The Virginia City Trail

by Ralph Compton

  “It’s a clean wound,” said Jasmine. “The slug went on through, and if we can keep down the infection, she’ll be all right. But I’d suggest you not count on her riding for a while.”

  “Had I known she was a young girl,” said Story, “she wouldn’t have been riding at all.”

  “She has no family in Texas,” Bill Petty said. “What do you aim to do with her?”

  “I don’t know,” said Story. “I suppose that will be up to Manuel.”

  “It is what the Senor Wells wished of me,” Manuel said, “but he is dead, and I have been told by the Senorita Curly that it is no longer my business.”

  “I suppose I can’t consider myself part of this drive,” said Lorna, “but when Curly’s well, why can’t she just go on to the end of the drive? She rides and ropes as well as any of you, and she even bested Hardin in a fight. Is it her fault she wasn’t faster with a gun?”

  “Those are questions I’d like to hear answered,” Jasmine said.

  “Those are decisions that will have to be made when Curly’s well enough to talk,” said Story, “but whether she continues as a rider or not, I won’t send her away.”

  Cal, Bud, and Quanah rode in before dark, just ahead of the storm.

  “Hardin rode south,” Cal said.

  “I expected him to,” said Story. “He knows he’s not likely to encounter any of us in Texas. Sooner or later, somebody will shoot Hardin, and he’ll be just as dead as if one of us had done it. Curly should be all right. The slug didn’t hit any bones or vital organs.”

  The outfit barely managed to get through supper before the storm struck. There was thunder, but none of the devastating lightning, and while the herd was restless, they didn’t run. The rain finally slacked, and Jasmine and Lorna escaped the worst of it by taking shelter beneath an oak.

  “I hope Mr. Story allows Curly to continue as a rider,” said Lorna.

  “I suspect he will,” Jasmine replied. “She took her beatings like a man, and he can’t help admiring that.”

  “Curly has some Spanish blood,” Lorna said. “Fix her up some, and with those big dark eyes, she’ll have cowboys fighting over her. And I won’t be too surprised if your brother Bud’s right in there among them.”

  “You’re probably right,” said Jasmine, with a laugh. “It was his idea to go after Hardin, and the minute he returned, he wanted to know how Curly was. But ever since Curly joined the outfit, she went out of her way to avoid the rest of us. When she comes out of this, she’ll have friends, but only if she responds to them.”

  “She couldn’t risk getting close to us while she was supposed to be a man,” said Lorna. “When she recovers, she won’t have to worry about keeping that secret anymore. That will make a difference.”

  When Jasmine and Lorna left the first watch at midnight, they stopped at the wagon and found Curly’s face hot to the touch.

  “There’s no way both of us can get in there,” Jasmine said, “and she’s got to swallow some of that whiskey.”

  Jasmine climbed over the wagon’s tailgate, careful not to step on the feverish Curly. Sandy Bill was asleep under the wagon, snoring. Jasmine found the quart of whiskey in the dark, and cramped as she was, managed to get Curly to swallow some of it. She heard voices, and by the time she got out of the wagon, Bud McDaniels was there.

  “Tell him Curly’s all right,” said Lorna. “He wants to hear it from you.”

  “She’s all right,” Jasmine said. “What’s the matter with you? You’ve only known she’s a girl for twelve hours.”

  “Long enough,” Bud said, undaunted, and Lorna laughed.

  March 10, 1866. Indian Territory.

  Before breakfast, Lorna and Jasmine again visited the wagon, finding Curly’s fever unchecked.

  “I didn’t get enough of the whiskey down her last night,” said Jasmine.

  “I’ll let the tailgate down,” Sandy Bill said helpfully, “and you can bring her out so’s you got room.”

  “Please do that,” said Jasmine, “and we’d better do the same thing at suppertime.”

  Again the herd took the trail, and again Story rode ahead, wondering if he would encounter even more stampeded cows. But the thunder and lightning was long past, and any outfit worth its salt would have gathered its herd by now. While Story saw no more stampeded longhorns, he found the graze along the much-used trail woefully lacking. Reaching a creek, he rode half a mile upstream before he found decent graze. He then rode downstream for twice the distance. Outfits ahead of his had been forced to leave the trail, driving along the creeks until they found graze that hadn’t been picked over. It didn’t look promising, but he could only press on.

