The Bozeman Trail

by Ralph Compton

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  SNEAK THIEVES

  Billy Swan was riding Nighthawk when he heard the faint sound of hooves on rock. Since the herd was at rest, he looked around to find the source of the sound and saw a long dark line ragged with heads and horns moving away from the main herd.

  “Cattle thieves!” he shouted.

  Billy’s shout not only awakened his partners—it alerted the thieves and instantly one of them fired a shot. Billy fired back. By now, a barrage began coming from the camp itself as James and the others rolled out of their blankets and began shooting. Revelation was standing in the wagon, firing a rifle.

  Billy put his pistol away and raised his rifle. He aimed toward the dust and the swirling melee of cattle, waiting for one of the robbers to present a target. One horse appeared, but its saddle was empty.

  Then another horse appeared, this time with a rider who was shooting wildly. . . .

  SIGNET

  Published by New American Library, a division of

  Penguin Putnam Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand,

  London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Books Australia Ltd, Ringwood,

  Victoria, Australia

  Penguin Books Canada Ltd, 10 Alcorn Avenue,

  Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4V 3B2

  Penguin Books (N.Z.) Ltd, 182-190 Wairau Road,

  Auckland 10, New Zealand

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices:

  Harmondsworth, Middlesex, England

  First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.

  First Printing, September 2002

  Copyright © The Estate of Ralph Compton, 2002 Map copyright © Bob Robinson, 2002

  All rights reserved

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  eISBN : 978-1-101-17748-8

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of

  this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a

  retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means

  (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise),

  without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and

  the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either

  are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously,

  and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales

  is entirely coincidental.

  BOOKS ARE AVAILABLE AT QUANTITY DISCOUNTS WHEN USED TO PROMOTE

  PRODUCTS OR SERVICES. FOR INFORMATION PLEASE WRITE TO PREMIUM

  MARKETING DIVISION, PENGUIN PUTNAM INC., 375 HUDSON STREET, NEW YORK,

  NEW YORK 10014.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  THE BOZEMAN TRAIL

  Chapter One

  Atacosa Creek, Bexar County, Texas

  Thursday, June 20, 1861:

  James Cason was bent low over his mount’s neck. The horse’s mane and tail were streaming out behind, its nostrils flaring wide as it worked the powerful muscles in its shoulders and haunches. Bob Ferguson was riding just behind James, urging his animal to keep pace, and Billy Swan was riding beside him. Behind James, Bob, and Billy, rode three more cowboys from Long Shadow Ranch.

  The six men hit the shallow Atacosa Creek in full stride, and sand and silver bubbles flew up in a sheet of spray, sustained by the churning action of the horses’ hooves until huge drops began falling back like rain. James led the men toward an island in the middle of the stream.

  “We’ll hold here!” James shouted.

  The six riders brought their steeds to a halt. In one case the halting action was so abrupt that the horse almost slipped down onto its haunches in response to the desperate demand of its rider.

  The six men had been in pursuit of a group of Mexican banditos who had murdered two of Long Shadow’s cowboys and stolen a hundred head of cattle. Long Shadow was a ranch of over one hundred thousand acres, located just south of San Antonio de Bexar. The ranch was owned by Colonel Garrison Cason, James Cason’s father.

  Unbeknownst to the boys, the small band of raiders they were pursuing was but a part of a group of nearly one hundred Mexican outlaws who crossed the border into America to conduct raids on ranches all over South Texas. This outlaw army, led by a former guerrilla who called himself “General” Ramos Garza, planned to steal a large herd, then retreat across the border back into Mexico where they would be safe from any further pursuit.

  Thinking only they were pursuing a few murderous rustlers, the boys had ridden right into Garza’s army. When that happened, the pursuers became the pursued, and the small posse was forced into a desperate dash back to a small island in the middle of the stream.

  “How many are there?” James asked. “Did anyone get a count?”

  “Too many to fight off!” Billy answered.

  Of the six, Billy Swan was the only one who was not from Long Shadow. Billy lived with his uncle on Trailback, a neighboring ranch. But a rustler who stole from one rancher stole from them all, so cooperation among the ranchers against rustlers was routine.

  Billy would have ridden with them at any rate, first because he was a friend, and secondly because it was an adventure and Billy never turned his back on any adventure. As it was developing, however, this was a little more adventure than even he had planned on.

  “We’d better get ready,” James said. “We’ll be making our stand here.”

  James Cason was twenty-two years old. He was a rangy, raw-boned man with a handlebar mustache and eyes and demeanor that were older than his years.

  “James, we can’t stay here! We got to skedad dle!” Carl, one of the cowboys, said.

  “Skedaddle to where?” James asked. “We were running as hard as we could, just to get here.”

  “Maybe if we surrender,” Carl suggested.

