“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” said Gladstone Pitkin. “Under the circumstances, I am sure your mules would have stampeded for the same reason our stock did.”
“Mr. Pitkin is dead right,” Woody said. “Come daylight, you can join us when we begin our search for the stampeded stock. Until then, there’s not one damn thing any of us can do. Now just kindly shut up.”
Stubbs said no more, wandering off in the darkness toward his wagons.
“What are we goin’ to do the rest of the night?” Whit asked.
“Stand watch as planned,” said Woody. “I doubt the Comanches will bother us again tonight, but we won’t risk it. Tomorrow we’ll start our gather.”
“Woody,” Pitkin said, “I wish to speak to you. Tonight.”
Woody followed Pitkin to his wagon. When they were alone, the Englishman spoke.
“I do not wish to appear ungracious, but I do not believe it is in my best interest to further accommodate Mr. Stubbs, beyond possible protection from Indian attacks. He may trail with us, but his teams are his own responsibility.”
“I’ve reached the same conclusion,” said Woody. “The man’s unreasonable, and I only allowed their teams to mix with ours because Wiley and Whit requested it. I reckon they can see why you’ve had enough of their mule-headed old daddy.”
“I am aware that Stubbs’ daughters are spending the night in our camp,” Pitkin said, “and for their safety, I am not opposed to that. I will leave that to your discretion, and your ability to keep Stubbs in line. I am also aware that three of our riders have shown more than a passing interest in the young ladies, and I am trusting you to see that Stubbs is in no way allowed to twist that to his personal advantage.”
Woody laughed. “You are an observing man, Mr. Pitkin. I understand you perfectly. I believe the three ladies in question are of age, and I doubt they’ll allow themselves to be used in ways harmful to you. As you may have noticed, I’ve had a bellyful of Levi Stubbs, and there’ll be no more foolishness from him. Now you’d best get what sleep you can. We have a long, hard day ahead of us tomorrow.”
There was no sign of the Comanches during the night, and by first light, Woody had the outfit ready to begin the gather. Accompanying them were Whit and Wiley Stubbs. Levi had ignored them all. Woody approached Nell and Naomi as they were about to saddle their horses.
“I want both of you here in camp during this gather,” Woody said. “There may be Indian trouble. Keep your Winchesters ready, because they could attack the camp, planning to burn the wagons and take scalps. We’ll be depending on the two of you, your father, and Gonzales.”
Woody had expected an argument from them, but they had meekly accepted his order to remain in camp. The three Stubbs girls had heard, and responded as Woody had hoped they might.
“We have rifles and we can shoot,” Bonita said. “We’ve already had a fight with the Comanches, and we’re not afraid. If they come after us, we’ll make some of them sorry.”
“I reckon you will,” said Woody. “I’ve seen you shoot.”
He turned away before Nell and Naomi could see his grin, aware of their displeasure. The two could stand some experience in humility, and the more down-to-earth Stubbs girls might well be able to administer it. He mounted and led the outfit in the direction the stampede had taken. After several miles, they began seeing bunches of grazing long-horns, but there were no horses or mules in sight.
“I was afraid of that,” said Woody. “They’ve cut out the mules and the remuda horses and lit out.”
“South, toward Indian Territory,” Nip Kelly said. “If the trail don’t lead that way, I’ll eat my boots and spurs.”
It was a safe bet, and when the tracks began to come together, the trail led south.
“Fresh trail,” Vic said. “They couldn’t gather stock in the dark any better than we could, so they ain’t that far ahead of us.”
Gavin laughed. “That’s the good news and the bad news. They know they can’t outride us, so that means we can expect an ambush.”
“It won’t be easy, even for Comanches,” said Rusty, “unless they can get to Indian Territory ahead of us. There’s no cover on these Kansas plains.”
“They’ll never make it, drivin’ horses and mules,” Nip predicted, “but that ain’t likely to bother ’em. I never seen a Comanche yet that couldn’t make you think he was just part of the earth, until you was close enough for him to shoot your gut full of arrows.”
“Oh, Lord,” said Whit, “Paw will skin us alive, if we don’t find them mules. He’s got him a feelin’ it’s mine an’ Wiley’s fault they was run off.”
