“Quickenpaugh make mark. Quickenpaugh no kill. Other Comanch’ no make mark, kill dead lak hell. Why you no take gun?”
It was an unanswerable, impossible question. Captain Clark’s face flamed red with anger, embarrassment, or a combination of the two. Then the Indian added insult to injury. Quickenpaugh laughed, but not as uproariously as the cowboys. Clark looked as though he’d not be satisfied with anything less than seeing the lot of them before a firing squad. Story quickly intervened.
“If that’s satisfactory, Captain, we should be going.”
“That will be satisfactory,” said the officer, striving to recover some dignity. Story rode out, his riders following.
When they reached the rest of the outfit, Cal wasted no time in telling them of Quickenpaugh’s quick wit, and the Indian received some admiring looks. It was an enigma Story had never encountered, a Comanche with a sense of humor. As they rode, Whit McCulloch told them something about the country where they would be gathering the Hanby herd.
“It’s in northwestern Palo Pinto,” McCulloch said, “where they’s so many crooks an’ turns, the Brazos nearly meets itself a dozen times. When they’s lots of rain, like we been havin’, they’s backwater fer miles. For some reason nobody’s ever figgered out, that place is overrun with possums.”*
“Sounds like the ideal place to lose a herd of cows,” said Story.
“It is,” McCulloch said. “Ed Hanby was a mite strange in his thinkin’, an’ I reckon he had plans fer that herd, but it never made no sense to me. Only thing I can figger, it would of been a hell of a job rustlin’ Ed’s cows. You’d have to round ’em up first. He did have some good cow hosses, though. Damn shame the Comanches got ’em.”
“You said you trailed those Comanches a ways,” said Story. “When they rode out, which way did they go?”
“North,” McCulloch said. “Across the Brazos, into Jack County. Ain’t more’n seventy mile to the Red. I hear that when things gits a mite hot fer ’em in Texas, they scat across the Red, into Injun Territory.”
“It wouldn’t be easy trailing them, then,” said Story, “as much rain as we’ve had.”
“I dunno,” McCulloch said. “Even with all the rain an’ mud, you got fifty an’ more hosses headin’ the same way, there’ll be plenty of sign. That wasn’t the problem. Like I said, they was a good fifty Comanches, while there was jus’ me an’ three other hombres.”
“Captain Clark sent eight soldiers and a sergeant,” said Story. “When they arrived, what did they do?”
“No more’n we did,” McCulloch replied. “Hell, not even as much. We buried the dead. When them blue bellies seen how many Injuns they was, them Union boys lit a shuck back the way they’d come, takin’ me an’ Ellie Hanby with ’em. Few soldiers here an’ a few there, ain’t enough of ’em in one place to scare even one Comanche, let alone fifty of ’em.”
That was about the size of it, Story thought, recalling his very recent experience with Captain Clark. The army seemed more intent on harassing Texans than pursuing Comanches. Story became aware that Wes Hardin was riding behind him and had been listening to his conversation with McCulloch regarding the Comanches.
“You find the need to trail some Comanches,” said Hardin, “Quickenpaugh can foller ’em across solid rock, through water, or into Injun Territory.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Story said, “if he’s willing.”
“He’s Comanche enough, he ain’t scared of nothin’ or nobody,” said Hardin, “but he ain’t Comanche enough to side with the varmints. Way you whip Comanches, Cap’n, is track ’em down and shoot the bastards dead ’fore they knows you’re close by.”
Story was forced to take another look at Wes Hardin. Young, arrogant to a fault, but in some ways older than the ages. Fearless young hellion that he was, Story suspected that John Wesley Hardin would end up in trouble with the law, to be hanged, unless somebody shot him first.*
* Today, as a result of the Morris Sheppard Dam, there is a twenty-thousand-acre lake with a shoreline of 310 miles, spreading into Palo Pinto, Stephens, Jack, and Young counties, furnishing water for municipal supply, irrigation, and power generation. It is known as Possum Kingdom Lake.
* By the time John Wesley Hardin was seventeen, he had killed seven men. In 1895, in El Paso, he was shot in the back of the head by Constable John Selman. At the time of his death, Hardin had more than thirty notches on the butt of his gun.
