The Virginia City Trail

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The Virginia City Trail Page 25

by Ralph Compton


  “Thank you,” said Lorna. Impulsively she stood on tiptoe and kissed the old man on his weathered cheek. He wandered away into the darkness before knuckling his eyes.

  In Story’s absence the riders were contemplating their wages and the promised bonus.

  “Mr. Story’s payin’ us from the first of February,” Hitch Gould said, “and I look for it takin’ us maybe ten an’ a half months on the trail. That figgers out to at least five hunnert an’ fifty dollars. God, I seen my daddy not end up with that much in two or three years.”

  “Lawd God,” said Oscar Fentress, “I have to see it. I ain’t sure dey be that much money in the whole blame world.”

  It was one of those occasions when Sandy Bill, never very talkative, had joined the riders around the fire.

  “What will you do, Sandy Bill?” Lorna asked. “Will you go back to Texas?”

  There was an uncomfortable silence. It wasn’t the western way to inquire more of a man than he’d voluntarily revealed. Cal caught the girl’s eye, and she knew she had crossed a line of which she had been unaware. But Sandy Bill saved her with a sense of humor none of them had realized he possessed.

  “I ain’t got much hair left,” he said, “but such as it is, I’d like t’keep it. Maybe I’ll go back t’Texas one day. All my kin’s buried there, an’ they ain’t goin’ nowhere. Neither am I, till this trouble with the Sioux is finished. Until then, I reckon I’ll find me a place an’ go on dishin’ out grub to half-starved, ungrateful cow wrasslers.”

  It was the longest speech any of them had ever heard from the usually tight-lipped old cook, and they embarrassed him with a round of applause.

  “Bill,” said Shanghai, “I got me a stake an’ some seed cows. If this new range on the high plains is even close t’ what Story claims, you won’t be lackin’ fer a place t’ hang yer hat. You kin bunk with me as long as you want.”

  “It’ll be fine for them that’s got cows,” Mac Withers said, “but what’s the rest of us gonna be doin’? We got enough riders right here to cowboy six ranches, an’ half of this herd’s gonna be sold for beef.”

  “There’s always work in the mines,” said Bill Petty. “I reckon the big strikes are behind us, but nothing’s played out.”

  “That puts us Texans in a bad position,” Bud McDaniels said, “because we can’t work the mines from a saddle.”

  It was an undisputed fact, and worthy of the laughter that followed.

  “I’ve got a guarantee of two good riders,” said Shanghai, “an’ besides Smokey an’ Oscar, I reckon I can use two more.”

  “Tom and me won’t have that many cows, just startin’,” Petty said, “but I reckon we can each use a couple of riders. I reckon nobody will be left out in the cold.”

  “Nels has more cows than any of us,” said Tom. “He’ll be needing riders. Knowin’ him, once the challenge of this drive has been met, he purely won’t be satisfied ridin’ the range and pullin’ cows out of bog holes. He’ll hire cowboys for that.”

  “Well, thanks,” Arch Rainey said. “That’s what my mama always wanted, for me to learn a trade, so’s I wouldn’t have to work so hard.”

  “These high plains, if they are truly pais de alto hierba,* there will be a place for us all,” said Manuel Cardenas.

  Quickenpaugh had listened, saying nothing. Only when he became aware that some of the riders were watching him did he speak.

  “No cow, no bog hole,” Quickenpaugh said.

  * Trail Drive Series No. 3, The Chisholm Trail

  * Much power.

  * Land of tall grass

  18

  July 28, 1866. The Bozeman.

  The last thing Story and his riders saw as they moved north on the Bozeman Trail was the rotting remains of the pair of Sioux that Colonel Moonlight had unjustly executed. Despite the firepower of the new Remingtons, Story had to concede he might be leading twenty-eight riders to their deaths. Short of turning back, he had but one alternative, and he had rejected that. He could have cut back to the southwest on the Oregon Trail, crossed the divide into Idaho, turned north, and then recrossed the divide into Virginia City. But the season was late, and before he could have gotten safely through the two mountain passes, it would have been October. Or even later, with the wagons slowing him down. He would have almost surely lost his entire herd, as well as the wagons, in deep snow. The Bozeman, with the marauding war parties of Red Cloud and Crazy Horse, was the only real choice he had. The Bozeman was at a lower altitude, with less chance of crippling snow, and the route to Virginia City was nearly three hundred miles shorter. Manuel Cardenas and Curly were the horse wranglers for the day, and they quickly moved the extra horses out behind Sandy Bill’s wagon. Next came the herd, and following the drag, the four freight wagons. In recognition of the mountain man’s years of scouting the high plains, Story had asked Coon Tails to accompany him as he scouted ahead of the herd.

