Quickenpaugh pointed to the unbroken snow and then to the stand of pines at the foot of the mountain. “We kill dead lak hell,” said the Indian.
* Ambush
21
Nelson Story was torn between his desire to get the herd on the trail and concern for his riders. Especially Lorna. His anger for her having foolishly left the camp had been replaced with a desire only to have her taken from the Sioux before the savages did things to her that couldn’t be undone. Cal Snider was normally careful, cool in the face of danger, but with Lorna in the hands of the Sioux, might that not affect the young Texan’s judgment? The Indians would have expected pursuit, perhaps welcomed it, and Story suspected the incident had been nothing more than a ploy to lure some of his riders into an ambush. The more Story thought about it, the better he felt about having sent Quickenpaugh with Cal. While Cal’s thinking might be muddied by Lorna’s predicament, it wouldn’t sway Quickenpaugh. The young Indian’s sole intention would be to kill Sioux.
At first Lorna Flagg had been accepted by Story’s outfit because she was Cal Snider’s woman, but Lorna had won acceptance for herself by enduring all the hardships the trail had to offer. Story believed the entire outfit would have ridden to her rescue at the drop of a hat, and more than one of the riders would have been willing to drop the hat. Now most of them rode the canyon, watching the herd. While all of them weren’t needed for the task, it provided something for them to do. Even Alicia Blackburn was riding with them, Story noted with approval. Jubal, Handy, Levi, and Waddy were leaning against their wagons, their Remingtons ready.
“It must be terrible, being carried away by Indians,” Alicia said. “I used to have nightmares about the Sioux storming the fort and taking me away. How long do they keep a woman before she is violated and ruined?”
“I don’t know,” said Jasmine. “I’ve heard they’re forced to become the wife of some brave. I suspect one as young and as pretty as Lorna would end up wife to a chief.”
“I wouldn’t want no damn Indian pawin’ around over me,” Curly said, “chief or not.”
“I don’t imagine Lorna wants that either,” said Jasmine. “Let’s just hope Cal and Quickenpaugh get to her in time.”
Cal and Quickenpaugh left their horses on the plateau and crept toward the treeline below. It was hard going, with the snow hiding stones, dead branches, and leaves. Quickenpaugh held up his hand and Cal paused. He had no idea what Quickenpaugh had in mind, but somehow the Sioux must be flushed out without their harming Lorna. Quickenpaugh proceeded down the slope, and Cal remained where he was. There was a chance one of the three concealed Sioux might cut down Quickenpaugh with arrows, but with the odds three against one, it wasn’t likely. Suddenly one of the Sioux dropped from the branches of a pine, but Quickenpaugh had sensed his coming and had his Bowie drawn. It had been the intention of the Sioux to drop onto Quickenpaugh’s back. Instead he found himself facing Quickenpaugh, and the two of them were equally armed. But the Sioux had no intention of it being a fair fight, as the second one sprang for Quickenpaugh’s back. But Cal was ready. Drawing his Colt, he put two slugs in the Sioux, who flopped facedown into the snow. Lorna screamed, and Cal half fell, half slid through the snow, getting to her. She had broken loose from her captor, was on her knees, and the Sioux had her by the hair. Again Cal drew and fired, and Lorna was free. Quickenpaugh had found an opening for his Bowie, and stood over the body of the third Sioux. Lorna clung to Cal, trembling.
“I only went to the bushes,” Lorna said.
“While we’re in Sioux country,” said Cal, “stay out of the damn bushes.”
Quickenpaugh had found the four Indian ponies, and Lorna rode one of them back to camp. She immediately came face-to-face with an unsmiling Nelson Story.
“If you ever do a fool thing like that on this trail drive again,” he roared, “I’ll make you sleep in one of the wagons and post a guard. Comprender?”
“I’m sorry,” said Lorna. “I feel like the drive would have been better off if I’d stayed in Texas.”
“Anybody can make a mistake,” Story said, a little more kindly, “but where hostile Indians are concerned, you don’t often get a second chance. Just remember that.”
