The Chisholm Trail

by Ralph Compton

  “I purely don’t believe there’ll be a race here today,” said Marty.

  “Something must’ve gone wrong,” said Ten.

  They went to the shack, and Ten pounded on the door. It opened, and he found himself looking into the surprised face of Maynard Herndon, the young man he’d met on the boat.

  “Come in,” said Herndon. “I wondered what had become of you.”

  Ten introduced Marty and Wes. Then, without mentioning the trouble in New Orleans, he told Herndon of the planned cow hunt, the trail drive, and their need for horses.

  “Like I told you on the boat,” said Herndon, “I dabble in livestock, so I don’t have to admit I’m unemployed. Uncle Drago’s the only kin I got left, on my pa’s side. He closed the track at the end of August and went to Omaha. Him and Bill Cody aim to shoot buffalo for the Union Pacific Railroad. He bought enough grub for the winter, and left me here to look after things.”

  “The horses,” said Ten, “are they yours or his?”

  “Mine,” said Herndon. “I bought the bay and the roan. In the barn there’s four wild horses, broomtails, Uncle Herndon got from the Crow Indians in Montana Territory. He had the idea he could groom these ponies to run the quarter mile. Then he got word Bill Cody wanted him in Omaha, so I kind of inherited the broncs. Mighty expensive, just feedin’ ’em. Feed has to come from St. Louis, by boat.”

  “I reckon we can cut down on your feed bill,” said Ten. “I’d like to see those wild broncs.”

  “They’re stalled,” said Herndon, “because they’re still skittish. Uncle Drago said they’ve been Indian gentled, and likely carried nothing heavier than a blanket. You’d need to work with them a few days to gain their trust, before trying to use a saddle.”

  The broncs were stocky animals, their hindquarters powerful, their chests deep, their withers low. They had short necks and broad, short heads. One was sorrel, one was buckskin, and two were blacks.

  “They got the makings of cow horses,” said Marty. “Every one of ’em.”

  “There’s the bay and the roan,” said Ten. “What about them?”

  “Good, average horses,” said Herndon. “As for cow savvy, I don’t know.”

  “Since they belong to you,” said Ten, “I’d be willing to take them all. Good horses don’t seem too plentiful. How much for all six?”

  “When you’ve gathered, trailed, and sold your herd, two hundred dollars. With one condition.”

  “We’ll be selling the herd in Indian Territory,” said Ten. “That’s an almighty Jong ways from here. How do you aim to track me down and collect?”

  “That,” said Herndon, “is the condition. I want to join your outfit, to be a part of the hunt and the trail drive. I want to be there at the end.”

  “But you came from the war with lung fever,” said Ten. “How—”

  “So the army doctors said. But I’d rather stand on my hind legs like a man for a year than linger for ten years, lettin’ it take me slow. Besides, if I cash in before the finish, you don’t owe me a thing but a decent burial. The horses are yours.”

  Ten looked into those level gray eyes and liked what he saw. This was a man to ride the river with. He put out his hand and Herndon took it.

  “Sixteen-hour days,” said Ten. “Shootin’ Comanches, riding, and roping. That’s the easy part. We got to ford four of the meanest rivers in the West, startin’ with the Red.”

  “I’m countin’ on all that,” said Herndon.

  “What about this place? Your uncle left you in charge of it.”

  “Only because I had nothin’ better to do, no way to support myself, and these four broncs needed to be fed or sold. We’ll be takin’ them with us. I can’t leave this grub, though. We’ll take it too. Uncle Drago bought it in St. Louis, so there’s stuff you can’t buy here or in New Orleans. Like good coffee, tinned goods, sugar, and salt.”

  “Lord,” said Wes, “how many years since I’ve seen such foodstuffs.”

  “I’m purely ashamed to ask,” said Marty, “but you got any way of findin’ us some saddles, guns, and extra shells?”

  “No saddles,” said Herndon. “We’ll need double-rigged Texas saddles, and even if we hadn’t just come out of a war, you wouldn’t find ’em around here. Anyhow, these four broomtails ain’t saddle-broke. Best to bareback it from here to Texas, until they get used to the weight of a rider. For guns and shells, I can wire St. Louis in Uncle Drago’s name, if you want to wait.”

