The Virginia City Trail

by Ralph Compton

  “I don’t want no charity,” said Greener sullenly.

  “Me neither,” Slim said, just as sullenly.

  “I don’t consider it charity,” said Story. “You’ve earned it. I’ll leave it with the doc, and if your attitudes improve, I’ll see you in Virginia City. Adios.”

  Story departed the hospital after leaving the money he had promised Slim and Greener. Thanks to their sullen arrogance, he felt less guilty. Tomorrow, Sioux or not, they would take the trail to Fort Phil Kearny. Story had one last duty before leaving the fort. He stopped by Colonel Mattingly’s office and thanked the man for his courtesy.

  August 29, 1866. North on the Bozeman.

  “By God, they’s waitin’ fer us,” Coon Tails said.

  His words were unnecessary, for they could all see the distant columns of “talking smoke.” There was no doubt they were in for it. The unanswered question was when. Again Story and Coon Tails rode well in advance of the herd, while Bill Petty and Quickenpaugh rode behind the last freight wagon, their Remingtons across their saddles. They were still vulnerable. As they had done twice before, the Sioux could strike somewhere along the length of the spiraled herd, for Story’s riders were strung out from one end to the other. The best defense against a massive attack was to bunch the cattle and the wagons, allowing the cowboys to concentrate their fire, but that would be possible only if the advance or rear scouts could see the Indians coming. But Story wondered if they could count on such attacks, for twice the Sioux had counted their dead without taking a single scalp. They had accomplished nothing except the wounding of Greener and Slim.

  “I’m getting cold chills down my spine,” said Lorna, “just knowing they’re out there somewhere.” Jasmine and Curly rode with her at drag, with Oscar Fentress and Tom Allen there as well.

  “Mr. Story’s taken all the precautions he can,” Jasmine said, “and these Remingtons are light enough for us to fire them. I hate it that Greener and Slim were hurt, but they could have been dead.”

  “I fired a Sharps once,” said Curly, “and this Remington ain’t near as heavy. Besides, Bud says he’ll kill every damn Sioux in Wyoming Territory if they bother me.”

  “Bud’s always had a habit of biting off more than he could chew,” said Jasmine. “I’d suggest you keep the Remington handy.”

  The “talking smoke” continued as they rode north, but there was no sign of the Sioux. The Bozeman followed the Powder River for a ways after leaving Fort Reno, and Story bedded down the herd at a bend in the river. It would be their first night since leaving the relative security of Fort Reno, and every rider in the outfit was nervous, except Coon Tails.

  “The varmints won’t attack in the dark,” said the old scout.

  “But we’ve kilt some braves,” Gus Odell said. “They might make exceptions for us.”

  “I ’fraid you be right,” said Oscar Fentress. “I keep my rifle cocked.”

  That seemed to be the thinking of the entire outfit, and Story didn’t discourage it. But the night was calm, and the dawn broke without a sign of the Sioux. Still, by the time the drive was again moving north, there was more smoke on the horizon ahead. Waddy Summers drove the last wagon, and the right rear wheel slid off a stone ledge with a sickening crunch. The rim had split, leaving the wide iron tire dangling loose. Bill Petty rode at a fast gallop until he reached Shanghai and Cal, who were riding point.

  “Busted wagon wheel,” Petty said. “We’ll have to replace it.”

  Shanghai needed to know no more. He waved his hat downward, and then he and Cal began heading the leaders. Petty rode on and caught up to Sandy Bill’s wagon, having already spoken to Dutch Mayfield and Jules Dyer, the horse wranglers for the day. Story and Coon Tails were scouting somewhere ahead. When Petty returned to the damaged wagon, he found Waddy shifting the freight to reach the wagon jack.

  “In all my years of bull whackin’,” said Waddy, “I never needed that damn wagon jack that it wasn’t buried somewhere under the load.”

  “That raises a question,” Petty said with a grin. “Why do you bury it under the load?”

  “I didn’t,” said Waddy. “Story had the wagon loaded before I got back to Fort Leavenworth.”

  Replacing the broken wheel cost them two hours. The riders remained vigilant, but no Indians were sighted. Story and Coon Tails returned as the drive again took the trail. Story spoke to all the riders, eventually reaching Quickenpaugh and Petty.

