The Omaha Trail

by Ralph Compton

  “You’re a man of many secrets, Pa,” Dane said, fixing his father with a hard, shrewd look.

  “Every man has his secrets, Dane. And women have even more of ’em.”

  Dane was left to chew on that statement while he went to the desk and riffled through the papers Himmel had left. Among them was a map that showed the route up the Missouri to Omaha. It was hand-drawn and must have been the way Otto had traveled to get to the Circle K.

  The man was thorough too, Dane thought. The map was well drawn and showed watering holes, grasslands, and barren places to avoid. All of the towns and places were written in crisp block letters with a lead pencil.

  Dane sucked in a deep breath.

  It was a long way to Omaha, and Otto had written down distances as if he knew there would be a drive right through wild, empty land fraught with many perils, including rustlers and Indian renegades.

  The task seemed daunting at that moment, especially since his father had indicated he had some kind of history involving Throckmorton.

  When he thought back, he remembered that his father had tried to stop him from going to Throckmorton to borrow money and sign mortgage papers for the Circle K. He had put up quite a fuss, in fact.

  Now, he thought, it was clear why his father had been so against his becoming beholden to Throckmorton.

  But the exact reasons were still a mystery, locked somewhere in that eighty-five-year-old mind of Thor’s.

  Dane looked over his shoulder.

  His father had gone back to sleep and he could hear the patter of Ora Lee’s feet out in the kitchen where she was probably preparing their noon meal.

  And Dane wasn’t the least bit hungry.

  Chapter 10

  Paddy took charge. As soon as he and Joe Eagle rode up on the branding fires, he began to issue orders to the men who were finishing up and returning the newborn calves to their mothers.

  “Donny,” he said to Peterson, “I want you to go over to the Sunnyland range and haul hay in there and fill those ricks. Get Cal Ferris to help you. Check all the corrals and gates. We’ll be drivin’ cattle in there next week. And mosey on over to the hundred-acre spread and check the graze. Hop to it.”

  Donny saddled up and rode off to complete his assignment.

  “Jim,” Paddy told Recknor, “go get us a half dozen cuttin’ horses from the home pasture and bring back Steve Atkins and Chub Toomey off the North Grand. Tell ’em to get their thumbs out of their butts and help you round up the best cutters.”

  “Damn, Paddy, that’s a good two-hour ride to the North Grand.”

  “Get movin’.”

  Then he spoke to Joe Eagle. “Mosey on over to the chuck wagon with me, Joe. We got to ask Gooch if he can make the trip in that rickety old wagon of his.”

  “You got tents to strike too,” Joe said as he looked at the canvas shelters that housed the hands while they were making the gather and branding calves.

  “Least of my worries. We’ll bunk out here while we cut out the good cows and drive ’em to the Sunnyland spread.”

  “Many cattle. Small pasture,” Joe said.

  “When we finish the tally, we’ll take the trail herd over to the Two Grand and I’ll give out assignments to the hands. Can you get them Mexes before then?”

  “Me get,” Joe said.

  The two rode over a hump in the land where there were more tents and a lean-to built by the cook, Barney Gooch. Gooch was cussing and ragging at his mule, Possum, a flea-bitten, sway-backed animal that stood like a statue while Gooch was trying to push him backward so that he could harness him. He had packed up all his cooking irons and kettles, drenched his fire, and covered the pit with dirt.

  “Hey, Barney,” Paddy said as they rode up. “You feed Possum too much sugar and not enough quirt.”

  “Paddy, you damned bowlegged Mick, wouldn’t know a mule from a jackass.”

  “What’s the difference?” Paddy asked as he swung out of the saddle. Joe Eagle dismounted as well, and walked over to the mule’s head and stroked his face.

  Paddy and Barney squared off. Barney’s hair leaked out from under his hat brim in unruly strands and spikes. When he spoke, his bushy mustache looked like a small burrowing animal streaked with yellowish stains from eggs and specks of flour dust. He was fat enough so that his potbelly spilled over his belt, and his trousers, grimy and stained, were tucked into stovepipe boots that had long since lost their shine.

  “Barney, can that wagon of yours go another thousand miles?” Paddy looked at the wagon, which was all battened up as if waiting for another rainstorm.