10
As Whit McCulloch had predicted, they reached his place before dark, making their camp beyond his barn, near a creek.
“In the mornin’,” said McCulloch, “I’ll ride with you to the Hanby place.”
“The old varmint could of invited us to supper,” Wes Hardin said when McCulloch had ridden on to the house.
“You lean almighty heavy on a man’s hospitality,” said Quanah Taylor. “There’s thirteen of us, includin’ a Comanche.”
“I don’t take kindly to nobody criticizin’ my manners,” Hardin said, with a wolfish grin that held no humor.
“That’s enough,” Story interrupted. “We have our own grub, and there’s plenty of tinned goods. You want anything fancy, somethin’ that needs cooking, then it’s every man for himself. Bill Petty’s boilin’ the coffee.”
February 21, 1866. Palo Pinto County, Texas.
After a hasty breakfast, Story and his outfit rode north, following Whit McCulloch to the Hanby place. The house and outbuildings had been burned to the ground. Nothing remained standing except the forlorn chimney and a few poles from the corral that had adjoined the barn.
“We buried ’em down there below the barn,” said McCulloch. “We’re mebbe three miles south of the Brazos. All kinds of brush has growed up in them bends, an’ that’s where you’ll likely find most of the Hanby herd. Over yonder to the west of where the house stood, you can see where them Comanches rode out to the north. Now if you got no more need for me, I’ll be ridin’ on to the house.”
“We’re obliged to you,” Story said. When McCulloch had ridden away, Story found Quickenpaugh riding along the trail left by the departing Comanches. He trotted his horse, catching up to the Indian.
“Them leave sign like estupido squaws. You want Quickenpaugh find?”
“Si,” Story said. “Find.” Story pointed to one of the pack mules. “Take grub, shells.”
Tom Allen and Bill Petty had heard the conversation, and began unloading the pack mules.
“You want I should ride along with the Injun?” Coon Tails asked.
“No,” said Story, “I think he’d take offense at that. This leaves twelve of us, and that works out in teams of two, for the gather. When Quickenpaugh takes what he needs, we’ll cache our provisions, picket the mules, and head for the Brazos.”
When Quickenpaugh rode north, the rest of the outfit rode northwest.
“I ain’t never seen no Injun like this Quickenpaugh,” Coon Tails said. “The sign he’s follerin’ is might’ nigh a week old. You really think he kin find them Comanche?”
“He thinks he can,” said Story, “and that can make all the difference. Whether he does or not, I think he finds the hunt more appealing than roping cows out of the brush.”
“If these brutes have been in the brakes too long, we’ll need a holding pen,” Tom Allen said. “Unless we can find a blind canyon, that’ll take some work.”
“I can’t see them being all that wild,” said Story. “Ellie Hanby said they’re branded, but we’ll have to rope a few and see what happens.”
The first half-dozen longhorns proved to be two-year-olds, and to everybody’s surprise, they could be driven. It was a revelation that excited them all, for instead of a week of roping wild, unruly animals, they might finish the gather in a day or two. It might also eliminate the need for holding pens, saving them time and much hard work.
“Forget about roping them,” Story said, “unless there’s some wild ones in the bunch. We’ll push them across that rise and try to hold the
m on the graze beyond.”
The first hundred longhorns they drove out of the brakes were two-year-olds, mostly steers, and to Story’s satisfaction, they settled down on the grassy swale to which they’d been driven.
“Now if we can just get the rest of ’em out of there,” said Tom Allen, “we’ll have ourselves a herd.”
Elated with their good fortune, they rode the brakes continuously until darkness was almost upon them.
“Tom, you and Bill ride back and get the mules and provisions. Quanah, you and Bud ride along with them. The rest of us will stay here with the herd until you return.”
“They ain’t no water closer’n the river,” Coon Tails observed.
“No matter,” said Story. “We have the start of a herd here, and we’ll stay with it. Tomorrow, after we’ve gathered more cows, we’ll move nearer the river.”
When Tom, Bill, Quanah, and Bud returned, Quickenpaugh was with them. The Indian looked at Story and shook his head.
“Sobre rojo agua,” said Quickenpaugh.*
“He lost ’em,” Coon Tails said. “They’ve crossed the Red, into the damn Injun Territory.”
