The Santa Fe Trail

by Ralph Compton

  “I have no objection to following the river,” said Woody, “even if it’s a longer route. I have told you what I discovered. There’s no need for an immediate decision, and I believe we should have another look at the map.”

  “Perhaps you’re right,” Pitkin said. “There’s time before supper. I’ll get the map.”

  Pitkin spread out the map, and it told them nothing regarding the alternate route that Woody had discovered.

  “So we know nothing about this second route,” said Pitkin, “except that it exists. Do you have any suggestions or opinions?”

  “Yes,” Woody replied. “Since the map tells us nothing, we’ll have to rely on some good old horse sense. We know we’re lookin’ at a hundred and twenty-two miles, if we follow the Grand Arkansas, as the map suggests. We also know we’re goin’ to have water all the way. I think this alternate route may be shorter, but without sure water, and maybe some dry camps. This follows the same principle as the desert route that we aim to take, when we reach Cimarron Crossing. While we could take the longer route through southeastern Colorado, avoiding the Jornada, the distance would be greater.”

  “So we have two choices,” said Pitkin. “We can stay with the Grand Arkansas for the distance from Pawnee Rock to Cimarron Crossing, or we can risk this alternate route which may be shorter, but perhaps without water.”

  “That’s what it amounts to,” Woody said, “and given a choice, I’d follow the Arkansas to Cimarron Crossing. We know there’s fifty miles of desert, once we reach the crossing. Suppose we take this alternate route and find it dry? We’ll be leaving one dry trail for one as bad or worse, when we reach Cimarron Crossing.”

  “So you favor the hundred and twenty-two miles, along the Grand Arkansas,” said Pitkin.

  “I do,” Woody replied. “I’m not one to risk the unknown, where water—or the lack of it—is concerned. We’ve never driven this trail before, nor have you.”

  The rest of the outfit had gathered around, and Pitkin studied their faces. When he had nothing to say, Gavin spoke.

  “I reckon we’d better stay with the river. If you’re lookin’ for a reason, I’ll give you one. If we’re parallel to that river, on a dry trail, all it’ll take is a snifter of wind and the smell of water. Every horse, mule, and cow will stampede toward that river, no matter if it’s ten miles away.”

  “He has a point,” said Woody. “On that alternate trail, we’d be down wind from the Grand Arkansas. Thirst will create a stampede quicker than thunder, lightning, Indians, and outlaws combined.”

  There was a chorus of approval from the rest of the outfit.

  “Very well,” Pitkin said. “We know there’ll be water all the way, as long as we follow the Grand Arkansas. I believe we are justified in taking the trail where there’s an assurance of water.”

  Supper was a jubilant affair, for there would be abundant water for at least two more weeks. The fifty miles of desert beyond Cimarron Crossing was strong on their minds, and whatever assurances the trail afforded were welcome.

  At first light, they soon left Pawnee Rock behind. While there was abundant water, Woody still rode ahead, for he knew not what dangers might await them. Woody reached the cutoff that veered away from the river, and he couldn’t help wondering why some of the teamsters that traveled the Santa Fe had taken such a route. He rode on, following the river, and he covered twelve miles without seeing anything to arouse his suspicion. There were no recent tracks, and between those ruts that marked the trail, he found no tracks of unshod horses. He rode back to meet the oncoming herd, thankful for the proximity of the river and its abundant water.

  “No problems, then,” Pitkin said, when Woody reported to him.

  “None that I could see,” said Woody.

  He rode back to the point position. Gavin again rode drag with Nell and Naomi Pitkin.

  “I’m so tired of the trail,” Nell said. “When we reach Fort Dodge, I’d like to take a wild turn, create some excitement, do something daring.”

  Gavin was amused. “What do you have in mind?”

  “Won’t there be a preacher—perhaps a chaplain—at the fort?”

  “I reckon,” said Gavin. “Why?”

  “I’m thinking perhaps Woody and me will get married.”

  “Tarnation,” Gavin said, “that’s contrary to what your daddy’s been told. Is this your idea, or Woody’s?”

  “It’s hers,” said Naomi, “and she’s planning on you breaking the news to Woody.”

  “Oh, no,” Gavin said. “Pit will raise hell, and I wouldn’t blame him.”