  Returning to the outfit, Story rode a ways with Shanghai, at point. The old cattleman shook his head when Story told him of the lack of graze.

  “Don’t make no sense,” Shanghai said. “How can the graze be that used up, when the outfits are beddin’ down for just one night? Hell, we ain’t used all the graze nowhere we’ve stopped.”

  “I don’t understand it myself,” Story replied. “From the looks of it, the herds ahead of us have been bedded down two or three nights in a row. That tells me there’s some kind of trouble at Sedalia, and maybe beyond.”

  “Could be the beef prices,” Shanghai said. “When prices goes down, you got two choices. You sell fer what you can git, or you hang around fer as long as you can, hopin’ the prices will rise. Them little herds last fall done all right, ’cause there wasn’t too many cows, an’ that kept prices up. This spring, they’s more an’ bigger herds, an’ it’s just natural fer buyers to beat you if they can. I ain’t sayin’ that’s what’s happenin’ up ahead, but they’s somethin’ goin’ on, and it ain’t good news fer us.”

  Shanghai was dead right, and that evening at suppertime they were faced with the ugly truth. A dozen men rode in from the north, leading two pack mules whose packsaddles were almost empty. Story and his riders were ready, hands near the butts of their Colts, but the incoming riders raised their hands.

  “Step down and rest your saddles,” said Story when the riders were close enough.

  “Thanks,” said the lead rider. “I’m Chug Sherrill, from Beaumont.”

  “Nelson Story, from Montana Territory. I reckon you’ve sold a herd. What’s it like in Sedalia and beyond?”

  “Hell, we never even seen Sedalia,” Sherrill said. “Time we got within a few miles of Baxter Springs, Kansas, herds was ever’where, and there wasn’t no graze for miles. Prices is down, and renegades from both sides of the war’s demandin’ a dollar a head to let herds through. We couldn’t pay, if’n we’d wanted to. Our grub was played out, and there wasn’t no graze, so we sold to a speculator for eight dollars a head.”

  “Great God,” Story said, “you could have sold for ten in Texas.”

  “They’s a time in ever’ man’s life when it’s neck meat or nothin’,” said Sherrill. “We got eight dollars. When you git there, it’ll be six. Mebbe four.”

  The dozen Texans stayed for supper, and it was a somber affair. They didn’t wish to discuss their defeat, and Story’s outfit had heard enough to sicken them. Story’s riders, their eyes wide in unbelief, looked to him for answers, and, for the first time in his life, the big man from the high plains had none. . . .

  13

  After the unfortunate Texans had ridden away, Story spent an hour going over the less-than-adequate maps on which he had to rely. Before they took the trail again, he wanted some answers, as much for himself as for the outfit. As best he could tell, they were within a day or two of crossing the Arkansas River, just east of its confluence with the Canadian and the North Canadian. From there, he figured three days until they’d be approaching the Kansas line. Safe to say, then, that within a week they would be in the same untenable position as those who had gone before them. The more he studied his intended route to Quincy, Illinois, the more impossible it seemed. It was one thing to brave the elements, turbulent rivers, and fight Indians or rene
gades; and something entirely different when there was no graze, and there were hordes of opportunists demanding a dollar a head. Story reached a decision. Folding the maps, he replaced them in the oilskin pouch.

  “This is what we’re going to do,” Story said when the outfit had gathered for breakfast. “First we’re going to get off this beaten path by moving our drive a mile west. Second, we’re going to avoid those dollar-a-head thieves who are blocking the way to Sedalia and Quincy. Third, we’re taking the old Oregon Trail at Fort Leavenworth, Kansas, and driving to Montana Territory.”

  It was what they wanted to hear, and their Rebel yells frightened some of the horses.

  “I’m almighty glad we ain’t got to deal with them blood-suckin’ renegades in Missouri,” Shanghai said, “even if they was plenty of graze. How many miles you figger from here to Fort Leavenworth?”