  “This uncle of yours must’ve made some big tracks,” said Marty.

  “He has,” said Herndon. “He’s followed the same trails as Kit Carson and Jim Bridger. He stands tall enough as a government scout to get about anything he wants, within reason. Now he’s shootin’ buffalo with Bill Cody, to feed Union Pacific grading and track-laying crews. The government will do whatever it has to just to get the Union Pacific built. Make me a list of the guns and shells you need, and I’ll telegraph St. Louis today.”

  “You’ll have to get them the money,” said Ten.

  “Later,” said Herndon. “I’ll get them on open account, and you can pay when the herd’s sold. I’ll square it with Uncle Drago. I’ll leave word here and in town so he’ll know where I’ve gone. He’ll be pleased.”

  “We’re bunking in a rooming house,” said Ten, “and since we’ll be here a few days, I’d like to get out of there. Care if we spread our blankets on your floor?”

  “Make yourselves at home,” said Herndon. “Sorry I don’t have enough bunks, but I do have extra blankets. I’d better get into town and send that telegram.”

  “I’ll go with you,” said Ten.

  Marty and Wes remained at Herndon’s place, going to the barn and beginning what they hoped would be a long and rewarding friendship with a pair of the broomtails.

  Ten and Herndon reached the telegraph office, and Ten was alarmed when there was no answer to his telegram to Priscilla. Why hadn’t she responded? He was jolted out of his reverie when Herndon spoke to him.

  “I have a Colt and rig of my own, but I want a rifle too.”

  “Send for one .44 caliber Colt six-shooter,” said Ten, “along with a belt and right-hand holster. That’s for Wes. Order three Henrys; one for Marty, one for Wes, and one for you. Then get us four thousand rounds of shells for the Colts, and four thousand for the Henrys.”

  “We’ll be here a few days,” said Herndon, “and I’ll have time to find us a couple of pack saddles. We’ll use the bay and the roan for packhorses.”

  Ten turned in early Saturday night. He spent all day Sunday shuffling and reshuffling a deck of cards. Marty explained to Herndon Ten’s silence insofar as Priscilla was concerned. Him and Herndon then spent most of the day teaching Wes to build and throw a loop. He had a talent for it. Marty predicted by the time they reached Texas, he’d be ready. On Monday, Herndon received a confirming telegram from St. Louis.

  “Our guns and shells will be here October twenty-second,” he said, “on the Robert E. Lee.”

  They would be in Natchez another week. There still had been no answer from Priscilla, and Ten tried in vain to put her out of his mind. He heard the lonesome sound of a steamboat whistle as it drew away from the Natchez landing, and watched it out of sight as it churned down the river toward New Orleans.

  Aboard the steamboat, Priscilla LeBeau sat on her bunk in a tiny cabin. The boat’s whistle sounded so lonesome, so haunting. Only the beating of her heart assured her of its presence. Otherwise, it felt cold, dead. She dabbed at her eyes with a much-used, wadded handkerchief. Why had he returned to New Orleans, after she had begged him, specifically warned him, against doing so? Despite what the newspapers had printed, she didn’t believe a word of it. It had the smell of something André LeBeau and Jason Brawn had cooked up. While she had no idea how or why John Mathewson figured into it, charging Tenatse Chisholm with his murder and the attempted theft from his office just didn’t make sense. It all seemed false, contrived. While Priscilla fully appreciated her mother
’s good intentions in sending her away, she had made up her mind to return to New Orleans and fight! For herself, and for Ten, even if he was dead. She would begin by learning the truth of his relationship with John Mathewson, the reason for his visit to Mathewson’s office. She would reveal that truth, even if it destroyed her father. If Ten was dead, then whatever happened to her wouldn’t matter. If she went to hell for her efforts, she vowed to destroy them for what they’d done to the young man who had tried to save her. She thought of him as she’d last seen him, and lay back on her bed. There she wept for Ten, for herself, and most of all, for a future that now seemed hopelessly cold and uninviting.

