The Chisholm Trail

by Ralph Compton

  “Pardner,” said Marty, “it’s your turn to rest. Don’t do anything but breathe and sleep.”

  He went to his room, returned with his blankets, and spread them on the floor next to Ten’s bed. He kept his Colt within reach, in case there was a need for it.

  André LeBeau returned home Sunday evening in a foul mood. He had some good reasons. He had just come from the meeting with Sneed, and had learned of Ten’s visit to the balcony and, from what he’d heard, Priscilla’s bedroom. Besides that, he had lost heavily at Brawn’s gambling tables. He had no idea how deep was the hole he’d dug for himself, and he was afraid to find out. He salved his conscience as usual, by vowing to win big next time, and free himself once and for all. While Jason Brawn never mentioned money, he never failed to inquire about “the beautiful Priscilla.” The implication was clear: LeBeau’s gambling debts would be forgiven when Brawn took Priscilla. LeBeau shuddered. It was enough to sicken even him.

  He had to vent his anger and frustration on somebody, so he went looking for Emily. He found her in the dining room, going through the latest edition of the weekly newspaper. Priscilla was there too. So much the better, because he had a bone to pick with them both.

  “I want to know why this Tenatse Chisholm, Indian scum that he is, was allowed in this house while I was away.”

  “Since when have you taken any interest in anything that goes on in this house?” snapped Emily. “He’s new in town. A friend of mine, who’s a friend of his family, asked that he be invited. Why is it of any concern to you?”

  “Because your daughter—our daughter—threw herself at him like a riverfront whore, and he practically spent the night in her bedroom.”

  “That’s a lie!” shouted Priscilla. “He never set foot in my bedroom.”

  “You can’t accuse her of anything,” said Emily. “You weren’t here.”

  “I have a witness,” bawled LeBeau. “Chisholm used your stupid party to get into this house. He left when the others did, then climbed up to the balcony…”

  “So what?!” shouted Priscilla defiantly.

  “So you’ve disgraced yourself and me,” snarled LeBeau. “How can I face my friends? You’ll be the gossip of the town. Jason won’t—”

  “Now that I’m used goods,” interrupted Priscilla, “Jason won’t have me. That’s what’s bothering you, isn’t it? You’d trade my body to that lecherous old pig for the privilege of getting in over your head at his poker tables. Well, I have some news for you. I’d rather be dead and in Hell than married to Jason Brawn, and if there’s no other way of escaping it, I’ll kill myself!”

  She was leaning across the dining table toward him, the fury in her eyes such as he’d never beheld. A blind rage came over him, and he hit her much harder than he’d intended to. She stumbled backward, hit her head against the wall and went to her knees. Emily LeBeau stood in open-mouthed amazement, coming to her senses only when he’d hit Priscilla. Then Emily turned on LeBeau, in a fury all her own.

  “I don’t care what she’s done, André LeBeau. If she finds favor with this young man, or any man of her choosing, she’s entitled to it.”

  “All right,” snarled LeBeau, “so it doesn’t bother you that she’s disgraced the LeBeau name. Must she consort with the very scum that’s out to destroy me? Do either of you know why this young scoundrel weaseled his way into my house? Certainly not to romance you, Miss High-and-Mighty. He came here looking for evidence that my enemies can use against me.”

  Priscilla laughed. “Now I know what your problem is,” she said. “You don’t care a damn about me or my reputation. You just hate him, and you’re using me as an excuse to cut him down. The truth of it is, he caught you cheating at cards, exposed you before half the town, and got you banned from the poker tables on the steamboats. That’s why you hate him, isn’t it?”

  LeBeau’s face flamed, not with embarrassment, but with fury. The real issue—the true cause of his hatred for Tenatse Chisholm—was his belief that the customs people were using Ten to get to him, through Priscilla, to expose his suspected smuggling and black-marketing activities. It was a truth LeBeau dared not reveal to Priscilla or Emily. Let them believe what they wished. Now that Emily had turned on him, he wouldn’t have to feel so guilty when he robbed her trust fund. The money would buy his freedom from Brawn, Montaigne, and their bunch of cutthroats. LeBeau was jolted rudely back into the present by Emily’s words.

