The Virginia City Trail

by Ralph Compton

  “Men don’t feel the same about much of anything, as women do,” said Lorna. “Cal was ready to leave Texas without me until he was shot. While he was lying there in that hotel room, he—”

  “Took you to bed with him,” finished Jasmine.

  “Oh, no,” Lorna protested. “He was a gentleman. Besides, he’d been shot. I’d been mad about him since I was twelve, and he kept treating me like I was still twelve, until he was shot. Then he seemed to notice me, not as a pest of a kid, but as a woman.”

  “He’d have had to be blind as a bat not to see the change,” Jasmine said, looking her over.

  “I don’t know if I want to be a woman,” said Curly. “Maybe when this drive is over, I won’t be. Maybe I’ll ride to a new range where nobody knows . . . what I am.”

  March 21, 1866. Fort Leavenworth.

  Story and the outfit followed the Kaw River to Fort Leavenworth, then, driving northwest half a dozen miles, they bedded down the herd in a grassy valley along the Smokey Hill River. The day of their arrival, Story gathered the riders around the supper fire.

  “I have many friends in Leavenworth,” he said, “most of them bull whackers. Since we’re going to Virginia City anyhow, I aim to buy some wagons, load them with provisions and trade goods, and hire some drivers to take them on to Virginia City.”

  “I ain’t faultin’ you fer that,” said Coon Tails, “but they’ll slow us down, an’ they’ll be mighty damn temptin’ to them Sioux along the Bozeman.”

  “No slower than we’re likely to be anyhow,” Story said, “with these cows dropping calves. As for the Sioux, with or without the wagons, we’ll have to contend with them. I’m allowing myself three days to buy wagons, load them with goods, and hire drivers. I want at least half of you here with the herd at all times. This is a major fort, and there’ll likely be a pretty good force of Union soldiers here. I’d suggest none of you go about crowing too much of Texas. You could end up with your neck on a chop block. Wet your whistles if you like, but know when to back off. I can advance a month’s pay to anybody that’s broke. Sandy Bill, I’ll want you to take the wagon in as I go, and we’ll load up on provisions.”

  “When are you aimin’ to go?” Shanghai asked.

  “In the morning,” said Story. We’ll also be bringing back enough shoes to reshoe every animal needing it. We’ll see to that while we’re laying over here. Cal, I’m leaving it to you to see that it gets done.”

  “My stars,” Jasmine said, when Story had ridden away, “is there no limit to his money? He’ll need a fortune.”

  Tom Allen laughed. “He has one. He came out of the gold fields of Montana with forty thousand in gold. Now you keep that under your hat. Nelson Story knows exactly what he’s doing.”

  “I won’t mention it,” said Jasmine. “It’s just that, after four long years of war, with nothing to buy and no money to buy with, what he’s done and what he aims to do leaves me breathless. What could he buy, with the wealth he has?”

  “Just to give you some idea,” Tom replied, “in New Orleans you can order steak, potatoes, onions, bread, pie, and coffee for ten cents.”

  “Then why in tarnation is he risking his life to drive a herd of Texas cows to Montana Territory?”

  “Because he’s Nelson Story,” Tom said.

  15

  “I’ll be conducting some of my business at the fort itself,” Story said, “but the rest of you have no business there. Confine your visit to the town, and don’t volunteer any information about the herd. We’ll be heading into Sioux country, and the military may try to stop us. The less they know of our affairs at the fort, the better off we’ll be.”*

  When Story rode in, he purposely started an hour ahead of the riders who would visit the town. Sandy Bill took the wagon, followed by Hitch Gould, Arch Rainey, Russ Shadley, Slim, Greener, Quickenpaugh, Quanah Taylor, Gus Odell, Virg Wooler, Dutch Mayfield, and Jules Dyer. Upon reaching the town, everybody except Quickenpaugh and Sandy Bill headed for the barbershop. Sandy Bill drove on to the mercantile, as Story had instructed, while nobody knew what had become of Quickenpaugh. Leaving the saloon, Shadley, Greener, and Slim went in search of a whorehouse. Hitch Gould, Arch Rainey, Quanah Taylor, Gus Odell, Virg Wooler, Dutch Mayfield, and Jules Dyer found a cafe and or dered an enormous meal of steak, potatoes, onions, dried apple pie, and coffee. Finished, they set out to find some means of amusing themselves. There were saloons in abundance.