“It was nobody’s fault,” Woody said. “The blood and wolf scent would have sent them running hell-for-election, even from your own camp.”
“We got to get ahead of them and find that ambush,” said Gavin. “Who’ll ride south with me?”
“I will,” Vic said. “Suit you, Woody?”
“Yes,” said Woody, “but don’t do anything foolish. Ride wide enough of them so that neither of you stumble into that ambush on your own. When you have some idea as to where they are, come on back. Then we’ll decide how best to overrun them.”
Gavin and Vic rode out, Gavin to the southeast, Vic to the southwest. There was no defined method for flushing out the hidden Comanches. Each man had to depend on his own skills and powers of observation. The Comanches would be expecting advance riders, and their deadly arrows killed silently, without warning the rest of the pursuers. While the Indians might rely on one ambush, a second one wasn’t out of the question, so Gavin and Vic rode with that in mind. Their task was made all the more difficult by the total lack of timber of any kind on the Kansas plain. While the two riders were half a mile apart, they could still see one another, and that was a small advantage.
A hundred yards ahead of Gavin, a flock of birds swooped down, and without touching the ground, flew away. Vic reined up, and waved his hat. Gavin waved back. They now knew where the bushwhackers waited, but they didn’t know how many were there, or if there were others ahead, concealed in a different location.
Following Woody’s orders, one of them was to stay put while the other rode back for the rest of the outfit, but that option was quickly lost. The wind was out of the west, and with Gavin to the east of the hidden Comanches, his horse sensed or smelled them. The animal nickered nervously, and four Comanches seemed to rise out of the earth itself.
Gavin kicked his horse into a gallop, riding toward them. Two of the quartet began loosing arrows at him, while the other two were concentrating on Vic, who galloped his horse in their direction. Gavin and Vic drew their Colts and began firing. The Comanches had made their play too soon, and the arrows fell short. The four went down under deadly fire, as Gavin and Vic rode on, meeting and reining up.
“Woody ain’t goin’ to like this,” Vic said.
“I don’t like it for the same reason,” said Gavin. “We nailed their bushwhackers, but the rest of ’em are downwind from here. They’ve heard the shots, and they know we’re still on their trail. If there’s enough of the varmints, they can set up another ambush.”
“With that possibility in mind,” Vic said, “do we ride on, or do we report back to Woody?”
“We’ll report to Woody,” said Gavin. “We didn’t obey his orders, but we done what we had to. He’s been followin’ that trail long enough to have some idea how many Indians we’re dealin’ with. He needs to know there’s four less.”
No sooner had they wheeled their horses than the wind brought the distant rattle of gunfire.
“My God,” Vic said, “there’s more of ’em, and they’re attackin’ Woody and the rest of the outfit.”
“I don’t think so,” said Gavin. “The shooting is too faint and far away. I reckon the varmints have attacked the wagons. With only Pitkin, Gonzales, and old man Stubbs there for defense, there may be hell to pay.”
“Don’t forget those three Stubbs women,” Vic said. “In a fight, I’d
as soon be sided by any one of them, as Pitkin or Stubbs. Gonzales will do his part.”
They galloped their horses back the way they had come, knowing there was little any of them could do. Gladstone Pitkin was on his own, with the Mexican cook, an unpredictable Levi Stubbs, and three women…
“Madre de Dios,” Gonzales shouted, “Indios.”
It was all the warning they would get, and all they needed. A dozen Comanches were less than half a mile distant, fanned out in a skirmish line. They were still out of range, but they came on, knowing there were few defenders.
“Get into the wagon,” Pitkin ordered his daughters.
