A Trail Too Far

by Robert Peecher

  "It seems so," Amos said. "Unless we decide that we will travel on our own, without a guide."

  "How dangerous is that?" Graham asked.

  "Certainly it is a risk," Amos conceded. "But we have come this far without a guide, and we have done well. And I believe the danger here, on the Missouri and Kansas border, could prove to be greater than anything we might face on the open prairie."

  "There are not hostile Indians here," Graham noted.

  "No, but there are hostile pro-slavery factions that have already sacked a town. How would it go for us if we are camped here for months and people here discover that we are abolitionists from Ohio?"

  Stuart nodded his agreement. "Our best hope is to keep moving. With or without a guide, we do not want to winter here."

  Graham was a respectable and intelligent young man. Good looking and industrious, he had a bright future ahead of him in the academic world. Amos Cummings was pleased that during the journey so far he and Rachel had grown closer. Amos liked the idea of a blossoming romance between Graham and his only surviving daughter. His wife, Martha, also approved of the match and often compared Graham favorably to Amos himself. He was not much of a hand on a wagon train, it had to be admitted. Graham drove his wagon only with oxen attached because he could not manage the stubborn mules. But once the journey was made, a man's ability to manage mules was not nearly as important as his ability to provide for himself and his future wife. With Amos lending a guiding hand, surely Graham's abilities as a provider would be sufficient.

  3

  The man at the livery saw an easy mark in the youthfulness of the man looking at his horses, but he misjudged his customer.

  "That gelding there is ideal for making the trip," the livery man swore. "He ain't but ten years old, and you can see how tame he is."

  The young man shook his head, a grin on his face. "That gelding there is twenty-five years old if he's a day, and he's so tame because he's tired out from doing nothing all day. I get fifty or a hundred miles on to Santa Fe, and he'll be exhausted and ruined. That's assuming he makes it so far, which I doubt he will."

  "Maybe fifteen years old, but he's spry enough."

  "He's not spry enough to get out of his stall," the young man said. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a pipe and tobacco pouch. He pushed the pipe bowl and his thumb into the tobacco pouch and packed the bowl. He lit it with a match and puffed on the pipe a few times to get it going.

  The young man was not particularly tall nor particularly broad, but he had a way of carrying himself that made him seem bigger than he was. He had long hair that spilled out from under his hat and fell straight down past his shoulders. His eyes were brown and thoughtful, and his face seemed fixed with a permanent grin, as if he was in on some joke that others were just about to find out about.

  "No, sir," the young man said. "Ain't interested in an old hawss that can't make the journey. I need two hawsses, geldings or mares, something around ten years old, that will tote a pannier or a man or will be driven easily. They've got to have the endurance to make this trip with some speed, too."

  The livery man shook his head. He was already getting frustrated that his customer was not going to be as easy as he thought. "You want one that can also make your coffee?"

  "That one out yonder can make the coffee," the young man said, not missing a beat. "I ain't got time to break 'em in. I need good hawsses now. If you ain't got them, I'll go on to find someone who does."

  "How about the bay there?"

  "That bay sitting yonder in that stall is a fine looking animal," the young man said. "He's not been cared for particularly well, which is a shame because he might be a good animal otherwise."

  "What do you mean?" the livery man demanded.

  "I done looked him over. He's got cracked hooves. Only a blind fool would buy such a hawss to go on a thousand mile journey."

  The young man said it all in an even tone. There was not even any hint of accusation in what he said. "You should have a farrier come see to him. If you don't have any stock that's fit, I'll go and look elsewhere."

  The livery man hemmed and hawed and tried to stall the young man, but the fact was he did not have a decent horse for sale. When the last of the wagon trains of the season supplied itself, they took his better horses. Those that were left were too aged for long travel or, as the young man said, in need of a farrier's attention. The only decent horses were the ones not for sale, these were the ones the livery man kept for his personal use or let out for local travel. Good horses were too hard to come by to go selling the best.