  “Not if you and Naomi will stand up with us,” said Nell. “Please?”

  Gavin looked suspiciously at Naomi. “Are you in on this?”

  “No,” Naomi said, “but I could be persuaded. How do you feel about it?”

  “I favor doing exactly what we promised Pit we’d do,” said Gavin, “and I can tell you that Woody’s goin’ to feel the same way. This is the kind of thing that can wait until we’re in Santa Fe.”

  “But I don’t want to wait,” Nell said. “I have these…feelings…that I…”

  Naomi laughed. “So do I, but I have no intention of explaining them to Father.”

  “I reckon Woody and me has them feelings, too,” said Gavin, “but the Santa Fe Trail ain’t the place to give in to ’em.”

  “You don’t want us, then,” Nell pouted.

  “We don’t want to wrassle you around under a wagon, with the rest of the outfit all gettin’ their enjoys out of it,” said Gavin. “Speakin’ for myself, I want my marryin’ day to be special, and knowin’ Woody, he’ll feel the same way. After dark, I reckon the both of you ought to find a shallow place in the river and set there a while.”

  Naomi laughed, while Nell described her feelings in a very unladylike manner.

  12

  Santa Fe, New Mexico Territory. June 26, 1869.

  Deuce Rowden and his five companions were reluctant to take the Santa Fe Trail with the intention of ambushing Gladstone Pitkin and his outfit, because they didn’t want to be away any longer than necessary. There were virtually no accommodations for men who relished town living. After considerable discussion, the six killers came up with what they considered a legitimate reason for calling on Tobe Hankins.

  “Hell,” said Haynes Wooten, “it’s three hunnert an’ fifty miles from here to the cutoff, an’ we don’t know if this Pitkin will take the dry trail or the mountain trail. I purely don’t aim to ride all the way from here to the Cimarron Cutoff an’ wait. Besides, it ain’t all that far to Fort Dodge, an’ we could have the military after us.”

  “Damn it,” Deuce Rowden said, “why didn’t you think of that when we was in Tobe’s saloon, an’ he was talkin’ down to us? We go back in there, raisin’ hell, he’ll want all his money back. How many of you has got that five hundred on you?”

  The five of them looked at him in silence, and that answered his question.

  “There’s one thing he could do for us that ain’t unreasonable,” said York Eagan. “He’s got to find out for us which way this Pitkin outfit aims to go. If we know which trail they aim to take, we can ride out maybe a hunnert miles an’ earn our money.”

  “Damn right,” Watt Grimes said. “Not only is it three hunnert an’ fifty mile from here to Cimarron Crossing, fifty of them miles is across desert.”

  “They got the telegraph at Fort Dodge,” said Grady Beard. “Why can’t Hankins telegraph the fort an’ find out which trail Pitkin’s outfit aims to take?”

  “I dunno,” Deuce Rowden admitted. “Maybe he can. But we already took his money, and we ain’t done a damn thing to earn it.”

  “Then git over there an’ tell him we got to know which trail Pitkin’s takin’. There’s got to be a way he can find out, usin’ the telegraph,” said Beard.

  “If I stand up to him, by God, then you hombres got to side me,” Rowden growled.

  “Then come on,” York Eagan said. “We’ll all go with y
ou to face the varmint.”

  “No,” said Rowden, “I’ll go. Just remember, the rest of you are neck-deep in this.”

  Woody continued riding ahead each day, but there was no Indian sign. That bothered him, and while he said nothing to Pitkin, he spoke to others whose judgment he trusted. On watch with Gavin McCord and Nip Kelly, he sought their opinions.

  “I’m as puzzled as you,” said Gavin. “We’re a good hundred miles from Fort Dodge, and I don’t doubt for a minute the Comanches know we’re here.”

  “They didn’t fare so well, the last time they tangled with us,” Nip Kelly said. “Could be they’re aimin’ to strike while we’re crossin’ the Jornada. If they know anything about Texas longhorns, they’ll know the varmints get ornery as hell when they’re thirsty. What better time and place to hit us than when we’re in the middle of a desert?”

  “You could have something there,” said Woody. “I’m considerin’ drivin’ the herd at night, when it’s cooler, but it’ll also be more risky. Whatever superstitions the Comanches have, attackin’ at night ain’t one of ’em.”