  “Surrender and do what? Get our skin peeled?” Bob Ferguson asked. “That bunch out there is part Mexican, part Comanche, and part rattlesnake. They eat live scorpions for fun. You want to surrender to them?”

  Bob was a year younger and, at five-foot-eight, six inches shorter than James. He was an exceptionally skilled rider who often earned money by riding, and winning, impromptu races. Bob’s father, Dusty, had been Garrison Cason’s ranch foreman for nearly twenty years. As a result, Bob, too, grew up on Long Shadow, and he and James had been friends for as long as either could remember.

  “No,” Carl said. “I don’t think I would want that.”

  “Me, neither,” Bob said.

  James pointed to the neck of the island, which faced the eastern bank of the creek, the direction from which they had just come.

  “I think our best bet is to try and squirm down through the tall grass. We’ll take positions as near to the point as we can get, and do as much damage as we can when they start across the water.”
<
br />   “You think we can stop them?” one of the other cowboys asked.

  “We’ll know the answer to that in about two minutes,” James said. “Now hurry, get into position. And try and stay out of sight. Carl, you take that tree, Joe, that stump, Syl, you go over there behind that rock. Billy, this fallen tree is large enough for both of us, you stay here with me.”

  As the cowboys rushed to take up their positions, James shouted more instructions. “Don’t be spooked into shooting when you hear them. I want you to hold your fire until I give the word. Hold it until the last possible moment. Then make your shots count!”

  “James, you didn’t say where you wanted me,” Bob said.

  “I want you to go for help.”

  “What?”

  “You are the best rider here. I want you to get back to the ranch. Tell my father where we are. Tell him to bring help as fast as he can. We’ll hold them off for as long as possible. If he gets here soon enough, some of us may still be alive.”

  “No, James, don’t make me do this!” Bob protested. “I don’t aim to show my tail while the rest of you are stayin’ here to face them.”

  “Oh for God’s sake, Bob, do it!” Billy said. “Do you think any of us would actually think you are running?”

  “Don’t you understand, Bob? If you don’t go for help, none of us are going to get out of this alive!” James said.

  Bob looked at the others.

  “Do it, Bob,” Carl Adams said. He was the youngest of the group. “You are our only chance.”

  “Yes, do it! Go!” Joe and Syl shouted.

  “All right,” Bob said. “Billy, if you don’t mind, I’d like to take Diablo,” Bob said. “He’s the fastest horse.”

  “He’s yours,” Billy replied. “Just get through!”

  Billy brought Diablo up, and quickly, Bob put his foot into the stirrup, then swung up into the saddle.

  “Good luck!” Billy shouted, slapping Diablo on the rump. The others shouted as well, as Bob hit the water on the west side of the Atacosa, away from where the main body of their pursuers were. James watched Bob gallop north along the west bank of the creek until Diablo crested an embankment, then he turned back to await the banditos.

  “I hear them!” Joe said. His announcement wasn’t necessary, however, for by then everyone could hear the drumming of the hoofbeats as well as the cries of the banditos themselves, yip ping and barking and screaming at the top of their lungs.

  The banditos crested the bluff just before the creek; then, without a pause, they rushed down the hill toward the water, their horses sounding like thunder.

  “Remember, boys, hold your fire!” James shouted. “Hold your fire until I give you the word!”

  The banditos stopped just at the water’s edge, then holding their rifles over their heads, began shouting guttural challenges to the men who were dug in on the island.

  “Gringos! Are you ready to die, gringos?”

  “I think maybe we will kill all of you!”

  “Get ready,” James called.

  The banditos rushed into the water, riding hard across the fifty-yard-wide shallows, shouting and gesturing with rifles and pistols. Then three of them pulled ahead of the others, and when they were halfway across the water, James gave the order to fire. All three of the outlaws went down.

  James had fired in concert with the others, and saw the bandito he shot go down as if he had been knocked from his saddle with a club.

  The cowboys’ devastating volley was effective, for the banditos who survived swerved to the right and left, riding by, rather than over the cowboys’ positions.

  The remaining banditos crossed the creek, then started up the sandy point on the opposite side. They regrouped on the west bank; then turned and rode back for another charge. They were met with a second volley, as crushing as the first had been. Again, a significant number of the banditos in the middle of the charge went down.

  The Mexicans pulled back to the east bank of the stream to regroup, watched anxiously by the cowboys on the island. By now the stream was strewn with dead and dying banditos. There were at least eight or nine of them, lying face-down in the shallow water as the current parted around them.

  “Has anyone been hit?” James called.

  All five men with James answered in the negative. So far, no one had been scratched.

  “How are you doing on bullets?” James asked. “Do you all have enough?”

  “I’m running out of ammunition,” Syl said.

