The Chisholm Trail

by Ralph Compton

  The tone of his voice took the sting out of his words, and her response took his breath away. The night was cool, but when she let go of him, sweat ran into his eyes and dripped off his chin. Somehow, the flimsy gown had gotten above her waist, and she wore nothing else. Reluctantly he withdrew until she had it back in place. She then turned to him with a whisper.

  “Now do you believe me?”

  “I believe you,” he said. “There’s never been anyone else, Priscilla, and now there never will be.”

  “Tenatse—”

  “Call me Ten.”

  “Ten, let’s not…run away just yet. Neither of us will be of age for another year, and if I try to leave now, there’ll be a fight with my father. When I go, I want nothing to stand in my way. When I’m eighteen, you will be too, and—and sure that you…want me.”

  “I am sure I want you, damn it. What must I say? What must I do? If I want you and you want me, what else do we need?”

  Weeping silently, she tried to turn away, but he caught her. He said nothing, waiting until she quieted. Finally she spoke.

  “Ten, I’m sorry. I didn’t say that like I…meant to. I wish, oh Lord, how I wish I could go with you tonight. I’m asking you to wait because we would never even get out of New Orleans. Until I’m of age, the law will force me to answer to my father. Jason Brawn controls the law, Ten, and you would be killed. You’d be accused of kidnapping me, and shot on sight. I don’t doubt your courage, Tenatse Chisholm, but the odds are just too great. I believe we’d be safe on your frontier, but I want us to go legally, not like frightened mice, with the cat in hot pursuit. Damn it, Ten, I want you, but I want you alive, not shot dead before my eyes. Can’t you understand that?”

  “I reckon I do. I’m just…well, disappointed. It’s like I won you and lost you all in the same night. But you’re right. More right than you know. I wasn’t going to tell you, but your daddy hates my guts. I’d rather have you hear it from me than to learn of it later and believe I hadn’t been honest with you.”

  “What did you ever do to him?”

  “Caught him dealing from the bottom of the deck on The New Orleans, and he was banned from the poker tables. Maybe on other steamboats too.”

  “Oh, dear God! He’ll have you killed!”

  “I don’t think so. Not for that, anyway. That saloon was full of prominent men from New Orleans. If I end up dead, he’ll be suspected.”

  “Ten, you don’t know him. He has a vicious temper. I’m afraid for you, and I want you to get out of town as quickly as you can, although I’ll miss you terribly. When will you be coming back?”

  “October, if Jess has another load of trade goods for Roberts and Company. You’re afraid for me, and I’m more afraid for you. Suppose something goes wrong? How am I going to know?”

  “There’s a little bit of good news I haven’t told you. If things get too bad, I can always go to Louisville and stay with my grandmother. She’s my mother’s mother, and she never has liked or trusted my father. He hates for me to go there, but he doesn’t try to stop me. That’s one of the few ways Mother stands up for me. If I go, I’ll Write to you from there, and you can write to me. Where do I send my letter to you?”

  “Send it in care of Jesse Chisholm, Fort Smith, Arkansas. We only get the mail twice a month. You can use the telegraph too. Somehow, get me a letter before I come back to New Orleans. Tell me how I can see you while I’m here. Things being the way they are, I just hate to leave you here.”

  “You have no choice. Perhaps when you return, you can arrive quietly, without my father knowing you’re here. God knows what he’ll be like by then. There’s something eating at him, threatening him. There’s one thing you haven’t told me, Ten. How and why did you get yourself invited to that foolish party tonight?”

  “That’s the one thing I can’t tell you without violating a confidence. Let’s just say it was done through a friend you and your mother aren’t aware of, a friend who thinks you need somebody to stand by you. But after tonight, after finding you, I feel like all the chips are on my side of the table. Someday, when all this is behind us, maybe I’ll tell you the whole story. Until then, will you trust me?”

  “I’d trust you with my very life. It’s going to hurt me terribly, but you’d better go. You just don’t know how I’m tempted to keep you here, or to just go with you. Go, and come back to me when it’s safe for you.”