  “I estimate two hundred and fifty miles,” said Story. “We’re at least a hundred miles south of Baxter Springs, Kansas, and I figure a hundred and fifty miles from Baxter Springs to Leavenworth. We should be reaching the Arkansas tomorrow or the next day.”

  So involved had Story become in this change of direction, he had all but forgotten the wounded Curly Wells. He sought out Jasmine McDaniels.

  “Her fever’s down some,” Jasmine said. “Another day, I think, and she’ll be on the mend.”

  “I never properly thanked you for seeing to her,” said Story. “We’d take care of a cowboy who’d been shot, and think nothing of it, but . . . this was different. Curly never really took to any of us, and I think she’ll feel a mite better, knowing you saw to her needs. When she comes out of it, perhaps you shouldn’t tell her. . . .”

  “That we learned she was a girl by stripping her before the entire outfit?” Jasmine laughed at Story’s embarrassment. “I hadn’t intended telling her that,” Jasmine said. “Maybe later, when she feels more comfortable with us.”

  When the herd took the trail, Story again rode ahead, more confident now that he had set a new course. His hope was that by trailing due north, they might slip through to the east of Baxter Springs, traveling along the eastern border of Kansas to Fort Leavenworth. Story had fond memories of Leavenworth, as well as friends there, for it was at Leavenworth that he’d talked his way into his first job since leaving Ohio. It had been hard work, bull whacking, but it had made him a man of the plains. Story had ridden almost twenty miles before reaching the Arkansas. While it didn’t seem quite as forbidding as the Red, it looked treacherous enough. Backwater was such that he couldn’t choose one place over another when it came to crossing. He rode back to meet the outfit.

  March 11, 1866. The Arkansas.

  The outfit spent a perfectly miserable day on the trail. Rain began before they were finished with breakfast and dogged them all the way to the Arkansas River.

  “Damn,” Tom Allen said, “it’s as bad or worse than the Red. Do you aim to cross today?”

  “No,” said Story. “Everybody’s pretty well give out. It’s already so out-of-bank, the rain that falls between now and in the morning won’t make any difference.”

  They made camp, the riders taking turns eating their supper beneath Sandy Bill’s stretched canvas. The first watch was already circling the herd when the Indians rode in. There were fifteen of them, the leader wearing the headdress of a chief. Thumbs to his head, he wasted no time making the buffalo sign. Pointing to the grazing herd, he raised both hands, spreading his fingers.

  “Kiowa,” Shanghai said. “They’ll ask for cows first, then they’ll ride back and stampede the herd if’n they don’t git ’em.”

  “It might be worth a few cows to get rid of them,” said Story, “but they don’t get ten.” He turned to the chief and held up his right hand, spreading all the fingers.

  “Nnngh,” the Indian grunted, shaking his head. “Much hungry.”

  “Not that hungry,” said Coon Tails. “Who you be?”

  “Be Lone Wolf,” the Indian said.

  Story raised his right hand, spreading his fingers, and then raised one finger on his left. He pointed to Lone Wolf, then toward the herd. The riders who would take the second watch now stood behind Story and Coon Tails, their Winchesters ready. The show of strength wasn’t lost on Lone Wolf. He raised the five fingers on his right hand and one finger on his left.

  “Lone Wolf take,” he said.

  “Coon Tails,” Story said, “ride out there and tell Cal to cut out six cows, but none of those about to calve.”

  The Indians drove their six longhorns downriver, and as it grew dark, Story and his riders could see the glow of a fire.

  “They’re havin’ supper,” said Arch Rainey. “I hope they ain’t here in the mornin’, wantin’ six more cows for breakfast.”

  “That’s the risk you take when you buy ’em off,” Shanghai said. “They’s just likely to show up wantin’ more.”

  “That’s the end of it,” said Story. “We’ll cross the Arkansas at first light and be on our way.”