  “I hope the post commander at Fort Reno’s more civil than the varmint at Fort Laramie was,” Coon Tails said, “but I ain’t countin’ on it.”

  “Neither am I,” said Story. “We’ll report in, tell them where we’re going, and move on. How far are we from Fort Reno?”

  “The army figgers it at a hunnert an’ seventy mile,” Coon Tails said, “but I’d say two hunnert. Soldiers kin ride hosses where wagons can’t go.”

  Two hundred miles to Fort Reno. They’d had a few good days, traveling ten miles, Story recalled, but they had seen entirely too many other days when they had covered only eight miles, or even less. The month of August would be nearly spent before they reached Fort Reno.

  The second day after leaving Fort Laramie, Story and Coon Tails could see puffs of smoke rising from distant buttes to the north.

  “Smoke talk,” Story said, “and I reckon we know what they’re saying.”

  “White man comin’,” said Coon Tails, “bringin’ the white man’s buffalo, an’ wagonloads of doodads to brighten Sioux wickiups.”

  Their first brush with the Sioux came in the late afternoon of the third day. The tag end of the herd was just topping a ridge when a band of Sioux came screeching out of a draw. The whooping, combined with their sudden appearance, spooked the herd, allowing the Sioux to drive away fifty head.

  “They won’t get far,” Story said. “Cal, take five riders with you and go after them. You have the range and the advantage with the Remingtons, so don’t endanger yourselves. We’ll hold the drive here until you return.”

  Cal chose Smokey Ellison, Quanah Taylor, Bud Mc-Daniels, Quickenpaugh, and Arch Rainey.

  “They’re nervy bastards,” said Smokey. “They left a trail you can foller in the dark, and nobody behind to slow pursuit.”

  “They got us considerably outnumbered,” Cal said, “and they don’t know about these Remingtons. Soon as we get within sight of ’em, we’ll begin their education.”

  It took them almost an hour, for the Sioux had retreated to a secluded valley watered by a creek. Cal and his riders were about to top a ridge when they smelled smoke.

  “We’ll leave the horses here,” Cal said, “until we see what they’re up to.”

  They crept over the hill, keeping to cover, until they could see the Sioux gathered below.

  “Well, just look at that,” said Bud. “They’ve already killed a cow, and they’re cookin’ it for supper. They ain’t expectin’ to be followed.”

  “Why should they?” Cal said. “They outnumber us two to one, and if the army ain’t got the sand to go after ’em, why should they be afraid of a bunch of cowboys? Let’s get a mite closer, and we’ll change their minds.”

  Cal led the way, and when he judged they were within range, halted. The six of them readied their Remingtons, and when Cal gave the signal, they all fired. Their first volley dropped six of the Sioux, and a second volley got five more. There was no opportunity for a third, as the remaining Indians scattered like quail. The riders returned to their horses, and with their Remingtons across their saddles,
rode cautiously into the valley.

  “Looked like seven of ’em hit the brush,” said Quanah. “If the varmints is anything like Comanches, they could be bellied down, waitin’ for us to get within their range.”

  “Maybe,” Cal said, “but I don’t think so. We call ’em savages, and in some ways they may be, but they ain’t fools. They’ve never been hit from so far away before, and they don’t know what to make of it. Come on, and let’s round up those cows. Maybe we can get back to the drive before dark.”

  All the cows were recovered except the one the Indians had slaughtered. When Cal and his riders returned to where they had left the drive, they found it had moved on.

  “They’re lookin’ for a place to bed down for the night,” said Quanah.

  It was after dark when Cal and his riders caught up with the drive, and they wasted no time praising the new Remingtons. Riders became especially watchful as they circled the herd in the darkness. But they weren’t disturbed that night or for days thereafter.