  Fearfully, she watched him depart, relieved that he was safely away from the house, but uncertain of his safety until he left New Orleans. Something bothered her, and she stood there watching, listening, long after he had vanished into the night. Suddenly she was cold, and the thin gown offered little protection. She would have been sorely tempted had he tried to take her, but he had not. She trusted him all the more, for his concern for her had overcome everything else. While he was young in years, he was a man.

  With Ten on her mind, Priscilla tried in vain to sleep, unaware that but a few hundred yards away other eyes had watched Tenatse Chisholm fade into the darkness; brutal men who had lain in wait, then beaten Ten until he lay unconscious, soaked in his own blood.

  6

  When the steamboat had docked in New Orleans, LeBeau and Sneed were the first ashore. They had positioned themselves behind some freight wagons, where they could see without being seen.

  “I want you to follow him,” said LeBeau, “for as long as he’s here, and at six Friday evening, meet me in the lobby of the St. Charles with a report.”

  “I’ll tail him,” said Sneed, “but suppose he leaves before Friday? You want me to come to th’ house and tell you?”

  “Under no circumstances are you to come to the house. Whatever you have to tell me, save it for Friday.”

  By five-thirty Friday evening LeBeau was pacing the lobby of the St. Charles Hotel. He had planned a weekend at one of Jason Brawn’s gambling houses. It was remote enough that Brawn provided carriages for his patrons from New Orleans, The carriages departed promptly at seven, and if LeBeau wasn’t ready, he’d have to provide his own transportation. Six o’clock came and went without a sign of Sneed. It was half past the hour when he finally arrived, and LeBeau was furious.

  “You’re late,” he snapped. “Whatever you have to say, say it. I have something for you to do tomorrow night.”

  They seated themselves as far from the desk as possible, and Sneed began his report. LeBeau listened indifferently until Sneed came to Ten’s visit to the U.S. Customs office. At that point he bounded out of his chair as though prodded with a hot iron.

  “So that’s what he’s up to!” he all but shouted.

  Several people, including Sneed, looked at LeBeau in surprise. He forced himself to sit down, but his teeth were clenched, and he gripped the arms of the chair so fiercely, his knuckles were white.

  “When he left there,” continued Sneed, “he—”

  “I don’t care a damn about the rest of it,” interrupted LeBeau.

  Sneed said no more, waiting. Finally LeBeau got back to him.

  “What name is he using?”

  “Tenatse Chisholm.”

  LeBeau rested his elbows on his knees and covered his face with his hands. He spoke without looking at Sneed.

  “This…Chisholm has gotten himself invited to my daughter’s birthday party tomorrow night. He’ll be there until maybe ten o’clock. I want you to hire half a dozen men. You know the kind. When he leaves the house, follow him. When he’s far enough away, in some dark, deserted place, give him a beating he won’t forget. I want him out of this town, and I want him to leave with some strong reasons against coming back.”

  “Why don’t I just shoot the troublesome bastard?”

  “My God, Sneed, use your head! Too many people saw him make a fool of me on the boat. If he ends up dead, who do you think will be suspected? I want a report from you Sunday evening. Be here at five, and don’t fail me.”

  It was nearly midnight when Ten left Priscilla, and she so occupied his mind, he
could think of little else. It had all begun with his feeling sorry for Priscilla, but now, having known her for just a few hours, he was awed by the depth of his feeling for her. He forced his thoughts away from Priscilla and considered what she had told him about Jason Brawn. If LeBeau had underworld connections, and this Jason Brawn controlled the law, then their escape would be far more complicated than just getting her out of the LeBeau house. Engrossed in his thoughts, he found himself in a section of the Garden District where every window was dark. The moon had set, and there was only the starlight. Suddenly there were footsteps, and he could see the dim outline of a man approaching him. Wary, he continued, allowing the stranger plenty of room. Coming even with him, the man’s brawny arm shot out and a hand grabbed the front of Ten’s coat. Ten had caught the movement from the corner of his eye, but not soon enough. He fought, the coat ripped, but before he could free himself, a massive arm was around his throat.