Half the day had been lost when the herd finally took the trail. The snow slowed them further, the wagons slipping and sliding, and horses were lamed when a hoof plunged unexpectedly into unseen holes. No sooner had they left the canyon than there was more “talking smoke” ahead of and behind them. Story continued to use outriders, whose sole duty it was to protect the rest of the outfit from hit-and-run attacks by the Sioux. But there were no attacks, and they saw no Indians. Story again rode ahead of the drive, seeking a source of water for the night’s camp, and looking for Indian sign as he rode. But the herd safely reached the area Story had chosen and was bedded down for the night.
“Nighthawking as usual,” said Story, “and no dozing in the saddle. I don’t know what those coyotes are up to, but when it comes, I aim for us to be ready.”
But the night passed without disturbance, and the outfit again took the trail. Before scouting ahead, Story paused for a word with Shanghai. The old rancher pointed to the smoke on the northern horizon, and Story nodded.
“The varmints purely know how to work on a man’s nerves,” Shanghai said. “If we got to fight, then let’s fight an’ be done with it.”
“Exactly how I feel,” said Story, “and I think that’s exactly what they have in mind. They want us so spooked we couldn’t hit a buffalo at ten yards. Then they’ll come after us.”
It was Tom Allen’s day to ride drag. Lorna and Curly drifted out of earshot, so the two could talk, if they wished.
“You reckon them two are makin’ plans for when we get to Virginia City?” Curly asked.
“I don’t know,” said Lorna, “but I won’t be surprised. You should have been at drag when we were crossing that river, when the drag steers spooked and a horn raked Jasmine’s horse. When that horse tore off down the back trail dragging Jasmine from a stirrup like a bundle of rags, I just knew she was dead. Tom Allen was like a madman, beating his way through those steers with a doubled lariat, trying to reach her.”
“Well at least he’s got some kind of claim on her,” Curly said. “Bud’s been pestering the hell out of me ever since he saw me with my shirt open and my Levi’s down.”
“Until then he didn’t know you were a girl,” said Lorna.
“That’s when he started tryin’ to reform me, make me say things and do things the way he thought a girl should.”
“I can’t see that you’ve changed that much,” Lorna said wryly.
“I ain’t,” said Curly. “He finally said he’d ruther I swear at him than not talk to him at all.”
“Have you been swearing at him?”
“Not since he stopped hounding me ’cause I wasn’t acting like a girl,” Curly said.
“Maybe you should just leave it like that till we reach Virginia City,” said Lorna. “Both of you may see things different by then.”
The several days after leaving the canyon had been a nightmare. There had been substantial snowfall, and it had drifted deep. When the snow began to melt in the face of a warming trend, there was mud. The wagons, even Sandy Bill’s, mired down repeatedly. The third day after the storm, an anemic sun appeared, and only then did the mud begin to lose its grip on their wagon wheels.
“We might as well of stayed in that canyon till the sun come out,” said Arch Rainey. “We’d of saved ourselves the misery of spendin’ two days of haulin’ them wagons out of the mud.”
Story had to admit it was gospel. They and the teamsters had wasted two days, doing the hardest work imaginable, and they hadn’t gone anywhere. Five days out of the canyon, they were still within spitting distance of it, and when they had the herd bedded down, Shanghai presented Story with another problem and another delay.
“In the last little while,” Shanghai said, “we had three hosses throw shoes, an’
there’ll be more, pronto, if we don’t stop an’ take care of ’em.”
“Damn it,” said Story, “the horses were shod at Leavenworth.”
“Only them that needed it at the time,” Shanghai said. “We didn’t shoe none of them we took from that bunch of renegades. They was all right at the time, but they ain’t all right now, an’ them that was shod at Leavenworth ain’t gonna make it on t’Virginia City. We put ever’body t’ the task an’ work like hell, an’ mebbe we kin finish in a day.”
“Then we’ll take tomorrow and do it,” said Story.
So they had lost another day, and the lot of them had worked from first light until almost dark, taking some satisfaction in the fact that all the horses needing shoes had been shod. Besides, the muddy trail had dried for a day.
