to make,” McCaleb said, “and the longer we delay it, the greater the possibility that this Milo Reems will escape us. We need as many guns as we can get to protect the herds, but somebody must ride to Cheyenne without delay. Are there any suggestions as to who should go?”
“As far as Lone Star’s concerned,” said Brazos Gifford, “I think you should go.”
There was a unanimous shout from the rest of the riders.
“I think Cal should go for us,” Tom Allen said.
“What about Rebecca and Lorna?” Penelope asked. “Are they going?”
“No,” said Rebecca, “and I think I’m speaking for both of us. One more brawl, and we will both be without a stitch to wear.”
Some of the cowboys grinned, for they had seen the disastrous result of the fight the two women had engaged in with the Yates girls.
“Brazos,” said McCaleb, “you’re in charge of Lone Star while I’m gone. If those miners show up, try to stall them until we’ve had time to work out something in Cheyenne.”
“Tom,” Cal said, “take over for me while I’m gone.”
“If this bunch shows up and won’t listen to reason,” said Brazos, “how far do we go in protecting our herd?”
“As far as you have to,” McCaleb said. “There’s only a couple of soldiers in town, so it’ll be the law of the gun. But avoid killing, if you can. The federals can declare martial law and lock us all up in Yuma.”
“He’s dead right,” said Cal. “Consider what he said as coming from me.”
Cal and McCaleb saddled fresh horses and, in the gathering darkness, rode south.
“Do any of you know how far north of Cheyenne we are?” Tom Allen asked.
“I’d say a hundred and thirty miles,” said Brazos Gifford. “If Reems has a three-day start, and he’s taking a wagon, Cal and McCaleb may overtake him before he gets there.”
“Lord, I hope you’re right,” Tom said. “Most of us have worked ten long years for our individual herds.”
“You can be sure of one thing,” said Will Elliot. “Benton McCaleb will find Reems, no matter how far he has to go.”
“I think Cal’s of the same mind,” Tom said. “We’ve done all we can do, putting it in their hands and preparing to defend the herds.”
DEADWOOD, DAKOTA TERRITORY.
JULY 8, 1876
Roscoe Yates looked around the meager place he had rented in Deadwood, next to Saloon Number Ten. His was a single room with a storeroom in the back. He had brought a bucket of red paint, and across the rough boards that created the false front, he had painted foot-high letters that read, ROSCOE’S EMPORIUM.
“Some damn emporium,” said Kate in disgust. “There’s no upstairs and no privacy in the back.”
“There’s room for three bunks back there,” Yates growled. “If your damned modesty requires any more privacy, then rent a place of your own.”
Roscoe wasted no time in unloading the several barrels of whiskey from the wagon, and followed that with the roulette wheel. Connie and Kate had donned their skimpiest red costumes and stood in the doorway.
“Well, now,” said one of a pair of miners, “we ain’t seen you two here before.”
“We just arrived today,” Connie said seductively.
“Come in,” Roscoe Yates invited. “First drink is on the house.”
The two men downed their drinks and each ordered another. Roscoe was genial enough, and one of the men spoke.
“You should of got here sooner. There was a hell of a fight up yonder outside of old Lassiter’s place. Two gents rode in, and the women with them was real lookers. When they finally rode out, they both had their shirts tore off.”
Kate laughed. “We saw them riding out. They’re bring-in’ in a herd of cattle from somewhere in Wyoming, and we traveled with them a ways, until they got too uppity.”
“Cattle?” said one of the miners. “By God, that’s the beef we paid for. They’re likely to be another week or more, gettin’ ’em here. Let’s round up a bunch of the boys that’s bought beef and let’s go after ’em.”
They left the emporium immediately.
“Have fun, McCaleb,” Kate said.
“Yeah,” said Connie. “Let McCaleb and his high-falutin’ women take care of them.”
Yates laughed. “Them two highfalutin females stripped the both of you as bare as a pair of plucked geese. First time I ever seen two whores stark naked, hoofin’ it across the plains.”
“Laugh, you old coot,” said Connie. “You don’t own us, and now that we’re here, we can get us a better place.”
Within the hour, there was a commotion in the street as men saddled their horses.
“Tarnation,” Yates said, “there must be two hundred of ’em.”
Once mounted, the horde of horsemen kicked their mounts into a fast gallop, heading west. McKeever, the self-appointed leader, eventually reined up to rest the horses.
“It’s gonna be dark long ’fore we get to them cows,” a miner complained.
“Hell,” said McKeever, “you can’t dig in the dark. We find ’em tonight, we can take our beef at first light”
“That was damn strange, Reems hirin’ a whore he could call his wife,” said another of the miners. “Suppose he took the money and run without payin’ for them cows. Where will that leave us?”
“With our guns in our hands, by God,” McKeever said. “We paid for beef, and we’re gonna have beef. Any of you that ain’t of the same mind, get the hell back to town.”