  “I believe,” she said, “this is a case of the pot calling the kettle black. If Priscilla disgraced us with this young man—which I doubt—at least she did so in private. You managed to make a fool of yourself on a steamboat loaded with the very people you’re afraid of. So don’t talk to me about disgrace. Priscilla can’t hold a candle to you.”

  “It’s hereditary,” said Priscilla.

  Without another word, LeBeau stomped out into the hall. He could hear them laughing, in their newly discovered camaraderie.

  That afternoon, without a word to her husband, Emily LeBeau saw Priscilla off on a visit to Louisville.

  When Dr. Lowell returned on Sunday afternoon, he pronounced Ten’s condition much improved.

  “His temperature’s near normal,” said the doctor. “If he’d been hurt internally, there would be infection by now, and that’s what causes fever. When he comes around, lay off the laudanum, unless he needs it for pain.”

  Monday morning, just before daylight, Marty was leaning back in a chair, dozing. Unexpectedly, Ten spoke.

  “When—What…day is it?”

  “Monday morning,” said Marty. “I reckon this will sound foolish, but how do you feel?”

  “Like I—I’d put my head…on an anvil, and…somebody took a…nine-pound sledge…to it.”

  “Anything I can get for you?”

  “Water. I’m…almighty dry. Starved too. Go somewhere…get me…some soup. Maybe a gallon. Any kind.”

  Even with smashed and swollen lips, Ten had eaten most of the soup, when a knock on the door caused Marty to draw his Colt.

  “Who is it?” he asked.

  “John Mathewson.”

  “Let him in,” said Ten. “He’s the man who sent me to see Priscilla.”

  7

  Mathewson was visibly shocked at Ten’s condition. He looked questioningly at Marty Brand, then back to Ten.

  “Perhaps I’d better come back another time.”

  “No,” said Ten. “This is Marty Brand. He knows all about this. It was him that hauled me in, after they jumped me Saturday night. I can talk. I don’t feel any worse’n if I’d been trampled in a buffalo stampede.”

  “I’m sorry I got you into this,” said Mathewson. “LeBeau must have had you followed, and when you came to my office, he got scared. You took a bad beating for nothing.”

  “I didn’t enjoy it,” said Ten, “but it wasn’t for nothing. I found the girl I’m going to marry. My God, Mathewson, you didn’t do her justice. When Priscilla turns eighteen, I’m taking her away.”

  “So that’s what put sand in her craw and fire in her eye,” said Mathewson. “LeBeau came home last night, and using you for an excuse, jumped on both Emily and Priscilla. The girl stood up to him, and her mother sided with her. This afternoon, Emily will put Priscilla on a boat for Louisville. The word I have is that when Priscilla is eighteen, Emily will leave LeBeau for good.”

  “I’m obliged to you for telling me,” said Ten. “I hated to leave her there, but she’s not of age, and neither am I. We decided we’d have to wait a year. How did you learn all this?”

  “I suppose I can tell you now. I have a contact in the house. Even so, I didn’t know until last night, there’s some kind of arrangement that would have Priscilla marry old Jason Brawn after she turns eighteen. You brought it to a head, by giving Priscilla hope. Not only did she shoot down this so-called arranged marriage, she seems to have gotten her mother on her side.”

  “I’ve seen some wild Saturday nights myself,” said Marty, “but nothin’ like this. Whe
n these Injuns come to town, they sure know how to cut loose a sackful of bobcats.”

  “In a roundabout way,” said Ten, “this may yet lead you to whoever’s at the head of the smuggling and black-marketing bunch. If this Jason Brawn controls the gambling and the law, why can’t he also be the tall dog in the brass collar in other crooked affairs? Maybe he’s used LeBeau’s weakness for gambling to rope him into smuggling and black-marketing.”

  “You’re practically handing me back my own thoughts,” said Mathewson. “The more I learn of LeBeau’s connection with Brawn, the more convinced I am that it goes deeper than LeBeau’s interest in Brawn’s gambling tables. I suspect you’re right—LeBeau’s insatiable lust for gambling is at the bottom of it. A man spending as much time at the tables as LeBeau does is always needing money, and lots of it. If Brawn were seeking prominent men to front for him, he need look no further than his own gambling tables. For perpetual losers like André LeBeau.”