  But Story hadn’t counted on a change in the weather. Just before midnight a new storm moved in, bringing with it thunder and lightning. With every rider in the saddle, they tried to calm the herd, but the longhorns refused to bed down. First there was the uneasy lowing of a single cow, then a dozen, and finally, most of the herd. They didn’t even wait for the lightning. There came a clap of thunder that vibrated the very earth, and the herd was off and running, the wind and rain at their backs. They were stampeding along the river, Story and his riders galloping to head them. But the leaders were long-legged steers, and while they had no idea where they were bound, they had no intention of being detained. Story rode alongside them firing his Colt, and it only seemed to make the brutes run all the faster. Story reined up, aware that the cause was lost. Bill Petty and Oscar Fentress were right behind him.

  “Nothing more we can do tonight,” Story said.

  The outfit was strung out along the river, having tried to head the stampeding longhorns, and it was a while before they all came together.

  “I’ve seen this happen before,” said Shanghai. “Herd start out bein’ calm, an’ nex’ thing you know, they’s runnin’ at the drop of a hat. It’s their nature to run, fer any reason or no reason, an’ that’s what’s gettin’ into this bunch. That clap of thunder wasn’t near as fearsome as all that ground lightnin’.”

  In the morning, Jasmine and Lorna went to the wagon and found Curly awake but hostile.

  “How do you feel?” Jasmine asked.

  “Like hell,” said Curly sullenly. “How am I supposed to feel?”

  “We’re only trying to help you,” Lorna said.

  “I ain’t asked for your help.”

  “Curly,” Jasmine said, “you have friends here. We know all about you, and we like you. Can’t you accept that?”

  “Everybody knows that I . . . I’m . . .”

  “That you’re a girl? Yes,” said Jasmine, “everybody knows.”

  “Oh, damn it,” Curly cried.

  “There was no help for it,” said Jasmine. “You were hurt and—”

  “Leave me alone,” Curly said. “Just leave me alone.”

  Jasmine and Lorna turned away from the wagon, aware that something was amiss. Sandy Bill wasn’t snoring, and they suspected the old cook had been lying under the wagon listening.

  “What’s going to become of her?” Lorna asked.

  “I don’t know,” said Jasmine. “She has to reach out to somebody, and until she does, nobody can help her.”

  After a hasty breakfast, the outfit set out along the Arkansas, seeking the herd. The rain had let up, but the sky was still overcast, and the wind from the northwest promised more rain, and soon.

  “Ain’t but one thing in our favor,” said Dutch Mayfield. “They had to run east or south. It ain’t likely they went chargin’ across that overgrowed river.”

  “They nearly always run with their tails to the storm,” Shanghai said. “I figger we’ll find ’em scattered a
long the river.”

  Back at the wagon, Sandy Bill filled a tin cup from the still simmering coffeepot. Careful that nobody was observing him, he dipped corn mush onto a tin plate, to which he added three sourdough biscuits and a slab of fried ham. He placed the food and coffee on the wagon’s lowered tailgate and spoke through the canvas pucker.

  “Kid, you must be hungry, ’cause you ain’t et for three days. I brung you some breakfast, some coffee, an’ eatin’ tools.”

  There was only silence from the dark interior of the wagon.

  “I know you ain’t sleepin’,” the old cook persisted, “ ’cause I heard you givin’ them gals hell. They been here two er three times a day, doin’ ever’thing they could to keep you alive.”

  There still was no response from within the wagon.

  “There’s more rain comin’,” said Sandy Bill, “so I got to close this tailgate. I’ll set your grub an’ coffee inside, an’ you can take it or leave it. I got nothin’ else to say, kid, ’cept this. You’d likely git treated like you was growed up if you took to actin’ like it.”

  With that, he placed the food and the coffee behind the canvas and raised the wagon’s tailgate.

  “There they are,” said Shanghai with satisfaction as they sighted the first bunch of grazing longhorns. “I look to find ever’ blessed one of ’em strung out along the river.”

  “We’ll ride on and get the farthest ones first,” Story said, “and pick these up on the way back.”

  “Look yonder,” said Tom Allen. “More calves.”

  “They been dropped long ’nough t’be on they feet,” Oscar Fentress said. “All our luck don’t be bad.”

  Most of the longhorns had become trailwise to the extent that they did not resist efforts to gather them into a herd. The rain started again at mid-morning, hampering their efforts, and it was past noon when they had what appeared to be most of the herd. There were five new calves. Shanghai and Cal ran a quick tally.