  “With some greasin’ and oilin’ she can do twice that with nary a squeak,” Barney said. “Why? We goin’ somewhere?”

  “Omaha,” Paddy said.

  “Omaha, Texas?”

  “Nebraska,” Paddy replied.

  “Land o’ Goshen, land of grasshoppers. That’s a fur piece.”

  “Five hunnert miles right up the old Missouri,” Paddy said.

  The mule backed up and Joe put him deftly in harness. He patted Possum on the withers and stroked his neck. The mule brayed in contentment.

  “What, a couple hunnert head?” Gooch asked, blowing a strand of graying hair away from his mouth.

  “Three thousand head and better,” O’Riley said. He watched Gooch’s face for his reaction.

  “Hell, you’re gonna need half a hunnert men to drive that many head,” Barney said.

  “Plus, we’re pickin’ up another nine hundred head in Kansas City,” Paddy said.

  Gooch’s face began to purple. His neck swelled and his mustache wriggled over his pudgy lips.

  “We’ll need two more wagons just for staples,” Barney said. “And I ain’t cookin’ for no fifty-odd hands.”

  “We’re going to try and make it with, at most, a dozen hands.”

  “Hell, you got to take a remuda. That’s another couple of hands. You got long flanks and a man or two ridin’ point, a couple more ridin’ drag, and if the herd ever spooks, you’ll have cows scattered from hell to breakfast.”

  “Dane figures on makin’ ten miles a day. A slow, quiet drive and we’ll bunch ’em all up at nightfall.”

  Barney stamped one of his boots on the soggy ground. Water spurted from the lumps of bog.

  “I ’member a drive up to Montana oncet when I was a young sprout,” Barney said. “Better’n fifteen hunnert head and just a half dozen drovers and one wrangler. It was pure hell, over snowy mountain passes, crossin’ ragin’ rivers and fightin’ off wolves and rattlesnakes. We lost three hunnert head before we reached the Yellowstone and all the men were ready to kill each other.”

  “It won’t be that way, Barney,” Paddy said. “You in or out?”

  “Let me study on it for a minute or two, will you, Paddy?”

  Paddy walked around the wagon and then stood beside Joe, who was still soothing the mule with his hands and voice.

  “Wagon needs some paint slathered on it,” Paddy said.

  Joe just grunted.

  Finally Barney turned around and walked over to where Joe and Paddy were standing.

  “I’ll paint the damned wagon,” he told Paddy. “A bright red. A fire engine red.”

  “A schoolhouse red, maybe,” Paddy said.

  Barney didn’t laugh.

  “Barn red,” he said, “and I’ll make the trip if there’s places where I can restock.”

  “There will be, Barney. Dane’s a planner.”

  “Dane ain’t never driv a herd that far before,” Barney said. “And never that many head of cattle.”

  “There’s a first time for everything,” Paddy said.

  “And maybe a last.”

  Paddy blinked and fixed his glance on Barney’s furry mustache. It rippled as if ready to jump off his mouth and dig a hole in the ground so that it could disappear into the earth.

  “Take the wagon over to the Sunnyland spread, Barney,” Paddy told him. “I’ll send a wagon with whatever you need for the next
two weeks. You got to cook for eight or ten men while they spank on trail brands.”

  “Three thousand head ain’t gonna fit in that ninety acres.”

  “No, that’s just for brandin’. We’ll run ’em all over on the Two Grand and make the drive from there.”

  “Still goin’ to be crowded as the devil.”

  “You let me worry about that, Barney. Now give me a list of the grub you’re gonna need for the next coupla weeks and I’ll take care of it.”

  “I’m out of chewin’ terbaccky, just about,” Barney said.

  “Make out your list. Joe and I have things to do.”

  “All right. Gimme a minute.”

  Barney walked to the wagon and fished around under his seat until he found a tablet and a stub of a pencil. As Joe and Paddy watched, he wrote down what he needed from town. It took up three pages because Barney wrote big block letters for every item. He tore off the pages and handed them to Paddy.

  Paddy glanced at just one page of the list. He trusted Barney, who could figure what every hand needed to keep his stomach full and not waste any grub.