  The man from the livery followed the young man out of the stalls to the street, and he saw the young man take a beautiful blue roan from a hitching post. It was as pretty a horse as the livery man had ever seen, a deep shade of blue like you wouldn't believe was natural. Its face was full black. When he saw the horse, he knew immediately who the young man was.

  "Hey, boy, are you Rabbie Sinclair?"

  The boy stopped, his horse's lead in one hand, his pipe still smoking in the other.

  "That's right," Sinclair said.

  "Why didn't you say so? Tie up that horse there and come with me out back. I've got a couple of horses in the paddock, my private stock. I don't normally sell those, but I could sell you two. Give you a good rate for 'em, too."

  Rab Sinclair hitched up the blue roan and patted Cromwell on the neck. The blue was still a colt. Rab had him since he was a foal, and he'd started training him when he was just a yearling. Rab Sinclair was no wrangler, but he had a way with most animals, and a mutual trust existed between Rab and the roan. "I'll be back presently, maybe with a couple of riding partners for us."

  Rab followed the man back through the livery to the paddock behind.

  "I don't sell from the private stock, but I'll make an exception for you."

  "I'm obliged," Rab said. "What made you decide that?"

  "I knew your father, the preacher."

  Rab Sinclair chuckled. "He weren't really a preacher," Rab said.

  "Well, whether he was a preacher or not is neither here nor there. My wife's brother was among that stranded party up in the San Juan Mountains six years ago. I reckon there ain't much I wouldn't do for Preacher Sinclair's son."

  It seemed wherever he went, Rab encountered someone who was either with the party in the San Juans or was related to someone who was. His father would have said it was God's hand guiding him, but Rab suspected it had more to do with the size of the wagon train. More than a hundred wagons following a bad trail with no decent guide, and they got stranded in a blizzard. Preacher Sinclair was with the Utes that winter. Rab was there, too. A Scotsman who fancied himself a Presbyterian missionary, Preacher Sinclair convinced the Utes to take in the stranded folks and shelter and feed them through the winter. More than three hundred white emigrants survived that winter because of the decency of the Ute people, and Preacher Sinclair got all the credit.

  "Did you recognize me by my hawss?" Rab asked, puffing on his pipe.

  "Surely did," the liveryman said. "When you're in the horse business, as I am, you hear about special horses. A couple months back they was in here talking about that pretty blue roan that Preacher Sinclair's son was riding. I saw that one out front, and I knew right away what horse it was. So you're going on the Santa Fe Train, are you?"

  "I reckon so," Rab Sinclair said. "I heard there was a gold strike at Pinos Altos in New Mexico Territory, and I thought I might wander down that way and see if I can't put some gold in my pockets."

  "Whatever became of your pa, Preacher Sinclair?"

  "Pa died about four years ago. We was living among the Kiowa and he took a fever."

  "I am sorry to hear that," the liveryman said. "He was a hero to those people he helped out of the mountains that time. You been on your own since then?"

  "I have," Rab said. "The Kiowa turned me out after my pa died. They liked his Bible sermons, but I didn't do no preaching so I wasn't any use to them."

&n
bsp; "What about that one there? The buckskin? That's a good gelding and would make a good trail horse. You can put your pannier on him, or saddle him up. And that sorrel, that's a mare. Both of those would be good trail horses. You can lead 'em, pack 'em, or ride 'em. I'd sell both of them to you for an even hundred dollars. I could sell them to anybody else for sixty dollars apiece, so that's a good price."

  Rab looked over both horses, ran his hands along their legs and over their sides. They had good, strong hind legs. The hooves were clean and clipped.

  "You take good care of these hawsses," Rab said. "You should take as good a care to the ones in the livery. I'll spend a hundred dollars on the sorrel and the buckskin."

  "You think you'll find gold in New Mexico?" the liveryman asked.

  "It's hard to say what will happen when it ain't happened yet," Rab said. "I know I have a better chance of finding gold in New Mexico Territory than I have of finding it here. Anyway, it's something to do."