  “Maybe we’ll reach Fort Reno without them coming after us again,” Tom Allen said.

  “Maybe,” said Story, “but keep your rifles handy.”

  It was good advice, but the continued absence of the Sioux and the nearness of Fort Reno led to a false sense of security, and twenty miles south of Fort Reno, the Sioux attacked. They came storming down a ridge, two hundred strong, yelping like coyotes. Riding hard, they cut in close enough to loose their arrows. When they galloped away, two of Story’s riders had been wounded. Slim had an arrow in his left side, while Greener had stopped one with his left shoulder. Again the Sioux had cut out part of the herd and had taken them over the ridge at a fast gallop.

  “There’ll be a doctor at the fort who can better treat these arrow wounds,” Story said, “and the fort should have an ambulance. I’ll need one man to ride to the fort for the ambulance, and a dozen of you to ride with me. We’ll be going after our cows.”

  “I’ll ride to Reno for the ambulance,” said Cal.

  “Hit the saddle, then,” Story said. “Jasmine, please see what you can do for Greener and Slim. I’ll take some riders and go after our cows.”

  Story rode out with a dozen men: Hitch, Arch, Smokey, Oscar, Quanah, Gus, Virg, Dutch, Jules, Manuel Cardenas, Bud, and Coon Tails. As before, there was difficulty in following the Sioux. This time, however, it seemed they had driven away the cows with the intention of laying an ambush for the riders who followed.

  “Lemme git ahead,” said Coon Tails. “This looks almighty like they want us t’foller ’em, an’ that means they’ll be layin’ fer us. We got t’flush ’em out without gettin’ close enough fer their arrers t’take effect.”

  Three or four hundred yards ahead was a thicket that from a distance seemed impenetrable. Suddenly a covey of birds dipped toward the thicket, but something within it frightened them, and they flew away.

  “They’re in there,” Story said. “When I fire, cut loose with your rifles. We don’t have anything to shoot at, but the Sioux aren’t going to know. As many as there are, just firing blind, we’ll hit some.”

  One after another the Remingtons cut loose, and as rapidly as the men reloaded, it seemed like ten times their number. After three barrages of .50 caliber slugs, there was a clatter of hooves beyond the thicket.

  “They’ve sneaked out the other side and lit out,” said Virg. “Are we goin’ after ’em?”

  “No,” Story said. “They’ve seen what our rifles can do, and they won’t allow us within range again. I think we’ll find our cows on the farthest side of that thicket.”

  The cows were there, less than a hundred head, and the cowboys rounded them up. They had ridden wide of the thicket, and did so as they rode back the way they had come.

  “I wonder if we hit any of ’em in that thicket,” Arch said.

  “Ain’t likely,” said Coon Tails, “but them .50 caliber hunks of lead kin make enough wind in their passin’ to purely scare hell out of a man. I reckon them Sioux just lit out t’ wait for a better time an’ place.”

  When Cal returned with the ambulance, Cal rode behind, while two soldiers rode escort. There had been little Jasmine could do for Greener and Slim. The arrows would have to be driven on through, and it was fortunate they were near enough to Fort Reno for the cowboys to be cared for by a doctor. As it was, in the cumbersome ambulance they were still a long, bumpy ride from the fort. While there was little to be gained by the Sioux attacking the ambulance, Story wasn’t one to take chances.

  “Arch, I want you and Hitch to accompany the ambulance to the fort, just in case. Report to the post commander and tell him we’ll be arriving sometime tomorrow. Just wait there for us.”

  “Let’s move ’em out,” Story shouted when the ambulance and its escort had gone. Mac Withers and Quickenpaugh took over as horse wranglers, and the herd again took the trail.

  August 25, 1866. Fort Reno, Wyoming Territory.

  Colonel Mattingly, the commanding officer at Fort Reno, proved helpful and courteous. He was adamantly opposed, however, to Story’s drive to Virginia City. Story listened as Mattingly painted a grim picture of what lay ahead.

  “Colonel Henry B. Carrington is in charge up there,” Mattingly said. “He’s just finished Fort Phil Kearny, and has selected a site for Fort C.F. Smith, in Montana Territory. Somewhere beyond, toward Virginia City, he has plans for two additional forts.”

