The Virginia City Trail

by Ralph Compton

  “God,” said Cal, “I never knew dry socks could feel so good.”

  They used one of the towels to dry the insides of their boots as best they could, donned dry clothes, and stepped out onto the hotel’s porch. The rain had slacked a little, and they took advantage of it, crossing the street to the Brazos Saloon. From inside there came the less than harmonious jangle of a piano and the clink of glasses. Next to the saloon was a cafe from which came the tempting odor of frying steak.

  “We’ll let the saloon wait another hour,” Story said. “We can’t spend any time in there without buying a beer or two, and I can’t stand the stuff on an empty stomach.”

  Two cowboys were seated at the counter when Cal and Story entered the cafe, and all conversation stopped. Cal and Story took stools at the opposite end of the counter.

  “Steak, spuds, onions, an’ coffee, two bits,” said the cook, “or you kin swap that fer fried chicken, gravy, an’ biscuits, jist a dime more.”

  “I’ll have the fried chicken,” Story said, “and bring me a double portion of it.”

  “Repeat that for me,” said Cal.

  Cal and Story were finishing their coffee when one of the cowboys got up and looked out the window. “Here they come,” he said.

  The second man got up, and the two left the cafe. Story set down his coffee mug and turned to the window. A dozen bluecoats were marching down the muddy street.

  “By God,” breathed the cook, “all hell’s a-fixin’ t’bust loose.”

  “Who are they after?” Story asked.

  “Them two riders that jist went out, Quanah Taylor and Gus Odell, an’ their pards, Virg Wooler, Dutch Mayfield, an’ Jules Dyer. When they come back from the war, they commenced ropin’ wild longhorns from the brakes. Now they got near fifteen hunnert head, an’ the scalawag bastard that’s been appointed tax collector fer the county has assessed the herd at a dollar per cow. Quanah an’ his boys ain’t gonna pay. They couldn’t pay ifn they was willin’, ’cause they ain’t got the money. They’re holed up over there in the Brazos, an’ they got guns. The blue bellies is usin’ that fer a excuse t’go after ’em, callin’ it a violation of the Reconstruction Act. Them boys is gon’ be shot dead fer no reason.”

  “Maybe not,” said Story. “Come on, Cal.”

  They had only to step outside the cafe to see the Union soldiers in position before the Brazos Saloon. At that very moment a challenge was flung at the five men inside. The piano was silent.

  “This is Sergeant Loe. You men—Taylor, Odell, Wooler, Mayfield, and Dyer—are under arrest. Come out with your hands up.”

  “Like hell,” shouted a voice from inside the saloon. “Come and get us, you bastards.”

  “Sergeant,” said Story, “I’m from Montana Territory, in Texas gathering longhorns for a drive north. I’m Nelson Story, and those are my men. There is a misunderstanding here, and I believe I can resolve it without violence. But I’ll need to go inside and talk to them.”

  “They’re still under arrest,” Sergeant Loe insisted, “and nothin’ will change that.”

  “Not even if they surrender their weapons?”

  “Not even if they surrender their weapons.”

  “Let me talk to them, then,” said Story. “When they’ve given up their weapons and surrendered to you, I’m going to ask that the charges be dropped.”

  “We just follow orders,” said Sergeant Loe. “Any appeals will be up to the post commander and the appointed sheriff.”

  “You men in the saloon,” Story shouted, “this is Nelson Story. I have permission from the sergeant to come in and talk. I can resolve this without shooting.”

  “Come on,” shouted the voice from within the saloon, “but if you’re part of some Yankee slick-dealin’, you won’t be around to crow about it.”

  “Cal,” said Story, “move out to the middle of the street. When I bring them out, watch these soldiers. If any man makes a hostile move, kill him.”

  “You can’t do that!” Sergeant Loe shouted.

  “The hell I can’t!” Story snapped. “Stand your ground, Cal.”

  Without a backward look, Story shouldered through the bat-wings into the saloon. The bartender was kneeling behind the bar, easing up just enough to see Story enter. Four tables had been turned over, their tops providing a barricade that faced the door. Five riders hunkered down behind it, every man with a Colt cocked and ready.

  “Put your guns away,” said Story calmly. “I can get you out of this alive, unless you feel there’s some kind of glory in dying against impossible odds.”