  His wind had been shut off, and it seemed he was drowning in a dark sea, with the roar of the pounding surf in his ears. Suddenly the pressure let up, but he was surrounded by men. Blows rained on him, and from the numbing pain, he knew some of them were from brass knucks. He could feel blood welling from his smashed nose and lips. Somebody dug a knee into his groin, and waves of nausea swept over him. Something came crashing down on his head, and he felt himself falling…falling. If it would free him from the pain, he welcomed unconsciousness, but he was denied even that. When he was down, they began kicking him. Only when a boot heel smashed against the side of his head did welcome oblivion take him.

  With the clop-clop-clop of hoofs and the rattle of a carriage, the brutal, one-sided affair ended. The attackers faded into the darkness, leaving the young man from Indian Territory where he had fallen, breathing raggedly, unconscious.

  Marty Brand was uneasy, and he had come by the emotion naturally. His mother had been like that. She would get a feeling in her bones that something awful was about to happen, and would fidget about like a worm in hot ashes until she knew what it was. By eleven o’clock he knew something had gone wrong, and he wasn’t going to camp in that hotel any longer. While he had agreed not to accompany Ten, he hadn’t promised he wouldn’t follow later. He checked his Colt, stuffed extra shells into his pocket, and went down to the street. It was late, but it was Saturday night, so he found a livery open. By lantern light the hostler and two other men were playing poker.

  “I need a carriage for a while.”

  “Nothin’ left but a couple of buckboards,” said the hostler, irritated by the interruption.

  “I’ll take one,” said Marty, “and I’ll hitch up the team, unless you got rules against it.”

  The man said nothing, and Marty took that for approval. He didn’t care diddly about a matched team, so he took the two handiest horses, a roan and a black. He could have taken a saddle horse, but was less likely to draw attention to himself in a buckboard. Besides, he might need a buckboard. He had confidence his young Injun partner could take care of himself in a fair fight, but from his own experience, who could say the fight would be fair? While a man might be hell on little red wheels with a pistol, he died just like anybody else when he was shot in the back.

  Marty was a cautious and observant man, and while he didn’t know the town well, he knew where St. Charles was, and the nearest cross street to the LeBeau house. There were markers on the street corners, but they were less than useless in pitch-dark. Departing the LeBeau house, a man on foot didn’t have that many options as to direction. Marty judged it was near midnight when he reached the heart of the Garden District. The LeBeau house was near the middle of the block, a respectable distance off St. Charles.

  Keeping to cross streets, Marty paralleled the house to the east and west. Not a house on the block showed a lighted window, and he had no way of knowing where Ten might be. Had he somehow gotten the girl out of the house, or was he somewhere within it? Coming to St. Charles on the east side, he reined up, undecided as to what direction next to take. Then, somewhere to his left, he heard something, and it reminded him of a sickening sound he’d heard before. Once, fighting for his life with no chance to reload, he had killed a Union soldier with the butt of his rifle. He had never forgotten the sound of the death blow to the man’s head.

  He wheeled the team to the east and set off down St. Charles. In the shadows ahead he thought he saw movement, but in the darkness he’d have missed Ten if the horses hadn’t shied at the smell of blood. Looping the reins over the brake handle, Marty drew his Colt and stepped down. Satisfied the attackers were gone, he found Ten’s wrist and sought a pulse. It was there, but weak. It would be risky, moving him without knowing the extent of his injuries. Movement might worsen some internal hurt of which he was unaware, or a broken rib might puncture a lung. But he had no choice. He was scarcely healed from his own beating, and his weakened left leg threatened to give out as he struggled to get Ten into the buckboard. Reaching the Magnolia Hotel, he searched the street in vain for someone who might help him. Finally he went into the lobby. The night man had his feet on the counter and was leaning back in his chair, snoring. Marty whacked the bell as hard as he could, and the clerk was jolted awake.

  “Sorry,” said Marty, “but I have a friend who’s been hurt, and I need help getting him to his room. There’s nobody else around, so it’s up to you.”

  The man was disgruntled and wanted to argue. “Where is he? Who is he?”

  “Outside in a buckboard,” said Marty. “The man from room twelve.”

  “Oh, him!”

  He had been on the desk the night Ten had returned the ambusher’s fire. Wordlessly, he followed Marty outside. The twin lamps at the hotel entrance cast some light into the street, and for the first time, Marty could see just how brutally Ten had been beaten.