“God,” said Hitch Gould, “that’s got to be the hardest work I’ve done since leavin’ Texas.”
“I’ve knowed you awhile,” said Arch Rainey. “What did you do in Texas that was all that hard?”
“Anything I can’t do from a saddle is hard work,” Hitch said, “and I had to shoe horses in Texas too.”
October 14, 1866. The Bozeman Trail north.
Nights were cold, but the skies remained clear. Story believed that within two weeks, if there were no more delays, they would cross into Montana Territory. It would be friendly Crow country, and the Sioux threat would be left behind. But Nelson Story was no optimist where the Sioux were concerned, and not for a minute did he believe that Red Cloud and Crazy Horse would allow them to pass without a fight. Again Story took the trail ahead of the herd, preparing to scout the country ahead, his eyes searching the horizon for “talking smoke.” There had been none yesterday, and there was none today. The absence of it bothered Story more than its presence. It had become a habit with him to pause when approaching the crest of a ridge, taking a hard look at the country beyond before riding on. He had ridden no more than three or four miles ahead of the herd, when he reined up short of riding over a ridge. Walking his horse forward until he could see, he caught his breath, for there was a column of Indians riding across the valley below. Quickly, he estimated the number at a hundred, for there was no time to count them. They seemed in no hurry, certain of their destination. Story turned his horse and kicked it into a fast gallop. The showdown they had been expecting was at hand.
Sandy Bill saw Story coming, riding hard, and the old cook reined up.
“Indians,” Story shouted. “Hold up where you are.”
Gus Odell and Virg Wooler, horse wranglers for the day, had heard Story when he warned Sandy Bill, and began heading the horses. Story rode on, waving his hat when he was within sight of Shanghai Wolfington, at point.
“Indians,” Story shouted. “Head the herd and bunch them.” Story rode on, warning the flank and swing riders, and finally the drag. From there he rode to the farthest of the four freight wagons.
“Indians,” he shouted. “Circle the wagons as near the herd as you can, and unlimber your rifles.”
They barely had time to follow Story’s orders. By the time the last wagon lumbered near the herd, the Sioux came thundering in, yipping like demented coyotes. But the range was still too great for their arrows, and Story’s riders cut loose with the long-range Remingtons. A dozen Sioux were shot from their horses in the first volley, and seven more were hit with the second. The stunned Sioux rode madly away, not having loosed a single arrow.
“Hieeeeyah,” screeched Quanah Taylor. “Run, you varmints, run!”
“Keep your rifles ready,” Story warned. “They may be back.”
The Indian method was to sweep in, making swift attacks while within arrow range, and then retreat. Their attacks were repeated, as they whittled down their enemy, confident they could escape before muzzle loaders could fire a second time. So perfectly did they know the range and limitations of the soldiers’ Springfields, they couldn’t believe what had just happened to them.
“Here they come again,” shouted Story.
The Sioux leading the attack wore buffalo horns. Story suspected he was the medicine man and that he’d managed to work the rest of them into enough of a frenzy for another attack. Now he galloped well ahead of his comrades, determined to show them how strong his medicine was. Story shot him off his horse, and as the rest of the Remingtons began to thunder, nine more Sioux were cut down before they could turn their ponies and gallop away. This time they did not regroup, for their loss had been too great.
“That’s the end of it,” Story shouted.
The riders gathered around, astonished that they had slaughtered almost half of the attackers without suffering so much as a scratch.
“By God,” said John Catlin, “I believe we’ve sent a message that even Red Cloud can understand.”
“Don’t count on it,” Story said, “but I think we’ve proven something to ourselves. Let’s move on, so they can return for their dead. We won’t deny them that.”
The dead lay in the path the drive would have taken, and the smell of blood and death would have stampeded the herd. Story and Shanghai headed the leaders to the west until they were well past the scene of death, and then circled back until they were again traveling north.
“Keep them moving, Shanghai,” said Story. “I’ll ride ahead and find us a place to bed down for the night, and I’ll look for Indian sign as I go.”