  One of the men Story had seen in the cafe got to his feet. “I’m Quanah Taylor,” he said. “If you’re not with the blue bellies, what’s your stake in this?”

  “I’m from Montana Territory,” said Story, “and I’m buying cattle for a trail drive. I told Sergeant Loe the five of you are working for me. If we play our cards right, I can get you out of this alive. But not if you gun down Union soldiers.”

  “You still ain’t answered my question. What’s your stake in this?”

  “I’ll buy your herd, arm you with Colt revolvers and Winchester repeating rifles, and take you to Montana Territory as part of my outfit. Besides paying you for your cattle, I’ll pay forty and found, with a hundred dollar bonus for each man at the end of the drive.”

  They didn’t respond immediately, conversing among themselves, and when they appeared to have reached a decision, Taylor again faced Story.

  “We agree on one thing, Story. We ain’t got a hell of a lot of choices. If we accept your offer, how do you aim to get us out of here, an’ what’s gonna happen to us afterward? Who’re you that them blue bellies will live up to your promises?”

  “I have already spoken to Captain Clark, the commander at Fort Worth,” said Story, “and I have permission to hire Texas cowboys for a trail drive north. All that’s required is that you sign papers agreeing not to take up arms against the Union again. You don’t aim to fight another war, do you?”

  “Hell, no,” Taylor said, “we’re havin’ trouble enough tryin’ to survive the one we was just in. We seen enough gun-totin’ blue bellies to last us a lifetime. We’ll sign them papers.”

  “Those soldiers outside can’t make decisions,” said Story. “You’ll have to give up your weapons and submit to arrest. Then we can go to the appointed sheriff and the post commander. Once these charges against you are dropped, we’ll go from there.”

  “No way I’m givin’ up my gun,” said one of the riders. “Dud Byler’s the appointed sheriff, and he hates our guts.”

  “There’s nothing I can do for you, then,” said Story.

  There was more talk, and Story waited. When the men had reached their decision, Taylor again turned to Story.

  “You got us by the short hairs, Story. We’ll do what you say.”

  “Let me have your guns,” Story said, “and I’ll take them out with me. One of my riders is waiting outside, and if any soldier pulls a gun, you have my word that he’ll die. I’ll go with you to the courthouse, or wherever they aim to take you. Just remember, you’re all part of my outfit, and the cows you’ve been gathering are mine.”

  Each man surrendered his Colt, and Story shouldered his way out the swinging doors. Cal still stood in the street, his Colt cocked and ready. Sergeant Loe eyed the Colts Story presented him, unbelieving.

  “How do we know they don’t have sleeve guns?”

  “There are no hideout guns,” said Story. “They have given their word, and I’ve given mine. These men are unarmed, and I’ll kill any man pulling a gun on them. Where are you taking them?”

  “To the courthouse,” said Sergeant Loe. “That’s where the jail is.”

  “Come on out, boys,” Story shouted.

  Quanah Taylor came out first, his hands shoulder high. The rest of them followed, careful to make no hostile move.

  “We’re going to the courthouse,” said Story, “and you’ll have to spend a little time in jail, unti
l I straighten this out. Sergeant, who is the officer in charge here?”

  “Lieutenant Goode.”

  “Let’s go, then,” said Story. “I want to talk to him immediately.”

  Hitch Gould and Bill Petty rode almost ten miles to the west before sighting the outbuildings to Ike Hagerman’s ranch. It was anything but a rawhide outfit, and Hagerman came out of the barn as they approached. Petty explained the purpose of their visit.

  “I got near ’bout a thousand head,” said the rancher, “and I aim to take ’em to market myself.”

  “We can’t fault you for that,” said Petty. “Do you know of anybody else in these parts who might sell to us?”

  “Nobody with enough to make any difference,” Hagerman said. “You might ride over to Comanche and ask around.”

  Hitch and Petty rode out, heading east, but once out of sight of the Hagerman ranch, they reined up.

  “I got the feeling he was just trying to get rid of us,” said Petty, “and I wonder why. Others have only a few cows, or none at all, while he’s got a thousand head.”