“No lose,” protested Quickenpaugh. “Them go many suns.” He pointed to the east.
“You were right to turn back, Quickenpaugh,” Story said. “Since they’ve crossed the Red and are riding eastward, they’re too far ahead of us. We’ll finish this gather and start the drive back to our camp on the Brazos.”
By the end of the second day, according to Story’s tally, they had 475 longhorns.
“Steers, two-year-olds and up, are runnin’ almost fifty-fifty,” Bill Petty said, “and if I’m any judge, there’ll be a pretty good calf crop too.”
“Don’t need no calves,” said Coon Tails. “They’ll slow down the drive.”
“No matter,” Story said. “If need be, we’ll slow the drive. I don’t aim to lose a one, if it can be helped. Calves grow into cows, and that’s what I’m after.”
At noon of the third day, Story again took a tally, counting 810 head.
“There may be a thousand of ’em in there,” said Bud McDaniels.
“I already have more than I paid for,” Story said. “We’ll give it the rest of the day, then tomorrow at first light take what we have and go.”
The rest of that day, their combined efforts accounted for only fifteen more longhorns. The gather was finished.
February 24, 1866. Palo Pinto County, Texas.
“Our camp bein’ on the Brazos,” Coon Tails said, “we could just foller the river, if it wasn’t so damn crooked.”
“At least we don’t have to go back through Fort Worth,” Bill Petty said.
“We should be able to travel southeast,” said Story, “cutting the distance to maybe thirty-five miles. We don’t have to follow every crook and turn of the river, but we’ll stay close enough to it to water the herd.”
The longhorns were well grazed and watered, so there were few bunch quitters. While the sky was overcast and they saw little of the sun, there was no more rain. Story estimated they covered at least fifteen miles that first day.
“These cows ain’t no trouble at all,” said Virg Wooler. “I thought we was bringin’ back a bunch of wild varmints.”
“None of us knew what we were buying into,” Story said. “This Ed Hanby didn’t talk much to his neighbors. I think he aimed to take this herd to market himself, and protected it by having everybody think the cows were wild.”
“I think you’re right,” said Tom Allen.
As Story and the outfit began their drive back to their cow camp on the Brazos, Cal Snider had the same destination in mind. While he had the doctor’s permission to go, he was having trouble leaving Lorna behind.
“If I’m going to live with cowboys on the trail,” the girl said stubbornly, “why can’t I go and live with them now?”
“Because I ain’t wantin’ to antagonize your daddy until we have to,” Cal said. “You settin’ by my bed in this hotel is one thing, while you movin’ out to the cow camp is somethin’ else. Once we move ’em out, we’ll be across the Red in maybe five or six days. The more trouble it is to bring you back, the less likely he is to try it. Can’t you understand that?”
“I understand,” said Lorna. “I just want to be with you, damn it.”
“Then you’re going to do it my way,” Cal said. “Now you listen to me. When I need to get a message to you, I’ll leave it with Emma Baird. Every day or so, you talk to Emma, and be decidin’ what you want to take with you. Go with what you can tie behind your saddle or what will fit into saddlebags. When it’s ready, bundle it up and sneak it over to Emma’s. The morning the herd takes the trail, I’ll leave my horse behind Emma’s place and send her for you. Does your daddy own the horse you ride, or is he yours?”
“Prince is mine,” said Lorna. “Mama bought him for me, and I have the bill of sale.”
“Good,” Cal said. He held out his arms, and when she came to him, he found himself hating to leave as much as she hated having him go. . . .
February 27, 1866. On the Brazos.
When Story and his riders reached their camp, they found not only Cal Snider there, but Russ Shadley and Mac Withers. The pair of down-at-the-heels cowboys had brought ten more cows. Story paid them, then took out his notebook and a pencil and did some figuring.
“Three thousand, seven hundred and fifteen head,” Story said. “That’s more than we figured on, but we’ll lose some. We’ve done well, amigos, and unless I’m overlooking something we’ve left undone, we should be able to take the trail at first light tomorrow.”