  “In the meantime, Barney,” Paddy said as he folded the papers and tucked them into one of his shirt pockets, “you figger out what you’ll need when we pull out on the drive. Figger two weeks of grub for a dozen hands.”

  “Gonna be a mite heavy on the wagon springs,” Barney said.

  “We’ll carry some extra wheels, spokes and such.”

  “You’re too kind, Paddy. Now get on outta here so’s me and Possum can haul our asses over to the Sunnyland.”

  “See you, Barney,” Paddy said as he grabbed up his reins.

  “Good mule,” Joe said, and walked to his horse. “Possum good.”

  “Why, thank you, Joe,” Barney said. “You got more sense than most folks around here.”

  Paddy and Joe rode back to the branding camp.

  “I’ll need those Mexes in about a week, Joe. Can you bring ’em out to the gather?”

  “Me do,” Joe said.

  Paddy looked over the surrounding land. There were cattle scattered in all directions. They were grazing on short grass and moving along slowly, each following a leader in separate bunches. Cows with calves were ambling over the soggy ground, snatching up the young shoots. The calves, some of them, were punching their mothers’ dugs with their muzzles and drawing milk from their teats. He figured there were at least four thousand head in full view, but not all of them would be making the trail drive.

  Soon, he knew, they would all start cutting out the cattle and burning trail brands into their hides before driving them over to Sunnyland. It would be a long and brutal task under a blazing sun with heavy cattle fighting to avoid the rope and the branding irons. They would have to separate the herd bulls from the steers and the mothers with calves.

  “What are you thinkin’, Joe?” Paddy asked when they had dismounted and were laying out the running irons.

  “Me think we got big job. Much work.”

  “You got that right, Joe. But the work will go well because I’m an organizer and so is Dane. You like work?”

  “Me like work.”

  “I’ll see to it that you get plenty. And maybe tonight or tomorrow you can look up those Mexes and bring ’em out.”

  “Me do,” Joe said.

  Paddy smacked his lips in satisfaction.

  “Meantime,” he said to Joe, “let’s get some fires started and cut out a few head to see how quick it goes with these running irons.”

  Joe grinned.

  Then the two men began piling up kindling and stacking wood from the woodpile next to the shallow stone pits.

  “We shoulda got us a sandwich from Barney,” Paddy said. “I’m right hungry.”

  “Me got grub in saddlebags,” Joe said.

  “Sandwiches?”

  “Rabbit,” Joe said. “Me kill. Me cook. Good meat.”

  Paddy’s stomach roiled with both hunger and a tinge of revulsion. He knew that Joe Eagle hunted every chance he could get and took quail, rabbit, and perhaps other animals, cooked them and dried them in the sun for gnawing when he was hungry.

  He braced himself for Joe’s solution to his hunger and slipped his canteen from his saddle horn. If he chewed fast and swallowed with water, maybe he wouldn’t notice the sand and the dirt or the gamy taste of wild rabbit.

  In the meantime, he thought, Joe Eagle was a good man to ride the river with any old time.

  Chapter 11

  The trip into the town of Shawnee Mission on the buckboard was a jouncy five miles. Joe Eagle handled the reins while Dane sat next to him trying to figure expenditures and other logistical problems on a notepad. Their horses were tied to the wagon with rope and were wise enough to flank the wheels that kicked up dust and rocks.

  Joe pulled up behind Christianson’s Mercantile & General Store. He set the brake when he was parallel to the loading dock. He wrapped the reins around the brake handle and stepped down as Dane left his seat and touched down on the opposite side. Both men lifted saddles from the bed of the buckboard and spread the saddle blankets over their horses’ backs.

  “I hope you can get those two Mexicans to make the drive with us, Joe,” Dane said as he swung his saddle up and settled it on the blanket.

  “Me do,” Joe said.

  “Take your time. I’ve got to go to the bank and see about getting another cook and chuck wagon.”

  “You get two chuck wagons?” Joe asked.

  “Yeah, I have an idea on how we’re going to drive that many cattle up to Nebraska.”

  “Good luck,” Joe said.