  “Somethin’ about him didn’t ring true,” Hitch agreed, “but there ain’t no proof. More’n one respectable cattleman got his start with nothin’ but a hoss, a saddle, an’ a runnin’ iron.”

  “How far is it to Comanche?”

  “Few miles,” said Hitch. “We can make it ’fore dark, easy.”

  “We’ll ride that far, at least,” Petty said. “If we don’t have something to show for our efforts by tomorrow night, we’ll consider returning to camp. When word gets around that Hagerman’s making a drive, there’s a possibility that lesser herds will throw in with him.”

  “I expect we’ll know by the time we reach Comanche,” said Hitch. “Let’s ride.”

  Tom and Arch managed to get the drunken Bud Mc-Daniels into the cabin and stretched out on the floor. The cabin was surprisingly homey, with Indian rugs on the floor and curtains at the windows. There was an enormous fireplace in which a fire roared as the wind swept down the chimney, sucking at the flames.

  “You’d best fix a bed for him, ma’am,” said Allen, “while we get him out of these wet clothes. That gash on his head needs tendin’ to.”

  It was good advice, and she left them alone, going into another room.

  “She hit him hard,” Arch said. “He’s breathing, but he’s out cold.”

  They peeled McDaniels down to the bare hide and were astounded at the scars that dominated his body.

  “God,” said Arch, “no wonder he come back and hit the rotgut. He must of been through hell.”

  “No doubt,” said the girl from the doorway, “but that’s no excuse for what he’s done. Not so much to me, but to his daddy. The bed’s ready.”

  “Take his feet, Arch,” said Allen. They got him into the bed, covering him to his chin. They stepped aside as the girl brought a basin of water, and watched as she bathed the wound she had inflicted. She doused it well with disinfectant and emptied the basin of water out the front door. When she returned to the bedroom, she managed a weary smile, and then she spoke.

  “I’m Jasmine McDaniels. I should thank you for bringing Bud home, and apologize for my actions. He . . . well, he sometimes brings drunken friends home, and I . . . I’m stuck with them until they’re sober enough to ride. Come to the kitchen and I’ll put on some coffee. Then, if you’ll excuse me, I must get into some dry clothes.”

  The coffee was ready before the girl was, and Arch found cups in an oak cupboard behind the table. The fire crackled in the stove, and the warmth of the kitchen was pleasant. The riders drank the hot, black coffee with appreciation. When Jasmine McDaniels returned, they set their cups down and caught their breath. She had changed into an ankle-length dress of Indian design, and had exchanged her boots for moccasins. Her long hair had been brushed, and the smile she wore was genuine.

  “Now,” she said, “since you’re not a pair of Bud’s undesirable drinking pardners, what is your business with me?”

  Quickly Tom Allen explained the purpose of their visit.

  “We have more than a thousand head of longhorns ready for market,” she said. “Daddy worked hard during the war, vowing that when Bud came home, we would take the herd to market. Now . . .”

  Her voice faded and she looked out the window, into the dismal, blowing rain. Her eyes were so brown they were almost as black as her hair, and in their depths was untold pain, frustration, and despair.

  “Ma’am,” Tom Allen said, “we have the riders to take a drive north, and the money to pay you for your cows.”

  “But I want more than that,” she said. “I want what Daddy wanted. To go where the grass is up to a horse’s belly, to the high plains, where the sky goes on forever. I’ll sell the herd on one condition. I’m going with the drive, and I’m taking Bud with me. He’s going to become a man his daddy could be proud of, by God, if it kills him.”

  * Trail Drive Series No. 1, The Goodnight Trail

  6

  As they marched down the muddy street ahead of the Union soldiers, Story studied the five cowboys. Their boots were rough-out, run-over, their hats battered and used up, their Levi’s and denim shirts faded. Not a man of them was more than twenty-one or -two, and but for their empty holsters, they were Texan to the bone. Cal and Story walked behind the soldiers. Reaching the courthouse, the five Texans halted while Sergeant Loe went inside. Within minutes he was back, accompanied by a tall, sandy-haired man with lieutenant’s bars on the epaulets of his blue coat. The rain had ceased.

  “This is Lieutenant Goode,” said Sergeant Loe.

