The Virginia City Trail

by Ralph Compton

  “The rest of you keep your rifles and Colts handy,” Cal said, “and if you hear a commotion, come a-runnin’. Those of you that ain’t on watch tonight can take a turn tomorrow night.”

  But the night passed uneventfully. The rain let up, but before dawn it came again, accompanied by thunder and some distant lightning.

  “I have some business in town,” said Cal, “and I have Mr. Story’s permission to ride in and take care of it. I should be back before dark. The rest of you stay close to camp, keep your eyes open and your guns ready.”

  February 13, 1866. Following the Brazos north.

  Their fourth day on the trail, Story and his riders reached the Brazos a dozen miles south of their camp. The rain had continued most of the day, and darkness was coming early.

  “We might as well bed them down for the night,” Story said. “We’ll reach our camp tomorrow, but for tonight it’s more ridin’ wet and going hungry.”

  “That’s the worst part of all this rain,” said Arch. “When it’s time for grub and hot coffee, they ain’t a stick of dry wood anywhere in Texas.”

  Story could only agree. It had been a perfectly miserable drive, but not a word of complaint had he heard from Jasmine or Bud McDaniels. They rode hard, driving occasional bunch quitters back to the herd, and kept their silence. Story caught Bud’s eye a time or two, and the young rider grinned at him through the rain. It was as though the pair welcomed the incessant rain, the mud, and the lack of food as a means of proving themselves.

  “Some lightning back yonder to the west,” Story said when they’d bedded down the herd. “Tom, you and Jasmine take the first watch. The rest of us will take it from midnight to dawn.”

  Arch Rainey grinned in the gathering darkness. Nelson Story was no fool.

  February 14, 1866. On the Brazos.

  As Nelson Story and his riders got the herd on the trail a dozen miles south, Cal Snider rode out, bound for Fort Worth. He’d rather take a beating with a black-snake whip, he thought dismally, than face Lorna Flagg. What was he going to say to her? He mulled over in his mind what Nelson Story had said. Story liked the girl, but damn it, she wasn’t going to be Story’s responsibility. Lorna was strong-willed, could ride like an Indian, and she wouldn’t be intimidated by a bunch of hell-raising cowboys. So what was he, Cal Snider, afraid of? Her daddy? In a little more than six weeks the girl would be eighteen, and old man Flagg couldn’t touch her. Suppose she ran away before she was legally free, would Flagg send the law after her? Who would he send, or would he even bother dragging the girl back to Fort Worth, when she would only leave again within days? From what Cal had heard, the drive would cross the Red River about eighty miles north of Fort Worth. Once they were into Indian Territory, all they’d have to worry about was what lay ahead. Amos Flagg, vindictive old bastard that he was, wouldn’t go to all that trouble to find a rebellious daughter and drag her home.

  “By God,” said Cal to himself, “I could do worse. I’ll take her with me, and we’ll take our chances with the rivers, the damn Indians, and whatever else we got to fight.”

  He rode on feeling better, grinning to himself as he thought of how the girl would respond. Lost in his thoughts, amid the wind and rain, he didn’t even hear the shot. The slug ripped into him just below his right collar bone, flinging him over the rump of the horse. The wind caught his hat, sending it flying, while the blood from his wound mixed with the steadily falling rain. . . .

  Story and his riders were in the saddle by the time it was barely light enough to see. Breakfast was out of the question, for they had no shelter, and the rain continued.

  “Push them hard,” Story shouted, “and let’s bring this to a finish.”

  It was their fifth day on the trail, with almost continuous rain and little food. But nobody had complained, Story noted with satisfaction, and what they were experiencing might be only a small part of what they would face on the long trail to Virginia City, Montana Territory, by way of Quincy, Illinois.

  Their diligence paid off, and at what Story calculated was an hour past noon, they drove the herd into the south end of the canyon, a mile or two south of their camp.

  “Come on,” Story said, “and leave them to graze. We’re long past due a good meal, hot coffee, and a chance to dry out.”

  Coon Tails, Bill Petty, and Arch Rainey came down the steep trail to help them unsaddle their horses and to unload the provisions that remained on the packhorse. Then, amid the sound of wind and rain, came the patter of hooves. The horse came downriver, from the north, and there was no rider. Coon Tails caught the trailing reins.

