The Santa Fe Trail

by Ralph Compton

  “There’s some of ’em,” said Gavin excitedly, when they were within sight of the line of vegetation that marked the banks of the second stream.

  “Not near enough, though,” Woody said. “We’ll ride upstream a ways and hope for more of them.”

  Their search was rewarded, for much of the missing herd grazed in large bunches.

  “Let’s ride amongst ’em and take a quick tally,” said Woody. “This may well be the rest of the herd.”

  Quickly the cowboys took a count, and elated, compared numbers.

  “Close to twenty-two hundred,” Gavin said.

  “I counted nearly a hundred more,” said Woody, “so we’ll go with your count. Those we rounded up yesterday, added to what’s here, brings us within probably three hundred head of our original herd. Ride back and bring the rest of the outfit. I’ll go on upstream a ways, and see if there’s more.”

  Gavin galloped away, and the word he brought was met with great enthusiasm by the rest of the outfit.

  “It appears we are going to find the rest of them today, then,” said Pitkin.

  “We’ll be close,” Gavin said, “but we still can’t afford to lose three or four hundred head, only two days out of Independence. There may be other stampedes, some far more damaging than this one.”

  When they reached the second tributary, there was no sign of Woody.

  “Perhaps when we see him, he will have found the rest of the herd,” said Naomi.

  “They’re scattered for another two miles,” Woody said, when they met him returning. “Let’s bring them up to join the larger herd, and that may finish the gather.”

  Rounding the cattle up into a single herd, they drove them south, to the tributary on which their camp was located. Within an hour, the much larger herd had been united with the cattle gathered the day before, and it truly looked as though the original trail drive had come together again.

  “Tally time,” Woody said. “Rusty, Gavin, Vic, Ash, and Nip, I want all of you to run a tally on the herd.”

  Quickly the riders ran individual tallies.

  “Sing out your totals,” said Woody.

  “Thirty-four hundred and twenty-five,” Rusty said.

  “Thirty-four hundred and sixty,” said Ash.

  “Thirty-four hundred and ninety,” Vic said.

  “Thirty-four hundred and seventy-five,” said Nip.

  “Thirty-four hundred and fifty,” Gavin said.

  “We’ll call it thirty-four seventy-five,” said Woody. “Tomorrow, before we pull out, we’ll ride through here one more time. There may still be a few that’ll make their way to water.”

  “A remarkable feat, recovering so many of the beasts,” Pitkin said.

  “Not many places for ’em to hole up, on this Kansas plain,” said Gavin. “I wouldn’t be surprised to find the rest of ’em tomorrow morning.”

  “I reckon the wolves will let us know if there’s any more cows wanderin’ loose,” Nip said. “If we don’t hear wolves tonight, I’d say we’ve gathered all the cows we’re likely to find.”

  There was no more of the mournful howling, and the night passed uneventfully.

  “We have three-quarters of an hour before breakfast,” Woody said. “Gavin, I want you and Vic to ride down this tributary and the next one, just on the chance that a few more cows wandered back to water durin’ the night.”

  “I think we’re wastin’ our time,” said Vic, as they saddled their horses.

  “Maybe,” Gavin replied, “but we need to recover as many as we can. Woody’s thinkin’ there may be more stampedes, and we purely can’t afford to take a big loss on the first one.”

  They found no more cattle until they reached the second tributary of the Osage. There they gathered fourteen more cows and drove them back to join the rest of the herd.

  “This exceeds anything I ever expected,” said Pitkin, pleased.

  “Let’s get breakfast behind us,” Woody said, “and get these critters on the trail. We’ll have to make up some time. We should reach the fourth tributary of the Osage by the end of the day.”

  There would be water for the night’s camp, and with that assurance, the outfit kept the herd moving at a faster-than-usual gait. Ash Pryor rode drag with the Pitkin girls, and with the herd behaving well, Naomi and Nell kept the young cowboy busy answering their questions.

  “What can you tell us about New Mexico?” Naomi asked.

  “Not much,” said Ash. “I’ve never been there. We’re headin’ for the northern part, and from what I’ve heard, it gets almighty cold in winter. I reckon snow storms blow in from the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, to the west.”