There was a thunderous shout of approval from the group, and, mounting their horses, they galloped away.
SOUTHEASTERN WYOMING TERRITORY.
JULY 9, 1876
McCaleb and Cal had ridden until far in the night, and near moonset they and their horses were exhausted. They picketed the animals and rolled in their blankets. When they arose at dawn, they ate jerked beef from their saddlebags and went on.
“I’m surprised we haven’t seen wagon tracks,” McCaleb said.
“From where we left our herds, Cheyenne should be almost due south.”
“We don’t know for a fact he’s headed for Cheyenne,” said Cal. “All we know is what he told somebody before leaving Deadwood. I’ve seen a map or two in my time, and as I seem to recall, the Union Pacific makes a water stop at North Platte, Nebraska. It can’t be much farther away from Deadwood than Cheyenne, and it would account for us not seeing any southbound wagon tracks.”
“Hell’s bells, you’re right,” said McCaleb. “The man’s a swindler and a damn thief, but he’s no fool. He could have planted that Cheyenne story to buy him enough time to reach the Union Pacific stop at North Platte.”
“We could turn southeast here and head for North Platte,” Cal said.
“We’re still not sure he’s not bound for Cheyenne, traveling just a little farther east,” said McCaleb. “We can ride hard and be in Cheyenne tonight. If there’s no sign of him there, or having been there, we can take the next eastbound to North Platte and be there in a couple of hours.”
“One thing he won’t have in his favor,” Cal said. “If he’s got a wagon loaded with raw gold—maybe dust—he can’t just drop it in a sack and tote it on the train with him. I’m inclined to think he’ll have to find a bank and convert the gold into currency. I’m not all that sure how much of a town North Platte is. Do you reckon it has a bank?”
“Hell, I don’t know,” said McCaleb. “Many a smalltown bank is just that. There’s no way they could convert hundreds of thousands of dollars in gold to currency without two or three days’ delay. In fact, I’m not sure the bank in Cheyenne can do that.”
“He’d stand a better chance in Denver,” Cal said. “It’s somethin’ like a hundred miles to the south of Cheyenne.”
“Let’s don’t gallop off in too many directions until we know something for sure,” said McCaleb. “Denver’s a long shot, and we’ll draw that card only if we come up with a pair of deuces in Cheyenne and North Platte.”
18
LITTLE MISSOURI RIVER, DAKOTA TERRITORY.
JULY 10, 1876
QUICKENPAUGH AND GOOSE HAD been positioned on opposite sides of the horse herd. The rest of the two outfits were armed, circling the grazing cattle.
“Mighty quiet,” Tom Allen said.
“Too quiet,” said Brazos Gifford. “If we don’t have visitors sometime tonight, they’ll be here in the morning.”
Quanah Taylor and Penelope rode side by side, not speaking. Monte Nance had taken to following them while they were on watch, and when the two finally spread their blankets to sleep, he was always nearby.
“He’s buildin’ up to something that may finish me with your outfit,” Taylor said, “and I don’t know what I can do to avoid it.”
“He’ll try to get at you somehow,” said Penelope. “Do what you must. You’re welcome to be with me, and he’s not.”
Three hours before first light, Quickenpaugh sought out Tom Allen and spoke quietly.
“Much hombres come.” He pointed to the east.
Quickly, Tom Allen awoke Brazos and the riders who slept.
“Quickenpaugh says they’re comin’,” Tom said quietly.
They saddled their horses by starlight and checked the loads in their weapons. Rebecca, Rosalie, Susannah, Lorna, Jasmine and Curley were mounted, a Winchester across every saddle. When Penelope mounted, she carried a Winchester, and her Colt was belted around her slender waist.
“I don’t look for them to approach before daylight,” said Brazos, “but we can’t afford not to be ready. Remember, if you shoot in the dark, your muzzle flash becomes a perfect target.”
Time wore on, and the first gray light of dawn brightened the eastern sky when they saw the line of advancing riders.
“My God,” said Mac Withers, “there must be three hundred of ’em.”
“Rest of you stay where you are,” Tom Allen said. “Brazos and me will face them.”
But fate took a hand, and all hell broke loose. The two hundred horses belonging to Nelson Story were on the east bank of the Little Missouri. Quickenpaugh and Goose rode a circle around the grazing herd, their eyes on the approaching horde of riders. Quickenpaugh was nearest, and pointing to him, one of the miners cursed.
“It’s one of them red heathen that kilt Custer!”