Nell and Naomi did, but only long enough to get their Winchesters. They were only too well aware that the Stubbs women already had their weapons in hand, waiting. Stubbs, for all his ignorance and mule-headedness, stood with his Winchester at the ready, and a grim look of determination on his craggy face. Whooping, the Comanches began circling the defenders. Each brave clung to the off-side of his horse, presenting no target. As they came within range, they began firing arrows under the necks of their horses. One of the deadly missiles buried itself in Nell Pitkin’s left thigh, and she screamed. Pitkin killed the horse of the Indian who had fired the arrow, and when the Comanche fell free, Pitkin shot him. It set the tone for the fight, and the rest of the defenders began firing at the Indian horses. The Stubbs girls were firing as rapidly as they could pull the triggers, and none of the Comanches whose horses were shot escaped. Seven horses and seven men were down when the Indians gave up the attack. Bonita Stubbs leaned against a wagon wheel, the right side of her shirt bloody. Blood was rapidly soaking the leg of her Levi’s. Her father stood there gripping his Winchester, staring at her. He swallowed hard, and despite her wound, Bonita laughed at him. It was Gladstone Pitkin who began giving orders.
“Gonzales, get a fire going and put on some water to boil. We must treat the wounds as best we can.”
When Gavin and Vic caught up to Woody and the rest of the outfit, they were headed for camp at a fast gallop. Hearing Gavin and Vic coming, they slowed their horses until their comrades caught up. Quickly Gavin explained what had happened.
“No help for it,” Woody said. “You did what you had to. The varmints didn’t put all their eggs in one basket. They’re attacking the camp, figurin’ to buy themselves some time, in case their ambush failed.”
“They figured right,” said Nip Kelly. “They’re likely to get clean away with the mules and horses, while we’re ridin’ back to camp.”
“Maybe,” Woody said, “but we can’t ignore the possibility that some of our bunch has been wounded. Nobody there—except possibly Gonzales—is likely to know how to treat arrow wounds. We can’t gamble somebody’s life on mules and horses.”
They rode into camp, all too aware of the dead horses and Comanches. Nell Pitkin sat with her back to a wagon wheel, the shaft of the grisly arrow protruding from her hip. At the other end of the wagon sat Bonita Stubbs, bloody from waist to knees. Gonzales had a fire going and water heating. Gladstone Pitkin still held his Winchester in the crook of his arm, and it was obvious that he didn’t know what to do next. He seemed about to speak, but one look at Woody changed his mind. Woody swung out of the saddle, his eyes on the white, pinched face of Nell Pitkin. He knelt beside her and she clung to him.
“That arrow will have to come out, querido,” he said.
Vic had wasted no time in getting to Bonita. She tried to reassure him with a smile, but pain stole it from her pale lips, and she groaned. With trembling hands, Vic pulled the tail of her shirt free of her Levi’s, exposing the wound. While the arrow hadn’t remained, it had torn a ghastly wound in her side, and she was rapidly losing blood. Jania and Laketa hovered close, and old Levi Stubbs showed more concern than Vic had ever thought possible.
“What can we do for her?” Jania asked anxiously.
“Spread some blankets under one of your wagons,” said Vic, “and take her there. We must stop the bleeding.”
Meanwhile, Gladstone Pitkin had confronted Woody.
“Obviously, they have created this diversion so that they might escape with our mules and horses,” Pitkin said.
“Obviously,” said Woody, “but the wounded come first. That arrow must be removed from Nell’s thigh, and Bonita’s bleeding to death.”
“I trust you have the knowledge and skill to treat such wounds,” Pitkin said.
“I can remove the arrow from Nell’s thigh and treat the wound,” said Woody, “and I believe Vic intends to treat Bonita’s wound. I’m going to ask Gavin to take the rest of the outfit and pursue those Comanches who have taken our horses and mules. Vic and me will follow, after we’ve seen to these wounds.”
“Four men,” Pitkin said. “That’s scarcely enough.”
“Six,” said Wiley Stubbs. “Whit an’ me are goin’.”
“I’d go,” Levi Stubbs said, “but I got no mount.”
“Then stay here and guard the camp,” said Woody. “Once we’ve taken care of these wounds, Vic and me will be needin’ our horses.”
Woody went to the chuck wagon, and without being asked, Gonzales passed him a quart bottle of whiskey. Woody returned to the Stubbs wagon where Nell waited. Helping her to her feet, he led her to the Pitkin wagon. Naomi was waiting.
“I’ve spread some blankets in the wagon,” Naomi said.
“Help me get her in there,” said Woody.
He let down the wagon’s tailgate, untied the pucker, and with Naomi’s help, moved the wounded Nell inside. Woody pulled the cork with his teeth and passed the open quart of whiskey to Nell.