But Story saw nothing to alarm him, and for the rest of that day and all of the next, there was no more “talking smoke.” It resumed, however, on the third day.
“They ain’t done with us,” said teamster Levi Puckett. “We may of put a crimp in Red Cloud’s tail, but we ain’t convinced Crazy Horse yet.”
“He be convinced when he git a dose of Remington medicine,” Oscar said.
“We’ll continue using outriders,” said Story, “and after I’ve scouted ahead, I’ll ride well in advance of the drive. The only way they can hurt us is if we’re strung out for a mile. We must have time to bunch the herd and bring in the wagons. Cal, I want you and Quickenpaugh with the freight wagons, always watching our back trail. When it comes to firepower, we have an edge, but I don’t expect that to stop them. They can outnumber us maybe a hundred to one, if they choose, so expect five, maybe ten times as many of them when they strike again.”
The weather continued to hold, with mild days and cold nights, and with each passing day Story marked off their progress. The riders took to eagerly searching the horizon at dawn, seeking the “talking smoke.”
“We can’t count on anything, based on that,” Story said.
“Maybe not,” said Tom Allen, “but last time, two days after the smoke stopped, they came after us. Since we can’t make anything else of it, that’s something.”
The drive moved steadily on, and each morning, ahead of them and behind, the smoke was there. Finally, in the closing days of October, the “talking smoke” again ceased.
“Maybe you’re right, Tom,” Story said. “Win, lose, or draw, I think we’re about to meet Crazy Horse, chief of the Oglala Sioux.”
Story began choosing campsites with an eye for defense. At the end of the second day after the “talking smoke” ceased, Story was scouting ahead, seeking water. Ahead was a sheer, towering butte that rose high above the plains. At the base of it, on the east, water gurgled from a crevice in the rock. Story rode from one side of the picacho to the other, satisfying himself that there was no means of scaling the steep flanks. He then rode back and met the herd, leading them to the spring, with its runoff.
“That’s as good a natural defense as I’ve ever seen,” said Bill Petty, viewing the massive butte.
“I can only agree,” John Catlin said. “With these Remingtons, we could put our backs to that and hold off every Sioux in the territory.”
“We may have to,” said Story. “Every time they’ve hit us in the open, it’s been a busted flush. From now on, we’ll choose every camp with an eye for defense. A surprise attack could come at dawn, and that means we’ll li
kely still be in camp.”
The attack came on the morning of the third day after the “talking smoke” had ceased. The Sioux came in such numbers that, even with Remingtons in their hands and a sheer stone wall at their backs, Story’s riders were awed. The outriders circling the herd were the first to see them coming, and Oscar Fentress was the first to reach camp.
“De Sioux be comin’,” he shouted, “an’ Lawd God, dey be a million of ’em.”
All the wagons were already drawn in close to the butte in anticipation of just such an attack, and it was only a matter of moving the herd near enough that the Sioux couldn’t stampede them before coming within range of the Remingtons. The teamsters and many of the riders lay behind wagon wheels or steadied their rifles across a wagon box. Lorna, Curly, and Jasmine lay behind their saddles, using them to rest the Remingtons. The Sioux seemed bound for a head-on clash, but before they were within range of the rifles, they split their forces. Half their number rode north of the butte, while the rest circled to the south.
“They aim to ride in from both flanks,” Story said. “Those of you who are handiest to the left, concentrate your fire in that direction. If you are nearest the bunch attacking from the right, go after them. We can’t come out of this with whole hides if we’re all shooting at the same fifty Sioux. There are many more of them this time, and with the greater number, they figure some of them will get close enough to hurt us.”
The rest of the outfit followed Story’s lead, and when he judged the galloping horsemen were close enough, he fired. Twenty-nine rifles roared, and suddenly there were twenty-five riderless ponies. A second volley dropped twenty more riders, and the rest galloped frantically out of range.
“God,” said Gus Odell, “there must of been a thousand.”
The Virginia City Trail Page 29