  “What a strange name,” Nell said. “What does it mean?”

  “It’s Spanish,” said Ash. “It means Blood of Christ.”

  “I don’t understand why Father was able to buy so much land,” Naomi said. “There is no such open land in England. What the ruling class owns, they keep.”

  “All of New Mexico Territory was once owned by Mexico, and the Spanish before them,” said Ash. “After the war with Mexico, the United States took everything north of the Rio Grande, includin’ all of California, New Mexico, and part of Arizona.”

  “That’s terrible, taking so much of another country’s land,” said Nell. “The United States surely didn’t need it, or they wouldn’t be selling such enormous parcels of it.”

  “The spoils of war,” Ash replied. “Mexico wouldn’t have anything less than war, so we obliged ’em by stompin’ their…whippin’ their army. My daddy died in that war, and I don’t feel bad about anything we took from Mexico. It wouldn’t bother me if we’d kicked the varmints into the Gulf and took their whole damn country.”

  Nell laughed. “You sound like Father. Some Englishmen still curse America because the Colonies took their freedom almost a hundred years ago. Father says it was destiny, that it was meant to be, that nothing could have stopped it. We were well off, by English standards, but Father was determined to taste the freedom of the New World, as he put it. So here we are.”

  “I’m glad he felt that way,” Ash said. “With his ambition and his holdings, someday he’ll be a man to be reckoned with. Men are needed on the Western frontier who can see it for what it can be, rather than what it is.”

  “You have an unusual perspective, for one so young,” said Naomi.

  Ash flushed. “I’m not so young. I’m twenty-four.”

  “I didn’t mean that in a critical way,” Naomi said. “Your wisdom, your ideals, are a lot like Father’s, yet you’re half his age.”

  “We can talk about wisdom and ideals some other time,” said Nell. “I want to hear more about New Mexico, about the West. Tell me there won’t be any of the cold, damp, miserable winters we had in England.”

  “I’m from south Texas,” Ash said, “so I can’t tell you anything first-hand about New Mexico’s winters. All I know is that when a blue norther comes rippin’ through Texas, it always comes from the west. So I reckon when winter comes roarin’ in, it jumps on New Mexico with both feet, before it reaches Texas. I reckon we’ll all be wearin’ long-handled woollies.”

  “What in the world are long-handled woollies?” Naomi asked.

  “Woolen underwear that covers your entire body, except for your head, your hands, and your feet,” said Ash.

  “They sound terribly inconvenient,” Nell said. “Why you’d have to remove them every time you…”

  Her voice trailed off and she dropped her eyes. Naomi laughed.

  “You don’t remove ’em unless you’re takin’ a bath,” said Ash. “There’s a trap door in the seat—a flap with buttons—that works just dandy.”

  Nell had turned several shades of red. Ash caught. Naomi’s eye, and when she laughed, Ash laughed with her. It all proved contagious, and finally Nell joined them.

  “Head ’em in,” Woody shouted, waving his hat.

  They had reached the fourth tributary of the Osage, their source of water for the herd
and for their night’s camp. The riders started the herd milling, while Gonzales and Pitkin headed their wagons away from the water. The horses and mules would be taken to water at a point along the river where there was no conflict with the thirsty longhorns. The sun was still an hour high when Gonzales got supper under way.

  “Pit,” Woody said, “let’s take a look at that trail map again. As I recall, we ought to reach Council Grove by tomorrow night, where the Neosho River crosses the trail.”

  Pitkin spread out the map of the trail that led to Santa Fe by way of the Cimarron Cutoff, or desert route.

  “Except for the Jornada, it looks quite promising,” said Pitkin. “After leaving Council Grove, a second fork of the Neosho crosses the trail just west of Diamond Spring. Beyond there, the trail crosses four tributaries of the Arkansas, and just a few miles farther west, we pick up the main body of the Arkansas.”

  “We’ll follow it to a few miles west of Fort Dodge,” Woody said, “and it’ll be our last sure water until we reach the Cimarron River. Fifty miles, at least.”

  “Your plan to drive the cattle at night until we’re across the desert makes sense to me,” said Pitkin. “Is a stampede our only possible problem, or have you been sparing me the others?”