“You’ll have to drink about half that,” Woody said. “It’s whiskey. Likely not very good whiskey, but it’ll knock you out long enough for me to rid you of that arrow.”
“Why can’t you just pull it out?” Naomi asked.
“There’s a barb on the end of it,” said Woody. “I’ll have to drive it on through.”
“Oh, God,” Nell groaned, “I don’t know if I can stand that.”
“You’ll have to,” said Woody. “It’s the only way. Now drink the whiskey.”
She tried, but it gagged her. Again and again she tried, downing a little of it each time, until half the fiery brew had been consumed.
“Do you want me to remove her Levi’s?” Naomi asked.
“Not until I’ve driven the arrow on through,” said Woody. “Then we’ll have to take them down to treat the wound.”
Nell tried to laugh, but it dwindled off into a groan.
“Don’t worry,” Naomi said. “I’ll see that he keeps his mind on removing the arrow.”
When the whiskey took effect, Nell began snoring.
“This won’t be easy to watch,” said Woody.
“I’m sure it won’t be,” Naomi said, “but perhaps it’s something I need to know. I’ll try to see it through.”
Woody punched the shells out of his Colt. He then broke off the feathered end of the shaft and began the gruesome task of driving it the rest of the way through Nell’s thigh. In short, rapid strokes he struck the broken shaft of the arrow with the butt of his Colt, and progress seemed agonizingly slow. Even with Nell unconscious, she grunted with pain each time the cruel barb advanced.
“My God,” Naomi cried, “is there no other way?”
“None that I know of,” said Woody.
He stopped to sleeve the sweat from his face and to dry his sweaty hands on the legs of his Levi’s. Naomi’s face was white, and her hands were clenched into fists, but when her eyes briefly met Woody’s, she was shocked at what she saw. His hands were steady and sure, but there was pain and fear in his eyes. Kneeling beside him, she placed a hand on his shoulder, and he continued pounding the shaft of the arrow. Finally the cruel barb was driven through, and he was able to extract the arrow intact from the exit wound. He fell back, spent. It was a moment before he could speak.
“Now we’ll have to remove her Levi’s to get at the wound.”
&n
bsp; Realizing that Woody felt self-conscious, Naomi removed the Levi’s. She then removed Nell’s shirt.
“You didn’t need to remove the shirt,” said Woody.
“Why not?” Naomi replied. “She’s in the wagon, and she’s sweating terribly. I’ll go for some hot water, so you can cleanse the wound. Do you need anything else?”
“No,” said Woody. “I have the medicine chest, with disinfectant and bandages.”
While she was gone, Woody took Nell’s hand, and was surprised when she squeezed his own. Her eyelids fluttered and when she spoke, her voice was slow and slurred.
“Am I…drunk?”
“I’m afraid so,” Woody said. “The hangover may be the worst of this whole ordeal.”
“My…clothes,” said Nell. “I…I’m naked.”
“Naomi took them off,” Woody said, “but you’re in the wagon. There’s nobody but me. Naomi’s gone for some hot water to cleanse your wound.”
“The arrow’s gone, then?”
“Yes,” said Woody, “but you’ll be almighty sore for a few days, and there may be infection tonight. If there is, you’ll have to drink more whiskey and sweat it out.”
“Please,” she shuddered, “no more whiskey.”
“Here’s the hot water,” said Naomi, passing him the wooden bucket. “Do you want me to stay out of there, out of the way?”
“Yes,” Nell said. “You stripped me naked and left me alone with him. The least you can do is close the wagon flap and wait outside.”
“Nell,” said Gladstone Pitkin, “I will not tolerate such disgraceful carrying on.”
“Father,” Naomi said, “the arrow has been removed, but she’s delirious. Please leave her alone until she’s feeling better.”
Woody squeezed Nell’s hand and climbed out of the wagon. Pitkin had followed Naomi and stood behind her, looking concerned.
“She’ll be all right, Pit,” said Woody. “When Vic’s taken care of Bonita to his satisfaction, we’ll catch up to Gavin and the others.”
Woody found Vic buttoning Bonita’s shirt over a massive bandage that he had wound about her middle.
The Santa Fe Trail Page 14