“One more thing needs doin’,” said Cal, “if you aim to keep these Yankee blue bellies at bay until we get out of Texas. Way I figger it, there’s still eight of us that ain’t signed them damn papers that Cap’n Clark thinks is so almighty important. There’s Sandy Bill, Russ, Mac, Smokey, Oscar, Shanghai, Manuel, and Curly. Jasmine’s the ninth, I reckon, if you think Cap’n Clark’s that much of a fussbudget.”
“I haven’t the slightest doubt that he is,” Story said. “We’ll be going almost through Fort Worth on our way north. I’d planned to stop there long enough for Sandy Bill to load the wagon with provisions. While that’s being done, those of you who haven’t signed Clark’s papers can ride over to his tent and sign them.”
“I’m claiming two hundred head of this herd,” said Bill Petty. “Here’s my money.”
“And mine,” Tom Allen said. “I’m paying for two hundred head.”
“Somebody can’t count worth a damn,” said Wes Hardin. “They’s more’n any thirty-seven hunnert cows in this canyon.”
“Four thousand and fifteen,” Story said. “Three hundred of them I haven’t counted, because they belong to Shanghai Wolfington.”
Shanghai looked uncomfortable, while Hardin looked as though he had more to say on the subject, but something in Nelson Story’s eyes changed his mind.
February 28, 1866. The start of the long trail north.
Arch and Hitch led the mules upriver, harnessed them to the wagon and brought it along the west bank, near their camp. The canvas had been removed to make loading easier, and with every rider pitching in, it took but a few minutes to load the wagon.
“Sandy Bill,” said Story, “take the wagon and go on to the mercantile. I’ll meet you there and pay for the provisions. Get plenty of everything. We don’t know what conditions or prices will be farther north. Cal, I want you riding point. We’ll swap the other positions around, so nobody’s stuck with riding drag every day. If the ground ever dries out, there’ll be an almighty lot of dust.”
The graze had worn thin in the canyon along the Brazos, and the cowboys had no trouble getting the herd moving. By Story’s figures, they had only ninety head of longhorns—those bought from Wes Hardin, Russ Shadley, and Mac Withers—that could be considered wild. The wild ones, being a minority, would eventually be forced to accept the idea they were part of a herd. The whole bunch could have been wil
d as Texas jacks, Story reflected, and so he was satisfied. Story rode ahead, catching up to Cal at the point position.
“I reckon you had enough time in town to make some plans with Lorna,” Story said. “So far, we’ve complied with all Captain Clark’s demands. I’d hate to be arrested for kidnapping before we can cross the Red.”
“You know Lorna’s daddy,” Cal said with a grin, “so I can’t promise you that. I’m leavin’ my horse behind Emma’s place, and sending her to bring Lorna. Unless the old buzzard gets suspicious, with the herd passing so close to town, we’ll have the rest of the day before he misses her.”
Story halted the herd a mile west of Fort Worth. Those riders who had yet to sign papers were accompanied by Story to Captain Clark’s tent. The captain seemed almost jovial, and Story wondered if his elation was a result of ridding himself of so many potentially troublesome Texans. The officer seemed about to smile when Jasmine McDaniels presented herself, but his eyes fell to the butt of the Colt tucked beneath her waistband. Without comment he allowed her to sign. Story sighed with relief when the rest of the outfit had signed, and when they rode back to the herd, he went on to the mercantile. Suddenly he reined up, slapping his thighs in disgust. Sandy Bill hadn’t signed.
“Damn it, hoss,” he said aloud, “I’ve had enough of this foolishness. I reckon we’ll just take our chances on gettin’ old Sandy Bill out of Texas, unreconstructed.”
Reaching the mercantile, Story helped load the wagon, anxious to be going.
“We ain’t forgettin’ nothin’, are we?” Sandy Bill asked.
“Nothing we can’t get along without,” Story said. “Let’s go.”
“Emma,” said Cal as he came through the back door, “we’re ready. Will you fetch Lorna?”
“I’ll get her,” Emma said.
Cal waited, shifting from one foot to the other, nervous. What was he going to do if old man Flagg overtook them, or perhaps sent the sheriff after Lorna? His dire speculations were interrupted by the return of Emma, Lorna at her heels. From the table Emma took a package carefully wrapped in oilskin and tied with string.
The Virginia City Trail Page 14