  “There’s a possibility of Indians,” Woody said. “Most likely Comanche. Since we’ll be driving at night, we’ll have to keep the herd bunched, the riders all close in, and both the wagons right on the heels of the drag. Comanches will stalk and kill at night as readily as in daylight.”

  “The varmints might stampede the herd,” Vic said. “It’s happened before.”

  “It has,” said Woody, “and Indians are unpredictable.”

  “Then there are two possible causes of a stampede as we’re crossing the desert,” said Pitkin.

  “Yes,” Woody admitted. “In a way, a thirsty herd stampeding toward the smell of water is worse than a herd spooked by Indians. Most of our wind comes out of the west or northwest, and you can imagine what might happen if there’s rain somewhere to the west of us.”

  “The herd will run toward the smell of water,” said Pitkin, “even if it’s only rain, and perhaps hundreds of miles away.”

  “Exactly,” Woody replied, “and there’s very little we can do about it. A thirsty herd is all but unstoppable. Get ahead of them, and you’re risking yourself and your horse.”

  “All we can do is get them across that waterless desert just as fast as we can,” said Gavin. “A cow ain’t the smartest critter around, and the varmints have been known to light out down the back trail toward the last water they remember.”

  “Yeah,” Vic agreed, “no matter how far away it is.”

  “I must say,” said Pitkin, “I am receiving an education as to the habits of these Texas longhorn cattle. Do they possess any good qualities?”

  All the riders laughed, and it was Rusty Pryor who spoke.

  “They can survive where anything else would starve. If there’s no grass, they’ll eat mesquite beans, leaves, even bark. You can run the varmints till they’re skin and bones, then lead ’em to some decent graze, and they’ll fatten up.”

  “You forgot somethin’,” said Ash. “Even on a good day, they’re cantankerous, mean as sin, and if there’s nothin’ else to hook, they’ll hook one another.”

  “I’m not sure I would consider those good qualities,” Pitkin said.

  “Come an’ get it,” Gonzales shouted, “or I feed it to the coyotes.”

  The following morning, by first light, Woody had the herd moving. Today they were expecting to reach Council Grove, the last civilian outpost until they were near Santa Fe. Nip Kelly rode drag with Naomi and Nell, and while he readily answered their questions, he volunteered nothing. He was friendly enough, yet he seemed distant.

  “The other riders are from Texas,” Nell said, “but I get the impression you aren’t.”

  “You’re right,” said Nip. “I am not.”

  “You were terribly brave, standing up to that gunman from Independence,” Nell said. “Did you know him well?”

  “No,” said Nip.

  “Nell,” Naomi said, “if you’re going to question Mr. Kelly, why don’t you do so in a less personal manner? You are behaving like a nosy little wench.”

  Nell glared at her sister in a manner that would have curdled milk, but she said no more. Curiously enough, it was Kelly who spoke.

  “My home—when I had one—was in Missouri, Nell. The man I was forced to shoot tried to kill me during a poker game in a saloon in Independence. I’d never seen him in my life, and it was Woody and Gavin who backed off him and his friends. I don’t talk about myself, because I have done little of which I am proud. I am a wanderer, a man with a fast gun and a slow conscience, some have said.”

  “But you must have a mother, a sister,” said Nell.

  “No,” Kelly said. “My mother died when I was nine, and I’ve been on my own since then. I never knew who my father was.”

  Nell looked away, so he wouldn’t see the tears in her eyes. Naomi started to speak, but Kelly wasn’t finished.

  “I knew a girl once, in southern Missouri…”

  “Then why did you leave her?” Nell asked, in a quavering voice.

  “She was dead,” said Kelly.

  Council Grove, Kansas. June 10, 1869.

  One fork of the Neosho River crossed the trail just west of the village, and seeking graze for the herd, the horses, and mules, Woody led the drive well beyond the small settlement. There had been few drives of such a magnitude down the Santa Fe, and the few residents of Council Grove gathered to watch the longhorns pass.

  “We’ll take ’em downstream a ways,” Woody shouted.

  When the herd had been bunched near the water, they began sliding down the banks to drink. Gonzales had wisely drawn up the chuck wagon along the trail, a good distance upstream from the thirsty cattle.