  The liveryman took his money, and Rab led the horses out to the roan. He climbed into Cromwell's saddle and led the buckskin and sorrel, and he started to ride out of town. Both horses were in good shape, old enough that he didn't expect they'd give him any trouble by running off, but young enough that they could endure the long distance. They were well built, strong horses. The sorrel was a pretty red with a light red mane and tail, and the buckskin was a light, even tan with a black mane and tail and four black socks.

  He'd gone no more than a few blocks when he saw Albert Huntsdale over on the boardwalk in front of some offices waving to him and calling his name.

  Two years ago, Rab had worked as a guide for one of Huntsdale's big wagon trains when one of his usual guides took ill. With his father, Rab had made the Oregon Trail journey twice from start to finish, and he'd lived in the area of the trail almost all his life. His youth had been a problem for some of the people in the wagon train, but by the end of the journey, Rab had won them over by passing the ultimate test, he safely deposited them in California.

  He returned from California the next year by the Southern Route and the Santa Fe Trail, and had been in Independence ever since. Albert tried to entice him to serve as a guide on a wagon train again, but Sinclair declined. When they'd last encountered each other, Rab Sinclair had told the old man that he intended to go back to New Mexico.

  Like most folks who met him, Huntsdale took an immediate liking to Rab Sinclair.

  "I was worried you'd already left Independence," Albert said.

  "Leaving out in the morning," Rab said.

  "Still planning to take the Santa Fe Trail?"

  "I'll go another way if you know a shorter route to New Mexico Territory," Rab said.

  Huntsdale laughed. "I don't know a shorter route, but I might know how you can make it more profitable to yourself."

  "How is that?" Rab asked.

  "I've got a small group that missed the last wagon train to California," Huntsdale said. "They showed up in Independence yesterday. They're desperate to go now, even though they missed the last train."

  "If they go by the Oregon Trail they'll never make Truckee Pass before the snows."

  "That's what I told them," Huntsdale said. "But they're insistent. I remembered you saying you were planning to go the Santa Fe Trail. I'd pay you fifty dollars to guide them to Santa Fe. Once you're there, if you would help them find a guide on to Californy, I'd be obliged."

  Rab looked behind him at the two fifty dollar horses he'd just bought. Supplies to get to Santa Fe and two fifty dollar horses had tapped out almost all the money he had. He knew once he was in New Mexico he would need money for prospecting tools – a pan and digging implements.

  "They would slow me down something fierce," Rab Sinclair said.

  Albert Huntsdale nodded his head. "They would do that, I reckon."

  "I ain't going to be responsible for their care, nor will I round up the animals they let stray off," Rab said.

  "They should plan to be responsible for their own stock. I agree," Huntsdale said.

  "If they fail to ration water and food, I'll not suffer by giving them mine."

  "You ain't carrying that much anyways, not if you're packing on the trail," Huntsdale agreed.

  "I reckon they might take some of the loneliness out of the trip, though. Eight weeks is quite a while to be alone with yourself."

  "Eight weeks is long enough for a man to forget the language if it ain't spoke at him," Huntsdale said.

  "I'll not ride behind 'em and eat their dust the whole way. They can follow along behind me."

  "Be hard to guide 'em from behind, anyway," Huntsdale said.

  "If they're inclined to follow me, I suppose I can't stop them."

  Huntsdale spat tobacco juice into the dirt road.

  "Beggars can't be choosers, Rab. If that don't meet with their approval, then they can camp in Independence through the winter and go with the first train out next spring."

  4

  The buckboard was loaded with flour, salt, lamp oil and other supplies. Ted Gibson was in no hurry. He'd make it home in plenty of time to beat the dark. The ride to town was two days there and two back. He rose early on his second day and was making good time. He didn't like being away from the farm for any length of time and hated these four-day treks to get supplies. Indian raids were rare but not unheard of, and it always worried Ted to leave his wife and children. She was a strong woman and would do what she had to. She'd stared down Indians with a scattergun before, and she could do it again. Still, Ted preferred to be at home.