  “I reckon I missed all the fun,” Story said.

  “You did,” Petty agreed. “Waddy an’ me had to shift half the freight in that damn wagon, looking for the wagon jack. Quickenpaugh didn’t lift a finger to help us.”

  Quickenpaugh looked at Story. “Squaw trabajo,” he said.*

  Story laughed, riding back along the left flank to the point position. The day wore on, and while there was more smoke, there were no Indians.

  “They’re planning somethin’,” John Catlin said. “What gets on a man’s nerves is not knowin’ when it’s coming.”

  “It’s not just Indian attacks,” said Story. “That’s the way life is. If we knew when the dam was goin’ to break, we’d have time to shore it up a mite.”

  Steve Grover laughed. “I’ve learned more hard truth on the trail than I’d learned in my whole life, back in Indiana.”

  “That’s how it is,” Story said. “I had some college in Ohio, but when I came west, I felt like an ignoramus. Indians will educate a man to the ways of the frontier pronto.”

  “You have an Indian among your riders,” said Catlin, “and he’s as well-armed as any of us. Back East we were told all Indians were ignorant savages.”

  “I’ll let you be the judge of that,” Story said. “Quick-enpaugh just sat on his horse and watched a pair of white hombres unload and then load a freight wagon.”

  “The commander at Fort Reno seemed a decent sort,” said Grover. “What do you know of the post commander at Kearny?”

  “Not much,” Story said, “but I suspect he’s a ’book’ soldier. You know the kind.”

  “Oh, God, yes,” said Grover. “He’ll have his troops dodging arrows and doing close order drill on Sunday morning.”

  If the continual “talking smoke” wasn’t enough to keep everybody’s nerves on edge, there was daily evidence of Indian atrocities along the trail. One of these was an overturned, partially burned wagon, while others consisted of the rotting carcasses or the bleached bones of mules, horses, and oxen. Then there were the graves—one, two, three, and often more—many of them newly made and not yet grassed over.

  “It’s so sad,” Lorna said. “They must have come this way looking for a new life, and all they found was death. That one little bit of ground is all they’ll ever have, without even a marker to say this is where it all came to an end.”

  “God,” said Curly, “hush. You sound like a preacher. All they ever talk about is the grave, dyin’, torment, hell-fire, and how the devil’s likely got his brand on us all. I reckon he has, but damn it, do we have to waste what time we got, bawlin’ about it?”

  “Sorry,” Lorna said. “I didn’t know you were touchy about those things.”

  “I hate death, even the mention of it,” said Curly. “I never really knew my mama, and I lost Daddy when I was fifteen. He had lung fever and seemed afraid for me to be near him. Since I was eleven, all I had was Manuel, and he fussed over me like some old granny.”

  “An old granny would have known you were a girl,” Jasmine said. “Either Manuel didn’t know or he put on a good act.”

  “I kept my britches on when he was around,” said Curly, “and I wore one of Daddy’s old shirts. Till last winter, I was flat-chested as a barn door.”

  “All the better for roping cows,” Lorna said. “You got nothing to get in the way.”

  “Something’s happened up ahead,” said Jasmine. “The herd’s slowing.”

  * Squaw work

  19

  September 10, 1866. Fort Phil Kearny, Wyoming
Territory.

  A sentry had spotted the drive, and a contingent of soldiers had halted it three miles south of the fort. Story said nothing, and when the sergeant in charge spoke, he wasted no time on introductions or preliminaries.

  “Sir, Colonel Carrington sends orders that your animals be brought no nearer to the fort, because the grass is needed for government stock. The colonel feels your stock and wagons will prove a temptation to the Sioux, and endanger the fort, and this garrison does not have the manpower to protect you.”

  “We’ve managed so far without the protection of the military, Sergeant,” said Story, “and we will continue to do so. As for the herd, they’ll be kept well away from the fort for the short time we intend to be here. Does the colonel have any further orders for us?”

  “Just one,” the sergeant said stiffly. “You—if you are responsible for this caravan—are ordered to report to Colonel Carrington’s office at once.”

  “He’s likely to back you up against the stockade wall and have you shot, Nels,” Tom Allen said, “just on general principles.”

  “Come on, Coon Tails,” said Story.