  “That,” Gavin said, “and if there’s any wind, it’ll likely be out of the west, bringin’ the smell of water.”

  “If that’s goin’ to be a problem,” said Nip, “it won’t matter if the herd’s bedded down or on the move. They’ll still run.”

  “Not if they’re exhausted,” Woody replied. “Suppose, before movin’ into that desert, we let the herd have all the water they can drink, and then drive the varmints all day and all night?”

  “We’d likely be halfway across,” said Nip.

  “Exactly,” Woody said. “Suppose we rest the herd until sundown, and then drive ’em all night?”

  “They’ll be dyin’ on their feet,” said Gavin, “and so will we.”

  “Maybe,” Woody admitted, “but by dawn of the second day, we’ll be within a dozen miles of the Cimarron River. We can stampede them that far, if we have to.”

  “Like hell,” said Gavin. “They won’t have the strength to run. They’ll be staggering.”

  “Damn it,” Woody said, “maybe we ought to forget the dry trail and take the longer one through Colorado.”

  Nip laughed. “You’re the trail boss. It’s your decision.”

  “Yeah,” said Gavin, “and it ain’t us you got to convince. Pit’s been reasonable up to now, but he’s never crossed a desert with a bunch of thirsty, cantankerous, hell-raising longhorn cows.”

  Wiley Stubbs had been listening with interest, and it was he who finally spoke.

  “When we git to Fort Dodge, I aim to ask Paw to buy some water barrels to go on the outside of our wagons. Without water, our teams won’t never make it across that desert.”

  Woody said nothing more about the trail across the desert. Embarrassed, Gavin and Nip kept their silence, not wishing to make Woody’s position more difficult than it already was. Neither man envied Woody the necessity of preparing Gladstone Pitkin for the trials that might confront them during the crossing of the Jornada.

  In Santa Fe, in his saloon office, Tobe Hankins stood behind his desk, while Deuce Rowden leaned across it. With gritted teeth, the two regarded one another like two hostile hounds just before the fur begins to fly.

  “I paid you and your bunch half the money we agreed on,” Hankins snarled, “and the whole sorry lot of you are still lyin’ here in town.”

  “I done told you why we’re still here,” said Rowden, with equal hostility. “We got to know which leg of the Santa Fe this Pitkin outfit aims to take. Damn it, we ain’t of a mind to ride three hunnert an’ fifty mile, to Cimarron Crossin’, and then set there on our duffs waitin’ to see which trail this bunch will be ridin’. All you said was, you don’t want ’em bushwhacked in Santa Fe. Well, we’ll ride a hunnert miles and do your dirty work, but we got to know which damn trail they’ll be takin’. There’s telegraph to Fort Dodge, and all you got to do is have a reason for the military to wire you when Pitkin’s bunch shows up. When they leave Fort Dodge, we’ll ride out, but not without knowin’ which trail they’ll be takin’. Ain’t I said that clear enough for you?”

  “I reckon you have,” Hankins replied in a slightly more civil tone. “I got a contact at Fort Dodge. I likely can learn when Pitkin’s drive pulls out, and the trail they’ll be takin’. Where will I find you and your bunch?”

  “One of us will call on you every day, until you get the word,” said Rowden.

  “Like hell you will,” Hankins snorted. “When you leave here, I don’t want to see any of you in here again. Not even for a drink. Do you understand that?”

  Rowden laughed. “Yeah. We’re good enough to do your killing, but not good enough to be seen with you. We’re at the Pecos Hotel.”

  Rowden got up to leave, but only got as far as the door.

  “Rowden!”

  His thumb hooked in his gunbelt over the butt of his Colt, Rowden turned.

  “If anything goes wrong, Rowden,” said Hankins, “and by God, I mean anything, you and your bunch had better ride and keep ridin’.”

  Deuce Rowden swallowed hard and stepped out the door, closing it behind him. There had been rumors of other gunmen Tobe Hankins had paid to kill, and to a man, they had all mysteriously disappeared.

  Fort Dodge, Kansas. July 7, 1869.

  The day finally came when Woody, scouting ahead, caught up to a patrol from Fort Dodge. They saw Woody coming, and reining up, waited for him. There was a lieutenant, a sergeant, and four privates. Woody introduced himself and told them of the Pitkin outfit.