  “Keep your eyes on LeBeau,” said Ten. “When Brawn gets the word that Priscilla won’t have him, I’d give heavy odds he’ll start to burn LeBeau’s tail feathers. Let a pair of thieves rub each other the wrong way for long enough, and there’ll be big smoke. Then some fire.”

  “Excellent thinking,” said Mathewson. “I can get you an appointment as a U.S. Customs agent, if you’re interested.”

  “Thanks,” said Ten, “but I’ve had about all I can stand of New Orleans. But I aim to come back in October, if for no other reason than to spend some time with Priscilla. Since she’s legally tied to old LeBeau for another year, before I see her, I’d like to talk to you. If he does anything that’s harmful to her, I’d take it as a favor if you’d write or telegraph me at Fort Smith.”

  “That I will,” said Mathewson. “I plan to establish contact with Emily LeBeau. That woman has courage, and I’m as concerned for her safety as I am for Priscilla’s. I’m told LeBeau has a violent temper.”

  When Mathewson had gone, there was a long silence. It was Marty who finally spoke.

  “Give old LeBeau a year, and he won’t have a wife or a daughter. You ought to introduce me to this Emily, before Mathewson gets too set on her.”

  “She’s old enough to be your mother,” said Ten. “Besides, she’s a town woman, used to rich living.”

  “You reckon her daughter ain’t? Injun lad, you’re goin’ to need some pesos. We’d better head for Texas and start draggin’ them longhorns out of the brush. Got any idea when we’ll be leavin’ here?”

  “Friday,” said Ten. “I need to see Doc Lowell again. Then I can heal on the boat as well as I can here, and we’ll be on our way that much quicker.”

  On August 1, 1865, Jesse Chisholm rode to Fort Smith for a meeting with Major Henry Shanklin. It was at Shanklin’s request.

  “I suppose,” said Shanklin, “you’re aware it’s the government’s wish that the plains tribes, as many as are willing, move to assigned lands in Indian Territory?”

  Chisholm nodded.

  “We have reached an agreement with Chief Tusaquach,” said Shanklin, “and he has agreed to relocate his village of some three thousand Wichitas. As you know, they’re presently a few miles south of Abilene, at the joining of the Arkansas and the Little Arkansas.”

  Again Chisholm nodded.

  “I have several reasons for meeting with you,” said Shanklin. “First, and most important, your position of trust among the plains tribes is unparalleled. Our agreement with Tusaquach hinges on your assisting with the move. Second, and of utmost importance from a military standpoint, we understand that a few months ago you blazed a wagon road from your ranch on the Arkansas, in Kansas, to your trading post on the Canadian, in Indian Territory. Is that correct?”

  “It is,” said Chisholm. “Close to two hundred and twenty miles, by my calculation.”

  “Good,” said Shanklin. “That was my understanding. So you see, your road leads from the present Wichita camp to within a few miles of the lands assigned in Indian Territory, on the Canadian River. On behalf of Indian Affairs, I wish to enlist your help.”

  “I’ll help in any way I can,” said Chisholm. “What you’re referring to is a trade route. It’s recently been extended south as far as Red River Station, to the mouth of Salt Creek, at the western edge of Cross Timbers. The Cherokees have found it useful, driving a few small herds of Texas cattle into Indian Territory.”

  “How far is it from your trading post on the Canadian to Red River?”

  “I’d say a hundred and twenty miles.”

  “Interesting,” said Shanklin. “I’ll see that Washington is aware of this. With an adequate wagon road from the Red to the Canadian, it might be to our advantage to ship military supplies by boat to Red River Station, and freight them into Indian Territory by wagon.”

  Chisholm said nothing. Shanklin continued.

  “Getting back to my original proposal, how much time do you need to prepare for moving the Wichitas from eastern Kansas to Indian Territory?”

  “I’ll have to take some of the wagons and teams from the trading post on the Canadian,” said Chisholm. “Figure three weeks from there to the Wichita camp. Will I be furnishing provisions, or will you?”