  But he did enjoy the solitude of the ride across the tall grass prairie. Off in the distance, ominous clouds colored the sky dark gray and black, but Ted had been watching the storm through the morning and believed it would blow north of him.

  Riding out across the prairie, the terrain looked flat as it could be, going on forever to the horizon as one long, flat green place. A stand of trees, that usually indicated the presence of a creek, was an occasional break on the horizon. But Ted Gibson understood that across that flat looking plain there were plenty of low hills and hollows, all subtle and nearly invisible until a man was on top of them. Those hollows could hide creeks, trees, a herd of buffalo, and even a hundred Indians.

  The buckboard wagon, loaded with supplies that would see his family through the winter, creaked and rocked as the mules pulled it through the tall grass. If there'd been more rain this summer, the mules might have had more trouble cutting through the grass, even with the wide wheels of the wagon. But he rolled along pretty well, making good time.

  When he topped a hill overlooking a deep meadow with a small creek running through it, Ted did not at first see the three men and the six horses. They were standing under a stand of cottonwoods, watering their horses at the creek. He saw the three men when one of the horses wandered away from the creek to graze.

  Ted put the break on the wagon and pulled back on the reins to stop the mules. He sat for a moment, looking down at the trees, and then he spotted the men.

  Right away, Ted had an uneasy feeling about the three men. Strangers were an uncommon sight.

  He was thinking about turning the mules and fording the creek a little farther to the south, hoping to avoid any contact with the strangers. But he was too late in reaching his decision.

  "Howdy!" one of the men called up to him.

  The man started walking up the slope toward Ted. He wore a broad smile, but even so his face gave an appearance of hostility.

  "How are you?" Ted called back to him.

  The other two men were now out from under the trees, watching. They made no greeting.

  The man coming toward him wore a Colt Army revolver on his hip.

  "Just watering our horses," the man said, still walking toward the wagon.

  "I didn't expect to see anyone out here today," Ted said. "I make this journey to town a few times a year, and I can't recall ever running across anyone other than a few Indians looking to beg or barter."

 
"We ain't Injuns," the man said. "My name is Bill, and down there are Dick and Chester."

  "Pleased to meet you," Ted said. "I'd love to stay and chat, but I'm trying to beat that storm." Ted nodded his head at the clouds off to the west.

  Bill turned and looked at the clouds. "Those'll blow north of us," he said. "You should be fine. How far is your place?"

  "It's a ways, still," Ted said.

  "How many people you got at home?" Bill asked.

  It seemed a strange question, and Ted was uncomfortable offering an honest answer. "Just me and my two sons."

  In fact, waiting for him at home were his wife and daughter, his wife's mother and sister, and four sons. But only one of Ted's sons was big enough to heft the Enfield rifle and put it to any good use. Ted still did all of the hunting.

  "Your sons ain't got a mother?" Bill asked.

  "She took ill and died a year ago," Ted said.

  Maybe it was the meanness in Bill's face, but Ted's intuition told him it would be unwise to let this man know that there were women at his homestead.

  With Dick Derugy and Chess Bowman watching from down at the creek, Pawnee Bill walked around to the back of the buckboard wagon. He took out his Bowie knife and cut one of the ropes tying down the oilcloth.

  "What are you doing?" Ted Gibson asked, and he leaped down off of the buckboard and went toward Pawnee Bill.

  "I'm just looking to see if you've got anything I might could trade off of you," Bill said. He was working to keep the smile on his face, but it was slipping.

  Pawnee Bill flipped back the corner of the oilcloth and looked into the wagon.

  "I'm not interested in trading," Ted said, but he did not take a step more toward Pawnee Bill, nor did he make a move to stop him.

  "Well, you don't know what I might have to trade," Pawnee Bill said. "You don't know that I might have just the thing you're looking for, and if you've got just the thing I'm looking for then maybe a trade might do for both of us."

  "I just have supplies," Ted said, but there was a tone to his voice that caught in Pawnee Bill's ear. It was a tone of pleading. It was a tone of weakness that Pawnee Bill like to hear.