  “Hey,” said Jules Dyer, “they got billiards.”

  They made their way into the Broken Bow Saloon, only to discover it had but one billiard table, and that was monopolized by four Union soldiers.

  “Let’s have a beer,” Dutch Mayfield said, “and wait till they’re done.”

  But it soon became obvious the game wasn’t going to end. Another pair of soldiers came in, taking the place of two of those who were already there. The two who were no longer playing went to the bar and ordered beers. For a while they watched the game in progress, and then turned their attention to the seven cowboys who were obviously waiting for the billiard table.

  “By God,” said one of the soldiers at the bar, “somebody’s left the gate open and the stock’s got loose.”

  “By God,” Dutch Mayfield said, “with Injuns raisin’ hell, you’d think the damn bluecoats would have somethin’ better to do than drape their carcasses across a billiard table.”

  “Maybe we have, cow stink,” said one of the soldiers at the bar. “How’d you like to have your carcass stretched across a billiard table?”

  “I won’t say it can’t be done,” Dutch said, “but you’ll need help. I reckon we can wait, while you go wake up the rest of the troops.”

  The billiard ball narrowly missed Dutch’s head, smashing the mirror behind the bar. A second ball smashed a tier of bottled whiskey, and the bartender came across the bar, a bung starter in his hand. A speeding billiard ball smacked him between the eyes, and he went back over the bar, falling with a crash. Gus Odell was knocked senseless with the heavy end of a cue stick, while the soldier responsible was felled by a smashing right to the chin by Hitch Gould. A flung chair missed its mark and went through the front window onto the boardwalk. Their supply of billiard balls had been exhausted, and the players were swinging cue sticks when the sheriff stepped through the front door.

  “That’s enough, damn it!” His Colt roared, and that got everybody’s attention.

  The bartender had revived to the extent that he could stand by leaning on the bar. “Arrest them, Sheriff,” he croaked. “The bastards wrecked my place.”

  The seven cowboys were locked in one cell, and their soldier adversaries in the adjoining one. The sheriff was a gray-haired, grim-faced old codger who looked as though he’d as soon gut-shoot the lot of them as not. First he turned his attention to the six battered soldiers.

  “I’ve sent word to the commandin’ officer that you varmints is in here,” he said. “You won’t git no payday fer a while. Yer eight dollers a month’s goin’ to pay fer damages. Now, as fer you hell-raisers,” he said, turning to the cell with the seven hapless cowboys, “you better have some money in yer pockets, or by God, I’ll sell yer hosses an’ saddles.”

  But Story’s riders had an ace in the hole of which they were unaware. Quickenpaugh had been to the mercantile and was seeking the rest of the outfit when he saw them and the soldiers being herded toward the jail by the grim old sheriff. Behind the jail there was a creek, its banks lined with aspen, briars, weeds, and brush. Quickenpaugh circled around, coming in behind the jail. From a large sack he took some of the items he had purchased, and lighted a match. . . .

  The sheriff had just finished his fiery speech to his newly acquired prisoners when all hell broke loose somewhere behind the jail. It sounded like an Indian uprising, or perhaps a major battle of the recent war being refought. It became a veritable fusillade, a continuous roar. The sheriff, in fear of his life, was out the door in an instant, but that was as far as he got. Quickenpaugh cu
t off his wind with an arm around his throat and knocked him senseless with the muzzle of his Colt. Quickly, the Indian found the jail keys and ran toward the front of the building. The roar from along the creek had begun to die away, but the jail being at one end of the town, nobody had yet come to investigate. Quickenpaugh burst through the door, the keys in his hand.

  “Quickenpaugh!” the cowboys shouted.

  The Indian said nothing, but began trying the keys. The third one turned the lock and the door swung open. Quickenpaugh headed for the door, his comrades on his heels.

  “Hey,” one of the soldiers bawled, “what about us?”

  “No time,” Arch Rainey shouted. “We got to get back to that billiard table ’fore some more blue bellies grabs it.”

  “God,” Hitch Rainey panted, “why couldn’t he of let us ride our hosses down here?”

  But Quickenpaugh had moved the horses, bringing them as close as he dared, concealing them behind an abandoned store. Gratefully, the riders mounted on the run, and Quickenpaugh took the lead. Not until they were far from the town did they stop to rest their horses.