  “He’s a man who gets things done, then,” said Story.

  “Not necessarily,” Mattingly replied, and Story caught an inflection in the officer’s voice he probably hadn’t intended. “We’re already spread too thin, and I question the wisdom of building more forts when we’re unable to adequately man those we already have. This is my personal opinion, and I am speaking unofficially, of course.”

  “Of course,” Story said, inviting him to continue.

  “Colonel Carrington has three hundred soldiers,” said Mattingly, “while it’s estimated Red Cloud has three thousand braves. A hundred and fifty soldiers and civilians have died in that vicinity. The Sioux are killing his men and running off his horses almost daily.”

  “There’s going to be hell on the Bozeman, then.”

  “There is,” said Mattingly, “and I don’t know of a damn thing that any of us can do about it. Except,” he added hastily, “avoid it.”

  “Thank you, Colonel,” Story said. “Grim as it is, your point of view is refreshing. Up to now, I’ve been under the impression that the army had it all under control, that if I’d keep my trail drive off the Bozeman, everything would somehow work itself out. From what you’ve told me, I’d say it’s goin’ to be hell with all the fires lit, whether I go on to Virginia City or not.”

  “Since I’ve been speaking off the record,” said Mattingly, “yes, I’d have to say that’s a correct assumption. We’re in over our heads, Story, and it’s going to become worse before it gets better. If it ever does.”

  Story left Colonel Mattingly’s office, and while he was not reassured, he had been profoundly impressed with the man’s honesty. While Mattingly had not been openly critical of Fort Phil Kearny’s commanding officer, Story had a picture of Colonel Henry Carrington that was anything but promising. He sounded like a “book” soldier, a West Pointer, who would die—or allow others to—before he would deviate from the rigid code that had been drilled into him. Story went on to the post hospital for some word on the condition of Greener and Slim. The young doctor was Lieutenant Marner.

  “We drove the shafts on through,” Marner said, “and both men are under sedation. The real danger is the possibility of infection, and we can control that, I think.”

  “Thank you,” said Story. “When will I be able to talk to them?”

  “Tomorrow afternoon, unless they take a turn for the worse.”

  That Greener and Slim would have to be left behind, Story had no doubt. Already the cottonwood leaves were disappearing, as the west wind had begun stripping the trees in preparation for th
e coming winter. There was thin ice along the edges of streams, and the night wind had a bite to it that hadn’t been there just a few days ago. By Story’s reckoning, they were still four hundred miles from Virginia City, and maybe a hundred from Fort Phil Kearny, with Indians all the way. Once they reached Montana Territory and were across the Yellowstone, it would be Crow country from there on to Virginia City. The Crows were friendly to whites and mortal enemies to the Sioux. But in the high country death didn’t always come astride a hard-running pony, to the screech of war whoops. It also came on the wind; silent, deepening snow that could bury a man and his horse, accompanied by temperatures that dropped to forty and below. While the Indian threat was more immediate, it was no greater than that of approaching winter. Story dared not be caught on the trail when snow drifted deep in the mountain passes and moved on to the plains beyond. . . .

  Story had been allowed to bed down the herd near the stockade, while he and his riders had been made welcome at Fort Reno. He felt a little guilty because he had not warned his riders of what might lie ahead at Fort Phil Kearny. After all, most of it was Story’s own misgivings, and nothing that he could present as fact. But what other choice did any of them have but to push on? Since they must remain at Fort Reno another night, regardless, Story waited until almost suppertime before returning to the little post hospital. He found Greener and Slim awake, but in less than hospitable moods. He suspected they knew what was coming and resented it, but he had no choice. Story was not a man to hedge, to beat around the bush, and he didn’t now.

  “I reckon you know we have to move on,” he said without preliminary.

  The two men only looked at him, allowing their silence to speak their dissatisfaction.

  “We’ll leave your horses, your saddles, and your weapons here at the fort,” Story said, “and when you’re able, come on to Virginia City. Probably the Indian threat will be over, and there’ll be a place for you, if you want it. I’m leaving each of you ten months’ wages, and since it’s not your fault you won’t finish the drive, I’m adding another hundred and fifty dollars for your bonus.”

 

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