  “Why don’t you just contract for it all?” said Shanklin, “Besides the three thousand Wichitas, make allowances for several companies of soldiers. Could we expect to make the trip to Indian Territory in another three weeks?”

  “Maybe,” said Chisholm. “That’s allowing for only ten miles a day. My teams, teamsters, extra horses, and mules will be an advance party. We’ll be crossing the Arkansas, the Cimarron, the North Canadian, and Canadian rivers. There’s a problem of quicksand. It’s constantly shifting. Where you crossed safely yesterday, you could be sucked under today. We’ll need to stay far enough ahead of the party so that we’ll have time to beat down the riverbeds, for safe crossing.”

  “I’m responsible for this move,” said Shanklin, “but you’ll be in charge. It’s important that it go smoothly. Washington is hopeful that the success of this venture will induce other tribes to follow. I’ll inform my superiors that you’ll be prepared to depart the Wichita camp on the Arkansas by the first of September.”

  Ten and Marty left New Orleans as planned. Ten’s face still bore the evidence of his beating, but he could walk with hardly a limp. He had seen Dr. Lowell on Friday morning, before leaving.

  “Too soon to remove the stitches,” Lowell had said, “but they’ll have to come out.”

  There would be a doctor at Fort Smith. Besides Ten and Marty, there were three passengers. One man was an officer, the other two were drummers. There was no shortage of room, but Ten and Marty shared a cabin. The journey soon grew tedious and boring.

  “If you aim to go back to New Orleans in October,” said Marty, “you won’t much more’n get home ’fore you have to leave again. I swear, I’d as soon get me a good hoss and light out across country.”

  “The boats seem almighty slow,” said Ten, “but that’s how Jess gets his pelts and hides to New Orleans. I just hope there’ll be another load ready by October, and that he’ll let me take it. I should have been back long ago.”

  “That’s a powerful long ways to go a-courtin’,” said Marty. “I just hope this little gal gets word to you about where she is. It could get to a man, forkin’ this slowpoke contraption all the way to New Orleans, just to find out she ain’t there.”

  “She’ll be there,” said Ten. “She knows that’s when I’ll be there.”

  “There’s all them cows in Texas, and there’s just you and me. I’d say we’re a mite short-handed.”

  “I’d have to agree with you,” said Ten. “When we leave New Orleans the next time, we’ll be looking for riders, and we won’t be on a steamboat. Jess has promised to stake me until we can gather and sell a herd. I’m thinking we’ll buy horses in New Orleans and ride for Texas. Since you’re from East Texas, maybe we can build an outfit with some of the folks you know.”

  “May
be,” said Marty, “but so many of us rode off to war, and so many won’t be comin’ back…”

  Ten understood, and they left it there.

  Reaching Fort Smith, Ten had a pair of surprises awaiting him. One was a brief telegram from Priscilla, telling him her address in Louisville and requesting a letter. The other was a single, handwritten page from Jesse Chisholm.

  “Not bad news, I hope,” said Marty.

  “No,” said Ten. “Not the telegram, anyway. It’s from Priscilla. This other is a note from Jess. Read it.”

  Marty read it and handed it back.

  “He figures three weeks there and three weeks, back,” said Ten. “If he starts back September first, that means I won’t be seeing him until almost the time I need to start back to New Orleans.”

  “You just come from there, and got yourself considerably busted up whilst you was there. You reckon he’ll want you just turnin’ around and goin’ again?”

  “You mean,” said Ten, “when he finds out why I’m wantin’ to go back.”

  Marty grinned. “I didn’t like to say it that way, but yeah, that’s what I’m gettin’ at. It’s a mighty long ways to go, just to see a gal.”

  “I promised Priscilla I’d be there, and I aim to. I might not see her again until she’s eighteen. Maybe not even then, dependin’ on how these trail drives work out. Jess promised me a stake, so’s I could go to Texas and build a herd. But he wants me to wait until after the first of the year, when the blockades come down. It won’t matter to us whether they ever come down or not, because we can’t afford to ship cattle by boat. So I don’t aim to wait another three months to start buildin’ a herd. What’s to stop us from going back to New Orleans, and from there to Texas?”