  “Quickenpaugh,” said Quanah Taylor, “you’re one bueno Injun. But how in tarnation did you manage all that shootin’ behind the jail?”

  “Chinee cannon,” Quickenpaugh said. From a sack he pulled a yards-long string of firecrackers.

  While Story had instructed his riders not to talk of the herd and to avoid the fort, he knew it would be impossible to keep the military out of his affairs. He wished to be as tactful as possible, to secure whatever help they were willing to provide, and the best means of accomplishing that was by going through the post commander. But the man was on leave, and the acting post commander, Captain Ferguson, was aghast at Story’s proposed drive along the Bozeman Trail.

  “Mr. Story,” Ferguson said, “this has to be the most reckless proposal I’ve heard in my career as a Union officer. Are you not aware that Red Cloud, the Sioux chief, walked out of the Laramie Peace Conference?”

  “I am,” said Story, “and your superiors in Washington gave him all the cause he needed. The army made a treaty with the Sioux and immediately started building forts in Wyoming and Montana. Red Cloud considers that a violation of the treaty, and now he’s taken the warpath. I can’t say that I blame him.”

  There came a knock on the door, and Captain Ferguson granted permission to enter. An aide came in, looked questioningly at Story, and saluted the captain.

  “At ease,” Ferguson said. “Now, what is it?”

  “Someone from town to see you, sir,” said the private. “Six of our men were in a brawl with some civilians. They wrecked a saloon, and the sheriff has them in jail.”

  “Show this party to the orderly room, private,” said Ferguson, “and I’ll see him shortly.”

  When they were again alone, Ferguson said, “Mr. Story, your empathy for Red Cloud and his bloodthirsty savages is touching, but it is neither my place nor my desire to debate military policy with you. While I cannot forbid you to take the Bozeman Trail, I feel I have done the next best thing, and warned you of the danger. If you proceed, and you and your men are slaughtered, then I have done my duty. Good day, sir.”

  Story was neither surprised nor disappointed. If the military couldn’t or wouldn’t help him, then the next best thing was having them leave him strictly alone. Since most of the freight that went west from Fort Leavenworth was of a military nature, the army had set up a freight depot for the teamsters. Story went to the agent in charge, inquiring of some of the bull whackers with whom he had once worked.

  “Buckalew ain’t with us no more,” the agent said. “Sioux got him. I reckon Holden and Lemburg is in town. Try the Plains Hotel. Puckett an’ Summers won’t be back till next Monday, the twenty-sixth.”

  These were men Story hoped to hire to drive his wagons to Virginia City. They were friends, tried and true, and it would be worth waiting for them to return. While he waited, he could track down Holden and Lemburg, buy four wagons, and begin loading them with goods that would bring premium prices in Virginia City. He left the fort and rode toward town, thinking of the soldiers who were in jail for having busted up a saloon. The military could make it hard on men living near an army town, and for that reason, civilians weren’t anxious to brawl with soldiers. Story had a sneaking suspicion he knew who these particular civilians were. When he had gone to the mercantile and settled for Sandy Bill’s wagonload of provisions, he would visit the jail. When Story arrived, Sandy Bill was still waiting for the wagon to be loaded.

  “The Injun, Quickenpaugh, was in the store,” said Sandy Bill, “but I ain’t seen the rest of ’em. They’s been a passel of shootin’ this mornin’.”

  Story changed his mind about visiting the jail, until he had some better idea about what had taken place. Instead he went to the Plains Hotel and found that his bull-whacker friends, Jubal Holden and Handy Lemburg were there. The hotel was imposing enough to have a dining room, and he found the pair having breakfast. Story pulled out a chair and sat down, and their conversation began as though they had parted only hours ago, instead of years.

  “Reckon you heard about Hez Buckalew,” Jubal Holden said.

  “Yes,” said Story. “The agent at the fort told me.”

  “Red Cloud’s bunch,” Handy Lemburg said. “Long as that varmint’s alive, the Bozeman’s goin’ to be hell with the lid off.”

  “I know,” said Story, “and I need to hire four men I can trust. I have twenty-five riders and four thousand Texas longhorns half a dozen miles west, along the Smokey Hill. We’re bound for Virginia City, Montana, and I aim to take along four wagonloads of trade goods.”