A Winchester roared and Quickenpaugh was hit. Other Winchesters roared, and lead burned a path across the flank of Quickenpaugh’s horse. The animal reared just as the Indian was hit again, dropping Quickenpaugh to the ground. The horses were milling and rearing, making it impossible for the defenders on the west bank to get clear shots. Curley galloped her horse madly upstream, seeking a place to cross the river, while the men who had downed Quickenpaugh continued firing. But Goose was already on the opposite bank, and with the first shot, he was mounted on one of the horses, trying to reach the fallen Quickenpaugh. His comrades across the river could only watch helplessly as Goose galloped on. The firing continued, and they saw him flinch as he was hit. He had almost reached the fallen Quickenpaugh when a slug struck his horse. Nickering, the animal sank to its knees. Goose rolled free and came up on his feet, snatching the Colt off his right hip in a cross-hand draw. Once, twice, three times the weapon roared. There was a shriek of pain as one of the attackers dropped his Winchester. Tom Allen and some of the riders had crossed the river below the milling horse herd, while Brazos Gifford and the rest of the riders had crossed upstream, right behind Curley. Slugs still were whipping all around Goose, but he had taken the fallen Quickenpaugh’s Colt and was returning fire. Though outgunned, the two outfits were across the river and firing as rapidly as they could pull their triggers. It was a withering fire, and although they had the larger force, the attackers ran for it. Ten of their comrades lay unmoving. Curley was the first to reach Quickenpaugh, and kneeling beside him, she found the left side of his buckskins soaked with blood.
“Him hit hard,” said Goose, bringing Curley’s horse.
“You did the best you could,” Curley said, tears streaking her cheeks. “Thank you.”
Goose, bleeding from a wound in his left shoulder, lifted Curley to the saddle and then hoisted up the wounded Quickenpaugh. The women from both outfits had withdrawn from the chase, and some of them were already across the river near the chuck wagon. Quickly a fire was lighted and water put on to boil. Rebecca had spread a blanket, and Quickenpaugh was stretched out on it. Curley removed his buckskins, revealing the terrible wound in his left side. On his right side, under his arm, another wound bled.
“Goose,” Rebecca ordered, “take off your shirt. You’ve been hit.”
Brazos, Tom and the rest of the riders soon returned. They all gathered around the unconscious Quickenpaugh, their faces grim.
“They be cowards,” said Oscar Fentress bitterly. “His hide be red, but he white as any man that ever straddle a hoss. Ever’body move away. Let me see what can I do for him.”
When the water was boiling, Oscar went to work on Quickenpaugh, while Rebecca took charge of Goose and his less serious wound.
“Goose,” Brazos said, “you saved his life.”
“He one of us,” said Goose simply.
Rebecca stood there with tears in her eyes, and much later, she found it difficult to tell McCaleb about the strange expression on Goose’s face and what he had said.
“Tom,” Brazos said, “we’d better take some riders and get back across the river. We’d best move the horse herd over here too. It played hell, them gettin’ spooked.”
“I reckon,” said Tom. “They lost ten men, and they won’t let us get away with that.”
CHEYENNE, WYOMING TERRITORY.
JULY 10, 1876
“Ain’t been nobody like you described through here,” the Union Pacific station agent told McCaleb and Cal. “I reckon I’d remember, if some gent showed up with a wagonload of gold.”
“I reckon you would,” McCaleb said, “Maybe he took the train from North Platte. Can you find out for us?”
; “Mister,” said the agent, “this sounds almighty big and almighty crooked to me. So I ain’t gettin’ involved unless the law takes a hand. Why don’t you ride to Laramie? There’s a deputy U.S. marshal there. If you can convince him you got a problem, he can handle it for you lots better than I ever could. It’s on the Union Pacific line, and he’ll have access to the telegraph.”
“That’s more delay,” Cal said, as they left the depot.
“Not much,” said McCaleb. “Maybe forty miles, and if we can convince this federal man we have a cause, it won’t matter where Reems gets off the train. The law can be waiting for him.”
Mounting their horses, they followed the Union Pacific tracks west. Laramie was still a growing town, strung out mostly along the line. The first building they saw was the depot, and the agent stood in the door, watching them approach.
“Pardner,” McCaleb said, “we’ve been told there’s a deputy U.S. marshal here. Where can we find him?”
“Just keep follerin’ the track,” said the railroad man. “His name’s Hiram Yeager, and his office is right next to the Palace Hotel.”
The lawman was going through some papers on the desk before him. On the desk lay a Colt, while a shotgun and Winchester leaned against the wall within his reach.
“Come in, gents. I’m Hiram Yeager. What can I do for you?”
Quickly, taking turns, Cal and McCaleb told him the entire story, including the hiring of Viola by Reems to impersonate his wife.
“Great God,” said Yeager, “that’s as ingenious a scheme as I ever heard. This isn’t a small-time thief you’re after. He may have a record.”
“You’re welcome to the varmint for anything else he’s done,” McCaleb said. “All we’re after is the money he collected for selling our cattle before we reached Deadwood.”
“Let’s look at some WANTED dodgers,” said Yeager, opening a desk drawer.
“We’ve never seen this Reems,” Cal said.
“We might learn something from his method of operation,” said Yeager. “Besides, he may have used other names.”
The Deadwood Trail Page 27