  12

  André LeBeau was jubilant. True, his poorly conceived ambush had cost the lives of two men, but Brawn’s influence with the newspaper had used even that to further discredit Chisholm. It had been a stroke of genius on the part of Brawn to implicate the young fool in Mathewson’s murder. If that hadn’t been enough, Chisholm had been named the possible head of the wartime black-market and smuggling ring. Despite LeBeau’s unsuccessful ambush, a mob had run down Chisholm and killed him. It was far more satisfactory than gunning him down on the street, perhaps raising questions. While LeBeau knew he must still somehow force Priscilla to accept Jason Brawn, at least this troublesome Chisholm wouldn’t be around to inspire her to future rebellion.

  While Ten found it impossible to free his mind of Priscilla, he blunted his misery by throwing himself into the task of becoming friends with one of the newly acquired wild horses. Marty and Wes had wasted no time in winning the trust of two of the animals, and soon staged a race on the weed-grown track. Herndon and Ten watched, their respect for the wild horses growing.

  “They’re going to be fine cutting horses,” said Ten. “Watch how they make the turn without givin’ up their speed. I’ve seen Injun-broke horses work cows before, but these broncs are purely goin’ to be the best. When you have a chance to talk to your uncle Drago, express my admiration for his horse savvy. It’d be worth a ride to Montana just to round up a herd of these broncs.”

  Herndon found a pair of old pack saddles that were usable, once the old leather had been greased. When the Robert E. Lee arrived the following Monday, they were at the landing with their pack animals. They returned to Herndon’s shack before unpacking their weapons and ammunition. Herndon, Wes, and Marty each took one of the Henrys, and Wes belted on his new Colt.

  “It’s a mite late in the day to start,” said Ten. “Let’s get everything ready and move out in the morning, at first light.”

  When Priscilla reached the house, she found only LeBeau there. He was sprawled in the front parlor, nursing a half-full bottle of bourbon. He’d drunk just enough to become surly and mean.

  “Where’s Mother?” the girl asked.

  “I don’t know, and I don’t give a damn. It’s about time you came to your senses. Jason’s been asking about you.”

  “The old fool’s wasting his time asking about me,” snapped Priscilla, “because I have come to my senses.”

  She took the envelope with the newspaper clippings he’d sent and threw them to the floor at his feet.

  “Lies!” she cried. “You framed him, didn’t you? You and Jason Brawn. Well, I’m going to learn the truth. Will you hire a mob of killers to shut me up?”

  “Go ahead,” said LeBeau, unperturbed. “Learn the truth. You’ll find this young fool was no more than a spy, a pawn of Mathewson’s. Mathewson tried to get to Jason Brawn through me, and that’s the only reason for young Chisholm’s interest in you. Nobody but an impressionable idiot like you would have believed otherwise.”

  “It might have started that way,” she cried, “but he was honest with me. If he was using me, he had a reason, and I intend to learn what that reason was. John Mathewson was head of U.S. Customs. If he was after Jason Brawn, that means Brawn’s into something crooked, something criminal. So if John Mathewson tried to get to Brawn through you, that means you’re mixed up in it. You’re in it so deep, you planned to have Tenatse Chisholm murdered to save yourself, didn’t you?”

  “He had his warning,” snarled LeBeau. “Now you’d just as well put him out of your mind, because he’s dead.”

  “He’s not dead,” she cried, “and someday, when I’m of age, he’ll come for me. When he does, I’m going with him, and you won’t stop me!”

  “Let’s get one thing straight,” said Herndon. “Call me ‘Hern,’ or just ‘Herndon,’ but not ‘Maynard.’ Damn it, I sound like a dude, a tenderfoot. My ma read too many dime novels.”

  They laughed, but they took him seriously. Given names meant little on the frontier. Many a cowboy, when his grave was marked at all, was remembered simply as Slim, High Pockets, or Lefty.

  Their cross-country journey was uneventful. The only Louisiana town along the way was Alexandria, and they passed to the north of it. They were covering at least forty miles a day, by Ten’s estimate. Taking their time, they rode into San Augustine, Texas, on October 31, 1865.

  “San Augustine was a town before Texas was a state,” said Marty. “There was a fine college, the University of San Augustine, started here in 1837. The Methodists started another college in 1844. The two schools got on the outs with one another, started fightin’, and both of ’em shut down in 1847.”