  “It’s Cal’s horse,” said Bill Petty. “I told him what you said, and he was riding to town.”

  “Bill,” said Story, “you and Coon Tails saddle your horses.”

  The three of them rode out at a fast gallop, Story leading Cal’s horse. Having no idea where they might find him, Story took the most direct route toward town. Cal had fallen into what had once been a buffalo wallow, and was almost entirely submerged in water when they found him.

  “God,” said Petty, “if the wound don’t kill him, the exposure will. That water’s cold as ice.”

  “We’ll take him on to town,” Story said. “He’s going to need a doctor.”

  They wrapped him in what blankets they had, and although they would soon be soaked, they would protect him from the chill wind that continued to blow from the northwest. They had to ride slowly, and it seemed hours before they saw the dim outlines of the buildings through the driving rain.

  “We’ll take him to the hotel,” Story said, “and bring a doctor to him.”

  They reined up before the Fort Worth House, and while Petty and Coon Tails eased Cal down from the horse, Story went into the hotel to arrange for a room. Story wasted no words.

  “One of my men’s been shot and he needs a room. I’ll guarantee payment for as long as he needs it. How much?”

  “Three dollars a night,” said the clerk.

  “I’m going for a doctor,” Story said. “We’ll need lots of hot water.”

  “But we don’t have—”

  “Then by God,” said Story, leaning across the counter, “send out for some, but have it here when I get back. Comprender?”

  “Y-Yes, sir,” said the frightened clerk.

  Story held the door open as Coon Tails and Petty carried Cal inside.

  “I’ve arranged for a room,” Story said. “When you’ve taken him to it, one of you wait in the lobby for the doctor.”

  Story rode at a fast gallop until he reached the Masonic hall. Reining up, he was out of the saddle and running toward the little shack where Doc Nagel lived, where Story had gone to have his own wound tended following the attempted ambush. He found Doc Nagel going through some papers on his desk.

  “Doc, one of my riders has been shot. He’s at the Fort Worth House. One of my men will be waiting for you in the lobby.”

  The doctor grabbed his hat with one hand and his satchel with the other. Story mounted his horse and rode until he reached Emma Baird’s sewing shop, across the street from the bank.

  “Mr. Story,” said Emma as Story stepped through the door.

  “Emma,” Story said, “Cal Snider’s been shot. Where can I find the Flagg house?”

  “Take a right at the bank,” said Emma, “and it’s four doors down. White house with a picket fence. Do you need me?”

  “Maybe later, Emma,” Story said. “Thanks.”

  Reaching the house, Story pounded on the door. It wasn’t the time of day Flagg was likely to be home, but Story didn’t give a damn. He beat on the door until it finally opened, Lorna staring at him in amazement. She wore Levi’s and a shirt, and her hair was uncombed. Not until later would he discover that her feet were bare.

  “Lorna, Cal’s been shot. He’s at the hotel. Will you come?”

  She was out the door in an instant. Story boosted her up to the saddle, mounted behind her, and set off at a fast gallop for the hotel.
r />   8

  Russ Shadley and Mac Withers sat in their cabin and listened to the rain pound the shake roof. The fire hissed as water found its way down the old chimney and there was a leak in the middle of the rickety kitchen table. In the days since they’d left Nelson Story’s camp, their daily search for more wild cows had been spectacularly unsuccessful.

  “I got to admit,” said Shadley, in a rare burst of candor, “signin’ on with Story’s trail drive wasn’t a bad idea. We ain’t catchin’ enough cows to keep us in coffee an’ beans.”

  “Too many riders gettin’ into the act,” Withers said. “We won’t do no better without goin’ deeper and deeper into the brakes, and that’s where the Comanches are.”

  “Let’s give it till Saturday,” said Shadley. “That’s three more days. Maybe we can rope four more of the varmints. That’ll give us ten.”

  “With what we already drove in, that’d total four hundred dollars,” Withers said. “Story’s promisin’ forty and found, with a bonus of a hundred at the end of the drive. I look for the drive to take six months or more, and when you add the bonus to wages, that’s three hundred an’ forty dollars. If we can start the drive with two hundred apiece, that’s five hundred and forty dollars in our pockets when we git to Montana Territory.”