  “I am First Lieutenant Fields,” the officer said, “and this is Sergeant Oliver.”

  He didn’t bother introducing the privates, and Woody nodded to them. He then spoke to Lieutenant Fields.

  “How far from here to the fort, Lieutenant?”

  “Maybe ten miles,” Fields replied. “How far back is your outfit?”

  “A good fifteen miles,” said Woody. “We won’t reach the fort until tomorrow.”

  “You can ride on to the fort with us,” Fields said, “and meet our post commander, Lieutenant-Colonel Hatton.”

  “I’m obliged,” said Woody. “I’ll do that.”

  Hatton proved to be a gracious host, and Woody spent a pleasant hour with him.

  “There’s something you should know about the Jornada,” Hatton said, “if you have intentions of taking the Cimarron Cutoff.”

  “Unless I change my mind,” said Woody, “that’s the trail we’ll be taking. What else can you tell us about the Jornada?”

  “There won’t be a drop of water for at least fifty miles,” Hatton said. “Not until you reach the Cimarron. But I suppose you already know that. What you may not know is that the lack of water may not be your only problem. The Comanches—some of them, I hear—are holed up in northwestern Indian Territory. They’ll wait until you’re a day or two into the Jornada and then come calling, usually on a moonless night. How many wagons do you have?”

  “Only two, includin’ the chuck wagon,” said Woody, “but the Stubbs family is trailing with us. They have three wagons.”

  “That name, Stubbs, is somehow familiar,” Hatton said. “Are they traders who may have traveled the Santa Fe before?”

  “I doubt it,” said Woody. “Their wagons are loaded too heavy, and they left both the water barrels behind that usually ride each side of the wagon box.”

  Hatton laughed. “They are green, aren’t they? Do you know where they’re from?”

  “Somewhere in Missouri, I think,” Woody said. “There’s old Levi, his two sons, and three daughters.”

  “I’ll talk to them when they reach the fort,” said Hatton. “I like to be familiar with all folks who come down the Santa Fe. So many of them have died along the way— usually at the hands of hostile Indians—it helps, knowing who they are and where they’re from, so we can notify their next-of-kin.”

  “We’ll be here sometime tomorrow,” Woody said. “We’ll see you then.”
>
  When Woody had ridden away, Lieutenant-Colonel Hatton did a strange thing.

  “Corporal,” he said to the young man in the orderly room, “I need you to go to the telegraph shack. Tell Hastings I want that sheaf of reports from Fort Leavenworth, dealing with stolen payrolls.”

  “Thank God,” Gladstone Pitkin said, when Woody told him of the nearness of Fort Dodge. “We are at least halfway to Santa Fe.”

  But there were some who didn’t feel like celebrating their arrival at the fort. Rusty, Vic, and Ash recalled only too well what the Stubbs girls had told them about old Levi’s outlaw past. If Stubbs had any portion of a stolen military payroll in his possession, the post commander might place the entire family under military arrest. It was a fear shared by the three Stubbs girls, and during the second watch, they slipped away to join Rusty, Vic, and Ash.

  “Now that we’re almost there,” Bonita said, “I have this bad feeling—a premonition—that we’ll all be in trouble.”

  “Well, you know where we stand,” said Vic, “and we ain’t changed our minds. If your paw’s done anything wrong, then he’s the one to pay. If they try to hold the rest of you, the three of us will raise hell and kick a chunk under it. I’m bettin’ Woody will side us, and maybe even Pitkin.”

  “I think so too,” Rusty said.

  “Whether they do or don’t,” said Ash, “you can depend on us.”

  “Bless all of you,” Laketa said. “Thanks to Paw’s reputation, we went through hell back in Missouri. We hoped all that would be left behind.”

  “You don’t know that it won’t be,” said Rusty.

  “No,” Jania agreed, “but we’ve never had a minute’s peace or happiness. It just seems like we never will.”

  Rusty, Vic, and Ash did their best individually to cheer up the girls, but they seemed to expect the worst.

  “Damn it,” said Vic, when he again was alone with Rusty and Ash, “they’ve got me to thinkin’ everything’s about to go to hell.”

  “Yeah,” Rusty agreed. “Instead of us buildin’ them up, they dragged us down.”