  “Marty,” said Ten, “Texas is your stompin’ ground. Before we do anything else, we’ll need saddles. When you lived here, before the war, who made your roping saddles?”

  “Old man John Bowdrie,” said Marty. “Had a shop in Nacogdoches. That’s maybe thirty miles east of here. With everybody gone to war these four years, I doubt he’s had any call for ropin’ saddles.”

  “We’ll try him first,” said Ten, “and gamble that he has some on hand. We don’t have time to wait for them. From what Jesse told me, we ought to start our gather on the Trinity or the Brazos. How far are we from the Trinity?”

  “Not more’n a hundred miles,” said Marty, “but nearly twice that, to the nearest point on the Brazos.”

  “I’ve heard Uncle Drago speak of the Trinity,” said Herndon. “There’s two or three forks that join somewhere south of Dallas, and it flows into the Gulf.”

  “We’ll set our sights on the Trinity,” said Ten. “Like Hern says, it runs all the way to the Gulf. If we’re goin’ to follow a river, let’s make it one that’s long enough, deep enough, and wild enough for these longhorns to feel at home.”

  “That’ll be the Trinity,” said Marty. “We could head for Crockett. My old home place is, or was, seven miles south of there, on the Trinity. We can set up a camp there, I reckon, without anybody botherin’ us, ’cept maybe the Comanches.”

  “You must know somebody there,” said Wes, “if you lived there. We need some cow wrasslers.”

  “While I was with the Confederacy,” said Marty, “the Comanches murdered my ma and pa. When I got back to Crockett, I had the devil’s own time just findin’ somebody that could tell me what happened. There was nothin’, nobody, for me to come home to, so I went to New Orleans. That’s where I met Ten. I can’t say for sure, but I’m lookin’ for most of the men to have left these parts, them that was able. Them that’s been through the war and got home alive, I expect they’ll be too sick and shot up to be of any help to us.”

  “Sorry,” said Wes. “I wasn’t thinking. I was in the war myself. That was a fool thing for me to say.”

  “Not really,” said Ten. “That’s kind of how I was thinking. I reckon I’ve been countin’ mighty heavy on us findin’ Texans home from the war and needin’ work. Marty’s just shot some holes in my plan to hunt longhorns. With just the four of us, we’re almighty shorthanded.”

  “I don’t know that we won’t find some riders,” said Marty, “but even if we do, there’s a chance they won’t throw in with us. What’s to stop them from gatherin’ their own herd?”

  “They likely won’t have money for an outfit or grub,” said Herndon. “Not only do we have that, but the herd’s alre
ady sold.”

  “But it’s a herd we don’t have,” said Ten. “Without enough riders, we may not have time to gather, brand, and deliver it.”

  “This is your drive, Ten,” said Marty, “but I’m goin’ to throw this out for you to think on. Texans ain’t the kind to let grass grow under their feet. I’m bettin’ we’ll find somebody that’s already got the start of a herd. You might dicker with them for the longhorns they’ve already caught. When the herd’s sold, they get paid for what they’ve gathered, calculated on what you can afford to pay.”

  “Good thinking,” said Ten. “Half a loaf’s better’n none. These riders would have to make the drive with us, so’s they’d get paid when the herd’s sold. It might be the only way I can deliver the longhorns I’ve promised. I reckon we’d best wait until we reach the Trinity, and see what we’re up against. Suppose nobody else is gatherin’ wild longhorns? Then I’ll really have my tail in a crack.”

  They rode into Nacogdoches, and were immediately halted by a pair of Union soldiers. The privates eyed their loaded packhorses and the belted Colts they wore, and didn’t seem to hear Ten when he explained their reason for being in Texas. The four of them were escorted to the courthouse, above which flew the stars and stripes. One of the privates dismounted and returned with his superior.

  “I’m Captain Thomas,” he said. “I am in charge of the occupation of Nacogdoches. Who are you, and why are you here?”

  Briefly, Ten explained.

  “While your purpose for being here is acceptable,” said Thomas, “your possession of arms is not. Under Federal law, I’m required to confiscate them.”

  Ten dismounted and stalked over to confront the officer.