  “My God,” cried the clerk, “is he alive?”

  “He won’t be,” said Marty grimly, “if we don’t get him to his room and find a doctor.”

  Ten was heavier than he looked, and it wasn’t easy, getting him up the stairs. Marty was more fearful than ever of the damage all this movement might be doing internally. They eased Ten down on the hall floor, while the clerk unlocked the door. By the time they had the wounded man stretched out on the bed, they were exhausted.

  “Much obliged,” said Marty. “I’d never have got him up here without you. Where can I find a doctor this time of night?”

  “Maybe Doc Lowell. He’s got no family, and he lives at the St. Charles Hotel. If he ain’t there, he might’ve left word at the desk.”

  Marty drove as fast as he dared, along the dark, narrow streets. He’d considered going to the riverfront saloons in search of old Doc McConnel, since he wouldn’t have as far to go. But he drove on to the St. Charles. Doc McConnel, even if he found him, would be totally “petrified” by now.

  “Doc’s down the hall,” said the night man. “Room four. But he’s likely dead on his feet. Was up all night last night, all day today, and he ain’t been in more’n two hours.”

  Dr. Lowell could sleep tomorrow. Tenatse Chisholm might be dead by then. Marty pounded on the door a dozen times before he got a sleepy response. Lowell proved to be a young man, sandy-haired, so thin he mightn’t have had a square meal in his life. He also looked sorely in need of the sleep from which he’d been awakened.

  “Sorry, Doc,” said Marty. “My friend’s been beaten almost to death. He’s at the Magnolia Hotel. I have a buckboard. I’ll take you there and bring you back.”

  “Give me five minutes,” said the sleepy doctor.

  Marty, thinking of Ten’s bloody, battered body, begrudged every minute. Despite the cool night air and the added chill from the river, the horses were lathered by the time they reached the Magnolia. Marty vowed they’d be rubbed down when they were returned to the livery, if he had to do it himself. This time the desk clerk was wide-awake.

  “We’ll need some towels, soap, and plenty of hot water,” said Marty.

  Marty took the s
tairs two at a time, the doctor right behind him. Ten still lay on his back, and if appearance counted for anything, he could have been dead. Dr. Lowell looked at Ten and shook his head.

  “Let’s get him out of those clothes. What’s left of them.”

  Marty answered a knock on the door and found the night man there, with towels, soap, a tin wash pan, and a bucket of hot water.

  “Thanks,” said Marty. “You’ve been mighty helpful.”

  The doctor carefully removed the Colt from beneath Ten’s belt, placing it on the table beside the bed. Once they had the ruined, bloody clothes off, he looked even more brutally beaten than before.

  “He’s had a severe blow to the head,” said Lowell. “If he doesn’t have a fracture, it’ll be a miracle. He was slugged, and then kicked while he was down. His ribs are a mess; maybe some of them broken or dislocated.”

  “Punctured lung?”

  “Probably not,” said Lowell, “but I won’t know for sure until I wash away the blood from his nose and mouth. Then we’ll see if he’s breathing without the bloody foam. I see no evidence of it, and that’s a good sign.”

  Most of the wounds on Ten’s head and face needed stitches. The gash on the back of his head was the worst. There was another above his left eye, and a lesser one over his right ear. The jagged cut on his right cheek had barely missed his eye. His coat had partially protected his upper body, and while he was black and blue with bruises, there were no serious wounds.

  “Now,” said the doctor, “you’ll have to help me. I’m going to bind his ribs, and you’ll have to lift him enough for me to pass the bandage around him.”

  When at last they were finished, the doctor took a small bottle from his bag.

  “Laudanum,” he said. “I’m going to get a dose of this down him now, and leave the rest. He’s, scarcely going to be able to move for the next three or four days. I’ll see him again tomorrow afternoon.”

  Marty drove the doctor back to his hotel. When he returned to the livery, the poker game was still in progress, a fourth man sitting in. Marty unhitched the team, rubbed them down, and paid his bill. Back in the Magnolia, Ten lay as they’d left him. Marty took his wrist and felt for the pulse. It was there, but still weak. Suddenly the battered lips moved.