  “Like I said,” Shadley growled, “ever’ once in a while you come up with a good idee.”

  Coon Tails rode into the canyon, to the camp on the Brazos, with news of Cal having been shot.

  “Bushwhacked,” said the old mountain man as the outfit gathered around. “We took him t’ the hotel in town. Story an’ Petty’s with him now, an’ so’s the leetle gal that’s sweet on him. The doc was workin’ on him when I rode out. Story says ’cept fer nighthawkin’, t’stay close t’camp.”

  “How hard was Cal hit,” Arch Rainey asked, “and where?”

  “Plenty hard,” said Coon Tails, “jist under the right collarbone. The slug went on through. Doc says if it’d hit a bone, he’d be dead.”

  “Thank God,” Jasmine said. “Then he has a chance.”

  “I reckon,” said Coon Tails, “if’n the peemonia don’t git him. When we got t’him, he was layin’ in cold water up t’his chin.”

  The five cowboys who had ridden with Cal from Waco had taken a liking to the young rider, and Quanah Taylor spoke for all of them.

  “Somehow, somewhere,” said Quanah, “we’ll find the skunk-striped varmint, and he’s goin’ to die slow. The five of us ain’t knowed Cal but a few days, but he’s been a damn good friend, a man to ride the river with.”

  It was a sentiment shared by every rider in the camp, and there was anxiety in every face, but they could only wait. They were under orders from Story, and they knew why. A killer rode the plains, and they now knew what they had only suspected. Not only did he have a killing grudge against Story, he had enough hate for every rider in the outfit. . . .

  Dr. Nagel allowed nobody in the room while he worked on Cal. Story, Bill Petty, and Lorna waited in the hall. When Dr. Nagel came out, he closed the door behind him, and Lorna’s face went white.

  “He’ll make it,” the doctor said, “but he’ll need rest. I’ll look in on him again tonight. He’ll be in some pain, and someone should be with him at all times. There’s laudanum on the table beside the bed, and it’ll help him to sleep.”

  “Please let me stay with him,” said Lorna.

  “For a while, then,” Story said, “but only in the daytime. Bill and me will take turns at night.”

  “This came at a bad time,” said Petty, when Lorna had entered the room and closed the door. “He’ll be laid up a good two weeks, maybe longer.”

  “No help for that,” Story said. “The bushwhacker’s out to hurt me in whatever way he can, and that includes gunning down my riders. So far he’s holding all the high cards. We don’t know who he is, and with this never-ending rain, it’s impossible to trail him. The only thing we have going for us is that we may be able to move out sooner than we’ve planned. One more good cattle buy could complete our herd.”

  “And there’s a possibility the bushwhacker won’t follow us.”

  “That’s what I’m hoping,” said Story.

  They heard somebody coming up the stairs, and it proved to be Sheriff Lot Higgins.

  “Heard somebody’s been shot,” Higgins said. “Who, an’ why?”

  “One of my riders,” said Story. “Cal Snider, and we don’t know why, unless the bushwhacker was gunning for me.”

  “By God,” Higgins said, “you’re bad luck. We never had all this snipin’ till you showed up.”

  “Forgive me, Sheriff, for putting a hex on your town,” said Story without humor. “If it’s not asking too much, maybe you could look around and perhaps learn if there are any strangers around, men who have been here about as long as I have.”

  “I ain’t seen no strangers ’cept you an’ the hombres you brung with you,” Higgins said, “an’ it ain’t my job t’ wander around on the prairie lookin’ fer bushwhackers.” With that, he turned and stomped off down the hall.

  “Some sheriff,” said Bill Petty.

  Their next visitor was Emma Baird. “I won’t go in,” she said. “I just wanted to know if he’s all right.”

  “He’s going to be, we think,” Story said. “Lorna’s in there with him.”

  “I thought as much,” said Emma, “and when her father hears of it, he may create a terrible scene. His wife left him almost two years ago, and the old fool’s been taking it out on Lorna.”

  “I can’t imagine the law allowing that sort of thing to go on, unpunished,” Story said. “You have law in this town.”