  James took off his belt and started pushing cartridges out of the little leather loops. “Let’s divide up what we have left,” he suggested.

  “Looks like they’re about to come at us again,” Billy said.

  “All right, boys, get ready. They’re comin’ back,” James shouted.

  James got down behind the log and rested the barrel of his rifle on the top. The advantage of the rifle was its range and accuracy. The disadvantage was the time it would take to reload.

  He would fire the rifle first, then if they continued to press their attack, he would use his pistol. Although the pistol held six charges, it was only accurate at close range.

  He thumbed back the hammer of his rifle, sighted down the long barrel, and waited.

  The banditos came again, their horses leaping over the bodies of their comrades and horses. One of the banditos wore a bright red serape and a sombrero decorated with silver. He was riding at the head of the others, and James was sure he must be the leader. That was the one James selected as his target. He waited for a good shot.

  When the shot presented itself, James squeezed the trigger. His bullet hit the Mexican just above the right ear, then exited through the top of his head. James saw brain tissue, blood, and bone detritus erupt from the top of the man’s head. The bandito dropped his pistol as he pitched back off his horse.

  When they saw their leader go down, the others milled about for a moment, uncertain as to what they should do. One or two started forward, but it wasn’t a concerted charge and, like their leader, they were easily shot down.

  By now, nearly a dozen Mexicans lay dead on the banks of the Atacosa, in the water, and on the sandy beaches of the island. The Mexicans made one more charge, and during this charge, James felt a blow to his left thigh. There was very little pain and he thought, perhaps, a rock had been kicked up by one of the horses’ hooves.

  Once again the Mexicans were repulsed and, once again, not one of James’s men had been lost. But their defense of the island had not been without some cost, for James had been wounded. What he had thought to be a blow from a rock turned out to be a bullet wound, and as he looked down toward his thigh he could see that the front of his pants was wet and sticky with blood. Fortunately, it didn’t seem to be gushing, which meant that no artery had been struck.

  The banditos did not make another attempt against the island. Instead, they crossed over the river in considerable numbers, both upstream and down, so they could occupy positions in the surrounding bluffs on both sides of the stream. In this way they were able to keep the cowboys effectively trapped on the island.

  “What are they doing?” Carl asked, nervously. “Why don’t they come on?”

  “They are going to wait us out,” Billy said.

  “Come on, you cowards!” the young cowboy shouted. “Come and get us!”

  “Take it easy, Carl. You’re doing just what they want you to do,” James said.

  From across the water, they heard laughter.

  “Do not be in such a hurry to die, amigo. We will kill you soon enough, I think.”

  The taunt was followed by more laughter.

  James knew that their survival depended upon whether or not Bob was able to get through to his father. If Bob made it, James’s father would no doubt be able to effect a rescue by nightfall. But if Bob didn’t make it, if he had been caught and killed by the banditos, it would only be a matter of time until the taunting Mexican made good his threat.

  There was sporadi
c firing throughout the rest of the afternoon and early evening as the cowboys on the island and the banditos on the bluffs continued to exchange gunfire. After sunset that evening, James counted half a dozen campfires scattered about on both sides of the creek. He and the others on the island listened as the banditos laughed and shouted insults and challenges to the little group on the island.

  “Who the hell are these guys?” James asked. “It looks like a whole army of them.”

  “It is an army,” Billy said.

  “What do you mean?” Joe asked.

  “They call themselves guerrillas,” Billy explained. “You see, right now the French control Mexico, but they don’t control the peasants. Every now and then, someone will get a bunch of men together, call himself a general, and tell them they are a revolutionary army, fighting for their freedom.”

  “Well, what the hell are they fightin’ us for?” Carl asked. “We ain’t took away their freedom.”

  “No, we haven’t. But anything, even the outlaw trail, is better than what they have.”

  Billy Swan knew what he was talking about. He had been born to a Mexican mother in the border town of El Paso. Four years ago he had come to San Antonio de Bexar to live with his father’s brother, Loomis Swan. Billy and James had been good friends ever since.

  With his dark complexion and flashing black eyes, Billy could easily pass as Mexican. He was fluent in Spanish and was as likely to be found in the Mexican cantinas as he was in the American saloons. He was good with ropes, and could drop a loop over a steer while riding at top speed. He was also skilled with a knife, and it was said that the reason he had come to live with his uncle was because he had killed a man in El Paso. But Billy had never confirmed the rumor, and James had never asked him about it.

  As James and the others looked anxiously out into the night, they discussed among themselves whether or not Bob made it.

  “Sure, he got through. He was on the fastest horse in the county,” Joe said.

  “And he’s the best rider,” Carl insisted.

  “Yes, but he had a long way to go, and Diablo was tired,” Syl said, adding a precautionary note to the discussion.