  “By God, Nels,” Holden said, “I ain’t doubtin’ you can do it, ’cause you lead a charmed life. But I ain’t sure I do.”

  They took the time to laugh at that, and then Nelson Story got serious.

  “Gents,” said Story, “I want you on two of those wagon boxes, and when Levi Puckett and Waddy Summers roll in, I’m hirin’ them. There’s danger, I’ll admit, but every one of my riders is armed with a Colt revolver and a Winchester rifle.”

  “Too bad they ain’t the new Remington breechloaders,” Handy Lemburg said. “They got the range of a Sharps, take metal shells, an’ with some practice, a man can load an’ shoot ever’ four seconds.”*

  “My God,” said Story, “that’s what we need for the Bozeman. Where do I get these Remingtons?”

  “We got ours through the agent at the fort,” said Jubal, “because all our runs is smack through Red Cloud’s stompin’ grounds. You might try some sweet talk at the fort. The troops here at Leavenworth is testin’ them new Remingtons right now. Come on up t’ our room an’ have a look at one of ’em.”

  Story followed his friends up the stairs to their second-floor room, and was handed one of the new Remingtons.

  “She’s a .50-.70,” Jubal said. “Ain’t near as heavy as a Sharps, but she’ll down a buffalo at a thousand yards.”

  Story handled the weapon with reverence. Both the hammer and breech blocks rotated on heavy transverse pins in the receiver. When the hammer was brought back to full cock, the breech block could be thumbed back, exposing the chamber so that the fired shell could be extracted. The breech was then flipped back to closed position after a fresh cartridge had been inserted into the chamber. When the hammer fell in firing, the two blocks locked into a solid steel breech, Remington’s guarantee there would be no backfire.

  “If there are thirty of these weapons to be had,” said Story, “I’ll get them. Armed with these, we won’t need the army.”

  “Speakin’ of the army,” Handy said, “they was one hell of a fight up to the Broken Bow Saloon this mornin’. Six soldiers got into it with a bunch of cowboys, an’ the sheriff, old Webb Hankins, throwed the lot of ’em in jail. You dead sure all them cowboys of yours is out there on the Smokey Hill?”

  “No,” said Story, with a sigh. “Some of them rode into town. I reckon I’ll have to ride ove
r there and pay them out.”

  “I reckon you won’t,” Jubal laughed. “That ain’t the end of it. Somebody set off a hellacious bunch of firecrackers behind the jail. Sounded like a war goin’ on. Old Hankins lit out the door, an’ somebody buffaloed him, took his keys, an’ let them cowboys loose. Left them soldiers in there, an’ the sheriff swears they’ll pay fer that saloon if it takes their paydays fer ten years. Tickled hell out of the town, though. Some of them soldiers thinks their blue britches makes ’em better’n anybody else, like they’re up there next to God.”

  “That may be the case,” said Story, “but it couldn’t have happened at a worse time. Those soldiers in jail are part of the same army I’ll have to sweet-talk into selling me thirty Remingtons.”

  “I reckon we’ll ride with you to Virginia City,” Jubal said, “whether you get the Remingtons or not, but they shore make a man’s hair feel better.”

  “You gents didn’t spend much time in town,” Cal Snider said. “Where’s Shadley, Greener, and Slim?”

  “Still in town somewhere,” said Arch Rainey. “We got some town grub, had our ears lowered, and there wasn’t much else to do.”

  Some of those who had remained with the herd looked curiously at the big sack Quickenpaugh had, but the Indian didn’t enlighten them. The day dragged on, and Story didn’t ride in until almost suppertime. Before he even dismounted, he discovered Greener, Slim, and Shadley were missing.

  “Greener, Slim, and Shadley aren’t here,” Story said. “You didn’t leave them in jail, did you?”

  Quickenpaugh laughed, but the rest of them had trouble looking Story in the eye. They knew that he knew the three missing riders weren’t in jail, that he had asked the question only to see how they would respond to it.

  “No, sir,” Arch said, “we ain’t seem ’em since they left the barbershop. The rest of us, ’cept Quickenpaugh, went to a saloon to shoot some billiards, and we . . . well, by God, some soldiers jumped us, and . . . and we defended ourselves.”