  The soldiers waited for Story and Coon Tails to ride on ahead, and they felt like prisoners. They were marched into Carrington’s office, and the colonel was formal, spit-and-polish, every inch the “book” soldier Story had expected. He sat tugging at his beard, and when he finally spoke, it was in clipped tones, without a hint of cordiality.

  “Suppose you tell me who you are, why you are here, and where you think you are going?”

  “My name is Nelson Story, Colonel, and I know where I’m going. I’m bound for Virginia City, Montana Territory.”

  “You are forbidden to continue this foolish trek along the Bozeman,” Carrington said, “until this fight with the Sioux has been resolved.”

  “Colonel,” the old mountain man cut in, “I’m Coon Tails, an’ Jim Bridger’s a friend of mine. Wher’ is Jim?”

  “Bridger is scouting the foothills,” Carrington snapped, “and his whereabouts has nothing to do with this situation. For reasons of which you are aware, your cattle are not to be grazed near the fort. There is a large pole corral on Clear Creek, and you may secure your stock there at night.”

  Clearly, they had been dismissed, but Story turned on Carrington in a fury.

  “From what I hear, Colonel, your stock has been stolen from under your very nose. I won’t hold my herd at your whim, to be taken a few at a time by the Sioux.”

  “You will do as I have commanded,” Carrington thundered. “There are three hundred soldiers on this post, and by God, I will use every last one, if I have to. Take the trail in defiance of my orders, and I’ll have you and your riders shot out of the saddle.”

  Carrington’s eyes burned with the fire of fanaticism. Story and Coon Tails left the colonel’s office to find the stockade swarming with excited civilians and more wagons than the limited area could comfortably accommodate.

  “What’s happened, soldier?” Story asked a private.

  “Party of miners attacked by the Sioux,” said the soldier. “Bunch of miners killed, and the rest hightailed it back here.”

  “These damn blue bellies from back East don’t know doodly about fightin’ Injuns,” said Coon Tails in disgust. “You aim to foller them orders?”

  “For a while,” Story said. “There’s no denying those miners have had a bad time of it, and all that ‘smoke talk’ we’ve been seeing hasn’t been for nothing. We’ll give it a few days, but no more. If the Sioux have picked Carrington clean of riding stock, they won’t spare us.”

  “With er without Carrington’s blessin’, ’fore we move out, I’ll do some lookin’ around. If I kin find Bridger, he’ll know what these Injuns is up to.”

  Story got the outfit together and told them of Carrington’s order. Since they had little choice, they drove the herd on to Clear Creek, setting up camp in the vicinity of the corral Carrington had mentioned. They were in the foothills, and to the north, above the black timber belt, loomed the snowcapped Big Horns. From their first night on Clear Creek, the Sioux began picking at the herd and trying to get at the horses. The herd had to be driven into the pole corral at night, and that helped some, but not much. During daylight hours, riders had to constantly circle the herd, as well as the extra horses. There was no respite, except when the riders were allowed occasional visits to the sutler’s store, and then they could go only two or three at a time. It was on one such visit that Bill Petty met Alicia Blackburn. The girl was leaving the store, her arms full of purchases, just as Petty and Arch Rainey approached the steps. Alicia stumbled, parcels went everywhere, and she would have fallen facedown in the dirt street if Petty hadn’t caught her.

  “Oh, this is so embarrassing,” the girl cried as Petty released her.

  “Loose board on the porch,” said Petty as he and Arch went about gathering the things she had dropped. By the time the fallen articles had been recovered, the girl had a smile for them.

  “Thank you so much,” she said. “I’m Alicia Blackburn. Mostly just Alice.”

  “I’m Bill,” Petty said, removing his hat, “and this is Arch. We’re with the trail drive, on Clear Creek. Wherever you’re bound, why don’t you let us carry this stuff for you?”

  “I . . . I would,” she said, “but I fear it wouldn’t be proper. You see, I live in one of the officer’s cabins, with my husband. He . . . he’s a captain.”

  She took her parcels, and almost dropped them again as she hurried away. Looking after her, Arch sighed and turned to Petty.

  “God, did you see them eyes? Black as her hair. She’s part Spanish.”

  “And all married,” Petty added.

  “Yeah,” said Arch. “Why else would a beauty like her be stuck out here, neck deep in Indians?”