  “Lot Higgins? Amos Flagg is a power in this town, Mr. Story, and on the frontier, might makes right. I fear for Lorna’s safety.”

  “Don’t,” said Story. “I brought her here, and I’ll see that no harm comes to her as a result of it.”

  “Thank you,” Emma said. “I’ll be ready if you need me.”

  “I’ll walk you back to your place,” said Story. “I’d just returned from Waco when I learned Cal had been shot. I haven’t eaten in several days, and I’m a mite hungry. Bill, keep watch here until I find some grub.”

  The big man from the high plains was a striking figure as he and Emma came down the stairs. Wearing a brace of tied-down Navy Colts, Story stood six and a half feet tall in his riding boots and high-crowned, uncreased sombrero. He wasn’t surprised that he had accumulated an audience. After the wounded Cal had been carried into the hotel, Dr. Nagel had come, soon followed by Story and Lorna, eventually by Sheriff Lot Higgins, and finally by Emma Baird. It was even less surprising that some nosy bastard had taken word to Amos Flagg, if only for the hell of it.

  The rain had subsided as Story and Emma made their way along the boardwalk. Story paused when they were within a block of the Cattleman’s Bank.

  “I’ll be leaving you here, Emma,” Story said. “I have some business at the bank.”

  “If it’s what I’m thinking it is,” said Emma, “you should have a witness. Take me with you.”

  “Come along, then,” Story said.

  They were barely through the door when Amos Flagg confronted them.

  “I have no business with you,” Flagg said coldly, “and I want none.”

  “I have some advice for you,” said Story, “and whether you have sense enough to take it or not, you’re going to listen.”

  “So you’ve dragged my foolish daughter to a hotel room with that no good Cal Snider.”

  “She’s in no danger,” Story said. “Cal’s been shot.”

  “He’s alive, then. That’s too bad,” Flagg said cruelly.

  “Cal Snider is one of my riders,” said Story, “and I’ll side my men till hell freezes. Don’t let me catch you anywhere close to that hotel room.”

  “I’m going over there and drag that headstrong little bitch home by the hair of her head,” Flagg snarled, “and if you lay a hand on me, I’ll have the law on
you.”

  “Wrong,” said Story. “If you abuse that girl in any way, I’ll have the law on you, and I’m not referring to your pet sheriff. I’ll go straight to Captain Clark. There are unwritten laws on the frontier, Flagg, and this one’s at the top of the list. You do not mistreat a woman. Now here’s the advice I promised you. I don’t have to see you abuse that girl, Flagg. If I so much as hear of it, I’ll drag you out in that street, and before God and everybody, beat you within an inch of your miserable life. You leave Lorna and Cal alone. That’s the best advice you’ll ever get, and if you value your skunk-striped hide, you’ll take it. That’s not a threat, Flagg, but an iron-clad promise.”

  With that, Story turned and walked out the door, Emma following.

  “My God,” said Emma admiringly, “I wish the entire town could have heard that. If there’s anything I can do . . .”

  “There is,” Story said. “As long as Cal’s laid up, one of my men will be with him or close by. If her father lays a hand on that girl, you get word to one of my cowboys. Whoever’s with Cal.”

  Story left Emma at her shop and found a cafe, where he ordered hot coffee, ham, fried eggs, and potatoes. From there he returned to the hotel, finding Bill Petty hunkered down in the hall, outside Cal’s room.

  “Bill, I’ll be here the rest of today and tonight. Send somebody in to relieve me in the morning. Ride careful, and warn the others. Continue the nighthawking, two riders each watch.”

  When Petty had gone, Story eased open the door and stepped into Cal’s room. Lorna sat near the bed, unmoving.

  “I’ve been to see your father, Lorna, and I don’t believe he’ll object to your sitting with Cal, but I think you should limit it to the daytime. As long as Cal’s here, me or one of my riders will be here. He’s going to recover, but he’ll need some rest.”

  “I’ll stay with him every day, whether Daddy likes it or not.”

  “He’s not liking it,” Story said, “but I think he’ll accept it. If he hurts you in any way, go to Emma’s place. She’ll get word to me.”