  “We’ll have time to visit the store before sundown,” said Woody, as the riders began unsaddling their horses.

  “There’s a cafe,” Vic said.

  “You don’ like Gonzales’s grub?” the Mexican inquired.

  “Yeah,” said Vic. “Ain’t I took seconds as often as I could get ’em? I just said there was a cafe, damn it. I didn’t say I was eatin’ there.”

  “Sí,” Gonzales said. “There be dried apple pie.”

  4

  “Council Grove bein’ the last village between here and Santa Fe,” Woody said, “I think we’ll stay here through tomorrow. There’s good graze and plentiful water. It’s a good place to rest our horses and mules, and to maybe fatten the herd some. Then there’s the Last Chance Store. There’ll be a sutler’s at Fort Dodge, but there’ll likely be a better choice of goods here.”

  “Perhaps we can learn something about the trail ahead,” said Pitkin.

  “Won’t hurt to ask,” Woody replied. “Anybody wantin’ to go to the store today, I’d say there’s time before supper. I aim to go there tomorrow.”

  “I’ll wait until then, and go with you,” said Gavin.

  “Gonzales,” Pitkin said, “if there’s anything more we’re going to need before reaching Santa Fe, see if the store has it.”

  “Sí,” said Gonzales. “I go tomorrow, after breakfast.”

  “Father,” Nell said, “Naomi and me need hats. We want the kind the cowboys wear.”

  “Yes,” said Naomi, “and that’s not all. I want some Western riding boots.”

  “So do I,” Nell said.

  “Both of you have new English riding boots,” said Pitkin. “What’s wrong with them?”

  “As you said, Father, they’re English,” Nell pointed out. “Do you want us to look foolish, herding cattle in ridiculous, ugly English boots?”

  “Oh, I suppose not,” said Pitkin, “but keep those ridiculous, ugly English boots, in case the new ones hurt your feet.”

  “Let’s go to the store now,” Naomi said. “If we’re getting new boots, we’ll have time to get use
d to them before we take the trail again.”

  “Very well,” said Pitkin. “Woody, do you wish to get your information first-hand, or shall I ask about the trail ahead?”

  “Go ahead and learn whatever you can,” Woody replied. “We’ll inquire again at Fort Dodge, but we’re still a long way from there. Might be somethin’ we need to know before we reach the fort.”

  “Yeah,” said Ash. “What about Indian trouble?”

  “Very well,” Pitkin said, “I’ll see what I can learn from the proprietor. It will be the least he can do, after my daughters have purchased his supply of hats and boots.”

  The storekeeper and his wife had obviously been waiting for some business from the trail drive.

  “I’m Abel Honicker,” the little man said, “and this is my wife, Bessie. What can we do for you?”

  “Our pleasure, indeed,” Pitkin replied. “These are my daughters, Nell and Naomi. I am Gladstone Pitkin. The girls wish to dress as much like cowboys as possible, while I want to talk to you about the trail ahead.”

  “Come with me, ladies,” said Bessie Honicker.

  “Not much to tell about the trail ahead,” Honicker replied. “Sometime back—April, it was—Indians attacked a train of a dozen wagons. About halfway between here and Fort Dodge, and seven of their folks was killed. Three of ’em was women.”

  “That’s serious, indeed,” said Pitkin. “Have there been other wagons since then?”

  “Three,” Honicker said. “The day before yesterday. Close-mouthed gent, his two sons and three daughters. Him and his sons each drove a wagon, and I doubt they’d have even stopped here, if one of the wagons hadn’t busted a wheel. I wasn’t impressed with any of the men, but the women! My God!”

  “They weren’t aware of the Indian threat?” Pitkin asked.

  “I tried to tell ’em, like I’m tellin’ you,” said Honicker, “but they didn’t seem all that concerned. I asked ’em where they was bound, and was told to mind my own business.”

  “Most unusual,” Pitkin observed. “Why would they have been so secretive about their destination?”

  “I was inclined to wonder the same thing,” said Honicker. “Their wagons was ridin’ mighty low, like they was overloaded. When they moved on, I took a look at the trail, and where there was already ruts, their wagons made new ruts.”