  Story and his outfit spent a week on Clear Creek, and fed up with the constant harassment by the Sioux, Story again called on Colonel Carrington.

  “Colonel,” Story said, “I’d be no worse off on the trail to Virginia City. As it is, we’re bogged down here, while the Sioux nibble away at our cows and our horses. I’m requesting that you rescind that order and allow us to leave.”

  “Absolutely not,” said Carrington. “I’ll place the lot of you under military arrest if I have to. While the Indians are ’picking at you,’ as you put it, that brings them out of the hills and canyons, where we have a chance to get at them.”

  “So that’s it, damn it,” Story shouted. “You’re using my riders, my cows, and my horses to bait the Sioux.”

  “To some degree,” said Carrington, with his maddening smile, “but you are civilians, and in time of war, you are subject to my command. The order stands.”

  As though to justify his outrageous behavior, Carrington sent a dozen soldiers on a reconnaisance patrol, with Captain Blackburn in command. When the patrol returned, three of their number were tied across their saddles, and one of the dead was Captain Blackburn. A burial detail dug the graves as other soldiers patrolled the area against further attack. Near sundown a bugler climbed to the parapet high inside the stockade walls, and the mournful notes of taps drifted through the evening stillness. Under heavy guard, soldiers bore the three wooden coffins from the fort to the newly dug graves. Some of Story’s riders gathered for the brief ceremony, and one of them was Bill Petty. Alicia Blackburn was dressed all in black, including a veil, and Petty was unable to see her face. He wished he could have spoken to her, but he was an outsider, and protocol forbade it. He watched as she was consoled by other officers and their wives. When it came Carrington’s turn, he took her hand, but she tensed and withdrew it. Petty took grim satisfaction in that. Even in her grief, Alice Blackburn had sand, and she knew Carrington for what he was.

  “Bill,” said Arch later, “now that the Blackburn woman’s free, you ought to go callin’ on her. We may not be here much longer.”

  “Hell’s bells, Arch,” Bill exploded, “it wouldn’t be proper. Her man ain’t even cold i
n his grave. Why don’t you go callin’ on her?”

  “She didn’t look at me the way she looked at you. A woman can be hooked up in double harness, but that don’t mean she’s satisfied.”

  Petty shook his head, but found himself unable to dismiss Alicia from his mind. It was said that a single or widowed woman on the frontier took in laundry or took in men. Petty didn’t know what military policy was, but he suspected Alicia Blackburn would be lucky if she got a one-way ticket back East, to her family.

  “Nels,” said Coon Tails after a week of Carrington’s high-handedness, “I aim to ride into them hills, an’ whether I find Bridger er not, I aim to find out wher’ them Sioux is holed up.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” Story said. “With or without Carrington’s approval, we’re leaving here.”

  The outfit watched him ride away, and it wasn’t just Nelson Story who had misgivings.

  “I wish he wasn’t going,” said Lorna. “I have this awful feeling that . . . he won’t ever come back.”

  The old scout had slipped away before first light. The day wore on, and as shadows lengthened and the first stars appeared, Story grew worried. He could think of no reason why Coon Tails hadn’t returned, unless he was dead. The outfit had grown close to the garrulous old man, and their minds were on him as they circled the herd. As they came together around the breakfast fire, Story made an announcement.

  “I’m taking Quickenpaugh with me, and we’re going after Coon Tails. I want all of you in the saddle, circling the herd and the extra horses.”

  Story had a horse on a lead rope. The Sioux might have shot Coon Tails’s horse from beneath him, and the old man might be holed up, fighting for his life. Quickenpaugh rode ahead, having no trouble picking up the trail. They rode with their Remingtons across their saddles, and they had ridden no more than four or five miles when Quickenpaugh reined up. The trail was no longer necessary. In the blue of the Wyoming sky, in the shadow of the grim and everlasting Big Horns, buzzards spiraled earthward. Quickenpaugh kicked his horse into a fast gallop, Story following. Coon Tails lay facedown, literally spiked with arrows. The shafts of a dozen had to be broken before the body of the old scout could be wrapped in blankets and slung across the horse Story had brought. It was a sad occasion when Story and Quickenpaugh rode into camp. The riders forgot the herd, the horses, everything except the blanket-wrapped body tied across the saddle. Most of the riders wept.