  Dane left his horse tied to the wagon and climbed the steps up to the ramp. He went in through the back double doors, through a large storeroom, and into the store proper.

  There were three men and a half dozen women walking through the aisles with wicker baskets, selecting foodstuffs and other items from the shelves and counters.

  Fred Christianson walked from behind the counter and met Dane as he passed.

  He wore a small torn apron, a faded work shirt, and lace-up shoes. He was a lean, skeletal man with muttonchop sideburns and hair turning gray that was kept in place by a green cap.

  “Well, well, Mr. Kramer, what brings you to town so early of a morning? And into my store?”

  “Got a list of things we need out at the ranch,” Dane said. He handed the storekeeper a sheet of paper with numbers and names of items he needed.

  “Looks as if we can fill these. Wagon out back?”

  “Yes, Fred. I’ll be back in the afternoon to pay my bill.”

  “That will be fine, Mr. Kramer.”

  “Know where I can find a camp cook?”

  Christianson bowed his head slightly and scratched a spot behind his left ear.

  “Come to think of it, I do,” he said. “Do you know Len Crowell? Has a small ranch northeast of the settlement.”

  “Yes, I do know Len,” Dane said. “He had a small spread he started about five years ago. Was trying to crossbreed Herefords and black Angus, last I heard.”

  “That’s him. Don’t know if he was able to mix the two breeds, but he thought he had a sale up in Abilene, Kansas. Small herd, but good price per head.”

  “And what happened?” Dane asked.

  “Apaches jumped him on the Brazos and then a twister wiped out his herd and scattered what wasn’t killed outright.”

  “He can start over, I reckon,” Dane said.

  Christianson shook his head. “Bank had a mortgage on his property. Foreclosed a week ago. Len’s got a month to clear out and he’s selling everything he owns, the whole kit and caboodle, I hear.”

  “So, he has a chuck wagon, you say?”

  “Yep. He was in here yesterday askin’ if I wanted to buy it. Got him a cook too, a man what was on the drive with him over the winter.”

  “White man?”

  “Chinese, I think. Wong Loo, or Wong Ling, something like that.”

  “You didn’t buy
his wagon?”

  “Nope. No use for it. He built it last summer, so it’s like new. Storms didn’t hurt it none.”

  “I’ll ride out and talk to Len.”

  “Ain’t but a few miles to his spread. Or what used to be his spread.”

  “Throckmorton held the mortgage?”

  “A thousand dollars, I heard, and there’s something else that’s funny about that drive Len made.”

  “Oh, what’s that?” Dane asked.

  “Len thinks there was Apaches on the Brazos, but he thought there were white men a-leadin’ them.”

  “Hmm. That’s strange,” Dane said.

  “He thinks he recognized a couple of the white men, Mr. Kramer. Said he’s pretty sure he’d seen them both at the Prairie Dog Saloon.”

  “He know who they were?”

  “He thinks one of ’em’s named Concho,” Christianson said. “Other’n might have been Lemuel Norton. Both of ’em have been in here to buy liquor and tobacco.”

  “Can he prove it?” Dane asked.

  “He don’t want to, near as I can figure. He’s plumb scared to death of those two gunslingers. I told him he was smart to just keep it under his hat.”

  “Any connection between this Concho and Norton?”

  “Not that I know of. But I’ve seen Concho go into the bank now and again. His last name’s Larabee and he’s one tough citizen, I hear.”

  “I guess I never ran into him or Norton,” Dane said.

  “Consider yourself lucky. I hear things in this store, I truly do. And what I heard about those two is not good. Constable runs off about them every now and then but can’t prove anything.”

  “Like what?”

  “Robbery. Strong-arm stuff. Bar fights.”

  “Thanks, Fred. I’ll see you later today. I want to talk to Len about his cook and chuck wagon before he finds a buyer.”

  “Good luck,” Christianson said.

  Dane walked out to the dock and descended the steps to his wagon. He untied his horse and lifted himself into the saddle.

  He headed for the bank to see Throckmorton.

  Throckmorton was in his office when Miss Watson ushered him in after announcing him to her boss.

  “Ah, Mr. Kramer,” Throckmorton said without rising from his chair. “What brings you into town?”