  “Pleased to meet you, Lieutenant. I’m Nelson Story, from Virginia City, Montana Territory. This is Cal Snider, one of my men. These five riders the sergeant has under arrest are also my men, and they’ve been gathering longhorn cattle for my trail drive. These men—Quanah Taylor, Gus Odell, Virg Wooler, Dutch Mayfield, and Jules Dyer—have voluntarily surrendered their weapons for the sake of resolving this misunderstanding. When I reached Fort Worth, I immediately met with the post commander, Captain Clark, and told him of my intention to hire Texas cowboys. He has no objection to that, provided the men sign the necessary papers agreeing not to take up arms against the Union. These men have agreed to sign those papers, and since they won’t be taking up arms against the Union, that should entitle them to carry weapons for their own protection. With that in mind, I am asking you to drop any and all charges against them.”

  “I see nothing unreasonable about your request,” said Lieutenant Goode, “but we didn’t prefer those charges. That was the doing of appointed sheriff Dud Byler. He can dismiss the charges, or insist that you go before the judge. Sergeant Loe, ask Sheriff Byler to come out here.”

  When Byler appeared, he impressed Story as being of about the same caliber as Lot Higgins. He wore polished boots, a boiled shirt, a blue serge town suit, and a pearl-gray Stetson. His gun rig was inlaid with silver, and his tied-down Colt had a fancy pearl handle.

  “I ain’t accustomed to conductin’ business outside in the muddy street,” he said by way of greeting.

  Swiftly Story repeated what he had just told Lieutenant Goode. He then requested that the charges be dropped, since the men could in no way be considered a threat to the Union.

  “They was in violation of the law when them charges was made,” Byler said. “You can’t go back an’ undo the violation of the law by promisin’ not t’do it agin.”

  “Sheriff,” said Story, “nobody’s denying there was a violation of the law. These men have agreed to abide by the legal procedure the Union requires, and that should entitle them to carry weapons for their own protection. If you want to go before the judge, then so be it, but it’ll be a waste of your time and ours.”

  “He’s right, Sheriff Byler,” said Lieutenant Goode. “Judge Paschal has already ruled that it’s not the intent and purpose of this antigun law to punish a man once he has taken an oath not to take up arms against the Union.”

  “Consid
er the charges dropped, then,” said Byler, with poor grace, “but that don’t mean the tax agin’ them cows is bein’ dropped. The tax has been paid, an’ the herd forfeited to the gent that paid it.”

  “I’m going to disagree with you again, Sheriff,” Story said. “That herd is mine, and I’m not a Texan. I’m going to ask you to show me, chapter and verse, where this Reconstruction Act entitles you, or anybody, to impose a tax on a man’s herd.”

  Story’s five newly acquired riders were grinning. Byler turned to the lieutenant, but the officer raised his eyebrows and said nothing.

  “Well, Sheriff? If you’re having trouble making up your mind, we can take this question before the judge,” said Story.

  “Take the herd,” Byler said sullenly, “if you can, but you’ll have to settle with Raney Huffmeyer an’ his outfit. It was him that paid the taxes an’ took the herd on forfeit.”

  “Then I reckon he’ll be looking to you and the county for a refund of his money,” said Story, “because we are taking the herd. Lieutenant, if you’ll return the weapons belonging to my riders, we’ll be going.”

  “Sergeant,” said Lieutenant Goode, “return the weapons taken from these men.” He said no more, but there was just a hint of satisfaction in his eyes as he watched the disgruntled Sheriff Byler stalk toward the courthouse. When Lieutenant Goode and his soldiers had departed, Story turned to the five cowboys.

  “Now,” Story said, “tell me about the herd and this Raney Huffmeyer.”

  “He’s the sheriff’s brother-in-law,” said Quanah Taylor, “and he’s killed a man or two. Fancies himself a real bull of the woods, with a pair of tied-down Colts. Our herd’s on his spread, ten miles east of here. He’s got nine riders, and they always have money, but they never seem to work. If you get the drift. Our cows is all branded too. Circle Five.”

  “I get it,” Story said. “In the morning we’ll go after the herd. Where are your horses?”

  “Tied behind the Brazos Saloon,” said Taylor.

  “We’ll take them to the livery,” Story said. “Then we’ll get you gents a bed for the night and some supper.”